THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: ~ frna~aPne of ILitcrature, ~cicnce, art, an~ j~oIitic~. VOL. LXXXIL JULY, 1898. No. CC CCL XXXIX. GLADSTONE. AMONG the countrymen of Mr. Glad- stone it will be long before even-minded views can be taken of his character, his genius, and his career. They will re- member him as he appeared to them in the heat of passionate conflicts, like St. Michael in the eyes of one party, like Apollyon in the sight of the other; and the good and great imperfect man that he was is little likely to be shown in truth to either. Nor will his work be justly measured or the spirit of his life revealed by cold criticism from Germany and France. More than other public men of our time he needs to be studied with a sympathy dispassionate but warm, and with an interest impartially keen. If such a study is possible anywhere, it ought to be possible in America, and the purpose of this article is to make the at- tempt. On the side of both father and mother Mr. Gladstone was of purely Scottish descent: half Highland and half Low- land, as stated by himself; half Celtic and half Teutonic, as the significance of the fact may be better expressed. His remote paternal ancestors were lairds of considerable estate, but the ancient stem had thrown branches into trade, and the statesman sprang from one of those. John Gladstone, his father, began life and commercial experience at Leith, but removed to Liv~rpool at the age of twenty-two, and entered, in the corn trade, upon a career of great success. He passed in due time to the front rank of the merchant princes of the rising city, and became a man of both weight and power, as much by the force of his character as by the measure of his wealth. When the oracles of Liver- pool were questioned, as they often were, by heads of government and committees of Parliament, on matters of fact and policy touching finance and trade, John Gladstone was sure to be heard. His in- terests had passed far beyond the trade in corn. He was a sugar-planter, with great estates and many hundreds of slaves, in Jamaica and Demerara; he was an owner of ships; he had capital in banks, and varied ventures in many parts of the world. Nor did the pow- erful, pushing Scotebman confine the working of his energy to these money- getting affairs. He was active and ag- gressive in the politics of the day, conspicuous in the hottest fighting, and continually exposed to the roughest han- dling in local caricature and abuse. He came to Liverpool, it is said, a Presby- terian and a Whig. He had grown to be a Churchman and a Tory of the stiff- est creed. Political distinction was be- yond the reach of such talents as he possessed, but as one of the pillars of the party his standing was marked, and he received a baronetcy for reward. He sat in Parliament twice (elected in 1818 and 1820), not for his own city, but for more pliant boroughs at Lancaster and Woodstock, and had little to say or do in the great assembly, so far as can now be seen. Apparently, Sir John Gladstone was Gladstone. a man of more force than fineness in the qualities that marked his character. Even seventy years ago the best of moral fibre could not reasonably be looked for in a British capitalist who drew profit from the labor of slaves. If the slave- owning of the elder Gladstone had been only a minor incident of his undertak- ings and kept in the background of his life, it might claim little notice; but it took importance from its magnitude, and from the prominence of his opposition to all measures in behalf of the slaves. He maintained the discipline of the lash on his plantations to the last, and his great Demerara estates acquired a sinis- ter notoriety in the abolitionist reports of the day. At the end, when compen- sated emancipation was decreed by the British Parliament, he received more than 75,000 for the slaves that had been solely his own, besides large shares of payment that came to him through his partnership in other estates. To this thrifty and resolute Scottish merchant of Liverpool there were born four sons, of whom the youngest was William Ewart, so named after one of the fathers Scottish friends. The birth of William Ewart Gladstone occurred on the 29th of December, 1809. Before he reached the age of twelve he was sent to join two of his brothers at Eton, and from Eton he passed to Oxford in January, 1828, entering as a commoner of Christ Church. He came, no doubt, prepared by all the influences of his home, to accept the spirit of the univer- sity with a complete surrender to it of heart and mind. He had been reared in an atmosphere of political Toryism, the rank quality of which can easily be conceived. He was now brought into another of like kind, but more penetrat- ing, because of the different elements, scholastic, ecclesiastical, and social, that were subtly distilled into it. Oxford was on the eve of the singular move- ment of Church revival to which its name was afterward given. The publi cation of the Tracts for the Times was not yet begun, but much of the feeling that inspired them must have been al- ready in the air. It is true that Mr. Gladstone has said, in A Chapter of Autobiography, that when he resided in Oxford, from 1828 to 1831, no sign of it [the Tractarian Movement] had yet appeared; but where Newman was preaching, where Pusey was teaching, and where students like Henry Manning and James Hope (the Hope-Scott of later times) were his close companions, there must have been currents in motion around him that set strongly toward the chan- nels of the agitation of 1833. At all events, it is certain that young Glad- stone became inspired at Oxford with a passion of belief in and devotion to the Church. By nature he was strongly in- clined, it is clear, to religious feeling, and to the attitude of mind which makes religious faith easy. But there cannot be a doubt that the influence of the uni- versity turned most of his natural reli- gious fervor into a kind of passionate Churchmanship, which became the domi- nant strain in his conservatism, and the dominating force in his life for many subsequent years. To understand this principal and most powerful effect upon him from Oxford is nearly to understand Mr. Gladstone, and perhaps to obtain a key to the most puzzling parts of his career. While everything in his history has gone to prove that he was formed by nature for the activities and contentions of public life, he felt at the university so strong an impulsion toward clerical duties that nothing but the strenuous opposition of his father, it is said, pre- vented his taking them up. Neverthie- less, he prepared himself well, with the opportunities of Oxford, for his future parliamentary work. He was an excel- lent student, and grounded himself broad- ly in the learning which gave an endow- ment of relief to his laborious years. He made the most of the debating clubs, Gladstone. 3 where he shone with a distinction that opened Parliament to him almost on the instant of his quitting the university, from which he bore away the high hon- ors of a double first. If there was a Tory in England more petrified in his Toryism than any other, it was the Duke of Newcastle. Down to the middle of the year 1832 his Grace had owned, as he conceived, the parlia- mentary borough of Newark-upon-Trent, dictating the votes of his tenants, and sternly evicting them when they dared to exhibit political opinions of their own. But now his dictatorship in the borough was menaced most seriously by an inter- meddling act. The great Reform Bill had been passed, and became law on the 7th of June, 1832, the year in which young Mr. Gladstone finished his studies at Christ Church. That act enlarged the suffrage in every borough, and it animated the independence of tenant voters everywhere. The Duke of New- castle might still depend upon an influ- ence in Newark too powerful to be easily overcome, but his past security was in doubt. He looked about for some young and ardent mouthpiece of the grim old political faith, whose eloquent, persuasive tongue might help to keep the house- holders of Newark in line. Young Glad- stone was found to satisfy the ducal want, and he received an invitation to stand against a Whig nominee at the coming general election appointed to be held near the end of the year. He accept- ed the invitation without hesitancy, was duly elected by a considerable majority of votes, and took his seat in that first reformed Parliament of Great Britain which assembled on the 20th of Janu- ary, 1833. Here, then, he stood, at the age of twenty-three, in the doorway of man- hood, and yet on the threshold of a political career. Doubtless it seemed a happy fortune that opened Parliament and public life to him so soon, but as- suredly it was not. No man of that age, when half the plantings of boyhood are still unripe in him, is prepared to give binding pledges to any party or creed; least of all is one ready who comes fresh, like the Gladstone lad, from a conser- vatory culture of the Oxford sort. He needed some years for the maturing of his convictions as his mind matured, and he lost freedom for that. He was committed, bound fast to the political dogmas of his father, of his university, of his patron the Duke of Newcastle, compelled to make a record on them to which the criticising future would never fail to point. Nor was this the worst. Macaulay, in his trenchant way, has described the malign intellectual effect of an early cultivation of the talent for debate. We should sooner expect, he says, a great original work on political sci- ence such a work, for example, as the Wealth of Nations from an apotheca- ry in a country town or from a minister in the Hebrides than from a statesman who, ever since he was one-and-twenty, had been a distinguished debater in the House of Commons. The moral mis- chief that proceeds from the same cause has been pointed out by Mr. Bagehot in his essay on Peel. Neither Macaulay nor Bagehot has overstated the hurt of conscience and mind to which a young politician is exposed, and especially when he enters the arena of parliamentary de- bate at an immature period of life. Mr. Gladstone was thrust into those dangers at the age of twenty-three. It is neces- sary to remember the fact, whether we conclude that he resisted and escaped them, or that lie suffered by them and bore their marks. All this came upon him, moreover, at precisely the time when England was undergoing an ex- traordinary emancipation of mind. The passing of the Reform Bill was the breaking of a great dam. The floods were let loose. The old bounds and landmarks were being swept away. The, old beaten paths of mental habit were- 4 Gladstone. being broken up. And behind it all was no mere weather - change in the British region of politics, but a tremen- dous historic readjustment of equilib- riuni in the moral atmosphere of civili- zation, bringing everything in the po- litical world, and many things outside of it, into question and dispute. The reactions from the French Revolution were totally spent, and the re-reactions were moving mightily on. But the young man Gladstone, in the midst of the surge and tempest of such a time, alive to it, excited by it, in every fibre of his sensi- tive being, had been chained fast by the Duke of Newcastle to a stake in the sands! Of course he had no conscious- ness of his state of duress. He felt free, when he pointed his lance in defense of ground which he could not desert if he would, but the duress was an unfortunate fact. There was no lack of reformative work waiting for Earl Greys Ministry and the reformed Parliament of 1833. Nothing seemed to exist, in Church or State, that did not need to have wrongs, abuses, demoralizations, stupidities, or in- iquities reformed out of it. The govern- ment and its mixed majority of Whigs and Radicals did their duty with re- solution, driving measure after measure through the Commons, and generally through the House of Lords, while the Tory minority, under Peel, as valiant- ly, but vainly, opposed. Gladstone, of course, flinched from nothing in the op- position. He made his record, with his party, against a clearing out of obnox- ious sinecures; against a restriction of flogging in the army; against a removal of Jewish disabilities; against reforming the Irish Church, to diminish its oppres- siveness; against admitting Noneonforni- ists to the universities without a religious test; against an inquiry into the opera- tion of the Corn Laws; against short- ening the seven years duration of Par- liaments; and, most notably, perhaps, against the immortal act whieh~emanei pated every slave in the British colonies on the first day of August, 1834. In opposing this latter measure Mr. Glad- stone made his first important speech, taking ground, not against ultimate emancipation, for which he expressed an ardent desire, but against haste in the liberation of the blacks, demanding time for their preparation to be free. In view of what came after, it was a curious record that he made in those first two years of his parliamentary life, and in no part more curious than in what related to the Irish Church. That Church was an Establishment for the religious satisfaction of about one tenth (then) of the people at whose cost it was maintained. It supported twenty- two bishops, with incomes amounting to 150,000 a year, and fourteen hundred benefices, endowed with 600,000 a year; in addition to which there was levied a cess, or tax, for its benefit, which yielded 60,000 or 70,000 more. The Ministry proposed to reduce the bish- oprics to twelve, to abolish the Church cess, and to tax bishops and benefices for the sum needed to repair churches and meet similar needs. That Gladstone should oppose even a measure so moder- ate in its approach to common justice and common sense as this was a neces- sary consequence of the view of the Established Church that he had taken into his mind, and which all his opin- ions must be forced to fit. I do not hesitate, he said, in speaking on the bill, I do not hesitate to say that I consider that Establishment to be essen- tially sacred in its nature. As a sacred institution, he could not consent to the touch of a profaning hand upon it. So long as he held that view it determined his stand on all questions of Church grievance in Ireland, on all issues with Dissent in England, and on many ques- tions besides. To loosen its hold on his mind would be to set him intellectual- ly free in many directions and over a sweeping range of political thought. Gladstone. The ministerial majority in Parlia- ment was made up of incongruous ele- ments that could not act together long. Parties on both sides, in fact, were in a transitional state. There were Whigs who found themselves brought into as- sociation with more radicalism, or politi- cal liberality, than they liked, and there were Tories who had begun to sicken of the rankness of the Toryisni of old times. The name Tory, indeed, was losing countenance. Mr. John Wilson Croker, in 1831, had suggested the name Conservative as a substitute, and the new name was gradually expelling the old from common use, while Liberal was soon to obtain recognition as the naturally opposite term. Jn a slow but sure way, old Whigs too sharply driven and younger Tories too sharply curbed were getting ready, without knowing it, for an exchange of place. Meantime, both parties were shambling along in a loose, undisciplined way, hard to control. After several changes in his cabinet, Lord Grey resigned in July, 1834, and the Ministry was reorganized, with Lord Melbourne at the head. But in Novem- ber King William, who did not love the reformers, thought matters among them were in such a state that he might venture to dismiss the whole Ministry, which he did in a summary way, calling Wellington and Peel to take the govern- ment in hand. Peel, who was in Italy, hastened home and assumed the lead. Among those whom he invited to sub- ordinate places in his administration was Gladstone, whose great ability he had easily discerned. He made him Under- Secretary for War and the Colonies, but the honor was briefly enjoyed. Parlia- ment had been dissolved, and the coun- try appealed to. It resented the uncon- stitutional act of the King in throwing out a Ministry to which the majority in Parliament was still affording support, and it gave its decision against him. Peel, in a famous manifesto to his con- stituents at Tamworth, had vainly cut 5. himself clear of the antique Toryism to which the bulk of his party adhered, proclaiming an open-minded disposition toward many reforms in State and Church. The Liberals were sent back with a renewed majority in Parliament. The stubborn Sir Robert held his ground against them until time 8th of April, when he had to resign, after defeat on a question concerning the appropriation of surplus revenues of the Irish Church. King William was then compelled to receive Lord Melbourne again into the premiership, with Lord Palmerston in the foreign office and Lord John Russell in the leadership of the House. The strife of parties continued on much the sam& lines as before, with much the same state of imperfect combination among the elements of which the par- ties were composed. Irish questions were kept persistently at the front by OConnells agitations, the great rock of difficulty being always the Irish Church. The Irish land question had not yet arrived within sight. Mr. Gladstone, who had been easily redected from Newark, stood fast by his old beliefs. Opposing the appointment of a commit- tee to consider the burning question of Church rates, he went so far in his speech as to deny that the motive for resistance by Dissenters to the payment of rates for supporting a church in whose doctrines they did not believe was a scru- ple of conscience, entitled to be recog- nized as such. On the 20th of June, 1837, the King died, and Qneen Victoria came to the throne. Parliament was dissolved, as required by law, and the Melbourne Ministry, manifestly in favor with the young Queen, received approval at the ensuing election from the popular vote. But its moderate majority in the Com- mons was far from solidity still, and a formidable minority was led against it by Peel, whose party controlled the Lords. It had troubles to face in Can- ada, in Jamaica, and in Ireland. The 6 Gladstone. difficulties beyond the Atlantic were sharply threatening, but there was sincer- ity in the disposition to cure their causes, and they were dealt with in a fairly ef- fectual way. The troubles in Ireland were chronic, and nobody in power dared thrust his hand down to the roots of them. Destitution in the wretched island had become frightful, beyond the ability of words to describe. Instead of trying to purge the foul system of things, which paralyzed industry and made a starved population inevitable, the government framed an English-patterned poor law for the country, to ornament it with workhouses and to oflicialize the pauper- ization of its people. The taking of tithes from Roman Catholic peasants for a Protestant priesthood produced inces- sant rage and rioting, and the tithes were millions in arrears. Instead of extinguishing the intolerable wrong, as a pestiferous relic of hateful times, the government made provision for the con- version of tithes into rent charges, and paid part of the arrears to tithe-owners from public funds. Nothing in domestic matters was boldly or thoroughly done, nothing strongly, nothing with agree- inent in the ministerial ranks. Russell could control the shaping of measures in Parliament not much more than Peel. The strength of the latter grew, while that of the former was weakened, and at last, in May, 1839, the Ministry, in dis- gust with the situation, resigned. Then came the queer incident of the Bed- chamber question. Peel, called to take the government, feared the disturbing in- fluence of the Whig ladies who surround- ed the Queen, and asked permission to make some changes in the household of her Majesty. The Queen refused con- sent, and Sir Robert withdrew from his undertaking. Lord Melbourne and his associates, with sore unwillingness, but gallantly, resumed the burdens of office, and struggled on for two years more, until the spring of 1841. Then a vote of want of confidence was carried against them, and they went to the country with a new appeal. This time they lost the verdict of the elections, and Peel came down to Parliament with a strong major. ity at his back. Again, and now quite as a matter of course, Newark and the Duke of Newcastle returned Mr. Glad- stone to his seat. The epoch of the Ministry organized under Peel in 1841 proved to be one of lasting importance in English history. The government had great problems to deal with, great difficulties to encounter, and its dependence was upon a party incapable of comprehending a problem or recognizing a difficulty when it rose. But the abilities and qualities of Peel were singularly fitted to the situation in which he found himself placed. For some time past he had been shaping his mind to the acceptance of changes in public policy from which there was no escape. It was an open and an honest mind, with great power in the practical application of principle to circumstance, but with no originality and no imagina- tive warmth. He got light on new ques- tions in a very slow mode. He was no dis- coverer of the inward truths in politics, and was late in seeing them, after other open-minded men had found them and shown them to the world. But when the revelation did reach him, he received it in a fearlessly honest way. He had no weak carefulness for his own consistency. Again and again in his career he yielded himself to conversions which the small- minded have sneered at, which the im- penetrable-minded have called treacher- ous, but which candid minds must great- ly admire. We may doubt whether any other character in statesmanship could have been so useful to England as was that of Peel, during the period of ex- traordinary change in which he served it. With the remarkable hold that he had on the Tory party, through its utter inability to do anything in Parliament without him, his deep and strong con- servatism on one side, and his slow but Gladstone. 7, intrepid open-mindedness on the other, would seem to have had an equally great part to play in accomplishing reforms for the time without too much haste. To serve under such a leader as Sir Robert Peel was one of the fortunate happenings of Gladstones life. His, too, was a conscientious mind. We may sometimes have to doubt an equal direct- ness in its working, as compared with the inflexible candor of Peel; but the desire for right was controlling in both. Gladstone was intellectually more alert, and he possessed an imagination that was lacking in his chief. In tempera- ment he was a far more impressionable man, and much more disposed by his nature to become responsive to the ex- panding and liberalizing tendencies of his age. That natural disposition in him was still oppressed by one tyrannical pre- possession of mind; but its liberation approached, and the younger and the elder statesman were soon attuned to a harmony of co6peration which developed the best powers of the one as much as it assisted the work of the other. The intensity of belief in a divine com- mission of the Established Church with which Gladstone left Oxford had been deepened, if possible, by the influence of his Tractarian friends. He had not enlisted with them in their movement by any public act, but his sympathy was understood. In 1838 he satisfied his de- votion to the national establishment of religion by an independent offering to- ward the exaltation of it, in his book on The State in its Relations to the Church. The book would have been forgotten long ago, if Macaulay had not immor- talized it by a review, and if the politi- cal enemies of the author had not found satisfaction so often in recalling its doc- trines to mind. It was written to de- mnonstrate that the propagation of re- ligious truth is one of the chief ends of government; assuming, of course, that religions truth is embodied purely in the doctrines and teachings of the Eng lish Church. Wide interest was ex- cited by the work when it appeared, and no little approval was given to it; but more disapproval, apparently, and much criticism that was sharp. It offended all evangelical opinion, whether in the Church or out of it, while its ground of argument was unsatisfactory to the Trac- tarian party, whose faith in the Aiiglican Church depended wholly on the evidence to be found of its true descent from the primitive Church. A defense of the Establishment on semi-political lines re- ceived no warm welcome at their hands. In the political world it was coldly dis- cussed, as something likely to damage the prospects of the writer, and Peel, especially, is reported to have dismissed it with an impatient remark. But whatever the effect of the book on Mr. Gladstones reputation, he un- doubtedly was yet, in 1841, as Macau- lay had described him in 1839, the rising hope of those stern and unbend- ing Tories, who follow, reluctantly and mutinously, a leader whose experience and eloquence are indispensable to them, but whose cautious temper and moder- ate opinions they abhor. Peel can have had no jealousy of him, and he knew his worth. He knew, too, far bet- ter than Gladstone himself, the kind of public service for which he needed to be trained. It is said that the young states- man coveted the post of Chief Secretary for Ireland, and that it was denied to him. The Premier was too wise for the mistake which that appointment would have been. While Gladstone ~remained unable to see anything in Ireland except through the painted windows of the Irish Church, the place he sought might easily have been fatal to his future. He did not know it then, but he must have seen in after years that he owed grati- tude to the shrewd wisdom of the chief who assigned him, in the making up of the administration of 1841, to the vice- presidency of the Board of Trade, where his duties came nowhere into touch with 8 Gladstone. questions concerning the Church, and where the strongest of his faculties were brought into full play. He became ab- sorbed in economic studies at once, and was insensibly drawn away from those matters of ecclesiastical and theological consideration which had oppressed and hampered his mind. He now found the class of subjects that he could handle with the finest skill, the details that he could master with the greatest power, the kind of exposition in which he could shine with most distinction in debate. He had been led into the right path at a critical parting of the ways. He had entered upon his real career. At the same time, the Church, as a national establishment of religion, was being shown to him in a new light, by workings within it which disappointed expectations and beliefs that had been the firmest in his mind. The Oxford movement was proving to be a movement Homeward, and the revival attempted iu it had shaken instead of strengthen- ing the English Church. The drift of feeling and the drift of events were go- ing plainly against that conception of the Church which had been the dominating idea in Mr. Gladstones mind. Twenty- seven years later, ia A Chapter of Auto- biography, he wrote his own account of the change then beginning to be wrought in his political view of the Established Church. Summarized in a few words, the truth appears to be that Mr. Gladstone was now coming to the recognition of facts in the light of which the Church could not be any longer the main object in his political views. To remove it from that place in his thought was to take the cor- ner-stone from his conservatism, and to make inevitable a general crumbling of the alien fabric of inherited and accepted opinions. In coincidence with this re- lease, as it may be called, occurred the circumstance of his appointment to an office that drew him into the imperious current of economic discussion which swept England in those years. It was a discussion more certain than any other that can be imagined to wash British Toryism of the old sort out of a can- did, intelligent brain. It had been do- ing so with Peel; it was to do so with Gladstone; and the evolution of the fu- ture leader of English Liberalism from the young man who in 1839 could be called the rising hope of stern and unbending Tories was practically accomplished in that fourth decade of his life. Within the limits of this article the story of Peels Ministry and its achieve- ments cannot be told. Of the depression and distress that England had suffered since 1837; of the disorder that in- creased; of the conflicting agitations that rami politically into Chartism and com- mercially into the overpowering work of the Anti-Corn-Law League; of the grad- ual surrrender of Peel to the free-trade doctrines of Cobden, Bright, Vihliers, and the irresistible league; of his mea- sures, beginning with the sliding - scale of corn duties and the significant tariff revision of 1842, and ending in 1846 with the great act which uprooted protec~ tionism from British policy, and put the seal of its surpassing wisdom on the su- premacy of England iu the trade of the world, the tale has been often told, and is familiar to most readers of the present day. Gladstone kept step with his leader, and was the ablest of lieu- tenants in the whole advance. With every stride forward they left more of the heavy-footed squires of their own country party behind, and drew more of their support from the party they were expected to oppose. It was treason they committed, if we take the judgment of the deserted Tories on what they did; it was patriotism they exemplified, if the history of England from that day till now is permitted to testify. While Gladstone was thus finding the way to his ultimate career, the rival most contrasted to him, and destined to Gladstone. 9 dispute power with him most strenuous- ly in the coining time, was doing the same. Disraeli, who entered Parlia- ment in 1837, had thus far made no particular mark in the House. He had amused and interested certain circles by the rather heavy satire and enigmatical doctrine of his political novels, and the acrid wit of phrase-making in his speeches was considerably enjoyed; but of p0- litical weight it is manifest that he had none. He was a free-lance in the House, not to be counted on by any party or by any faction of a party. He played with some of the doctrines of radicalism at one moment, as though they were the joy and hope of his life, and tickled the country squires at the next with a cod- dling of their dearest beliefs. But when it began to be seen that the stern and unbending Tories were about to lose their rising hope as well as their de- parting chief, and that a desperate need of leadership and debating talent was soon to be felt in that venerable party of the past, Disraeli sank himself comfort- ably into the cool embrace of conserva- tisin, as fast as Peel and Gladstone and other men of shining ability rose out of it. It was so obviously the opening of opportunity, the offered place of little competition, the ground of advantage for dexterous talents like his, that he must have laughed at the humor of in- genious Fortune when she beckoned him to the half-deserted camp. Those were the days when he first won the heart of bucolic conservatism by the stinging phrases that he flung at the organized hypocrisy of perfidious ministers; by the lively scorn that he heaped on the bourgeois policy of free trade; by the happy art with which he painted for protectionism and the landed interest a picturesque and historical background of feudal origin and obligation, to distract attention from their want of economic support. In the last hours of the great battle for free trade Peel lost the help of Glad- stone. The latter had been advanced in 1843 from the vice-presidency to the presidency of the Board of Trade, which gave him a cabinet seat. In 1845, on Peels proposal to increase the govern- ment grant of money to the Roman Cath- olic College of iMlaynooth in Ireland, and to establish three non-sectarian colleges in that country, Gladstone felt impelled to resign, in order, as he afterward ex- plained, to place himself in a position of freedom to consider his course without being liable to any unjust suspicion on the ground of personal interest. But, being free, he determined to give sup- port to the bill, and did so by voice and vote. Soon afterward the crisis of the corn-law question was reached in Peels cabinet; two of its members resigned, and Mr. Gladstone, as Secretary for the Colonies, came into the vacancy left by Lord Stanley, the Lord Derby of later years. Acceptance of this office involved the resignation of his parliamentary seat. Naturally, the Duke of Newcastle de- clined to support his redection from Newark, and Mr. Gladstone, unwilling to make a contest for the seat, retired. In the great debate of the session of 1846 his voice was not heard. Peel carried his bill in May; but the Protectionists had their revenge next month, when the Liberals joined them in defeating a co- ercion bill for Ireland, compelling the Ministry to resign. The new government, formed by Lord John Russell, with Lord Grey and Lord Palmerston for his strongest associates, had no party majority of their own to depend on in the House; but the fallen minister and his followers gave them a generous support. They held the reins for nearly six years, in the face of Irish difficulties terribly increased by the fain- me, and of a commercial crisis in Eng- land that followed closely after. A gen- eral election held in the fall of 1847 confirmed their tenure, and Mr. Glad- stone was returned to Parliament by elec- tion of the University of Oxford. 10 Gladstone. The next few years were not eventful ones in his life, though an eventful time in European history. It was the period of many revolutions, of the Schleswig- Holstein war, and of the coup d6tat in France. Spending the winter of 1850 with his family at Naples, Mr. Glad- stone made a searching investigation of the monstrous oppressions of the gov- eminent of King Ferdinand, and an ex- posure of them in letters to the Times, which stirred all Europe, creating a public feeling that even King Bomba could not disregard. Later in that year ~he death of Sir Robert Peel occurred, and the members of his personal follow- ing in Parliament, known then and for some time after as Peelites, were left in an uncertain position. They were on a middle ground in politics, between de- fined Conservatives and Liberals, binding themselves to neither. They were now less likely to act en masse than when their chief remained to lead them, but they formed a factor to be reckoned with still. They prevented a change of Min- istry in 1851 by their refusal to join hands with the Protectionist-Conserva- tive party; and when, next year, the Russell Ministry fell, it was Stanley (now become Earl of Derby) and Dis- raeli who undertook the government, the Peelites remaining with the opposition. The experiment of Conservative admin- istration lasted only from February till December. Disraeli, who had realized his ambition and become the leader of his party in the House, undertook the Exchequer, and brought in a budget of extraordinary cleverness in its trick-play- ing with protection and free trade. It was shattered by Gladstone, in a speech that revealed fully for the first time his never equaled power in the handling of the subjects of public finance. The too ingenious budget was thrown out by a majority of nineteen, and the Derby- Disraeli Ministry gave place to one head- ed by the Earl of Aberdeen, in which Peelites were in coalition with Whigs. The new Ministry represented the first stage in the organic construction of the Liberal party of future politics. Mr. Gladstone now stepped into Mr. Dis- raelis place as Chancellor of the Ex- chequer, and the rivalry of the two men became pronounced. True rivals in finance, or in any of the higher spheres of statesmanship, they could never be, for one was scientific where the other was ingenious, and warmly earnest where the other was coolly shrewd; but in the great arena of parliamentary debate they were to head the strife of parties for many years to come. The budget brought forward by Glad- stone in April, 1853, is one of the recog- nized masterpieces of national finance, and the speech in which he unfolded it was the first of many that are supreme examples of political oratory in their kind. That no other financier in his- tory, so sound in his mastery of princi- ples and so strong in his knowledge of facts, has ever been able to make them a subject of delightful eloquence, in the degree to which they were made so by Mr. Gladstone, seems beyond dispute. If the government of Lord Aberdeen was financially strong, it was otherwise weak. It allowed England to be drawn into an alliance with the parvenu Emperor of the French, and into a war with Rus- sia that had no justifiable cause and no useful result. It exasperated the nation by its mismanagement of the war, and by the consequent sufferings to which the army in the Crimea was exposed. In February, 1855, it was voted out of of- fice, and a reorganization of Ministry under Lord Palmerston occurred, after Derby and Russell had each attempted the task without success. Mr. Gladstone and other Peelites withdrew, disagree- ing with Palmerstons consent to a com- mittee for investigating the condition of the army before Sebastopol. There was evidently some bitterness in the dis- agreement; for Greville, in his diary, July 29, 1855, says, Gladstone & Co. Gladstone. 11~ may now be considered as being in de- cided opposition, and remarks, The breach between them and the Whigs is very wide, and the Derbyites hate them with intensity, while they are too weak to form a party of their own. Their opposition, however, does not seem to have gone far in animosity, and Glad- stones attention must have been much diverted from political affairs ; for it was in this period that he wrote his Studies on Homer and the Homeric Age. Palmerston and his colleagues controlled the government for three years. They brought the Crimean war to a close, and carried British rule in India through the appalling crisis of the Sepoy revolt. Their Ministry was succeeded in the early part of 1858 by a new undertak- ing of Conservative administration, with Derby and Disraeli at its head. Mr. Gladstone was still further removed from parliamentary occupations for a time by a mission of importance which he ac- cepted, as Lord High Commissioner to the Jonian Islands, with results that led subsequently to the withdrawal of the British protectorate, and the annexation of the islands to the kingdom of Greece. During one session skillful management enabled Disraeli to avoid vital issues with the majority against him in the House. But when, in the next session, he at- tempted a piece of strategy, bringing in a new Ref ormn Bill for the confusion of the Liberals, it was a characteristic per- forumance, and it characteristically failed. Like his budget of 1852 it was found to be a too ingenious piece of work, and it was condemned by the House. Lord Palmerston took the premiership again, with the reconciled Peelites among his coadjutors, bringing a great array of talent into the Ministry. Mr. Gladstone was once more Chancellor of the Ex- chequer, and presently heightened his fame as a minister of finance by his co- operation with Cobden in negotiating the treaty of commercial reciprocity with France, and by his eradication of the last remnants of protective duty from the British tariff, accomplished in the budget of 1860. This budget carried with it, among its intended results, a great low- ering of the price of paper, thus bring- ing in the era of cheap newspapers and books, which was most obnoxious to con- servatism and gave rise to a fierce strug- gle with the House of Lords. Of events that belong in this period, the most important were those connected with the civil war in the United States. The attitude of Mr. Gladstone toward the issues in that conflict was a matter of the deepest interest to Americans then, and has been hardly less so since. That the British government as a whole, and its members generally, should be coldly neutral in form, and plainly unfriendly to the United States in fact, could oc- casion not much surprise. They repre- sented socially a class or caste in which that prevalent feeling toward tIme re- public was very little disguised. But Americans had been acquiring an idea of Mr. Gladstone which led them to expect something different from him, some- thing more in the spirit of Bright, of Cob- den, and of Goldwin Smith, and they felt a sore disappointment and resentment when he declared, in a speech made at Neweastle-upon-Tyne, in October, 1862, that Jefferson Davis had made an army, had made a navy, and, more than that, had made a nation. It was half true, and it could easily seem wholly true at the time; but it was not what a friend of the American Union would say. It was virtually a recognition of the South- ern Confederacy, and it had enormous significance and weight, coming from a man in Mr. Gladstones official place and with the personal influence that he pos- sessed even then. Some years afterward, Mr. Gladstone took pains to disclaim un- friendly intentions in what he said, con- fessed the mistake of the opinion he had uttered, and attempted an explanation which saddens one a little in reading, because it limps so lamely. I must 12 Gladstone. confess that I was wrong, he said; that I took too much upon myself in expressing such an opinion. Yet the motive was not bad. My sympathies were then where they had long before been, where they are now with the whole American people. I, probably, like many Europeans, did not understand the nature and the working of the Amer- ican Union. I had imbibed conscien- tiously, if erroneously, an opinion that twenty or twenty-four millions of the North would be happier and would be stronger of course assuming that they would hold together without the South than with it, and also that the negroes would be much nearer to emancipation under a Southern government than un- der the old system of the Union, which had not at that date been abandoned, and which always appeared to me to place the whole power of the North at the command of the slaveholding inter- ests of the South. As far as regards the special or separate interest of Eng- land in the matter, I, differing from many others, had always contended that it was best for our interest that the Union should be kept entire. Now, really, this is not a convincing plea. The Newcastle utterance was too em- phatically favorable to Mr. Daviss na- tion to be quite in agreement with the feelings here described. Yet, after all, the offense of Mr. Gladstone ought not to be an unforgivable one. In the au- tumn of 1862, after McClellans Penin- sular campaign, after the second Bull Run, after Lees invasion of Maryland, it was hard for the firmest foreign friends of the Union to have faith in its restora- tion, and confidence in the effectiveness of President Lincolns Emancipation Proclamation, then just put forth. The influence needed to keep alive foreign faith in the Union cause was a deep and dire hatred of slavery, but hatred of sla- very was mild in Mr. Gladstone, if not wanting entirely. He was removed by less than thirty years from the time when his family drew no small part of its wealth from slave labor, and it is nat- ural to suppose that he was less likely than other Englishmen of kindred char- acter to be prejudiced against the Con~ federacy by its corner - stone. But that he was ever inspired by a mean sentiment of hostility to Americans and their country cannot be reasonably be- lieved. The signs of disposition in his whole life are against that interpreta- tion of his words. He spoke from an unsound judgment, most unwisely; and that is a sin for which he has needed forgiveness more than once. If he had been entirely a wise man, he would not have been a great orator, he would not have wielded the extraordinary power of his enthusiasms, he would not have been Gladstone. Because he was Glad- stone, Americans can forget his New castle words with no great difficulty. Parliament was dissolved by expira~ tion of its term in 1865, and at the fol- lowing general election Mr. Gladstone lost his Oxford seat. His opinions had become too liberal for the university, especially since misgivings with regard to the Irish Church had begun to find expression in his speeches, and it cast him out. But Lancashire gave him a seat, and he was thenceforth more entire- ly untrammeled as a representative than he had ever been before. The last thread of connection with the conservatism of his early life had been cut. He took his stand definitely, erelong, by the side of John Bright and the more advanced of the Liberal leaders, as one of the trib- unes of the common people. Palmer- ston died in October, 1865, and Russell came to the head of the government. The introduction of a bill to answer the long-resisted demand for a further reform and extension of the elective franchise was decided upon, and Mr. Gladstone brought it forward iii the House. It proved to be too conserva- tive to interest the Radicals greatly, but too radical for the more conservative & ladstone. 13 Liberals, and the overthrow of the gov- ernment was brought about by it. The death-blow was given by a few professed Liberals, led by Mr. Lowe, who got the name of Adullamites from one of the witty speeches of Mr. Bright. Lord Derby and Mr. Disraeli now formed another Ministry, which endured for a little more than two years. It promptly took up the agitated question of reform, and, by making large conces- sions to the Liberals, passed a bill that went much farther in the democratic direction than the measure lately de- feated, and which caused deep Tory dis- gust. The first appeal made to the new constituencies thus created proved fatal ~o the responsible authors of the bill. This occurred in 1868, on a question in- 7olving the fate of the Church establish- merit in Ireland. Mr. Gladstone had be- come convinced that justice to Ireland and peace in that country were impossi- ble without the disestablishment of the church which nine tenths of the Irish people abhorred. He introduced reso- lutions, accordingly, and carried them aga the government. A dissolution of Parliament was the consequence; but it was postponed until November, when elections were held under the new law. They resulted in a large Liberal majori- ty, distinctly given in support of the policy of Irish Church disestablishment proposed by Mr. Gladstone. That gentleman was now, conspicuous- ly and beyond question, the head of the party that had triumphed in the elec- tions. It was inevitable that he should take direction of the government, and the way was naturally opened by the recent retirement of Lord John Russell from public life. In the cabinet which he formed, on the Queens invitation, sev- eral men of subsequent note were first brought to the political front, Lord Hartington, Mr. Goschen, Mr. Lowe, Mr. Forster, and Lord Dufferin, of the number, while Mr. Bright made his entry into cabinet office as president of the Board of Trade. Mr. Gladstone, in his fifty-ninth year, was now at the sum- mit of his intellectual powers, but not yet at the zenith of his renown. From the height of his supreme office, he exer- cised after this time, over England, an influence that grew to be more dominat- ing than any known in English history before, unless the very different influ- ence of the Pitts may possibly be com- pared with it. From 1868 to 1874 this first Prime Ministry of Gladstone was filled with great tasks, heroically undertaken and performed. First, of course, was the disestablishment of the Irish Church, in which the national mandate was obeyed. At this time he published the Chapter of Autobiography, already cited, to an- swer the critics who denounced his change of attitude toward the Protes- tant establishment in Ireland since the long - past days when it had seemed a sacred thing in his eyes. Disestablish- ment delivered Ireland from one op- pression; another, more productive of misery, though not more exasperating, remained. The Irish land system, con- trived and perfected, without conscience, in the interest of a half-alien landlord class, living generally elsewhere, and caring nothing for the country or the people, was iniquitous almost beyond be- lief. Tenants had no defined tenure and no rights under it. Landlords held un- limited power to rob them of improve- ments, exact extortionate rents, evict them at will. It was an old wrong, older than the English colonial slavery that had been dead for a generation, and which had been scarcely more cruel, but it had cried to deaf ears until now. And now the cry from Ireland, of all her grievances, had grown louder than it was even in the days of Daniel OCon- nell. A resounding, threatening echo to it was coming back from the millions of emigrated Irish in America. Instead of being weakened by the prodigious movement of her population to the New 14 Gladstone. World, Ireland had gained from it a new strength for resistance to her unending oppression. The Irish in Anierica had prospered. Great numbers of them had just gone through a soldierly training in the American civil war. They had money and men and captains to offer to any movement on behalf of Ireland that could be set on foot. From this stimu- lation came the Fenian conspiracy of 186569, which at least compelled the giving of more serious thought in Eng- land to Irish grievances than had been given to them before. Mr. Gladstone and others of like mind had now arrived at the determination that those griev- ances should be removed, that the Irish people should be pacified by justice, and that the chronic disease of hatred in one part of the United Kingdom toward the other part, poisonous and imperiling to the whole body politic, should be radi- cally cured. He addressed himself to the difficult problem of the reform of the Irish land laws with characteristic thoroughness, personally mastering the subject in its technical details and in its legal and historical ramifications so com- pletely that his knowledge, when he dealt with it, was overwhelming to his oppo- nents and amazing to his friends. His Irish land bill was introduced in Feb- ruary, 1870, in a speech of which the biographer of the late Mr. W. E. For- ster has said: A crowded House had sat entranced whilst Mr. Gladstone had given that wonderful account of the pro- visions of his Irish land bill, which is regarded by many competent critics as the most remarkable of his oratorical achievements. He seemed to be always able to arouse new admiration by each effort that he made; and the more stub- born the subject, the more fascinating his eloquence became. Contest over the bill consumed some months, but it was passed in the August following. That it only half succeeded in its aims is hardly strange. The power of the landlords to oppress their tenants was too great to be baffled on the first attempt. They found loopholes in the act, and contrived means to evade its intentions in many exas- perating ways. But the great fact that English statesmen and the English peo- ple had begun to show in earnest a will to do justice to Ireland, and that land- lords and clergy were no longer to be undisputed in its affairs, had a potent effect. Deep discontent remained, but the violent spirit in it was sapped. Fe- manism died out, and no really revolu- tionary undertaking has assumed form since. The movement for home rule grew up in place of the struggle for na- tional independence; and though Ire- land became afterward a more trouble- some factor in British politics than ever before, this was because it bad been fair- ly brought into the national politics in- stead of being thrust outside. One thing more Mr. Gladstone at- tempted to do for Ireland, by the cre- ation of a national university, broad enough to cover colleges of all creeds; but the attempt failed. For education in England, his government took the first great and difficult step toward the institution of a national system of ele- mentary schools. The scheme of its edu- cation bill, framed and carried through by Mr. Forster, perpetuated the Church schools, and received more Conservativg than Liberal support, being bitterly op- posed by a strong radical party which had been striving for a national system of strictly secular schools; but it was the~ beginning of duty in a matter that had suffered shameful neglect. Introduction of the ballot, abolition of the sale and purchase of army commissions, and set- tlement of the Alabama claims by the Treaty of Washington with the United States were among the other notable achievements of the Gladstone govern- ment. It seems to have tired the nation at last with an excess of good work, and early in 1874 the Premier felt called upon, without immediate provocation from Parliament, to make an appeal to Gladstone. 15 the country, to test public opinion on his policy, including measures to come. The elections were adverse, and he resigned. Mr. Disraeli was called to the premier- ship, and formed a strong Ministry, with a strong majority in Parliament to give it support. Release from office brought with it to Mr. Gladstone a longing for still further release from the labors and responsibil- ities of his leadership in the Liberal party. With all the intensity of his life in Parliament, it had never been the whole of life to him. He had kept large reserves of other interests, to which he always turned with delight in every hour of escape from official cares. The tastes of the student were never extinguished in him by the busy habits of the man of affairs. Amid now, at sixty-five, after the accomplishment of so many of his parliamentary aims, a great desire to bring more of the sweetness of rest and letters and domestic privacy into the remaining years of his life came upon him. It is not hard to see that this de- sire was most natural to him, at that point in his life, though it might not last; and yet, when he announced his wish to withdraw, at no distant time, from all the responsibilities of leader- ship, every possible motive of meanness was looked for by his political enemies to explain the act. In his owii party, hardly less than consternation and hope- lessness was caused by the thought of losing him from the place of command; but he persisted in claiming his release. I see no public advantage, he said, in my continuing to act as the leader of the Liberal party, and at the age of sixty-five, after forty-two years of a laborious public life, I think myself en- titled to retire on the present opportuni- ty. This retirement is dictated to me by my personal views as to the best method of spending the closing years of my life.... I should, perhaps, add that I am at present, and mean for a short time to be, engaged on a special matter that occupies me closely. The special matter referred to proved to be the pamphlet on The Vatican Decrees which he published sooii after. It represents the kind of occupation to which he hoped to give the remainder of his life. Soomi after the opening of the session in 1875 Mr. Gladstone stepped down to a followers place in the Liberal ranks, and the Marquis of Hartington took, re- luctantly, time leaders post. Lord Hart- ington (now Duke of Devonshire) is an able man; but he had little of Glad- stones strength in debate, and nothing of his enthusiasm. There was no moral momentum in his nature to carry him and his party forward to higher ground and further ends. Half the vigor of English Liberalism was soon found to have disappeared, and Disraelis task of government was made easy to lminm by a languid opposition. In domestic mat- ters the new Premier pursued a course to be generally admired, particularly in the passing of important measures of sanitary reform; but he looked to for- eign affairs for the distinction of his Ministry. It was in this period of his administration that the terms Jingo and Jingoism came into use, and the barbaric war spirit that they signify was deliberately instigated and used by Dis- raeli at the time. He had appealed to it in the elections which brought him into power. As stated by his Tory bio- grapher, Mr. Kebbel, he had spoken to the British workmen of England; of her glory and her duty; of the imperial inheritance which their ancestors had won, and which they must transmit to their posterity; of the proud position which she occupied among the nations of the world, and of the divine mission which it was her privilege to fulfill in the spread of civilization and religion. In an age of economy and materialism, exclaims Mr. Kebbel, of cheap break- fast - tables and bread - and - butter pro- sperity, these accents fell upon the public ear, long unaccustomed to such sounds, 16 Gladstone. with thrilling power. So England cheered and shouted, and sang music- hall songs, for the time, over a splendid imperial policy, of protection, to the rotten despotism of the Turk, of antago- nism to Russia, of advance to a scien- tific frontier for India, of ownership in the Suez Canal, of extended South African possessions. In the midst of the glory of it, Mr. Disraeli crowned his career in a fitting way by accepting an earidom from the Queen, and sinking his plebeian name in the title of Lord Beaconsfield. Meantime, Mr. Gladstone had heen drawn back irresistibly into the practi- cal leadership of the Liberal party hy excitements incident to Turkish affairs, caused especially by the atrocities in Bulgaria. He could not keep out of the fray, nor enter the fray without be- ing in the front of it. His voice rang out against longer adherence to a shame- ful protectorate over the Turk, main- tained to keep the carcass of his dead empire in the way of a Russian advance to the Mediterranean. Jingoism fell be- fore the assaults of common sense and Christian feeling. In vain were there banners and trumpetings when Lord Beaconsfield came back from the settle- ment of the Treaty of Berlin, boasting of peace with honor. The country at large saw emptiness in the outcome of his imperial policy, and gave its pre- ference to the homely bread-and-butter prosperity that seemed to be slipping away. Elections held in 1880, on the dissolution of Parliament, were over- whelmingly in favor of the Liberals. Mr. Gladstones Midlothian speeches had been the inspiration of the campaign, and had given its programme to the party. It was possible for no other man to command the political situation, and no other could take the responsibility of government. He could not escape from it if he would. The brief retirement of Mr. Glad- stone to a less burdened life was then followed by the most troubled and try- ing period of his career. It is doubtful if any statesman was ever more painful- ly harassed by more varied misfortunes and difficulties, more innocently as to the causing of most among them, than was Gladstone in the five years of his second administration. From the spirited pol- icy of his predecessor he received a fine legacy of troubles: a British army trapped in Afghanistan; a Boer war, provoked by wrongs which a just British government must redress; a situation in Egypt leading to the Arabi revolt, to its necessary suppression by British troops, to consequent responsibilities on the Nile, demanding the withdrawal of Egyptian garrisons from the Soudan, to Gordons mission to Khartoum, to his beleaguer- ment by the Mahdists, and to the res- cuing expedition which came too late. The anxieties and the storms of party malice which these events produced were enough to bow the shoulders of a younger man than Mr. Gladstone, but they may have seemed light to him compared with the tempest from Ireland that broke upon his government. The Land Act of 1870 had proved to be abortive legislation. At the trial before the Parnell commission in 1888 Sir Charles Russell produced abundant evidence of its failure to give tenants the protection designed. It had proba- bly, on the whole, made matters in Ire- land worse by excitement and disap- pointment of hopes, and by provoking what seemed to be a conspiracy in the meaner class of landlords to drive the Irish peasantry to despair. Evictions in 1880 were double the yearly average of the preceding quarter-century. Statis- tics submitted to the Parnell commis- sion show an average in Connaught, between 1853 and 1878, of 960 evic- tions per year, increased in 1880 to 1995; in Munster, 1076, increased to 2345. In December, 1880, General Gordon, who is a witness to be trusted by all the world, visited the southwest of Gladstone. iT Ireland, in the hope, as he said, of discovering how some settlement could be made of the Irish question, which, like a fretting cancer, eats away our vitals as a nation. On his return he wrote as follows to the Times: I have come to the conclusion that, first, a gulf of antipathy exists between the land- lords and tenants of the northwest and west and the southwest of Ireland. It is a gulf which is not caused alone by the question of rents; there is a com- plete lack of sympathy between the classes. . . . Second, no half - measure acts which left the landlords with any say to the tenantry of those portions of Ireland will be of any use. They would be rendered, as past land acts in Ireland have been, quite abortive, for the land- lords will insert clauses to do away with their force. He concluded by saying that the state of our fellow countrymen in the parts I have named is worse than that of any people in the world, let alone Europe, and that yet they are patient beyond belief, loyal, but at the same time broken - spirited and desperate. Action in Ireland against this terrible state of things was being doubly organ- ized, with two aims, soon to be combined in one. The Land League of Michael Davitt set itself in array against land- lordism as a curse to be wholly rooted out, while the party for Home Rule, now consolidated under a new and masterful leader, Mr. Parnell, made the conces- sion of a separate legislature to Ireland its ultimate demand. The league and the party were allied and powerfully equipped with means for making them- selves felt. This was the Irish situation that con- fronted Mr. Gladstone when he resumed the task of government. He formed a Ministry that seemed promising of great sympathy and generosity in treatment of the hard problems involved. Mr. For- ster, Quaker-bred, and especially known to the Irish people r.s their well-proved friend, was given the direction of mea voL. txxxu. xo. 489. 2 sures for Ireland in the important Chief Secretarys place. Mr. Bright came into the cabinet; likewise Mr. Chamberlain, representing extreme Birmingham radi- calism, and close in relations with the Irish party; while Sir Charles Dilke, of kindred politics, held a lower adminis- trative place. Ireland seemed to be well befriended in the government, yet no government before was ever involved in an antagonism so bitter with its subjects in the Celtic isle. The very cordialities that were in the situation at first proved mischievous in the end. The Irish ex- pected too much from the government, and too soon. The government, on its side, expected too much trust in its friendly spirit and too much patient waiting. Mr. Forster, especially, would seem to have looked for a faith in him- self that was not manifested to his sat- isfaction. So feelings that were sym- pathetic at first soon cooled, and an estrangement began that quickly grew to hostility of the fiercest kind. The government, unwilling to take up at once the troublesome project of a new land bill, passed a bill through the House making temporary provision of redress for the persecuted tenants. It was killed by an overwhelming majority in the House of Lords. This let loose the im- pending storm. Ireland had been wak- ened from despair to hope, and now hope gave way to wrath, and wrath bred vio- lence, and violence provoked the chastis- ing arm of oppressive power. The scenes of murder and riot that ensued, the dy- namite explosions, the organized boy- cotting, the systematized suspension of rent payments, and all the varied contri- vances of disorder that added ruin to ruin in Ireland during the next few years are remembered well. So, too, are the scenes that followed in the British Par- liament. The sixty-two representatives of the Home Rule party, led as a solid phalanx by Mr. Parnell, and determined that no other business should be done while Irish questions suffered neglect, 18 Gladstone. practically paralyzed the House for weeks by their tactics of obstruction. Thea the Speaker, taking power arbi- trarily into his hands, broke the rules of the House, silenced the obstructionists, and enabled the Ministry to pass a co- ercion bill which gave them despotic powers. Armed with these powers, Mr. Forster applied them with unmerciful severity. An obstinate Yorkshire na- ture underlying his Quaker culture was roused, and he acted in the spirit of a Tory of some past generation. He filled the prisons with suspects, including Mr. Parnell and other Irish leaders, for a time, and persisted in stubborn blind- ness to the fact that terror can never make peace. Of course, Mr. Gladstone, as the head of the government, must be held to ac- count for the sad blundering of this un- happy time. It is said that he never believed in the repressive policy of Mr. Forster; and that is probably true. But he countenanced it too long allowed it to go too far for his own fair fame. One feels, too, in reviewing the story, that if he had realized the threat of the situation at an early day, and had brought his whole energy and influence to bear on its difficulties in the beginning, there might have been a very different course of events. It is quite possible that he did not willingly believe in the com- pleteness of the failure of his own Land Act of 1870, and met the demand for its. revision too indifferently because too skeptically. This may not be so, but it seems to be a reasonable conjecture; there is some suggestion of it in the awakened vigor with which Mr. Glad- stone pressed a new land bill through both houses of Parliament between April and August of 1881, immediately after Mr. Forsters coercion bill, and while the bludgeon that the latter fashioned was being most roughly used. Natural- ly, under the circumstances, the new act, which created a tribunal to adjudi- cate rents, was an inadequate piece of work. It was repudiated by the Irish Nationalist members, who refused to vote on the second reading of it, while it drew fresh denunciations from the land- lords and their friends. Mr. Lecky, holding a brief for the latter, devotes a considerable section of his work on De- mocracy to an argument, which we ven- ture to call fallacious, against this act, as being in violation of contract between the British government and the pur- chasers of property in Ireland under the Incumbered Estates Act of 1849. As a matter of fact, the principle of the Land Bill of 1881 has been practically maintained by Conservatives as well as Liberals in legislation since, and provi- sions to improve its working have been added by both. The policy of Mr. Forster was pur- sued unrelentingly until April, 1882. Then some kind of overture from Mr. Parnell, in Kilmainham prison, was wel- comed by the government, and a truce was arranged which brought active hos- tilities between the contending parties to an end. Mr. Forster, refusing assent to it, resigned, and Lord Frederick Caven- dish was appointed to his place. The assassination of the new Secretary, quick- ly following, in Dublin, caused no renew- al of the state of war, but rather, by the horror of it, sobered all parties in the political world. Parliament was able once more to give attention to neglected affairs. The session of 1883 produced the important law by which corrupt prac- tices in English elections have been ef- fectually suppressed. In the next years session a bill for further enlargement of the elective franchise was passed by the Commons, only to be rejected by the Lords, with a consequent excitement the most threatening to the Upper House that had ever appeared. Public demon- strations of feeling had their warning ef- fect, and the franchise bill, the third Reform Bill of English history, passed again in November, was accepted by the peers, with a supplementary act which Gladstone. 19 distributes more fairly the parliamentary seats. In the winter of 1885, failure to res- cue General Gordon from Khartoum, added to other causes, turned public feeling very strongly against the gov- ernment, and in June it resigned, after a vote carried against it in the House. The Conservatives formed a Ministry un- der Lord Salisbury (Lord Beaconsfield being no more), and were in power dur- ing the following seven months. Elec- tions for a new Parliament the first under the extended franchise were held in November, and resulted in a sin- gular situation. The Conservatives, now helped by the Irish vote in England, made gains in the towns, while the Lib- erals swept the counties. At the same time, in Ireland, the Home Rulers elect- ed eighty-five of the one hundred and three in the total representation of the island, and held the balance of power. The Liberal vote in the House of Com- mons was almost equaled by the combined vote of Conservative and Irish members. It was plain policy for the latter to re- turn to their former alliance with the Liberals, and they did so. The Salisbury Ministry went out of office in the follow- ing January. And now came the part of Mr. Glad- stones public life which brought both his statesmanship and his character most seriously and most bitterly into dispute. Called again, for the third time, to be Prime Minister of England, he accepted the great office virtually at the hands of the Irish party, without whose support it could not be held, and with it he ac- cepted their programme of home rule for Ireland. It is believed by his ene- mies that greed of power was the pre- vailing motive to this course, whatever reasons in its favor he might have per- suaded himself to see; and it is possible that the purity of the convictions on which Mr. Gladstone acted at this junc- ture may always be called in question. But if we weigh all the circumstances without prejudice, we find no just rea- son for a suspicion of his absolute sin- cerity. The most reasonable assump- tions are entirely in his favor. It is not reasonable to suspect that in his seventy. seventh year, after harvesting all the honors that public life could yield to him, after escaping from a Ministry that had nearly broken him with its many troubles, it is not reasonable, in the light of all that we know of his charac- ter and his studious tastes, to suspect that he was drawn back to the strife and labor of parliamentary government by a merely personal ambition so strong as to warp the convictions of his mind. It is reasonable to suppose that he felt a great ambition to end the unendura- ble conflict between the members of the United Kingdom; and no ambition could be more honorable than that, whatever thought of self might mix in it. There are facts, too, which show that Mr. Gladstone had been seeking light on the question of Irish home rule for some years. Mr. Justin McCarthy has given some of them in his recent Story of Gladstones Life. Back in 1882, Mr. McCarthy tells us, when the Home Rule members were a minority of the Irish re- presentation in Parliament, the Premier questioned him one day as to the ground on which they could claim to speak and act for the Irish people. How am I to know? he asked. The reply was: Give us a popular franchise in Ireland, and we shall soon let you know whe- ther we represent the Irish people or whether we do not. Three years later Gladstone gave the popular franchise to Ireland as well as to Great Britain, anJ the elections then held raised the Home Rule representation to more than four fifths of the whole. That the mind of Mr. Gladstone had been meantime in ~ waiting state on the subject, and that this proof of Irish sentiment was deci sive to him, does not seem to be fairly open to doubt. But the wisdom of Mr. Gladstones 20 Gladstone. course is more questionable than the sin- cerity of it. The subject on that side is bo large for this article, yet a few words must be said. In his first plan, submit- ted to Parliament on the 8th of April, 1886, he proposed to give Ireland a dis- tinct legislature, with substantial mdc- pendence in the control of its domestic affairs, but to silence its voice in the larger affairs of the United Kingdom by taking its representation in the Im- perial Parliament entirely away. The Liberal party was broken by the start- ling proposition. Eighty-five of its mem- bers seceded and joined the Conserva- tives to defeat the bill. Mr. Gladstone appealed by a dissolution, and was beat- en in the country overwhelmingly. The seceding Liberals, taking the name of Unionists, formed a coalition with the Conservatives in a Ministry which held the government, under Lord Salisbury, for six years, until the P4rhiament ex- pired. Then Mr. Gladstone, still full of vigor, and firm in his resolution to give home rule to Ireland, renewed his appeal to the people. The elections of 1892 went against him in England, but favorably in Scotland and Wales, and strongly favorable in Ireland, of course. Without the Irish members he would be heavily outvoted in the House; with them he had a majority of forty-two. On this dubious verdict he undertook his fourth Ministry, and brought for- ward his second home rule bill. It was radically different from the first in plan, giving Ireland eighty members in the House of Commons at London (with no vote there on matters affecting Great Britain alone), and a domestic legisla- ture of two houses at Dublin. The Com- mons passed the bill, and the Lords, as expected, threw it out. Mr. Gladstone saw the uselessness of a dissolution, or of agitation against the peers. He went stoutly through other business of the session to the end, and even to April of the following year. Then he resigned. He had finished his political career. As proved by the result doubly proved by all that has appeared since England was very far from willingness to give Ireland the demanded home rule. Beyond (loubt, the unwillingness was greater than popular votes or parliamen- tary votes disclosed. The amazing in- fluence of Mr. Gladstone, his unequaled persuasiveness, his overpowering pres- tige, had almost carried his party with him against its will. iNo other man could have made a show of approach to suc- cess in what he undertook. As a tour de force in popular leading it has never, perhaps, been surpassed. But that kind of triumph thinly gilds the actual fail- ure. Had Mr. Gladstone been a states- man more calculating of consequences, either political or personal, more saga- cious, either in public views or in party views, more prudent, either selfishly or patriotically, it can hardly be believed that he would have framed his measures as lie did, or attempted them at the time. Nor, from an American standpoint, does England seem blamable for the rejection of them. We are experienced in the working of home rule with national uni- ty; we know federalism in theory and in practice; but there is nothing in our experience or our political philosophy to give us an understanding of the the- ory or a belief in the practicability of either of the constitutional projects of Mr. Gladstone for the future govern- ment of Ireland. Whether Ireland, under the first of them, would be a part or not a part of the United Kingdom a dependency or a nation is puzzling to our comprehension. Whether Eng- land, Wales, and Scotland, denied home- ruling legislation by the second scheme, while Ireland rejoiced in it, would hold an equality of rights and a peerage of rank in the United Kingdom, is no less a problem. Of either plan, the incongrui- ty, the inconsistency with any principle, the departure froni all experience, seem most extraordinary. In these home rule measures Mr. Gladstone. 21 Gladstone had set his hand for the first time to an important undertaking of constructive statesmanship; and the ver- dict mj~st be that he was not equal to it. His life-work has been in reforming statesmanship. In that he has had no peer. He has been, we may say, the greatest of those peaceful revolutionists who lift and carry nations forward, out of old conditions into new; who recon- cile their institutions with advancing time, and make them participant in the progress of the world. But this repa- rative work, most useful, perhaps, that true statesmanship can do, wins com- monly less of the admiration of mankind than the framing of political systems and the building of states. Bismarck and Cavour, among Gladstones contem- poraries, are more than likely to rank above him, in present and in future opin- ion, as belonging to an order of states- men that is superior in its kind. The justice of that opinion is far from sure. It turns mostly upon a question of weight in moral qualities that are widely op- posed. But the fact of it is to be recog- nized; and so, too, is the fact that when Gladstone attempted a serious work of constructive statesmanship he failed. A grievous ending for so great and so noble a career! It ought to have been ended for him in the serene contentment of some crowning success. In no pro- cession of noisy triumph, but by some flower - strewn and beautiful way he should have gone to his retirement with a happily satisfied heart. He had done so much for England, for Britain, for Ireland! He had labored so long, so hopefully, so valiantly, so hard! He had struck, without favor or fear, at so many wrongs! He had remembered so faithfully the whole people, and borne so calmly the selfish resentments of a selfish class! He had warmed the very heart of the world so often with his gen- erous enthusiasms! He had been for half a century so inspiring a figure in the eyes of all mankind, so chivalrous in standing for Right! One feels that there might fitly have been a trooping of all the people of British race to say Hail and Farewell to him when he went out of public life. Gladstones place in English history will be high, and it will be quite apart from any other. He will have no near companionship in his fame. It will be, we think, an eminence assigned to moral qualities more than to intellectual pow- ers. The very sincerity that his enemies have denied to him will be counted per- haps the loftiest of his claims. It will be seen that few men of brilliant gifts and great ambitions have sought with his earnestness for the Right in what they did, or have stood with his courage by what they found it to be. When he braved the scorn and anger of the Church which has always been more to him than to most of its priests, and challenged by the same act his own past, in order to (10 justice to the people of another creed, and when he made a righteous peace with the Boers in the face of a storm of English wrath, lie rose to a greatness in character that will be measured in future time with clearer eyes than now. The persuasive witchery of his elo- quence will be poorly understood by generations to come. It is not found in the word, the phrase, the argument, or the thought. It came for the most part from the spirit that warmed the breath of the man, sounded in his voice, looked out of his eyes. It was personal to him~ largely drawn from the moral qualities that seemed to be his greater distinction. No man of his day has had such power of persuasion as he. It may not be too bold to say that no man of any time has surpassed him in that power. Yet he was never logically strong. His argu- mentative writings, the most cai~efully and deliberately composed, show defects of reasoning that are marked. From controversy with an antagonist like Pro- fessor Huxley he was sure to come with 22 The Essential Unity of Britain and America. wounds. Yet his masterful influence over minds of every class is a certain fact. It was once said by somebody that Gladstone could persuade any- body to anything, himself included; and no doubt the epigram carries a sig- nificant truth. Fashion a man finely and largely, and make him to be tensely strung in every part of his whole nature, but inject a little, barely a little excess on the moral and emotional side, a little more of feeling, with pressure of conscience behind it, than logical jndg- inent can quite control, and we shall lave the persuasive man who is over- persuasive sonietimes to himself. On the great scale, as in Gladstone, it pro- duces a rare and splendid power for the kind of work he had to do, a r~re and splendid character for the delight and admiration of mankind. It kept him in the strength and beauty of youth till he died. It did more; for he was younger in spirit, younger in the gen- erosities and hospitalities of his mind, when his work was finished than when it began. He, at least, in this ques- tioning nineteenth century, found well- springs of faith in both God and man, and drank of them to the end. THE ESSENTIAL UNITY OF BRITAIN AND AMERICA. THE editor of The Atlantic Monthly, a magazine which has always sought to treat current questions in a broad and impartial way, asks me to say a few words on a subject which is much in mens minds on both sides of the Atlan- tic, the underlying unity of the English and American peoples, and the causes which have produced that sympathy be- tween them which has been so conspic- uously displayed during the last few months. The sense of unity and sympathy be- tween these two peoples ought in rea- son and nature always to have existed. It has, in point of fact, existed to a much greater extent than has been generally realized. No American can travel in England, no Englishman can travel in America, without realizing it as a strong- er force than he could have gathered from a study of the history of the coun- tries since their political separation. There is indeed much reason for think- ing that the irritation which has some- times been shown in each country at the language used by the government or the newspapers of the other has been due largely to the undercurrent of affection which each felt for the other, and which made unfriendly or affronting expres- sions more resented than similar lan- guage would have been from a nation less closely bound by the ties of blood and literature and historical traditioii. However, despite this occasional irrita- tion, the sense of the essential unity of the two branches of the same stock has been growing steadily stronger in Brit- am during the last twenty years, and the events of these last months have made it more palpably evident in both coun- tries. It is chiefly of Britain, and of the causes which in Britain have been quietly strengthening and ripening this sympathy, that I shall attempt to speak. Among the changes that have marked our century, no other is so remarkable as the narrowing of the world by steam and electricity, and the bringing of dis- tant countries into close relations with one another. Even the age which saw the discovery of America and the open- ing of the ocean route to India saw no such revolution in the conditions of in- dustry, trade, and politics as our time

22 The Essential Unity of Britain and America. wounds. Yet his masterful influence over minds of every class is a certain fact. It was once said by somebody that Gladstone could persuade any- body to anything, himself included; and no doubt the epigram carries a sig- nificant truth. Fashion a man finely and largely, and make him to be tensely strung in every part of his whole nature, but inject a little, barely a little excess on the moral and emotional side, a little more of feeling, with pressure of conscience behind it, than logical jndg- inent can quite control, and we shall lave the persuasive man who is over- persuasive sonietimes to himself. On the great scale, as in Gladstone, it pro- duces a rare and splendid power for the kind of work he had to do, a r~re and splendid character for the delight and admiration of mankind. It kept him in the strength and beauty of youth till he died. It did more; for he was younger in spirit, younger in the gen- erosities and hospitalities of his mind, when his work was finished than when it began. He, at least, in this ques- tioning nineteenth century, found well- springs of faith in both God and man, and drank of them to the end. THE ESSENTIAL UNITY OF BRITAIN AND AMERICA. THE editor of The Atlantic Monthly, a magazine which has always sought to treat current questions in a broad and impartial way, asks me to say a few words on a subject which is much in mens minds on both sides of the Atlan- tic, the underlying unity of the English and American peoples, and the causes which have produced that sympathy be- tween them which has been so conspic- uously displayed during the last few months. The sense of unity and sympathy be- tween these two peoples ought in rea- son and nature always to have existed. It has, in point of fact, existed to a much greater extent than has been generally realized. No American can travel in England, no Englishman can travel in America, without realizing it as a strong- er force than he could have gathered from a study of the history of the coun- tries since their political separation. There is indeed much reason for think- ing that the irritation which has some- times been shown in each country at the language used by the government or the newspapers of the other has been due largely to the undercurrent of affection which each felt for the other, and which made unfriendly or affronting expres- sions more resented than similar lan- guage would have been from a nation less closely bound by the ties of blood and literature and historical traditioii. However, despite this occasional irrita- tion, the sense of the essential unity of the two branches of the same stock has been growing steadily stronger in Brit- am during the last twenty years, and the events of these last months have made it more palpably evident in both coun- tries. It is chiefly of Britain, and of the causes which in Britain have been quietly strengthening and ripening this sympathy, that I shall attempt to speak. Among the changes that have marked our century, no other is so remarkable as the narrowing of the world by steam and electricity, and the bringing of dis- tant countries into close relations with one another. Even the age which saw the discovery of America and the open- ing of the ocean route to India saw no such revolution in the conditions of in- dustry, trade, and politics as our time The Essential Unity of Britain and America. 23 has witnessed. It was first in the eco- nomic and social sphere that the results of this revolution were perceived. They have now become enormously significant in politics also. The great nations of Europe have stretched forth their arms over the whole globe, and have parceled out among themselves those of its ter- ritories which had been previously in- habited by savages or possessed by weak semi-civilized powers, bringing under their control even those regions in which a few of the weaker powers have still been permitted to retain a nominal inde- pendence. Russia, which was first in the field, has obtained the whole of northern and large parts of western and eastern Asia. England, besides planting self- governing colonies in North America and Australia and South Africa, holds India with its huge and industrious population, large tracts of tropical Africa, and many important posts in other quarters. France has taken a vast area in North Africa, as well as parts of Central Africa and Indo-China. Germany has acquired three wide dominions in Africa, and has begun to appropriate points of vantage else- where. Meanwhile, the United States, which in 1798 had only just begun to spread out her population behind the Al- leghanies, has now filled the Mississippi Valley, developed the best parts of the Rocky Mountain plateau, and established populous and flourishing communities along more than a thousand miles of the Pacific coast; having, moreover, to the south of her, all the way to Cape Horn, states of only second or third rate strength. These five nations have now become world powers in a new sense of the word, each but especially Russia, Brit- ain, and the United States holding a considerable fraction of the total area of the world. So far as we can foresee, it is in the hands of these five powers that the destiny of the world as a whole will lie, so much stronger are they than any of their competitors. The great stage is now almost cleared of minor actors, and each of the five great nations looks round on the others, measuring their respective strength, con- jecturing their respective purposes, and considering what will be the future rela- tions of each to each. Of the four Eu- ropean powers, no one has any special affinity for any other. They are mnutu- ally jealous, and two of them are even hostile to one another. The alliance of Russia and France is not an alliance of natural friendship or sympathy, but is based on the feelings which France en- tertains toward Germany, and is, more- over, threatened by the divergence of interests and of traditional policy in the Turkish East, which has been a factor in the past, and may reappear as a factor once more. England has no reason for hostility with any other power. She possesses at least as much territory as she can hope successfully to defend, administer, and develop. Despite the excited language in which some of her writers and speak- ers occasionally indulge, her people as a whole desire peace and friendship with all other states, and feel that the duty that lies before them is rather to dis- charge well their existing responsibili- ties than to seek the further extension of those responsibilities. Nevertheless, England feels that she is regarded by the other three powers whether justly or unjustly I will not now inquire with a jealousy which might readily pass into unfriendliness. She perceives that these powers think their interests opposed to hers, although, in truth, peace, confi- dence, and unshackled commerce are the highest interest of all countries. In this state of facts, England has been forced to look round and consider with which of the four other world powers she has most natural affinity, and with which of them there is the least likelihood of any clash of interests. That one is unquestionably the United States. We in England have always 24 The Essential Unity of Britain and America. believed that the special mission of the United States was to build up a vast free, industrious, enlightened, and pro- sperous community in her magnificent domain between the two oceans, and to set to other peoples an example of or- derly self-government, and the elevation of the masses of the people to the high- est point yet attained of material well- being and intellectual development. This is a task sufficient to employ the energy of the United States for gener- ations to come; and some of us have thought that it will ultimately be accom- panied by the extension of her influence over the Spanish states of Central and South America, reclaiming those regions from misgovernment or barbarism by an infiltration of the surplus population of North America. We have never be- lieved that Canada would raise a dispute between the United.States and Britain, because to seize Canada against the will of the Canadian people would be utterly opposed to the first principle of Ameri- can policy, while to retain a self-govern- ing colony by force against the will of its people would be no less inconsistent with British policy. We have therefore held that the United States would con- tinue to think that she had all the ter- ritory she needed. If, however, she should desire to acquire such a transma- rine dominion as the Philippine Islands, we should see no possible ground for ob- jection by Britain to such an act. Some of us who know the United States, and love her next to our own country, might think such a step fraught with future difficulties, and might regret it in the interest of the United States herself. But Britain would regard it, so far as her own political and commercial posi- tion was concerned, with nothing but sat- isfaction. Thus the English have seen, and see to-day, no ground for a collision of political interests between themselves and the American repubiic~ and when they study the chessboard of the world they feel the contrast J~etween her posi tion toward them and that of the powers of Continental Europe. That narrowing of the world, how- ever, whereof I have spoken, and the sudden prominence upon its stage of a few great powers and races, has had an- other effect. It has intensified the self- consciousness and the patriotism of each of the races, rousing in each a stronger sentiment of the unity of the race and of the splendor of the part it has to play. Each recalls with a keener pride its achievements in the past; each is more eager to sustain its greatness in the future. Now, although there are five great world powers, there are only four great world races; for one of the races has embodied itself in two powers, and has built up the North American republic and the oceanic empire of Brit- ain. There has indeed been a large in- fusion of other elements into the popula- tion of the United States, but those ele- ments are mostly drawn from the same sources, Teutonic and Celtic, which form the population of the British Isles, and all have been, or are being, moulded into the same normal American type. That type differs less from the normal British type than the Englishman of Hamnp- shire differs from the Scotchman of Fife or the Irishman of Galway; and the differences which separate the average Englishman and the average American are as nothing in comparison with those which separate either of them from members of any of the other great races~ The influences of climate and institu- tions which tend to differentiate them are less potent than the influences of lit- erature and thought which tend to as- similation. Here in England, at any rate, we never think of natives of the United States as different from our- selves, and when we speak of foreign- ers we do not include Americans. Ac- cordingly, whenever we think of what is called the term may not be a correct one, but it is the best we have the Anglo-Saxon race, to which we belong, The Essential Unity of Britain and America. 25 we think of it as a whole, though it dwells on opposite sides of the Atlantic. We think of it as one race, one in char- acter, in temper, in habits, in beliefs, in ideals. That intensified race conscious- ness which the rivalry of the other great races has produced, that feeling of pride in the occupation and development of the earths surface which has grown with the keener competition of recent years, have deepened the sense of solidarity in the scattered members of the race, and drawn Englishmen nearer and nearer to the great branch in the United States, now larger than their own, as well as the smaller branches in Canada and Austra- lasia. Thus it is not with jealousy, but with admiration and sympathy, that the extraordinary progress of the United States in wealth, power, and population has been regarded by the great mass of our people. They have thought of the two countries as partners and fellow workers in securing the ascendency of the language, the free institutions, the ideas, which they themselves cherish, and with whose power and progress they be- lieve the future welfare of humanity to be involved. To any one who remembers the days of the war of secession the contrast be- tween the sentiment of Britain then and the sentiment now is very striking. It is true that even in 1863 and this is a fact not realized in America as it deserves to be the masses of the people hoped for the victory of the North, because they felt that the North stood for human rib hts and freedom. Those who advo- cated the Southern cause never ventured to hold an open public meeting, while hundreds of such meetings were held to send good wishes to those who fought against slavery. But it must be admit- ted that the bulk of the wealthier classes of England, and the newspapers writ- ten for those classes, did in those days say many offensive things regarding the United States, and sometimes conveyed the impression erroneous though that impression was that England as a whole had ranged herself on the side which every one now admits to have been adverse to the progress of the world and to the welfare of the South itself. Why did the wealthier English class err so grievously? Partly from ignorance, for in those days the United States were little understood in Europe; partly from its own political proclivities, which were not generally for freedom. But since 1863 Britain has passed through great political changes. The parliamentary suffrage has been so extended as now to include the immense majority of the working classes, both in town and in country. Members are far more obser- vant of the wishes of their constituents, far more anxious to consult and regard them, than they were in the old days. The political influence of great landown- ers has almost disappeared. Many laws have been passed for the benefit of the laboring man which no one dreamed of in 1863. Britain has in fact become virtually a democracy, though the affec- tion and reverence felt for the present sovereign have made the Crown niore popular than ever. Britain is indeed in some points more democratic than the United States, for her legislature is not restrained by any such constitutional provisions as limit the powers of Con- gress. Thus there has come about a notable change in the tone of British public opinion. In 1863 the masses of the English people were with Mr. Lin- coln, but their sentiment told very lit- tle on the wealthy and the newspapers which the wealthy read. Now the masses have become politically predominant, and public opinion has adapted itself to the new conditions. The old fear and jeal- ousy of democratic institutions have van- ished, because these institutions have come, and have obviously come to stay. So far from being dreaded as a fountain of democratic propaganda, America is looked on as a champion of popular gov- ernment against the great military mon 26 The Essential Unity of Britain and America. archies of Continental Europe, and as the only great country which, like Brit- ain, has recognized that the freedom of the individual citizen as against the offi- cial is the basis of all truly free govern- ment. Accordingly, one chief cause of that change in the ruling sentiment of England toward America, which in 1898 has rejoiced those of us who remember 1863, is the change in the political con- ditions of England herself. There remains one other force which has drawn the two peoples together, and it is perhaps the most hopeful of all, be- cause it is independent of material in- terests and of politics. It is the better knowledge which they are coming to have of each other. The habit of travel has prodigiously increased within the last forty years. Americans come over in thousands, not only for business, but for pleasure, and find themselves more at home in England than they did before. Englishmen go in far larger numbers to the United States, for instruction and pleasure as well as for business, and return with more accurate ideas about the United States than they had before. Each man diffuses these ideas in his own circle, and thus the whole natiou has come to know its Western kinsfolk in a perfectly new way, and in a way in which it does not and cannot know any nation of the European continent. In former days each people drew its im- pressions of the other from the action of the government and the language of the newspapers; and both the action of the government and the language of the newspapers tended to misrepresent each to the other. Governments are brought into contact by differences; and they are obliged to deal with matters of differ- ence in a cold, dry way. Each tries to drive a hard bargain; each gives its views in dispatches which are in sub- stance, sometimes even in style, much like the letters written by attorneys on be- half of their contending clients. Each is in danger of importing into its diplo macy the manner and methods of party politics; and the methods of party poli- tics do not tend to amenity or good feel- 111g. Newspapers, on the other hand, which might have been thought a better index of popular sentiment, are prone to dwell on points of difference more than on points of agreement. It is per- haps easier, it is certainly more tempt- ing, to carp and cavil and satirize than it is to praise; and the journalist is apt to think that his talent and his vigor are better displayed in sharp criticism than in kindly appreciation. Besides, it is, unluckily, the bitter things that are said in one country about another that are most frequently copied into the news- papers of the latter. Here in Europe half the ill feeling that exists between the nations is due to the goadings of the press, though our own (if an Englishman may be permitted to say so) is in this respect less blameworthy than the jour- nalism of France or Germany or Russia. But every one who knows the educated class in any country will agree that the tone of its feeling toward other coun- tries is more generous, more friendly, more large-minded, than could be ga- thered either from the action of its gov- eminent or from the columns of its news- papers. It is therefore an immense gain that Englishmen and Americans are now learning to know one another through direct personal contact, and that the spir- it of that cordial welcome which a man from either country finds when he travels in the other is coming to be recognized as the real and genuine spirit which ani- mates both nations; and after a recent visit to Canada, I will venture to say that this is now the prevailing spirit among Canadians also. This truer insight has enabled us in England to realize the substantial iden- tity of thought and feeling between the two peoples. Let me take as an exam- ple the way in which the most terrible event of recent times impressed them both. The massacres of the. Eastern The Essential Unity of Britain and America. 27 Christians which took place in 1895 and 1896 excited little commiseration, little indignation, in Continental Europe. The press in Germany and France and Aus- tria, guided by the wishes or hints or commands of the governments of those states, did its best to conceal the facts from the public. A few noble and ear- nest men, mostly Roman Catholic priests or Protestant pastors, in France, in Ger- many, and in Switzerland, appealed to their fellow countrymen to move the gov- ernments to interfere and to send help to the sufferers. But their voices found only a faint response. Far otherwise in Britain and in the United States. The governments of both those coun- tries did indeed attempt, or accomplish, much less than was hoped and wished. But the peoples were stirred by a hor- ror and an anger which pervaded every class. Untrammeled by any considera- tions of political expediency, their hearts spoke out in the cause of justice, hu- manity, and freedom; for they believed that it is justice, humanity, and freedom that ought to guide the policy of nations. Here, as in so many other instances, it was shown how unlike their neighbors in Continental Europe, and how like their kinsfolk in America, the British are. It is in this community of ideas and feel- ings, this similarity of instinctive judg- ments, that the unity of the peoples best appears. The sense of identity has deep- er and better foundations than the pride of Anglo-Saxon ancestry and the spirit of defiance to other races. The circumstances of the friction occa- sioned by the Venezuela boundary ques- tion toward the end of 1895 illustrate the way in which the sentiment of friend- liness had ripened in Britain. The Pre- sidents message and the action of Con- gress were received in this country with amazement. Few persons had the least idea that any serious disagreement be- tween the two governments would or could arise over a matter which had at- tracted no attention here. With the shock of surprise there was a shock of grief that Congress should apparently treat lightly a contingency so lamentable as a collision between the two nations. But there was no outbreak of hostile feeling toward the United States. The general feeling was that there must be a great misconception somewhere, and that, so far as national honor permit- ted, every step ought to be taken to re- move the misconception, and set mat- ters right between nations made to be friends. Very shortly afterward, there occurred, on the part of a great Con- tinental state, what our people deemed a provocation. It was resented with a promptitude and a warmth in excess of its real importance, but which showed how different was the sentiment which the words of a Continental power, thereto- fore friendly, excited from that which prevailed where our own kinsfolk were concerned. And (unless my recollection is at fault) the possibility of some joint ac- tion of European powers directed against Britain immediately caused a revulsion of opinion in the United States in favor of Britain, like that which softens a mans heart toward a relative with whom he has had a coolness, so soon as lie finds that the relative is threatened from some other quarter. The alliances of nations are usually based upon interest alone, and last no longer than the cause which has pro- duced them. A coincidence, or at least an absence of any conflict, of interest is the almost indispensable condition of cordial relations. But when other ties than those of common material benefit exist, their existence may give to those relations a greatly increased strength and permanence; just as, if one may compare great things with small, a part- nership in business succeeds better and lasts longer when its members have a personal regard for and a personal trust in one another. Now the United States and Britain have nowhere in the world any conflicting interests. They have in 28 The Essential Unity of Britain and America. some directions identical interests, as for instance in the maintenance of open markets for their goods. They are in some respects complementary to each other; for while the United States is the great food - raising and cotton - growing country of the world, Britain is the great consumer of sea-borne food and of raw cotton; and as the one is rapidly be- coming the chief among the producers of the world both in the agricultural and in the mineral department, so the other is by her mercantile marine the chief dis- tributer. Each has the strongest inter- est in the welfare of the other; and we have repeatedly seen how powerfully the commercial prosperity or depression of the one tells on the trade of the other. Thus there exists, as regards political interest, a basis for the establishment of the most close and cordial relations be- tween the two countries, a basis inde- pendent of the chances and changes of the moment, because it is due to perma- nent conditions. But above and beyond this coincidence of interests there is the community of blood, the similarity of in- stitutions, and that capacity for under- standing and appreciating one another which is given by a common tongue and by habits of thought and feeling essential- ly the same. Nature and history have made each profoundly concerned in the well-being of the other. No true Amer- ican could see without the deepest grief the humiliation and suffering of the an- cestral home of his race. No true Eng- lishman but would mourn any grave dis- aster that could befall the people which it is one of the chief glories of England to have reared and planted. Seventeen years ago, in addressing an American audience, I ventured to express the be- lief that if ever England was hard pressed by a combination of hostile Eu- ropean powers America would not stand by idle and unconcerned, and the re- ception given to those words confirmed my belief. The sympathy of race does not often affect the relations of states, but when it does it is a force of tremen- dous potency; for it affects not so much governments as the people themselves, who, both in America and in England, are the ultimate depositaries of power, the ultimate controllers of policy. War between two nations is a deplor- able event, whatever the causes arid the circumstances. But as evil sometimes comes out of good, so events which in themselves are unfortunate may become the parents of good. Thus the outbreak of hostilities between the United States and Spain gave occasion for the display of a feeling in England, not against Spain, but of interest in the United States, which was riot only general, but conspic- uously spontaneous. It was the sudden and indisputable evidence of a sentiment we believed to exist, but which had never before been made so manifest. It was promptly and heartily reciprocated in the United States. And now many voices have been asking what durable expres- sion can be given to this feeling shared by the two peoples, and to what account, permanently helpful to both, it can be turned. As Mr. Olney has pointed out, in the thoughtful and weighty article which he contributed to the May num- ber of The Atlantic Monthly (an article whose friendly tone has been cordially appreciated in England), there are some obvious difficulties in the way of a for- mal alliance. Those difficulties are not insurmountable, and if such an alliance were ultimately to be formed, instead of threatening other states it would be a guarantee of peace to the world; for each nation would feel itself bound to justify its policy to the public opinion of the other. Meantime, there are things which may be done at once to cement and perpetuate the good relations which happily prevail. One is the conclusion of a general arbitration treaty, providing for the amicable settlement of all differ- ences which may hereafter arise between the nations. Another is the agreement to render services to each other: such, 4 The American Evolution. 29 for instance, as giving to a citizen of either nation a right to invoke the good offices of the diplomatic or consular re- presentatives of the other in a place where his own government has no repre- sentative; or such as the recognition of a common citizenship, securing to the citizens of each, in the country of the other, certain rights not enjoyed by oth- er foreigners. But the greatest thing of all is that the two peoples should real- ize, as we may hope they are now com- ing to do, that whether or no they have a formal alliance, they may have a league of the heart; that the sympathy of each is a tower of strength to the other; that the best and surest foundation of the fu- ture policy of each is to be found in re- lations of frank and cordial friendship with the other. James Bryce. THE AMERICAN EVOLUTION. DEPENDENCE, INDEPENDENCE, INTERDEPENDENCE. How ought we, great - grandsons, to judge the cause of American Independ- ence, the cause for which our fathers fought a hundred years ago? Says an excellent English writer of the present year: To whoever believes in progress along the slow but sure lines of natural evolution, the breach between the two great branches of the English-speaking race, which never seems thoroughly able to heal, must always appear one of the most calamitous events in the worlds his- tory. 1 To this view few Americans will subscribe: the triumph gained by our fa- thers webelieve to have been for the good of the world. But the question as to whether the Revolution turned out well or ill can be regarded as one by no means yet settled among thoughtful men. It well deserves to be studied and restudied; it will not be out of place, perhaps, to out- line the case once more, though it may be for the thousandth time. It is still possible to present it from a point of view unfamiliar; but though unfamiliar, it is hoped the view will not be unwelcome. What the Revolution gained was gov- ernment of the people, by the people, and for the people. It is right to be- 1 H. E. Egerton: A Short History of Eng- lish Colonial Policy. lieve that in any Anglo-Saxon commu- nity Abraham Lincolns plain people can be trusted to govern themselves, and that power to do so should belong to the masses, each man having his vote. Un- doubtedly, such a democracy is often un- lovely in its manifestations. Emerson quoted approvingly Fisher Ames as say- ing that a monarchy is a merchant- man which sails well, but will sometimes strike on a rock and go to the bottom; while a republic is a raft which would never sink, but then your feet are al- ways in the water. The discomforts of the raft are indeed great, and the feet of those who are embarked upon it have never been wetter, probably, than at the present hour. Many who until now have floated upon the raft confidently begin to feel that it must be forsaken. When such a leader as Herbert Spencer declares that his faith in democracy is gone, and that we are on the highroad to military despotism, believing appar- ently that it will be a better consumma- tion than a continuance of present condi- tions, ordinary men cannot be blamed for feeling some doubt about institutions heretofore cherished and implicitly trust- ed. We are, however, on the raft for good and all. We must make the best

The American Evolution. 29 for instance, as giving to a citizen of either nation a right to invoke the good offices of the diplomatic or consular re- presentatives of the other in a place where his own government has no repre- sentative; or such as the recognition of a common citizenship, securing to the citizens of each, in the country of the other, certain rights not enjoyed by oth- er foreigners. But the greatest thing of all is that the two peoples should real- ize, as we may hope they are now com- ing to do, that whether or no they have a formal alliance, they may have a league of the heart; that the sympathy of each is a tower of strength to the other; that the best and surest foundation of the fu- ture policy of each is to be found in re- lations of frank and cordial friendship with the other. James Bryce. THE AMERICAN EVOLUTION. DEPENDENCE, INDEPENDENCE, INTERDEPENDENCE. How ought we, great - grandsons, to judge the cause of American Independ- ence, the cause for which our fathers fought a hundred years ago? Says an excellent English writer of the present year: To whoever believes in progress along the slow but sure lines of natural evolution, the breach between the two great branches of the English-speaking race, which never seems thoroughly able to heal, must always appear one of the most calamitous events in the worlds his- tory. 1 To this view few Americans will subscribe: the triumph gained by our fa- thers webelieve to have been for the good of the world. But the question as to whether the Revolution turned out well or ill can be regarded as one by no means yet settled among thoughtful men. It well deserves to be studied and restudied; it will not be out of place, perhaps, to out- line the case once more, though it may be for the thousandth time. It is still possible to present it from a point of view unfamiliar; but though unfamiliar, it is hoped the view will not be unwelcome. What the Revolution gained was gov- ernment of the people, by the people, and for the people. It is right to be- 1 H. E. Egerton: A Short History of Eng- lish Colonial Policy. lieve that in any Anglo-Saxon commu- nity Abraham Lincolns plain people can be trusted to govern themselves, and that power to do so should belong to the masses, each man having his vote. Un- doubtedly, such a democracy is often un- lovely in its manifestations. Emerson quoted approvingly Fisher Ames as say- ing that a monarchy is a merchant- man which sails well, but will sometimes strike on a rock and go to the bottom; while a republic is a raft which would never sink, but then your feet are al- ways in the water. The discomforts of the raft are indeed great, and the feet of those who are embarked upon it have never been wetter, probably, than at the present hour. Many who until now have floated upon the raft confidently begin to feel that it must be forsaken. When such a leader as Herbert Spencer declares that his faith in democracy is gone, and that we are on the highroad to military despotism, believing appar- ently that it will be a better consumma- tion than a continuance of present condi- tions, ordinary men cannot be blamed for feeling some doubt about institutions heretofore cherished and implicitly trust- ed. We are, however, on the raft for good and all. We must make the best 30 The American Evolution. of it; whatever defections may occur, it is unmanly for Americans to be faint- hearted. When all is said that can be said, democracy exhibits no disadvan- tages which cannot at once be paralleled or surpassed in the experience of aristo- cracies and monarchies. In an Anglo- Saxon community, inheriting as it does the traditions of two thousand years of self - government, the people cau and ought to take care of themselves; and it is culpable faint-heartedness to believe that the elements other than Anglo-Saxon which have flowed in upon us have so far canceled or emasculated Anglo-Saxon virility that we need to be taken in hand by a master. Unquestionably, a state of depend- ence during the first century and a half of America was a salutary, indeed an indispensable thing. During the early days a powerful foe might at any time easily have wiped out the English colo- nies; the tenure hung upon a very light thread. As time advanced, and France, during the reigns of Louis XIV. and Louis XV., became ambitious in Amer- ica, the peril from the foreign power was imminent. However well the provinces may sometimes have fought the French, they were utterly unable of their own strength to keep the foreigner at bay. Even the capture of Louisburg, the most conspicuous military feat of the provin- cials, could never have been achieved without the support of the British fleet. In the hard campaigns that followed, the provincials played a very secondary part; often enough, the French, with their In- dian allies, were on the threshold of suc- cess. The line of posts stretching from New Orleans to Quebec was in the way to be strongly confirmed, and the disunit- ed and discouraged populations scattered along the seaboard seemed on the point of subjection. When Braddock failed, when Montcalrn won at Ticonderoga, when Pontiac threatened Detroit, all was precarious for English America. But at last British soldiers under General Forbes captured Fort Duquesne; British soldiers under Colonel Bouquet broke the Indian spirit at Bushy Run; British sol- diers, again, under Wolfe won at Quebec, and after that everything was secure~ We scarcely realize to-day how precari- ous the Anglo-Saxon hold upon America was up to the capture of Quebec. Says an intelligent writer: The conjunction of the genius of Pitt and the genius of Wolfe was almost miraculous, and that conjunction alone it was that ruined the cause of France. 1 It was only by a hairs breadth that America was saved to the Anglo-Saxons. The colonies alone, at this time, poor and without cohesion, were quite powerless to cope with the danger. But for their dependence upon the arm of the mother country they would have been lost. The necessity for this dependence came to an end through the conquest of Pitt and Wolfe; but the habit had been formed, and was slow in yielding. When, a little later, under the initiative of Sam- uel Adams, independence became a pop- ular cry, it was only after long hesita- tion, and in spite of the resistance of a mass of the best people of tile country, who were never able to see that inde- pendence had become expedient. But the time had come for America to enter upon the second phase in her evolution. The Anglo - Saxon schism came to pass. Shall we say with Mr. Egerton, and with many another good English- man whose heart yearns toward the bre- thren who became estranged, that it was one of the most calamitous events in the worlds history? While reciprocat- ing the brotherly yearning, Americans should think that no mistake was made; it is well that the schism came. A peo- ple sprang into being tile breath of whose nostrils became, instead of provincialism, the noblest national spirit. To use a figure no homelier, perhaps, than that of the raft, which Emerson W. F. Lord: Lost Empires of the Modern World, p. 224. TLlie American Evolution. 31 takes so approvingly from Fisher Ames, a political construction for a vast mul- titude should be after the model of the bob-sled of the lumberman of the Northwest. If the vehicle were in one frame, the load pressing from above and the inequalities of the road beneath would rack it to pieces at once; let there be runners, however, before and behind, each pair distinct and independent, yet linked by appliances always flexible but never parting, all immediately goes well. Among the stumps and gullies of time rough track, the contrivance, readily yielding, yet never disconnected, easily bears on its weight of timber; the short- est corners are turned, the ugliest drifts surmounted. That Anglo - Saxondom was sundered is not a subject for regret. In one frame, so to speak, it could not do its work. That its burden might be well and safely borne the division into two was salutary, indeed inevitable. What. is to be regretted is that the severance involved bloodshed, and produced a ha- tred which rankles yet. The split should not be utter. While the two frames are separate an indestructible link should connect them, allowing to each free play while making the two after all one. But without stopping to consider a proposition to us so obvious as the bene- fit to America herself of becoming in- dependent, let us inquire for a moment as to the effect of the American revolt elsewhere than at home. Charles James Fox is said to have exclaimed once, The resistance of the Americans to the oppression of the mother country has undoubtedly preserved the liberties of mankind! If such a declaration ap- pears too sweeping, the value of the American revolt as regards the British empire, at any rate, can scarcely be ex- aggerated. How has it come to pass that the magnificent freedom to-day al- lowed to the dependencies of England exists? Englishmen have ascribed it directly to the circumstance that the mother country learned wisdom from her fiery experience with America. Her eyes were opened to what was and what was not possible, and it is directly as a con- sequence of the American struggle that she has finally established it as a prin- ciple that colonies are to be left to them- selves. America by conquering secured not only her own freedom, but probably that of her fellow dependencies, those then existing and those afterward to be established. Perhaps still more than this can be said: did not the resistance of America save England herself? Buckle, in his History of Civilization, speaking of the danger to England, one hundred years ago, through the encroachments upon her liberty of royal and aristocratic power, says: The danger was so imminent as to make the ablest defenders of popular liberty believe that everything was at stake, and that if the Americans were vanquished the next step would be to at- tack the liberties of England, and en- deavor to extend to the mother country the same arbitrary government which by that time would have been established in the colonies. . . . The danger was far more serious than men are now in- clined to believe. During many years the authority of the Crown continued to increase, until it reached a height of which no example had been seen in Eng- land for several generations. - . . There is no doubt, I think, that the American war was a great crisis in the history of England, and that if the colonists had been defeated our liberties for a time would have been in considerable jeopardy. From that risk we were saved by the Americans, who with heroic spirit resist- ed the royal armies. ~ But is there not something higher for nations than independence? We are members one of another, the apostolic admonition, deserves heed from states as well as individuals. The wise and benevolent look forward to Tennysons ~ Vol. i. p. 345, Am. ed. 32 The American Evolution. Parliament of man, the federation of the world; and as a first step toward that happy consummation, what can be better than that among nations like should connect itself with like? There is no other kinship among peoples so marked as that between the two great branches of the English-speaking race. The notion of Anglo-Saxon brother- hood ought to have some interest for Americans. Says Sir Louis Mallet, ren- dering an idea of Cobden: Codpera- tion, and not competition, international interdependence, and not national inde- pendence, are the highest end and object of civilization. The suggestion of Sir Edwin Arnold, made to President Har- rison, was that there should be an inter- national council to arbitrate all matters in dispute, from whose decisions there should be no appeal, and this within a year or two has seemed not far from re- alization. Such a scheme would be a loose kind of federation; and as far as a formal bond is concerned, without doubt it would be all that is expedient. As to a union, only one purely moral is pos- sible or desirable. For some such clasp. ing of hands the world is certainly ripe. Through steam and electricity, time and space are annihilated. The seas no long- er divide, but unite. Should the will for such fraternity be felt, there is no power of nature or man which could interfere to prevent. Had we but the will! We nurse too carefully old prejudices; we re- member too long ancient injuries. We train our children as we were trained ourselves, to execrate all things British, and to think only of Englands tyranny. We ought to know that in the Revolution possibly half of England were really on our side, regarding our cause as their own, and that the descendants of the great masses who felt with us, prayed for us, and rejoiced in our success now hold England in their own hands. Quoted in London Spectator, voL lxiii. p. 381. 2 Vol. cxxxi. p. 328. This view is so unfamiliar to Ameri- cans that it well deserves illustration. It is not right to regard George III. as a fair representative of the England of his time, nor to think that in the great war of the American Revolution, of which, on the British side, he w~ s the central figure, Americans were really fighting England. Says the Westminster Review: Of course Americans regard independence as their great achievement. In this they are quite right. When, however, they proceed to regard inde- pendence as a victory gained over Eng- land, their enemy, they are surely egre- giously in error. . . . At the time the United States were fighting for inde- pendence, England was fighting for her liberties: the common enemy was the Hanoverian George III. and his Ger- manized court. . . . When the news was brought to London that the United States had appealed to arms, William Pitt, an Englishman if there ever was one, rose in his seat in Parliament, and with up- lifted voice thanked God that the Amer- ican colonists retained enough of Eng- lish blood to fight for their rights. Nine Englishmen out of every ten outside of court influence similarly rejoiced. In- dependence Day is as much a red-letter day for every genuine Englishman as for every genuine American. And so it should be. Washington but trod in the footsteps of Hampden. His task was easier than that of Hampden, and the solution he wrought, which an interval of three thousand miles of ocean practi- cally dictated, was more thorough. 2 Vast misapprehension as to the true character of the American Revolution no doubt prevails. The English radical whose words have been quoted puts the case none too strongly. A high Ameri- can authority declares that the Ameri- can Revolution was not a quarrel be- tween two peoples, but a strife between ~ Hon. Mellen Chamberlain in Winsors Nar- rative and Critical History of America, vol. vi. chap. i. like American Evolution. 33 two parties in one people, conservatives and liberals. These parties existed in both countries; the battle between them was waged not only on the fields of America, but in the British Parliament also, some of the fiercest engagements in the latter arena. The strife took place on both sides of the water, with nearly equal step, and was essentially the same on both sides; so that if, at the close of the French war, all the peo- ple of Great Britain had been transport- ed to America, and all the people of America to Great Britain, and put in control of British affairs, the American Revolution and the contemporary Brit- ish Revolution might have gone on just the same, and with the same final re- suit. As to the embarrassments which the king and his ministers underwent from a powerful opposition, in their attempts to coerce America, the best historian of the eighteenth century makes out a strong case. At first the immense influence of Pitt, soon to be Earl of Chatham, then the most powerful of snbjects, was on the side of America. He justified with all his eloquence the resistance to the Stamp Act, seconded by Lord Camden, who also had great influence. At the time of the tea duty there was in Parliament a strong section supporting the Americans, and outside of Parliament a still more de- mocratic party who kept the country in alarm through fierce political agitation, all which, as was truly said by Lord North, lured on America and blocked the efforts of the ministry. In another sphere, the tried and skillful soldiers, Amherst, Conway, and Barr6, did not conceal their sympathy. In the House of Commons Fox eulogized Montgomery, slain at Quebec; while the Duke of Richmond said in the House of Lords, after Bunker Hill, that the Amer- Lecky, Eighteenth Centnry, vol. iii. pp. 403, 404. 2 Walpoles Letters to the Countess of Os- sory, December 11, 1777. VOL LXXXII. ~o. 489. 3 icans were not in rebellion, bnt resisting acts of the most unexampled cruelty and oppression. The gleeful exclamation of Horace Walpole, somewhat later, over the surrender of Burgoyne, and the de- claration of his belief that the Americans were better Englishmen than the English themselves, is very significant. Thank God, said he, old England is safe. I mean New England, whither the true English retired under Charles J~ 2 In the House of Commons the American army was spoken of as our army. Wil- liam Pitt, in 1781, called the attempt to reduce America most accursed, wicked, barbarous, cruel, unnatural, diabolical. In the ruling class, a minority contain- ing personages of the highest rank and the ablest men in the nation had identi- fied itself completely with the insurgents. They resisted with passion, for they came to feel a feeling which writers like Buckle declare thoroughly justified that the defeat of the Americans would probably be followed by a subversion of the constitution of England. Meantime, among the people, the war was to the last degree unpopular. London was sometimes at the mercy of mobs; the army could be maintained only by press- gangs, by emptying into the regiments the prisons, and by buying Hessians. If the king and his ministers were embarrassed by an opposition, the Amer- ican patriots were no less embarrassed. An energetic minority, it has been said, brought to pass the Revolution, which, proceeding especially from New England, was carried through in spite of a majority in the colonies, a majority in great part quite apathetic, but to some extent actively resisting.3 The emigration of Tories, when the day was at last won, was relatively as great as that of the Hu- guenots from France after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. The total num ~ Lecky, Eighteenth Century, vol. iii. p. 458, etc. 34 The American Evolution. her is estimated to have been at least one hundred thousand. In this multitude were comprised only such, with their fam- ilies, as had been active for the king. The indifferent, who had lent no helping hand to the patriots, must have been a multitude much larger; these remained behind, inertly submitting to the new or- der of things as they had swayed inertly this way or that, following the power and direction of the blast of war. The war of the American Revolution, then, was a strife, not of countries, but of parties ; a strife carried on both in England and in America, bloodless in the motherland, bloody in the depend- ency; but nevertheless a strife carried on in each arena for the preservation of the same priceless treasure, Anglo- Saxon freedom, and fought through with similar spirit. On one side of the Atlantic victory came speedily. In America there were no traditions and institutions, rooted for centuries, to be upturned; and besides, there came most timely help from France. Victory in America drew necessarily with it vic- tory in England. It has long been de- layed, but it has been steadily coming, until at the present moment, as regards popular freedom, the two countries stand nearly together, England, perhaps, though preserving monarchical forms and much social feudalism, really in advance. Popular freedom was possibly saved to England by the success of the American struggle; on the other hand, America has derived that popular freedom nowhere hut from the motherland, through the struggles of her Alfred; of her Lang- ton and the barons of 1215; of her Earl Simon; of her knights of the shire, her Ironsides, her supporters of the Bill of Rights. What a noble community is this, common striving so heroic for a com- mon cause of such supreme moment! How mean the nursing of petty prejudice between lands so linked; how powerful 1 Sir T. Erskine May: Constitutional His- tory, vol. xi. p. 537. - the motive to join hand with hand, and heart with heart! England is not only herself, at the pre- sent hour, practically a democratic repub- lic, but is the parent of vast republics in the quarters of the earth most distant from her. In America, Australia, and Africa, enormous tracts of territory, best adapted by climate and soil to the habita- tion of Europeans, are in the possession, and have become the seats, of vigorous and growing Anglo-Saxon peoples. The extent to which these have become en- dowed with the ancient freedom so thor- oughly recovered by the motherland can be made plain in a few words. The old colonial empire, the thirteen colonies, which, after revolting, became the United States, had been ruled after the prece- dents of Spain. The dependencies were regarded as a source from which the motherland might be enriched, and their interests were neglected and sacrificed in the pursuit by the motherland of this self- ish end. Till alienated by the behavior of England, the colonists had far more kindly feelings toward her than she had toward them. To them she was the old home; to her they were simply custom- ers. 2 Exasperation in the colonies was the inevitable fruit of so base a policy, and in the end England, like Spain, lost the new lands whose rights she had abused. The bitter experience, as we have seen, perhaps saved her own free- dom; she derived from it also the wis- dom which enabled her, when presently the vast new colonial empire fell within her grasp, so to proceed that the depend- encies, instead of chafing under their bond, cherish it with warm affection, look- ing upon independence as a calamity ra- ther than a blessing. The work of our fathers, then, was to sever the English-speaking world, a work one hundred years ago most noble and necessary to be done, for only so, in that day, could freedom be saved. At 2 Bryce: American Commonwealth, vol. i. p. 416, note. The American Evolution. 35 the present time, however, may it not be the case that the work to be done is not of severance, but of union? John Bright wrote, in 1887, to the com- mittee for the celebration of the centen- nial of the American Constitution: As you advance in the second century of your natural life, may we not ask that our two nations may become one people? Sir Henry Parkes, perhaps the fore- most statesman of Australia, addressing the legislature of New South Wales, No- vember 25, 1887, said still more definite- ly: I firmly believe it is within the range of human probability that the great groups of free communities connected with England will, in separate federa- tions, be united to the mother country; and I also believe that in all rea- sonable probability, by some less distinct bond, even the United States of America will be connected with this great Eng- lish-speaking congeries of free govern- ments. I believe the circumstances of the world will develop some such new complex nationality as this, in which each of the parts will be free and independent while united in one grand whole, which ~vill civilize the globe. Sir George Grey, at different times governor of West Australia, of New Zea- land, and of South Africa, one of the most illustrious of the men who have de- veloped for England her great posses- sions in the South Pacific, contemplates an eventuni though perhaps far-off league between members of the English-speak- ing race, in which the United States will not only be included, but, displacing Eng- land, will become the leader. The declarations of Joseph Chamber- lain, of a spirit similar to those of the statesmen just quoted, are at the present hour agitating Europe. Gladstone once wrote : If love unite, wide space divides in vain, And bands may clasp across the flowing main. That clasp of bands Gladsj;one could not live to bring to pass; but though he is gone, we are not therefore without re- source. Among Americans Edward Atkinson has declared: The two great branches of the English-speaking people, political- ly separated by the misconceptions of a small faction which governed England during the latter part of the last century, are becoming more and more reunited through their interdependence. Their wants and their supplies are the comple- inents of each other. . .. The time is not far distant when the control of commerce, passing more completely than ever to the English-speaking people of the world, will bring them into closer union, each branch maintaining its own form and system of government, but all working together for the benefit of all who share in the abundance of their products. The idea of some reconstitution of the family bond has found expression more often from citizens of the British Empire than from Americans, though men are not wanting in America in whose minds has arisen the conception of doing away with the Anglo-Saxon schism as a thing possible and to be wished for. The pre- vailing mood among us, however, has been that of self-sufficiency. Absorbed with problems and interests that seem nearer, we have let the broad thought go. But if the reader has followed with any sympathy and attention the view held in this paper, he will be prepared to see that if we form a link anywhere, our proper affiliation is with England and her chil- dren scattered east and ~vest. There are indeed to-day, as there were in the time of the American Revolution, two Eng- lands and two Americas. Of one ~Eng- land Lord Dundreary is the type; as of one America the appropriate type is the tuft - hunting daughter of the I)lutocrat, who will sell soul and body to get Lord Dundreary for a husband. There is, be- sides, the stalwart, manful England, for which stand Gladstone, John Bright, nnd James Bryce; as there are in America The Century for April, 1898. 36 The Decadence of Spain. the excellent plain people whom Abra- ham Lincoln loved and trusted. While Miss Moth flies at her aristocratic lumi- nary, careless of the singeing she may re- ceive, why should not the nobler England and the nobler America clasp hands? The townships make up the county, the counties the state, the states the United States. What is to hinder a further ex- tension of the federal principle, so that finally we may have a vaster United States, whose members shall be, as em- pire state, America; then the mother, England; and lastly the great English dependencies, so populous and thorough- ly developed that they may fitly stand co6rdinate? It cannot be said that this is an unreasonable or Utopian anticipa- tion. Dependence was right in its day; but for English help colonial America would have become a province of France. Independence was and is right. It was well for us and for Britain too that we were split apart. Washington,. as the main agent in the separation, i~ justly the most venerated name in our history. But interdependence, too, will in its day be right; and great indeed will be that statesman of the future who shall reconsti- tute the family bond, conciliate the mem- bers into an equal brotherhood, found the vaster union which must be the next great step toward the universal fraternity of man, when patriotism may be merged into a love that will take in all humanity. Such suggestions as have just been made are sure to be opposed both in Eng- land and in America. We on our side cite Englands oppression of Ireland, the rapacity with which in all parts of the world she has often enlarged her boun- daries, the brutality with which she has trampled upon the rights of weaker men. They cite against America her century of dishonor in the treatment of the In- dians, the corruption of her cities, the ruffians knife and pistol ready to mur- der on slight provocation, the prevalence of lynch law over all other law in great districts, her yellow journalism. Indeed, it is a sad tale of shortcoming for both countries. Yet in the case of each the evil is balanced by a thousand things great and good, and the welfare of the world depends upon the growth and pro- sperity of the English-speaking lands as upon nothing else. The welfare of the world depends upon their accord; and no other circumstance at the present mo- ment is so fraught with hope as that, in the midst of the heavy embarrassments that beset both England and America, the long-sundered kindred slowly gravi- tate toward alliance. James K. Hosmer. THE DECADENCE OF SPAIN. WHEN Charles V. was obliged to re- nounce the dream of a nuiversal mon- archy, and to abandon the Holy Roman Empire to his brother Ferdinand, he was still able to make over to his son Philip II. territories which rendered Spain the preponderating power in the civilized world. Besides his ancestral dominions in the Peninsula, to which, in 1580, he added Portugal, Philip was master of the wealthy Netherlands, of Milan and Naples, of the Mediterranean islands, and of the New World. His revenues far exceeded those of any other monarch, his armies were admitted to be the most formidable in Europe, and his command of the sea was disputed only by the Turk, whose navy he crushed at Lepanto, until the disasters of the Ar- mada gave warning that the old methods of maritime warfare were becoming ob- solete. In every way the supremacy of

36 The Decadence of Spain. the excellent plain people whom Abra- ham Lincoln loved and trusted. While Miss Moth flies at her aristocratic lumi- nary, careless of the singeing she may re- ceive, why should not the nobler England and the nobler America clasp hands? The townships make up the county, the counties the state, the states the United States. What is to hinder a further ex- tension of the federal principle, so that finally we may have a vaster United States, whose members shall be, as em- pire state, America; then the mother, England; and lastly the great English dependencies, so populous and thorough- ly developed that they may fitly stand co6rdinate? It cannot be said that this is an unreasonable or Utopian anticipa- tion. Dependence was right in its day; but for English help colonial America would have become a province of France. Independence was and is right. It was well for us and for Britain too that we were split apart. Washington,. as the main agent in the separation, i~ justly the most venerated name in our history. But interdependence, too, will in its day be right; and great indeed will be that statesman of the future who shall reconsti- tute the family bond, conciliate the mem- bers into an equal brotherhood, found the vaster union which must be the next great step toward the universal fraternity of man, when patriotism may be merged into a love that will take in all humanity. Such suggestions as have just been made are sure to be opposed both in Eng- land and in America. We on our side cite Englands oppression of Ireland, the rapacity with which in all parts of the world she has often enlarged her boun- daries, the brutality with which she has trampled upon the rights of weaker men. They cite against America her century of dishonor in the treatment of the In- dians, the corruption of her cities, the ruffians knife and pistol ready to mur- der on slight provocation, the prevalence of lynch law over all other law in great districts, her yellow journalism. Indeed, it is a sad tale of shortcoming for both countries. Yet in the case of each the evil is balanced by a thousand things great and good, and the welfare of the world depends upon the growth and pro- sperity of the English-speaking lands as upon nothing else. The welfare of the world depends upon their accord; and no other circumstance at the present mo- ment is so fraught with hope as that, in the midst of the heavy embarrassments that beset both England and America, the long-sundered kindred slowly gravi- tate toward alliance. James K. Hosmer. THE DECADENCE OF SPAIN. WHEN Charles V. was obliged to re- nounce the dream of a nuiversal mon- archy, and to abandon the Holy Roman Empire to his brother Ferdinand, he was still able to make over to his son Philip II. territories which rendered Spain the preponderating power in the civilized world. Besides his ancestral dominions in the Peninsula, to which, in 1580, he added Portugal, Philip was master of the wealthy Netherlands, of Milan and Naples, of the Mediterranean islands, and of the New World. His revenues far exceeded those of any other monarch, his armies were admitted to be the most formidable in Europe, and his command of the sea was disputed only by the Turk, whose navy he crushed at Lepanto, until the disasters of the Ar- mada gave warning that the old methods of maritime warfare were becoming ob- solete. In every way the supremacy of The Decadence of Spain. 37 Spain was the dread of the nations, and its destruction was the cherished object of statesmen for a century. It was not by their efforts, however, that the result was accomplished. Olivares, it is true, was overmatclied by Richelieu, but Spain had a vantage - ground enabling her to hold her own against external assault. The causes of her decadence were inter- nal; they were numerous, but may be roughly defined as springing from pride, conservatism, and clericalism. There is a pride which spurs nations on to great achievements, which reckons nothing done while aught remains to do, and which wisely adapts means to ends. Such was not the pride of Spain: it was proud of what it had done, and imagined that its superiority to the rest of the world left it nothing more to do; it could learn nothing and forget nothing; it had varied the centuries of the Reconquest with endless civil broils, while it left the arts of peace to subject Moors and Jews, until honest labor was regarded with disdain, and trade and commerce were treated in a barbarous fashion that choked all the springs of national pro- sperity. Derived from this blind and impenetrable pride was the spirit of conservatism which rejected all innova- tion in a world of incessant change, a world which had been sent by the Re- formation spinning on a new track, a world in which modern industrialism was rapidly superseding the obsolescent mil- itarism of Spain. The phrase current throughout Europe in the last century was not without foundation, that Africa be0an at the Pyrenees. Last, but by no means least, was the clericalism which developed in Spain the ferocious spirit of intolerance; which in 1492 drove out the unhappy Jews, and in 1610 the Mo- riscos, thus striking at the root of the commercial prosperity and industry of the land; and which surrendered the nation to the Inquisition, paralyzing all intellectual movement, crippling trade, and keeping the people so completely in leading-strings that the three generations since the Napoleonic upheaval have not sufficed for their training in the arts of self-government. Yet the Spaniard has qualities which, if not thus counterbalanced, ought to have assured him a maintenance of the commanding position which he held in the sixteenth century. His intellect is strong and quick, his imagination is vivid, and, before the censorship of the Inqui- sition had curbed its expression, his lit- erature was the most promising in Eu- rope. When fully aroused his perse- verance is indefatigable. His courage is undoubted, not a merely evanescent valor, flaming up on occasion at the pro- mise of success, but a persistent, obsti- nate, dogged quality, to be dreaded as much in defeat as in victory, and sus- tained by the pride of race which leads him to think all other races his infe- riors. The unyielding steadfastness of the Spanish tercios on the disastrous field of Rocroy was paralleled in the de- fense of Saragossa. The exploits of the Conquistadores in the New World dis- play a tenacity of daring amid unknown dangers which has rarely been equaled, and perhaps never surpassed. The prac- tical efficiency of this determined valor is heightened, moreover, by a remarkable callous indifference as to the means to be employed in accomplishing a given pur- pose. Spanish legislation is full of the sternest laws, enacted in utter disregard of their contingent and ulterior conse- quences provided the immediate object in view can he effected. Alvas reign of blood in the Netherlands is typical of this fierce and cold-blooded determina- tion to achieve a result at whatever cost of life and suffering, and the reconcen- trado policy of Weyler is only a modern exhibition of this inherited character- istic. Effective as this disregard of conse- quences may often have proved, it was one of the elements which contributed to the decadence of Spain; for when di- 38 The Decadence of Spain. rected, as it often was, without foresight or judgment, it wrought havoc with in- terests of greater moment than those it served. The expulsions of the Jews and of the Moriscos are conspicuous instances of this, and, in a minor degree, the indus- tries and commerce of the nation were perpetually wrecked by regulations, ab- surdly exaggerated, to serve some pur- pose that chanced at the moment to be uppermost in the minds of the rulers. When, to remedy the scarcity of the precious metals, repeated edicts, from 1623 to 1642, prohibited all manufac- tures of gold and silver, even to embroid- eries and gilding or plating, a flourish- ing branch of trade was destroyed for a time; and another was prostrated in 1683, when, to procure copper for the debased coinage of the mints, all of that metal in the hands of coppersmiths was practically sequestrated, and they were forbidden even to repair old utensils. In- ternal industry and external commerce were thus at the mercy of an infinity of fluctuating regulations which embar- rassed transactions, and deprived manu- facturers and merchants of all sense of security and all ability to forecast the future. During the period when the commerce of the world was developing into vast proportions, that commerce, with its resultant wealth and the power of offense and defense derived from wealth, fell into the hands of Spains especial enemies, England and Holland. The Spaniard, who despised industry and commerce, thrust from him the inherit- ance of Venice and Florence, which the discovery of the New World and the Cape route to India had offered to him: and while his rivals waxed mightily, he grew poorer and poorer, in spite of the wealth of the Indies poured into his lap. Labor, in fact, to Spanish pride, was the badge of inferiority, to be escaped in every possible way. It is the general complaint of the publicists of the seven- teenth century that every one sought to gain a livelihood in the public service or in the Church, and no one to earn it by honest work. The immense number of useless consumers thus supported was constantly alleged as one of the leading causes of the general poverty, from which the most crushing and injudicious taxa- tion could raise only insufficient revenues. Public offices were multiplied recklessly, and the steady increase in the ranks of the clergy, regular and secular, was a constant subject of remonstrance. In 1626, Navarrete tells us that there were thirty-two universities and more than four thousand grammar schools crowded with sons of artisans and peasants striv- ing to fit themselves for public office or holy orders; most of them failed in this through inaptitude, and drifted into the swarms of tramps and beggars who were a standing curse to the community, while the fields lay untilled for lack of labor, and the industrial arts were slowly perish. ing, so that Spain was forced to import the finished products which she could so easily have made for herself. This na- tional aversion to labor, moreover, mani- fested itself in an indolence which, ex- cept in Catalonia, rendered the pretense of working almost illusory. Dormer tells us of his compatriots that they did not work as in other lands; a few hours a day, and this intermittently, were ex- pected to provide for them as much as the incessant activity of the foreigner. To these drawbacks on productive in- dustry is to be added the multitude of feast - days, which Navarrete estimates at about one third of the working-days, rising to one half at the critical season of the harvests, feast-days which, ac- cording to Archbishop Carranza, were spent in a debauchery rendering them especially welcome to the devil. Under such conditions it was impossible for Spain to withstand the competition of the foreigner. How rapidly its industry declined is shown by the fact that in 1644 the shipments by the fleet to the West Indies from four cities of Castile Toledo, Segovia, Ampudia, and Pas The Decadence of Spain. 89 trana amounted to $3,864,750, while in 1684 the total value of all Spanish goods carried by the fleet was only $800,- 000. It is true that in 1691 Carlos II. proposed legislation to check the over- grown numbers of the clergy and the immoderate absorption of lands by the Church, but his feeble projects were aban- doned. Thus the nation possessed little recu- perative power to make good the per- petual losses of its almost continuous foreign wars. Already, in the apogee of its greatness under Charles V., symp- toms of exhaustion were not lacking. His election to the empire, in 1520, was an unmitigated misfortune for Spain. Involved thenceforth in the entangle- ments of his continental policy, the land was drained of its blood and treasure for quarrels in which it had no concern, and of which it bore the brunt without shar- ing the advantages. So heavy was the load of indebtedness incurred that, on his accession, Philip II. seriously counseled with his ministers as to the advisability of repudiation. Under the latter mon- arch downward progress was accelerat- ed. Imagining himself to be specially called of Heaven to uphold the threat- ened Catholic faith, he regarded no sacrifices as too great when heresy was to be repressed. For this he provoked the Low Countries to revolt, leading to a war of forty years, with uncounted expenditure of men and money. For this he incurred the crowning disaster of the Armada, and for this he stimu- lated and supported the wars of the League in France. Despite the un- rivaled resources of the monarchy his finances were reduced to hopeless con- fusion; he was a constant borrower on usurious terms, and already in 1565 the Venetian envoy reported his annual in- terest payments at 5,050,000 ducats, which at eight per cent represented an indebtedness of 63,000,000 ducats, a sum, at that period, almost incredible. When the reins slipped from his grasp, in 1598, his successor was the feeble and bigoted Philip III., and the seventeenth century witnessed the fortunes of Spain in the hands of a succession of court favorites, Lerma, Olivares, Haro, Ni- thard, Oropesa, and their tribe, most- ly worthless and grossly incompetent. Financial distress grew more and more acute, aggravated by senseless tampering with the currency, which drove to other lands the precious metals of the New World, until the whole active circulation of the country consisted of a token cop- per coinage, the value of which the gov- ernment endeavored to regulate by a succession of edicts of the niost contra- dictory character, producing inextricable perplexity and uncertainty, fatally crip- pling what productive industry had sur- vived the temper of the people and the unwisdom of legislation. Clericalism contributed its full share to this downward progress. The inten- sity of the Spanish character, which can do nothing by halves, lent an enormous power for evil to the exaggerated reli- gious ardor of the people. In the earlier Middle Ages no other European nation had been so tolerant as Spain in its deal- ings with the Jew and the infidel, but, un- der the careful stimulation of the Church, this tolerant spirit had passed away with the fourteenth century, and in its place there had gradually arisen a fierce and implacable hatred of all faiths outside of Catholicism. This fanaticism gave to the priesthood preponderating power, which it utilized for its own behoof, in disre- gard of the public welfare, and all doubt- ful questions were apt to be decided in favor of the faith. The royal confessor was e~v officio a member of the Council of State, and under a weak monarch his influence was almost unbounded. Fray Gaspar de Toledo, the confessor of Philip III., boasted that when he ordered his royal penitent to do or to leave undone anything, under penalty of mortal sin, he was obeyed; and the fate of a king- dom thus virtually subjected to the ca 40 The Decadence of Spain. prices of a narrow - minded friar can readily be divined. The royal confessor- ship was frequently a stepping-stone to the supreme office of inquisitor-general, which controlled the conscience of the nation; and as under such a r6gime the delimitation between spiritual and tem- poral affairs was most uncertain, the wrangling between the religious and sec- ular departments of the state was inces- sant, to the serious detriment of united and sagacious action. When, in the minority of Carlos II., the regent mother, Maria Anna of Austria, made her Ger- man Jesuit confessor Nithard inquisitor- general, it required a popular uprising to get rid of him and relegate him to Rome, for he was speedily becoming the real ruler of Spain. This unreasoning religious ardor cul- minated in the Inquisition, established for the purpose of securing the supreme good of unblemished purity and uniform- ity of belief. Nothing was allowed to stand in the way of this, and no sacrifice was deemed too great for its accomplish- ment. All officials, from the king down- ward, were sworn to its support, and the sinister influence which it exercised was proportioned to the enormous power which it wielded. The tragic spectacles of the autos-de-f6 were abhorrent, but they were of little more importance than the closely related bull-fights in deter- mining the fate of the nation, save in so far as they stimulated the ruthless char- acteristics of the people. The real sig- nificance of the Inquisition lay in the isolation to which it condemned the land, and its benumbing influence on the intel- lectual development of the people. It created a fresh source of pride, which led the Spaniard to plume himself on the unsullied purity of his faith, and to de- spise all other nations as given over, more or less, to the errors of heresy. It ob- structed his commercial relations by im- posing absurd and costly regulations at the ports to prevent the slightest chance of the introduction of heretical opinions. It organized a strict censorship to guard against the intrusion of foreign ideas or the evolution of innovations at home. It paralyzed the national intelligence, and resolutely undertook to keep the national mind in the grooves of the sixteenth cen- tury. While the rest of the civilized world was bounding forward in a career of progress, while science and the useful arts were daily adding to the conquests of man over the forces of nature, and rival nations were growing in wealth and power, the Inquisition condemned Spain to stagnation; invention and discovery were unknown at home, and their ad- mission from abroad was regarded with jealousy. Recuperative power was thus wholly lacking to offset the destructive effects of misgovernment, the national conservatism was intensified, and a habit of mind was engendered which has kept Spain to this day a virtual survival of the Renaissance. All these causes of retrogression were rendered more effective by the autocratic absolutism of the form of government, which deprived the people of all initia- tive, and subjected everything to the will of the monarch. The old Castilian lib- erties were lost in the uprising of the Comunidades in 1520, and those of Va- lencia about the same time in the kin- dred tumults of the Germania, while those which survived in Aragon and Catalonia were swept away in 1707, when the War of Succession gave Philip V. the excuse for treating them as con- quered provinces. Nowhere in Europe, west of Russia, had the maxim of the imperial jurisprudence, Quod placuit principi legis habet vigorem, more ab- solute sway. The legislative and execu- tive functions were combined in the sov- ereign; there were no national political life, no training in citizenship, no forces to counterbalance the follies or prejudices of the king and his favorites. Under a series of exceptionally able rulers, this form of government might have main- tained Spanish prosperity and power, The Decadence of Spain. 41 while repressing enlightenment, but it was the peculiar curse of Spain that the last three Hapsburg princes, whose reigns filled the whole of the sixteenth century, were weak, and their choice of favorites, ghostly and secular, was un- wise. Especially the latest one, Carlos II., brought Spain to the nadir of de- cadence. At his death, in 1700, the Spanish population is estimated to have shrunk within a century from ten to five millions. The prolonged War of Suc- cession which followed partook so much of the nature of civil strife as to be pecu- liarly exhausting to the scanty resources left by the misgovernment of the preced- ing two centuries, but with the accession of the Bourbons there was a promise of improvement. Philip V. was weak, but he was not as bigoted and obscurantist as his predecessors, and his sons, Ferdinand VI. and Carlos III., were men of more liberal ideals. Especially was Carlos an enlightened monarch,~who curbed to some extent the Inquisition, relaxed somewhat the rigid censorship of the press, and earnestly strove to promote the indus- trial development of his kingdom. Un- der his rule prosperity began to revive, and there seemed a prospect that Spain might assert her place among progressive nations. The outbreak of the French Revolution, l~wever, was the death-blow of liberal- ism. Dynastic considerations outweighed all others, and the rulers of Spain were especially sensitive to the dangers appre- hended from the introduction of theories as to the rights of man and universal equality. Carlos III. had died in 1788, and his son, Carlos IV., was weak, bigot- ed, reactionary, and wholly under the influence of his favorite, Godoy, the so- called Prince of Peace. His son and successor, Ferdinand VII., was trained in the same school. After the Napole- onic invasion and the Peninsular War, his restoration, in 1814, was the signal for the sternest repressive and reaction- ary measures; tbe monarch claimed ab solute power, the Constitution of 1812 was set aside, censorship was revived in the most despotic fashion, the Inquisi- tion was re& ~stablished, and nothing was left undone to bring back the conditions of the sixteenth century. These con- ditions were upset by the revolution of 1820, but restored by the intervention of the Holy Alliance in 1823, when the Due dAngoul~me, at the head of a French army, executed the mandate of the Con- gress of Verona. The history of Spain since then, with its succession of civil wars, revolutions, and experiments in govern- ment, holds out little promise of settled and orderly progress. The national char- acteristic of indomitable pride which dis- dains to learn from tho experience of other nations, the tendency to resort to violent and exaggerated methods, the dense political ignorance of the masses, so sedulously deprived through long gen- erations of all means of political enlighten- ment and all training in political action, combine to render the nation incapable of conducting wisely the liberal institu- tions which are foreign importations, and not the outgrowth of native aspirations and experience. In many respects the Spaniard is still living in the sixteenth century, unable to assimilate the ideas of the nineteenth, or to realize that bis coun- try is no longer the mistress of the sea and the dominating power of the land. There is still another cause which has contributed largely to Spanish decadence. All governments are more or less cor- rupt, absolute honesty would appear to be impossible in the conduct of pub- lic affairs, but the corruption and ve- nality of Spanish administration have been peculiarly all-pervading and con- tinuous. From the time of the youthful Charles V. and his worthless horde of Flemish favorites, this has been a corrod- ing cancer, sapping the vitality of Span- ish resources. It was in vain that the most onerous and disabling imposts were laid on wealth and industry; the results were always insufficient, and the national 42 The Decadence of Spain. finances were always in disorder, crip- pling all efforts at aggression or defense. Already in 1551 the cortes of Castile gave a deplorable account of the corrup- tion in every branch of official life, the destruction of industry, and the misery of the people under their crushing burdens. In 1656, when Philip IV., under a com- plication of misfortunes, was struggling to avert bankruptcy, Cardinal Moscoso, the Archbishop of Toledo, bluntly told him that not more than ten per cent of the revenues collected reached the royal treasury. While income was thus fatal- ly diminished, expenditure was similarly augmented through collusion, fraud, and bribery. It raises a curious psychological question, how pride and punctilious sen- sitiveness as to honor can coexist with eager rapacity f6r iniquitous gains, how undoubted patriotism can accommod~te itself to a system which deprives the fa- therland of the resources necessary to its existence; but human nature is often only consistent in inconsistency. To what extent this prevails at the present day must of course be only a matter of con- jecture, but recent events would seem to indicate that supplies and munitions paid for are not on hand when urgently need- ed, and that troops in the field bear but a slender proportion to those on the pay- roll. When, the other day, Don Carlos alluded to generously voted millions diverted from the fulfillment of their patriotic purpose to the pockets of fraud- ulent contractors and dishonest state employees, and disorder, peculation, and mendacity in every department of the public service, he merely described con- ditions which in Spain have been chronic for centuries. If the above is a truthful outline of the causes of Spanish decadence, it can arouse no wonder that Spanish colonial policy has been a failure. All the de- fects of character and administration which produced such disastrous results at home had naturally fuller scope for development in the colonies. The dis- coveries of Columbus did not open up a new continent to be settled by industri- ous immigrants coming to found states and develop their resources in peaceful industry. The marvelous exploits of the Conquistadores were performed in the craziest thirst for gold, and those who succeeded them came in the hope of speedy enrichment and return, to ac- complish which they exploited to the utmost the unhappy natives, and when these were no longer available replaced them with African slaves. The mother country similarly looked upon her new possessions simply as a source of revenue, to be drained to the utmost, either for herself or for the benefit of those whom she sent out to govern them. Colonists who finally settled and cast their lot in the INew World ~vere consequently ex- posed to every limitation and discrimi- nation that perverse ingenuity could sug- gest, and were sacrificed to the advan- tage, real or imaginary, of Spain. The short-sighted financial and commercial policy at home would in itself have suf- ficed to condemn the colonies to stag- nation and misery, but in addition they were subjected to special restrictions and burdens. It was not until 1788 that trade with them was permitted through any port but Cadiz, whose mer- chants made use of their monopoly to exact a profit of from one hundred to two hundred per cent. Export and import duties were multiplied, till the producer was deprived of all incentive to exertion, and the populations were taxed to their utmost capacity, the taxes being exacted with merciless severity. As if this were not enough, the all- pervading influence of clericalism ren- dered good government well-nigh im- possible. Under its influence the colo- nial organizations consisted of sundry independent jurisdictions, incompatible with the preservation of order in any community, and especially unfitted for the administration of a colony, sepa The Decadence of Spain. 43 rated by a thousand leagues from the supreme authority which alone could compose their differences. There was the royal representative, the viceroy or governor, responsible for the defense of the province and the maintenance of order. There was the church establish- ment with its bishop or archbishop, in no way subordinate to the civil power. There were the various regular orders, Franciscans, Dominicans, Augustin- ians, Jesuits, etc., bitterly jealous of one another and prompt to quarrel, ex- empt from episcopal jurisdiction, and subject only to their respective superiors or to the Pope, except when suspicion of heresy might render individual members answerable to the Inquisition. Finally, there was the Inquisition itself, which owned obedience only to the Supreme Council of the Holy Office in Madrid, and held itself superior to all other ju- risdictions; for under its delegated papal power it could at will paralyze the au- thority of any one, from the highest to the lowest, by its excommunication, while no priest or prelate could excom- municate its ministers. It was impossi- ble that so irrational a scheme of social order should work smoothly. Causes of dissension, trivial or serious, between these rival and jealous jurisdictions were rarely lacking, and the internal history of the colonies consists in great part of their quarrels, which disturbed the peace of the communities and hindered pro- sperity and growth. In The Atlantic Monthly for August, 1891, I described at some length a com- plicated quarrel between the Franciscans and the Bishop of Cartagena de las In- dias, in which both the Inquisition and the royal governor intervened, keeping the community in an uproar from 1683 to 1688. This was followed, in 1693, by an outbreak between the governor, Ceballos, and the Inquisition. In the public meat-market a butcher refused to give precedence to a negro slave of the inquisitor, who thereupon had the indis creet butcher arrested and confined in chains in the eareeles seeretas of the Inquisition. This in itself was a most serious punishment, for such imprison- ment left an ineffaceable stigma on the sufferer and on his descendants for two generations. The governor pleaded in vain with the inquisitor, and then en- deavored secretly to obtain testimony to send to Madrid, but without success, for no one dared to give evidence. The fact of his attempt leaked out, however, and the secretary of the Inquisition led a mob to the palace, and forced the gov- ernor, under threat of excommunication, to sign a declaration that he abandoned the case to the Inquisition, that all re- ference to it should be expunged from the records of .the municipality and all papers relating to it should be delivered to the inquisitor. He submitted, and his only recourse was to write a piteous let- ter to the Council of the Indies. Such appeal to the home authorities was of uncertain outcome, for the inquisitors were by no means ready to submit to an adverse decision. In a complicated quarrel between the cruzada, the epis- copal court, the Inquisition, and the viceroy of Peru, in 1729, the inquisi- tors of Lima formally and repeatedly refused obedience to a royal order sent through the viceroy, alleging that they were subject only to the Supreme Coun- cil of the Holy Office. In 1751 they took the same ground in a case in which the king decided against them, and they held out until 1760, when a more per- emptory command was received, accom- panied by a dispatch from the council which they could not disregard. Thus, to a greater or less degree, all Spanish colonies were fields in which clericalism rioted at will. Paraguay, where the Jesuits succeeded in building up an independent theocracy, offers the most perfect illustration of the result, and a somewhat less conspicuous instance is found in the Philippines. There the missions of the Augustinian Recollects 44 The Decadence of Spain. acquired such power that the annals of that colony seem rather to be the re- cords of the Augustinian province of San Nicoliis than those of a royal de- pendency. This Augustinian supremacy was unsuccessfully disputed by the Do- minicans, in the early years of the eigh- teenth century, but the Jesuits proved to be more dangerous rivals, who did not scruple, in 1736, to induce their na- tive subjects to make war on those of the Augustinians. The banishment in 1767 of the Society of Jesus from the Spanish dominions left the field to the Augustinians, who have since held it, apparently without making effort to se- cure the good will of their flocks. They had their own internal troubles, however, for in 1712 the hostility between the Aragonese and Castilians led to a schism which had to be referred to Spain for settlement, when the Castilians, who were the losing party, refused to submit until the acting governor, Torralba, em- ployed the persuasive influence of artil- lery. The character of their relations with the secular authority can be estiinat- ed from an occurrence in 1643, when the governor, Sebastian Hurtado de Corcuera, in preparing to resist an ex- pected attack by the Dutch, undertook to fortify Manila. An Augustinian con- vent and church occupied a site re- quired for a demilune. Corcuera offered the friars another church and 4000 pesos; but they refused to niove, and obstinately remained in the convent un- til the progress of the works rendered it uninhabitable, when it was torn down and the materials were used in the lines. They raised a great clamor, which probably was the cause of the removal of Corcuera in 1644, when they pro- secuted their grievance in court, and obtained a decree reinstating them and casting him in damages to the amount of 25,000 pesos. They tore down the fortifications, rebuilt the church, and threw Corcuera into prison, where he languished under cruel treatment for five years. He had been an excellent ad- ministrator, and on his liberation Philip IV. appointed him governor of the Ca- naries. In such a community the position of governor had few attractions for an hon- est man. In 1719, a new one, Busta- mente Bustihlo, found on his arrival that all the royal officials had been busi- ly embezzling and pilfering, leaving the treasury nearly empty. After ascertain- ing the facts he set to work energetically to recover the funds and to punish the guilty, who thereupon, as seems to have been customary in such cases, sought asylum in the churches, One of them had carried with him certain official re- cords necessary for the verification of the accounts, and these Bustillo requested the archbishop to make him surrender. The archbishop replied with a learned argument, drawn up for him by a Jesuit, proving that the governors request was illegal. Bustillo lost his temper at this, and arrested the archbishop, who forth- with cast an interdict over the city. Then the monks and friars turned .out in organized bands, marching through the streets with crucifixes, and shouting, Viva la f6! Viva ha Iglesia! They speedily collected a mob which they led to the palace; the doors were broken in, the governor and his son murdered, and when the archbishop was released he as- sumed the governorship, under the ad- vice of an assembly consisting exclusive- ly of ecclesiastical dignitaries. In these perpetually recurring troubles between the secular and the clerical au- thorities the Inquisition was not behind- hand, although there was no organized tri- bunal in Manila. The Philippines were an appendage to the viceroyalty of New Spain or Mexico, and the Holy Office of Mexico merely delegated a commissioner at Manila to execute its orders and make reports to it. Subordinate as was this position, those who held it deemed them- selves superior to the royal authorities. About 1650 the padre commissioner re The Decadence of Spain. 45 ceived an order to arrest and send to Acapulco a person who was governor of one of the islands and commandant of a fortified town. The commissioner was also an officer of the government, and knew the risk he ran of offending the governor of the colony in not ad- vising him of what was impending; but the obligation of secrecy in inquisitorial matters was superior to all other con- siderations. He quietly summoned his alcaide mayor and a sufficient number of familiars, sailed for the island, sur- prised the governor in his bed, carried him off, and imprisoned him in a con- vent until there should be an opportu- nity of shipping him to Mexico. The governor of the colony was Don Diego Faxardo, a violent and irascible soldier, whose term of service was a perpetual embroilment with the unruly jurisdic- tions under his charge, and who knew the danger of leaving a fortified post without a commander when there was almost constant war, either with the Dutch or with the natives. A rude explo- sion of wrath was to be expected at this contemptuous disregard of the respect due to his office and of the safety of the land, yet Don Diego so thoroughly re- cognized the supremacy of the Inquisi- tion that when apprised of the affair lie only chided the padre gently for not hav- ing given him a chance of winning the graces and indulgences promised for so pious a work, seeing that he would have regarded as the utmost good fortune the opportunity of serving as an alguazil in making the arrest. Twenty years later, the Augustinian Fray Joseph de Paternina Samaniego, then commissioner of the Inquisition, was even bolder. He was ordered from Mexico to take secret testimony against the governor of the colony, Don Diego de Salcedo, and forward it to Mexico for examination by the tribunal there. This was all that a commissioner was empowered to do, and he was especially instructed to go no further; but the Au- gustinians had had quarrels with the gov- ernor, and the whole affair was probably a plot for his removal. Fray Paternina therefore proceeded to act on the testi- moimy, although the judge, Don Fran- cisco de Montemayor, warned him of his lack of authority, and that such a per- sonage as the governor could not be ar- rested without a special c~dula from the king, passed upon by the Council of the Inquisition. He drew up a warrant of arrest, went at midnight to the palace with some friars and familiars, seized Salcedo in his bed, handcuffed him, and carried him off to the Augustinian con- vent, where the bells were rung in honor of the event. He then gave notice to the royal court that the governorship was vacant, and might be filled, which was done by the appointment of his ally, Don Juan Manuel de ha Pe?ia. He further issued an edict forbidding any one, under pain of excommunication, to speak about the arrest or about his other proceedings; and to inspire fear he brought charges against various persons, under pretext that they were inimical to the Holy Office. Salcedos property was sequestrated, to the profit of those concerned in the affair, and he was shipped by the first vessel to Acapulco, but he died on the voyage. When the news of this outrage reached Madrid by way of Flanders, the Conneil of the Indies complained bitterly, and asked that steps he taken to prevent a repetition of acts so dangerous to the safety of the colonies. The, Council of the Inquisition calmly replied that no new instructions were needed, for there were ample provisions for filling a sud- den vacancy; as for Fray Paternina, if he bad gone too far he would be duly corrected. The Council of the Indies insisted, and was supported by the queen regent. Meanwhile, the Council of the Inquisition had examined the testimony taken against Salcedo, pronounced it friv- olous, declared his arrest void, and or- dered his property to be restored to his heirs, while Fray Paternina was to be 46 Tite Decadence of Spain. sent to Spain for trial. On the journey he died at Acapulco, and the matter was dropped. Successful colonization under such a system was a manifest impossibility, and it is no wonder that the Spanish depend- encies languished, in spite of their infi- nite potentialities of wealth and pro- sperity. The narrow and selfish policy of the mother country deprived the colo- nists of all incentives to exertion; the officials sent from Spain enriched them- selves, the tax-gatherers seized all su- perfluous earnings; there were no accu- mulation of capital and no advancement. In 1736, the viceroy of the vast kingdom of Peru, Don Jos6 Armendaris, Marquis of Castel - Fuerte, in the report which, according to custom, he drew up for the instruction of his successor, described the condition of the colony as deplorable. The Spanish population was mostly con- centrated in Lima; the nobles and the wealthy oppressed the poor; the cor- regidores and priests oppressed the In- dians; the priests paid little attention to their religious duties, for they were not compelled to residence by their bish- ops, and were abandoned to sloth and licentiousness; the judges were venal; and the population was diminishing. The religious orders, he said, ought to be checked, an(l not encouraged, for in Lima there were thirty-four convents, each of them, on an average, equal to four in Spain, which was the most ecclesiastical of all lands. This monastic hypertrophy he attributed to the fact that the men had no other career open to them, and the women consequently could not find husbands. This gloomy utterance was re~choed, twenty years later, by a subse- quent viceroy, Don Jos6 Antonio Manto de Velasco. Still more desponding is a report made in 1772 by Francisco Antonio Moreno y Escandon as to the condition of the New Kingdom of Granada, embracing the northern coast from Pa- nama to Venezuela, a region abounding in natural wealth. The local officials everywhere, he says, were indifferent and careless as to their duty; the people were steeped in poverty; trade was al- most extinct; capital was lacking, and there were no opportunities for its in- vestment; the only source of support was the cultivation of small patches of ground. Every one sought to subsist on the government by procuring some little office. The mining of the precious metals was the sole source of trade, of procuring necessities from abroad, and of meeting the expenses of the government; but al- though the mines were as rich as ever, their product had greatly decreased. Commerce with Spain employed only one or two ships, with registered cargoes, a year from Cadiz to Cartagena, whence the goods were distributed through the interior, but so burdened with duties and expenses that no profit could be made on them. If freedom of export could be had for the rich productions of the couw try, cocoa, tobacco, precious woods, etc., the colony would flourish; but there were no manufactures, and no money could be kept in the land. The missions had made no progress for a hundred years in christianizing the In- dians, for the missionaries undertook the duty only for the purpose of securing a life of ease and sloth. Such was the result of three hundred years of colonization under Spanish methods; and we can scarce wonder that, after such a training, the nations which emancipated themselves have found self- government so difficult. Under the warning given by their loss, some im- provement has been made in the insular possessions which were unable to throw off the yoke, but not enough to prevent chronic disaffection and constantly re- curring efforts at revolt. Spain has made of her colonies the buried talent, and the fulfillment of the parable must come to pass. Henry Charles Lea. War and ilfoney: Some Lessons of 1862. 47 WAR AND MONEY: SOME LESSONS OF 1862. THE soundness of an institution is put to a test by the strain of a critical mo- ment. Even in times of peace our mon- etary system has created grave alarm; what then must be in store for us in the emergencies of war? In all the energetic and hopeful move- ment of recent years for the reform of our monetary evils, we have been hold- ing up to view the necessity for legisla- tive action in anticipation of a possible day of reckoning; and that day of reck- oning has unexpectedly come upon us in the war with Spain. It now makes lit- tle difference whether the war be long or short, so far as concerns the existing fact of an actual currency crisis ; the crisis is upon us, and our system will soon be put on trial. The preliminary appropriation of $50,000,000 out of the Treasury balance for war expenditures was itself a step toward monetary com- plications, and as a hint of congressional methods is big with possibilities. It is a matter of common knowledge that we have long been living in feverish uncertainty under a monetary system in which the standard for prices and for all complicated business transactions has been subject to doubt. No sooner had we made the paper promises of the govern- ment (which had been our standard from 1862 to 1879) as good as gold (January 1,1879) than we began to suffer from an aoitation causing fear as to whether the standard might not be changed from gold to silver. That agitation was not laid by the campaign of 1896, because no legis- lation (in spite of the solemn pledges of the Republican party) has since enacted the edict of the people against silver into a statute. Although a great victory for the maintenance of the existing gold standard was won, yet we are so placed to-day that its fruits may be wrested from us in the upheaval of a war with Spain or in the disturbances produced by fiscal needs. Among the greatest disasters of war should be counted the shaking of the weak foundations on which our standard rests, and the toppling over of the edi- fice of our national credit. That the continuance of the gold standard depends upon the ability of the Treasury to provide gold for all its pay- ments is a truism which it is unneces- sary to emphasize. The business world has beeii again and again alarmed by the ebb and flow of a fluctuating gold reserve behind our government legal tender paper; when it grew slender the loss of the gold standard seemed immi- nent, whereupon every effort was made to fill the Treasury and save the stan- dard. These shocks to the nerve centres of commerce in the past few years are only too fresh in every mind. Indeed, in assigning responsibility for a declin- ing gold reserve, the leaders of the Re- publican party insisted that to the defi- cits in the budget during the preceding administration was to be ascribed the inability to protect the standard. Now observe the attitude of Congress to-day. While, up to this time, the revenue for the present fiscal year has not risen to an equality with the expenditures, the same party (of course assisted by their opponents), without a question or an ex- pressed doubt, supplied an appropriation in anticipation of war by taking it bod- ily out of the Treasury balance, without making any new provisions for obtaining means by taxation or by loans, and the straightforward measure of borrowing by bonds is even shelved in the Senate. Here we touch the great danger of tbe hour, one upon which too much stress cannot be laid: the 01(1 easy-going and fatal confusion of mind in Congress be- tween the fiscal and the monetary func- tions of the Treasury, which in 1861

War and ilfoney: Some Lessons of 1862. 47 WAR AND MONEY: SOME LESSONS OF 1862. THE soundness of an institution is put to a test by the strain of a critical mo- ment. Even in times of peace our mon- etary system has created grave alarm; what then must be in store for us in the emergencies of war? In all the energetic and hopeful move- ment of recent years for the reform of our monetary evils, we have been hold- ing up to view the necessity for legisla- tive action in anticipation of a possible day of reckoning; and that day of reck- oning has unexpectedly come upon us in the war with Spain. It now makes lit- tle difference whether the war be long or short, so far as concerns the existing fact of an actual currency crisis ; the crisis is upon us, and our system will soon be put on trial. The preliminary appropriation of $50,000,000 out of the Treasury balance for war expenditures was itself a step toward monetary com- plications, and as a hint of congressional methods is big with possibilities. It is a matter of common knowledge that we have long been living in feverish uncertainty under a monetary system in which the standard for prices and for all complicated business transactions has been subject to doubt. No sooner had we made the paper promises of the govern- ment (which had been our standard from 1862 to 1879) as good as gold (January 1,1879) than we began to suffer from an aoitation causing fear as to whether the standard might not be changed from gold to silver. That agitation was not laid by the campaign of 1896, because no legis- lation (in spite of the solemn pledges of the Republican party) has since enacted the edict of the people against silver into a statute. Although a great victory for the maintenance of the existing gold standard was won, yet we are so placed to-day that its fruits may be wrested from us in the upheaval of a war with Spain or in the disturbances produced by fiscal needs. Among the greatest disasters of war should be counted the shaking of the weak foundations on which our standard rests, and the toppling over of the edi- fice of our national credit. That the continuance of the gold standard depends upon the ability of the Treasury to provide gold for all its pay- ments is a truism which it is unneces- sary to emphasize. The business world has beeii again and again alarmed by the ebb and flow of a fluctuating gold reserve behind our government legal tender paper; when it grew slender the loss of the gold standard seemed immi- nent, whereupon every effort was made to fill the Treasury and save the stan- dard. These shocks to the nerve centres of commerce in the past few years are only too fresh in every mind. Indeed, in assigning responsibility for a declin- ing gold reserve, the leaders of the Re- publican party insisted that to the defi- cits in the budget during the preceding administration was to be ascribed the inability to protect the standard. Now observe the attitude of Congress to-day. While, up to this time, the revenue for the present fiscal year has not risen to an equality with the expenditures, the same party (of course assisted by their opponents), without a question or an ex- pressed doubt, supplied an appropriation in anticipation of war by taking it bod- ily out of the Treasury balance, without making any new provisions for obtaining means by taxation or by loans, and the straightforward measure of borrowing by bonds is even shelved in the Senate. Here we touch the great danger of tbe hour, one upon which too much stress cannot be laid: the 01(1 easy-going and fatal confusion of mind in Congress be- tween the fiscal and the monetary func- tions of the Treasury, which in 1861 48 War and Money: Some Lessons of 18G2. wrecked the credit of the United States, and led to the financial d~b69cle of 1864 when Mr. Chase resigned his portfolio in despair. Out of this confusion of mind may easily result a policy which may entail upon us evil consequences for decades to come. It will be the purpose to hide dubious schemes under the guise of patriotism. By representing as un- patriotic everything which does not tally with selfish and partisan designs, an at- tempt is made to deny a hearing to the teachings of experience, of reason, of sound monetary judgment, and hence of all that most concerns the honor of our country, of all that is, in the true sense, most patriotic. If this spirit is to control our new fiscal legislation, there is grave trouble ahead of us. It is perfectly clear, however, that the present war can be conducted without se- lions commercial distress other than that entailed by a diversion of industry and by increased taxation. The incidents of the day, if availed of, must be regarded as extremely favorable. The generally prosperous condition of all our indus- tries, the quickening results of the last great harvcst, which was accompanied by a strong European demand and high prices for our cereals, the unparalleled balance of $470,000,000 of exports over imports in nine months, the consequent credits due us from abroad, and the ex- ceptional flow of gold rising beyond $60,- 000,000 to our side as soon as our credits are drawn upon, these are fortunate conditions, for which, in this juncture, we ought to be profoundly grateful; all the more grateful because they furnish a basis upon which our fiscal affairs may be conducted with signal success, if we but avoid the fatal confusion between fiscal and monetary operations from which we have suffered so grievously in the past; if we but hold to the elemen- tary principle that the Treasury requires in time of war a control of wealth and capital, of goods, and not merely of the medium of exchange which performs the subsidiary work of transferring these goods. It is not difficult to understand that, in times either of peace or of war, the one important matter is the pro- duction and possession of the articles needed by the country. Money serves only a subsidiary purpose as a medium by which these articles (expressed in terms of money) are exchanged; and a small amount of money goes on doing the vast work of exchange in an unceas- ing round. In days of peace, when pro- duction is normal, every one knows how desirable it is to have no disturbances in trade arising from defects in the mone- tary machinery. In days of war, pro- duction is even more essential than in a period of peace; the main economic dif- ference (apart from the withdrawal of laborers) at the time being the partial readjustment of productive effort to arti- cles for the army and navy. Hence how much more necessary it is, in the ab- normal conditions of war, to be free from additional disturbances caused to indus- try by tampering with the standard, and thus breaking up the efficiency of the system by which exchanges are carried on! Changes in the standard would do more than merely affect the convenience of industry; by modifying the measure in which prices are expressed, they would bring in endless confusion, increase the national debt, lower the purchasing pow- er of wages, and weaken the vital re- sources of the land. In view of all our residuary legacies from the issue of inconvertible paper during the civil war, it should be super- fluous to suggest that a war emergency does not necessarily require a resort to paper money or a departure from the existing standard. Unfortunately, in the minds of men, high and low, there ex- ists an insistent belief that somehow or other paper money is an essential con- comitant of war. Perhaps it arises from the remembrance that such has been the fact in most cases of war known to their experience; which may be only another War and Afoney: Some Lessons of 1862. 49 way of admitting that inefficient finan- cial management has been the rule. At any rate, the idea which should hold pos- session of the national consciousness, in this affair with Spain, is that abundant means for war expenses can be provided without giving up our standard, but above all tbat these funds can be most easily and cheaply obtained by merely avoiding any action which can in the slightest de- gree be construed as disturbing the ex- isting standard. The suggestion of in- creased paper issues, a menace to the existing gold reserves by appropriating Treasury balances, any proposition to use more silver, in fact any increase of our demand obligations, would create doubt as to the standard, and for that reason should be regarded as unpatriotic in the truest sense. Instead of carrying us through the civil war, the government paper money was the one conspicuous enemy of pub- lic credit, of the soldier, and of the la- borer at home. If we came through the crisis, it was solely because we withstood not only the heavy blows of war itself, but also the injuries arising from an in- iquitous monetary system. In the sum- mer of 1861, after the bankers of New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, with many doubts, had patriotically assumed the task of selling bonds for the United States to the amount of $150,000,000, they found the community unwilling to buy them in the existing condition of government credit at the rate of interest exacted. Being under agreement to pay the Treasury for these obligations in gold, when they found their means locked up in unsalable securities they were finally obliged to suspend specie payments (on December 30, 1861). With the best of intentions, but in dense ignorance of in- vestment requirements, Congress, by a strange fatuity, forbade the sale of bonds below par. Given a fixed rate of inter- est, the selling price of a bond is high or low according to the high or low credit of the issuer. Our credit in 1861 being VOL. LXXXIT. NO. 489. 4 far from good, Congress made it impos- sible to sell bonds at a price which in- vestors would pay for the fixed return, thus voluntarily cutting itself off from usual and legitiniate methods of bor- rowing, and making little or no resort to emergency taxation. The Treasury found itself in an impasse; whereupon it was claimed that the issue of incon- vertible paper money was a necessity. Curiously blind to the fact that the price of bonds is a market judgment as to the credit of the issuer, we refused to accept the consequences of a low credit, and a measure was proposed pret~minent- ly adapted to destroy any little credit that remained. Without trying to bor- row in the way which the strongest mod- ern nations find legitimate, desperately in need of funds, the Treasury came to the last resort of a bankrupt government, and issued inconvertible paper money. To put out paper promises to pay on demand, when all the world knew there was not a dollar of coin in reserve to redeem the paper, was a pitifully open way of advertising the hopeless condition of the Treasury. No lover of our coun- try can look back on that spectacle with- out chagrin and wounded national pride. If the enemies of the United States had cunningly planned to corner the Trea- sury, they could not have gained their purpose more effectually than was ac- complished by the blunders of ardent friends. A great and prosperous coun- try, and yet unable to borrow! For the words of Charles Sumner were admit- tedly true then, as they are to-day: Our country is rich and powerful, with a numerous population, busy, hon- est, and determined, and with unparal- leled resources of all kinds, agricultural, mineral, industrial, commercial; it is yet undrained by the war in which we are engaged; nor has the enemy succeeded in depriving us of any of the means of livelihood. It is hard very hard to think that such a country, so power- ful, so rich, and so beloved, should be 50 War and Honey: Some Lessons of 1862. compelled to adopt a policy of even questionable propriety. The disasters of the civil war will not have been in vain if they bite into our consciousness the lines of distinction between measures fit for fiscal needs the provision of funds by taxation and borrowing and those which have a wholly separate function in maintaining unshaken a standard for prices and con- tracts. The former should be kept en- tirely apart from the latter. Instead of trying to supply emergency needs in a way to complicate the monetary system, or to introduce a fluctuating paper for a gold standard, common prudence should have dictated a scrupulous avoidance of all measures of borrowing which in any way touched the standard. The action of our leaders in 1862 seems still stran- ger, when we find that these alternatives had been clearly laid before them by a deputation from New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, headed by Mr. George S. Coe and Mr. James Gallatin. In a con- ference with Secretary Chase explicit di- rections were given how the government might borrow unlimited sums without a resort to inconvertible paper, as fol- lows (1.) A tax bill to raise, in the dif- ferent modes of taxatjon, $125,000,000 over and above duties on imports. (2.) No issue of demand Treasury notes except those authorized at the ex- tra session in July last. (3.) An issue of $100,000,000 Trea- sury notes at two years, in sums of five doijars and upwards, to be receivable for public dues to the government, except du- ties on imports. (4.) A suspension of the Sub-Treasury Act, so as to allow the banks to become depositories of the government of all loans, and so that the Treasury will check on the banks from time to time as the government may want money. (5.) An issue of six per cent twenty- year bonds, to be negotiated by the Sec- retary of the Treasary,~and without any limitation as to the price he may obtain for them in the market. (6.) The Secretary of the Treasury should be empowered to make tempora- ry loans to the extent of any portion of the funded stock authorized by Congress, with power to hypothecate such stock; and, if such loans are not paid at matu- rity, to sell the stock hypothecated for the best price that can be obtained. Not all these details, of course, are applicable to our existing situation, hut the pith of this advice lies in the ap- plication of ordinary business methods to the operations of the Treasury, and in the avoidance of dangerous demand obligations for whose redemption no reserves have been provided. In spite of these suggestions, Congress in 1862 issued irredeemable paper money which subsequently depreciated to thirty-five cents on the dollar; and as this money was received at par for bonds, the obli- gations of the nation were in reality sold at less than par in gold. That is, Congress did not in fact escape the necessity of selling our bonds for what they would bring, but, by attempting to evade fundamental principles, it accom- plished nothing for its purpose, while bringing wreck and ruin to the credit of the Treasury. Everything which the advocates of paper money said would not happen did happen, and in a way most dispiriting to all courageous sup- porters of the Union. The danger of the hour arises from a defective because uncertain monetary system, due to the presence of the paper money which once did such damage, and to the evident force which the sil- ver party still displays at Washington. The fear is that, in the bustle of war, attention will be directed to other things than monetary reform; and when fiscal legislation comes into the hands of en- emies to our existing standard, the need of borrowing will be made an excuse for changes in fiscal measures which may prevent a proper regulation of the cur- War and Money: Some Lessons of 1862. 51 rency. The cunning schemer will pro- vide the policy, while crass minds will be drawn in as tools; both must unite to work the damage. But the point is not bard to make clear, so that intriguers should find it difficult to deceive. If our government borrows by cre- ating a demand debt in a form to be used as currency, it mixes the borrow- ing, or fiscal, measure with the regula- tion of our monetary system, exactly when the latter should most be kept inviolate. The inherent danger of this is not far to seek. By building up a vast superstructure of demand paper and a silver currency of a value far less than its face, all depending upon a slender gold reserve for the redemption which gives it parity, an instant connection is established between every event which may affect the income or credit of the Treasury and the machinery of prices and contracts with which trade is carried on. The one important aim of Treasury management should be to keep these two matters entirely distinct. There is no reason whatever why fiscal measures for borrowing should in the slightest way be complicated with the machinery which the community has evolved as a standard and for the exchange of goods. It is the duty of the state to keep its hands off this machinery, to recognize the facts of civilized commercial experi- ence, and to go on its way borrowing and taxing, without thought of interfer- ing with that which is at the very base of business life. If, as now, it is not easy to maintain our standard in gold, it would be a wanton attack on indus- trial enterprise to make more complicat- ed a situation already difficult. By making a demand debt of the government serve as money, an intoler- able situation is created whenever an emergency like the present conflict with Spain arises. This money, the value of which is dependent on the fiscal condi- tion of the Treasury, is the agent by which the world of business is exchan ging goods, and upon whose value all prices and contracts depend. Conse- quently, every passing event of war or politics, every victory or defeat of our army or navy, every party success or failure, through its effect on the credit of the Treasury, passes directly like electricity on a live wire to the value of the paper and all fiduciary currency, and then moves swiftly on, after produ- cing fluctuations in the standard, to all the transactions of trade and industry. It should never be that ups and downs of Treasury finance should have any con- nection whatever with the standard and the conduct of business. The moment our government does anything to create uncertainty in the existing standard, that moment this uncertainty changes normal business into a matter of guesswork and speculation. This is but a r6sum6 of our experience in the civil war. The present situation is in some re- spects more favorable, and in some less favorable, than that of 1861. We are fortunate in having at the head of the Treasury an experienced financier, while in 1861 we blundered because there was no leader with an intelligent know- ledge of what should be done. The abundant harvest of last year and our unparalleled exports, as has been said, are causes for congratulation. But, on the other hand, the precedents of wrong- doing are present with us in the form of the United States notes and the mass of silver currency, and the monetary system is in unstable equilibrium. As every one knows, our national bank- notes are redeemable in lawful money; hence their value depends upon the kind of money in which they are redeemed. Our legal tender notes (United States notes and Treasury notes of 1890) de- pend for their value on the sufficiency of the gold reserve in the Treasury. Moreover, the receipt of silver currency on equal terms with gold in payments to the Treasury, and the outgoing pay- ment by the Treasury of all demand 52 War and iJifoney: Some Lessons of 18G2. upon it in gold, maintain the parity of $455,000,000 of silver with gold. If the reserves behind the paper are in any way exhausted, then the Treasury can- not pay gold on demand, and the silver will no longer be kept at a value greater than its own. Clearly, our existing stan- dard pivots on the gold reserve of the Treasury. It may not he amiss to quote here the deliberate judgment of the monetary commission at a time when there was little thought of war with Spain The existence of a large outstanding debt payable on demand is also a source of weakness to the government in its in- ternational relations. Modern warfare is so expensive that it is almost as much a matter of money as of men. A nation suddenly confronted by the alternative of war or dishonor would be greatly handicapped by a large demand debt which it must provide for at once. Great additional force is given to this con- sideration by the fact that it would be scarcely possible for this nation to en- gage in war in its present situation counting as part of the situation the im- perfect development of clear conceptions on the subject of money in the minds of the people without a suspension of specie payments and a resort to further issues of government notes. There is no occasion to criticise those patriotic men who believed that the issue of green- backs was necessary to save the Union. But the world has advanced in financial knowledge and skill since then. There is no doubt that if our government were relieved of its existing demand obliga- tions, and our currency system put in working order upon a gold basis, it would be entirely possible for us to go through a war without suspension of specie pay- ment or any derangement of our mone- tary system. If war should come, the value to the country of the ability to thus avoid the indirect losses following from depreciated currency, inflated prices, and financial demoralization would be so great that the burden of paying off now our demand obligations would be as no- thing in comparison. The peculiarity, however, of our pre- sent situation resides in the fact that a departure from our standard may not necessarily result from additional issues of paper money as in 1862, but from an interference with the gold reserve in the Treasury which would quickly bring us to the silver standard. Whe- ther the deflection from the existing or- der is produced by resort to paper or to silver, the primary effects would be much the same. To be sure, the President may still in emergencies sell bonds, under the Resumption Act, to provide gold for this reserve. There is thus no possible reason why this gold reserve, under effi- cient management, should be allowed to ooze away and bring us to a change of standard. There is potential difficulty, however, in the mental attitude of Con- gress. It has plunged us into war; it has made the expenditure of vast sums a necessary consequence. Then, what will be the disposition of Congress as to means for providing these funds? From this point of view, the appro- priation of $50,000,000 and the attitude of the Senate are big with suggestions. The Treasury balance which had been accumulated by the sale of bonds during the last administration, to secure gold for the protection of the standard, was at once, and without debate, voted away to a very considerable extent. It is no answer if it be said that a dramatic effect was intended by giving instant purchasing power to the President, since that result could have been equally well accomplished by giving the Secretary authority to sell bonds at a proper rate of interest, and by insuring the payment of the principal in gold instead of in du- bious coin. Therefore, this first ac- tion has in it a world of suggestiveness as to the likelihood that Congress will obtain the funds for war by means which will leave our standard intact. War and liloney: Some Lessons of 1862. 53 How dangerous this appropriation was does not seem to be generally realized. As a matter of fact there were not funds enough in the Treasury to warrant an appropriation of $50,000,000. The gen- eral Treasury balance at the time was about $225,000,000. From this must be deducted the following items: Fractional and minor coins largely uncurrent $13,000,000 Receipts from sale of Union Pacific railway, held to pay bonds Jan uary 1, 1899 14,000,000 Funds held for redemption of na- tional bank - notes to be with- drawn 33,000,000 Reserved in Treasury for ordinary working balance 40,000,000 $100,000,000 These items, together with the $100,- 000,000 held as gold reserve for Unit- ed States notes, leave a balance of only $25,000,000 subject to appropriation. That is, if $50,000,000 were taken out of the Treasury very soon, it would either trench upon a small working bal- ance for daily needs, or at once cut into the gold reserve now supporting our whole monetary fabric. Before all of this appropriation is called for, the Trea- sury must necessarily be given means of obtaining new supplies. New war ap- propriations for the army and navy have been made, but no new supplies have been obtained for the Treasury. Can any one be so blind as not to see why the silver group in the Senate willingly voted for such measures, which must deplete the Treasury and imperil the gold reserve, but yet refuse to vote for bonds by which alone the Treasury can obtain funds enough to prevent the dissipation of the gold reserve? It should be borne in mind that the silver men are intrenched in the Senate, and are watching vigilantly for a chance to bring in the silver standard. Unable 1 (1.) An additional tax on beer of one dol- lar per barrel. (2.) Stamp taxes, as in the act of 1860. (3.) An additional tax on tobacco. (4.) The issue of short-time Treasury certi to accomplish this task against the pre- sent House and the veto of the President, it would he their strategy, of course, to gain by negative what it is inipossible to effect by positive measures. An upheaval brought on by war would be their oppor- tunity; and by their control of the Senate almost any fiscal legislation is at their mercy. Having once put ourselves in the position where our Treasury requires fiscal enactments, we must accept what the Senate will allow us. It does not re- quire much imagination to see that in this passion for war the silver group hope to find the opportunity they lost in 1896. The presence of Mr. Bryan in Washing- ton, and the introduction by Mr. Teller of the resolution of recognition of Cuba against the wishes of the administration, showed clearly their purpose to outbid the Republican party by radical action. The proposed scheme 1 for providing funds to carry on the war, given to the public, has in the main a rational foun- dation. There is, nevertheless, a lurking danger in the proposition to adapt the loan to popular subscription. For that purpose a fixed price is necessary. Fix- ing the interest at three per cent and the price at par by no means makes it sure that any large part of the loan will he taken, unless the national credit happens to be exactly met by this adjustment. If the market judgment varies from this rate, then we shall repeat the experience of the civil war. There is the more rea- son for doubt on this point, because it seems to be assumed that the act will provide for the payment of principal and interest on the bonds in coin, on the ground that an express requirement of gold would not be adopted by Congress. But if it is well understood that the word gold cannot be introduced, that indi- cates a doubt as to the future means of ficates, bearing interest to provide for emergen- cy needs. (5.) A popular bond issue of $300,000,000 in denominations of fifty dollars, bearing three per cent interest and sold at par. 54 War and Honey: Some Lessons of 1862. payment for principal and interest. This doubt will affect the price of the bonds, and a fixed price may be again the cause of disaster. The tax on bank checks is, of course, a tax not upon the banks, but upon those who use checks instead of ordinary forms of money. Its effect being to tax one form of currency to the exclusion of other forms, it will to that extent lower the efficiency and convenience of our monetary system. So far as it limits this means of exchanging goods, it will be a commercial disadvantage, but it will yield considerable revenue. The possibility of enormous expendi- tures before we have put our monetary system in order is unpleasant to contem- plate. If the need of a careful revision of our legislation had become imperative when we were at peace with the world, how much more necessary indeed, how much more essential to our safety is it in the presence of war! All the rea- sons which could be urged for monetary ref orin six months ago have tenfold more weight to-day. The very vitality of our credit, of our capacity to borrow, de- pends upon the certainty as to our stan- dard. But Congress has not yet defined whether its bonds are payable in gold or in silver (should we by any emergency be forced to part with our small gold re- serve). The unmistakable plan of the silver group in the Senate to antagonize the administration in order to gain po- litical advantage shows what we must face. When the House bill for war revenue was sent to the Senate, the finance corn- mittee changed its whole character by a bold proposition to issue $150,000,000 niore United States notes, and to coin 1 The resolutions of the Senate, to which the Republican House did not agree, contained two plain conflicts with the Constitution, and a startling inconsistency. First, Congress has no power to recognize the independence of Cuba; and second, it has no power to call on the miii- the seigniorage. At this writing it cannQt be known what action the Senate will take on these proposals. That a new issue of greenbacks should even be mentioned is itself the strongest argu- ment for the early retirement of those now outstanding; because it proves, what has long been prophesied, the danger that their mere existence in our currency will suggest an improper issue in a time of emergency. As to coining the sci- gniorage, that is a proposal to coin what does not exist. The profits on coining silver have been covered into the general funds of the Treasury, and they have been used to meet past demands. There is little or nothing to-day in the Trea- sury with which to meet the difference if called for between the face and the market value of our silver coins for whose circulation at par we are respon- sible. The silver bullion now held be- hind the Treasury notes of 1890 is not seigniorage. To coin the seigniorage would increase the number of over-val- ued silver dollars which must be kept at par in gold, without adding one cent to the reserves held to maintain these dol- lars and other currency at par. In short, the two amendments of the finance com- mittee above mentioned aim directly at weakening the power of the Treasury to keep its demand obligations redeem- able in gold. What must one think of the patriotism of those who would try to take advantage of the perils of war to bring about that which they failed to obtain by the ballot in days of peace? The suggestions of the Senate commit- tee, like the appropriation of the $50,- 000,000, are ominous reminders of our errors in 1862. May we yet be saved from them! J. Laurence Laughlin. tia for service in Cuba. Moreover, a recogni- tion of the Cuban republic was accompanied by a noisy announcement to that unlocated au- thority of the intention of the United States to regulate its affairs for it. The Wife of his Youth. 55 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH. I. MR. RYDER was going to give a ball. There were several reasons why this was an opportune time for such an event. Mr. Ryder might aptly be called the dean of the Blue Veins. The original Blue Veins were a little society of col- ored persons organized in a certain North- ern city shortly after the war. Its pur- pose was to establish and maintain cor- rect social standards among a people whose social condition presented almost unlimited room for improvement. By accident, combined perhaps with some natural affinity, the society consisted of individuals who were, generally speak- ing, more white than black. Some en- vious outsider made the suggestion that no one was eligible for membership who was not white enough to show blue veins. The suggestion was readily adopted by those who were not of the favored few, and since that time the society, though possessing a longer and more pretentious name, had been known far and wide as the Blue Vein Society, and its mem- bers as the Blue Veins. The Blue Veins did not allow that any such requirement existed for admission to their circle, but, on the contrary, de- clared that character and culture were the only things considered; and that if most of their members were light-colored, it was because such persons, as a rule, had had better opportunities to qualify themselves for membership. Opinions differed, too, as to the usefulness of the society. There were those who had been known to assail it violently as a glaring example of the very prejudice from which the colored race had suffered most; and later, when such critics had succeeded in getting on the inside, they had been heard to maintain with zeal and earnestness that the society was a life-boat, an an- chor, a bulwark and a shield, ~- a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night, to guide their people through the social wil- derness. Another alleged prerequisite for Blue Vein membership was that of free birth; and while there was really no such requirement, it is doubtless true that very few of the members would have been unable to meet it if there had been. If there were one or two of the older members who had come up from the South and from slavery, their history pre- sented enough romantic circumstances to rob their servile origin of its grosser aspects. While there were no such tests of eligibility, it is true that the Blue Veins had their notions on these subjects, and that not all of them were equally liberal in regard to the things they collectively disclaimed. Mr. Ryder was one of the most conservative. Though he had not been among the founders of the society, but had come in some years later, his genius for social leadership was such that he had speedily become its recognized adviser and head, the custodian of its standards, and the preserver of its tra- ditions. He shaped its social policy, was active in providing for its entertain- ment, and when the interest fell off, as it sometimes did, he fanned the embers until they burst again into a cheerful flame. There were still other reasons for his popularity. While he was not as white as some of the Blue Veins, his appearance was such as to confer distinction upon them. His features were of a refined type, his hair was almost straight; he was always neatly dressed; his manners were irreproachable, and his morals above suspicion. He had come to Groveland a young man, and obtaining employment in the office of a railroad company as messenger had in time worked himself

The Wife of his Youth. 55 THE WIFE OF HIS YOUTH. I. MR. RYDER was going to give a ball. There were several reasons why this was an opportune time for such an event. Mr. Ryder might aptly be called the dean of the Blue Veins. The original Blue Veins were a little society of col- ored persons organized in a certain North- ern city shortly after the war. Its pur- pose was to establish and maintain cor- rect social standards among a people whose social condition presented almost unlimited room for improvement. By accident, combined perhaps with some natural affinity, the society consisted of individuals who were, generally speak- ing, more white than black. Some en- vious outsider made the suggestion that no one was eligible for membership who was not white enough to show blue veins. The suggestion was readily adopted by those who were not of the favored few, and since that time the society, though possessing a longer and more pretentious name, had been known far and wide as the Blue Vein Society, and its mem- bers as the Blue Veins. The Blue Veins did not allow that any such requirement existed for admission to their circle, but, on the contrary, de- clared that character and culture were the only things considered; and that if most of their members were light-colored, it was because such persons, as a rule, had had better opportunities to qualify themselves for membership. Opinions differed, too, as to the usefulness of the society. There were those who had been known to assail it violently as a glaring example of the very prejudice from which the colored race had suffered most; and later, when such critics had succeeded in getting on the inside, they had been heard to maintain with zeal and earnestness that the society was a life-boat, an an- chor, a bulwark and a shield, ~- a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night, to guide their people through the social wil- derness. Another alleged prerequisite for Blue Vein membership was that of free birth; and while there was really no such requirement, it is doubtless true that very few of the members would have been unable to meet it if there had been. If there were one or two of the older members who had come up from the South and from slavery, their history pre- sented enough romantic circumstances to rob their servile origin of its grosser aspects. While there were no such tests of eligibility, it is true that the Blue Veins had their notions on these subjects, and that not all of them were equally liberal in regard to the things they collectively disclaimed. Mr. Ryder was one of the most conservative. Though he had not been among the founders of the society, but had come in some years later, his genius for social leadership was such that he had speedily become its recognized adviser and head, the custodian of its standards, and the preserver of its tra- ditions. He shaped its social policy, was active in providing for its entertain- ment, and when the interest fell off, as it sometimes did, he fanned the embers until they burst again into a cheerful flame. There were still other reasons for his popularity. While he was not as white as some of the Blue Veins, his appearance was such as to confer distinction upon them. His features were of a refined type, his hair was almost straight; he was always neatly dressed; his manners were irreproachable, and his morals above suspicion. He had come to Groveland a young man, and obtaining employment in the office of a railroad company as messenger had in time worked himself 56 The TV~fe of his Youth. up to the position of stationery clerk, having charge of the distribution of the office supplies for the whole company. Although the lack of early training had hindered the orderly development of a naturally fine mind, it had not prevent- ed him from doing a great deal of read- ing or from forming decidedly literary tastes. Poetry was his passion. He could repeat whole pages of the great Eng- lish poets; and if his pronunciation was sometimes faulty, his eye, his voice, his gestures, would respond to the changing sentiment with a precision that revealed a poetic soul and disarmed criticism. He was economical, and had saved money; he owned and occupied a very comfort- able house on a respectable street. His residence was handsomely furnished, con- taining among other things a good libra- ry, especially rich in poetry, a piano, and some choice engravings. He generally shared his house with some young couple, who looked after his wants and were company for him; for Mr. Ryder was a single man. In the early days of his connection with the Blue Veins he had been regarded as quite a catch, and ladies and their mothers had maneuvred with much ingenuity to capture him. Not, however, until Mrs. Molly Dixon visited Groveland had any woman ever made him wish to change his condition to that of a married man. Mrs. Dixon had come to Groveland from Washington in the spring, and be- fore the summer was over she had won Mr. Ryders heart. She possessed many attractive qualities. She was much younger than he; in fact, he was old enough to have been her father, though no one knew exactly how old he was. She was whiter than he, and better edu- cated. She had moved in the best col- ored society of the country, at Washing- ton, and had taught in the schools of that city. Such a superior person had been eagerly welcomed to the Blue Vein Society, and had taken a leading part in its activities. Mr. Ryder had at first been attracted by her charms of person, for she was very good looking and not over twenty-five; then by her refined man- ners and by the vivacity of her wit. Her husband had been a government clerk, and at his death had left a considerable life insurance. She was visiting friends in Groveland, and, finding the town and the people to her liking, had prolonged her stay indefinitely. She had not seemed displeased at Mr. Ryders atten- tions, but on the contrary had given him every proper encouragement; indeed, a younger and less cautious man would long since have spoken. But he had made up his mind, and had only to de- termine the time when he would ask her to be his wife. He decided to give a ball in her honor, and at some time during the evening of the ball to offer her his heart and hand. He had no spe- cial fears about the outcome, but, with a little touch of romance, he wanted the surroundings to be in harmony with his own feelings when he should have re- ceived the answer he expected. Mr. Ryder resolved that this ball should mark an epoch in the social history of Groveland. He knew, of course, no one could know better, the entertainments that had taken place in past years, and what must be done to surpass them. His ball must be worthy of the lady in whose honor it was to be given, and must, by the quality of its guests, set an example for the future. He had observed of late a growing lib- erality, almost a laxity, in social matters, even among members of his own set, and had several times been forced to meet in a social way persons whose com- plexions and callings in life were hardly up to the standard which he considered proper for the society to maintain. He had a theory of his own. I have no race prejudice, he would say, but we people of mixed blood are ground between the upper and the neth- er millstone. Our fate lies between ab- sorption by the white race and extinction The Wife of his Youth. 57 in the black. The one does nt want us yet, but may take us in time. The other would welcome us, but it would be for us a backward step. With malice towards none, with charity for all, we must do the best we can for ourselves and those who are to follow us. Self-preservation is the first law of nature. his ball would serve by its exclusive- ness to counteract leveling tendencies, and his marriage with Mrs. Dixon would help to further the upward process of absorption he had been wishing and wait- ing for. II. The ball was to take place on Friday night. The house had been put in or- der, the carpets covered with canvas, the halls and stairs decorated with palms and potted plants; and in the afternoon Mr. Ryder sat on his front porch, which the shade of a vine running up over a wire netting made a cool and pleasant lounging-place. He expected to respond to the toast The Ladies, at the sup- per, and from a volume of Tennyson his favorite poet was fortifying him- self with apt quotations. The volume was open at A Dream of Fair Women. His eyes fell on these lines, and he read theni aloud to judge better of their ef- fect At length II saw a lady within call, Stiller than chiselld marble, standing there; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. He marked the verse, and turning the page read the stanza beginning, 0 sweet pale Margaret, 0 rare pale Margaret. He weighed the passage a moment, and decided that it would not do. Mrs. Dixon was the palest lady he expected at the ball, and she was of a rather rud- dy complexion, and of lively disposition and buxom build. So he ran over the leaves until his eye rested on the de- scription of Queen Guinevere: She seemd a part of joyous Spring: A gown of grass-green silk she wore, Buckled with golden clasps before; A light-green tuft of plumes she bore Closed in a golden ring. She lookd so lovely, as she swayd The rein with dainty finger-tips, A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips. As Mr. Ryder murmured these words audibly, with an appreciative thrill, he heard the latch of his gate click, and a light footfall sounding on the steps. He turned his head, and saw a woman stand- ing before the door. She was a little woman, not five feet tall, and proportioned to her height. Although she stood erect, and looked around her with very bright and rest- less eyes, she seemed quite old; for her face was crossed and recrossed with a hundred wrinkles, and around the edges of her bonnet could be seen protruding here and there a tuft of short gray wool. She wore a blue calico gown of ancient cut, a little red shawl fastened around her shoulders with an old-fashioned brass brooch, and a large bonnet profusely or- namented with faded red and yellow ar- tificial flowers. And she was very black, so black that her toothless gums, re- vealed when she opened her mouth to speak, were not red, but blue. She looked like a bit of the old plantation life, summoned up from the past by the wave of a magicians wand, as the poets fancy had called into being the gracious shapes of which Mr. Ryder had just been reading. He rose from his chair and came over to where she stood. Good-afternoon, madam, he said. Good-evenin, suh, she answered, ducking suddenly with a quaint curtsy. Her voice was shrill and piping, but softened somewhat by age. Is dis yere whar Mistuh Ryduh lib, suh ? she asked, looking around her doubtfully, 58 The Wife of his Youth. and glancing into the open windows, through which some of the preparations for the evening were visible. Yes, he replied, with an air of kind- iy patronage, unconsciously flattered by her manner, I am Mr. Ryder. Did you want to see me? Yas, sub, ef I aint sturbin of you too much. Not at all. Have a seat over here behind the vine, where it is cool. What can I do for you? Scuse me, sub, she continued, when she had sat down on the edge of a chair, scuse me, sub, I s lookin for my husban. I heerd you wuz a big man an had libbed heab a long time, an I lowed you would nt mm ef I d come roun an ax you ef you d eber heerd of a merlatter man by de name er Sam Taylor quinn roun in de chuches er- mongs de people fer his wife Liza Jane? Mr. Ryder seemed to think for a mo- ment. There used to be many such cases right after the war, he said, but it has been so long that I have forgotten them. There are very few now. But tell me your story, and it may refresh my memory. She sat back farther in her chair so as to be more comfortable, and folded her withered hands in her lap. My name s Liza, she began, Liza Jane. Wen I wuz young I uster blong ter Marse Bob Smif, down in ole Mis- soura. I wuz bawn down dere. Wen I wuz a gal I wuz married ter a man named Jim. But Jim died, an after dat I married a merlatter man named Sam Taylor. Sam wuz free-bawn, but his mammy and daddy died, an de wite folks prenticed him ter my marster fer ter work fer im tel he wuz growed up. Sam worked in de fiel, an I wuz de cook. One day May Ann, ole misss maid, come rushin out ter de kitchen, an says she, Liza Jane, ole marse gwine sell yo Sam down de ribber. Go way fm yere, says I; my husban s free! Don make no diffence. I heerd ole marse tell ole miss he wuz gwine take yo Sam way wid im ter-morrow, fer he needed money, an he knowed whar he could git a tousan dollars fer Sam an no questions axed. Wen Sam come home fm de fiel, dat night, I tole him bout ole marse gwine steal im, an Sam run erway. His time wuz mos up, an he swo dat wen he wuz twenty-one he would come back an hep me run erway, er else save up de money ter buy my freedom. An I know he d a done it, fer lie thought a heap er me, Sam did. But wen he come back he did n fin me, fer I wuz n dere. Ole marse had heerd dat I warned Sam, so he had me whip an sol down de ribber. Den de wah broke out, an wen it wuz ober de cullud folks wuz scattered. I went back ter de ole home; but Sam wuz n dere, an I could n larn nuffin bout im. But I knowed he d ben dere to look fer me an had n foun me, an had gone erway ter bunt fer me. I s ben lookin fer im eber sence, she added simply, as though twenty-five years were but a couple of weeks, an I knows he s ben lookin fer me. Fer he sot a heap ci sto by me, Sam did, an I know he s ben huntin fer me all dese years, lessn he s ben sick er sumpn, so he could n work, er outn his head, so he could n member his pro- mise. I went back down de ribber, fer I lowed he d gone down dere lookin fer me. I s ben ter Noo Orleens, an Atlanty, an Charleston, an Richmon; an wen I d ben all ober de Souf I come ter de Norf. Fer I knows I 11 fin~ im some er dese days, she added softly, er he 11 fin me, an den we 11 bofe be as happy in freedom as we wuz in de ole days befo de wah. A smile stole over her withered countenance as she paused a moment, and her bright eyes softened into a far-away look. The TTf~fe of his Youth. 59 This was the substance of the old wo- mans story. She had wandered a little here and there. Mr. Ryder was look- ing at her curiously when she finished. How have you lived all these years? he asked. Cookin, suL I s a good cook. Does you know anybody wat needs a good cook, suh? I s stoppin wid a cub lud famly roun de corner yonder tel I kin fin a place. Do you really expect to find your husband? He may be dead long ago. She shook her head emphatically. Oh no, he am dead. De signs an de tokens tells me. I dremp three nights runnin ony dis las week dat I foun him. He may have married another wo- man. Your slave marriage would not have prevented him, for you never lived with him after the war, and without that your marriage does nt count. Would n make no diffence wid Sam. He would n marry no yuther ooman tel he foun out bout me. I knows it, she added. Sumpn s ben tellin me all dese years dat I s gwine fin Sam fo I dies. Perhaps he s outgrown you, and climbed up in the world where he would nt care to have you find him. No, indeed, suh, she replied, Sam am dat kin er man. He wuz good ter me, Sam wuz, but he wuz n much good ter nobody ese, fer he wuz one er de triflines hans on de plantation. I specs ter haf ter suppot im wen I fin im, fer he nebber would work lessn he had ter. But den he wuz free, an he did n git no pay fer his work, an I don blame im much. Mebbe he s done better sence he run erway, but i am spectin much. You may have passed him on the street a hundred times during the twen~ ty-five years, and not have known him; time works great changes. She smiled incredulously. I d know im mongs a hunded men. Fer dey wuz n no yuther merlatter man like my man Sam, an I could n be mistook. I s toted his picture roun wid me twen- ty-five years. May I see it? asked Mr. Ryder. It might help me to remember whether I have seen the original. As she drew a small parcel from her bosoms he saw that it was fastened to a string that went around her neck. Re- moving several wrappers, she brought to light an old-fashioned daguerreotype in a black case. He looked long and intent- ly at the portrait. It was faded with time, hut the features were still distinct, and it was easy to see what manner of man it had represented. He closed the case, and with a slow movement handed it back to her. I dont know of any man in town who goes by that name, he said, nor have I heard of any one making such inquiries. But if you will leave me your address, I will give the matter some at- tention, and if I find out anything I will let you know. She gave him the number of a house in the neighborhood, and went away, af- ter thanking him warmly. He wrote down the address on the fly- leaf of the volume of Tennyson, and, when she had gone, rose to his feet and stood looking after her curiously. As she walked down the street with mincing step, he saw several persons whom she passed turn and look back at her with a smile of kindly amusement. When she had turned the corner, he went upstairs to his bedroom, and stood for a long time before the mirror of his dressing- case, gazing thoughtfully at the reflec- tion of his own face. III, At eight oclock the ballroom was a blaze of light and the guests had begun to assemble; for there was a literary programme and some routine business 430 The Ws~fe of his Youth. of the society to be gone through with before the dancing. A black servant in evening dress waited at the door and di- rected the guests to the dressing-rooms. The occasion was long memorable among the colored people of the city; not alone for the dress and display, but for the high average of intelligence and culture that distinguished the gathering as a whole. There were a number of school-teachers, several young doctors, three or four lawyers, some profession- al singers, an editor, a lieutenant in the United States army spending his fur- lough in the city, and others in vari- ous polite callings; these were colored, though most of them would not have at- tracted even a casual glance because of any marked difference from white peo- ple. Most of the ladies were in evening costume, and dress coats and dancing- pumps were the rule among the men. A band of string music, stationed in an alcove behind a row of palms, played popular airs while the guests were ga- thering. The dancing began at half past nine. At eleven oclock supper was served. Mr. Ryder had left the ballroom some little time before the intermission, but reappeared at the supper-table. The spread was worthy of the occasion, and the guests did full justice to it. When the coffee had been served, the toast- master, Mr. Solomon Sadler, rapped for order. He made a brief introductory speech, complimenting host and guests, and then presented in their order the toasts of the evening. They were re- sponded to with a very fair display of after-dinner wit. The last toast, said the toast-mas- ter, when he reached the end of the list, is one which must appeal to us all. There is no one of us of the sterner sex who is not at some time dependent upon woman, in infancy for protection, in manhood for companionship, in old age for care and comforting. Our good host has been trying to live alone, but the fair faces I see around me to-night prove that he too is largely dependent upon the gentler sex for most that makes life worth living, the society and love of friends, and rumor is at fault if he does not soon yield entire subjection to one of them. Mr. Ryder will now re- spond to the toast, The Ladies. There was a pensive look in Mr. Ry- ders eyes as he took the floor and adjust- ed his eyeglasses. He began by speak- ing of woman as the gift of Heaven to man, and after some general observa- tions on the relations of the sexes lie said: But perhaps the quality which most distinguishes woman is her fidelity and devotion to those she loves. His- tory is full of examples, but has recorded none more striking than one which only to-day came under my notice. He then related, simply but effective- ly, the story told by his visitor of the afternoon. He told it in the same soft dialect, which came readily to his lips, while the company listened attentively and sympathetically. For the story had awakened a responsive thrill in many hearts~ There were some present who had seen, and others who had heard their fathers and grandfathers tell, the wrongs and sufferings of this past gen- eration, and all of them still felt, in their darker moments, the shadow hang ing over them. Mr. Ryder went on : Such devotion and such confidence are rare even among women. There are many who would have searched a year, some who would have waited five years, a few who might have hoped ten years; but for twenty-five years this woman has retained her affection for and her faith in a man she has not seen or heard of in all that time. She came to me to-day in the hope that I might be able to help her find this long-lost husband. And when she was gone I gave my fancy rein, and imagined a case I will put to you. Suppose that this husband, soon af- ter his escape, had learned that his wife The Wife of his Youth. 61 had been sold away, and that such inquir- ies as he could make brought no informa- tion of her whereabouts. Suppose that he was young, and she much older than he; that he was light, and she was black; that their marriage was a slave mar- riage, and legally binding only if they chose to make it so after the war. Sup- pose, too, that he made his way to the North, as some of us have done, and there, where he had larger opportuni- ties, had improved them, and had in the course of all these years grown to be as different from the ignorant boy who ran away from fear of slavery as the day is from the night. Suppose, even, that he had qualified himself, by industry, by thrift, and by study, to win the friend- ship and be considered worthy the soci- ety of such people as these I see around me to-night, gracing my board and fill- ing my heart with gladness; for I am old enough to rememher the day when such a gathering would not have been possible in this land. Suppose, too, that, as the years went by, this mans memory of the past grew more and more indistinct, until at last it was rare- ly, except in his dreams, that any image of this bygone period rose before his mind. And then suppose that accident should bring to his knowledge the fact that the wife of his youth, the wife he had left behind him, not one who bad walked by his side and kept pace with him in his upward struggle, but one upon whom advancing years and a labo- rious life had set their mark, was alive and seeking him, but that he was abso- lutely safe from recognition or discov- ery, unless he chose to reveal himself. My friends, what would the man do? I will suppose that he was one who loved lipuor, and tried to deal justly with all men. I will even carry the case fur- ther, and suppose that perhaps he had set his heart upon another, whom he had hoped to call his own. What would he do, or rather what ought he to do, in such a crisis of a lifetime? It seemed to me that he might hesi- tate, and I imagined that I was an old friend, a near friend, and that he had come to me for advice; and I argued the case with him. I tried to discuss it impartially. After we had looked upon the matter from every point of view, I said to him, in words that we all know: This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man. Then, finally, I put the question to him, Shall you acknowledge her? And now, ladies and gentlemen, friends and companions, I ask you, what should he have done? There was something in Mr. Ryders voice that stirred the hearts of those who sat around him. It suggested more than mere sympathy with an imaginary situation; it seemed rather in the nature of a personal appeal. It was observed, too, that his look rested more especially upon Mrs. Dixon, with a mingled ex- pression of renunciation and inquiry. She bad listened, with, parted lips and streaming eyes. She was the first to speak: He should have acknowledged her. Yes, they all echoed, he should have acknowledged her. My friends and companions, re- sponded Mr. Ryder, I thank you, one and all. It is the answer I expected, for I knew your hearts. He turned and walked toward the closed door of an adjoining room, while every eye followed him in wondering curiosity. He came back in a moment, leading by the hand his visitor of the af- ternoon, who stood startled and trembling at the sudden plunge into this scene of brilliant gayety. She was neatly dressed in gray, and wore the white cap of an elderly woman. Ladies and gentlemen, he said, this is the woman, and I am the man, whose story I have told you. Permit me to introduce to you the wife of my youth. Charles W. Chesnutt. 62 A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. A SOULS PILGRIMAGE: EXTRACTS FROM AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. AFTER a youth spent in study under the cur6 of my native village of Vars, and in the college at Gray, near Dijon, I went up in my twenty-fifth year to continue my studies in Paris. On arriving there in March, 1843 I immediately put myself under the direction of the most celebrated and cer- tainly the most gifted of all the Jesuits I have ever met, lire de Ravignan, the Lenten preacher of Notre Dame, and the contemporary of Lacordaire, who at that time preached the Advent course in the same cathedral. It was my earnest desire to prepare myself in the best pos- sible way to fill as worthily as I could the sacred duties of the ministry. Hav- ing made sure of a means of living by setting aside two or three hours each day to teaching, I devoted the rest of my time to personal culture. Seldom has a young man had finer opportunities for intellectual growth than I had at this time. For France, the last years of Louis Philippe were perhaps the most brilliant of the century. In every de- partment of learning and letters talent was represented by illustrious men: in poetry, Victor Hugo and Lamartine; in Parliament, Berryer and Montalembert; in the government, Guizot and Thiers; at the Sorbonne, Cousin, Jules Simon, Lenormant, Ozanam, and Cwur; at the Coll6ge de France, Michelet and Quinet; in the pulpit, Lacordaire and de Ravi- gnan. I was anxious to learn something from each of these remarkable men. My Sundays were spent in listening to fa- mous preachers. During the rest of the week I distributed my time between the Sorbonne, the Chamber of Deputies, and the Chamber of Peers. Presently, to my great delight, I found myself in rela- tion with such men as Berryer and Mon- talembert, Jules Simon and Ozanam, La- cordaire and de Ravignan. The last, as my spiritual director, proved a warm friend as well as a wise and trustwor- thy guide. I retain a sweet remern- brance of many intimate conversations with him. His was not only a holy but a liberal spirit. I was not surprised, later, when I heard it said that he thought of reasserting his independence by asking the general of the Jesuits to release him from his vows. A trait which exhibited the nobility of his feelings and the largeness of his views appeared in one of our conversa- tions. One day, troubled with doubts, I opened my heart to him, and, encour- aged by his evident sympathy, ventured to ask the question, Is there not, my father, some way of recognizing what is true from what is false in religious doc- trine, by which one may avoid the ne- cessity of constant reference to authori- ties, so many of which simply confuse the mind by their conflicting statements? There is a way, he replied, which in the case of such doubt I myself fol- low, and which I recommend to you. Every doctrine which tends to elevate the mind and enlarge the heart is true, and every doctrine which works the con- trary effect is false. Follow this prin- ciple, and you will feel and be the better for it. I have done so, and am satis- fied. It was shortly before this that the So- ciety of St. Vincent de Paul was found- ed. The circumstances which led to its institution are of peculiar interest. On a Sunday evening Ozanam had gathered together a few students of the Sorbonne to take tea with him. After a simple repast, he laid before them a plan by which each one was to undertake, during the coming week, to visit one or two poor families of the neighborhood, and report to him on the following Sunday. The

62 A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. A SOULS PILGRIMAGE: EXTRACTS FROM AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. AFTER a youth spent in study under the cur6 of my native village of Vars, and in the college at Gray, near Dijon, I went up in my twenty-fifth year to continue my studies in Paris. On arriving there in March, 1843 I immediately put myself under the direction of the most celebrated and cer- tainly the most gifted of all the Jesuits I have ever met, lire de Ravignan, the Lenten preacher of Notre Dame, and the contemporary of Lacordaire, who at that time preached the Advent course in the same cathedral. It was my earnest desire to prepare myself in the best pos- sible way to fill as worthily as I could the sacred duties of the ministry. Hav- ing made sure of a means of living by setting aside two or three hours each day to teaching, I devoted the rest of my time to personal culture. Seldom has a young man had finer opportunities for intellectual growth than I had at this time. For France, the last years of Louis Philippe were perhaps the most brilliant of the century. In every de- partment of learning and letters talent was represented by illustrious men: in poetry, Victor Hugo and Lamartine; in Parliament, Berryer and Montalembert; in the government, Guizot and Thiers; at the Sorbonne, Cousin, Jules Simon, Lenormant, Ozanam, and Cwur; at the Coll6ge de France, Michelet and Quinet; in the pulpit, Lacordaire and de Ravi- gnan. I was anxious to learn something from each of these remarkable men. My Sundays were spent in listening to fa- mous preachers. During the rest of the week I distributed my time between the Sorbonne, the Chamber of Deputies, and the Chamber of Peers. Presently, to my great delight, I found myself in rela- tion with such men as Berryer and Mon- talembert, Jules Simon and Ozanam, La- cordaire and de Ravignan. The last, as my spiritual director, proved a warm friend as well as a wise and trustwor- thy guide. I retain a sweet remern- brance of many intimate conversations with him. His was not only a holy but a liberal spirit. I was not surprised, later, when I heard it said that he thought of reasserting his independence by asking the general of the Jesuits to release him from his vows. A trait which exhibited the nobility of his feelings and the largeness of his views appeared in one of our conversa- tions. One day, troubled with doubts, I opened my heart to him, and, encour- aged by his evident sympathy, ventured to ask the question, Is there not, my father, some way of recognizing what is true from what is false in religious doc- trine, by which one may avoid the ne- cessity of constant reference to authori- ties, so many of which simply confuse the mind by their conflicting statements? There is a way, he replied, which in the case of such doubt I myself fol- low, and which I recommend to you. Every doctrine which tends to elevate the mind and enlarge the heart is true, and every doctrine which works the con- trary effect is false. Follow this prin- ciple, and you will feel and be the better for it. I have done so, and am satis- fied. It was shortly before this that the So- ciety of St. Vincent de Paul was found- ed. The circumstances which led to its institution are of peculiar interest. On a Sunday evening Ozanam had gathered together a few students of the Sorbonne to take tea with him. After a simple repast, he laid before them a plan by which each one was to undertake, during the coming week, to visit one or two poor families of the neighborhood, and report to him on the following Sunday. The A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. 63 enthusiasm of the young men for so prac- tical a form of benevolent work soon developed, and shortly it became advisa- ble to form the little group into a society, the object of which should be just such simple works of charity. From that modest beginning in the library of this large - hearted man the association has grown until to-day it numbers more than two million members. You may be sure that I was glad of an opportunity to be associated with such a band of zealous men. Another society to which it was my privilege to belong was Le Cercle Ca- tholique de la Rue de Grenelle, which was founded at this time with the object of banding together Catholics of liber- al views, clerics as well as laymen. It counted among its members such men as Lacordaire, Ozanam, Montalembert, de Falloux, de Montigny, and Riancey. It was my honor to represent this society in Dublin at the funeral of the celebrated Irish liberator, Daniel OCon- nell. Never shall I forget the sight that greeted us on our arrival in Dublin Bay. A vast throng had gathered on the quay, and after a solemn and awed silence suddenly burst into a wail of lamenta- tion such as it is given a man only once to hear. It seemed as if the hearts of the bereaved people were breaking with grief. As the cort6ge moved from the quay the multitude reverently followed the catafalque, and kept up a constant dirge until the remains of their hero were deposited within the church where the funeral service was to be held on the morrow. Few things could have been more imposing than that solemn service and the great procession which attended the body to its last resting-place. It was evident, indeed, that Ireland had lost one of her chief sons, and her peo- ple mourned for him as a mother mourns for her best beloved. Some weeks after our return to Paris, P~re Lacordaire pronounced the funeral oration of Daniel OConnell at Notre Dame. On the evening of the same day a dinner was given to John OConnell, son of the great statesman, by the Baron de Montigny at his superb h6tel (for- merly the hOtel Montmorency) in the Rue de Babylone. Sixty guests were present, including many church dignita- ries, statesmen, journalists, and other dis- tinguished men. It was the 22d of Feb- ruary, 1848, a day destined to prove a memorable one in the history of France. Shortly before we sat down, the populace had begun to assemble in the streets, and the crowds seemed to be moving to- ward the Champs Elys~es. A valet was dispatched every quarter of an hour to bring us news of what was happening. As the reports grew more alarming, the guests became more preoccupied. After dinner the company broke up into little groups to discuss the situation. A mes- senger presently brought us more seri- ous tidings, so that the Baron de Ville- quier exclaimed, Why, it seems a veri- table mob! To which the prophetic Berryer replied, Take care that it is not a revolution! Two days later Louis Philippe was obliged to flee from the Tuileries, and restless France found herself once more a nation without a ruler. It was during the outbreak in June of the same year that the heroic death of the saintly Archbishop of Paris, Mon- seigneur Aifre, occurred. The soul of this devout man was deeply moved by the spirit of strife among the people. It cut him to the heart to see Paris on the verge of a fratricidal war, and Gods call seemed clear to him, as the spiritual father of the community, not to spare himself in any endeavor to restore or- der and promote peace. Accordingly, on the morning of the 27th he pro- ceeded to the scene of the conflict and mounted the barricades, to plead with the populace on the one hand and the soldiery on the other. Scarcely had lie uttered the words My children when a shot fired from a neighboring build- 64 A Souls Pilgrimage: IXtracts from an Autobiography. ing pierced him, and he fell dead be- fore the eyes of the mob. This tragic event was enough. A horror seemed to seize ~very one, and from that hour the insurrection ceased. Truly the good shepherd giveth his life for the sheep. It may be proper to speak a word about the power of the pulpit in Paris at this time. Perhaps the two most eminent preachers that France has pro- duced are Bossuet and Lacordaire. Both were the pride of Dijon, their native city. The superiority of Bossuet appeared in what lie said, that of Lacordaire in the way in which he said it. The latters eloquence corresponds precisely to the word attributed to Demosthenes, and re- peated by Massillon. When asked what were the essential elements of oratory, the illustrious Greek is said to have re- plied : First, action ; second, action; third, action. I recall an occasion when this princi- ple in the preaching of Lacordaire was illustrated. One Sunday, Abb6 Castan, nephew of Archbishop Aifre, and I found ourselves almost lost in the immense crowd pouring into Notre Dame to hear the great preacher. The subject he was to treat was the struggle between good and evil, the conflict between the powers of the world and the Church of God. He opened with a paraphrase of the first verses of the second Psalm: Quare fremuerunt gentes? Presently, as the idea began to unfold itself to his mar- velous imagination, his thought rose to such a height that my friend whispered to me, He cannot continue in that strain! It was true. Human lan- guage failed him. Yet, standing there, his face illumined with the great thought, his body swaying under the inspiration of the mighty truth which his tongue refused to utter, he continued his ges- tures with such descriptive force that, under the action of that mute eloquence, the assembly seemed to shudder. It was only a few seconds, perhaps, though it seemed to me many minutes. Then the preacher slowly drew back his arm and solemnly laid his hand over his heart. After a moment of absolute stillness, the entire audience gave vent to its feel- ings in one spontaneous outburst of ap- plause. On the following Sunday we were again in our places, and before the address the Archbishop of Paris felt compelled to request the congregation to remember the sacred character of the place, and to refrain from any outward expression of approval. But such was the eloquence of Lacordaire in pursuing the same theme that erelong the archbishop himself was betrayed into an unconscious clapping of hands, which was en9ugh to lift an irksome restraint from an audi- ence hardly able to suppress its feelings. At this time the accession to our ranks of John Henry Newman and other dis- tinguished members of the Anglican communion inspired the champions of Romanism in France with the belief that England was ripe for the papacy. Fre- quent meetings were held among us, and our enthusiasm and zeal for this great end were heightened. I was free to do as I pleased at this time, and being deeply moved by the bright prospects before our Church in Great Britain I de- termined to give myself to the work of conversion, and to devote my energies to an enterprise which seemed destined to contribute so largely to the glory and power of the Holy See. My friends were most cordial in their approval of this resolve, and in many happy ways expressed an interest in the step I was about to take. Some of the sweetest evidences of their regard were the books and other gifts they bestowed upon me; among them was a very ten- der souvenir from Charles (then Abb~) Gounod. On the evening before my de- parture this charming man brought me his surplice, berretta, and other personal belongings. These were the more pre- cious to me since, shortly after this, Gou- nod gave up the idea of following the A Souls Pilgrimage: Ecctracts from an Autobiography. 65 sacred ministry, in order to devote him- self without reserve to that noble art which has made his name immortal. Arriving in London, I set out imme- diately to report myself to Cardinal Wiseman for such service as he should think me fitted to undertake. As I had not yet learned to speak English plainly, it was arranged that I should preach as occasion offered at the French church of this great capital, and on Sundays celebrate the military mass at Wool- wich for the Roman Catholic soldiers of the garrison. It was not long before I gained familiarity with English, and his Eminence was able to transfer me to the charge of the Catholic mission re- gently established at Canterbury. Here I preached my first English sermons. England until then had been looked upon as a missionary territory by the Latin Church, and, as was the custom in all countries of this character, the Ro- man authority was represented, not by bishops, but by apostolic vicars, of whom at this time there were four. In 1850 Pius IX. divided the country into Cath- olic provinces, and appointed a bishop for ea~h of them. This bold act on the part of a foreign prelate aroused the indignation of the English people, and provoked widespread and violent opposi- tion. Every evening the streets of Lon- don were thronged with long and noisy processions, in which the Pope was car- ried about in effigy and subjected to all manner of insult. I suffered more than I can say from this blasphemous abuse, as it seemed to me, of the head of our holy religion, and I felt it my duty to protest, no matter how insignificant my protestation might be. Accordingly, I published successively two tracts in fa- vor of the papacy, entitled Rome and the Holy Scriptures, and Rome and the Primitive Church, with the hope that some Protestant minds might see the grounds of our claims and the justice of the step taken by his Holiness Pius IX. VOL. LXXXII. NO. 489. 5 These publications attracted more no- tice than I could have hoped for. By the Catholic press they were heralded as timely utterances, and were spoken of as logical and conclusive arguments for the papal supremacy. But above all other opinions I appreciated that expressed in the following letter: ... I received with true pleasure your pamphlets and your good letter, my dear abb6; I thank you with all my heart. God has truly made you an Apostle of England. Continue to spread the good news. I admire the manner in which you are able to write and speak in Eng- lish. The remembrance of you, be sure of it, remains faithful in the depths of my soul. Au revoir, then, till it please the Lord. Believe in my very tender attachment. DE RAVIGNAN, S. J. PARIs, 21 February, 1851. The Protestant journals whose atten- tion was excited by these pamphlets of course judged them differently. One among them, Bells Weekly Messenger, published a series of articles in which the Scriptural texts and historic ref er- ences were the object of severe criticism. The author of these articles, Mr. Charles Hastings Collette, one of the glories of Oxford, and a man deeply versed in the writings of the Fathers as well as the history of the first Christian ages, in a polite letter in which he gave me entire credit for sincerity, announced to me his intention of pointing out that the state- ments upon which my arguments were founded were either fabrications or else falsely stated. Sure of having advanced only those points which conform to the teaching of the most esteemed authors of Catholic history, and acting besides un- der the impression which prevails among Roman Catholics, namely, that honesty is not to be expected from Protestants in religious controversy, I did not feel it my duty to reply to his very civil note. 66 A Souls Pilgrimage: E~rtracts from an AutobiograpAy. My silence did not seem to discourage him, for in the course of a few days he wrote me four other letters, which in turn failed to elicit a reply. One morning I heard a knock at the door of the house where I lived, and, as the servant was absent, I answered the call. I found myself face to face with a gentleman of distinguished appearance, who handed me his card, and to my as- tonishment I read the name of my corre- spondent and adversary, Charles Has- tings Collette. Common courtesy obliged me to receive him. Without ado he announced the purpose of his visit by repeating in a decided voice what he had written; declaring that he had per- fect faith in my sincerity, that the pam- phlets were marked with the stamp of honesty, and that had it been otherwise he would have disdained any dealings with me. Then he said that he was ready to prove to me that I had been mistaken in many of the texts quoted and in most of the supposed facts sub- mitted in my argument. Without doubt, he said, you drew your know- ledge from the most estimable sources known to you. But these sources are far too modern. I ask you but one thing, and that, as a man of honor, which I take you to be, you cannot honestly refuse me. It is to consult, not Protes- tant books, but the writings of Catholics of an earlier date than the Council of Trent, of whose authenticity and author- ity there can be no question. To this effect, I pray you to make conscientious researches in the library of the British Museum, where such documents abound. I shall secure you the necessary permis- sion to consult these works, and as the librarian is my friend I shall ask him to help you in your investigations, and we shall see what conclusion the study will lead you to. By refusing to accede to such a re- quest I should have given proof of a want of love for truth; and so sure was I of my ground and of the historical validity of my argument that I did not hesitate to follow the wish of this ardent and courteous opponent. For a fort- night I spent all of my afternoons and part of my evenings in searching those books which could enlighten me on so grave a subject. By faithful study I was able to compare the facts as I had been taught them with the facts as the early Church historians stated them. The result of this investigation was as painful to me as it was satisfactory to Mr. Collette. On all the contested points I found that the weight of authority was against my position. I will cite one decisive instance. Among all the treatises on dogmatic theology in use, in my day, in the high seminaries of the Church, the one most esteemed was the work of Cardinal Gous- set, perhaps the greatest Roman theolo- gian of the century. In this work the sixth canon of the Council of Nice (A. D. 325) is thus written: Ecelesia Romana semper habuit primatum. From this canon one draws the irresistible conclu- sion that the first ecumenical council, al- though composed almost exclusively of bishops from the East, who would natu- rally look with jealousy upon the grow- ing influence of the See of Rome, found itself obliged to witness to the truth of her supremacy by a special canon, de- claring that from the beginning Rome had had the primacy. Surely no more positive assertion could be made of the fact which Protestant historians repudi- ated so decidedly. Resting secure in my knowledge of this canon, I was almost stunned to find that the original form of the canon, as enacted by the Council, was quite differ- ent from what I had been taught. The sixth canon simply states that Rome has a relative primacy. The plan before the Council was to transform the See of Alexandria into a patriarchate, and the purport of the canon was, that as the bishop of Rome had the primacy over the bishops of the suburbicarian cities, A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. 6T in the same way it was fitting that the bishop of Alexandria should occupy a similar rank with regard to the bishops of Lower Egypt. The part that had been suppressed in our manuals gave the subject an entirely different complexion. This discovery, and others like it, gave me a most scvere shock. I requested the librarian to permit me to carry away and keep until the next day the collec- tion of the acts of councils, where I had found the canons in their original integ- rity. He consented, and I lost no time in finding Cardinal Wiseman. I asked him if there was any doubt as to the au- thenticity of the sixth canon of Nice as it is given in our manuals of theology. None that I know of, he replied. I then showed him my volume, and said, It is a Catholic publication; old, it is true, but only the more to be trusted on that account. Here are the terms in which the sixth canon is expressed. His Eminence appeared very much as- tonished, and as he remarked that I suf- fered from something more than aston- ishinent he advised me not to attach too much importance to the matter. An in- terview with my spiritual director, Fa- ther Brownbill, gave me no more satis- faction than that with the cardinal. For the first time in my life I found myself assailed by doubt, and with no friend to turn to. Now, to entertain doubt is regarded as one of the greatest sins by the Roman Church, a species of interior apostasy, to be dealt with in the most rigorous way; and in the teachings of the masters of the spiritual life there is, for the tempta- tions against faith as for those against purity, one sole remedy, flight. After a long struggle I determined to fly, and resolved to have nothing more to do with Protestants, to avoid all matters of controversy, and to devote myself ex- clusively to works of zeal in Catholic countries. The times were favorable for this pur- pose. The Secular Jubilee was about to be celebrated in France by missions in the leading churches. I had been in- vited to take part in several of these mis- sions as preacher and confessor. This now appeared to me providential; the more so as the subjects treated in the pul- pit on such occasions sin, repentance, death, judgment, aiid the like are al- most strangers to controversy. I accept- ed the invitations, therefore, with a kind of desperate gratitude, and during more than two months passed the greater part of my time in the pulpit and the confes- sional. The day caine when, although I had still many engagements, I found myself completely worn out and forced to think of rest. After that, recalling the word of the sage, that the best writings on re- ligion are those forbidden by the Con- gregation of the Index, I allowed myself to pass over this interdiction, and among other works to read with a lively inter- est LHistoire de la Civilisation en Eu- rope et en France, by M. Guizot. The manifest spirit of sincerity, the largeness of view, the historical science, which this work reveals impressed me so deeply, and produced such a change in my man- ner of appreciating things, that I felt sure its talented author could help me in my present dilemma. To unburden myself to this great man might seem to him a strange tribute to his genius, yet so deep was my longing for counsel and guidance just at this time that I felt such a course was justifiable, and believed that he would not take my confidence amiss. My plea was addressed simply to M. Guizot, Paris; and though I looked anxiously and long for an answer, to my deep disappointment none came. Whether the lettey never reached its destination, or whether M. Guizot mis- trusted its motive, I had no means of ascertaining. I have come to believe it was never received. Judging it inopportune to take any one else into my confidence, I resolved 68 A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. to think and act for myself and on my own responsibility. The more I studied and reflected, the more my faith in the fundamental doctrines of Romanism weakened, and I felt that before long not only my opinions, but also my con- science would impose upon me the duty of abjuration. As such a step could not but bring me personally the gravest con- sequences, deeply afflict my best friends, and, worst of all, carry desolation into the bosom of my family, I felt bound to make a last effort by going to Rome and studying the system on the spot in its immediate application. As I had not revealed to any of my friends what was passing within me, when they learned that I was going to the capital of the Roman world they en- tirely misinterpreted the object of the journey and congratulated me on my re- solution. Several prelates, the Cardinal Archbishop of Besan~on among them, sent me letters of recommendation of the most flattering kind. All supposed I was about to make what is called a pilgrimage ad limina apostolorum. They had a natural reason for believing this, as I had received from the Vatican special privileges, and more recently had been extended the widest powers in the matter of indulgences, such as the altare privile~,uiatunzpersonale, of which I have the titles still in my possession. It was my intention to remain six months in the Holy City. Circumstances compelled me to leave at the end of a month; yet during that brief period I saw and learned enough to satisfy me that the capital of the Roman world was the last place for one in my frame of mind to visit. It may be that I was not in a condition to judge impartially. Perhaps the temper of my thoughts was over-crit- ical, too susceptible to adverse impres- sions. I had resolved, it is true, to in- vestigate fearlessly and study frankly all that bore upon my religious position. Nevertheless, every private interest, home ties, the love and respect of friends, pre sent position and future prospects, would naturally have induced me to see things in their most favorable light. If the facts were to lead me to separate from the Church of Rome, it would be only because the facts were too glaring and emphatic to be glossed over. I pass by the vexatious to which, on arriving at Civitk Vecchia, I was subject- ed, at the hands of the gendarmes, the customs officers, and the countless horde of faquini. Suffice it to say that I reached the Eternal City at last, poorer in pocket, but richer in experience. As soon as I was settled in fairly com- fortable lodgings I proceeded to make myself familiar with the city. The churches first absorbed my attention. What shall I say of their dignity and splendor, their wealth and magnificence? What shall I say of the vast numbers of monks and priests and prelates who throng these stately buildings, and tes- tify to the power and prestige of this great church, and lend an air of sanctity to its ancient seat? Certainly here the religion of Jesus should be at its best. Here we should find the purest morality and the deepest spiritual life. Here charity and good works, the distinctive marks of the disciples of Christ, should abound without measure. Rome should lead the world in all that is noble and holy and gracious in religion. The pain of a bitter disenchantment was in si~ore for me. I had been in the city but a few hours when a revolting sense of the unreality of its religious life took possession of me. Every day seemed to deepen that unwelcome impression. I found myself going from place to place in increasing amazement am the squalor and ignorance and vice visible and open- ly present at each new turn. Instead of righteousness and piety and a sweet reverence among the people, there were iniquity and uncleanness and degrading superstition. Education and self-respect, those choice fruits of Christianity, where had they concealed themselves? A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. 69 On the one hand the luxury of the pre- lates, on the other the profound misery of the people; on this side churches of surpassing stateliness, on that homes of the poor, unspeakable in their filthiness; here a cleric in gorgeous attire, there a beggar in hideous and noisome rags. How could I escape the shameful mean- ing of such a contrast! One would in- deed have had to be a slave to prejudice to overlook this disgusting travesty of the religion of Him who came to preach the gospel to the poor, to heal the broken-hearted, to set at liberty those who are bruised. And what do these men do, this mul- titude of priests? I asked myself again and again. Do they not see the wretch- ed condition of the people? Have they no concern for the public distress and ignorance and immorality? I could not discover a single sign of a real and genuine interest in such matters, nor did I learn of any organized effort to lift the people from their hapless plight. The dignitaries of the Church were occupied with other things. Their time was taken up with affairs of a more imposing na- ture: resplendent ceremonies, now at this altar, now at that; the keeping of great festivals and the observance of great occasions. The city seemed wholly given up to idolatry and enamored with the superb spectacle of an elaborate wor- ship. Even this might mean something, did it only inspire the people with a deeper reverence and regard for sacred things. But it was evident that the sol- emn functions possessed no real solem- nity; it was not awe of God that held the crowd, but a stupid wonder and ad- miration of those gorgeously robed men who served at the altar. At St. Peters, the Lateran, St. Paul outside the Walls, Trinity de Monti, it was always the same, a wanton display of religions pomp and ceremonial, without heart, without devotion, without any spiritual reality. On Christmas I attended the midnight office at S. Maria Maggiore. The church was splendid with lights and ornaments; the ceremony was the greatest possible display. Among all the princes of the church I liked the appearance of the Pope alone. His face was sympathetic, and he seemed embarrassed by the many singular honors conferred upon him. The assembly had the air of taking part in some worldly gathering rather than in a religious service. The frivolity of the people, their free conversation, prevent- ed one from believing that they were conscious of being in a holy place. One may doubt if a single soul carried away any feeling of edification. The feast of the Epiphany found me at the Sistine Chapel. What a spectacle is that mass in the presence of the Pope! The chamberlains grouped like dogs at the feet of their masters, the cardinals; the officiating clergy carelessly lolling on the altar steps in their sacerdotal vestments, turning their backs upon the cross and the tabernacle during the sing- ing; then that meaningless series of perfunctory honors, kissing of hands, kissing of the feet of the Pope, which seems to be given in lieu of the homage due to the Host upon the altar. Nothing is present to remind one that it is the house of God. The triple pontifical crown everywhere on the walls right and left, at the entrance, and in the sanc- tuary tells the story truly. It is not the cross of Christ, but the crown of the Pontiff, that is reverenced. I came away from this service re- solved to follow the direction of my own conscience, cost what it might. An acci- dent served to help me in this decision. I was boarding in a family whose chief religious devotion seenied to consist in reciting the rosary together, in order to obtain a favorable number at Tombola. The members of the family knew that I was a priest, and having observed that, unlike other priests, I did not say the daily mass, they indicated in many ways that they were suspicious of my ortho- doxy. I had reason to believe that they TO A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. would not keep this suspicion to them- selves, and so I thought it well to seek another lodging. Seeing on the door of a house on the Plaza dEspagna the notice Rooms to let, I entered and ascended the stairs to examine them. As I passed through the hail, my eye was caught by a door-plate hearing the inscription Rev. Charles Baird, Chaplain of the Ameri- can Legation. This discovery seemed to me providential. I had never con- versed with a Protestant minister. In obedience to a strange impulse I knocked. Mr. Baird was within, and received me with marked politeness. I was a stran- ger, and yet I found myself in a few mo- ments explaining to him my peculiar po- sition. His evident sympathy and kind- ness inspired me to tell him all, and I felt more than repaid for my confidence by his affectionate and tender manner. After a few comforting and encouraging words, he said: You cannot doubt my profound sympathy in the religious crisis to which you have been led, and I shall be happy to meet and talk with you again, but it must not be in this place. Every- thing which passes in my apartment is watched. Only a few weeks ago, a monk, tormented as you now are by doubt, and who had come to confer with me two or three times, disappeared; I have not heard from him nor of him since. I should not be surprised if it is already known that you are here. Do not re- turn to these rooms. I will appoint a place of meeting where there will not be the same risk. I promised to do as Mr. Baird had told me, and left him my address. Some days later, as I was walking from the Gesii to the Capitol, where two streets cross, I was suddenly accost- ed by two men, who threw themselves upon me, and while one covered my mouth to prevent an outcry, the other rifled my pockets. I supposed my purse had been taken; but no, it was safe in my pocket. My portfolio, containing many precious papers, my passport and let- ters of recommendation, that from the Archbishop of Besan~on among them, was gone. I went at once to the police prefecture, hard by, and asked to speak with the prefect himself. I told him what had occurred, and he expressed surprise. He inquired if there was any money in the portfolio. I told him there was nothing but private papers and letters, valua- ble to me, but useless to any one else. Thereupon this worthy officer said, If these men are ordinary thieves and find that the contents are of no value to them, they will probably bring them to us. You had better leave with us some little indemnity to pay them for their trouble. This affair now appeared to me more serious than I had thought at first, and without further delay I sought the office of the French ambassador. Happily, he knew me, being, as I was, a member of Le Cercle Catholique. He seemed glad to see me, but when I told him what had just happened his countenance became grave. Allow me to ask you a question, he said. How do you stand from a religious point of view? I thought it right to tell him frankly the reason for my presence in Rome. That truly grieves me, he replied. You know I am a Catholic. Nevertheless, in the present case I must act as an ambas- sador of France. I know you to be a reputable citizen. I shall give you a new passport on this condition: you must leave Rome in twenty-four hours. For that time I take you under my protection, but if you remain longer I will not be responsible for the outcome. He then told me the experience of the Abb6 La- horde, who had been sent to Rome by the Archbishop of Paris to protest against the proclamation of the new dogma of the Immaculate Conception. Upon his ar- rival he was speedily taken in hand and shut up in the Castle of St. Angelo. He was liberated only after severe threats on the part of the French government. A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. On leaving the ambassador I went at once to Mr. Baird. What has tiap- pened does not surprise me, he said, upon learning of my misadventure. Well, now that you are in security for twenty-four hours longer we can see something of you. Come to-morrow to our service at ten~ oclock. After- ward we will breakfast together, and at one oclock you can take the diligence for Civita Vecchia. I acted according to the desire of my new friend, in whom I was happy to find a true Christian gentleman, and on the morrow I attended for the first time in my life a Protestant service, and that in the very centre of Romanism. Dur- ing my stay in the Holy City this was the only occasion when I was truly edified and comforted by a religious service. In the simplicity and manifest sincerity of that brief period of devotion I found what I had failed to find in all the pomp and ceremony of the great churches, an atmosphere of reverence and faith, a worship of God in spirit and in truth. For a year and a half after my de- parture from Rome I lived in London and in Dublin, lecturing oii French liter- ature, and engaging as opportunity pre- sented in work of a religious character. All this time my heart was unsatisfied, and my movements were embarrassed by the excessive zeal of some of my new- found Protestant friends. I determined, therefore, in order to find a place of freer movement, to go to the United States. Knowing that Boston was the capital of mind and the centre of culture in the great republic, I concluded to take up my residence there for a time, at least, in order to see American life and thought at its best. Of this my journal speaks more explicitly: November 3, 1855. Yesterday a friend took me to the home of Mr. Longfellow, the preeminent poet of the New World. He received us in the room where Wash- ington had his headquarters, and where a Frenchman delights to find the name of Lafayette. Mr. Longfellow invited me to dine with him to-day, so that my first dinner in the United States, outside of a hotel, was at the house of one of Americas purest glories, a house ven- erated as a sanctuary by his countrymen, and in the company of several of the most cultivated minds of Boston; for Mr. Longfellow, who does nothing by halves, had also invited to this dinner the leading professors of the university at Cambridge. It was a delicate attention, too, that the dinner was prepared and served entirely ~t lafran~aise. But what followed I valued and enjoyed far more than the dinner. When the twelve other guests had goiie home, he asked me to remain in order that we might engage in more intimate conversation. I shall not soon forget his charming candor and warm-hearted sympathy, which quickly won my confidence and made it easy for me to speak to him of my personal expe- riences. November 5. Almost by chance I was introduced to-day to the Bishop of Mas- sachusetts, the Right Reverend Dr. Man- ton Eastburn. I was not prepared for this introduction, and when it was pro- posed I regretted that my costume was not appropriate for meeting a person of such dignity. On seeing his lordship all awkwardness on my part disappeared. Not one distinctive mark characterized this man save his fine presence and distinguished and affable manners. The bishop spoke to me as a minister of Christ, and showed me much kindness. - - The bishop is, with the ministers under his jurisdiction, the primus inter pares, a sort of elder brother. Surely, this manner of being and acting is more apostolic than that of the superb prelates under Roman authority. November 15. The circle of my ac- quaintance, and I may say of my friends, is enlarging every day. They are almost without exception noble types of human- ity. Yesterday I was presented to one 71 72 A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. especially worthy, a true gentleman and a member of the American Congress, the Hon. Robert C. Winthrop. To-day, the one who now occupies the pulpit of Dr. Channing, his worthy successor in noble qualities of heart and soul, Rev. Dr. Ezra Gannett, came to invite me to dine at his house with some distinguished men whom he desired me to know. November 25. To-day I can either boast or reproach myself for having sat in the assembly of those whom the or- thodox call infidels. I went to hear Theodore Parker at the Music Hall, Theodore Parker, who is avoided and disavowcd even by Unitarians. Now I must confess that in all he said there was not an idea nor a word that wound- ed me; on the contrary, this appeared to be just the atmosphere for my present state of mind. Mr. Parker, in my sense, is a logical and truly brave preacher; the others I speak, of course, of the liberals seem to draw back from the consequences of the principles they have laid down. Here is a Protestant indeed, in the full sense of the word. After the service I was introduced to Mr. Parker, who already knew something of my his- tory, and welcomed me with marked po- liteness. He invited me to call upon him for a confidential talk at any time that I should feel inclined to do so. The first year in New England was most encouraging. My literary confer- ences met with unexpected success. A complete course was given in the ball of the Y. M. C. A. in Boston, and various series at Cambridge, Lynn, Milton, Na- hant, and Newport. From all these places the most gratifying letters came to me, quite unexpectedly, from several persons well known in the world of let- ters; among them, Longfellow, Theodore Parker, Dr. Hedge, Edmund Quincy, Wendell Phillips, Lothrop Motley, Bish- op Eastburn, Charles Brooks, Henry Tuckerman, Robert C. Winthrop, Rufus Choate, and Edward Everett. Two propositions were just then made to me: the one, to fill the professorship of French language and literature in Washington University, at St. Louis; the other, to establish a collegiate school for young ladies at Lexington, Kentucky. I went to St. Louis first; but as the aspect of things there did not appear favorable, I soon left for Lexington, where I was already known to the fam- ily of Senator Duncan. I was also fur- nished with letters to Mr. Breckinridge, afterwards Vice - President of the Con- federacy, the family of Henry Clay, and several others. One of the largest and best houses in the city was put at my disposal, and many pupils were al- ready enrolled, when an incident hap- pened which brought all my projects to a sudden end. One Sunday, in returning fro~n church, I passed, without know- ing it, through the slave-market. It was an open square, where many men had gathered and were employed in barter- ing for a female slave. Coming from Boston, where I had been associated with Wendell Phillips, Lloyd Garrison, and others of the abolitionist party, to which my heart thoroughly belonged, I could not help in some degree showing the pain and indignation I felt. This criticism stirred up bad feelings, which some of the people did not hesitate to express so openly that a friend heard their threats, and lost no time in repeat- ing them to me. Late that night I was awakened by a soft rapping upon my window, which opened upon the broad piazza of the hotel, and I found there a young mulatto who was engaged in do- ing some printing for the school. He brought news of a plot to tar and fea- ther me, and in this high - handed and desperate way to cut short my dangerous doctrines. I did not propose to retract what I had said, and so there was no- thing for it but to leave the place at once. New York seemed to me to offer not only the most favorable opportunities for my literary efforts, but also a large field A Souls Pilgrimage: E~vtracts from an Autobiography. 73 for study of the many and various phases of religious belief and activity. I had but a very few friends in that city, yet I felt that they were men whom I could trust. This confidence was not misplaced. From the moment of my arrival, Hen- ry Tuckerman, Dr. Henry Bellows, and others took a most lively interest in my well-being. It was shortly arranged that I should give a course of sermons on unity, in the church of Dr. Bellows, at the corner of 19th Street and Fourth Avenue. These sermons niet with a flattering reception, and drew many peo- ple of a liberal mind among the vari- ous Protestant denominations. As the church could not always be at our dispo- sal, my friends made arrangements that I should use a hall in the Cooper Insti- tute, and there continue the free and open discussion of religious doctrine and truth. I preached there during the eight months from October, 1858, to May, 1859. The success of this enterprise was somewhat remarkable. The hall, though an ample one, was on several occasions found to be too small for the audience. My Sunday discourses might have continued indefinitely, had I not received in April of 1859 a letter from Mr. Long- fellow, asking me to become an assistant professor of the French language and literature at Harvard University. As this invitation came to me entirely un- sought, and was accompanied by an ex- pression of deep affection on the part of Mr. Longfellow, I asked myself with no little concern whether I should not ac- cept it. The thought of putting down a task so lately begun and so full of pro- mise was distasteful to me, and I ac- cepted Mr. Longfellows invitation only with the determination that at some fu- ture day I would resume religious wcrk. Many were the expressions of regret by those who made up our little con- gregation that the services were to be discontinued. A generous effort was made, started by Mr. Leavitt Hunt, to establish the enterprise upon a perma- nent basis; but as this came after my letter of acceptance had been sent to Mr. Longfellow, it could not accomplish its purpose. Hardly had I begun my course of lec- tures at the university when a proposi- tion was made to me by Mr. Agassiz, whose school in Cambridge will long be remembered as the leading institution in this country for the education of young wonmen. Most of the instructors were professors at the university. Mr. Agassiz was preparing at this time to make a journey of exploration in South America, which would probably con- sume many months, and he came to me with the request that I should take his lecture hours in the school for a course in French literature. I at once accepted this offer, and found myself happy in a work so congenial to my training and inclinations. But another proposition fol- lowed this, which pleased me even more. The Rev. Dr. Manning, pastor of the Old South Church, a Congregationalist of the liberal school, having heard of the work I had been doing, called on me and asked me to undertake a similar work in Boston. He placed the Old South Chapel at my disposal, and the Sunday after the first of my services had been announced in the papers I found the chapel full. To take up religious work again was most agreeable to me, especially as I had not ceased to regret my enforced separation from our little band of enthusiasts in New York. My life at Cambridge renewed many of the associations which I had found so helpful and gratifying during my first visit to Boston. Among others, it was my privilege to come in contact with that rare mind, Ralph Waldo Emerson. I recall quite distinctly a day I spent at his home in Concord. In the after- noon he proposed a walk in a grove a short distance from his home. In the middle of this bit of woods was a some- what spacious pond, which Mr. Emerson 74 A Souls Pilgrimage: hrtracts from an Autobiography. looked upon as a lake. We sat down on a little hill which commanded a view of it. After some moments of mute con- templation Emerson said to me, It is now fifteen years that every day when the weather and my occupations permit I come and sit for a few moments in this place, and each time I find in this little lake some new beauty.~~ I made the acquaintance at this time of two other men of eminence, James Heeinan Clarke and Thomas Starr King. The latter was to prove not only an agreeable companion, bnt a warm-heart- ed friend. In such an atmosphere, among men of many views, I found am- ple food for reflection and abundant op- portunity for study in the line of both religious and political thought. The death of Theodore Parker grieved me immeasurably. I find in my journal some expressions of my sorrow. May 11, 1860. He is dead. What a loss! The nation will at last appre- ciate him. Strange circumstance! the very day they learn the sad news is the one on which the Unitarians hold their annual convention in the same hall where each Sunday people have come in crowds to hear him. It could not be said that all the Unitarians who attended this convention were in full sympathy with Theodore Parker; notwithstanding, this evening all prejudice seemed to have vanished as if by enchantment. When the news of his death became known, each speaker in turn referred affection- ately and reverently to the prophet who had been taken from them, and each time the public received his name with the most heartfelt testimony of symnpa- thy and regard. Indeed, all the inter- est of the meeting turned to a manifes- tation in favor of the reformer. The Unitarians seem to me to be the most intelligent of Protestant ministers, and in almost every instance snperior men. Their liberalism is sincere; they love and preach virtue for its own sake; their discourses are less sermons than lofty moral essays, in which the con- science as well as the mind finds much to stimulate and strengthen it. Of all those who honored me with their friench ship, there was not one for whom I did not entertain a high and sincere regard; but I must mention one especially, the best nian, perhaps, whom I have had the privilege of knowing, the Rev. Dr. Gannett. I remember that on oiie oc- casion lie spoke iii words of the most sincere admiration of M. de Cheverus, the first Roman. bishop of Boston. Abandoned in a miserable cabin, not far from Boston, was an infirm negro. The bishop found him, andy without in- forming any one, every evening, after his days dnties, quietly made his way to the cabin and devoted himself to this afflicted creature; washing and dressing his sores, making his bed, and providing for his various wants. A servant, who remarked that on the bishops return his coat was covered with dust and feathers, wondered where his master went, and followed him afar off on one of his excur- sions. Looking between the loose tim- bers which made the wall of the cabin, he saw the man of God engaged in his work of mercy. Dr. Gannett told me this story with admiration for such devotion on the part of a prelate. Little did he suppose that I myself would surprise him in the ex- ercise of a no less humble and Christ- like charity. I had been told that a certain German teacher, Professor Sherb, was lying ill in a cold and comfortless attic in a miserable quarter of the city, and had no one to take care of him. At my first free moment I sought the lodging of this poor man, but Dr. Gan- nett was there before me. I found him at the door with a broom in his hand, with which he had been sweeping the room of the invalid. I entered, and saw the sick man sitting in front of a newly lighted fire, carefully rolled up A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. 75 in a blanket, eating grapes which had been brought him by the good Samaritan. The mattress had been removed from the bed, the sheets had been hung out to air, the meagre furnishings of the room bad been put in order: and all this by the hand of my excellent friend, who ap- peared quite confused when caught in the act. His embarrassment was not less when, on another occasion, I discovered him in one of the back streets of Boston carry- ing a bowl of steaming broth into a mis- erable-looking abode where no doubt dwelt another of his charges. My life and work at Harvard Univer- sity continued until the outbreak of the rebellion. Naturally the college life was affected by this serious trouble, and many departments of the university were virtually suspended. Among both professors and students the most ardent patriotism was manifested, and when the call came for volunteers a large propor- tion of our number were not slow to re- spond. I remember a most affecting scene which expressed the deep loyalty of both North and South to what they conceived to be right. When it became evident that the country was upon the verge of a supreme crisis and that war was inevitable, a general meeting of the students and professors was held before separating to go to their several states. Many of our men were Southerners, and it was seen that at the call of duty fellow student would be obliged to face fellow student in the impending strug- gle. This thought cast a very deep so- lemnity over our meeting, and nothing could have been more touching than to see these men embrace one another with the utmost affection on the eve of their separation. The attitude of foreign countries to- ward the North will be remembered as doubtful. England was decidedly an- tagonistic, while France seemed to be uncertain. Her press was divided and by no means positive in friendliness to~ ward the cause of the Union. It seemed to me that I could be of service to my adopted country by visiting Paris and counseling with those in control of the journals of the day, some of whom I knew, with the object of winning their support for the government. I commu- nicated with the Rev. Dr. Bellows, pre- sident of the Sanitary Commission, and suggested the advisability of the step I had in mind. He approved my project most heartily, and after a conference with the Secretary of State, Mr. Sew- ard, commissioned me to carry out this scheme. It was arranged that I should start for Paris without delay, see in par- ticular each of the prominent journal- ists, preachers, and professors who exer- cised any marked influence on public opinion, and work in the best way to win them to the cause of the Union. After seven years of absence I found myself in Paris once more. My emo- tions cannot be described, nor is it my desire here to dwell upon the many re- collections which came to me as I viewed again places so familiar and formerly so closely identified with my life. As soon as possible I sought interviews with the leading men of the liberal party: Jules Simon, Eugene Pelletan, Pr~vost-Para- dol of Le Journal des D6bats, Louis Jour- dan of Le Si~cle, Elis~e Reclus of the Revue des Deux Mondes, Fr6d~ric Mo- rin, Edouard Fauvety, Yacherot, and others, all men of the highest standing in the world of letters. Those who had at first some doubt on the subject soon became convinced that the war was not, on the part of the North, a war for sov- ereignty, but a war for deliverance; that whatever might be the pretensions of parties and the particular views of many, slavery was the real cause of the struggle, and its abolition must be the ultimate result. And from that moment, with a unity and perseverance quite re- markable, all of these worthy men be- came earnest defenders of the Union, 76 A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. whether in public journal or in private writing. I was especially anxious to meet M. Edouard Laboulaye, for I knew him to be more than all the others interested in the conflict and in sympathy with this country. As he was not then in Paris I wrote to him at his country-seat. I received in answer a letter asking me to come to Bourg-la-Reine and spend a day with him. Of course I took advantage of this invitation, and passed seven of the most agreeable hours of my life in an uninterrupted conversation with M. Laboulaye The chief and almost the only subject of our talk was the Ameri- can republic, her trials, her hopes, her institutions. Great indeed was my sur- prise to find a Frenchman who had never crossed the Atlantic better acquainted with the affairs of this country than many Americans, more earnest about the main- tenance of the Union than many of our celebrated politicians, and appreciating better our privileges and dangers than many of our leaders. Of that conversation I shall relate only the rather strange circumstance which was the beginning of his acquaintance with the great men and things of this country. One day, as M. Laboulaye was looking for some curiosity or lost trea- sure on the shelves of a second - hand bookseller of the Quai Voltaire, he by chance opened a stray volume of ser- mons by William Ellery Channing. Sermons by an American preacher were a novelty to him. The sum of five cents secured the book, and while pur- suing his course toward the Champs Elys6es he began to read it. The more he read, the more his wonder and inter- est increased; so much so that he sat down under a tree, and could not stop until he had finished the volume. Hap- py in this unlooked - for discovery, he started to return to his house, when he encountered his friend, Armand Bertin, then the celebrated editor of the D& bats. Congratulate me, said M. La- boulaye. I have just put my hand on a great man. Well, replied the editor, one who meets with such good fortune is indeed to be congratulated. And who is your great man? Chan- ning! Canning? exclaimed M. Ber- tin. A fine discovery indeed! Every one knows Cannino I dont mean Canning, the Englishman; I mean Chan- ning, an American preacher, and forth- with M. Laboulayc asked the privilege of writing for the D~bats his impressions of Channing M. Bertin assented, and three articles were successively published on the Boston divine. Several articles followed on other American celebrities, and from that time this country and her institutions became the favorite topic of M. Laboulayes studies. All his discoveries he communicated with true enthusiasm, first to the numer- ous hearers of his lectures at the Coll~ge de France, then to the public through the journals or through his pamphlets, which were always read with avidity; and finally, on this same darling subject he published two books, destined to remain as monuments of his wonderful know- ledge of and devotedness to this country, namely, LHistoire Politique des Etats- Unis, a standard work of the literature of this age, and Paris en Am4rique, the best, perhaps, of modern satires. Thus, while he remained always devoutly at- tached to France as a revered and cher- ished mother, he seemed to have loved Young America as a charming spouse. When I returned to the United States the civil war was at its height. rI~he at- tention of the whole country, North and South, was centred in the nioinentous struggle. Every other interest fell into abeyance before the grave and critical problem which the nation had been called upon to solve Naturally, at such a time, the thoughts of the people, es- pecially in the East, were not given to matters intellectual and educational. While I was casting about in some con- cern for an occupation, an unexpected A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography. 71 proposal came from my friend the Rev. Thomas Starr King, then pastor of the First Unitarian Church of San Fran- cisco, and the leading preacher of the Pacific coast. It was largely due to his influence and eloquence that California was secured to the Union. Mr. Kings plan was that I should come to San Fran- cisco and establish a school on the plan of that of Mr. Agassiz in Cambridge. An invitation to undertake such a work was very congenial to me, and came most opportunely; I was more~ than glad to accept it. From the moment of my arrival at San Francisco Mr. King threw himself with all his heart into the project before us. A fine location was chosen in a most desirable quarter of the city, South Park, and plans were prepared for a large and handsome building. In the meantime the parish house of the Unitarian Church was placed at our disposal. Here on February 1, 1864, our school was opened by Mr. King himself. The prospects were bright before us, and not the least in- viting was the prospect of being in close touch with a man of such excellent spirit. From time to time we enjoyed most in- teresting conversations together, always on some religious, scientific, or political subject. At one of these meetings, I remember, we remained two hours in the gallery of the new church, communi- cating our views and sentiments in an expansion full of charm. When we got up to separate, taking both my hands in his, he said: It is Wednesday; let it be understood that for the future every Wednesday, from two till four oclock, we shall put aside for mutual edification and conversation like that which we have just enjoyed. Man proposes, God dis- poses. The following Wednesday Mr. King was lying upon his death-bed, and the Wednesday after that the soul of this man of God was in heaven. March 4,1864. What a date! What a day! What a loss! The best of friends, the most ardent of patriots, the most generous of philanthropists, the good, the noble Starr King is taken from us! Could we have believed last week, when he brought us a new testimony of his precious interest, could we have thought it was his last visit, his last going out, the last occasion given us to hear his most sympathetic voice, to look in life upon his serene face! . . . All the city is in consternation. Friends meet and clasp hands with tearful eyes, but can- not speak. They say more tears have been shed to-day than during all the citys life. More than a thousand flags float at half-mast, on private dwellings as well as on public buildings. 0 worthy man, how deeply your people love you! Jifarch 5. The manifestation of to- day in honor of the noble dead is not less worthy than that of yesterday. The re. mains are lying in state in the church which has just been completed, and seems now as if built to be his monument. A company of the first regiment of militia and the Free Masons act as a guard of honor. From noon until ten oclock at night a long file of people continued to pass by and to gaze for the last time on the inanimate features of him who but a few days before electrified the multitude. The following Sunday, not only the congregation, but many strangers assem- bled in the church at the usual hour. The pastors gown was laid upon the pul- pit. Not a word was said. Not a note was sung; only from time to time the organ was played softly, while the peo- ple sat in mute contemplation, giving their thoughts and their hearts to the noble life which had so suddenly been taken from them. The first regular service was held a week later, in memory of this holy man. The high privilege was mine, on that occasion, to voice the feel- ings of the people and to express their last tribute to the dead. C. F. B. liliel. 78 The Battle of the Strong. THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XXI. THE Comtesse Chantavoine, young, rich, amiable. You shall meet her to-morrow. Long after Philip left the duke to go to his own chamber these words rang in his ears. He felt the cords of fate tightening round him. So real was the momentary illusion of being bound that, as he passed through the great hail where hung the pictures of his hosts ancestors, he made a sudden outward motion of his arms as though to free himself from a physical restraint. Strange to say, he had never foreseen or reckoned with this matter of mar- riage in the designs of the duke. He had forgotten that sovereign dukes must make sure their succession even unto the third and fourth generations. His first impulse had been to declare that to introduce him to the countess would be futile, for he was already married. But the instant warning of the mind that his highness could never and would never accept the daughter of a Jersey ship- builder restrained him. He had no idea that Guidas descent from the de Man- prats of Chamb~ry would weigh with the duke, who would only see in her some apple - cheeked peasant stumbling over her court train. So Philip held his peace, as he had held it upon this matter ever since he came to Bercy. It was not his way to be rash, though it was his way to be bold. There would he boldness in another direction, in withholding the knowledge of his marriage. It was cu- rious that the duke had never even hint- ed at the chance of his being already married; yet not so curious, either, since complete silence concerning a wife was declaration enough that he was unmar- ried. He felt in his heart that a finer sense would have offered Guida no such humiliating affront, for he knew the lie of silence was as evil as the lie of speech. He had not spoken, partly because he had not yet become used to the fact that he really was married. It had never been brought home to him by the ever present conviction of habit~ One day of married life, or, in reality, a few hours of married life with Guida had given the sensation more of a noble adventure than of a lasting condition. With distance froni that noble adven- ture something of the glow of a lovers relations had gone, and the subsequent tender enthusiasm of mind and memory was not vivid enough to make him dar- ing or as he would have said reck- less for its sake. Yet this same tender enthusiasm was sincere enough to make him accept the fact of his marriage with- out discontent, even in the glamour of new and alluring ambitions. If it had been a question of giving up Guida or giving up the duchy of Bercy, if that had been put before him as the sole alternative, he would have de- cided as quickly in Guidas favor as he did regarding his commission in the navy when he thought it was a question be- tween that and the duchy. The straight- forward issue of Guida and of the duchy he had not been called upon to face. But, unfortunately for those who are tempt- ed, issues are never put quite so plainly by the heralds of destiny and penalty. They are disguised as delectable chances, the toss-ups are always the temptation of life. The man who uses trust money for three days only, to acquire in those three days a fortune, certain as magnifi- cent, would pull up short beforehand if the issue of theft or honesty were put squarely before him. Morally, he means no theft; he uses his neighbors saw until his own is mended; but he breaks his neighbors saw, his own is lost on its

78 The Battle of the Strong. THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XXI. THE Comtesse Chantavoine, young, rich, amiable. You shall meet her to-morrow. Long after Philip left the duke to go to his own chamber these words rang in his ears. He felt the cords of fate tightening round him. So real was the momentary illusion of being bound that, as he passed through the great hail where hung the pictures of his hosts ancestors, he made a sudden outward motion of his arms as though to free himself from a physical restraint. Strange to say, he had never foreseen or reckoned with this matter of mar- riage in the designs of the duke. He had forgotten that sovereign dukes must make sure their succession even unto the third and fourth generations. His first impulse had been to declare that to introduce him to the countess would be futile, for he was already married. But the instant warning of the mind that his highness could never and would never accept the daughter of a Jersey ship- builder restrained him. He had no idea that Guidas descent from the de Man- prats of Chamb~ry would weigh with the duke, who would only see in her some apple - cheeked peasant stumbling over her court train. So Philip held his peace, as he had held it upon this matter ever since he came to Bercy. It was not his way to be rash, though it was his way to be bold. There would he boldness in another direction, in withholding the knowledge of his marriage. It was cu- rious that the duke had never even hint- ed at the chance of his being already married; yet not so curious, either, since complete silence concerning a wife was declaration enough that he was unmar- ried. He felt in his heart that a finer sense would have offered Guida no such humiliating affront, for he knew the lie of silence was as evil as the lie of speech. He had not spoken, partly because he had not yet become used to the fact that he really was married. It had never been brought home to him by the ever present conviction of habit~ One day of married life, or, in reality, a few hours of married life with Guida had given the sensation more of a noble adventure than of a lasting condition. With distance froni that noble adven- ture something of the glow of a lovers relations had gone, and the subsequent tender enthusiasm of mind and memory was not vivid enough to make him dar- ing or as he would have said reck- less for its sake. Yet this same tender enthusiasm was sincere enough to make him accept the fact of his marriage with- out discontent, even in the glamour of new and alluring ambitions. If it had been a question of giving up Guida or giving up the duchy of Bercy, if that had been put before him as the sole alternative, he would have de- cided as quickly in Guidas favor as he did regarding his commission in the navy when he thought it was a question be- tween that and the duchy. The straight- forward issue of Guida and of the duchy he had not been called upon to face. But, unfortunately for those who are tempt- ed, issues are never put quite so plainly by the heralds of destiny and penalty. They are disguised as delectable chances, the toss-ups are always the temptation of life. The man who uses trust money for three days only, to acquire in those three days a fortune, certain as magnifi- cent, would pull up short beforehand if the issue of theft or honesty were put squarely before him. Morally, he means no theft; he uses his neighbors saw until his own is mended; but he breaks his neighbors saw, his own is lost on its The Battle of the Strong. 79 homeward way, he has no money to buy another, and he is tried and convicted on a charge of theft. Thus the custom of society establishes the charge of im- morality upon the technical defect. But not on that alone; upon the principle that what is committed in trust shall be held inviolate with an exact obedience to conditions and an adherence to the spirit as to the letter of the law. But the issue did not come squarely to Philip. He had not openly lied about Guida; as yet he had no intention of doing so. He even figured to himself with what surprise Quida would greet his announcement that she was hence- forth Princesse Guida dAvranche, and in due time would be her serene high- ness the Duchess~ de Bercy. Certainly there was nothing immoral in his ambi- tions. If the present serene highness chose to establish him as second in suc- cession to the reigning prince, who had a right to complain? Then, as to an officer of the English navy accepting succession in a sovereign duchy in suzerainty to the present gov- ernment of France, while England was at war with her, his host had more than once, in almost so many words, defined the situation. Because the duke himself, with no successor assured, was powerless to take sides with the Roy- alists against the Revolutionary govern- ment, he was at the moment obliged, for the very existence of his duchy, to hoist the tricolor upon the castle with his own flag. Once the succession was assured beyond the imbecile Leopold John, then he would certainly declare against the present fiendish government, and for the overthrown dynasty. Now, England was fighting France not only because she was revolutionary France, but because of the murder of Louis XVI. and for the restoration of that overthrown dynasty. Also she was in close sympathy with the war of the Vend~e, to which she would lend all possible assistance. Philip argued that if it was his duty, as a captain in the English navy, to fight against revolu- tionary France from without, he would be beyond criticism if, as the Duc de Bercy, he also fought against her from within. Indeed, it was with this statement of the facts that the second military officer of the duchy had some days before been dispatched to the Court of St. James to secure its intervention for Philips release, by an important exchange of prisoners with the French government. This officer was also charged with se- curing the consent of the English King for Philips acceptance of the succession in the duchy while retaining his posi- tion in the English navy. The envoy had been instructed by the duke to offer his sympathy with England in the war and his secret adherence to the Royalist cause, to become open as soon as the succession through Philip was secured. To Philips mind all that side of the case was in his favor, and sorted well with his principles of professional honor. Then came up the question of his pri- vate honor. He conceived it to be a reckless sacrifice of possibilities to tell the duke of his marriage. He was en- gaged in a game of chances, and what might happen would all be the fortune of the dice. To tell of his marriage was to load the dice against himself; not to do so was to put his private honor in the hazard. In his momentous translation from a prison to a palace, with dazzling fortunes in view, there came upon him confusion of the judg- ment and of the moralities; he felt that the opportunity for speaking of the mar- riage had passed. He seated himself at a table, and took from his pocket a letter of Guidas, writ- ten many weeks before, in which she said with an unmistakable firmness that she had not announced the marriage and would not; that he must do it, and he alone; that the letter written to her grandfather had not been received by 80 The Battle of the Strong. him, and that no one in Jersey knew their secret. In reading this letter again a wave of feeling rushed over him. He realized the force and strength of her nature; every word had a clear and sharp straightfor- wardness and the ring of truth. She was not twenty, yet how powerful and clear was her intelligence! A gifted creature, an unusual mind, the Cheva- lier du Champsavoys had once said of her in Philips hearing. That was it: a gifted creature with an unusual mind. All at once he had been brought to understand that a crisis was near, and he straightway prepared to meet it. The duke had said that he must marry; a woman had already been chosen for him, and he was to meet her to-morrow. But that meant nothing; to meet a wo- man was not of necessity to marry her. There were a thousand chances against the woman liking him; and what could she be to him, this Comtesse Chanta- voine? Yet it might be necessary to give in his apparent adherence to this comedy devised by the duke, certainly until after the adoption and succession were formally arranged. Then why, by that time he would be released, he would have to present himself in Eng- land to receive a new command, and delays, where a woman is concerned, are easy. Even supposing matters became critical, the countess herself might be in no hurry to marry. Marry! He could feel his flesh creep- ing. It gave him an ugly, startled sen- sation. It was like some imp of Satan to drop into his ear now the suggestion that princes, ere this, had been known to have two wives, one of them unoffi- cial. Yet he could have struck himself in the face for the iniquity of the sug- gestion; he flushed from the indecency of it, and so have sinners ever flushed as they set forth on the garish road to Avernus. Yexed with these unbidden and un- welcome thoughts, he got up and walked about his chamber restlessly. Guida, the poor Guida! he said to himself manytimes. He was angry, disgusted, that those shameful, irresponsible thoughts should have come to him. He would atone for all that, and more, when he was Prince and she Princesse dAvranche. But nevertheless he was ill at ease with himself. Guida was off there alone in Jersey, alone. Suddenly there flashed into his mind another possibility. Suppose why, suppose thoughtless scoundrel that he had been! suppose that there might come another than himself and Guida to bear his name! And Guida was there alone, and her marriage still kept secret, the danger of it to her good name! But she had said nothing in her letters, hinted nothing. No, in none had there been the most distant sugges- tion. Then and there he got the letters, one and all, and read them, every word, every line, all through to the end. No, there was not one hint. Of course it could not be so; she would have but no, she might not have Guida was unlike anybody else. He read on and on. And now, some- how, he thought he caught in one of the letters a new ring, a pensive grav- ity, a deeper tension, which were like ciphers or signals to tell him of some change in her. For a moment he was shaken. Manhood, human sympathy, surged up in him. The first flush of a new sensation ran through his veins like fire. The first instinct of fatherhood came to him, a thrilling, uplifting feel- ing. But as suddenly there shot through his mind a thought which brought him to his feet with a spring. Why, suppose suppose that it was so! Suppose that through Guida the further succession might presently be made sure, and suppose he went to the prince and told him all, that might achieve his consent in her favor; and the rest would be easy. That was it, as clear as day. Meanwhile he would hold his The Battle of the Strong. 81 peace. He would take his part in the perilous comedy; he would meet the countess, but he would force her to re- gard him with commonplace feelings; he would pay no real court to her; he would wait and wait. For above all else, and this was the thing that clinched the purpose in his mind, above all else, the duke at best had but a brief time to live. He saw it himself, and but a week ago the court physician had told Philip that only un- usual excitement kept the duke alive; that any violence or shock, physical or mental, might snap the thread of exist- ence. Plainly, the thing was to go on as he had been going, to keep his marriage secret, meet the countess, up- parently accede to all the duke suggest- ed, and wait wait! With this definite purpose in his mind coloring all that he might say, yet crip- pling the freedom of his thought, he sat down and wrote to Guida. Tie had not written to her, according to the condi- tion made by M. Dalbarade that during his stay at the castle he should hold coum- munication with no one outside upon any consideration whatsoever. He was on parole: this issue was clear; he could not send a letter to Guida until he was freed from the condition agreed to by the duke for him. It had been a bitter pill to swallow; and he had had to strug- gle with himself many times since his arrival at the castle. For whatever the new ambitions and undertakings, there was still in the mysterious and lonely distance a woman for whose welfare he was responsible, for whose happiness he had yet done nothing, unless to give her his name under sombre conditions was happiness for her. Since his marriage, all that he had done to remind him of the new life which he had so hurriedly, so daringly, so eloquently entered upon was to send his young wife fifty pounds. Somehow, as this fact flashed to his re- membrance now, it made him shrink; it had a certain cold, commercial look VOL. LXXXII. No. 489. 6 which struck him unpleasantly. Perhaps, indeed, the singular and painful shyness chill almost with which Guida had received those fifty pounds now comnmu- nicated itself to him by the intangible telegraphy of the mind and spirit. All at once, that bare, glacial fact of having sent her fifty pounds acted as a cynical illumination of his real position. He felt conscious now that Guida would have preferred some simple gift, some little thing that women love, in token and remembrance, rather than the common- place if necessary token of the ordinary duties of life. Now that he came to thiuik of it, since he had left her in Jer- sey, he had never sent her ever so small a gift. Indeed, he had never given her any gifts at all save the Maltese cross in her childhood and her wedding-ring. As for the ring, it had never occurred to him that she could not wear it except in the stillness of the night, unseen by any eye but her own. He did not know that she had been wont to go to sleep with the hand clasped to her breast, pressing close to her the one outward token she had of a new life, begun with a sweetness which was very bitter, and a bitterness which was only a little sweet. Philip was in no fitting mood to write a letter. Too many emotions were in conflict in him at once. They were hav- ing their way with him; and perhaps in this very complexity of his feelings he came nearer to being really and acutely himself than he had ever been in his life. Indeed, there was a moment when he was almost ready to consign the duke and all that appertained to him to the devil or the deep sea, and to take his fate as it came. But one of the other selves of him called down from the little attic where dark things brood, and told him that to throw up his present chances would bring him no nearer and rio soon- er to Guida, and must return him to the prison whence he came. No, he must go on, that was the only thing to do. Now, however, he 82 The Battle of the Strong. would write to Guida, and send the let- ter when he was released from parole. But how many times did he tear up the paper in vain attempt to speak to her out of the confusion of his thoughts! At last, like a hunter who, having lost his compass and his bearings, makes a dash through the wood in the hold belief that safety lies beyond if he but drive ahead, heedless, strong, enduring, so he plunged into the letter which told his wife where he was, of his opportunities, and of the brilliant outlook for them both. His courage grew as the sentences spread out before him; he became elo- quent. He told her how heavily the days and months went on apart from her. He emptied out the sensations of absence, loneliness, desire, and affection. He wondered how she fared, won- dered tenderly. All at once he stopped short. It flashed upon him now that al- ways his letters had been entirely of his own doings; he had pictured himself al- ways, his own loneliness, his own grief at separation. He had never yet spoken of the details of her life, questioned her of this and of that, of all those things which fill the life of a woman, not because she loves the little things, but because she is a woman, and the know- ledge and governance of these little things are the habit and the duty of her life. His past egotism was borne in upon him now. He would try to atone for it. He asked her many questions; but one he did not ask, dared not ask, did not know how to speak to her of it. The fact that be could not say what most he wished to say was a powerful indictment of his re- lations to her, of his treatment of her, of his headlong courtship and marriage. So portions of this letter of his had not the perfect ring of truth, had not the conviction which unselfish and solici- tous love alone can beget. It was only at the last, only when he came to close the letter, that his words went from him with the sharp photography of his own heart. It came, perhaps, from a remorse which for the instant foreshadowed dan- ger ahead; from an acute pity for her; and maybe from a longing to forego the attempt to don the promised pageantry of an exalted place, and get back to the straightforward hours, such as those upon the Ecr6hos, when he knew that he loved her. But the sharpness of his feelings rendered more intense now the declara- tion of his love. The phrases were wrung from him. His hand trembled so that his will must rule it to steadiness, and that enforced pressure seemed to etch the words into the paper. Good-by, no, i~ la bonne henre, my dearest, he wrote; good days are coming, brave, great days, when I shall be free to strike another blow for England, both from within and from without France; when I shall be, if all go well, the Prince dAvranche, Dnc de Bercy, and you my perfect princess. Good-by! Ton Philip, qui taime toujours. He had hardly written the last words when a servant knocked at his door. His serene highness offers his com- pliments to monsieur, and will monsieur descend to meet the Marquis Grandjon- Larisse and the Comtesse Chantavoine, who have just arrived. For an instant Philip could scarce control his feelings to quietness, but he sent a message of obedience, and pre- pared to go down. So it had come, not to-morrow, but to-day. Already the deep game was on. With a sigh which was half of bitter and mocking laughter, he seized the sand- box, dried the letter to Gnida, and put it in his pocket. As he descended the staircase, the last words of it kept as- sailing his mind, singing in his brain: Ton Philip, qui taime toujours! XXII. Not many evenings after Philips first interview with the ~omtesse Chanta- voine, a visitor arrived at the ca~tle~ The Battle of the Strony. From his roundabout approach up the steep cliff in the dusk it was clear he wished to avoid observation. Of gab lant bearing, he was attired in a fashion unlike the citizens of Bercy or the Re- publican military, who were often to be seen in the streets of the town. The whole relief of the costume was white, white sash, white cuffs turned back, white collar, white rosette and band, white and red bandeau, and the faint glitter of a white shirt; in contrast were the black hat and plume, black tie, black top - boots with huge spurs, and yellow breeches. He carried a gun and a sword, and a pistol was stuck in the white sash. But one thing arrested the eye more than all else: a white square on the breast of the long brown coat, strangely ornamented with a red heart and cross. He was evidently a soldier of distinguished rank, but not of the army of the Republic. The face was that of a devotee, not of peace, but of war, of some forlorn cru- sade. It had deep enthusiasm, which yet to the trained observer would have seemed rather the tireless faith of a con- vert than the disposition of the natural man. It was somewhat heavily lined for one so young. The marks of a hard life were on him; but distinction and energy were in his look and in every turn of his body. Arriving at the castle, he knocked at the postern. At first sight of him the porter suspiciously blocked the entrance with his person, but seeing the badge upon his breast stood at gaze, and a look of keen curiosity crossed his face. On the visitor announcing that he was of the house of Yanfontaine, this curiosity was mingled with as keen surprise; he was admitted with every mark of respect, and the gates closed behind him. Has his highness any visitors? he asked as he dismounted. The porter nodded assent. Who are they? He slipped a coin into the porters hand. One of the family, a cousin, his serene highness calls him. Hm, indeed! A Vaufontaine, friend? No, monseigneur, a dAvranche. What dAvranche? Not the Prince Leopold John? No, monseigneur; the name is the same as his highnesss. Philip dAvranehe ~ Hm! from whence? From Paris, monseigneur, with his highness. The visitor, whistling softly, stood thinking a moment. Presently he add- ed, How old is he? About the same age as monsei- gneur. How does he occupy himself? He walks, rides, talks with his high- ness, asks questions of the people, reads in the library, and sometimes shoots and fishes. Is he a soldier? He carries no sword, and he takes a long aim with his gun! There was a sly smile lurking about the porters mouth. The visitor drew from his pocket a second gold piece, and, slipping it into the others hand, said, Tell it all at once. Who is the gen- tleman, and what is his business here? Is he, perhaps, on the side of the Revo- lution, or does lie keep better company? He looked keenly into the eyes of the porter, who screwed up his own, return- ing the gaze unflinchingly. Handing back the gold piece, the man answered firmly, I have told monseigneur what every one in the duchy knows; there s no charge for that. For what more his highness and and those that his high- ness trusts know he drew himself up with brusque importance there s no price, monseigneur. Body o me, here s pride and vain- glory! returned the other. I know you, my fine Pergot. I knew you almost too well years ago, and then you were not so sensitive; then you were a good 84 The Battle of the Strong. Royalist like me, Pergot. This time he fastened the mans look with his own, and held it until Pergot dropped his head before it. I dont remember monseigneur, he said, perturbed. Of course not. The fine Pergot has a bad memory, like a good Republican, who by law cannot worship his God, or ask the priest to visit him when he s dying, or make the sign of the cross; a red Revolutionist is our Pergot now! I m as good a Royalist as monsel- gneur, retorted the man, with some as- perity. So are most of us. Only only his highness says to us Dont gossip of what his highness says, but do his bidding, Pergot. What a fool you are to babble thus! How d ye know but I m one of Fouch6s or Bar~res men? How d ye know but there are five hundred men outside wait- ing for my whistle? The man changed instantly. His hand was at his side like lightning. They d never hear that whistle, mon- seigneur, though you be Vaufontaine or no Vaufontaine! His eyes were fixed on the visitors with stubborn determination. The other, smiling, reached out and touched him on the shoulder kindly. My dear Frange Pergot, said he, that s the man I knew once, and the sort of man that s been fighting with me for the Church and for the King these months past in the Vend6e. Come, come, dont you know me, Pergot? Dont you remember the scapegrace with whom, for a jape, you waylaid my uncle the cardinal and robbed him, and then gave him back his jeweled watch in re- turn for a years indulgences? But no, no, answered the man, crossing himself quickly, and by the dim lanthorn light peering into the visitors face, it is not possible, monseigneur. The Comte D4tricand de Tournay died in the Jersey Isle with him they called IRullecour. Well, well, you might at least re- member this, rejoined the other, show- ing a scar in the palm of his hand. Recognition was instant now, and an old friendship was cemented anew. A little later there was ushered into the library of the castle the Comte D6tricand de Tournay, who, under the name of Savary dit D6tricand, had lived in the Isle of Jersey for many years. There he had been a dissipated idler, a keeper of worthless company, an alien coolly ac- cepting the hospitality of a country he had ruthlessly invaded as a boy. Now, returned from vagabondage, he was the valiant and honored heir of the house of Vaufontaine, and the heir presumptive of the house of Bercy. True to his intention, D6tricand had joined La Rochejaquelein, the intrepid, inspired leader of the Vend6e, whose sentiments became his own: If I ad- vance, follow me; if I retreat, kill me; if I fall, avenge me. He had proven himself daring, courageous, and re- sourceful. His immovable gayety of spirits infected the simple peasants with a rebounding energy; his fearlessness inspired their confidence; his kindness to the wounded, friend or foe, his mercy to prisoners, the gentle respect he showed the devoted priests who shared with the peasants the perils of war, had already made him beloved. He had also often helped to reconcile divisions, and to har- monize the varying views of the chief- tains of the Vendee. From the first all the leaders trusted him, and he sprang in a day, as had done the peasants Cathelineau, dIElb6e, and Stofflet, gentlemen like Lescure and Bonchamp, and noble fighters like dAn- tichamp and the Prince of Talmont, to an outstanding position in the Royal- ist army. Again and again he had been engaged in perilous sorties and had led forlorn hopes. He had now come from the splendid victory at Saumur to urge his own kinsman, the Prince dAvranche, Due de Bercy, to join the Royalists. The Battle of the Strong. 85 It was the heyday of the cause. The taking of Saumur and the destruction of Coustards army, together with the cap- ture of eleven thousand prisoners, were powerful arguments to lay before a no- bleman all the traditions of whose house were of constant alliance with the Crown of France, whose very duchy had been the gift of a French monarch. D6tri- cand bad not seen the duke since he was a lad at Versailles, and there would be much in his favor; for some winning power in him had of late grown deep and penetrating, and of all the Vaufon- tames the duke had reason to dislike him least. When the duke entered to D~tricand in the library, he was under the influence of the convincing letter from the monks who had been engaged upon the pedi- gree of Commander Philip dAvranche, and of a stimulating talk with the young English Norman himself. With the memory of past feuds and hatreds in his mind, and predisposed against any Yau- fontaine, his greeting was cold and cour- teously disdainful, his manner preoccu- pied. Remarking that he had but lately heard of Monsieur le Comtes return to France, he hoped he had enjoyed his career in was it in England or in America? But yes, he remembered: it began with an expedition to take the Channel Isles from England, an insolent, a criminal business in time of peace, fit only for boys or filibusters. Had Monsieur he Comte then spent all these years in the Channel Isles, a prisoner, possibly? No? Fastening his eyes cynically on the symbol of the Royalist cause on D6tri- cands breast, he asked to what he was indebted for the honor of this present visit. Perhaps, he added dryly, it was to inquire after his own health, which, he was glad to assure Monsieur le Comte and all his cousins of Vaufontaine, was never better. His face was like a leather mask, tell- ing nothing of the arid sarcasm in his voice. The hands were shriveled, the shoulders shrunken, the temples fallen in; the neck behind was pinched, and the eyes looked out like brown beads, alive with fire and touched with the excite- ment of monomania. His last words had a delicate savagery of irony, though, too, there could be heard in the tone a defiance arguing apprehension, not lost upon his visitor. D~tricand had smiled inwardly many times during the old mans monologue, which was broken only by courteous, half-articulate interjections on his own part. He knew too well the old feud between their houses, the ambition that had possessed many a Vaufontaine to inherit the dukedom of Bercy, and the dukes futile revolt against that possi- bility; but for himself, heir to the prin- cipality of Vaufontaine, and therefrom, by succession, to that of Bercy, it had no importance. He had but one passion now, and it burned clear and strong; it dominated, it possessed him. He would have given up any worldly honor to see it succeed. He had idled and misspent too many years, had been vaurien and neer-do- well too long, to be sordid now. Even as the grievous sinner, come from dark ways, turns with furious and tireless strength to piety and good works, so this vagabond of noble family, wheeling suddenly in his tracks, had thrown him- self into a cause which was all sacrifice, courage, and unselfish patriotism, a holy warfare. The last bitter thrust of the duke had touched no raw flesh; his withers were unwrung. Gifted to thrust in return, and with warrant to do so, lie put aside the temptation, and with the directness of one convinced of the right- eousness of his cause, and with neither time nor temper for diplomacy in crisis, he answered his kinsman with daylight clearness. Monsieur he Duc, said he, I am glad your health is good; the better it is, the better it suits the purpose of this 86 The Battle of the Strong. interview. I am come on business, and on that alone. I am from Saumur, where I Left La Rochejaquelein, Stofflet, Cathelineau, and Lescure masters of the city and victors over the Republican army I have heard a rumor, interjected the duke impatiently. I will give you fact, continued D6- tricand, and he told of the series of suc- cesses lately come to the army of the Vend6e. And how does all this concern me, Monsieur le Comte? asked the duke. I am come to ask you to join us, to declare for our cause, for the Church and for the King. Yours is of the no- blest names in France. Will you not stand openly for what you cannot waver from in your heart? If the Duc de Bercy declares for us, others will come out of exile, and from submission to the rebel government, to our aid. My mis- sion from our leaders is to ask you to put aside whatever reasons you have had for alliance with this savage government, and to proclaim for the King. The duke did not take his eyes from D6tricands as he spoke. What was go- ing on behind that parchment face who might say? Are you aware, he said at last, that I could send you straight from here to the guillotine? So could the porter at your gates, but he loves France almost as well as does the Due de Bercy. You take refuge in the fact that you are my kinsman. The honor is stimulating, but I should not seek salvation by it. I have the greater safety of being your guest, answered D6tricand, with dignity. Too premature a sanctuary for a Vaufontaine! retorted the duke, fight- ing down growing admiration for a kins- man whose family he would gladly root out if it lay in his power. iDetricand made a gesture of impa- tience, for he felt that his appeal had availed nothing, and he had no heart for a battle of words. His wit had been tempered in many fires, his nature was non-incandescent to praise or gibe. He had had his share of pastime; now had come his share of toil, and the mood for give and take of words was not on him, though to advance his cause he would still use it in time of need. He went straight to the point now. Hopelessly he spoke the plain truth. I want nothing of the Prince dAvranche but his weight and power in a cause for which the best gentlemen of France are giving their lives. I fasten my eyes on France alone; I fight for the throne of Louis, an altar of sacrifice now by the martyred blood of the King, not for the duchy of Bercy. The duchy of Bercy may sink or swim, for all of me, if so be it does not stand with us in our holy war. The duke interjected a disdainful laugh. Suddenly there shot into D6tricands mind a suggestion, which, wild as it was, might after all helong to the grotesque realities of life. So he added with mea- sured deliberation, If alliance must still be preserved with this evil govern- ment of France, then be sure there is no Vaufontaine who would care to inherit a principality so discredited. To meet that peril in succession the Due de Bercy will do well to consult his new kinsman, Philip dAvranche. For an instant there was absolute si- lence in the room. The old noblemans look was like a flash of flame in a mask of dead flesh. The short upper lip was arrested in a sort of snarl; the fingers, half closed, were hooked like talons; and the whole man was a picture of sur- prise, fury, and injured pride. The Due de Bercy to be harangued to his duty, scathed, measured, disapproved, and counseled by a striphing Vaufontaine. it was monstrous! It was the bitterness of aloes, also, for in his own heart he knew that D6tricand The Battle of the Strong. 87 had spoken the truth. The fearless am peal had roused him, for the moment at least, to the beauty and righteousness of a sombre, maybe hopeless cause, while the impeachment had pierced every sore in his heart. He felt the smarting anger and outraged vanity of the wrong-doer who, having argued down his own con- science, and believing he has blinded oth- ers as himself, suddenly finds that he and his motives are naked before the world. D6tricand had known regretfully, even as he spoke, that the duke, no matter what the reason, would not now join the Royalist army; though, had his life been in danger, he still would have spoken the truth. So he had been human enough to try to pry open the door of mystery by a biting suggestion, for he had a feeling that in the presence of the mysterious kinsman Philip dAvranche lay the cause of the resistance to his appeaL Who was this Philip dAvranche? It seemed absurd to D6tricand that his mind should travel hack just then to the island of Jersey. The dumb fury of his host was about to break forth into speech, when the door of the library opened and Philip stepped inside. The silence holding two men now held three, and a cold astonishment pos- sessed the two younger. The duke was too blind with anger to see the start of recognition his visitors gave at sight of each other, and by a curious concurrence of feeling both D6tricand and Philip avoided an acknowledgment of acquaint- ance. Wariness was Philips cue, cau- tious wonder D6tricands attitude. The duke spoke first. Turning from Philip, he said to D6tricand, with mali- cious triumph, It will disconcert Mon- sieur le Comtes pious mind to know I have yet one kinsman who finds it no dishonor to inherit the duchy of Bercy. Monsieur le Comte, permit me to intro- duce Commander Philip dAvranche. Something of D6tricands old self came back to him. His face flushed with a sudden desire to laugh; then it grew pale with a kind of dumb aston- isliment. So this man was to be set against him even in the heritage of his family, as for one hour, in a kitchen in Jersey, they had been bitter opposites and secret rivals. He cared little about the heritage of the houses of Vaufon- tame and Bercy, he had higher anibi- tions; but this adventuring sailor roused in him again the private grudge he had once begged Philip to remember. Re- covering himself, he said meaningly, bowing low, The honor is memorable and monstrous! Philip set his teeth, but replied, I am overwhelmed to meet one whose reputa- tion is known in every tap-room! Neither had chance to say more, for the duke, though not understanding the cause or meaning of the biting words, felt the contempt and suggestion in D6tri- cands voice, and burst out in anger, Go tell the Prince of Vaufontaine that the succession is assured to my house. Monsieur, my cousin, Commander Phil- ip dAvranche, is now my adopted son; a wife is already chosen for him, and soon, Monsieur le Cointe, there will be still another successor to the title The Duc de Bercy should add in- spired domestic prophecy to the family record in the Almanach de Gotha! re- turned D& ricand, with a cold smile. Gods death! cried the old noble- man, trembling with rage, and stretch- ing toward the bell-rope. You shall go to Paris and the Temple. Fouch6 will take good care of you! Stop, Monsieur le Duc! D6tri- cands voice rang through the room. You shall not betray even the hum- blest of your kinsmen, like that monster dOrl6ans who betrayed the highest of his. What is more, there are hundreds of your people who still will pass a Roy- alist on to safety. The dukes hand dropped from the bell-rope. He knew that D~tricands words were true. Ruling himself to 88 The Battle of the Strong. quiet, he said, with cold hatred, Like all your breed, crafty and insolent! But I will make you pay for it one day. Glancing toward Philip as though to see if this would move him, D6tricand answered, Make no haste on my behalf; years are not of such moment to me as to your highness. Philip saw D6tricands look, and felt his moment and his chance had come. Monsieur le Comte! he exclaimed threateningly. The duke turned proudly to Philip. You will collect the debt, cousin, said he, and the smile on his face was wicked as he again turned toward D& ricnnd. With interest well compounded, re- plied Philip firmly. D6tricand smiled. I have drawn the Norman-Jersey cousin, then! said he. Now we can proceed to compliments. Then, with a change of manner, he added quietly, Your highness, may the house of Bercy have no worse enemy than I! I came only to plead the cause which, if it give death, gives honor too. And I know well that at least you are not against us. Monsieur dAvranche, he turned to Philip, and his words were slow and deliberate, I hope we may yet meet in the Place du Vier Prison, but when and where you will, and you shall find me in the Yend6e when you please. So saying, he bowed, and turned and left the room. What meant the fellow by the Place du Vier Prison? asked the duke. Who knows, Monsieur le Duc? answered Philip. A fanatic like all the Vaufontaines, a roisterer yesterday, a sainted che- valier to-morrow! said the duke irrita- bly. But they still have strength and beauty always! he added reluctant ly. Then he looked at the strong and comely frame before him, and was reas- sured. He laid a hand on Philips broad shoulder admiringly. You will of course have your hour with him, cousin; but not, not till you are a dAvranche of Bercy. Not till I am a dAvranche of Ber- cy, responded Philip in a low voice. XXIII. With what seemed an unnecessary boldness, D6tricand slept that night at the inn, the Golden Crown, in the town of Bercy; a Royalist of the Yend6e ex- posing himself to deadly peril in a town sworn to alliance with the Revolutionary government. He knew that the town, that the inn, might be full of spies, but one other thing he also knew: the inn- keeper of the Golden Crown would not betray him, unless he had greatly changed since fifteen years ago. Then they had been friends, for his uncle of Vaufontaine had had a small estate in Bercy itself, in malicious proximity to the castle. He walked boldly into the inn parlor. There were but three men in the room, the landlord, a stout burgher, and Frange Pergot, the porter of the castle, who had lost no time in carrying his news; not that he might betray his old comrade in escapade, but that he might tell a chosen few, who were Royalists under the rose, that he had seen one of those servants of God, an officer of the Yend~e. At sight of the white badge with the red cross on D6tricands coat, the three stood up and answered his greeting with devout respect; and he had a speedy reassurance that in this inn he was safe from betrayal. Presently he learned that three days hence a meeting of the states of Bercy was to be held for setting the seal upon the dukes formal adoption of Philip dAvranche, and to execute a deed of succession. These things were to be done, that is, if the officer sent to the English King should have returned with Philips freedom and King Georges license to accept the succession in the duchy. From curiosity in these mat- ters alone D6tricand would not have re- mained at Bercy, but lie might use the The Battle of the Strong. 89 occasion for secretly gaining the adher- ence of officers of the duchy to the cause of the Royalists, no hard task. During these three days of waiting he heard with astonishment and concern the rumor that the great meeting of the states would be marked by Philips betrothal to the Comtesse Chantavoine. He cared little about the succession; he had the consuming passion for a cause, but there was ever with him the remem- brance of Guida Landresse de Landresse, and what touched Philip dAvranche he associated with her. Of the true rela- tions between Guida and Philip he knew nothing, but from that last day in Jer- sey he did know that Philip had roused in her emotions perhaps less vital than love, but assuredly less equable than friendship. In his fear that Guida might suffer, the more he thought of the Comtesse Chantavoine as the chosen wife of Phil- ip, the more it troubled him. For his own part, he would have gone far and done much to shield Guida from injury or insult. He had seen and appreciat- ed in her something higher than Philip might understand, a simple womanli- ness, a fine hereditary nobleness, a pro- found depth of character. Some day, if he lived and his cause prospered, he would go back to Jersey, too late, per- haps, to hope for anything from her, but not too late to tell her his promise had been kept, and to pay her devout and admiring homage. He could not now shake off oppres- sive thoughts concerning Guida and this betrothal. They interwove themselves through all his secret business with the Royalists of Bercy. It was a relief when the morning of the third day caine, bright and joyous, and he knew that before the sun went down he should be on his way back to Saumur. His friend the innkeeper urged him not to attend the meeting of the states of Bercy, lest he should be recognized by the spies of government~ He was, how- ever, firm in his resolution to go, but he exchanged his coat with the red cross for one less conspicuous. With the morning of the eventful day came the news that the envoy to Eng- land had returned with Philips freedom by exchange of prisoners, and the need- ful license from the English King. But other news, too, was carrying through the town: the French government, hav- ing learned of the plan regarding Phil- ip, had dispatched envoys to forbid the act of adoption and the deed of succes- sion. Though the duke would have de- fied them, it behooved him to end the matter, if possible, before the arrival of these envoys. The assembly was hur- riedly convened two hours before the time appointed, and the race began be- tween the old nobleman and the emissa- ries of the French government. The assembly being opened, in a breathless silence the governor-general of the duchy read aloud the license of the King of England permitting Philip dAvranche, an officer in his navy, to assume the honors to be conferred upon him by the duke and the states of Bercy. Then the president of the states read aloud the order of succession : ~ rro the hereditary prince, Leopold John, and his heirs male; in default of which to 2. The prince successor, Philip dAvranche, and his heirs male; in de- fault of which to 3. The heir male of the house of Vaufontaine. Afterward came reading of the deed of gift by which certain possessions in the province of dAvranche were made over to Prince Philip. To all this the assent of Prince Leopold John had been formally secured. After the assembly and the chief officers of the due by should have ratified these documents, and the duke should have signed them, they were to be inclosed in a box with three locks and deposited with the sovereign court at Bercy. Duplicates, 90 The Battle of the Strong. also, were to be sent to London and re- gistered in the records of the College of Arms. The states, amid great enthusi- asmn, at once ratified the documents by unanimous vote. The one notable dissen- tient was the intendant, Comute Carignan Damour, lately become a strong ally of the French government. It was he who had given Fouch6 information concern- ing Philips adoption; it was also he who had at last, through his spies, discovered D6tricands presence in the town, and had taken action thereupon. In the states, however, he had no vote, and wisdom kept him silent, though he was watchful for any opportunity to delay the pro- ceedings until the arrival of the French envoys. They should soon be here, nnd he watched the doors anxiously. He had a double motive in preventing this new succession. With Philip as adopt- ed son and heir there would be fewer spoils of office; with Philip as duke there would be none at all, for the instinct of antipathy and distrust was mutual. Be- sides, he was a Republican at heart, and looked for reward from Fouch6 in good time. Presently it was announced by the president that the signatures to the acts would be set in private. Thereupon, with all the concourse standing, the duke, surrounded by the law, military, and civil officers of the duchy, girded upon Philip the jeweled sword which had been handed down in the house of dAvranche from generation to gener- ation. The open function being thus ended, the people were enjoined to pro- ceed at once to the cathedral, where a Te Deum would be sung. The public then retired, leaving the duke and a few of the highest officials of the duchy to sign and seal the deeds. When the outer doors were closed, one unofficial person remained, Comte D4. tricand de Tournay, of the house of Van- fontaine. D& ricand stood leaning against a pil- Jar, looking complacently yet seriously at the group surrounding the duke at the great council-table. Suddenly the latter turned to a door at the right of the presidents chair, and, opening it, bowed courteously to some one beyond. An in- stant afterward there entered the Coin- tesse Chantavoine with her uncle the Marquis Graudjon-Larisse, an aged, fee- ble, but distinguished figure. They ad- vanced toward the table, and Philip, saluting them gravely, offered the mar- quis a chair. At first the marquis de- clined it, but the duke pressed him, and in the subsequent proceedings he of all the number was seated. D~tricand apprehended the meaning of the scene. This was the lady whom the duke had chosen for the wife of the new prince.. He had invited her to wit- ness the final act which was to make Philip dAvranche his heir in legal fact as by verbal proclamation, not doubting that the romantic nature of the inci- dent would appeal to her. lie had even hoped that the function might be fol- lowed by a formal betrothal in the pre- sence of the officers of the duchy; and the situation might still have been criti- cal for Philip had it not been for the pronounced reserve of the countess her- self. She was tall, of gracious and stately but not lissome carriage; the curious quietness of her face would have been almost an unbecoming gravity, had not the eyes, clear, dark, and strong, light- ened it. The mouth had sweetness, but it was a somewhat set sweetness, even as the face was somewhat fixed in its calm. In her bearing and in all her motions there was a regal quality; yet, too, something of isolation, of withdraw- al, in her self-possession and unruffled observation. She seemed, to D6tricand, a figure apart; a woman whose friend- ship would be everlasting, but whose love would be more an affectionate habit than a pnssion, and in whom devotion would be strong, because devotion was the keynote of her nature. The dress The Battle of the Strong. 91 of a nun would have turned her into a saint, of a peasant would have made her a Madonna, of a Quaker would have made her a dreamer and a d6vote, of a queen would have made her benign yet unapproachable. It struck him all at once, as he looked, that this woman had one quality in absolute kinship with Guida Landresse, honesty of mind and nature; only with this young aristocrat the honesty would be without passion. She had straightforwardness, a firm but limited intellect, a clear-mindedness be- longing somewhat to narrowness of out- look, but a genuine capacity for un- derstanding the right and the wrong of things. Guida, D& ricand thought, might break her heart and live on; this woman would break her heart and die. The one would grow larger through suf- fering; the other, narrow into a numb coldness. So he entertained himself for the mo- ment by these flashes of discernment, presently merged in wonderment as to what was in Philips mind as he stood there, destiny hanging in that drop of ink at the point of the pen in the dukes fingers. Philip was thinking of the destiny, but more than all else just now he was think- ing of the woman before him, and the issue to be faced by him concerning her. His thoughts were not so clear nor so discerning as D6tricands. No more than he understood Guida did he understand this clear-eyed, quiet, self-possessed wo- man before him. He thought her cold, unsympathetic, barren of that glow which should set the pulses of a man like him- self bounding. It did not occur to him that those still waters ran deep; that to awaken this seemingly glacial nature, to kindle a fire upon this altar, would be to secure unto his lifes end a steady, enduring flame of devotion. He revolt- ed from her; not alone because he had a wife already, but because the countess chilled him, because with her, in any case, he would never be able to play the passionate lover as he had done with Guida; and not to be the passionate lover was to be no lover at all. One thing only appealed to him: she was the Comtesse Chantavoine, a fitting consort in the eyes of the world for a sovereign duke. He could not but think well of himself in this auspicious hour, more than a little carried off his feet by the marvel of the situation. But still he could think of nothing quite clearly; everything was confused and shifting in his mind. He soon became aware that the duke was speaking, and, looking up, was con- scious of the eyes of the intendant fixed upon him with a curious covert antipathy. The dukes words had been merely an informal greeting to his council and the high officers present. He was about to speak further, however, but some one drew his attention to Detricand. An or- der was given to challenge the stranger; but D~tricand advanced toward the ta- ble, and said, The Due de Bercy will not forbid the attendance of his cousin, D6tricand de Tonrnay, at this impressive 2 ceremony. The duke, dunifounded, though he pre- served an outward calm, could not answer for an instant. Then, with a triumphant, vindictive smile which puckered his yel- low cheeks like a wild apple, he said, The Comte de Tournay is welcome to behold the end of the ambitions of the Vaufontaines. He looked toward Philip with an exulting pride and coinmenda- tion. Monsieur le Comte is quite right, he added, turning to his council; he may always claim the privileges of a re- lative of the Bercys, but the hospitality extends no further than my house and my presence, and Jllionsieur le Comte will understand my meaning. At that moment D6tricand caught the eye of the intendant, and then he un- derstood perfectly. This man, the inn- keeper had told him, was reported to be secretly a devout Republican, and from the intendants look he knew himself to be in immediate danger. 92 The Battle of the Strong. Without hesitation, however, bowing to all, and making no reply to the duke save a simple I thank your highness, he took a place near the council-table. The short ceremony of signing the deeds immediately followed. A few formal questions were asked of Philip, to which he briefly replied; afterward he made the oath of allegiance to the duke and the duchy, with his hand upon the sword of the dAvranches. These preliminaries ended, the duke was just stooping to put his pen to the paper for signature when the intendant, as much for the purpose of annoying Philip as of still delaying the proceedings, said, It would appear that one question has been omitted in the formalities of this court. He paused dramatically. He was only aiming a random shot; he would make the most of it. The duke looked up, perturbed, and said sharply, What is that, what is that, monsieur? A formality, Monsieur le Duc, a mere formality. Monsieur he bowed toward Philip politdly monsieur is not already married? There is no He paused again. Standing erect and rigid, with his pen poised, the duke glanced sharply at the intendant, and then still more sharply at Philip. The progress of that look had granted Philip an instants time to recov- er his composure. He was conscious that the Comtesse Chantavoine had given a little start, and then had become quite still and calm. Now her eyes were in- tently fixed upon him. For an instant there was absolute still- ness. Philip had felt his heart give one great thump of terror. Did Detricand know anything? Did the intendant know anything? He had, however, been too often in physical danger to lose his nerve now. The moment was big with peril; it was the turning-point of his life, and he felt it. His eyes dropped toward the spot of ink at the point of the pen which the duke held: it fascinated him, it was destiny. Now he took a step near- er to the table, and, drawing himself up, looked his princely interlocutor steadily in the eyes. Of course there is no marriage no, woman? asked the duke a little hoarse- ly, his eyes fastened on Philips. With steady voice Philip replied, Of course, Monsieur le Duc. There was another stillness. Some one sighed heavily. It was the Coin- tesse Chantavoine. Then the duke stooped, and wrote his signature three times hurriedly upon the deeds. A moment afterward D& ricand was in the street, making toward the Gold- en Crown. As he hurried on he heard the galloping of horses ahead of him. Suddenly some one plucked him by the arm from a doorway. Inside, quick! said a voice. It was that of the dukes porter, Frange Pergot. Without hesita- tion or a word D~tricand did as he was bid, and the door closed behind him. Fouch(s men are coming down the street; spies have betrayed you, whis- pered Pergot. Follow me. I will hide you till night, and then you niust escape.~~ What Pergot had said was quite true. But D6tricand was safely hidden, and Fouch6s men arrived too late to forbid those formal acts which made Philip dAvranche a prince, or to capture the Vendean chief, who, a week later, once again at Saumur, wrote a long letter to Carterette Mattingley, in Jersey, in which he set forth these strange events at Bercy, and asked certain questions concerning Guida. XXIV. Since the day of his secret marriage with Guida, Philip had been carried along in the gale of naval preparations and incidents of war as a leaf is borne f/ike Battle of the Strong. 93 onward by a storm, no looking back, to-morrow always the goal. But as a wounded traveler nurses carefully his hurt, seeks shelter from the scorching sun and from the dank air, and travels by little stages lest he never come at all to friendly hostel, so Guida made her way slowly through the months of win- ter and of spring. In the past, it had been February to Guida because the yellow Lenten lilies grew in all the sheltered c6tils; March because the periwinkle and the lords and ladies came; May because the cliffs were a blaze of golden gorse, and the perfume thereof made all the land sweet as a honeycomb. Then came the other months, with hawthorn trees and hedges all in blow; the lilac gladdening the doorways, the honeysuckle in bloomy thickets; the ox- eyed daisy of Whitsuntide; the yellow rose of St. Brelade, that lies down in the sand and stands up in the hedges; the mergots, which, like good soldiers, are first in the field and last out of it; the unseented dog-violets, the yellow prim- roses, the daffodils and snowdrops, the buttercups, orchises, and celandines; the laurustinus and privet and blackthorn hedges so green; the osier beds, and the ivy on every barn ; the purple thrift in masses on the cliff; the sea-thistle in its glaucous green, the laughter of the fields whose laugh was gold. And all was summer. Came a time thereafter when the children of the poor gathered blackber- ries for preserves and home-made wine; when the wild stock flowered in St. Onens Bay; when the bracken fern was gathered from every cOtil, and dried for apple-storing, fire-lighting, and bedding for the cherished cow, for back-rests for the veilles, and for seats round the win- ter fire; when peaches, apricots, and nectarines made the walls sumptuous red and gold; when the wild plum and crab- apple flourished in the secluded road- ways, and the tamarisk dropped its brown pods upon the earth. And all this was autumn. At last, when came the birds of pas- sage, the snipe and teal and barnacle geese, and the rains began; when the green lizard with its turquoise - blue throat vanished; when the Jersey cra- paud was heard croaking no longer in the valleys and the ponds, and the cows were well blanketed, then winter had come again. Such were the associations of the sea- sons in Guidas mind until one day of a certain year, when for a few hours a man had called her his wife, and then had sailed away. There was no log that might thereafter record the days and weeks which unwound the coils of an endless chain into that sea whither Philip had gone. Letters she had had, to be sure, two letters ; but how many times, when a packet had come in, had she gone to the doorway and watched for old M~re Ros- signol making the rounds with her han basket, chanting the names of those for whom she had letters; and how many times did she go back to the kitchen choking down a sob! The first letter was at once a blessing and a blow; it was a reassurance and it was a misery. It spoke of bread, as it were, yet it offered a stone. It elo- quently, passionately told of Philips love; but it also told, with a torturing ease, that the Araminta was under com- mand to proceed to sea with sealed or- ders. And so, the letter said, he did not know when he should see her nor when he should be able to write again. War had been declared against France, and they might not touch a port nor have chance to send a letter by a homeward vessel for weeks, and maybe months. This was painful, but it was fate, and it was his profession, and it could not be helped. Of course, she must understand, he would write constantly, telling her, as through a kind of diary, what he was doing every day; and then when the 94 The Battle of the Strong. chance offered the big budget should go to her. A pain came to Guidas heart, pier- cing the joy which had overwhelmed it, as she read the flowing tale of his buoy- ant love. She knew that she could not have written so smoothly of fate and profession, nor told of this separation with so complaisant a sorrow, had she been the man and he the woman. With her the words would have been wrenched forth from her heart, would have been scarred into the paper with the bitterness of a spirit tried beyond its enduring. With what enthusiasm did Philip, im- mediately after his heart-breaking news, write of what this war might do for him, what avenues of advancement it might open up, what splendid chances it would offer for success in his career! Did he mean that to comfort her? she asked herself. Did he mean it to divert her from the pain of the separation, to give her something to hope for? She read the letter over and over again, and no, she could not, though her heart was so willing, find that meaning in it. It was all Philip, Philip full of hope, purpose, prowess, ambition. Did he think did he think that that could ease the pain, could lighten the dark day settling down on her? Could he imagine that anything might compensate for his absence in the coming months, in this year of all years in her life? Oh, did he not know? His lengthened ab- sence might be inevitable, it might be fate, but could he not see the bitter cru- elty of it? He had said that he would be back with her again in two months; and now ah, did he not know? As the weeks again came and went she felt indeed he did not know. Some natures cling to beliefs long af- ter conviction has been shattered and disproved. These are they of the limit- ed imagination, the loyal, the pertina- cious, and the affectionate, the single- hearted children of habit; blind where they do not wish to see, stubborn where their inclinations lie, unamenable to rea- son, wholly held by their legitimate ob- ligations. But Guida was not of these. Her brain and imagination were strong as her affections. Her incurable honesty was the deepest thing in her; she did not even know how to deceive herself. As her experience deepened under the influence of a sorrow which still was joy, and a joy which still was sorrow, her vision became acute and piercing. Her brain was like some kaleidoscope. Pic- tures of things, little and big, which had happened to her in her life, at moments flashed by her inner sight in furious pro- cession. It was as if, in the photographic machinery of the brain, a shutter had slipped from its place, and a hundred un- ordered and ungoverned pictures, loosed from their natural restraint, rushed by. Months had passed since Philip had left her, a month since she had received his second letter, a month of complex- ity of feeling; of tremulousness of dis- covery; of hungry eagerness for news of the war; of sudden little outbursts of temper in her household life, a new thing in her experience; of passionate touches of tenderness toward her grand- father; of occasional biting comments in the conversations between the sieur and the chevalier, causing the gentlemen to look at each other in silent amazement; of as marked lapses into listless disregard of any talk that went on around her. She had been used often to sit still, doing nothing, in a sort of physical con- tent, as the sieur and his visitors talked; now her hands were always busy, at knitting, sewing, or spinning, the steady gaze upon her work showing that her thoughts were far away. Though the chevalier and her grandfather vaguely noted the change, they as vaguely set it down to her growing womanhood. In any case, they held it was not for them to comment upon a woman or upon a womans ways. And a girl like Guida was an incomprehensible being, with an The Battle of the Strong. 95 orbit and a system all her own, whose sayings and doings were as little to be reduced to their understanding as the vagaries of any star in the Milky Way or the currents in St. Michaels Basin. One evening she sat before the fire thinking of Philip. Her grandfather had retired earlier than usuaL Biribi, the dog, lay asleep on the veille. There was no sound save the ticking of the clock on the mantel above her head, Biribis slow breathing, the snapping of the log on the fire, and a soft rush of heat up the chimney. The words of Philips letters, learned by heart, and from which she had extracted every atom of tenderness they held, were al- ways in her ears. At last one phrase kept repeating itself like some refrain, which becomes plaintive through repeti- tion, then torturing in its mournful sug- gestion. It was this: But you see, dearest, that though I am absent from you I shall have such splendid chances to get on. There s no limit to what this war may do for me. Suddenly Guida realized how different was her love from Philips, how differ- ent was her place in his life from his place in her life. She reasoned with herself, because she knew that a mans life was work in the world, and that work and ambition were in his bones and in his blood, had been carried down to him through centuries of industrious, ambitious generations of men, that men were one race, and women were an- other. A man was bound by the condi- tions of life governing the profession by which he earned his bread and butter, played his part in the world, and strove to reach the seats of honor in high places. He must either live by the law, fulfill to the letter his daily duties of the business of life, or drop out of the race; and a woman, with bitterness and tears, in the presence of mans immoderate ambition, must learn to pray, Lord, have mercy up us, a incline our hearts to keep this law. Quickly the whole thing resolved it- self in Guidas mind, and her thinking came to a full stop. She understood now what was the right and what the wrong, and, child as she was in years, woman that she was in experience and thought, yielding to the impulse of the moment, she buried her face in her hands and burst into tears. Oh, Philip, Philip, Philip, she sobbed aloud, it was not right of you to marry me; it was wicked of you to leave me! Then in her thoughts she carried on the impeachment and re- proach. If he had married her openly and left her at once, it would have been hard to bear, but in the circumstances it might have been right. If he had married her secretly and left her at the altar, so keeping the promise he had made her when she agreed to become his wife, that might have been pardon- able. But to marry her as he did, and then, breaking his solemn vow, leave her, it was not right in her eyes; and if not right in the eyes of her who loved him, in whose would it be right? To these definitions she had come at last. It is an eventful moment, a crucial ordeal, for a woman, when she forces herself to see the naked truth concern- ing the man whom she has loved, yet the man who ha wronged her. She is born anew in that moment: it may be to love on, to blind herself, and condone and defend, so lowering her own moral tone; or to congeal in heart, become keener in intellect, scornful and bitter with her own sex and merciless toward the other, in- different to blame and careless of praise, intolerant, judging all the world by her own experience, and incredulous of any true thing. Or yet again, she may be- come deeper, stronger, sadder, wiser; condoning nothing, minimizing nothing, deceiving herself in nothing, and still never forgiving at least one thing, the destruction of innocent faith and a noble credulity; seeing clearly and acutely the whole wrong; with a strong intelligence 96 The Battle qf the Strong. measuring perfectly the iniquity, but out of a largeness of nature and by virtue of a high sense of duty devoting her days to the salvation of a mans honor, to the betterment of one weak or wicked na- ture. Of these last was Guida. Oh, Philip, Philip, you have been wicked to me! she sobbed. Her tears fell upon the stone hearth, and the fire dried them, and every tear- drop was one girlish feeling and emotion gone, one bright fancy, one tender hope, vanished. She was no longer a girl. There were troubles and dangers ahead of her, but she must now face them dry-eyed and alone. In his second letter Philip had told her to announce the marriage, and had said that he would write to her grandfather explaining all, and also to the Reverend Lorenzo Dow. She had waited and watched for that letter to her grandfather, but it had not come. As for Loreuzo Dow, he was a prisoner with the French. There was yet another factor in the affair. While the island was still agog over Mr. Dows misfortune, there had been a bold robbery at St. Michaels Rectory of the strong-box containing the Communion plate, the parish taxes for the year, the offertories for the month, and what was of moment to at least one person the parish register of deaths, baptisms, and marriages. The box was found on the seashore, but that was all. Thus it was that now no hu- man being in Jersey could vouch that Guida had been married. Yet these things troubled her little. How easily could Philip set all right! If he would but come back, that at first was her only thought; for what matter a ring, or any proof, testimony, or proclamation, without Philip! It did not occur to her at first that all these things were needed to save her from shame in the eyes of the world. If she had thought of them apprehensively, she would have said to herself, How easy to set all right by simply announ- cing the marriage! And she would have done so when war was declared and Philip received his new command, but that she wished the announcement to come from him. Well, that would come in any case when Philips letter to her grandfather arrived: no doubt it had missed the packet by which hers came. But another packet, and yet another arrived; and still there was no letter from Philip for the Sieur de Mauprat. Winter had come, and spring had gone, and now summer was at hand. Hay- making was beginning, the wild straw- berries were reddening among the clo- ver, and in her little garden apples had followed the buds on the trees beneath which Philip had told his fateful tale of love. At last a third letter arrived, bring- ing little joy to her heart, however. It declared love and affection, it was even extravagant in terms of affection; but somehow it fell short of the true thing, for its ardor was that of a mind preoc- cupied, and underneath all ran a cur- rent of inherent selfishness. It delighted in the activity of his life, it was full of hope, of promise of happiness for them both in the future, but it had no solici- tude for Guida in the present. It chilled her heart so warm but a little season ago that Philip, to whom she had once ascribed strength, tenderness, profound thoughtfulness, should concern himself so little in the details of her life. For the most part, his letters seemed those of an ardent lover who knew his duty and did it gladly, but with a self-conscious and flowing eloquence, too, which could have cost but little strain of feeling. He was curious to know what the peo- ple in Jersey said about their marriage. He had written to Lorenzo Dow and her grandfather, he said, but had heard af- terward that the vessel carrying the let- ters had been taken by a French pri- vateer; and so they had not arrived in The Battle of the Strong. 97 Jersey. But of course she had told her grandfather and all the island of the ceremony performed at St. Michaels. He was sending her fifty pounds, his first contribution to their home; and, the war over, a beautiful home she cer- tainly should have. He would write to her grandfather again, though this day there was no time to do so. But Guida had not proclaimed the marriage. She had lived the first months of her wedded life in an aching stillness of secrecy; she had suffered tremors, and apprehensions, and changing moods, and troubled, fevered hours alone, with no confidant, with no supporting tenderness from mother, sister, friend, or husband. She realized now that she must an- nounce the marriage at once. But yet what proofs of it had she? There was the ring Philip had given her, inscribed with their names; hut she was sophis- ticated enough to know that this would not be adequate evidence in the eyes of her Jersey neighbors. The marriage re- gister, with its record, was stolen, and that proof was gone. Lastly, there were Philips letters; hut no, a thousand times no! she would not show Philips letters to any human being; even the thought of it hurt her pride, her delicacy of feeling, her self-respect. Her heart burned with bitterness to think that there had been a secret marriage. How hard it was, at this distance of time, to tell the world the tale, and to be forced to prove it by Philips letters! No, no, she could not do it, not yet. She would still wait the arrival of Philips letter to her grand- father. If it did not come soon, then she must be brave and tell her story. She went to the Vier Marchi less now; also fewer folk stood gossiping with her grandfather in the Place du Vier Prison or by the well at the front door, so far she had not wondered why. To be sure, Maitresse Aimable came oftener; but since one notable day at Sark Guida had resolutely avoided reference, however oblique, to Philip and herself. Still, in her dark days the only watchful eye upon her was that of the egregiously fat old woman called the femme de ballast, whose thick tongue dave to the roof of her mouth, whose outer attractions were so meagre that even her husbands chief sign of affection was to pull her great toe, passing her bed of a morning to light the fire. Carterette Mattingley also came, but another friend who had watched over Guida for years before Philip appeared in the Place du Vier Prison never en- tered her doorway now. Only once or twice since that day on the Ecr6hos, so fateful to them both, had Guida seen Ranulph Delagarde. He had withdrawn to St. Aubins Bay, where his trade of ship-building was carried on, and having fitted up a small cottage, lived a seclud- ed life with his father there. Neither of them appeared often in St. Heliers, and they were seldom or never seen in the Yier Marchi. Carterette saw IRanulph little oftener than did Guida, but she knew what he was doing, being anxious to know, and every ones business being every one elses business in Jersey. In the same way Ranulph knew of Guida. What Carterette was doing Ranulph was not concerned to know, and so knew little; and Guida knew and thought little of how Ranulph fared: which was part of the selfishness of love. But one day Carterette received a let- ter from France which excited her great- ly, and sent her off hot-foot to Guida; and in the same hour Ranulph heard a piece of hateful gossip which made him fell to the ground the man who told him, and sent him with white face, and sick, affrighted, yet indignant heart, to the cottage in the Place da Vier Prison. Gilbert Parker. (To be continued~) VOL. Lxxxii. xo. 489. 7 98 English Historical Grammar. ENGLISH HISTORICAL GRAMMAR. THE ancient notion of English gram- mar was one of certain categories of words, and certain rules for their proper use. This is still the idea implied in most of the dictionary definitions of the word. The Parts of Speech were one of the first things the student had to learn: nouns, pronouns, adjectives, etc. Then the Rules of Syntax, The subject of a finite verb is in the nominative case, and the like, occupied his attention. The final chapter was on Prosody: A verse of one foot is called a monody, A verse of two feet is called a dipody, etc. It is not difficult to trace the pedigree of this idea of grammar. The number of exceptions necessary to explain in the chapter on adjectives; the great embar- rassment in distinguishing between ad- verbs and prepositions (not fully re- moved, either, by pointing out the fact that in Homeric Greek prepositions were originally adverbs) ; the obvious diffi- culty to be met if one wanted to put an English subject in the accusative case; the apparent anomalies of Shakespeares monodies, dipodies, tripodies, and the rest, and the rather clumsy way English poets have always had in using feet, these make it plain that this grammar is hard doctrine when applied to English, and must have had its origin under hap- pier conditions in some other language; Latin, say. And so it is. The argument which used to be urged for the early and persistent study of Latin namely, that it cleared up English grammar so was not without its naive element of truth. It certainly did make clear this kind of grammar. It was like that time- honored advice to young physicians: If you dont know the disease your patient is suffering from, give him one that you do know, and cure that. Under such conditions, the study of grammar, like calling in a doctor, was serious business. You first learned what English gram- mar would have been, had English had the good fortune to be Latin; and then ~ you learned Latin grammar to explain it all. This system of teaching English grammar is by no means extinct. It still persists in the mind of many a school- master, and keeps cropping up here and there in elementary textbooks. But we are getting past it; if the subject is not yet taught in the light of modern know- ledge, it is rather because teachers have not yet got the light they want than be- cause they are wedded to the ancient system. The danger is now the one of accepting the fallacy English is a gram- marless tongue, and teaching no.gramn- mar at all. But English is not a grammarless tongue ; on the contrary, the results of recent investigation point scholars to the conclusion that the process of disinte- gration so apparent in English is one of growth, and not one of decay, a growth toward efficiency and perfection. Whether it be reasonable or not to ex- pect English to become the language of the world, it is evident that all modern vernaculars are traveling in the same direction with English, and that our lan- guage is in many respects in the van of the race. Nor will the rational study of scientific grammar ever become useless as a means of culture. Experience has already demonstrated beyond all cavil the value of grammar as a means of training the mind, even when grammar is taught in unnatural and inadequate ways; much greater will its value ap- pear when it is properly understood and rationally taught. Our trouble is that we do not yet un- derstand what grammar is, but, foolish- ly clogging ourselves with Renaissance notions about it, we vainly expect it to furnish us with canonic authority to de

98 English Historical Grammar. ENGLISH HISTORICAL GRAMMAR. THE ancient notion of English gram- mar was one of certain categories of words, and certain rules for their proper use. This is still the idea implied in most of the dictionary definitions of the word. The Parts of Speech were one of the first things the student had to learn: nouns, pronouns, adjectives, etc. Then the Rules of Syntax, The subject of a finite verb is in the nominative case, and the like, occupied his attention. The final chapter was on Prosody: A verse of one foot is called a monody, A verse of two feet is called a dipody, etc. It is not difficult to trace the pedigree of this idea of grammar. The number of exceptions necessary to explain in the chapter on adjectives; the great embar- rassment in distinguishing between ad- verbs and prepositions (not fully re- moved, either, by pointing out the fact that in Homeric Greek prepositions were originally adverbs) ; the obvious diffi- culty to be met if one wanted to put an English subject in the accusative case; the apparent anomalies of Shakespeares monodies, dipodies, tripodies, and the rest, and the rather clumsy way English poets have always had in using feet, these make it plain that this grammar is hard doctrine when applied to English, and must have had its origin under hap- pier conditions in some other language; Latin, say. And so it is. The argument which used to be urged for the early and persistent study of Latin namely, that it cleared up English grammar so was not without its naive element of truth. It certainly did make clear this kind of grammar. It was like that time- honored advice to young physicians: If you dont know the disease your patient is suffering from, give him one that you do know, and cure that. Under such conditions, the study of grammar, like calling in a doctor, was serious business. You first learned what English gram- mar would have been, had English had the good fortune to be Latin; and then ~ you learned Latin grammar to explain it all. This system of teaching English grammar is by no means extinct. It still persists in the mind of many a school- master, and keeps cropping up here and there in elementary textbooks. But we are getting past it; if the subject is not yet taught in the light of modern know- ledge, it is rather because teachers have not yet got the light they want than be- cause they are wedded to the ancient system. The danger is now the one of accepting the fallacy English is a gram- marless tongue, and teaching no.gramn- mar at all. But English is not a grammarless tongue ; on the contrary, the results of recent investigation point scholars to the conclusion that the process of disinte- gration so apparent in English is one of growth, and not one of decay, a growth toward efficiency and perfection. Whether it be reasonable or not to ex- pect English to become the language of the world, it is evident that all modern vernaculars are traveling in the same direction with English, and that our lan- guage is in many respects in the van of the race. Nor will the rational study of scientific grammar ever become useless as a means of culture. Experience has already demonstrated beyond all cavil the value of grammar as a means of training the mind, even when grammar is taught in unnatural and inadequate ways; much greater will its value ap- pear when it is properly understood and rationally taught. Our trouble is that we do not yet un- derstand what grammar is, but, foolish- ly clogging ourselves with Renaissance notions about it, we vainly expect it to furnish us with canonic authority to de English Historical Grammar. 99 cide matters quite properly within the scope of our own judgment. We study it, therefore, not in the hope of under- standing through its help the speech we all think with and cannot escape from, but in the hope of obtaining a standard of correctness in the use of language which may separate us from the vulgar who know not grammar. Such an ideal rests upon a false conception of the na- ture of language and upon ignorance of the history of English speech, as ~el1 as upon an inadequate and selfish ideal of culture. Let us examine for a moment, very generally and briefly, the nature of lan- guage. Setting aside the question of its origin, and starting rather from the biological principle that the history of the individual repeats the history of the type, let us think of the development of any one of us in respect to his acquiring and using speech. The early period of this development knows not literature; and there can be a considerable profi- ciency in the use of speech without a knowledge of literature. Nor, theoreti- cally speaking, is there any point in the development of language where the know- ledge of literature becomes indispensable to the existence of speech. Nor has the written language, at least in English, any existence apart and independent from the spoken language. The written word, then, is not an essential part of language, and for our present purpose we can leave it aside. Beginning with the spoken lan- guage as the essential language, let us think for a moment how it is acquired. Each normally constituted person who comes into life learns to think in terms of the words he hears from those about him, until the use of them becomes as much an unconscious habit with him as walking. The language which he learns in this way was learned in the same way by those he hears use it, who in turn learned it from others antecedent, and so on all the way back until the line passes into the pre- historic past. But the tradition thus car- ned on is continually conditioned by in- herited predisposition and environment, which are always giving rise to minute variations from the type. These varia- tions, however seemingly accidental and personal, are always making in a certain direction, and cause the development of language as a whole to follow definite laws which it can no more escape than matter can escape gravitation. Theset laws are not subject to sudden or violent! change. They cannot be set aside or materially assisted by any sort of aca- demic legislation or learned prescription. They are beyond the control of the in- dividual as well. He may say how he will use language and explain his method to the people with whom he comes di- rectly in contact, giving them the key to his idiom, but he cannot affect language itself. His idiom will die with him, in spite of all his effort. Universal teach- ing, too, of a particular idiom may fix it temporarily upon the language; but unless it accord with some easy analogy which will naturally lead to its general use, the idiom will not remain, but will only form a temporary obstruction to the free development of language, like a snag sticking out into a stream. School-teach- ers may come and school-teachers may go, but they cannot correct bad English, if the correction is against the genius and spirit of English thought~ One of the richest contributions of modern scholarship is the knowledge that this development obeys natural laws of thought, and that, however inscrutable during a short period, it is perfectly clear and continuous over a long one. The next step will be to show that the reason for this lies in the nature of lan- guage; that the uniformity of its devel- opment is but the expression of a deep- er uniformity of thought itself through which the brain unconsciously selects cer- tain associations to make habitual; that the words we say or write down are but a small part of the words we actually use in thinking, day in, day out, year 100 English Historical G~rammar. after year, till the brain ceases to per- form its function; that language is thus part of a great act which began we know not when, and will end only when thought itself shall cease and silence reign again. Our present starved conception of lan- guage is like that we used to have of biology, when we thought of animal life in the world as of a gigantic menagerie, designed by a demiurgic showman for our instruction and pleasure. We fail to recognize the real meaning of language because we do not think of it as a part of our life. We treat it as if it were yes- terdays creation, not the growth of cen- turies of experience. We still think of it as being made up of parts of speech to be used according to rules of syn- tax. It was this notion which formed the basis of the ancient method of studying grammar. Parts of speech were the necessary outcome of scholastic logic. For it the most important things were names and categories; and so nouns, the names of things, made the first chapter of grammar; pronouns came in as the next; adjectives, as expressing attributes, next; and so on, a set of me- chanically constructed categories of think- ing, with appropriate definitions and fixed rules of cotrdination. The ac- cidents of such parts of speech as were capable of accidence were then care- fully labeled and pigeonholed for future reference or use. The making out of these tables presented a fine opportunity for formal logic, and the resulting para- digms made the real basis of this sort of study. These were learned as the pat- terns of thinking, and their perfection being possible only in a language like classic Latin, where a complicated sys- tem of Indo-Germanic inflection was ar- tificially preserved, such a language Le- came the type by which all others were measured. To form these parts of speech with their accidents into predica- tions was the next step. There was the subject, attribute, predicate, and complement, with their various concords: this made syntax. Again, these things were logically clear in Latin: so Latin syntax became the norm of English syntax. It was an easy matter to tack on Latin prosody, and the system was complete. What was good enough for Latin and Greek was surely good enough for English. This grammar was supplemented by an Etymology, in which the etyma were the Latin and Greek words corresponding to the various English borrowings from these tongues. Others were practically ignored. Such a grammar has for its basis in- flection, and for its unit a part of speech. Hence we had and still have to some extent inflection playing the chief rOle in the grammar of a language whose tendency has been to shuffle off inflec- tions as fast as possible. The practical aim of its system was to teach the stu- dent the concords as they would be if English were a highly inflected language. Its chief concern, therefore, was to get the right form of inflection for various syntactical usages; just the point where the student, who had learfied to use in- flections when he was learning to talk, could not easily go astray. This sort of grammar considered the study of lan- guage as something quite apart from the use of language; its end was perfect mechanical thinking by means of formu- las, not perfect natural thinking based upon experience. Its standpoint was metaphysical, and was possible only for a dead language. A living speech like English develops ever at variance with such a priori reasoning, and the cleft has been long apparent. Now it would be unjust in us to charge our ancestors with the ignorance of the real nature of English grammar implied in this conception of the subject, and to find fault with them in their effort to build a didactic grammar upon distinc- tions found in Latin, and not upon the nature of English. But we can charge English Historical Grammar. 101 ourselves with folly in persisting to ig- nore the material that the last few de- cades have furnished for the scientific study of the subject, and in holding to their inadequate notion when a richer and better is within our reach. The real nature of English grammar is not metaphysical, but historical. It is the scientific study of a living language in the light of its development. The history of the development may not form a part of the actual grammatical treat- ment, but it must underlie it. The gram- mar may be one of late New English, say, restricted to the consideration of only those phenomena which come un- der our immediate notice, and may have nothing to do with Middle English or Old English. But these phenomena are only scientifically intelligible in the light of their development, and must be studied from an historical basis. In this sense there is for English but one kind of grammar, and that is historical gram- mar. The terms and definitions of scho- lastic grammar have their place and use, and are in many cases necessary as be- ing general to all thinking and to all language. The categories, too, are those of thought in general, and are therefore inevitable in describing and classifying the facts of language. But they are not grammar, and learning them is not study- ing grammar, any more than learning the divisions of the animal kingdom is studying biology. Grammar, to be pro- perly studied, must be based on the na- ture of language itself, and on the his- tory of its development. This has been the belief of the best scholars for a number of years, and their study of the subject in this spirit has de- veloped a new method. But it has for the most part remained the method of scholars, and of comparatively few schol- ars at that. The scientific treatment of the subject is traceable chiefly to Jacob Grimm, though we had beginnings of it in English scholarship as early as the days of Franciscus Junius and George Hickes. The Germans, who were the first to turn their attention to the matter, made the earliest advances in the field of English; for a knowledge of English has long been recognized in Germany to be essential to the proper understanding of German. The method they have fol- lowed has been historical, empirical; and following it, the best scholars have succeeded in establishing the unity of our language and literature, and the continu- ity of their historical development. Eng- lish and American scholarship has made use of their work, and has added substan- tial contributions to it, though often in a rather dull and imitative fashion and without a clear realization of the pur- pose of it all. But English and Amer- ican schools and universities have been slow to see the value of this sort of schol- arship, and what is more the pity, to see its practical relation to the every-day life and thought of English-speaking people. What is wanted now is a keener appreci- ation of the practical importance of this scientific grammar and its fitness to be used as a basis for English culture. It is difficult to describe this new gram- mar without entering into somewhat te- dious detail; but perhaps it will not be impossible, in a few words, to give a gen- eral idea of its scope and method. Its chief divisions are, Sounds, Inflections, Syntax, and Rhythm. Its ultimate unit is a single sound. A word cannot express thought unless its component sounds are accurately reproduced, and its sounds are subject to development. If I take the word bear and change it to beer, I have made in it but a small alteration, and one that is quite in accord with the history of English; yet I have altered the word so that it no longer suggests the thought it suggested before the change was made, but something quite different. It is as much of a change as I should make in 120 by changing the 2 to a 9. So I might do with almost any other word, destroying it entirely by slightly altering in an arbitrary way one of the sounds 102 English Historical Grammar. which make it up. It is not words, then, but sounds that are the ultimate things in grammar. These sounds, moreover, have as it were a life of their own, which slowly changes their character with the progress of centuries. The changes are so gradual as to be imperceptible during a single generation, yet they affect all sounds where the same conditions are present, and affect them in the same way. To illustrate: the infinitive to make was represented by macian in English of the ninth century, by maken in English of the twelfth century, by m~1cen in English of the fourteenth century, by m~ik in English of the sixteenth century, m~k in English of the seventeenth, m~~k in Eng- lish of the nineteenth. Here the vowel a has been changing its character about once in two centuries. And so with all as under similar conditions. Conso- nants, too, as well as vowels, alter their nature in the development, but much more slowly. These alterations are grad- ual, so that the mind adapts itself to them without knowing it; just as many people nowadays would take their oath that they pronounce the initial h in which as in whist, but all the while they are saying wich. To hear a word accurately requires a carefully trained ear, and a power, not easily acquired, of diverting ones attention to the sounds of the word as acoustic phenomena. These changes are so general and so numerous as to af- fect the whole character of the language; so that English even of so recent a date as Shakespeares would sound to us al- most like a foreign tongue did we hear it, and at many points would be quite unin- telligible. Yet it is the same language, just as Alfreds is, and with the key of a scientific knowledge of English will yield up its English thought to us with the very words it was written in. In this part of English historical gram- mar, it is the significance of the develop- ment of the sounds, and not that of their inconsequent representation, that is the first thing to be grasped. We can change the way of writing words a dozen times a century; in fact, we might write them a dozen ways at once without affect- ing the sounds themselves. The spoken words are the real things, not the letters which signify them. This first chapter on sounds is therefore the most impor- tant of the whole subject; for without an exact knowledge of it grammar will ap- pear capricious and meaningless. This field is left almost entirely to specialists, and their work in it is thought to be too trivial to interest the public. It is only within recent years that the fact of the development of English has been recog- nized at all; so a clear statement of it in English grammars has not been possible. But the practical importance of such knowledge as it now furnishes us is al- most as great as our neglect of it has been. While the study of the whole sub- ject will bring us into a perfect under- standing of our literature and will break down our absurd notions of the nature of our language, a complete knowledge of this part of it is the most direct way of accomplishing these ends; for the pe- riod over which the development of Eng- lish sounds extends is unusually long and unusually rich in evidence afforded by literature, and even an elementary knowledge of it is sufficient to make the development clear. Once this part of the subject is fully understood, the stu- dent will be in a fair way to understand the growth of literature. He will at least know enough not to be deceived, for in- stance, into supposing that he is reading Chaucer, when he thinks through his brain the New English words which cor- respond to Chaucers written forms, and fills up the gaps with guesses. Nor will he be misled by arbitrary forms of spell- ing. He will see distinctly that the let- ters do not represent the sounds they pretend to represent, but quite a differ- eat set. He will thus be prepared for a more intelligent study of his literature, and for a more vital and more powerful mastery of his language. English Historical Grammar. 103 The division of scientific grammar next in order is that which treats of in- flections, and deals with the changes of form which words undergo in being modified for different phases and rela- tions of the general ideas which they ex- press. This chapter was made the chief part of our earlier grammars of English, because inflection is the most significant characteristic of classic languages. But English, owing to conditions peculiar to it as a Germanic tongue, has made lit- tle use of endings, and has depended upon context and arrangement to make thought clear; so that inflection plays a very minor part in its grammar. Latin and Greek retain a great many of the early conditions of inflection found in Indo-Germanic, where a stem represent- ing a general idea was modified by some change, most commonly by a flexional syllable, to indicate the precise position, condition, or relation which the word assumes in the thought, in terms of logic, its accidents. For some reason or ~ other, Germanic peoples attached a pecu- liar significance to the stem, and, utter- ing it with greater force, neglected the inflectional syllable. This process, once begun, has gone on rapidly, until in mod- ern English the old grammatical system is almost entirely broken up. The dis- covery that the accident of the word can be sufficiently denoted by its position in the thought, or by the accent it receives in utterance, or by the context, or, when necessary, by accurate and express de- finition in other words, is the stepping- stone to using it as a particular itself. In English, therefore, we do not use a general term modified by an accident in order to make it a particular, but we think the particular outright. My type- writer, for instance, is as much a partic- ular idea as my pen; I do not think of the one as an instrument to write with by means of type any more than I think of the other as a feather adapted to pur- poses of writing. So also when my type- writer reproduces the thought for me on paper, I do not think of it as type- writer with a modification of the idea to indicate that it is the subject of the action; and when I wish to think of my- self using the typewriter, I do not modify the word for typewriter in a different way to show that in this latter instance the typewriter is the object of an action. Such a distinction is quite useless. I and my typewriter are two such different things, with such different attributes and functions, that there is no danger of any one confusing the two. In almost any possible thought where they are brought together, the mind itself, without any need of labels, will recognize their pro- per grammatical relation. And even if there was danger of confusion, the fact that in English thinking the subject comes first in the thought would be sufficient to distinguish it without any special mark. So with other types of inflection. It is absurd, then, to study English as a highly inflected language, to make the student think of such things as 0 man as a vocative case, or to a man as a dative, or if I do as a subjunctive or conditional mood of the verb do. The burden of the work has thus been thrown upon syntax, a syntax whose perfection has developed in such a way as to make all but the simplest inflection un- necessary; and syntax, the third general division of grammar, thus becomes most! important for English. But it is not the kind of syntax we know from Latin grammar. That, owing to the full iii- flectional system still preserved in Latin, was a system of concords and artificial agreements. Fixed syllables of inflec- tion denoted certain accidents of a ge- neric idea; syllables of inflection belong- ing to the same or similar categories pointed out the various parts of a whole idea and their relations one to another, so that the parts could be separated from one another and scattered through the sentence to secure formal symmetry or pleasing cadence without confusion 104 English Historical Grammar. of the thought itself. The perception of the significance of this accidence and the arrangement of these collocations were the field of syntax. The Germanic languages, when they lost this full Judo- Germanic system of inflection, lost also with it the corresponding system of syn- tax. What had been before an testhetic end became now a practical one, and the position of the words in the thought de- noted their relation to one another. The few inflections preserved were simplified and reduced to great general categories, such as number, objective and subjec- tive case relation, distinction of sex, ab- solute or conditional action. Nor has this process of development ceased. It is quite possible that the categories will be still further reduced as time goes on. To study this development for English is the field of syntax, and its method is historical, since these arrange- ments are traditional, depending upon the habit of English thought. The sub- ject has not yet received even in Ger- many the attention it deserves, because a scientific treatment of Laut- undEormen- lehre (the development of sounds and inflection) more than occupies the two- semester course of a German university. Then, too, German scholarship is often embarrassed by the lack of the perfect idiomatic familiarity with New English syntax (enqlische Sprach9efilhl) neces- sary to understand the habit of English thought. A full and complete treatment of it will have to come from English scholars. Much has been done already in such books as Matzners Englisehe Grammatik, which starts with New Eng- lish and works back to Old English, and Kochs Englisehe Grammatik, which fol- lows a more scientific order, beginning with Old English and tracing the sub- ject historically. The practical utility of such study lies in the fact that it gives us confidence in native English idioms, and prevents those foolish alterations which arise from an artificial notion of what English syntax is. A fourth division of English grammar is that which deals with rhythm and the arrangement of words to make poetry. The name Prosody is usually given to it, because that is the title of the corre- sponding division of Latin grammar. It would take too long to show how this sub- ject has been obscured by centuries of misunderstanding and obstinate persist- ence in teaching Latin prosody to explain English rhythm. It was obvious that Latin poetry had but two units, a short and a long syllable. As accent took the place of quantity when the system was transferred to English, there were two sorts of syllables recognized in English prosody: a syllable was either tum or it was ty. We have just seen how the loss of Jndo-Germanic in- flections affected Germanic syntax. The cause of this loss, namely, the fixing of the accent to a particular syllable of the word in all its forms, broke down also the Judo-Germanic system of rhythm. It was no longer possible to write poetry according to the classic system, because the material for it no longer existed. Germanic rhythm, therefore, assumed an entirely new form, based upon the new use of accent, and not upon quan- tity, though it seems that in the earlier periods quantity was still an element in the verse. This system was used for Old English, which very early developed a rich poetic literature ; later on, anoth- er kind of accentual system, which had grown into wide use in medimeval Latin, took its place. But not immediately and violently; for English poetry had inde- pendently been long working toward this more regular media3val rhythm, and thus received the new system as a graft, and was not displaced and crowded out by it. At no time in its history, there- fore, has English verse been written like classic poetry, for it has always been based upon accentual, and not upon quan- titative differences. But our study of classic poetry has made us overlook the exquisite gradations of accent in Eng English Historical Grammar. 105 lish verse, and has scaled our poetry down to turn and ty. The appre- ciation of more gradations than these has been considered to be the concern of elocution, not prosody, and poetry, made to delight the ear with delicate rhythm, becomes, when we study it, a wooden arrangement of shorts and longs into iambic acatalectic trimeters and such things. To these four divisions, Sounds, In- flections, Syntax, and Rhythm, should logically be added a fifth, namely, the Development of Word-Meanings. But the historical dictionaries of English are assuming this for their special field, and rightly, too; so that there is no need for any but the most general treatment of the subject in English historical gram- mar. The work in this field is most con- veniently accessible when arranged in the form of a dictionary. How impor- tant such material is for the study of English literature is shown by the great number of hitherto misunderstood pas- sages in Shakespeare which the Oxford Dictionary clears up. We have thus traversed the field of English historical grammar, and have incidentally called attention to the meth- od it pursues. Prosecuted in such a way, the subject is as scientific as any of the sciences now studied in the uni- versities, and certainly deserves as con- spicuous a place as any in university curricula. For Americans it is practi- cally a fresh field to work in; and when the American genius for discerning es- sentials from accidents overcomes Amer- ican tendencies to dilettanteism, we shall no doubt have a rich harvest of scientific truth. Hitherto the subject has labored un- der some fundamental misconceptions as to its scope and province, misconcep- tions that are for the most part popular, but yet not without their effect upon university teaching. The chief of these is the one that English historical gram- mar is the same thing as the history of the English language. This niistaken assumption underlies most of the at- tempts to teach the subject that have yet been made. It is an easy mistake to make, for the only difference between a complete history of the English language and a perfect English historical grammar would be one of arrangement of material and the point of view from which it was considered. The one would be a chro- nological account of the development of language from the standpoint of modern English, considering modern English as the apex of the development; the other would be a scientific treatment of the phenomena themselves, considering the present state of the language as an inci- dental stage of the development. The two are by no means the same. In the point of view there lies a fundamental distinction, and one that is frequently overlooked. There is a still greater distinction between the two when one comes to study this history and this gram- mar. To memorize a correct account of the history of the English language is not by any means the same thing as to study English h~storicnl grammar. In the latter work we deal with the phe- noniena themselves, not with a general statement of their relation. This dis- tinction is now quite clear for biological science. The study of biology is not that of the history of the development of physical life, though a complete his- tory of biological phenomena might well be one of the ends of biological science. Supposing the links were all clear, a mere account of the development of the primordial cell through the various stages of its life up to man would not be biology, though an intelligent appre- ciation of the phenomena does depend upon a perception of their historical sig- nificance, so to speak. And it is pre- cisely so with English historical gram- mar. The scientific study of the sub- ject means far more than a description of the sequence of its phenomena. It means the discovery of their relation; 106 English Historical arammar. their classification according to real and essential differences, not accidental ones; the causes that have produced them, as far as it is possible to ascertain their causes; the laws which govern their de- velopment; their relation to the forms of English thinking; their relation to simi- lar phenomena of other languages. Their nature, their causes, their tendencies, all these enter into a scientific conception of the province of historical grammar. The field the subject thus presents to the student is in its way as wide as that presented by biology, and if intelligently worked would yield ~s rich a fruitage as the study of biology has. In one sense the history of the English language is but the introductory chapter to all this. To substitute the one for the other is like offering a superficial Fourteen Weeks in Philosophy for an adequate course in elementary physics. Such a substitute may possibly be better than nothing, but it is very little better, and it stands in the way of the student ever getting anything like a firm grasp of the matter. Another misconception of the nature and province of historical grammar is due to the fact that any thorough study of spoken English is confused in the popular mind with the study of phonet- ics- Students are taught in elementary schools that certain letters have certain sounds, and they are then taught to re- produce these sounds, when acted upon by the stimulus of certain diacritical marks: pronounce long ~ as in make, pronounce short ~ as in fat. Phonet- ics thus gets to be a matter of pronoun- words was not historical, but merely de- cing written forms of expression; so that I voted itself to the discovery of easily the student always tries to pronounce all recognizable foreign elements, to unfold the letters of all the syllables, and we get or derive which furnished the same sort such monstrosities in English as pen- of pleasure as that obtained from puzzle- sills, prack-tick-kal, in-dif-fi-rence. solving. To reduce the words capable These spelling - book pronunciations of of such reduction to assumed ultimate written forms are not English words at roots had the appearance of scientific all, though many good people think they analysis, and easily passed for scientific are the best English, and painfully make study. But it is only loan-words which their children pronounce the letters, in are capable of such reduction. Though the fear that they may fall into the habit of speaking English in a vulgar fashion if they do not take pains. In this sense the phonetics of English is an absurdity. It considers the written language as the norm, and seeks to explain the spoken form as a capricious deviation from the written type. The truth is the converse of this. A has not the sound of a in father, and of a in late, and of a in bat, etc., but the a in father, and the a in late, and the a in bat, and the others are entirely different and distinct sounds, which happen, all of them, to be repre- sented by the same sign, namely a. The abnormality is in the writing: the study of these abnormalities ought properly to be called graphics, not phonetics. Of course, in its scientific aspect, accord- ing to which phonetics is the study of the physiological formation of the sounds used in language, the subject is part of a thorough study of historical grammar, but only a minor part. Similarly, etymology plays a great part in the notion many people have of the scientific study of English. English is thought to be a conglomerate of various other languages, made up of words de- rived from Latin, or Greek, or French, or German. To be aware of the meaning these words had in the original speech from which they were derived was a euphuistic accomplishment that gave much pleasure a few generations ago, and the display of such knowledge is still thought to be one of the ornaments of writing. The etymology which had for its concern the elucidation of these English Historical Grammar. 107 they occupy a large space in dictionaries of English, such words do not play an important part in its history. A student might know perfectly the etyma of all of them, and yet be quite ignorant of English itself. They are for the most part mere additions to the vocabulary of English. It is a general principle of English grammar that borrowed words, from the time they are taken into the language, are treated as if they were English, obeying the same laws of de- velopment as the native words. A sepa- rate treatment in grammar is not neces- sary for them. To consider the separate stlidy of such words as an integral part of English grammar is to follow the me- diieval method of the study of Latin. Nor is English historical grammar what is popularly known as English phi- lology. This word philology has been given such a variety of meanings, ranging all the way from the encyclop~- die German notion of the study of every- thing remotely or directly concerned with language and literature, to the popular English and American one of the dilet- tante study of words, that it has become well-nigh useless for scientific purposes. In the popular sense, however, it has lit- tle to do with historical grammar, not much more than etymology has. It bears much the same relation to it that collecting butterflies bears to entomolo- gy, or collecting fossils to geology. Yet the study of words, generally from Archbishop Trenchs book bearing that title, has long been one of the most common substitutes for English histori- cal grammar in our schools and univer- sities. It can be made comparatively interesting, because it calls attention to peculiar developments of word-meanings and unexpected associations of ideas. But it has little educational value. It only develops a petty attention to details without knowledge of their significance, and produces in the student the idea that he has exhausted the subject. Rid of these misconceptions, we have in English historical grammar a sub- ject that is scientific, practical, and of great educational value, and, moreover, a subject which can be taught in an ele- mentary way to young students, and can at the same time furnish a field for ori- ginal scientific work in university teach- ing. Why should it not be easily possi- ble to put it in the place that dogmatic grammar used to occupy? Why is it necessary to wait until a student is near- ly through with a university course to give him a scientific knowledge of the machinery he thinks with? It would not be difficult to teach any boy to read Old English at the time when he begins to read Latin, to continue the work by teaching him to read Middle English, and then to put upon this elementary work, which need only be such as will give him the power roughly to read his own language in any period of its his- tory, a more or less thorough training in English historical grammar. It is not necessary to make him speak Old Eng- lish or Middle English, or even to seek native idioms in his own use of language. But surely a student with an accurate and correct knowledge of what his lan- guage is will be able to use it with more ease and power than one without such knowledge. We need not expect this sort of train- ing to make us think more clearly and write better than our clearest thiakers and best writers do now; but we can expect it to give this power to more men and women than possess it now; we can expect to get from English histori- cal grammar the basis for a sane and practical didactic grammar which will represent to the student the real nature of his language, and will enable him to see more clearly what good English is and teach him how to use it; we can expect it to illuminate and quicken into a newer life for us the best of our Eng- lish literature. 3liark H. Liddell. 108 In Bay Street. IN BAY STREET. (NASSAU, N. WHAT do you sell, John Camplejolin, In Bay Street by the sea? Oh, turtle shell is what I sell, In great variety: Trinkets and combs and rosaries, All keepsakes from the sea; T is choose and buy what takes the eye, In such a treasury. T is none of these, John Camplejohn, Though curious they be, But something more I m looking for, In Bay Street by the sea. Where can I buy the magic charm Of the Bahaman sea, That fills mankind with peace of mind And souls felicity? Now what do you sell, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, Tinged with that true and native blue Of lapis lazuli? Look from your door, and tell me now The color of the sea. Where can I buy that wondrous dye, And take it home with me? And where can I buy that rustling sound, In this city by the sea, Of the plumy palms in their high blue calms; Or the stately poise and free Of the bearers who go up and down, Silent as mystery, Burden on head, with naked tread, In the white streets by the sea? And where can I buy, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, The sunlights fall on the old pink wall, Or the gold of the orange tree?

108 In Bay Street. IN BAY STREET. (NASSAU, N. WHAT do you sell, John Camplejolin, In Bay Street by the sea? Oh, turtle shell is what I sell, In great variety: Trinkets and combs and rosaries, All keepsakes from the sea; T is choose and buy what takes the eye, In such a treasury. T is none of these, John Camplejohn, Though curious they be, But something more I m looking for, In Bay Street by the sea. Where can I buy the magic charm Of the Bahaman sea, That fills mankind with peace of mind And souls felicity? Now what do you sell, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, Tinged with that true and native blue Of lapis lazuli? Look from your door, and tell me now The color of the sea. Where can I buy that wondrous dye, And take it home with me? And where can I buy that rustling sound, In this city by the sea, Of the plumy palms in their high blue calms; Or the stately poise and free Of the bearers who go up and down, Silent as mystery, Burden on head, with naked tread, In the white streets by the sea? And where can I buy, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, The sunlights fall on the old pink wall, Or the gold of the orange tree? In Bay Street. 109 Ah, that is more than I ye heard tell In Bay Street by the sea, Since I began, my roving man, A trafficker to be. As sure as I m John Camplejohn, And Bay Street s by the sea, Those things for gold have not been sold, Within my memory. But what would you give, my roving man From countries oversea, For the things you name, the life of the same, And the power to bid them be? I d give my hand, John Camplejohn, In Bay Street by the sea, For the smallest dower of that dear power To paint the things I see. My roving man, I never heard, On any land or sea Under the sun, of any one Could sell that power to thee. T is sorry news, John Camplejohn, If this be destiny, That every mart should know that art, Yet none can sell it me. But look you, here s the grace of God: There s neither price nor fee, Duty nor toll, that can control The power to love and see. To each his luck, John Camplejohn, No less! And as for me, Give me the pay of an idle day In Bay Street by the sea. Bliss Cctrmar& 110 The Youngest Son of his Fathers House. THE YOUNGEST SON OF HIS FATHERS HOUSE. THE eldest son of his fathers house, His was the right to have and hold: He took the chair before the hearth, And he was master of all the gold. The second son of his fathers house, He took the wheatfields broad and fair, He took the meadows beside the brook, And the white flocks that pastured there. Pipe high pipe low! Along the way From dawn till eve I needs must sin~z,! Who has a song throughout the day, He has no need of anything! The youngest son of his fathers house Had neither gold nor flocks for meed. He went to the brook at break of day, And made a pipe out of a reed. Pipe high pipe low! Each wind that blows Is comrade to my wandering. Who has a song wherever he goes, He has no need of anything! His brothers wife threw open the door. Piper, come in for a while, she said. Thou shalt sit at my hearth, since thou art so poor, And thou shalt give me a song instead! Pipe high pipe low all over the wold! Lad, wilt thou not come in? asked she. Who has a song, he feels no cold, ~y brothers hearth is mine own, quoth he. Pipe high pipe low! For what care I Though there be no hearth on the wide gray plain? I have set my face to the open sky, And have cloaked myself in the thick gray rain. Over the hills where the white clouds are, He piped to the sheep till they needs must come. They fed in pastures strange and far, But at fall of night he brought them home.

110 The Youngest Son of his Fathers House. THE YOUNGEST SON OF HIS FATHERS HOUSE. THE eldest son of his fathers house, His was the right to have and hold: He took the chair before the hearth, And he was master of all the gold. The second son of his fathers house, He took the wheatfields broad and fair, He took the meadows beside the brook, And the white flocks that pastured there. Pipe high pipe low! Along the way From dawn till eve I needs must sin~z,! Who has a song throughout the day, He has no need of anything! The youngest son of his fathers house Had neither gold nor flocks for meed. He went to the brook at break of day, And made a pipe out of a reed. Pipe high pipe low! Each wind that blows Is comrade to my wandering. Who has a song wherever he goes, He has no need of anything! His brothers wife threw open the door. Piper, come in for a while, she said. Thou shalt sit at my hearth, since thou art so poor, And thou shalt give me a song instead! Pipe high pipe low all over the wold! Lad, wilt thou not come in? asked she. Who has a song, he feels no cold, ~y brothers hearth is mine own, quoth he. Pipe high pipe low! For what care I Though there be no hearth on the wide gray plain? I have set my face to the open sky, And have cloaked myself in the thick gray rain. Over the hills where the white clouds are, He piped to the sheep till they needs must come. They fed in pastures strange and far, But at fall of night he brought them home. The Youngest Son of his Fathers House. 111 They followed hurn, bleating, wherever he led: He called his brother out to see. I have brought thee my flocks for a gift, he said, For thou seest that they are mine, quoth he. Pipe hi~h pipe low! Wherever I go The wide grain presses to hear me sing. Who has a song, though his state be low, He has no need of anything. Ye have taken my house, he said, and my sheep, But ye had no heart for to take me in. I will give ye my right for your own to keep, But ye be not my kin. To the kind fields my steps are led. My people rush across the plain. My bare feet shall not fear to tread With the cold white feet of the rain. My fathers house is wherever I pass; My brothers are each stock and stone; My mothers bosom in the grass Yields a sweet slumber to her son. Ye are rich in house and flocks, said he, Though ye have no heart to take me in. There was only a reed that was left for me, And ye be not my kin. Pipe high pipe low! Though skies be gray, Who has a song, he needs must roam! Even though ye call all day, all day, Brother, wilt thou come home? Over the meadows and over the wold, Up to the hills where the skies begin, The youngest son of his fathers house Went forth to find his kin. Anna Hempstead Branch. 112 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. AT NATURAL BRIDGE, VIRGINIA. I. WITH the exception of a tedious delay at East Radford it was a very enjoyable forenoons ride from Pulaski to Natural Bridge, through a country everywhere interesting, and for much of the distance gloriously wild and beautiful. Splendid hillside patches of mingled Judas-tree and flowering dogwood one of a bright peach-bloom color, the other royal masses of pure white brightened parts of the way south of Roanoke. There, also, hovering over a grassy field, were the first bobolinks of the season. From Buchanan northward (new ground to me by daylight) we had the company of mountains and the James River, the road following the windings of a narrow bank between the base of time ridge and the water. It surprised me to see the James so large and full at such a dis- tance from its mouth, almost as wide, I thought, as the Tennessee at Chat- tanooga. Shortly before reaching the Natural Bridge station the train stopped for water, and on getting off the steps of the car I heard a Maryland yellow- throat singing just below me at the foot of the bank, and in a minute more a kingfisher flew across the stream, two additional names for my vacation cata- logue. Then, while I waited at the station for a carriage from the hotel, two miles an(l a half away, I added still another. In the cloudy sky, be- tween me and the sun, was a bird which in that blinding light might have passed for a buzzard, only that a swallow was pursuing it. Seeing that sign, I raised my glass and found the bird a fish- hawk. Trifles these things were, per- haps, with mountains and a river in sight; but that depends upon ones scale of values. To me it is not so clear that a pile of earth is more an object of won- der than a swallow that soars above it; and for better or worse, mountains or no mountains, I kept an ornithological eye open. On the way to the Bridge (myself the only passenger) the colored driver of the wagon picked up a brother of his own race, who happened to be traveling in the same direction and was thankful for a lift. And a real amusement and plea- sure it was to listen to the two mens palaver, especially to their Mistering of each other at every turn of the dia- logue. I never saw two schoolmasters, even, who could do more in half an hour for the maintenance and increase of their mutual dignity. It was Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith with every other breath, until the second man was set down at his own gate. From their ap- pearance they must have been of an age to remember the days before the war, and I did not think it surprising that men who had once been pieces of pro- perty should be disposed to make the most of their present condition of manhood, and so to give and take, between them- selves, as many reminders and tokens of it as the brevity of their remaining time would permit. Once at the hotel, installed (literally) in my little room, the only window of which was in the door, opening npon the piazza, for all the world as a prison cell opens upon its corridor, once domiciled, I say, and a bite taken, I bought a season ticket of admission to the glen, and went down the path and a flight of steps, amid a flock of trilling goldfinches and past a row of lordly ar- bor-vitme trees, to the brook, and up the bank of the brook to the famous bridge. Of this, considered by itself, I shall at- tempt no description. The material facts are, in the language of the guidebook, that it is a huge monolithic arch, 215 feet

112 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. AT NATURAL BRIDGE, VIRGINIA. I. WITH the exception of a tedious delay at East Radford it was a very enjoyable forenoons ride from Pulaski to Natural Bridge, through a country everywhere interesting, and for much of the distance gloriously wild and beautiful. Splendid hillside patches of mingled Judas-tree and flowering dogwood one of a bright peach-bloom color, the other royal masses of pure white brightened parts of the way south of Roanoke. There, also, hovering over a grassy field, were the first bobolinks of the season. From Buchanan northward (new ground to me by daylight) we had the company of mountains and the James River, the road following the windings of a narrow bank between the base of time ridge and the water. It surprised me to see the James so large and full at such a dis- tance from its mouth, almost as wide, I thought, as the Tennessee at Chat- tanooga. Shortly before reaching the Natural Bridge station the train stopped for water, and on getting off the steps of the car I heard a Maryland yellow- throat singing just below me at the foot of the bank, and in a minute more a kingfisher flew across the stream, two additional names for my vacation cata- logue. Then, while I waited at the station for a carriage from the hotel, two miles an(l a half away, I added still another. In the cloudy sky, be- tween me and the sun, was a bird which in that blinding light might have passed for a buzzard, only that a swallow was pursuing it. Seeing that sign, I raised my glass and found the bird a fish- hawk. Trifles these things were, per- haps, with mountains and a river in sight; but that depends upon ones scale of values. To me it is not so clear that a pile of earth is more an object of won- der than a swallow that soars above it; and for better or worse, mountains or no mountains, I kept an ornithological eye open. On the way to the Bridge (myself the only passenger) the colored driver of the wagon picked up a brother of his own race, who happened to be traveling in the same direction and was thankful for a lift. And a real amusement and plea- sure it was to listen to the two mens palaver, especially to their Mistering of each other at every turn of the dia- logue. I never saw two schoolmasters, even, who could do more in half an hour for the maintenance and increase of their mutual dignity. It was Mr. Brown and Mr. Smith with every other breath, until the second man was set down at his own gate. From their ap- pearance they must have been of an age to remember the days before the war, and I did not think it surprising that men who had once been pieces of pro- perty should be disposed to make the most of their present condition of manhood, and so to give and take, between them- selves, as many reminders and tokens of it as the brevity of their remaining time would permit. Once at the hotel, installed (literally) in my little room, the only window of which was in the door, opening npon the piazza, for all the world as a prison cell opens upon its corridor, once domiciled, I say, and a bite taken, I bought a season ticket of admission to the glen, and went down the path and a flight of steps, amid a flock of trilling goldfinches and past a row of lordly ar- bor-vitme trees, to the brook, and up the bank of the brook to the famous bridge. Of this, considered by itself, I shall at- tempt no description. The material facts are, in the language of the guidebook, that it is a huge monolithic arch, 215 feet At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 11~ high, 100 feet wide, and 90 feet in span, crossing the ravine of Cedar Brook. Magnificent as it is, there is, for me at least, not much to say concerning it, or concerning my sensations in the presence of it. iNot that it disappointed me. On the contrary, it was from the first more imposing than I had expected to find it. I loved to look at it, from one side and from the other, from beneath and from above. I walked under it and over it (on the public highway, for it is a bridge not only in name. but in fact) many times, by sunlight and by moonlight, and should be glad to do the same many times more; but perhaps my taste is peculiar; at all events, such wonders of nature do not charm me or wear with me like a beautiful landscape. It was so, I remember, at Ausable Chasm; interesting, grand, impressive, but a place in which I had no passion for stay- ing, no sense of exquisite delight or solemnity. In Burlington, just across Lake Champlain, I could sit by the hour, even on the fiat roof of the hotel, and gaze upon the blue water and the blue Adirondacks beyond, the sight was a feast of beauty; but this cleft in the rocks, well, I was glad to walk through it and to shoot the rapids; there was nothing to be said in disparagement of the place, but it put me under no spell. I fear it would be the same with those marvelous Colorado caiThns and gar- dens of the gods. A wooded moun- tain side, a green valley, running water, a lake with islands, best of all, perhaps (for mc, that is, and taking the years together), a New England hill pasture, with boulders and red cedars, berry bushes and fern patches, the whole bounded by stone walls and bordered with gray birches and pitch pines, for sights to live with, let me have these and things like them in preference to any of natures more freakish work, which ap- peals rather to curiosity than to the im- agination and the affections. Having gone under the arch (and VOL. LXXXII. NO. 489. 8 looked in vain for Washingtons initials on the wall), the visitor to Natural Bridge finds himself following up the brook a lively stream between lofty precip- itous cliffs, that turn to steep wooded slopes as he proceeds. If he is like me, he pursues the path to the end, stopping here and there, at the saltpetre cave, at Hemlock Island, and at Lost River, if nowhere else, till he comes to the end at the falls, a distance of a mile, more or less. That is my way always. I must go straight through the place once; then, the edge of my curiosity dulled, I am in a condition to see and enjoy. The ravine is a botanists paradise: that, I should say, must be the first thought of every appreciative tourist. The eleva- tion (fifteen hundred feet), the latitude, and the limestone rocks work together to that end. In a stay of a week I could see, of course, but one set of flowers; and in my preoccupation I passed many herbs and shrubs, mostly out of bloom, the names of which I neither knew nor attempted to discover. One of the things that struck my admiration on the instant was the beauty of the columbine as here displayed; a favorite with me always, for more reasons than one, but never be- held in all its loveliness till now. If the election could be held here, and on the 1st of May, there would be no great diffi- culty in securing a unanimous vote for Aquilegia Canadensis as the national flower. It was in its glory at the time of my earlier visits, brightening the face of the cliffs, not in a mass, but in scat- tered sprays, as high as the eyesight could follow it; looking, even under the opera-glass, as if it grew out of the rock itself. With it were sedges, ferns, and much of a tufted white flower, which at first I made no question must be the common early saxifrage. When I came upon it within reach, however, I saw at once that it was a plant of quite another sort, some member of the troublesome mustard family, Draba ramosissima, as afterward turned out. It was wonder- 114 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. ful how closely it simulated the appear- ance of Saxifraga Virginiensis, though the illusion was helped, no doubt, by the habit I ani in of seeing columbine and saxifrage together. The ground in many places was al- most a mat of violets, three kinds of which were in special profusion: the tall, fragrant white Canadensis, the long- spurred rostrata, of a very pale blue, with darker streaks and a darker centre (like our blue meadow violets in that re- spect), and the commonpalmata. The long-spurred violet was new to me, and both for that reason and for itself pe- culiarly attractive. As I passed up the glen on the right of the brook beyond Hemlock Island, so called, carpeted with partridge-berry vines bearing a wondrous crop ( See the berries! my notebook says), I began to find here and there the large trillium (T grand~/1oram), some of the blossoms clear white, others of a delicate rosy tint. The rosy ones had been open longer than the others, it ap- peared; for the flowers blush with age, a very modest and grac~ful habit. Like the spurred violet, the trillium is a plant also of northern New England, but happily for my present enjoyment I had never seen it there. And the same is to be said of the large yellow bellwort, which was here the trilliums neighbor, and looked only a little less distinguished than the trillium itself. If I were to name all the plants I saw, or even all that attracted my particular notice, the non-botanical reader would quit me for a tiresome chronicler. ilepa- tica and bloodroot had dropped their last petals; but anemone and rue anemone were still in bloom, with cranesbill, spring beauty, ragwort, mitrewort, rob- ins plantain, Jack - in - the - pulpit, wild ginger (two thick handsome leaves hid- ing a dark-purplish three-horned urn of an occult and almost sinister aspect), two or more showy chickweeds, two kinds of white stone-crop (Sedurn~ ter- natum, and S. Nevii, the latter a novel- ty), mandrake (sheltering its precious round bud under an umbrella, though to-day it neither rained nor shone), pep- per-root, gill-over-the-ground (where did it come from, I wondered), Dutchmans breeches (the leaves only), Orchis specta- bilis (which I did not know till after a few days it blossomed), and many more. A new shrub almost a tree was the bladder-nut, with drooping clusters of small whitish flowers, like bunches of currant blossoms in their manner of growth and general appearance; espe- cially dear to humble-bees, which would not be done with a branch even while I carried it in my hand. In one place, as I stooped to examine a boulder cov- ered thickly with the tiny walking fern, of which the ravine contains a great abundance, faded, ill conditioned, and homely, but curious, and, better still, a stranger, I found the ground littered with bright yellowish magnolia petals; and if I looked into the sky for a pass- ing bird, it was almost as likely as not that I should find myself looking through the branches of a soaring tulip-tree, a piece of magnificence that is one of the most constant of my Alleghanian admi- rations. All the upper part of the glen is pervaded by a dull rumbling or moan- ing sound, the voice of Lost River, out of which the tourist is supposed to have drunk at the only point where it shows itself (and there only to those who look for it), a quarter of a mile back. An- other all-pervasive thing is the whole- some fragrance of arbor-vitte. It is fit- ting, surely, that the tree of life should be growing in this floral paradise. There are few places, I imagine, where it flour- ishes better. On my way back toward the bridge I discovered, as was to be expected, many things that had been overlooked on my way out; and every successive visit was similarly rewarded. A pleasing sight at the bridge itself was the continual flut- tering of butterflies Turnus and his smaller and paler brother Ajax, espe At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 115 daily against the face of the cliffs, sipping from the deep honey-jars of the columbines. Here, too, I often stopped awhile to enjoy the doings of several pairs of rough-winged swallows that had their nests in a row of holes in the rock, between two of the strata. Most ro- mantic homes they looked, under the overhanging ledge, a narrow platform below, ferns and sedges nodding over- head, with tall arbor-vita~ trees a little higher on the cliff, and water dropping continually before the doors. One of the nests, I noticed, had directly in front of it a patch of low green moss, the neat- est of door-mats. The holes were only a few feet above the level of the stream, but there was no approach to them with- out wading; for which reason, perhaps, the owners paid little attention to me, even when I got as near them as I could. In and out they went, quite at their ease, resting now and then upon a jut- ting shelf, or perching in the branches of some tree near at hand. Once three of them sat side by side before one of the openings, which after all may have admitted to some sizable cavern where- in different pairs were living together. They are the least beautiful of swallows, but for this time, at all events, they had displayed a remarkably pretty taste in the choice of a nesting-site. The birds of Cedar Creek, however, were not the rough-wings, but the Loui- siana water thrushes. On my first jaunt through the ravine (May 1) I counted seven of them, here one and there an- other, the greater part in free song; and while I never found so many again at any one visit, I was never there without seeing and hearing at least two or three. It was exactly such a spot as the water thrush loves, a quick stream, with boul- ders and abundant vegetation. The song, I am sorry to be obliged to confess, as I have confessed before, is not to me all that it appears to be to other listeners; probably not all that a longer acquaint- ance and a more intimate association would make it. It is loud and ringing, for a warblers song, I mean; in that respect well adapted to the birds or- dinary surroundings, being easily heard above the noise of a pretty lively brook. It is heard the better, too, because of its remarkably disconnected, staccato char- acter. Every note is by itself. Though the bird haunts the vicinity of running water, there is no trace of fluidity in its utterance. No bird-song could be less flowing. It neither gurgles nor runs smoothly, note merging into note. It would be too much to call it declama- tory, perhaps, but it goes some way in that direction. At least we may call it emphatic. At different times I wrote it down in different words, none of which could be expected to do more than as- sist, first the writers memory, and then the readers imagination, to recall and divine the rhythm and general form of the melody. For that I speak for myself a verbal transcription, imper- fect as it must be, in the nature of the case, is likely to prove more intelligible, and therefore more useful, than any at- tempt to reproduce the music itself by a resort to musical notation. As most fre- quently heard here, the song consisted of eight notes, like Come come come come, you re a beauty, de- livered rather slowly. Lazily was the word I sometimes employed, but slowly is perhaps better, though it is true that the song is cool and, so to speak, very unpassionate. Dynamically I marked it ~ while the variations in pitch may be indicated roughly thus: . Two of the lower notes, the fifth and sixth, were shorter than the others, half as long, if my ear and memory are to be trusted. Sometimes a bird would break out into a bit of flour- ish at the end, but to my thinking such improvised cadenzas, as they had every appearance of being, only detracted from the simplicity of the strain without add- ing anything appreciable to its beauty or its effectiveness. 116 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. This song, which the reader will per- haps blame me for trying thus to analyze (I shall not blame him), very soon grew to be almost a part of the glen; so that I never recall the brook and the cliffs without seeming to hear it rising clear and sweet above the brawling of the current; and when I hear it, I can see the birds flitting up or down the creek, just in advance of me, with sharp chips of alarm or displeasure; now balancing uneasily on a boulder in mid-stream (a posterior bodily fluctuation, half graceful, half comical, slanderously spoken of as teetering) and singing a measure or two, now taking to an overhanging branch, sometimes at a considerable height, for the same tuneful purpose. One acrobatic fellow, I remember, walked for some dis- tance along the seemingly perpendicular face of the cliff, slipping now and then on the wet surface and having to wing it fora space, yet still pausing at short intervals to let out a song. In truth, the happy creatures were just then brim- ming over with music; and if I seem to praise their efforts but grudgingly, it is to be said, on the other hand, in justice to the song and to myself, that my ap- preciation of it grew as the days passed. Whatever else might be true of it, it was the voice of the place. Of birds beside the rough-wings and the water thrushes there were surpris- ingly few in the glen, though, to be sure, there may well have been many more than I found trace of. The splashing of a mountain brook is very pleasing music, more pleasing, in itself considered, than the great majority of bird-songs, perhaps, but an ornithological hobby- ist may easily have too much of it. I call to mind how increasingly vexatious, and at last all but intolerable, a turbu- lent Vermont stream (a branch of Waits River) became to me, some years ago, as it followed my road persistently mile af- ter mile in the course of a May vacation. One gets on the track of the smaller birds through hearing their faint calls in the bushes and treetops; and how was I to catch such indispensable signals with this everlasting uproar in my eai~s? So it was here in Cedar Creek ravine; it would have to be a pretty loud voice to be heard above the din of the hurry- ing water. And the birds, on their side, had something of the same difficulty; or so I judged from the unconventional be- havior of a blue yellow-backed warbler that flitted through the hanging branches of a tree within a few inches of my hat, having plainly no suspicion of a human beings proximity. The tufted titmouse could be heard, of course. He would make a first-rate auctioneer, it seemed to me, with his penetrating, indefatiga- ble voice and his genius for repetition. Now and then, too, I caught the sharp, sermonizing tones of a red-eyed vireo. Once an oven-bird near me mounted a tree hastily, branch by branch, and threw himself from the top for a burst of his afternoon medley; and at the bridge a pho3be sat calling. These, with a pair of cardinal grosbeaks, were all the birds I saw in the glen during my first days visit. In fact, I had the place pretty nearly to myself, not only on this first day, but for the entire week. Once in a great while a human visitor was encountered, but for the most part I went up and down the path with no disturbance to my meditations. Happily for me, the Bridge was now in its dull season. Many tourists had been here. The trunks of the older trees, the beeches especially, were scarred thickly with inglorious ini- tials, some of them so far from the ground that the authors of them must have stood on one anothers shoulders in their de- termination to get above the crowd. (In work of this kind an inch or two makes all the difference between renown and obscurity.) The fact was emblematic, I thought. So do men hoist and boost themselves into fame, not only in Cedar Creek ravine, but in the great world, as we call it, outside. Who so lowly- At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 11 minded as not to believe that he could make a name for himself if only he had a step-ladder? At the arch, likewise, such autographers had been busy ever since Washingtons day. I peeped into a crevice to obtain a closer view of a tiny fern, and there before me was a penciled name, invisible till I came thus near to it. One of the meek the writer must have been; a lead pencil, and so fine a hand! Dumphy of New Orleans. Why should I not second his modest bid for immortality? A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches. By all means let Dumphy of New Orleans be remembered. As for Washingtons G. W., the letters are said to be still decipherable by those who know exactly where to look and exactly what to look for; but I can testify to nothing of myself. I was told where the initials were; one was much plainer than the other, my informant said, which seemed to imply that one of them, at least, was more or less a matter of faith; he would go down with me some day and point them out; but the hour convenient to both of us never came, and so, although I almost always spent a minute or two in the search as I passed under the arch, I never detect- ed them or anything that I could even imagine to stand for them. I have had experience enough of such things, how- ever, to be aware that my failure proves nothing as against the witness of other mens eyesight. Certainly I know of no ground for doubting that Washington cut his initials on the cliff; and if he did, it seems reasonable to believe that tradition would have preserved a know- ledge of the place, and so have made it possible to find them now in all their inevitable indistinctness after so long an exposure to the wear of the elements. Neither do I esteem it anything but a natural and worthy curiosity for the vis- itor to wish to see them; and I may add my hope that all young men who are destined to achieve Washingtons mea sure of distinction will cut their names large and deep in every such wall, for the benefit of future generations. As for the rest of us, if we must scratch our names in stone or carve them on the bark of trees, let us seek some se- questered nook, where the sight of our doings will neither be an offense to oth- ers nor make us a laughing-stock. I have said that I discovered Dumphy of New Orleans while leaning against the cliff to peer into a crevice in search of a diminutive fern. This fern was of much interest to me, being nothing less than the wall-rue spleenwort (Asplenium Ruta-muraria), for which I had looked without success in years past on the lime- stone cliffs of northern Vermont, at Willoughby and elsewhere. The fronds, stipe and all, last - year plants in full fruit, were less than three inches in length. Another fern, one size larger, but equal- ly new and interesting, was the purple- stemmed cliff-brake (Pellcea atropurpu- rea), which also had eluded my search in its New England habitat. Both these rarities (plants which will grow only on limestone cannot easily be degraded into commonness) I could have gathered here in moderate numbers, but of course col- lecting is not permitted; it cannot be, in a spot so frequented by curiosity-seekers- It was pleasure enough for me, at any rate, to see them. Along the bottom of the ravine I had remarked a profusion of a strikingly beautiful larger fern (but still small- ish, as my pencil says), with showy red stems and a most graceful curving or drooping habit. This I could not make out for a time; but it proved to be, as I soon began to suspect, Cystopteris but- bifera, to my thinking one of the loveli- est of all things that grow. I had seen it abundant at Willoughby, Vermont, and at Owls Head, Canada, ten years before; but either my memory was play- ing me a trick, or there was here a very considerable diminution in the length of the fronds, accompanied by a decided 118 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. heightening in the color of the stalk and rhachis. Before long, however, I found a specimen aheady beginning to show its bulbiets, and these, with a study of Dr. Eatons description, left me in no doubt as to the plants identity. What other ferns may have been grow- ing in the ravine I cannot now pretend to say. I remember the Christmas fern, a goodly supply of the dainty little As- plenium triehomanes, and tufts of what I took with reasonable certainty for Cys- topteris fragilis in its early spring stage, than which few things can be more graceful. On the upper edge of the ravine, when I left the place one day by following a maze of zigzag cattle- paths up the steep slope, and found my- self, to my surprise, directly in the rear of the hotel, I came upon a dense patch of a smallish, very narrow, dark-stemmed fern, new to my eyes, the hairy lip- fern, so called (Cheilanthes vest ita). These fronds, too, like those of the cliff- brake and the wall-rue spleenwort, were of last years growth, thickly covered on the back with brown fruit-dots, and altogether having much the appear- ance of dry herbarium specimens; but they were good to look at, nevertheless. Here, as in the case of Pelhea atropur- purea, it was a question not only of a new species, but of a new genus. From my account of the scarcity of birds in Cedar Creek ravine the reader will have already inferred, perhaps, that I did not spend my days there, great as were its botanical attractions. My last mornings experience at Pulaski, the evidence there seen that the vernal mi- gration was at full tide, or near it, had brought on a pretty acute attack of ornithological fever, ~ a spring disease which I am happy to believe has become almost an epidemic in some parts of the United States within recent years, and not even the sight of new ferns and new flowers could allay its symptoms. I had counted upon finding a similar state of things here, all the woods astir with wings. Instead of that, I found the fields alive with chipping sparrows, the air full of chimney swifts, the shade trees in front of the hotel vocal with gold- finch notes, and, comparatively speaking, nothing else. By the end of the sec- ond day I was fast becoming disconso- late. No birds here, I wrote in my journal. I have tried woods of all sorts. A very few parula warblers, two or three red - eyed vireos, one yellow - throated vireo, seven Louisiana water thrushes in the glen, one prairie warbler, and a few oven-birds! No Bewick wrens. Two purple finches and one or two phwbes have been the only additions to my Vir- ginia list. A pitiful tale. Vacations are short and precious, and it goes hard with us to see them running to waste. The next evening (May 3) it was the same story continued. It is marvelous, the difference between this beautiful place, diversified with fields and woods, hard wood, cedar, pine, it is mar- velous, the difference between this hea- venly spot and Pulaski in the matter of birds. There I registered six new ar- rivals in half an hour Wednesday morn- ing; here I have made but six additions to my list in two full days. There is scarcely a sign of warbler migration. Was it that in Pulaski the woods were comparatively small, and the birds had to congregate in them? Or does Pulaski lie in a route of migration? Wild sur- Inises, both of them; but wisdom is not to be looked for in a fever patient. Six additions in two full days, I wrote; but the second day was not yet full. As evening came on I went out to stand awhile upon the bridge; and while I listened to the brawling of the creek and admired the beautiful scene below me, the moon shining straight down upon it, a nighthawk called from the sky, and afterward not from the sky a whip- poorwill. Here, then, were two more names for my catalogue; but even so, six or eight, it was a beggarly rate of increase in such a favored spot and At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 119 in the very nick of the season. The six additions, it may ease the read- ers curiosity to know, were the Carolina wren, the summer tanager, the purple finch, the indigo bunting, the blue-gray gnatcatcher, and the phwbe. One compensation there was for the ornithological barrenness of these first few days: I had the more leisure for botany. And the hours were not thrown away, although at the time I was almost ready to think they were, with so many of them devoted to ransacking the Man- ual; for a man who does not collect spe- cimens to carry home with him must, as it were, drive his field work and his closet work abreast; he must study out his find- ings as he goes along. On the evening of the second day, for example, I wrote in my journal thus, the final entry under that date, as the reader may guess: In bed. Strange how we flatter ourselves with a knowledge of names. I have spent much time to-day looking up the names of flowers and ferns, and somehow feel as if I had learned something in so doing. Really, however, I have learned only that some one else has seen the things before me, and called them so and so. At best that is nearly all I have learned. But after setting down the results of my investigations, especially of those having to do with the pretty draba and the bul- biferous fern, I concluded in a less posi- tive strain: Well, the hunt for names does quicken observation and help to re- late and classify things. That was a qualification well put in. The whole truth was never written on one side of the leaf. If all our botany were Latin names, as Emerson says, we should have little to boast of; yet even that would be one degree better than nothing, as Emerson himself felt when he visited a museum and saw the cases of shells. I was hungry for names, he remarks. So have all men of intelligence been since the day of the first systematic, name- conferring naturalist, the man who dwelt in Eden. Let us be thankful for man- nals, I say, that offer on easy terms a speaking acquaintance, if nothing more, with the world of beauty about us. Things take their value from compari- son, and my own ignorance was but a little while ago so absolute that now I am proud to know so much as a name. Meanwhile, to come back to Natural Bridge, I had found the country of a most engaging sort. In truth, while the bridge itself is the feature of the place, as we speak in these days, it is by no means its only, or, as I should say, its principal attraction, so far, at least, as a leisurely visit is concerned. A man may see it and go, as most tourists do; but if he stays, he will find that the region round about not only has charms of its own, but is one of the prettiest he has ever set eyes on; and that, I should think, though he be neither a botanist, nor an ornithologist, nor any other kind of natural historian. For myself, at all events, I had already come to that con- clusion, notwithstanding I had yet to see some of the most beautiful parts of the country, and was, besides, far too much concerned about the birds (the absentees in particular) and the flowers to have quieted down to any adequate apprecia- tion of the general landscape. I have never yet learned to see a prospect on the first day, or while in the eager ex- pectation of new things, although, like every one else, I can exclaim with a mea- sure of shallow sincerity, Beautiful! beautiful! even at the first moment. As my mood now was, at any rate, fine scenery did not satisfy me; and on the morning of May 4, after two days and a half of botanical surfeit and or- nithological starvation, I packed my trunk preparatory to going elsewhere. First, however, I would try the woods once more, if perchance something might have happened overnight. Otherwise, so I informed the landlord, I would re- turn in season for an early luncheon, and should expect to be driven to tIme station for the noon train northward. 120 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. I went to a promising-looking hill cov- ered with hard-wood forest, a spot al- ready visited more than once, Buck Hill I heard it called afterward, and was no sooner well in the woods than it became evident that something had happened. The treetops were swarming with birds, and I had my hands full with trying to see and name them. Old trees are grand creations, among the noblest works of God, I often think; but for a bird-gazer they have one disheart- ening drawback, especially when, as now, the birds not only take to the topmost boughs (even the hummer and the mag- nolia warbler, so my notes say, went with the multitude to do evil), but, to make matters worse, are on the move north- ward or southward, or flitting in simple restlessness from hill to hill. However, I did my best with them while the fun lasted. Then all in a moment they were gone, though I did not see them go; and nothing was left but the wearisome iter- ations of oven-birds and red-eyes where just now were so many singers and talk- ers, among which, for aught I could tell, there might have been some that it would have been worth the price of a long va- cation to scrape even a treetop acquaint- ance with. Indeed, it was certain that one mem- ber of the flock was a rarity, if not an absolute novelty. That was the most exciting and by all odds the most de- plorable incident of the whole affair. I had obtained several glimpses of him, but had been unable to determine his identity; a warbler, past all reasonable doubt, with pure white under parts (the upper parts quite invisible) except for a black or blackish line, barely made out, across the lower throat or the upper breast. He, of course, had vanished with the rest, the more was the pity. I had made a guess at him, to be sure; it is a poor naturalist who cannot do as much as that (but a really good natural- ist would form a hypothesis, I sup- pose) under almost any circumstances. I had called him a cerulean warbler. Once in my life I had seen a bird of that species, but only for a minute. If he wore a black breast-band, I did not see it, or else had forgotten it. If I could only have had a look at this fel- lows back and wings! As it was, I was not likely ever to know him, though the printed description would either demol- ish or add a degree of plausibility to my offhand conjecture. The better course, after losing a bevy of wanderers in this way, is perhaps to remain where one is and await the arrival of another detachment of the migratory host. This advice, or something like it, I seem to remember having read, at all events; but I have never schooled myself to such a pitch of quietism. For a time, indeed, I could not believe that the birds were lost, and must hunt the hilltop over in the hope of another chance at them. An empty hope. So I did what I al- ways do: the game having flown, I took my own departure also. I should not find the same flock again, but with good luck which now it was easy to expect I might find another; and except for the single mysterious stranger, that would be better still. One thing I was sure of, Natural Bridge was not to be left out of the warbler migration; and one thing I forgot entirely, that I had planned to leave it by the noonday train. My useless chase over the broad hill- top had brought me to the side opposite the one by which I had ascended, and to save time, as I persuaded myself, I plunged down, as best I could, without a trail, a piece of expensive economy, almost of course. In the first place, this haphazardous descent took me longer than it would have done to retrace my steps; and in the second place, I was compelled for much of the distance to force my way through troublesome un- derbrush, in doing which I made of ne- cessity being a white man no little noise, and so was the less likely to hear the note of any small bird, or to come At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 121 close upon him without putting him to flight. In general, let the bird - gazer keep to the path, except in open woods, or as some specific errand may lead him away from it. In one way and another, nevertheless, I got down at last, and after beating over a piece of pine wood, with little or no result, I crossed a field and a road, and entered a second tract of hard- wood forest. The trees were comfortably low, with much convenient shrubbery, and after a little, seeing myself at the centre of things, as it were, I dropped into a seat and allowed the birds to gather about me. At my back was a bunch of white- throated sparrows. From the same quarter a chat whistled now and then, and white - breasted nuthatchcs and a Carolina chickadee did likewise, the last with a noticeable variation in his tune, which had dwindled to three notes. Here, as on the hill I had just left, wood pewees and Acadian flycatchers announced themselves, in tones so dis- similar as to suggest no hint of blood relationship. The wood pewee is surely the gentleman of the family, so far as the voice may serve as an indication of character. In dress and personal ap- pearance he is a flycatcher of the fly- catchers; but what a contrast between his soft, plaintive, exquisitely modulated whistle, the very expression of refine- ment, and the wild, rasping, over - em- phatic vociferations that characterize the family in general! The more praise to him. The Acadians seemed to have come northward in a body. Nothing had been seen or heard of them before, but from this morning they abounded in all directions. In a single night they had taken possession of the woods. Here was the first Canadian warbler of the season, singing from a perch so Un- commonly elevated (he is a lover of bushy thickets rather than of trees) that for a time it did not come to me who he was, so exceedingly earnest and voluble. A black - throated blue war- bler almost brushed my elbow. Red- starts were never so splendid, I thought, the white of the dogwood blossoms, now in their prime, setting off the black and orange of the birds in a most brilliant manner, as was true also of the deep ver- milion of the summer tanager. A Black- burnian warbler, whose flame - colored throat needs no setting but its own, had fallen into a lyrical mood very unusual for him, and sang almost continuously for at least half an hour, a poor little song in a thin little voice, but full of pleasant suggestions in every note. The first Swainson thrush was present, with no companion of his own kind, so far as appeared. I prolonged my stay on pur- pose to hear him sing, but was obliged to content myself with the sight of him and the sound of his sweet, quick whistle. All the while, as I watched one fa- vorite another would come between us. Once it was a humming-bird, a bit of animate beauty that must always be at- tended to; and once, when the place had of a sudden fallen silent, and I had taken out a book, I was startled by a flash of white among the branches, a red-headed woodpecker, in superb color, new for the year, and on all accounts welcome. He remained for a time in silence, and then in silence departed (he had been almost too near me before he knew it); but having gone, he began a little way off to play the tree-frog for my amusement. After him a hairy wood- pecker made his appearance, with sharp, peremptory signals, highly characteris- tic; and then, from some point near by, a rose-breasted grosbeaks hic was heard. It was high noon before I was done with receiving (one of the prettiest functions of the year, though none of the newspapers got wind of it), and re- turned to the hotel, where the landlord smiled when I told him that some friends of mine had arrived, and I should stay a few days longer. Bradford Torrey. 122 Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. SOME NEW LETTERS BY LEIGH HUNT AND STEVENSON. ALEXANDER IRELAND is known to most book-lovers chiefly as the compiler of The Book-Lovers Enchiridion, but it will perhaps be as the friend of some of the greatest literary celebrities of his day that he will longest be borne in re- membrance. And that day was a long one, for he was born in Edinburgh on May 9, 1810, and died in Manchester on December 7, 1895. Although he was not actively connect- ed with journalism until 1846, when he became business manager of the Man- chester Examiner and Times, Mr. Ire- land had been keenly interested in liter- ature for many years, and as early as 1835 had made the acquaintance of Emerson and Robert Chambers. The history of his friendship with Emerson he himself has given in his Memoir and Recollections of Emerson (1892). For nine years (183443) he was a constant visitor at the home of Robert Chambers, coining into contact there with many interesting people. It was through Mr. Ireland that Vestiges of Creation was first published; and later, it was he who divulged the secret of the authorship, as he was the last survivor of the four to whom it had been entrusted. It must remain a matter for infinite regret that he never put together his recollections of the distinguished writers whom he had known. It was on the occasion of a visit to London, in the spring of 1838, that Mr. Ireland made the acquaintance of Leigh Hunt, introduced by Robert Chambers in the first of the following letters EDINBURGH, March 28, 1838. M~ DEAR SIR, A. young friend of mine, who often reads and converses upon your works with me, and is, though in business, capable of appreciating their thought, fancy, and benevolence, is about to visit London, and I have thought of gratifying both him and myself by com- missioning him to take this letter to you, to inquire how you do, and to give you my kind remembrances, and to bring me from your own lips, if possible, some intelligence regarding you. All I have heard of you for some time is that you conduct the Monthly Repository, which is not to be seen in Scotland, or which, at any rate, I have not seen since you began to be connected with it. I should like to know if Fortune is kinder to you than she has been, and how your lambs suck and ewes feed; how your young people, I mean, are getting on. You and the world have somehow been uncon- formable strata, which surely there was no need for; and as I think it owes you something, I should like to learn that it has begun to pay the debt. My friends name is Ireland; he is the son of an eminent Edinbro patriot, and an excel- lent young man, setting aside all regard to literary taste and philosophic princi- ple. Next to Lamb, I believe you are his favourite author, and you can sympa- thize in the pleasure which a young man of refined feelings, brought up in the country, niust be disposed to experience on being admitted to see, in very habit as he lives, one of the objects of his worship. If his good fortune and your convenience unite to favour him with an interview of a few minutes, it will make me, as his friend, your grateful debtor. Trusting to hear all that is good of you, and with sentiments of sincere re- gard, I remain, my dear sir, Yours ever faithfully, ROBERT CHAMBERS. ALEXANDiIE IRELAND TO LEIGH RUNT. EDINBURGH, May 18, 1838. M~ DEAR Sin, I beg your accept- amice of the accompanying works, of

122 Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. SOME NEW LETTERS BY LEIGH HUNT AND STEVENSON. ALEXANDER IRELAND is known to most book-lovers chiefly as the compiler of The Book-Lovers Enchiridion, but it will perhaps be as the friend of some of the greatest literary celebrities of his day that he will longest be borne in re- membrance. And that day was a long one, for he was born in Edinburgh on May 9, 1810, and died in Manchester on December 7, 1895. Although he was not actively connect- ed with journalism until 1846, when he became business manager of the Man- chester Examiner and Times, Mr. Ire- land had been keenly interested in liter- ature for many years, and as early as 1835 had made the acquaintance of Emerson and Robert Chambers. The history of his friendship with Emerson he himself has given in his Memoir and Recollections of Emerson (1892). For nine years (183443) he was a constant visitor at the home of Robert Chambers, coining into contact there with many interesting people. It was through Mr. Ireland that Vestiges of Creation was first published; and later, it was he who divulged the secret of the authorship, as he was the last survivor of the four to whom it had been entrusted. It must remain a matter for infinite regret that he never put together his recollections of the distinguished writers whom he had known. It was on the occasion of a visit to London, in the spring of 1838, that Mr. Ireland made the acquaintance of Leigh Hunt, introduced by Robert Chambers in the first of the following letters EDINBURGH, March 28, 1838. M~ DEAR SIR, A. young friend of mine, who often reads and converses upon your works with me, and is, though in business, capable of appreciating their thought, fancy, and benevolence, is about to visit London, and I have thought of gratifying both him and myself by com- missioning him to take this letter to you, to inquire how you do, and to give you my kind remembrances, and to bring me from your own lips, if possible, some intelligence regarding you. All I have heard of you for some time is that you conduct the Monthly Repository, which is not to be seen in Scotland, or which, at any rate, I have not seen since you began to be connected with it. I should like to know if Fortune is kinder to you than she has been, and how your lambs suck and ewes feed; how your young people, I mean, are getting on. You and the world have somehow been uncon- formable strata, which surely there was no need for; and as I think it owes you something, I should like to learn that it has begun to pay the debt. My friends name is Ireland; he is the son of an eminent Edinbro patriot, and an excel- lent young man, setting aside all regard to literary taste and philosophic princi- ple. Next to Lamb, I believe you are his favourite author, and you can sympa- thize in the pleasure which a young man of refined feelings, brought up in the country, niust be disposed to experience on being admitted to see, in very habit as he lives, one of the objects of his worship. If his good fortune and your convenience unite to favour him with an interview of a few minutes, it will make me, as his friend, your grateful debtor. Trusting to hear all that is good of you, and with sentiments of sincere re- gard, I remain, my dear sir, Yours ever faithfully, ROBERT CHAMBERS. ALEXANDiIE IRELAND TO LEIGH RUNT. EDINBURGH, May 18, 1838. M~ DEAR Sin, I beg your accept- amice of the accompanying works, of Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. 123 which I spoke to you when I saw you. I should like to know your opinion of both, but particularly of Combes work. It appears to me to unfold very impor- tant views relative to the advancement and amelioration of the species, and af- fords a solution, in my humble opinion, of many of those difficulties connected with the moral government of the uni- verse which puzzle those accustomed to think of such subjects. I sincerely trust that you may pre- serve your health, because upon it de- pend cheerfulness and all the blessings. A Spanish proverb says, He who loves wealth loves much; he who loves friends loves more; but he who loves health loves all. May happier and brighter days be yet in store for you and yours! I retain the most pleasing recollection of my interview with you, and I shall have resort to your works with greater delight than ever, now that I know you. Mr. Chambers desires me to return you his grateful thanks for your kindness to me as his friend. I shall be exceeding- ly happy to hear from you when you have leisure to write; and believe me, I will always continue to feel the liveliest interest in your welfare. Yours faithfully, A. IRELAND. ALEXANDER TRELAND TO LEIGH HUNT. MANCHESTER, May 4, 1845. Mv DEAR Sin, You may not per- haps recollect me; but I shall never forget a delightful evening I spent with you six or seven years ago in Chelsea, where you welcomed me to your house, and allowed me the privilege of a few hours conversationwith you about Lamb, Hazlitt, Coleridge, and Poetry and Life, and all these glorious things. Since then many things have happened to me, both sad and sweet, but all tend- ing to make me love my fellow creatures more and more, and to have stronger and firmer hopes in the advancement of our common nature. I have been for two years residing in Manchester, engaged in commercial pur- suits. I am connected with the Athe~ nlcum, a literary institution of consid- erable importance, and of which you have doubtless heard. My object in writing to you is to ascertain whether you would be willing to be chairman at our next great soir~e. Dickens was our first chairman, Disraeli our second, and we are now beginning to think of a third. Leigh Hunts first letter to Ireland shows that even in the chorus of fame which was then assailing him the author enjoyed the single but sincere note which his young worshiper sounded: CHELSEA, February 21 [about 18401. M~ DEAR Sin, I wish I could write you as long and welcome a letter as the one I have received, and cram it full of all impossible good things besides; but overwhelmed as I am with heaps of writ- ten and printed congratulations, every one of which I am bound in gratitude, as well as impelled with delight, to an- swer, I am forced to make my thanks as brief as I can, consistently with my feelings. Many thanks for the letter it- self, and the length of it, and all you say in it, and the time at which it was written, and above all for the news you tell inc of Mrs. Ireland; for the breath of a woman ever sounds the best as well as the highest of all the notes of joy. With best returns of congratulations to you both, and hope to see you together some day on the green borders of Lon- don (for I am going to flit northward towards my old meadows), I am ever, dear sir, Your faithful and obliged servant, LEIGH HUNT. Like everybody else, Hunt seems to have fallen victim to the memorable epi- demic of influenza in 1841; for he writes from Kensington under date of February 16 of that year: 124 Some New Letters by Leigh Hant, and Stevenson. MY DEAR IRELAND, Pardon this brief word of a note. I have been so unwell with influenza, and am so with the consequences of it, I seem as if I bad been walking a hundred miles, and could nt get the fatigue out of my limbs. Ever most truly yours, L. H. The next letters show that Mr. Ire- lands admiration for his gifted friend continued to find expression: KENsINGToN, May 31. M~ DEAR IRELAND, My friend Mr. Ollier informs me that some weeks ago there was a very kind notice of me in an article in your old godfather the Examiner. I fear the godson must have thought me very insensible for say- ing nothing about it, but I have never seen the article. The number of the Manchester Examiner containingit never came into my hands. Observing the series of notices which your paper was giving of contemporary journals, etc., I had delayed making a remark or two on itself till I had seen the number in question; and its non- arrival was therefore doubly perplexing. Will you have the goodness to inquire whether any accident stopped it at the office? When I receive it I will write again. I have another request to make you; which is, to constitute yourself, for one minute, my spiritual representative at the Amateur supper (luckily for you, you cannot represent me in the flesh), and getting up, glass in hand, drink my kindest affectionate remembrances to my famous friend, and cordialest wishes for the Shakespearean welfare of Knowles. Ever most sincerely yours, LEIGH HUNT. P. 5. You will be glad to know that Webster has accepted my play, and that he promises to bring it out early next season. KENSINGTON, June 23. MY DEAR SIR, A million thanks for papers and their contents, and all kindness. I am forced to write very briefly, owing to a bad biliosified head; but you may well imagine what I feel, at what all kind friends are saying and doing. I hope to thank the Manchester por- tion of them by and by in person, for, if I prosper, there is nothing which will add to my good and pleasure so much as taking a journey or two gratitude- wards: in which hope I am ever, my dear sir, most sincerely Your obliged and faithful friend, LEIGH HUNT. The following extract from a letter of Irelands to Leigh Hunt, referring to the production of Hunts play, A Legend of Florence, in London, shows the con- tinned recollection of the memorable first meeting ten years before: I have just been reading in the Morning Chronicle and Examiner ac counts of your new play. Allow me to express to you the sin& ere pleasure and glow of satisfaction with which I read them. Amongst the many congratula- tions of your friends, be assured none can be more heartfelt than mine. Your works have been to me for years a solace and delight; a kind of sanctuary where I can retire from the rush of this worka- day world. I cannot resist the occasion of sending you a few lines, prompted to it by this pleasing passage in your his- tory. Never shall I forget your kind- ness in permitting me, an entire stranger ( No! I hear you say; an author and his reader cannot be strangers ), to spend a few hours with you some ten years since. That the gray - haired boy whose heart can neer grow old may long be spared to utter sweet and generous thoughts, diffusing wherever they go a cheerful humanity and mirthfulness, is the prayer of Your sincere well-wisher, ALEXANDER IRELAND. Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. 125 This last letter of Hunts shows his reverence for royalty, and reveals the sensitive vanity of the man. A play is, after all, the last thing in the world on which a man can rationally take criticism. HAMMERSMITH, October 27 [about 1849]. M~ DEAR SIR, Many thanks for your handsome notice of my play. Next to this, your approbation of it. I was particularly pleased to find that Mr. Montgomery gave way to his fervour so properly, on the occasion you allude to. I used to make Ellen Tree laugh, dur- ing the rehearsals of the part, by re- minding Mr. Anderson that he was not to be indecent, but to clasp his mistress right heartily, and as if the only thing to be ashamed of were his doing it by halves. For you know there is apt to be a cold suggestiveness on the stage, on such occasions, which is the most inde- cent of all things. Ah! I wish every- body had understood the play as thor- oughly as her fine nature did, or as that (let me proudly add) of the Queen did. I do not speak of the poetry, but of the heart and justice of it. It would have had a better fortune. But thereby hangs a tale. You speak of the emptiness of the boxes. There were so few men, one night, among the audience at Covent Garden that the same charming actress wittily said, Those are all the good husbands in London. The same in- equality of the sexes will perhaps have been observable in the Manchester au- diences. If so, it might be worth your while (and edifying for them) to notice it. Madame Vestris, with an instinctive apprehension to that effect, wished me to let Agolanti have his wife back again, and said that if I did so she would un- dertake that the play should have a run of sixty nights. I told her that my con- science would not allow me; that I felt I had a piece of legislation in my hands, the duty of which I could not give up; and that as the man was not to be di- vorced (for she would not have the di- vorce in the play, as originally written) nothing remained for justice but to kill him. A queens opinion, however, may do much, in spite of conventional errors. How it happened that the Legend of Florence was not repeated at the Prin- cesss Theatre, as other plays performed at Windsor had been, I have yet to learn, and even to inquire, so strangely in- curious am I, and so much in the habit of waiting events; but I ought to have done so, and must, now that my Auto- biography is to be continued. Strange things have been told me, but I have never investigated them. Not that the Queen had anything to do with them. Her Majesty (God bless the dear, warm- hearted woman) has never done me any- thing but good and honour, from first to last. Perhaps you are not aware that after she had first witnessed the performance of the play at Covent Garden, the Queen, on her way out of the theatre, said to the stage manager, This is a beauti- ful play you have given us to-night, Mr. Bartly. Bartly, with great good na- ture as well as presence of mind, said to the Queen, I think the author would be very happy if I might repeat to him those gracious words of your Majesty. Do so, by all means, said the cordial sovereign. Lord John Russell told me that Prince Albert expressed the same opinion of the piece. You are aware, I believe, that the Queen went more than once to see it at Covent Garden; twice, I know, but Madame Vestris told a friend that she went four times. She afterward had it performed at Windsor; and this, I think, it might have been good for the Man- chester people to be told, in the plays announcements. I had thought of say- ing as much to the manager, myself, in a letter to him; but living so retired, and ignorant of so many things which other people know, I am not acquainted with 126 Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. his name, and did not like to address him merely by his office. Perhaps, if you, or some friend of yours, have per- sonal knowledge of him, you would be kind enough to convey my compliments to him and state my opinion on the sub- ject; perhaps let him have a sight of this letter. I cannot help thinking, knowing what an effect royalty has at all times, and how just a sympathy the people have with it, in its present English shape, that if the manager were to speak of the play in his bills and announcements as performed by her Majestys command at Windsor Castle, the result to the boxes might be good for all parties concerned. With constant pleasure in rending, every Saturday or Monday (according as the postman chooses to gratify me), both your original articles (often pluck- ing out the whole heart of the questions) and the judicious and entertaining selec- tions which you make from books, I am ever, dear sir, Thankfully and faithfully yours, LEJGH HUNT. Another of the literary men whom Mr. Ireland had among his correspondents was Robert Louis Stevenson. The first of the following letters from him the only real letter of the three; the others are but notes is very characteristic, in- tense, eager, and hopeful. DAvos, SwITZERLAND [1881 ?]. M~ DEAR SIR, This formidable pa- per need not alarm you: it argues no- thing beyond penury of other sorts, and it is not at all likely to lead me into a long letter. If I were at all grateful, it would, for yours has just passed for me a considerable part of a stormy even- ing. And speaking of gratitude, let me at once, and with becoming eagerness, accept your kind invitation to Bowden. I shall hope, if we can agree as to dates, when I am nearer hand, to come to you some time in the month of May. I was pleased to hear you were a Scot, I feel more at home with my compatriots al- ways; perhaps the more we are away, the more we feel that bond. You ask about Davos. I have dis- coursed about it already, rather sillily, I think, in the Pall Mall, and I mean to say no more; but the ways of the Muse are dubious and obscure, and who knows? I may be wild again. As a place of resi- dence, beyond a splendid climate, it has to my eyes but one advantage, the neigh- bourhood of J. A. Symonds. I dare say you know his work, but the man is far more interesting. Davos has done me, in my two winters of Alpine exile, much good; so much that I hope to leave it now forever, but would not be understood to boast. In my present unpardonably crazy state, any cold night sends me skipping, either back to Davos or further off. It is dear, a little dreary, very far from many things that both my taste and my needs prompt me to seek, and altogether not the place I should choose of my free will. I am chilled by your description of the man in question; though I had al- most argued so much from his cold and undigested volume. If the republication does not interfere with my publisher, it will not interfere with me; but there, of course, comes the hitch. I do not know Mr. Bentley, and I fear all pub- lishers like the devil, from legend and ex- perience both. However, when I come to town, we shall, I hope, meet and un- derstand each other, as well as author and publisher ever do. I liked his let- ters; they seemed hearty, kind, and per- sonal. Still, I am notedly suspicious of the trade; your news of this republica- tion alarms me. The best of the present French nov- elists seems to me, incomparably, Dan- det. Les Rois en Exil comes very near being a masterpiece. For Zola I have no toleration, though the curious, emi- nently bourgeois, and eminently French creature has power of a kind. But I Some New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson. 127 would he were deleted! I would not give a chapter of old Dumas (meaning hiniself, not his collaborators) for the whole boiling of the Zolas. Romance with the smallpox (or the great one), diseased and black-hearted, and fun- damentally at enmity with joy. I trust that Mrs. Ireland does not ob- ject to smoking; aud if you are a tea- totaler, I beg you to mention it before I come. I have all the vices; some of the virtues also, let us hope, that, at least, of being a Scotchman and Yours very sincerely, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. P. 5. My father was in the old High School the last year, and walked in the procession to the new. I blush to own I am an Academy boy; it seems modern, and smacks of the soil. P. P. S. I enclose a good joke, at least, I think so, my first attempts, and wood-engravings printed by my stepson, a boy of thirteen. I will put in also one of my later attempts. I have been nine days at the art: observe my pro gress. R. L. S. The shadow of illness lay over all the work Stevenson did, but he maintained a merry daring till the end. SPEv VIEW, KIEGEOssIE, August 18 [1883 ?]. M~ DEAR SIR, I am afraid the 14th of September is too late for me, and we 11 have to delay the visit till next summer. I regret this extremely; but I must be thinking of something more to the purpose finding a shelter for my head by that date. I am feeling better, though I have been worse, since I saw you; but I am in hopes that I shall get through the sum- mer, at least, without harm, and then some better climate in winter will en- able me to progress. Summer seems worse than winter, somehow. Pray excuse my delay. This is a for- mula of mine, a elich6. But my wife has had a relapse, and be- tween that and dyspepsia I have not had my head on my shoulders this while past. With many thanks, believe me, Yours very truly, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. Did I ever tell you with how great an interest I had read your reminiscences of Carlyle and Mrs. C.? If not, it was ten- fold ungrateful. I have not often read anything so convincing. I believe I felt both of them more nearly in your paper than anywhere else. R. L. S. The pages below referred to, which Stevenson found so much pleasure in hav- ing reprinted in the Enchiridion, were taken from an article published in the Fortnightly Review of April, 1881, on The Morality of the Profession of Let- ters. The Hazhitt scheme was a pro- posal by Stevenson to prepare a volume on William Hazlitt for the English Men of Letters series. H6TEL DES ILES DOR, HxkiiEs, FRANcE, Novenber [1883 ?]. M~ DEAR SIR, Much ill health, and a whole odyssey of changes, and a sea of confused affairs must stand my excuse for this long silence. I am now better, much better, and have got to a place where, at least, I take a moments breath; and so I hasten to thank you for your having kindly sent me the Enchiridion, and still more kindly found a place for a word of mine in so select a company. It is much easier for you to imagine than for me to express (that, at least, is an original phrase) the gratification I felt when I saw my name in your collection: I fear it was the extract I enjoyed the most! but the whole work seems admirably done, and I find it Rot only a beautiful little book for the eye, but quite one of those pocket volumes that a man can read and re-read, without end or weariness. The Hazhitt scheme lies, for the pre- sent, high and dry; I do not even see my way to revisit England this year, and it would be tempting Providence to make 128 The Russian Jew in America. sure of the next. I believe I require a long absence and much care, to get pro- perly on my legs again, and the abomi- nable folly of getting well in winter, only to come home and fall ill again in au- tumn, is one which I am eager to avoid repeating. Please pardon me as well as you can for that sort of fault to which, I fear, I have already only too much ac- customed you, and believe me, Yours very sincerely, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. A. IRELAND, EsQ. As these fragmentary letters show, Mr. Ireland was exceedingly rich in re- miniscence; he could tell of interviews with Sir Walter Scott, De Quincey, and William and Dorothy Wordsworth; he numbered among his friends Thomas Campbell, Leigh Hunt, Thomas Car- lyle, Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, Robert Louis Stevenson, and many more. Carlyle, from whose caustic portraiture so few of his friends did not suffer, said of Mr. Ireland in 1847: A. solid, dark, broad, rather heavy ma. ; full of energy and broad sagacity and prac- ticability, infinitely well affected to the man Emerson. And the man Emer- son has said of him, with equal truth and greater warmth: At the landing in Liverpool I found my Manchester cor- respondent awaiting me. . . . He added to solid virtues an infinite sweetness and bonhomie. There seemed a pool of honey about his heart which lubricated all his speech and action with fine jets of mead. At the age of seventy Mr. Ireland retired from active connection with the Examiner and Times, and the gradual failure of the paper (which was actually sold, and passed out of existence some ten years later) obliged him ~o spend the remaining years of his life in the greatest simplicity of living. Ethel Alleyne Ireland. THE RUSSIAN JEW IN AMERICA. ONE afternoon in the summer of 1881, when the Jewish quarter of Kieff was filled with groans and its pavements were strewn with the d6bris of destroyed homes, a group of young men entered one of the synagogues of the ancient city. They were well dressed, and their gener- al appearance bespoke education and re- finement. The rabbi had proclaimed a day of fasting and prayer, and the house of God was crowded with sobbing victims of the recent riots, but as the newcomers made their way to the Holy Ark silence fell upon the congregation. The young men were students of the University of St. Vladimir, and although sons of Israel like the others, their presence at a syna- gogue was an unusual sight. Brethren, said the spokesman of the delegation, struggling with his sobs, we are a committee of the Jewish students of the university, sent to clasp hands with you and to mingle our tears with your tears. We are here to say to you, We are your brothers; Jews like yourselves, like our fathers! We have striven to adopt the language and manners of our Christian fellow countrymen; we have brought ourselves up to an ardent love of their literature, of their culture, of their progress. We have tried to persuade ourselves that we are children of Mother Russia. Alas! we have been in error. The terrible events which have called forth this fast and these tears have aroused us from our dream. The voice of the blood of our outraged brothers and sisters cries unto us that we are only

128 The Russian Jew in America. sure of the next. I believe I require a long absence and much care, to get pro- perly on my legs again, and the abomi- nable folly of getting well in winter, only to come home and fall ill again in au- tumn, is one which I am eager to avoid repeating. Please pardon me as well as you can for that sort of fault to which, I fear, I have already only too much ac- customed you, and believe me, Yours very sincerely, ROBERT Louis STEVENSON. A. IRELAND, EsQ. As these fragmentary letters show, Mr. Ireland was exceedingly rich in re- miniscence; he could tell of interviews with Sir Walter Scott, De Quincey, and William and Dorothy Wordsworth; he numbered among his friends Thomas Campbell, Leigh Hunt, Thomas Car- lyle, Charles and Mary Cowden Clarke, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, Robert Louis Stevenson, and many more. Carlyle, from whose caustic portraiture so few of his friends did not suffer, said of Mr. Ireland in 1847: A. solid, dark, broad, rather heavy ma. ; full of energy and broad sagacity and prac- ticability, infinitely well affected to the man Emerson. And the man Emer- son has said of him, with equal truth and greater warmth: At the landing in Liverpool I found my Manchester cor- respondent awaiting me. . . . He added to solid virtues an infinite sweetness and bonhomie. There seemed a pool of honey about his heart which lubricated all his speech and action with fine jets of mead. At the age of seventy Mr. Ireland retired from active connection with the Examiner and Times, and the gradual failure of the paper (which was actually sold, and passed out of existence some ten years later) obliged him ~o spend the remaining years of his life in the greatest simplicity of living. Ethel Alleyne Ireland. THE RUSSIAN JEW IN AMERICA. ONE afternoon in the summer of 1881, when the Jewish quarter of Kieff was filled with groans and its pavements were strewn with the d6bris of destroyed homes, a group of young men entered one of the synagogues of the ancient city. They were well dressed, and their gener- al appearance bespoke education and re- finement. The rabbi had proclaimed a day of fasting and prayer, and the house of God was crowded with sobbing victims of the recent riots, but as the newcomers made their way to the Holy Ark silence fell upon the congregation. The young men were students of the University of St. Vladimir, and although sons of Israel like the others, their presence at a syna- gogue was an unusual sight. Brethren, said the spokesman of the delegation, struggling with his sobs, we are a committee of the Jewish students of the university, sent to clasp hands with you and to mingle our tears with your tears. We are here to say to you, We are your brothers; Jews like yourselves, like our fathers! We have striven to adopt the language and manners of our Christian fellow countrymen; we have brought ourselves up to an ardent love of their literature, of their culture, of their progress. We have tried to persuade ourselves that we are children of Mother Russia. Alas! we have been in error. The terrible events which have called forth this fast and these tears have aroused us from our dream. The voice of the blood of our outraged brothers and sisters cries unto us that we are only The Russian Jew in America. 129 strangers in the land which we have been used to call our home; that we are only stepchildren here, waifs to be trampled upon and dishonored. There is no hope for Israel in Russia. The salvation of the downtrodden people lies in other parts, in a land beyond the seas, which knows no distinction of race or faith, which is a mother to Jew and Gentile alike. In the great republic is our re- demption from the brutalities and igno- minies to which we are subjected in this our birthplace. In America we shall find rest; the stars and stripes will wave over the true home of our people. To America, brethren! To America! On February 2, 1882, a public meet- ing was held at Chickering Hall, New York. The proceedings were presided over by William R. Grace, then mayor of the city, with Judge Noah Davis, Hamilton Fish, Robert L. Stuart, Anson Phelps Stokes, Charles H. Van Brunt, Joseph H. Choate, and other well-known citizens as vice-chairmen. Ex-Secretary Evarts and the Rev. Dr. Hale were the principal speakers. The resolutions, adopted unanimously, and which met with the hearty approval of the entire American people, recited that the citi- zens of New York have heard with sad- ness and indignation of the sufferings inflicted upon the Jews of Russia, and that in the name of civilization we pro- test against the spirit of medi~val perse- cution. In this age the recognized equal. ity of all men, irrespective of their reli- gious confessions, an essential element in American constitutions, is a principle and a practice which secures the loyal devotion of all classes. This is eminent- ly true of the Hebrews, who constitute faithful citizens and subjects wherever accorded the rights of manhood. The resolutions continued: We sympathize with our fellow citizens of the Hebrew faith in their sorrow for their afflicted brethren in Russia, and in their energetic efforts for the welcome of the exiles. The two gatherings, held in two hemi VOL. LXXXII. No. 489. 9 spheres, mark the opening of an impor- tant chapter in the history of the Jewish race, the beginning of a new great exo- dus of the wandering people. In the summer following the Chickering Hall meeting almost every incoming trans- atlantic steamship brought hundreds of Russian refugees to these shores. Before 1882 the emigration of Rus- sian Jews to America was restricted to the provinces lying about the Niemen and the Dwina, notably to the govern- ment of Souvalki, where economical con- ditions caused Catholic peasants as well as Jewish tradesmen and artisans to go elsewhere in search of bread. Some of these Lithuanian and Polish Jews sought their fortune in the southern dis- tricts of the empire, where their brethren enjoyed a high average of prosperity, while the more venturesome crossed the frontier to embark for the New World. Among the Jews of the south (Ukraine and New Russia) and of the central pro- vinces (Great Russia) self - expatriation was an unknown thing. But with the breaking out of the epidemic of anti-Jew- ish riots, which rendered thousands of well-to-do families homeless and pemini- less, Hebrew immigration to this country underwent an abrupt change in charac- ter as well as in volume. Not only did the government of Al- exander III. blink at the atrocities and practically encourage them, but it even sent a series of measures in their wake which had the effect of depriving new multitudes of stepchildren of their means of livelihood, and of dislodging thousands of families from their long- established homes. The cry To Amer- ica! was taken up by city after city and hamlet after hamlet, till its fascinating echo reached every synagogue in the em- pire. Many left because they had been driven from their homes, and these were joined by many others who, while affect- ed neither by the outbursts of mob vio- lence nor by the new restrictions, suc- cumbed to the contagious example of their 130 like Russian Jew in America. co-religionists and to a general sense of insecurity and of wounded race pride. The effiux which had hitherto been spo- radic suddenly became epidemic. The prosperous and the cultivated an ele- ment formerly rare among the Jewish arrivals at New York came to form a respectable minority in nearly every company of immigrants which, thanks to the assistance of the Hebrew communi- ties of western Europe and of this coun- try, the steamships brought from the domains of the Czar. The Jewish col- lege student, whose faith barred him from the educational institutions of the empire, sought these shores in order to complete his studies, and many a graduated physician, chemist, dentist, architect, and nrtist came here to take up the profession from which he was interdicted at his birthplace. Sixteen years have elapsed. The Jew- ish population in the United States has grown from a quarter of a million to about one million. Scarcely a large American town but has some Russo-Jew- ish names in its directory, with an edu~ cated Russian-speaking minority forming a colony within a Yiddish-speaking colo- fly, while cities like New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Boston have each a Ghetto rivaling in extent of population the largest Jewish cities in Russia, Aus- tria, and Roumania. The number of Jewish residents in Manhattan Rorough is estimated at two hundred and fifty thousand, making it the largest centre of Hebrew population in the world. The Russian tongue, which twenty years ago was as little used in this country as Per- sian, has been added to the list of lan- guages spoken by an appreciable portion of the polyglot immigrant population. Have the newcomers justified the wel- come extended to them from Chickering Hall? Have they proved a desirable accession to the American nation? Let another man praise thee, and not thine own mouth; a stranger, and not thine own lips, is a proverb current among the people who form the subject of this paper; and being one of them, I feel that it would be better, before citing figures and facts, to let Gentile Amen- cans who have made a study of the New York Ghetto answer the question. Here is what Mr. Jacob A. Riis, an accepted authority on how the other half lives, has to say of Jewish immigrants They [the Jews] do not rot in their slum, but, rising, pull it up after them. - As to their poverty, they brought us boundless energy and industry to over- come it. - . - They brought temperate habits and a redeeming love of home. Their strange customs proved the strong- est ally of the Gentile health officer in his warfare upon the slum. The death- rate of poverty-stricken Jew - town, de- spite its crowding, is lower always than that of the homes of the rich. - . . I am a Christian, and hold that in his belief the Jew is sadly in error. So that he may respect mine I insist on fair play for him all round. I am sure that our city has to-day no better and no more loyal citizen than the Jew, be he poor or rich, and none she has less to be ashamed of. The late Miss Ida Van Etten, who, as a worker among the factory girls of the East Side, had ample opportunities to study the Russian Jew at close range, found that politically the Jews possess many characteristics of the best citizens. Mr. James B. Reynolds, who, in his capacity of head worker of the univer- sity settlement of New York, has for many years been in direct touch with the people of the very heart of the Jew- ish district, gives the following general description of Hebrew immigrants My acquaintance has been mainly with the Russian, Polish, and Roumanian Jews. The first quality in them wbich impresses me is their intellectual avidity. Much has been said about their desire for gain. But while one must recognize among them an almost universal and certainly commendable desire to improve The Russian Jew in Amerzca. 131 their condition, the proportionate num- ber of those with intellectual aims is larger than that of any other race that I have encountered. An essential ori- ental quality of mind and character also impresses me. This is reflected in a deep intensity of feeling, high imagina- tion, and quickly varying emotions. An- other oriental attribute is an occasional outburst of the extremest idealism, with an utter disregard of the restraining power of circumstances and conditions. This extreme idealism sometimes makes them impractical, but combined with their intellectual traits produces a char- acter often full of imagination, aspira- tion, and appreciation. Another Gentile American whose statement is entitled to consideration is Mr. Lawrence Dunphy, superintendent of the workhouse at Blackwells Island (New York city), who is quoted in the report submitted in 1893 by Dr. Radin, visiting chaplain of prisons, to the Jew- ish Ministers Association. Rabbi, said Mr. Dunphy (in 1892, ten years after the beginning of the great Jewish influx) to the author of the report, I am happy to say that we do not need a Jewish chaplain at the workhouse. We have a very small number of Jews among the prisoners. Yon can be proud of your race: you are indeed a good class of citizens. Usually, the degraded peo- ple confined at the workhouse once are brought back very often; but I have very seldom seen a Jew brought back here a second time. Such are the impressions of Christian Americans on a subject upon which they speak with the coiifidence of positive knowledge, the result of close and un- biased observation. If there are people who take a less favorable view of the Russian and the Polish Hebrew, they are not to be found among those whose op- portunities for studying the subject by personal observation and whose qualifi- cations for the gask are kno~vn to the public. The question of limiting immigration engages the attention of Congress at frequent intervals, and bills aiming at re- form in this directioii are brought before the Senate and the House. In its bear- ings upon the Russian, Austrian, or Rou- manian Jew, the case is summed up by the opinions cited. Now let us hear the testimony of facts on the subject. The invasion of foreign illiteracy is one of the principal dangers which laws restricting immigration are meant to allay, and it is with the illiteracy of the New York Ghetto that we shall concern ourselves first. The last report of the commissioner- general of immigration gives twenty- eight per cent as the proportion of illit- erates among the immigrants who came during the past year from Russia. The figure would be much lower, should the computation be confined to immigrants of the Mosaic faith instead of including the mass of Polish and Lithuanian pea- sants, of whose number only a very small part can read and write. It may not be generally known that every Russian and Polish Jew, without exception, can read his Hebrew Bible as well as a Yiddish newspaper, and that many of the Jewish arrivals at the barge office are versed in rabbinical literature, not to speak of the large number of those who can read and write Russian. When attention is di- rected to the Russian Jew in America, a state of affairs is found which still fur- ther removes him from the illiterate class, and gives him a place among the most ambitious and the quickest to learn both the written and the spoken language of the adopted country, and among the ea~i- est to be assimilated with the population. The cry raised by the Russian anti- Semites against the backwardness of the Jew in adopting the tongue and the man- ners of his birthplace, in the same breath in which they urge tIme government to close the doors of its schools to subjects of the Hebrew faith, reminds one of the hypocritical miser who kept his gate 132 The Russian Jew in America. guarded by ferocious dogs, and then re- proached his destitute neighbor with hold- ing huinself aloof. This country, where the schools and colleges do not discrimi- nate between Jew and Gentile, has quite another tale to tell. The several public evening schools of the New York Ghetto, the evening school supported from the Baron de Hirsch fund, and the two or three private establishments of a similar character are attended by thousands of Jewish immigrants, the great majority of whom come here absolutely ignorant of the language of their native country. Surely nothing can be more inspiring to the public-spirited citizen, nothing wor- thier of the interest of the student of im- migration, than the sight of a gray-haired tailor, a patriarch in appearance, coming, after a hard days work at a sweat-shop, to spell cat, mat, rat, and to grapple with the difficulties of th and w. Such a spectacle may be seen in scores of the class-rooms in the schools referred to. Hundreds of educated young He- brews earn their living, and often pay their way through college, by giving pri- vate lessons in English in the tenement houses of the district, a type of young men and women peculiar to the Ghetto. The pupils of these private tutors are the same poor overworked sweat - shop hands of whom the public hears so much and knows so little. A tenement house kitchen turned, after a scanty sup- per, into a class-room, with the head of the family and his boarder bent over an English school reader, may perhaps claim attention as one of the curiosities of life in a great city; in the Jewish quarter, however, it is a common spectacle. Nor does the tailor or peddler who hires these tutors, as a rule, content him- self with an elementary knowledge of the language of his new home. I know many Jewish workmen who before they came here knew not a word of Russian, and were ignorant of any book except the Scriptures, or perhaps the Talmud, but whose range of English reading places them on a level with the average college- bred American. The grammar schools of the Jewish quarter are overcrowded with children of immigrants, who, for progress and de- portment, are rated with the very best in the city. At least 500 of 1677 students at the New York City College, where tuition and books are free, are Jewish boys from the East Side. The poor la- borer who will pinch himself to keep his child at college, rather than send him to a factory that he may contribute to the familys income, is another type peculiar to the Ghetto. The innumerable Yiddish publications with which the quarter is flooded are also a potent civilizing and Americaniz- lug agency. The Russian Jews of New York, Philadelphia, and Chicago have within the last fifteen years created a vast periodical literature which furnishes intellectual food not only to themselves, but also to their brethren in Europe. A feverish literary activity unknown among the Jews in Russia, Roumania, and Aus- tria, but which has arisen here among the immigrants from those countries, ed- ucates thousands of ignorant tailors and peddlers, lifts their intelligence, facili- tates their study of English, and opens to them the doors of the English library The five million Jews living under the Czar had not a single Yiddish daily pa- per even when the government allowed such publications, while their fellow coun- trymen and co - rehigionists who have taken up their abode in America publish six dailies (five in New York and one in Chicago), not to mention the countless Yiddish weeklies and monthlies, and the pamphlets and books which to-day make New York the largest Yiddish book mar- ket in the world. If much that is con- tained in these publications is rather crude, they are in this respect as good or as bad as a certain class of English novels and periodicals from which they partly derive their inspiration. On the other hand, their readers are sure to find The Russian Jew in America. 133 in them a good deal of what would be worthy of a more cultivated language. They have among their contributors some of the best Yiddish writers in the world, men of undeniable talent, and these sup- ply the Jewish slums with popular arti- cles on science, on the history and insti- tutions of the adopted country, transla- tions from the best literatures of Europe and America, as well as original sketches, stories, and poems of decided merit. It is sometimes said (usually by those who know the Ghetto at second hand) that this unnatural development of Yiddish journalism threatens to keep the immi- grant from an acquaintance with Eng- lish. Nothing could be further from the truth. The Yiddish periodicals are so many preparatory schools from which the reader is sooner or later promoted to the English newspaper, just as the sev- eral Jewish theatres prepare his way to the Broadway playhouse, or as the Yid- dish lecture serves him as a stepping- stone to that English-speaking, self-edu- cational society, composed of working- men who have lived a few years in the country, which is another characteristic feature of life in the Ghetto. Truly, the Jews do not rot in their slum, but, rising, pull it up after them. Foreign criminality is the next evil with which restrictive legislation is to grapple. As to the Jews, it may suffice, in addition to Superintendent Dunphys experience, to point out the fact that while they constitute six per cent of the total population of the state of New York, they furnish only three per cent of the prisoners of that state. When attention is limited to the immigrant residents in the state, which is more to the point, the statistical data on the subject are still more favorable to the Jews. The ratio of foreign-born Jews to the total immi- grant population is fifteen per cent, yet less than five per cent of the foreign-born prisoners in the state are of the Hebrew race. The influx of foreign pauperism is an- other source of alarm to the immigration reformer. The foreign population of this country, says Dr. Wines in his Eleventh Census Bulletin, contributes, directly or indirectly, in the persons of the foreign-born or of their immediate descendants, very nearly three fifths of all the paupers supported in almshouses. In the case of the Jews, however, the situation is more than reassuring. This will be seen by contrasting this general proportion with the figures quoted in Dr. Radins report: That eleven Jew- ish inmates are to be found at the Black- wells Island ahmshouse among a total of 2170 males is sufficient proof how little the poor and needy among us become a burden on public charity. Those who are opposed to the immigration of Jews may heed this. Of far greater importance, however, is the effect which imniigration has upon the general scale of wages. Speaking of the poor and ignorant foreigners who seek these shores, United States Senator Fairbanks observed (in his speech deliv- ered before the Senate in defense of the anti-illiteracy bill, January 11, 1898): Their standard of living and wages is such that they will accept lower compen- sation and harder conditions than our own workmen could or should accept. The natural and inevitable result of their coming will be to depress the wages of labor.... The consideration of the pend- ing measure, as Mr. Blame said of the Chinese exclusion act, connects itself in- timately and inseparably with the labor question. It is labor, then, whose in- terests are to be consulted primarily; and against the Jewish immigrants labor has no grievance. The only time when Jewish laborers threatened to come iii serious conflict with the cause of American workingmen was during the great longshoremens strike of 1882, at the very beginning of the new era in the history of Jewish immuigra- tion. Ignorant of the meaning of strikes, the newcomers blindly allowed them- 134 The Russian Jew in America. selves to be persuaded by representa- tives of ship - owners to take the places of former employees. No sooner, how- ever, had the situation been explained to the scabs than they abandoned their wheelbarrows, amid the, applause of the striking Gentiles. Since then the Jew- ish workmen have been among the most faithful members of the various trades- unions of the country. Outside of the clothing trades, Russian and Polish Jews are to be found in considerable numbers in the cigar industry, in the silk facto- ries and the hat factories of New Jersey, in the shoe factories of Massachusetts, in the machine shops of Connecticut, among the jewelers of Rhode Island, and in sev- eral other trades: in all these employ- ments their relations with their American associates are of the most cordial nature. Whatever may be the social chances of a Jewish banker, the Jewish working- men of New England and their Ameri- can shopmates are on visiting terms. So far from depressing wages and bringing down the standard of living, the Jewish workingman has been among the fore- most in the struggle for the interests of the wage-earning class of the country. If he brings with him a lower standard of living, his keen susceptibilities, his intellectual avidity, and his almost universal and certainly commendable de- sire to improve his condition impel him to raise that standard to the level of his new surroundings. Unlike some of the immigrants of other nationalities, the Essex Street Jew does not remain here in the same plight in which he came. Poor as he is, he strives to live like a civilized man, and the money which an- other workman perhaps might spend on drink and sport he devotes to the im- provement of his home and the education of his children. When Senator Fairbanks speaks of that immigration which does not seek to build homes among us as the most objectionable element, as one whose exclusion will be no loss, he surely cannot refer to the Russian Jew; and if it may be stated as axiomatic that home-builders are good citizens, the Jewish immigrant makes a very good citizen indeed. I have visited the houses of many American workingmen, in New England and elsewhere, as well as the residences of their Jewish shopmates, and I have found scarcely a point of difference. The squalor of the typical tenement house of the Ghetto is far more objec- tionable and offensive to the people who are doomed to live in it than to those who undertake slumming expeditions as a fad, and is entirely due to the same economical conditions which are respon- sible for the lack of cleanliness in the homes of such poor workiugmen as are classed among the most desirable con- tribution to the population. The houses of the poor Irish laborers who dwell on the outskirts of the great New York Ghetto (and they are not worse than the houses occupied by the poor Irish fami- lies of the West Side) are not better, in point of cleanliness, than the residences of their Jewish neighbors. The follow- ing statement, which is taken from the report made by the tenement house com- mittee to the Senate and Assembly of the state of New York on January 17, 1895, throws light on the subject. It is evident, says the committee, that there are other potent causes be- sides density of population at work to affect the death-rate of the tenement dis- tricts, and the most obvious one is race or nationality. It will be observed at once that the wards showing the great- est house density combined with a low death - rate, namely the tenth and sev- enth wards, are very largely populated by Russian and Polish Jews. This is, in fact, the Jewish quarter of the city. On the other hand, the wards having the highest death - rate . . . constitute two of the numerous Italian colonies which are distributed through the city. . . The greatest density (57.2 tenants to a house) is in the tenth ward (almost The Russian Jew in America. 135 exclusively occupied by Jews), which also has the lowest death-rate he low death-rates of the seventh and tenth wards are largely accounted for by the fact previously mentioned, that they are populated largely by Russian Jews. To be sure, life in a tenth ward tene- ment house is wretched enough, but this has nothing to do with the habits and inclinations of its inmates. It is a broad subject, one which calls in question the whole economic arrangement of our time, and of which the sweating system the great curse of the Ghetto is only one detail. Is the Russian Jew responsible for the sweating system? He did not bring it with him. He found it already devel- oped here. In its varied forms it ex- ists in other industries as well as in the tailoring trades. But far from resign- ing himself to his burden the Jewish tailor is ever struggling to shake it from his shoulder. iNor are his efforts futile. In many instances the sweat-shop system has been abolished or its curse mitigated. The sweating system and its political ally the ward heeler are accountable for ninety - nine per cent of whatever vice may be found in the Ghetto, and the Jewish tailor is slowly but surely eman- cipating himself from both. The re- demption of the workers must be effected by the workers themselves is the motto of the two dailies which the Jewish workingmen publish for themselves in New York. The recurring tailor strikes, whose frequency has been seized upon by the funny men of the daily press, are far less droll than they are repre- sented to be. Would that the public could gain a deeper insight into these struggles than is afforded by newspaper reports! Hidden under an uncouth sur- face would be found a great deal of what constitutes the true poetry of mod- ern life, tragedy more heart-rending, examples of a heroism more touching, more noble, and more thrilling, than any- thing that the richest imagination of the romanticist can invent. While to the outside observer the struggles may ap- pear a fruitless repetition of meaningless conflicts, they are, like the great labor movement of which they are a part, ever marching onward, ever advancing. The anti-Semitic assertion that the Jew as a rule avoids productive labor, which is pure calumny so far as the Jews of Russia, Austria, and Roumania are con- cerned, would certainly be out of place in this country, where at least eighty per cent of all Jewish immigrants are among the most diligent wage-earners. As to the remainder, it includes, besides a large army of poor peddlers, thousands of such business men as news-dealers and rag- men, whose occupations are scarcely less productive or more agreeable than man- ual labor. More than ninety per cent of all the news-stands and news-routes in the city of New York are now in the hands of Russian Jews, and most of the rag-peddlers of New England are per- sons of the same nationality. Farming settlements of Jews have not been very successful in this country. There are some Jews in Connecticut, in New Jersey, and in the Western states who derive a livelihood from agriculture, but the majority of the Jewish immi- grants who took to tilling the soil in the eighties have been compelled to sell or to abandon their farms, and to join the urban population. But how many Amer- ican farmers have met with a similar fate! This experience is part of the same great economic question, and it does not seem to have any direct bear- ing on the peculiar inclinations or dis- inclinations of the Hebrew race. It may not be generally known that in southern Russia there are hundreds of flourishing farms which are owned and worked by Jews, although, owing to their legal dis- abilities, the titles are fictitiously held by Christians. Hundreds of Russian and Polish Jews have been more or less successful in busi- ness, and the names of several of them 136 The Russian Jew in America. are to be found on the signs along Broad- way, but the richest is hardly worth a quarter of a million. As to the educated Jewish immigrants, the college-bred men and women who constitute the professional class and the intellectual aristocracy of the Ghetto, judged by the standard of the slum dis- trict, they are prosperous. The first educated Russian Hebrews to come to this country were attracted neither by the American colleges nor by the access of their race to a professional career. In the minds of some cultured enthusiasts, the general craze for shak- ing off the dust of the native land and seeking shelter under the stars and stripes crystallized in the form of a solution of the Jewish question. Of the two move- ments which were set on foot in 1882 by the Palestinians and the Americans, the American movement seemed the more successful. Several emigrant par- ties (the Eternal People, New Odessa) were sent out with a view to establishing agricultural colonies. The whole Jew- ish race was expected by the Americans to follow suit in joining the farming force of the United States, and numbers of Jewish students left the Russian univer- sities and gymnasiums to enlist in the pioneer parties. All these parties broke np, some immediately upon reaching New York, others after an abortive attempt to put their plans into practice, although in several instances undertakings in the same direction have proved partially suc- cessful. The would - be pioneers were scattered through the Union, where they serve their brethren as physicians, drug- gists, dentists, lawyers, or teachers. Only from three to five per cent of the vacancies in the Russian nniversities and gymnasiums are now open to appli- cants of the Mosaic faith. As a conse- quence, the various university towns of Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, France, and Austria have each a colony of Russo- Jewish pilgrims of learning. The impe- cunious student, however, finds a univer sity course in those countries inaccessible. Much more favorable in this respect is the United States, where students from among the Jewish immigrants find it pos- sible to sustain themselves during their college course by some occupation; and this advantage has to some extent made this country the Mecca of that class of young men. It is not, however, always the educated young men, the graduates of Russian gymnasiums, from whom the Russian members at the American col- leges are recruited. Not to speak of the hundreds of immigrant boys and girls who reach the New York City College or the Normal College by way of the grammar schools of the Ghetto, there are in the colleges of New York, Philadel- phia, Chicago, and Boston, as well as among the professional men of the Jew- ish colonies, not a few former peddlers or workmen who received their first les- sons in the rudimentary branches of edu- cation within the walls of an American tenement house. I was once consulted by an illiterate Jewish peddler of thirty- two who was at a loss to choose between a medical college and a dry goods store. I have saved two thousand dollars, he said. Some friends advise me to go into the dry goods business, but I wish to be an educated man and live like one. There are several practicing physicians with a similar history in the Ghetto, and in fairness it must be said that by reading and study, while at col- lege and afterward, some of them have become well - informed and cultivated men. Altogether there are in New York alone about one hundred and fifty Rus- sian physicians, about five hundred drug- gists and drug clerks, some twenty law- yers, from thirty to forty dentists, and several representatives of each of the other professions. The Russian-speaking population is represented also in the colleges for wo- men. There are scores of educated Rus- sian girls in the sweat-shops, and their life is one of direst misery, of over- The Russian Jew in America. 137 work in the shop, and of privations at home. Politically the Jewish quarter is among the most promising districts in the me- tropolis. The influence of the vote-buyer, which is the blight of every poor neigh- borhood in the city, becomes in the Ghetto smaller and smaller. There is no method of determining the number of votes which are secured for either of the two leading parties by any of the several forms of bribery enumerated by Mr. James Bryce; but there are always some reform parties in the field which have no money to put up, and whose vote whatever might be said of their doctrines is exclusively one of principle. At the last municipal election there were four such parties in Greater New York. These were, the Citizens Union, whose can- didate for mayor, Mr. Low, appealed to the voters for purity in municipal elec- tions, the Socialist Labor Party, the Henry George Democracy, and the Pro- hibitionists. In the four Assembly dis- tricts (the fourth, eighth, twelfth, and sixteenth) composing the main Ghetto of the metropolis, the aggregate vote polled by these four reform parties was 8678 (with Low in the lead, and the Socialist as a good second) in a total vote of 25,643, a proportion which gives the Jewish quarter a place among the least corruptible districts in the city. If some immigrants have not the ad- equate conception of the significance of our institutions of which Senator Fair- banks speaks, it is the American slum politician who gives the newcomer les- sons in that conception; and if it hap- pens to be an object lesson in the form of a two-dollar bill and a drink, the po- litical organization which depends upon such a mode of rolling up a big vote is certainly as much to blame as the ignorant bribe-taker. The ward heeler is as active in the Ghetto as elsewhere. Aided by an army of workers, which is largely made up of the lowest dregs of the neighborhood, he knocks, on election day, at the door of every tenement house apartment, while on the street the vote market goes on in open daylight as freely as it did before there was a Parkhurst to wage war against a guilty police organization. This statement is true of every destitute district, and the Jewish quarter is no ex- ception to the rule. As was revealed by the Lexow committee, some of the lead- ing district bosses in the great city, in- cluding a civil justice, owe their power to the political cotiperation of criminals and women of the street. Unfortunately this is also the case with the Jewish neigh- borhood, where every wretch living on the profits of vice, almost without excep- tion, is a member of some political club and an active worker for one of the two machines, and where, during the campaign, every disreputable house is turned into an electioneering centre. If the tenth ward has come to be called the Klondike of the police, so much the worse for the parties who are directly re- sponsible for the evil which justifies both that appellation and the name of Ten- derloin, which is borne by a more pro- sperous neighborhood than the Ghetto. The malady is painful enough, but it is not the guilty politician from whom the remedy is to be expected. As to the Jewish quarter, the doctrine of self- help is practiced by the workiugmen politically as well as economically. In proportion as the intelligence of the dis- trict is raised by the thousand and one educational agencies at work, the many characteristics of the best citizens with which Miss Van Etten was impressed in the Jews of the East Side come to the front, and the power of the corruption- ist wanes. The immigration reformers dread of foreign socialism is scarcely consistent with his classification of the various na- tionalities who immigrate in large num- bers. To judge from the overwhelming social - democratic vote in Germany, a large proportion of the Germans who 138 The Russian Jew in America. come to our ports are socialists, and yet they are placed at the very top of the list of desirable immigrants. Moreover, with some twenty states of the Union officially recognizing the Socialist Labor Party and printing its ballots, a crusade against the doctrine by the government xvould be a self-contradiction. Nor is it true that socialism is a foreign importa- tion. The two socialist aldermen in the country (at Paterson, New Jersey, and Haverhill, Massachusetts) were elected by American workingmen; the new so- cialist organization called the Social De- mocracy is largely composed of Ameri- cans, and makes converts among the na- tive elements of the working class. The Jewish immigrants, at all events, bring no socialism with them; and if it is true that the socialist following among Jewish workingmen is considerable and is grow- ing, they owe it to the economic condi- tions which surround them here and to the influence of the American socialist with whom they come in cont~ct. Like other socialists, they look to the ballot- box for the changes which they advocate. It is the Jewish socialist who leads the neighborhood in its fight against the political and moral turpitude which the politician spreads in the tenement houses. The Jewish immigrants look upon the United States as their country, and now that it is engaged in war they do not shirk their duty. They have contributed three times their quota of volunteers to the army, and they had their represent- atives among the first martyrs of the campaign, two of the brave American sailors who were wounded at Cardenas and Cienfuegos being the sons of Hebrew immigrants. The Russian Jew brings with him the quaint customs of a religion full of po- etry and of the sources of good citizen- ship. The orthodox synagogue is not merely a house of prayer; it is an in- tellectual centre, a mutual aid society, a fountain of self-denying altruism, and a literary club, no less than a place of worship. The study-rooms of the hun- dred~ of synagogues, where the good old people of the Ghetto come to read and discuss words of law as well as the events of the day, are crowded every evening in the week with poor street ped- dlers, and with those gray-haired, misun- derstood sweat-shop hands of whom the public hears every time a tailor strike is declared. So few are the joys which this world has to spare for these over- worked, enfeebled victims of the in- ferno of modern times that their reli- gion is to many of them the only thing which makes life woith living. In the fervor of prayer or the abandon of re- ligious study they forget the grinding poverty of their homes. Between the walls of the synagogue, on the top floor of some ramshackle tenement house, they sing beautiful melodies, some of them composed in the caves and forests of Spain, where the wandering people worshiped the God of their fathers at the risk of their lives; and these and the sighs and sobs of the Days of Awe, the thrill that passes through the heart- broken talith-covered congregation when the shoffar blows, the mirth which !fllls the house of God and the tenement homes upon the Rejoicing of the Law, the tearful greetings and humbled peace- makings on Atonement Eve, the myste- rious light of the Chanuccah candles, the gifts and charities of Puriin, the joys and kingly solemnities of Passover, all these pervade the atmosphere of the Ghetto with a beauty and a charm without which the life of its older resi- dents would often be one of unrelieved misery. How the sweat-shop striker and the religious enthusiast are found in the same person is an interesting question, and the following little episode may not be out of place. It was a late hour during the recent strike of the Vest - Makers Union, and the Jewish quarter was enveloped in the quiet of night. As I made my way like Contributors Club. 139 through the market-place, a merry, bi- zarre hubbub of singing voices broke UI)0fl the stillness of the street. The voices came from a tumble-down frame house, and were traced to three tiny low-ceiled rooms on the second floor. A Holy Ark and a reading - desk beto- kened the character of the place. The little synagogue was crowded with be- whiskered, pious, ragged old men. They sat at long tables, swaying and nodding, curling their side-locks or stroking their beards, as they sang a joyous Sabbath melody. Their faces shone and their voices trembled with emotion. A dark- eyed little girl of ten and her gaunt, sallow-faced father were hovering about, serving barley soup, cake, and beer to the company. I am no waiter, explained the gaunt man. I am a member, like the others; but my wife prepared the feast, and somebody must serve it, so my little girl and I took the task upon ourselves. We are a Mishnah class. We meet every evening, after work, to study the holy words, and now that we have con- cluded the sixth tractate we celebrate the event. Each of us has contributed twenty-five cents, and so we are enjoy- ing what the Uppermost has sent us. What other delights are open to us in this world ? The assemblage proved to be made up of striking vest-makers. Yes, we attended the meeting to-day, said a shaggy, red-haired man, but you know the saying, Half for yourselves and half for your God. To-morrow we shall go to the meeting again. Ours is a just cause. It is for the bread of our chil- dren we are struggling. We want our rights, and we are bound to get them through the union. Saith the Law of Moses: Thou shalt not withhold any- thing from thy neighbor nor rob him; there shall not abide with thee the wages of him that is hired through the night nntil morning. So it stands in Leviticus. So you see that our bosses who rob us and who dont pay us regularly commit a sin, and that the cause of our union is a just one. What do we come to Amer- ica for? To bathe in tears, and to see our wives and our children rot in pover- ty? Tears and sighs we had in plenty in the old country. A frown had settled upon his face, but it suddenly disappeared as he said, with a wave of his hand: Well, this is not the time to discuss matters such as these. We have enough of them during the day. This is our holy feast, a time for joy, not for woe. We have concluded the sixth tractate, thank the Uppermost. The shaggy vest-maker shut his eyes, and with his features relaxed in a smile of unfeigned bliss, he burst out singing and snapping his fingers with the rest. Abraham Cahan. THE CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. THE heroine of our choice has always The Hero- been a more difficult creation me of the than the hero. The pages of ruture. fiction are full of Mortons, Orvilles, Lydgates, Wentworths, Held- ars, irresistible heroes every one, and yet how few of them have won such ladies as they deserve! Sir Walter mercifully draws the curtain over the prosaic sequel of Mortons life. We hope that Lord Orville was amused for a year or two. We know the fate of Lydgate and of Dick Heldar. Captain Wentworth, it is true, won a rare prize, but Anne Elliots are few in fiction as in the world to-day. If we except the lovely sisterhood of

like Contributors Club. 139 through the market-place, a merry, bi- zarre hubbub of singing voices broke UI)0fl the stillness of the street. The voices came from a tumble-down frame house, and were traced to three tiny low-ceiled rooms on the second floor. A Holy Ark and a reading - desk beto- kened the character of the place. The little synagogue was crowded with be- whiskered, pious, ragged old men. They sat at long tables, swaying and nodding, curling their side-locks or stroking their beards, as they sang a joyous Sabbath melody. Their faces shone and their voices trembled with emotion. A dark- eyed little girl of ten and her gaunt, sallow-faced father were hovering about, serving barley soup, cake, and beer to the company. I am no waiter, explained the gaunt man. I am a member, like the others; but my wife prepared the feast, and somebody must serve it, so my little girl and I took the task upon ourselves. We are a Mishnah class. We meet every evening, after work, to study the holy words, and now that we have con- cluded the sixth tractate we celebrate the event. Each of us has contributed twenty-five cents, and so we are enjoy- ing what the Uppermost has sent us. What other delights are open to us in this world ? The assemblage proved to be made up of striking vest-makers. Yes, we attended the meeting to-day, said a shaggy, red-haired man, but you know the saying, Half for yourselves and half for your God. To-morrow we shall go to the meeting again. Ours is a just cause. It is for the bread of our chil- dren we are struggling. We want our rights, and we are bound to get them through the union. Saith the Law of Moses: Thou shalt not withhold any- thing from thy neighbor nor rob him; there shall not abide with thee the wages of him that is hired through the night nntil morning. So it stands in Leviticus. So you see that our bosses who rob us and who dont pay us regularly commit a sin, and that the cause of our union is a just one. What do we come to Amer- ica for? To bathe in tears, and to see our wives and our children rot in pover- ty? Tears and sighs we had in plenty in the old country. A frown had settled upon his face, but it suddenly disappeared as he said, with a wave of his hand: Well, this is not the time to discuss matters such as these. We have enough of them during the day. This is our holy feast, a time for joy, not for woe. We have concluded the sixth tractate, thank the Uppermost. The shaggy vest-maker shut his eyes, and with his features relaxed in a smile of unfeigned bliss, he burst out singing and snapping his fingers with the rest. Abraham Cahan. THE CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. THE heroine of our choice has always The Hero- been a more difficult creation me of the than the hero. The pages of ruture. fiction are full of Mortons, Orvilles, Lydgates, Wentworths, Held- ars, irresistible heroes every one, and yet how few of them have won such ladies as they deserve! Sir Walter mercifully draws the curtain over the prosaic sequel of Mortons life. We hope that Lord Orville was amused for a year or two. We know the fate of Lydgate and of Dick Heldar. Captain Wentworth, it is true, won a rare prize, but Anne Elliots are few in fiction as in the world to-day. If we except the lovely sisterhood of 140 The Contributors Club. Shakespeares heroines whom any cow- ard would die for, there are a scant score of women in English literature whose colors any one of us were proud to wear against all corners. Di Vernon, Doro- thea Brooke, Elizabeth Bennet, Lady Castlewood, Katriona, and a dozen of their kin make up the sum. Our mod- em chivalry must have incentive. Our imagination must be aroused. For im- agination is not dead, but sleeping. It slumbers soundly in the presence of the excellent Marcella, dozes in the face of Bathsheba Everdene, nods over Lord Ormonts Aminta, and turns a deaf ear to the melodious voice of Glory Quayle. But let another Beatrix (oh that there could be another!) come tripping down the stair to meet us in a modern chapter, wearing in our honor her white shoes and her scarlet stockings, and imagination will start up hotly enough at her approach. The heroine such as the imagination cherishes has disappeared from our liter- ature. Her place is filled by intelligent young women of various types. They are preferably serious. Then their forte is religion and their foible philanthropy. They probe the questions of society and life, and become at once the subjects of conversation in serious drawing-rooms. But a heroine of this class is always sub- ordinate in interest to her ideas. She is impersonal, or her personality is obscured by the bright halo of her intellect. Or again, the young woman is any- thing but serious. She may, perhaps, figure in one of Mr. Anthony Hopes ro- mances. Surely she is not a heroine to touch the imagination. Our attention is riveted to the story. In the dove- tailed succession of alarums, excursions, entrances, retreats, adventures, esca- pades, a few brisk words of love are our only key to the ladys character. The swift lunge and parry of her speech amuse, but do not captivate. As we close the book, we are on no nearer terms with her than with some pretty actress when the curtain is rung down. The heroine of to-day is most apt to be a dramatic character. The story is pre- ferably tragic. With grim determina- tion, the novelist stretches his reader on the rack, adjusts the thumbscrews, tight- ens the iron boots. The proof of the novel is in the pain it gives. With few exceptions, the plot is one of two or three established types. The inexpres~ sive She is separated from her lover by the prejudices of caste, as in Mr. Caine, or by the intolerance of parents, as in Mr. Meredith. Or perhaps our story-tellers solve to their own satisfac- tion the problem so popular in the nov- els of France, and ring the changes upon Monsieur, Madame et lautre, as the French critics say. Here the psycholo- gist has free range. Conditions and con- clusion must be scientific, no matter about the reader. The pathos of the story centres round the heroine. She is dramatic, passionate, intense. But it is not the intense, passionate, dramatic woman whom we commonly grow fond of in life. Why should she win us in books? She may be interesting, touch- ing, absorbing, bat that is quite a differ- ent matter. Such cannot be the heroine of our choice. Were her complexities incarnate upon earth, as they may be in a galaxy of women, should we follow her? Surely. Admire her? Perhaps. Love her? No, a thousand times, no! Her passion, beauty, and suffering might conspire to insure the aim, But it s innocence and modesty That polishes the dart, and we are proof against her enmity. Nothing is so elusive as feminine charm. Photograph it, and you will not find its counterfeit upon the plate. Print it in books, and your description is cold as the type that stamped the paper. Only a few great artists have succeeded in this most difficult of portraitures. Whether it be Jane Austen or Ivan Tar- guenieff who draws the picture, we love and are grateful. That a novel without a heroine whom The Contributors Club. 141 we delight to think of is imperfect, few will gainsay. In these days of novel- writing and novel-reading, it is interest- ing to notice how wide the author shoots of the difficult mark. Yet if the novel- ist holds up the mirror to life, great are his opportunities. Mr. Henry James, in a recent essay, comments upon the fresh field offered by the modern business man, whose song has still to be sung, and his portrait still to be painted. This is most true, but how much vaster the. province presented by the modern woman! Away with the humdrum hackneyed models of the past! Away with the Priscillas of an outworn age! Let every novelist set upon his marks, for surely his goal is within sight. The progress of woman is evident on every hand. Far be it from us to belit- tle her advancing strides. Now, discard- ing the thwarting skirt, she climbs the Alps and lends a helping hand to the lagging mountaineer. Now we hear of her directing an army of sweepers and cleansing the Augean streets of Chicago. Now, scarcely pausing to vote, if we may trust the papers, she rushes to mass- meetings and proposes to join the Na- tional Guard. If the existing uniform must be altered, more s the pity, but even so there will be something gained. Or again, she enters the quieter walks of life, and becomes a physician, lawyer, or mere clergywoman. If your novelist is still dissatisfied with these riches of ma- terial, let him turn for his heroine to the sweet girl-graduate. Think of the plot of psychological problems which can be made to thicken about her! Armed from mortar-board to heel, she can meet the hero on his own ground, give him the choice of weapons, and beat him roundly. Let the story-teller sweep the horizon with his literary glasses. Everywhere he will see the army of new women de- manding recognition. Choice is invidi- ous, but choose he must. Now at last he can find a heroine worthy of his novel. A novel, forsooth! Why, she would queen it in an epic, while former heroes flee to Dunciads! These are auspicious times for the maker of heroiues. Well may he look forward to the new century with confi- dence in the approaching consummation of his art. The development of the he- roine will increase the scope of the plot. The seductive villain will be thrown on the defensive, and it is the hero who will be won. The new heroine will be masterful, accomplished, dazzling, if you will, but will she charm? Will it be she whom the young men of the next gener- ation will wish to dream of? Will her qualities go to make their ideals? Will they reverse the novelists process, and run to seek her likeness through the world, or will they cling to the magic memory of the few lovely portraits they possess? The story-teller must pursue his de- stiny. He will sketch the world about him in flattery, caricature, or truth. What will be the heroine of his choice? An forward though I canna see, I guess an fear. FROM the days of papyrus to the nine- Concerning teenth century, when of the Bibilomania. making of books there is no end, biblioniania has affected mankind in more or less intensified form. In- effectually has it been diagnosed and treated by bibliographs of all ages. Pei- gnot defines it as a passion for possess- ing books; not so much to be instructed by them as to gratify the eye by look- ing on them. He who is affected by this mania knows books only by their titles and dates, and is rather seduced by the exterior than the interior. The symptoms of so virulent a disease are not to be mistaken. They can be instantly known, says Dibdin, by a pas- sion for (1) large paper copies; (2) un- cut copies; (3) illustrated copies; (4) unique copies; (5) copies printed upon vellum; (6) first editions; (7) true edi- tions; (8) a general desire for the 142 The Contributors Club. black letter. I would add to these a passion for (9) editions printed at private presses; (10) editions privately bound. A characteristic of the disease is that it succumbs to no known remedies. All applications, external as well as inter- nal, seem but to increase its fervency; neither does poverty allay it, once the craze is on. Many a one so afflicted has gone starving to bed, transported by the possession of an incunabulum for which he has expended his last sou. No con- dition, no age, is exempt, no climate. It rages among royalty as among the com- moner herd of humanity. French book - collectors, and notably the mesdames de France, have displayed peculiar and luxurious tastes in binding. We are told that of the daughters of Louis XV., Ad6laide affected red moroc- co; Sophie, citron; and Victoire, olive. Catharine de Medici was so great a con- noisseur of finely bound books that au- thors and booksellers tried to distinguish themselves in bindings made expressly for her. Such was their success that it was deemed expedient, upon her death, to strip the books of their ornate and cost- ly dress, lest they should fall a prey to her creditors. Marie Antoinette had a library of upwards of five thousand vol- umes in the Petit Trianon; and Ma- dame de Pompadour, whose conduct was not in every respect above criticism, must surely be commended for her love of books, as she was the possessor of three thousand volumes. Her bookbinder was no less a personage than the celebrated Anton Michel Padeloup. Madame de Maintenon, too, had rare and exquisite taste in books and bindings; and enrolled among book-lovers are to be found the names of Marguerite dAngoul~me, Mar- garet of Valois, Diana of Poitiers, as ivell as the Duchesse de Montpensier, La Grande Mademoiselle, the Mar- quise de Montespan, and the Duchesse du Berry. To them we owe some of the finest examples of the bookbinders art. The idiosyncrasies of their dispositions we can almost forgive by reason of that taste which to-day makes glad the heart of the book-fancier. Nor do these names close the list of bibliophilists. Charles the Bald was a lover of books and learning. A Bible was illuminated expressly for his pri- vate use, and his love of learning often carried him to royal extremes. The story goes that one Johannes Erigena, surnamed Scotus, a man renowned for learning; sitting at table, in respect of his learning, with Charles the Bauld, Emperor and King of France, behaved himselfe as a slovenly scholler, nothing courtly; whereupon the Emperor asked him merrily, Quid interest Scotum et Sotuni? [What is there between a Scot and a Sot?] He merrily, but yet mala- pertly answered, Mensa [The table]; as though the Emperor were the Sot, and he the Scot. Of English book-lovers the name is legion. Dibdin tells us that Richard de Bury, tutor to Edward III., and after- ward Bishop of Durham, was the first affected. However this may be, certain it is that he owned more books than all the other bishops of England. Dean Colet and Erasmus abetted the mania, and Sir Thomas More was not exempt. Queen Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey were given over to bibliophilism; and Henry VII. and James I., both book- lovers, even attempted literary produc- tion on their own account. Pepys, despite his feminine frailties, was a collector of rare books; and sun- dry kicks disposed gratuitously among his servants, his flirtatious deportment at church when full of years; his mal- treatment of the partner of his joys and sorrows, all these are of little moment in comparison with that worthy love of an old book, a rare book, a grave, in- nocent book. His Grace the Duke of Roxburghe conceived a passion for first editions. It has been related with all due authen- ticity that at a certain sale a first edition The Contributors Club. 143 of Shakespeare was offered. The dukes friends were deputed to bid it in, while he viewed the contest at a distance. Twenty guineas and more had been of- fered, when a slip was handed his Grace asking if his friends should continue bid- ding. The duke wrote in reply Lay on, Macduff, And damnd be him that first cries, Hold, enough! It is needless to say that the duke be- came the happy possessor of the folio. Undoubtedly, it is to the bookbinder of the past that we owe in a very large de- gree the extension of the mania. Such exquisite workmen as Grolier, Maioli, Le Gascon, DerOme, and Padeloup worked for all time; and how amazed, not to say dumfounded, would these worthies be to behold the methods we employ to supply the ever increasing demand for books! Nowadays we preserve a book of American manufacture, not for the beauty of its binding, not for the tooling on this one or that, not for the rare qual- ity of the morocco, but, perchance, be- cause it is a first edition of Hawthorne or of Poes Tamerlane, or, what is more than probable, because undue use would soon end in its destruction, such is the ephemeral nature of our art of to-day. The signs, however, are propitious; and when once we have recovered from ex- treme youth, with its hurry and bluster and unsophistication, then shall our ver- satility be turned toward the arts, of which not the least is the art of binding. The peculiar ideas in bookbinding are many and curious. The Golden Ass of Apuleius was once bound in asss skin; a collection of pamphlets respecting one Mary Tufts, reputed to have been con- fined of rabbits, was sent forth to the world in rabbit skin; Tuberville on Hunt- ing was bound by Whittaker in deer skin; Foxs historical works met the gaze of humanity in fox skin, and Bacons works in hog skin. On May 15, 1874, there was sold in Paris, by auction, a part of the library of M. Lucien de Rosuy, father of the emi- nent Japanese scholar. Some of the books, we are told, were bound in cat skin colored garnet and buff; others in the skins of the crocodile, royal tiger, rattlesnake, seal, otter, white bear, and Canadian black wolf. I confess to lit- tle, if any, sympathy for the taste of M. Lucien do Rosuy, authority in binding though he may have been. How much more healthful and normal that of him who has written concerning his simple wants: Of books but few, souse fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor; Some little luxury there Of red moroccos gilded gleam And vellum rich as country cream. In addition to the many evils we lay at the door of the French Revolution is the morbid practice of binding in human skin. What must have been the feel- ings of that lady whose lover, a Russian poet, is said to have presented her with a volume of his sonnets bound in his own skin, taken from an amputated leg! More desirable by far, from a moral point of view, as a salutary warning to the young and to evil doers generally, was the practice in vogue in the less enlight- ened past of flaying criminals to obtain materials for binding contemporary legal documents. This recalls an edition of The Newgate Calendar, being the me- moirs of the most notorious characters convicted of outrages on the laws of England since the eighteenth century, the binding of which was ornamented in gold with designs suggestive of the con- tents ; to wit, dark lanterns, masks, pis- tols, handcuffs, shackles, and other re- minders of crime. A public library in Bury St. Edmunds contains a full ac- count of the execution of a murderer, in an octavo voh.une bound in the murder- ers own skin by a surgeon of the town. A more elegant, and certainly a less gruesome habiliment for a book was a piece of the waistcoat of Charles I., in 144 The Contributors Club. which a volume was bound relating to the dwarf Jeffrey Hudson. A copy of the New Years Gift was appareled in a like manner. With this the supply must have been exhausted, since we read of no further use being made of the garment. To the bibliognostic the following lines from Popes Dunciad are eloquent with meaning There Caxton sleeps with Wynkyn at his side, One clasped in wood, and one in strong cow- hide. Another fancy that obtained at an early date was the insertion of jewels into the bindings of books. St. Jerome is said to have exclaimed, Your books are covered with precious stones, and Christ died naked before his temple By a law of March 24, 1583, Henry III. of France forbids the bourgeois to wear precious stones in their dress, but such is the graciousness of his Majesty he allows their books of devotion to be adorned with diamonds, not exceeding four, while the nobility are allowed five, and the princes are not limited as to number. It was the same monarch who, when he instituted the order of Peni- tents, invented a binding consisting of the cheerful device of deaths - heads, cross-bones, tears, crosses, and other in- struments of the Passion, on black mo- rocco, relieved, however, by the inscrip- tion Spes inca Dens. Carlyle, it is said, had no love for books per Se, and Darwin was not de- terred by any sentimental notions of sac- rilege from cutting an unwieldy volume in two for easier manipulation. Not so Petrarch, who would suffer the loss of a leg rather than submit to such torture an edition of the Epistles of Cicero, tran- scribed by himself, and bound so mas- sively as to be constantly falling upon that unfortunate member. But Carlyle was too sairously bent upon the re- formation of humanity, and Darwin too much absorbed in the origin of that hu- manity, to have time for the indulgence of a fancy so pertinacious as bibliophi- lism. If a portion of the Iliad was found in the hands of a mummy, think you it was more precious in the eyes of Car- lyle, the lover of great men, Carlyle, who styles the immortal Johnson the withered pontiff of Encyclopa~dism? To him books were of intrinsic worth only for the soul and thought that were in them. The value of Boswells Letters was not enhanced in Temples eyes be- cause they were discovered in a shop at Boulogne in use for wrapping-paper; nor of Sternes Diary in that it was found in a plate - warmer. He was an admirer of Luthers Table Talk, not because it was unearthed from an old foundation, wrapped in strong linen cloth, waxed within and without, in which condition it had lain since its suppression. And so he writes: In books lies the soul of the whole past; the articulate audible voice of the past, when the body and material substance of it has altogether vanished like a dream. All that man- kind has done, thought, gained, or been, it is lying as in magic preservation in the pages of books. And again: Is it not verily, at bottom, the highest act of mans faculty that produces a book? And as such the Sage of Chelsea rever- enced it; not for any atmosphere of an- tiquity that proceeded from it. But let me not seem to discourage the bibhiomaniacs profession; this were the part of no true bibliophile. Rather do I say, Love a book ! in any way, whe- ther its age, or dress, or thought appeals to you, love it with all the ardor of your soul.

THE ATLANTIC 4MONTHLY: ~. fr1a~aPnc of ILit~rature, ~~ienc~, art, an~ ~oUtic~. VOL. LXXXIL AUG (1ST, 1898. No. UUCCXU. THE OLD WORLD IN THE NEW. AT a French dinner-table, a few years ago, I found myself opposite a genial English clergyman who was somewhat disturbed by the local tendency to quote values and spaces in terms of francs and centimes, metres and centimetres, instead of in the old - established and well - ap- proved pounds, shillings, and pence, feet and inches. Some attempt was made to interest him in the practical convenience of the decimal system, and he gave po- lite and patient hearing; but the seed fell upon stony ground, where was no deepness of earth, and its first fair pro- mise soon withered away before an ap- peal to the common consciousness of man. I think, said the Englishman, addressing his international audience, everybody will have noticed that when one has small sums to pay, francs and centimes or dollars and cents do well enough; but if any large sum is involved, one is always forced, in order really to appreciate the amount, to reduce it to pounds, shillings, and pence. Socrates, in the Phn~do, compares the people of his day, who thought their world about the IEgean to be the whole, to ants and frogs about a marshy pool. The ants and the frogs we have ever with us. They are antiquarians of Co- penhagen to whom Danish history is the history of the world. They are the school committee men who insist that Kansas schools should teach only Kan- sas history and Kansas geography and Kansas weather. They are the political historians who make the world start afresh with the Declaration of Independ- ence. They are the financial experts who ignore the existence of international values. They are the three wise men of Gotham who went to sea in a bowl. All those who do not know that the ex- perience of the race is one continuous whole, in which dates and boundaries are only guide-posts, and not barriers, are the ants and frogs of Socrates. With- out life perspective and historical per- spective there can be no sound political judgment, least of all in these days, when mighty world forces are twirling the millstones of the gods, and the gar- nerings of the ages are pouring into the hopper. We are living in great times. Forces that have been silently at work for cen- turies are just finding their expression. The closing years of the nineteenth cen- tury are engaged in a process of histori- cal liquidation by which the debtors and creditors of the ages are coming to their due. Scarcely have the echoes of the last contest died away on the shores of the IEgean, where has been the battle- ground and ultimate clearing-house of old world issues, when the new world issues take their shape and choose their battle-ground by the Chinese Ocean. Through the trans-Siberian railway Rus- sia this year finds for the first time an outlet to the open sea, and enters the lists for the empire of the world. The bayonets which in the seventies estab- lished a German Empire are now, under cover of an understanding with Russia, 146 The Old World in the New. opening a way for German small wares erto known. Four years are not past, in a conquest whose menace is toward and the dim vistas of futurity have England. Ill-mated France shares with Russia and Germany their policy of re- stricted colonial markets, and toys with colonizing schemes for which she has more money and ambition than men. The worn-out states and peoples of the old world are passing through bank- ruptcy. Africa is being rapidly appor- tioned as spoil. The English Empire, in consciousness of isolation and peril, draws its own bonds closer, and awakes to tardy recognition of its Western kins- men, of their strength and of their kin- ship of purpose. The United States of America find themselves forced, whe- ther they will or not, to transmute their policy of resisting intrusion into one of assuming the positive responsibilities of a moral hegemony in the West. With- in three years the entire strategic map of international politics has been made anew. Alsace-Lorraine and Constanti- nople no longer represent the burning questions of diplomacy. New issues and vastly larger fields of action have been opened. Three years ago, we felt that our own international issues, so far as they existed, had little relation to the great worlds worry. To-day, we are, for good or bad, in the midst of it all. Intercommunication and rapid transit have been steadily drawing the ends of the earth together. Silent, mighty forces have long been assembling to the melt- ing-pot the stubborn forms and patterns of the older world. Suddenly the fire is lighted. Lord Rosebery, while Premier of Eng- land, made in Parliament the following statement: We have hitherto been fa- vored with one Eastern Question, which we have always endeavored to lull as something too portentous for our imagi- nation; but of late a Far Eastern Ques- tion has been superadded, which, I con- fess, to my apprehension is in the dim vistas of futurity infinitely graver than even that question of which we have hith become the arena of the present, and the Far Eastern Question is at the doors of England and at our own. It is a ques- tion in which all 4he world is involved. The centre of disturbance may be now in China, now in Cuba, now in the Phil- ippines, but the disturbances are all in sympathy. It is a question in which the whole history of our race is involved. Its tangled movements viewed simply in their shifting surface phases yield, however, no intelligible statement. They concern too vast an area, too long a tra- dition; they cannot be understood from the levels of the present. One must seek high ground, for they tell their meaning, they betray the outlines of their plot, only in terms of the world labor, the drama of the history of the race. For great areas and mighty upheavals the geologist must run the gamut from Areh~an and Cambrian to Pleistocene. To-day, in a sense that never before was true, the old, the oldest world of man is sole compe- tent interpreter of the new. When in the year 326 B. c. Alexan- der the Great stayed his eastward march in northwestern India at the Sutlej, and turned his course down the Indus to seek the sea, a boundary line was fixed and set which proved to mean for the history of the human race more than any ever created by the act of man. The eastern boundary of Alexanders empire, running from the Jaxartes River, a tributary of the Sea of Aral, southward along the Pamir ranges, the roof of the world, to the Indus, and then on to the Indian Ocean, divided the world and its history into two utterly distinct parts. The portion which lay to theeast with its two great centres, India and China, and which to-day includes a little over half the population of the globe, had no lot nor share in the life and history of the western part, which we may call our Nearer World. In the long process of mixture and fermentation which history The Old World in the New. 147 has suffered since Alexanders time, all the elements within this Nearer World, stretching from Afghanistan and Persia to the shores of western Europe, have yielded their contribution, small or great,. to the civilization upon which our mod- ern life is based. The history which we study, whether of events, institutions, ideas, or religions, has all been a history of this Nearer World. India and China went their own way. The Nearer World knew little of them, gave little to them, received little from them, until after the discovery of the route around the Cape of Good Hope. The intercourse opened by that narrow way is, in the twentieth century, to tread the three broad highways of the Suez Canal, the trans - Siberian railway, the Pacific route, which represent, respective- ly, England, Russia, America. England, by the Canadian Pacific, shares the Pa- cific route, and she must soon open an- other by rail from the Mediterranean to the head of the Persian Gulf. Alexanders boundary was not a boun- dary of race. It ran across the bands of blood. A section of the Aryan race, isolated behind its barriers, became the dominant caste and the rulers of India, and developed or administered there a form of life and thought utterly distinct from any other product of the Aryan tem- per. It was a boundary set in the his- toric life of man. How real it was the distribution of the great religious faiths of the world will tell. Political institu- tions and boundaries fade and shift; no- thing human yields so permanent a map as faith. The conquests of religions are chiefly those of name and outward form. Unless the population changes, the faith in substance abides. To the east of Alexanders boundary will be found Hinduism, Buddhism, Con- fucianism; to the west, two systems born out of the soil of Alexanders empire, one of the west, Christianity, the other of the east, Mohammedanism, both of them, in history and outward guise of statement, the products of Semitism. If a map of the world should be colored so as to represent the predominant re- ligions of different regions, it would ap- pear that Mohammedanism reaches its eastern frontier essentially at the line drawn from the Jaxartes along the roof of the world and down the course of the Indus; that is, at Alexan- ders old frontier. Its territory repre- sents the oriental or non-occidental por- tion of Alexanders empire. It is itself merely a second growth on western Asiatic soil, a revival and reassertion of orientalism in the reaction from Euro- pean conquest. And yet, when com- pared with the fundamental thought of the systems grown in India and China, it shows itself a creation of our world, and not of the remoter one. Upon our colored map we should find, further, that the territory of Eastern Christianity corresponds in general to the sphere of influence of ancient Athens and Byzantium; that the territory of Ro- man Catholicism corresponds to the do- main of the Western Roman Empire, Italy, the Spanish Peninsula, France, and the Rhine and Danube valleys of Central Europe; while the old Germani, who withstood the legions of Drusus and Varus, are represented still by the indi- vidualistic Protestants of the north. The civilization of the Nearer World had its birth in the two centres Egypt and Babylonia. It was in the long river valleys of the Nile and the Eu- phrates that the two types of ordered life we call by the names Egyptian and Assyrian gained their strength and their individuality. Their meeting-place and agora was the eastern Mediterranean, its coast lands and islands. Here the resultant of the Mesopotamian and Egyptian civilizations united as a female principle with the virility of European occidentalism, and the fruit was that civ- ilization upon which European history, and all the history we have hitherto cared for, is based. 148 The Old World in the New. Consciousness of the power of individ- ual initiative has been throughout the characteristic feature in occidentalism; passive conformity to the ordinance of fate and the settled order of the world, the spirit of orientalism. The West is aggressive, the East passive; the West finds the source of creation and action in the individual, the East in the govern- ing power, be it state or fate. The West looks outward, and seeks to comprehend and control the material universe of its environment; the East looks within, and, learning from the winds and the stars only the lessons of moral order and the mandates of destiny imposed upon the soul, seeks to know and control the things of the spirit. In this fabric of the Nearer World joined of the West and the East, the East supplied the informing spirit, the ordered life, the civilization; the West, the moving will and the arm of power- First Greece, then Rome, then in their turn the peoples of the north, assumed the leadership. Fresh blood of will and empire was drawn constantly from the north. But, however empire might change, the old frontier between the West and the nearer East tended to maintain itself where it was when his- tory dawned, at the A~gean and the Bosporus. Two years ago all eyes were turned toward the ZEgean. Crete, Greece, Constantinople, and the Turk were words on every lip. All issues of international politics were quoted solely in terms of the old Bosporus question. The history of the Nearer World had simply gone back for another bout on the old field, the field on which the first contests were fought, and to which most of the contests since have been re- ferred in real or spectred battle. Viewing history in the large, we can- not fail to see that the world we live in is essentially a Mediterranean world. All its fundamental forms and moulds for law and government, art, architec- ture, and literature, thought and faith, were created beside the Mediterranean; all its political and religious struggles, all its wars, were the fighting over of old Mediterranean questions; and as a system of types and forms, it never can be really understood and known except as it be reduced to Mediterranean terms, and studied in the perspective of a Ro- man, Greek, or Syrian horizon. Such was the life habit of the Near- er World. To-day all this has changed. Suddenly the centre of interest has shifted from the ~gean to the Yellow Sea. A class of questions has arisen, overwhelming, in the magnitude of the issues they involve, all the great ques- tions of earlier days, and none of them admits solution in terms of the Medi- terranean; none of them concerns the Mediterranean, or its peoples, or its history~ That which the silent course of events has long been preparing, now in the fullness of time is come. Almost without a sign of warning we are trans- ferred from the history of the Nearer World to the history of the Great World, and to that history the life and the interests of the great dominant peo- ples of the earth will hereafter belong. To no people is the transition of more profound and fundamental importance than to the people of the United States. It involves for them nothing less than a rethinking of the entire problem of na- tional purpose, destiny, and duty. The old history, which we have called the history of the Nearer World, dealt with the antagonisms and the blending of its two component factors, occidental- ism and orientalism; the new history will record the process of assimilation which follows the uniting of the two halves of the whole world. There can be no question as to which of the two will conquer and control, according to the external forms of conquest; but it is idle for us, in the light of historical experience, to imagine that the blending is to mean nothing more than the absorp- tion of the East by the West, nothing The Old World in the New. 149 more than the exploitation of China and India by the greed and power, or even the enlightenment, of Western nations. Rome conquered Greece, but was con- quered by its art, its manners, and its thought. Europe, in the form of Greece, and then of Rome, subjugated Asia; but Asiatic wealth and luxury reshaped Eu- ropean life, and Europe has its religion from the conquered people. We may easily underestimate the solidity of these civilizations we confront, and the perma- nence of their forms of life arid of their moulds of thought. The economic con- ditions, the political ideas, and the funda- mental religious and philosophic thought of our world cannot and will not escape, in the great leveling that is to come, the most far-reaching and momentous trans- formation. England has touched yet only the surface of India, merely the hem of the garment; but her commerce, the equipment of her life, her governniental mechanism and ideals, have already been radically influenced, and the marvelous effect which acquaintance with Hindu thought is exercising upon mens funda- mental thought of the world has spread far beyond the circles of the learned and of the faddists, and, I am persuaded, can be estimated in its profound importance only by the historians of later days. Both Jndia and China embody types of life and forms of thought which, strange and incomprehensible as they may be to us, have been shapen and polished in the mills of a human experience repre- senting in composite the experience of more human souls than have elsewhere shared a common life. India is the land of the vast and the boundless, the true motherland of the ro- mantic. Endlessly prolific, she sets no restraint on the imagination. So India lacks that which was to the Greek, a~ the representative occidental, the supremest virtue, temperate control, naught to excess. The tumid, redundant forms of her art, as of her literature and her theogony, attest the absence of that sense of due economy and fitness which made the creations of the Greek eternal models of restraint and harmony. To the ag- gressive occidental, time is the opportu- nity of action, time is money; for the Hindu, there were no days or years, and hence no history. The occidental is a pluralist; person- alities, individual psyches, are for him the starting-points, the prime factors of the universe; to enforce personality and make it effective is the mission of life. The Hindu is a monist; the world-all is the starting-point; personality is an aberration from it; to bring this person- ality back to rest, absorbed into accord with the world-all, is the toil and mission of life. Knowledge is the recipe of sal- vation; ignorance is the sin. China is another cosmos. It is pre- eminently the land of the practical. Its world is the established social order of men fixed in forms and conventions, whose authority is absolute, as their rea- sons are past finding out. Life is a drama. Men merely play parts. The look-see (appearance) and the make- see (delusive persuasion) constitute the substance of life. The starting-point and whole of things is neither the world-all nor the individual soul, but the stage and scenery and plot into which the individ- ual must fit the action of his part, and within which take his rOle. There is no truth, no real. With the Greek it is intemperance or slopping over which is the sin, with the Hindu ignorance, with the Chinaman innovation. The purpose of education is, for the Greek, to give personality its maximum of effectiveness; for the Hindu, to endow it with a knowledge that shall reveal the hindrances to union with the world-all; for the Chinaman, to force the individuality, like a Chinese girls foot into a shoe, into the fixed rOle or craft it must use in this present life. The Greek education is frankly the lib- eral education; the Chinese, frankly pro- fessional and technical. 150 The Old World in the New. China has perhaps one fourth the pop- ulation of the globe, but no one suspects it of schemes of imperial conquest. The yellow danger menacing the world comes not from the thrifty tradesmen and peasants of China. China is a na- tion without a fist. Its people are lack- ing in any idea or motive around which could be assembled the sentiments of pa- triotism. Devotion to the honoring of ancestors and solicitude for private gain are the two sentiments of a people who constitute, not a nation nor a state, but a scheme of living. The new history is to be concerned, then, with the assimilation of these two strange and mutually diverse elements of the farther world to the substance of the nearer world, just as the old world history involved an assimilation of West and East. With the parallel goes also a contrast. The old history centred about an inland sea. All its issues had their ultimate home by the Mediterranean. In the new history the world is turned wrong side out. The outer ocean is the agora. Power is estimated in terms of navies rather than of armies. Coal is king, and coaling-stations mark the bonds of empire as the Roman military roads did of old. The pattern of the world has been turned inside out. The old world, like an ancient house, was built to- ward the inside and its colonnaded court; the new is built toward the outside, with windows and veranda. The old history had its Eastern Ques- tion; the new has its Easternmost Ques- tion. In the later phases of the old, Turkey was the sick man; in the new, it is China; and where the car- cass is, there are the eagles gathered to- gether. The old involved the constant query who should be the leader of the occident, Greece, Rome, France, Ger- many, England, Russia? The new asks who shall hold the empire and lead the civilization of the world; shall it be the Slav, the Teuton, or the Latin? The aggressiveness shown by France in colonial enterprise is scarcely more than artificial; it represents no inner need or impulse except as it be a yearn- ing for bonds and shares. France is really smitten with the palsy of her own prudence and thrift. Families are small. Sons are not put through the school of self-reliance. A nation lacking men who know how to take risks and assume the responsibility of their own choices can- not compete for leadership among the peoples. French is the language of a diplomacy which lives on in the close at- mosphere of the old Mediterranean con- troversies; out in the breezy ocean world, the greater world, the medium of inter- national intercourse tends to be English. A colder-blooded people than any of the Latin race will win the contest, in these days of organization and calcula- tion and mechanism and coal. The Ger- man is patient enough and practical enough. He is, like his Anglo-Saxon brother by nature, a stout champion of individual freedom, but lie lacks some- thing his brother possesses. This some- thing it is not easy to describe, but the lack of it allows him to tolerate the yoke of C~esarism, imported from the Latin world; gives him ready adaptability to the institutions of other peoples, so that he is quickly absorbed; and, most char- acteristic of all, forbids his appreciation of a game like football. The character in which the English- man asserts his right to rule an empire is the character demanded by this most truly Anglo-Saxon sport. It is made up of roughness, willingness to risk, ahsence of supersensitiveness, fearful directness, and a sublime devotion to fair play. The typical Englishman believes in venturing, hard hitting, blunt truth-telling, equal justice, and personal cleanliness. England had the start of Continental Europe in preparing for the issues of the new history, in that the English Chan- nel enabled her to free herself early from the more baneful entanglements of the Mediterranean quarrels. England has The Old World in the New. 151 long been living in the world whose agora is the open seas. Not until these last days of the nineteenth century, how- ever, has her one prospective rival, Rus- sia, been able to find a way out into the world. This vast power, spanning at the north half the globe, was until this year pent up as an inland state. Arch- angel and the Baltic ports are ice-blocked for a portion of the year. Yladivostok, founded in 1858, and afterward selected as a terminus for the Siberian railway, is closed to navigation four months in each year. Odessa is blocked at the Bosporus. England has diligently kept the barri- ers up between Russia and the sea. In 1878 she checked her at the gates of Constantinople; in 1886, when Russia was in control of the passes of the Hin- du-Kush, and could see her way out to the ocean by way of Afghanistan, Brit- ish power again raised the dykes, and since then the occupation by England of the Mekran and the Chitral valley has set a double rampart against Russian ad- vance. It remains yet for England to occupy the Persian Gulf, and join it by rail to the coast where Beaconsfield set Cyprus on guard. The events attending the Chinese- Japanese war were of most serious con- sequence to Englands policy and .inter- est. Before the war began, she was the trusted adviser of China, and her pro- tector against Russian aggression. Be- fore the war ended, England found her- self identified with Japan, a nation she had underestimated too long, and sud- denly came to appreciate. Russia, sup- ported by her associates, Germany and France, assumed the r6le of protecting friend discarded by England, checked and nullified the victory of Japan, and China is now almost her vassal. That which it has been the constant aim of English diplomacy and power for years to prevent has come about within this year. Russia has a harbor in the Yel- low Sea, has gained a foothold on the shore of the iceless ocean. The astute- ness of Li Hung Chang, on the other hand, has seen the way for bringing the product of Chinese industry to the West- ern world by the overland route, and China is to be introduced to the West by help and intermediation of Russia. Here- in lies the quid pro quo. Russias strength is in her geographic position. Unmenaced in the rear, span- ning Europe and Asia, and knowing no difference between them, she bides her time, and slowly pushes her way south like a mighty glacier. Gradually the barriers give way. Germany, which once held her in check at the west, is now thanks to Bismarcks anti-English policy, continued by the young Emperor in league with her and in commercial war with England. In Continental diplomacy she is supreme arbiter. Panslavism and the Eastern Church have carried her around Constantinople almost to the shores of the ZEgean, and the first oppor- tunity of Englands preoccupation will give her exit through the Bosporus. Steadily she works her way into Central Asia, where the half-oriental temper of her people makes her government pecu- liarly acceptable, and her administration in general fortunate and wise. Entered in the lists for the world empire are, then, these two. The con- flict is set for which generations have been preparing. Where is our place? Russia is our old-time friend. When- ever we have been at issue with Eng- land, Russia has lost no opportunity to show synipathy with us. England is a mother who has constantly ignored or underestimated us. With a blindness of vision almost unparalleled in all the stupidities of statesmanship, her ruling class have committed wrong after wrong against us, in slight and misjudgment and selfishness, all culminating in the attitude toward us during the war for the pre- servation of the Union. But the heart of the great English middle class has always been right. The English com- mon man, with a fine consciousness of 152 The Old World in the New. affinity, regards us as his own, and re- joices in the American states as a crea- tion and vindication of his own kind. The English country squire is fading away, and the plain commoner is com- ing to a hearing. And we are of one kind. When the battle is set between the Slav and the Anglo-Saxon, our hearts prove us inheritors of more than Anglo- Saxon blood: we are inheritors of the principles embodied in Anglo-Saxon life. The Slav stands for government which has the sanctions of its authority from above and without; the Anglo-Saxon, for one whose authority has its source in the governed themselves. One follows the rule of expediencies, and holds that what succeeds is right; the other builds solid achievement on the things that are real, and believes in the blunt word of truth. One raises the barriers of re- stricted privilege; the other opens the markets and the courts of the world to equal opportunity and even justice. One builds on the distrust of the purposes and the intelligence of men; the other, upon the high optimism of democracy. To one the state is a prison or strait- jacket; to the other it is the training school of the race, where responsibility begets character, and free opportunity begets content. There can be no doubt of our sympa- thy, what is our duty? Has the new order of the world brought us new obli- gations of duty? The old world linger- ing in the meshes of Mediterraneanism afforded us no interests but such as we might well wish to shun with all their en- tangling alliances. The barrier of the ocean removed us from the old world gathered about its inland sea, and set us apart in the far West at one side of the earth. The utilization of this barrier has afforded us the opportunity for es- tablishing ourselves in possession and use of our soil, and for developing our re- sources and our system of government. But now the old world has passed. History is turned inside out. The outer ocean is the agora; the whole world, not half, is involved; and instead of being, as in the old order of things, far at one side, we stand full in the midst, mid- way between Europe and its goal in the Farther East. Sooner than any pro- phet could have foreseen, the question is upon us. Our old-time policy of resisting arbi- trary European interference in the af- fairs of American peoples has been ex- tended, under the pressure of what we believe is a genuine humanitarian senti- ment, into intervention against a Euro- pean misgovernment in Cuba which had passed the limits of toleration, and, hav- ing ceased to be government, had become a case of arbitrary interference in the course of American events. The moment we took this step we be- came involved in the great world pro- blems. Englands position in the Far East hurried her to our side, and gave us her welcome to participation in wider responsibilities for the order of the world. England and America, alienated in terms of the Nearer Worlds life, have found each other on the field of the Greater World. They belong together, and their union means not only a check to the Rus- sian menace, but peace and the orderly development of civilization in the world. Many of us deplored the Spanish war; many of us now look forward with anx- ious solicitude concerning the effect of victory on the victor; but still, as we survey the movements of human history in the large, we cannot fail to see in all that is occurring the inevitable grist of the mills of the gods and the irrefragable judgments of the Weltgericht. Spain and the Middle Ages could not tarry in the West. We, on the other hand, could not shut ourselves within the walled gar- dens of our pleasant domesticity, and shun responsibilities that the commerce and intercourse of the larger world ex- act of those who stand for order and equal justice in the affairs of men. While, then, we may well be called The Trend of the C3ntury. 153 upon now to readjust our conception of national purpose and duty to the new order and our new position, we dare not be false to ourselves or our past. Our charter and creed we must interpret, if no longer in the letter, then all the more scrupulously in the spirit. However the letter and the form may fade and vanish away, there are some things that must needs abide. A nation proclaiming gov- ernment of the people and for the peo- ple cannot impose on conquered peoples a foreign sway, or one that finds its su- preme motive in the benefits accruing to others than the governed. We must stand as we were founded, a nation that draws diverse interests and diverse coin- munities into peaceful cotiperation under recognition of the rights of the individual man, and the self-government of peoples and states. Conquest and empire, and all that be- longs thereto both of method and of idea, are utterly abhorrent to the theory of those institutions through which America has aspired to enlighten the world, and utterly foreign to the structure our f a- thers reared out of their stony griefs and cemented with their faith. It is character that counts in nations as in individuals. Only in loyalty to the old can we serve the new; only in un- derstanding of the past can we interpret and use the present; for history is not made, but unfolded, and the old world entire is ever present in the new. Benjc& min Ide Wheeler. THE TREND OF THE CENTURY. EVERY century has its own character- istics. The two influences which have made the nineteenth century what it is seem to me to be the scientific spirit and the democratic spirit. Thus, the nineteenth century, singularly enough, is the great interpretative century both of nature and of the past, and at the same time the century of incessant and uprooting change in all that relates to the current life of men. It is also the century of national systems of popular education, and at the same time of na- tion-great armies; the century that has done more than any other to scatter men over the face of the earth, and to concentrate them in cities; the century of a universal suffrage that is based upon a belief in the inherent value of the individual; and the century of the corporation and the labor union, which in the domain of capital and of labor threaten to obliterate the individual. I want to trace, if I can, what has been the trend of this remarkable century in the domain of thought, of society, of commerce, of industry, and of politics. Especially I want to do this as it con- cerns life in the United States. I speak first of the trend of thought; for thought, immaterial though it be, is the matrix that shapes the issues of life. The mind has been active in all fields during this fruitful century; but, outside of politics, it is to science that we must look for the thoughts that have shaped all other thinking. When von Helm- holtz was in this country, a few years ago, he said that modern science was born when men ceased to summon nature to the support of theories already formed, and instead began to question nature for her facts, in order that they might thus discover the laws which these facts re- veal. I do not know that it would be easy to sum up the scientific method, as the phrase runs, in simpler words. It would not be correct to say that this process was unknown before the pre- sent century; for there have been mdi-

The Trend of the C3ntury. 153 upon now to readjust our conception of national purpose and duty to the new order and our new position, we dare not be false to ourselves or our past. Our charter and creed we must interpret, if no longer in the letter, then all the more scrupulously in the spirit. However the letter and the form may fade and vanish away, there are some things that must needs abide. A nation proclaiming gov- ernment of the people and for the peo- ple cannot impose on conquered peoples a foreign sway, or one that finds its su- preme motive in the benefits accruing to others than the governed. We must stand as we were founded, a nation that draws diverse interests and diverse coin- munities into peaceful cotiperation under recognition of the rights of the individual man, and the self-government of peoples and states. Conquest and empire, and all that be- longs thereto both of method and of idea, are utterly abhorrent to the theory of those institutions through which America has aspired to enlighten the world, and utterly foreign to the structure our f a- thers reared out of their stony griefs and cemented with their faith. It is character that counts in nations as in individuals. Only in loyalty to the old can we serve the new; only in un- derstanding of the past can we interpret and use the present; for history is not made, but unfolded, and the old world entire is ever present in the new. Benjc& min Ide Wheeler. THE TREND OF THE CENTURY. EVERY century has its own character- istics. The two influences which have made the nineteenth century what it is seem to me to be the scientific spirit and the democratic spirit. Thus, the nineteenth century, singularly enough, is the great interpretative century both of nature and of the past, and at the same time the century of incessant and uprooting change in all that relates to the current life of men. It is also the century of national systems of popular education, and at the same time of na- tion-great armies; the century that has done more than any other to scatter men over the face of the earth, and to concentrate them in cities; the century of a universal suffrage that is based upon a belief in the inherent value of the individual; and the century of the corporation and the labor union, which in the domain of capital and of labor threaten to obliterate the individual. I want to trace, if I can, what has been the trend of this remarkable century in the domain of thought, of society, of commerce, of industry, and of politics. Especially I want to do this as it con- cerns life in the United States. I speak first of the trend of thought; for thought, immaterial though it be, is the matrix that shapes the issues of life. The mind has been active in all fields during this fruitful century; but, outside of politics, it is to science that we must look for the thoughts that have shaped all other thinking. When von Helm- holtz was in this country, a few years ago, he said that modern science was born when men ceased to summon nature to the support of theories already formed, and instead began to question nature for her facts, in order that they might thus discover the laws which these facts re- veal. I do not know that it would be easy to sum up the scientific method, as the phrase runs, in simpler words. It would not be correct to say that this process was unknown before the pre- sent century; for there have been mdi- 154 The Trend of the Century. vidual observers and students of nature in all ages. The seed idea is to be found at least as far back as the time of Ba- con, not to say of Aristotle. But it is true that only in this century has this attitude toward nature become the uni- form attitude of men of science. The results that have flowed from this gen- eral attitude toward nature have been so wonderful that the same method has been employed by students of other sub- jects, with results hardly less noteworthy. To this attitude on the part of men of science toward nature we owe the great advances in our knowledge of natural law which this century has witnessed; and from this increased knowledge of natural law the manifold inventions have come that have changed the face of the world. To the scientific method applied to the problems of the past, by men of letters, we owe our ability to understand the hieroglyphs of Egypt and the cunei- form inscriptions of Babylonia. One of the chief results of the scien- tific method as applied to nature and the study of the past is the change that it has wrought in the philosophic con- ception of nature and of human society. By the middle of the century, Darwin had given what has been held to be sub- stantial proof of the theory of the de- velopment of higher forms out of lower in all living things; and since then, the doctrine of evolution, not as a body of exact teaching, but as a working theory, has obtained a mastery over the minds of men which has dominated all their studies and all their thinking. The con- sequences of the doctrine have been very different in different fields of mental ac- tivity. In the field of religious thought it has undoubtedly been a source of very serious perplexity, because it has con- fronted men with the necessity of re- shaping their conceptions of the divine method of creation according to a theory exactly the opposite of that which had been previously held. When Coperni- cus, in the sixteenth century, began to teach that the earth revolved about the sun, it must have seemed to be doctrine that disputed the most evident of facts. All men in all ages had seen the sun rise in the east and set in the west, and therefore the new doctrine must have appeared, at first sight, to be utterly sub- versive both of the science of that day and of the religion of that day. The men of science, then as now, easily ac- commodated themselves to the new teach- ing as its truthfulness became clear, de- spite its revolutionary character, for to them it meant only a fresh start along a more promising road; but the opposi- tion of the Church reveals the agony of mind that was involved for the Christian believer, in the effort to restate his con- ception of mans importance in the sight of God from the point of view of the newly recognized truth, instead of from the point of view of the old error. Still, men have been able to do this, though it took them a long time to do it. The discovery of Copernicus was announced in 1543; yet I read the other day, in the life of Samuel Johnson, the first president of Kings College in New York city, that it was by him and his col- leagues of Yale, in the early part of the eighteenth century, that even the learned people of Connecticut were led to accept the Copernican theory of the universe instead of the Ptolemaic. Indeed, so late as the first Commencement of Kings College, in 1758, one of the students, in a clear and concise manner, deinonstrat- ed the revolution of the earth round the sun, both from astronomical observa- tions and the theory of gravity, and de- fended the thesis against two of his classmates. These incidents illustrate happily, by the way, how far America was from Europe in those days. It is easy to believe, therefore, that the evo- lutionary conception of creation, with its sublime suggestion of the limitless pos- sibilities of endless development, will in time be accepted as the basis of mens religious thinking as universally as re The Trend of the Century. 155 ligious men now accept the Copernican system of the universe. In the mean- while, it should be a source of comfort to every man whose mind has been trou- bled by this new teaching of science that, in this experience, nothing has happened to him which has not happened before; and it may be observed that if the man of science has thus taught, in a new way, that man is allied to the beasts that per- ish, he has also shown, by his own wide reading of naturallaw, that man is capa- ble of tracing the processes of the in- finite, thus setting the seal of science to the doctrine of revelation, that man, in his essence, is the child of God. The effect of the scientific method and of the doctrine of evolution upon philo- sophy, during the century, has been to bring the philosopher and the man of science closer together. In ancient times the philosopher was in his own person a man of science; that is to say, he not only knew all of the science that was known, but he was himself th~ princi- pal agent in advancing mans scientific knowledge. Through the centuries, as mans knowledge of nature has increased, one science after another has been set aside from the domain of philosophy, so to speak, as a field apart. Thus, as- tronomy, physics, and chemistry have long been recognized as independent fields of knowledge; and the philosopher has left it to the astronomer, the physi- cist, and the chemist to enlarge mans knowledge in those fields. During the nineteenth century even psychology has become, to a great extent, an experi- mental science, so that philosophy, in our day, has come to concern itself once more with all knowledge rather than with special fields of knowledge. Accord- ingly, we find the greatest philosophers basing their philosophies upon the widest possible survey of facts; and the great- est scientists turning from their facts to account for them, as they may, by some adequate philosophy. Thus, the theory of evolution, resting as it does upon the observed facts of nature, has come to dominate the philosophy of the century no less than its science. In the domain of education one sees the same philosophy at work, having for its handmaid the democratic tendency which has marked the political devel- opment of the century. Every public educational system of our day, broadly speaking, is the child of the nineteenth century. The educational system of Ger- many, which in its results has been of hardly less value to mankind than to Germany itself, dates from the recon- stitution of the German universities after the battle of Jena. Whatever system France may have had before the Revo- lution went down in the cataclysm that destroyed the ancient r6gime, so that the educational system of France also dates from the Napoleonic period. In the United States, while the seeds of the public school system may have been planted in the eighteenth, or perhaps even in the seventeenth century, it has only been in the nineteenth century, with the development of the country, that our public school system has grown into what we now see; while in England, the system of national education, in a demo- cratic sense, must be dated from 1870. This attempt on the part of the great nations to provide systematic instruction for the people, from childhood to man- hood, from the elementary school to the university, reflects, as it seems to me, the commingling of the two great ten- dencies of the century, the democratic and the evolutionary. Out of the growth of the democratic principle has come the belief that it is worth while to edu- cate all the children of the state; and out of the scientific method, which has led to the general acceptance of the evo- lutionary theory, has been developed the advance in educational method which is so marked a feature of the last decades of the century. Formerly, it was satis- factory to educate a child according to some preconceived theory, or as it had 156 The Trend of the Century. always been done. To-day, the best systems of education are increasingly based upon the laboratory method, and upon the observation of facts relating to childhood and youth. The new disci- plines, also, are freely admitted on even terms with the old. In other domains of knowledge, such as history and literature, the application of the scientific method has resulted not only in the overthrow of many of our pre- conceived conceptions in regard to the past, but also in the opening up of vast fields of information which formerly were closed to the seeker after truth, because he did not command the open sesame to its treasures. I think, therefore, the statement is justified which I made at the beginning of this paper, that it is to science we must look for the thoughts which, in the nineteenth century, have dominated and fructified all other think- ing. The illumination of the century has proceeded from that source, and the light that has been shed especially by the study of nature has been carried into every nook and corner of human history and human life. But the consequences of the general scientific attitude toward nature which is characteristic of this century have been twofold. Not only has the scientific method furnished a philosophy of na- ture and of human life, but, by the great increase in mans knowledge of natural law to which it has led, it has resulted in endless inventions, and these, in turn, have changed the face of the world. It is not my purpose to catalogue these in- ventions, not even the most conspicu- ous of them. I rather want to point out some of the changes in the life of society which have been caused by them. One of the most noticeable of these re- sults is the great increase in the number and size of cities. What the elevator is to the high building the railroad and the steamboat are to the city. They make practicable a city such as without them could not be. In striking contrast with this tendency of people to concen- trate in cities, we observe, on the other hand, a world movement of people which has been facilitated by the same inven- tions. Mans knowledge of the earth that he inhabits has been made substan- tially complete during the present cen- tury, and the ends of the earth and the islands of the sea have been brought into rapid and easy communication with the centres of the worlds life. In other ages, tribes often migrated from one part of the world to another. The path by which they went was stained with blood, and the country of which they took pos- session they made their own by violence and conquest. But in this century, mil- lions of people, not as tribes, but as fam- ilies and as individuals, have migrated peacefully from Europe to America, to Australia, to Asia, and to Africa. This world-wide movement of the peoples has been made possible only by the inven- tions that have built up the cities; but it also reflects, as it seems to me, the influ- ence of the democratic spirit urging men, in vast numbers and upon their own re- sponsibility, always to seek for conditions of life in which they may enter upon lifes struggle less handicapped by the past. The rapid progress of invention during the century has been coincident with one far-reaching change in the habits of so- ciety, the importance of which is seldom recognized. I refer to deposit banking. Of all the agencies that have affected the world in the nineteenth century, I am sometimes inclined to think that this is one of the most influential. If deposit banking may not be said to be the result of democracy, it certainly may be said that it is in those countries in which demo- cracy is most dominant that deposit bank- ing thrives best. The first bank in the United States was the Bank of Mary- land, opened in Baltimore in 1790. It was open for a year before it had a de- positor. Even fifty years ago the dis- cussions of bankers turned mainly upon circulation. Very little attention was The Trend of the Century. 157 given to the question of deposits. At the present time our banks are coinpar- atively indifferent to circulation; but they aim to secure as large deposits as possible. Deposit banking does for the funds of a country precisely what mobi- lization does for the army of a country like France. Mobilization there places the entire manhood of the country in read- iness for war. Deposit banking keeps every dollar of the country on a war foot- ing all the time. Some one has said that it would have been of no use to invent the railroad, the submarine cable, or the telephone at an earlier period of the worlds history, for there would have been no money at command to make any one of them available before this modern banking system had made its appearance. If this be so, then indeed the part that has been played by deposit banking in the developments of the century cannot be overestimated. During the century the conditions of the worlds commerce have been radically altered. It is not simply that the steam- boat and the locomotive have taken the place of the sailing-ship and the horse; that the submarine cable has supplanted the mails; nor even that these agencies have led to such improvements in bank- ing facilities that foreign commerce is done, for the most part, for hardly more than a brokerage upon the transaction. These are merely accidents of the situ- ation. The fundamental factors have been the opening up of virgin soil in vast areas to the cultivation of man, and the discovery of bow to create artificial cold, which makes it possible to transport for long distances produce that only a few years ago was distinctly classed as per- ishable. The net result of these influ- ences has been to produce a world coin- petition at every point of the globe, both on a scale never before known, and as re- gards articles that have been heretofore exempt from all competition except neigh- borhood competition. Thus, not only has it become impossible to raise wheat pro- fitably in England or even on our own Atlantic coast, but the price of such an article as butter, for example, in the state of New York, is fixed by what it costs to produce a similar grade of butter in Australia. Under the influence of these changes, the merchant of the early part of the century has become as extinct as the mastodon. But if these changes have introduced new and strange pro- blems for the merchant, they have also presented problems of no less difficulty to the statesman. In the first half of the century, China was the great source of supply for both tea and silk. At the present time, more than half of the tea consumed in England comes from India and Ceylon, and more than three quar- ters of the tea consumed in the United States comes from the island of Formo- sa and from Japan. Even in silk China has largely lost her market to Japan and Europe. Who shall say that this gradual destruction of Chinas export trade has not had much to do with bring- ing the ancient empire to the point where it seems about to be broken up? The outflow from the old empire is not suffi- cient to stem the inflow, and the aggres- sive commerce of the outside world ap- pears to be ready to break down the ancient barriers and overflow the coun- try, whether it will or no. This unification of tIme world, and its reduction in size from the point of view of commerce, reveal some tendencies that are full of interest. The general tendency to protection was the first an- swer of the statesman and of the nations to the pressure of competition from new quarters. It represented an effort to make the terms of the world competition between young countries and old, be- tween old countries and new, somewhat more even. The remarkable exception to this tendency presented by Great Britain reflects the exceptional situation of Great Britain among the nations. Her home domain is too small to furnish occupation either for her men or for her 158 The Trend of the century. money, and therefore the people of the little island have swarmed all over the world. As a consequence, Great Brit- ain s commercial policy is, in a certain sense, a world policy; but it is notice- able that the other great nations, whether young or old, being obliged to frame their policy from a different point of view, have hitherto relied, with few if any exceptions, upon protection to equal- ize the terms of the competition. Now, however, a second tendency appears to be discernible. If protection represents the attempt of a nation to hold itself aloof, to some extent, from the competition of the world, the tendency of the aggres- sive nations of Europe to divide up among themselves the undeveloped por- tions of the earth, and even the territory of weaker nations, seems to me to re- present a growing conviction that the policy of protection, from its nature, must be a temporary one; and also to reveal a dimly recognized belief that the true way for the old countries to contend with the semi-civilized, in the long run, is to raise the standard of living in the less advanced countries, so that the semi- civilized shall not be able to drag the most highly developed peoples down to their own level. That is to say, if the first response of the civilized nations to the world competition to which I have referred has been the attempt to limit its unwelcome effects by the erection of artificial barriers at every custom house, the second response seems likely to come in the effort of the strong nations to dom- inate the weak, not for their destruc- tion, but for their uplifting. In other words, civilization, being brought face to face with the competition of the semi- civilized, appears to believe that the best way to preserve its own integrity is to introduce the conditions of civilization everywhere. If this be a correct diag- nosis of the recent developments of f or- eign policy on the part of several of the great nations, it indicates a disposition to secure protection in the future by ag gressive action, rather than by defensive action as heretofore. I am not discuss- ing the merits of the case, but only try- ing to point out the possible significance of movements that are likely to have no little influence on the future. But we should lose sight of one of the most important factors that have been at work in producing these results and in changing the life of men, if we did not consider for a moment the influence of invention in the great domain of industry. In its relation to agriculture this influence appears in three forms: there has been a much more intelligent application of chemistry to the cultivation of the soil; steam power has been very largely sub- stituted for hand power; and the rail- road has made accessible vast areas of country which, in any previous age of the world, it would have been impossi- ble profitably to cultivate. In the sub- stitution of machinery for hand power in the domain of manufacture, two inci- dental results have proved of far-reach- ing consequence, although neither was necessarily involved in the substitution of the machine for the hand. I refer, first to the division of labor, and sec- ond to the interchangeability of parts in many standard manufactured arti- cles. It has added enormously to the productiveness of a factory to divide the labor employed according to the processes. By this means, the labor becomes more expert, the product is in- creased, and the quality is improved. It is true that the action of the laborer thereby becomes also, to a great extent, automatic; but so does the execution of the skilled musician, as the result of his practice and his skill. It is probable that the mind of the laborer, thus largely set free during his hours of toil, is at work quite as busily as before, and in ways that make him more than ever an active factor in the worlds life. The practice of making interchangeable parts in many manufactured articles has also added enormously to the convenience and avail- The Trend of the Cent cary. 159 ability of such articles. The standardiz- ing of the threads of screws, the sizes of bolts, and the like adds beyond measure to the effectiveness of manufacture and to the convenience of industry. But it is a superficial view of these things to suppose that their effect is exhausted in a tendency to cheapen products and to improve industrial opportunity. It is evident that division of labor is possi- ble under freedom only in a community the members of which are animated by mutual trustfulness and mutual respect. Interchangeable parts are of value only when men trade continually with one an~ other. They involve a recognition of the advantage to be had by considering the general welfare rather than simply one s own convenience. That is to say, both of these things reveal and emphasize the tendency to democracy in industry, which seems to me as marked a feature of our times as the tendency to demo- cracy in the political life of men. In other words, industry rests more and more completely upon the mutual inter- dependence of the masses of mankind. Other changes, less material, have taken place in the commercial and in- dustrial world during this same great century. The wage system has become universal, and the corporation and the trade union have become dominant in many branches of industry and com- merce. Commodore Vanderbilt laid the foundation of his fortune by operating a small boat on a ferry. The business of transportation grew under his hands to such an extent that even so exception- ally able a man as he could not control it in his own person. Under the form of a corporation, he was obliged to associate with himself many others, in order to carry on the immense business which he developed. The corporation, in this as- pect, therefore, is democratic, resting as it does upon the substitution of the own- ership of many for the ownership of one. A sailing-ship used to cost comparatively little, and many an individual could af ford to have one or two or a small fleet of them. The modern steamship, on the other hand, is exceedingly costly, and there would be few of them indeed if there were no more than could be owned by individuals. But just as in political democracy there is a tendency on the part of the many blindly to follow one, so in corporations one man is apt to determine the efficiency or inefficiency of the cor- poration. Similarly, in the trade union and other organizations of labor, the or- ganizations which are the most capably led are the most effective. The corporation and the trade union interest me especially from another point of view, because of the strange contrast they present to the democratic tenden- cies of the times. Democracy, as a po- litical theory, emphasizes the equality of men. and the equal rights and privileges of all men before the law. The tenden- cy of it has been, in this country, to de- velop in multitudes of men great indi- viduality and self-reliance. Side by side with this tendency, however, we see the corporation supplanting the individual capitalist, and the, trade union obliter- ating the individual laborer, as direct agents in the work of the world. Strange as this contrast is, both tendencies must be consistent with democracy, for the corporation and the trade union flourish most where democracy is most developed. Indeed, they seem to be successful and powerful just because democracy pours into them both its vital strength. The criticisms that are justly enough launched against both probably spring largely from the fact that, by reason of the rapidity of their development, men have not yet learned how to control them so as to se- cure the maximum of benefit and the minimum of abuse. In this country, I suppose, there are few who would deny that the corporate form of doing business is not only in- evitable, but on the whole advantageous. At the same time, the opinion undoubt- edly would be almost as universal that 160 The Trend of the Century. the abuses in corporate management con- front the country with some of the most serious problems that lie before it. The impersonality of the corporation lends it- self readily to many abuses from which the sense of personal responsibility saves individual men. The corporation, being a creature of legislation, as it has gradu- ally acquired control of more and more of the field of business, has brought all business into relations with the legisla- ture which are as unfortunate as possible. When business was in private control, legislators interfered comparatively little, because those who conducted the business had votes. Corporations, however, have no votes; but they have money; and it is not exaggeration to say that the peo- ple fear, if they do not believe, that the money of the corporations is often more influential in shaping legislation than are the votes of the people. The statement of a railroad magnate, that in Republi- can counties he was a Republican, and in Democratic counties he was a Demo- crat, but that everywhere he was for the railroad, was the cynical admission of an attitude easily understood, but none the less dangerous. When one tries to devise remedies for the evident dangers of the situation, it is not easy to be precise. It is possible, I think, to indicate some directions in which to look for improvement, so far as improvement is possible outside of higher standards of public virtue. The fundamental evil in the corporate form of management, undoubtedly, is the loss of personal re- sponsibility. It is a common remark that as directors men will do things which as individuals they would not think of doing. Indeed, the evil lies deeper than this. Because they are di- rectors, and therefore, as they say, trus- tees for others, they feel constrained to do for the benefit of the stockholders what as individuals they abhor. This reasoning may well be considered falla- cious, but that it is very influential in determining the action of corporate di- rectors cannot be questioned. The re- medy for this loss of personal responsi- bility, so far as there is any remedy by legislation, must come from publicity. When the legislature grants the imper- sonal form for the conduct of business, and grants, in addition, a limited liabil- ity, there is no reason why it should not, at the same time, demand that all of the operations of this artificial person or perhaps I ought to say, of this combina- tion of natural and privileged persons should be matters of public record. The- oretically, I cannot believe that there is any reason why the demand for publicity in relation to the actions of corporations should not be carried to any detail to which it may be necessary to carry it in order to secure the result of absolute hon- esty as toward stockholders, creditors, and the public. It should be observed, perhaps, that corporations naturally di- vide themselves into two classes, those which exercise, by virtue of a public franchise, quasi-governmental functions, and those which conduct purely private business. I think the same rule of pub- licity, as a general principle, should ap- ply to both kinds of corporations; but it is evident that publicity may have to be carried much further in regard to the first kind than in regard to the second. I think there is one other direction in which corporations can be further con- trolled to the public advantage. In many of the states, already, it is impossible to organize a corporation without paying in the capital in cash. If this requirement could be extended so as to demand that neither stock nor bonds should be issued except for a cash equivalent, it would strike at the root of one of the evils in- cident to corporate management which has done much to arouse against corpo- rations popular indignation. I do not know why the law might not require, where stock or bonds are to be issued as the equivalent of invested property, pat- ents, good - will, and the like, that the valuation upon which such issues may be The Trend of the Century. 161 made should be fixed by public authori- ty. The corporation that means to serve the public honestly and fairly is not like- ly to object to being required to have assets of full value for all the securities which it offers to the public. It is the corporation which wishes to make money out of the public dishonestly that aims to float all manner of securities that have no value at all, or only a nominal value. I believe it to be a righteous demand that the laws regulating corporations should protect the public much more adequately than they do now against such frauds. But while it is evident that the cor- porate form of conducting business has been of wide benefit to mankind, despite the abuses that have attached to it, there may not be such general admission of the truth that the trade union and the labor organization have been equally beneficial. It is sometimes said that labor organizes because capital does, and that it is obliged to do so in self-defense. I am far from saying that there is no truth in this statement, but I think that it is only a partial statement of the truth. Labor organizes, primarily, not simply to contend against capital and for self-de- fense, but for precisely the same reason that capital does; that is, for its own ad- vantage. It organizes in response to a tendency of the times which labor can resist no more than capital. It is the re- cognition by labor of the vision of the poet, that the individual withers and the world is more and more. It may not be denied that organized labor has often been cruel in its attitude to laboring men who wish to work upon an individual basis; but it cannot be justly said that it is more cruel than organized capital has been in its own field. The individual competitor has been removed from the pathway of the trust as remorselessly as the individual laborer has been deprived of work by the labor organization. In- deed, I think it may be said that there is no fault that can be charged against or- ganized labor which may not be charged VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 11 with equal truth against organized capi- tal. The forms in which these faults exhibit themselves, from the nature of the case, are different, but in both in- stances the fault is the same. In the meanwhile, one has only to consider the protectionist policy of nations in order to be able to understand the protection- ist policy of the trade unions. No labor- ing man can tell at what moment a new invention will appear which will deprive him of his livelihood. It is inevitable, at such a time, that men should draw together and present a common front to the problems of life, rather than attempt to contend with them as individual atoms. It is evident, also, that in many direc- tions the trade union has improved the condition of the laboring man, looked at from the point of view of the mass. It seems to me that the true line of devel- opment, instead of antagonizing labor organization, is to endeavor to make it responsible, so as to substitute for the irresponsibility of the single laborer the adequate responsibility of the great body of laborers. I have been told that in the most progressive labor unions of Eng- land, where the question is an older one than it is here, the aim of the union is to determine by joint action and by agree- ment with the employers the conditions under which the trade shall be carried on, and the tendency is to be indifferent whether the person employed is in the union or out of the union, provided that the standard regulations thus established for the trade are observed upon both sides. Under such a policy the war of the union is waged against inequitable conditions of life, and not against indi- vidual laborers who happen to be outside of the union. It is easy to understand that the employer would prefer to have all such matters entirely under his own control, but it is probably true that, un- der the complex conditions of modern life, this is no longer absolutely possible anywhere; and it is also probably true that, by a general recognition of this cir 162 The Trend of the century. cumstance, the standard of living may be raised in any community, to the great benefit of all concerned. The tendency to democracy in politics is unquestionably the dominant political fact of the century. Not to attempt to trace the operation of this tendency everywhere, it seems to show itself not only in the wide extension of the suf- frage in such countries as England and the United States, but also in the nation- wide army of Germany. It is true that there is little enough of the free spirit of democracy in a military system like that of Germany. On the other hand, the uni- versal suffrage existing in Germany for the election of members of the Reichstag, and the universal demand of the state for military service from all its people, are both of them instances of the use of the democratic spirit of the times in the service of a different polity. In other words, outside of Russia, and possibly even there, monarchical government in Europe is obliged to depend for its sup- port upon the great body of the nation, instead of upon the power of the great and the noble. In England, the mon- archy, although it retains the forms and expressions of power that were natural in the time of the Tudors, has become so responsive to the demands of demo- cracy as to give, in effect, a democratic government. In the United States, the century. though it began with a lim- ited suffrage, ends with universal man- hood suffrage, and even with woman suffrage in some of the Western States. There is one essential difference, how- ever, which ought never to be forgotten, between the democracy of the United States and the democracy of England. The struggle of democracy in England for centuries has been to convert a gov- ernment of privilege into a modern de- mocracy. This implies an hereditary disposition on the part of the great body of the people to look up to men of edu- cation and position as natural leaders, a tendency which still remains to temper very importantly all the activities of English public life. In the United States there is no such tendency. Hence the problem of democracy here is to learn how to educate itself to higher stan- dards, and therefore to the attainment of better results. In other words, de- mocracy in the United States is building on hard-pan, and every advance gained is an advance that reveals the education of the whole people to a higher level. Undoubtedly, universal suffrage and the large immigration of people without any experience in self-government have given form to many of our problems; but I often think there is far too great a dispo- sition among us to magnify the difficul- ties which these conditions present. If all our failures be admitted, whatever they are, the history of the United States is certainly a marvelous one. Surely, it is bad philosophy to assume that our his- tory is what it is in despite of, and not because of, our democracy. It is a nota- ble fact that hardly an immigrant who remains in this country long enough to become a citizen is willing to return to live in his own home. This is a striking testimony to the fact that, whatever our shortcomings, the average conditions of life are freer and happier here than any- where else in the world. And our insti- tutions have certainly sufficed to produce a people of the very highest average of intelligence. The fact is, in my judgment, that our problems arise not so much from uni- versal suffrage as from the effect of the multiplication table applied to all the problems of life. I recollect that Mr. James Bryce, when in this country a few years ago, delivered an interesting lec- ture which he entitled An Age of Discon- tent. In the lecture he pointed out that during the early part of this century the great desire of men was for political lib- erty. But when political liberty had been obtained, he said, instead of ushering in an epoch of universal good will, it had brought with it apparently only universal The Trend of the Century. 163 discontent. Allowing the statement to pass unchallenged, if I were to try to suggest an explanation of this discontent, I should be inclined to say, first of all, that a partial explanation, at least, can be found iu the immense increase of pop- ular opportunity that is due to the spread of democracy, and which has resulted in so magnifying every problem that the world has not yet learned how to deal with many of them. The problems are not only new; in scale they are thorough- ly in keeping with the times, for nothing is more characteristic of the age than the large units of its enterprise. A single building to-day will hold as many tenants as a block of buildings in the beginning of the century; a single bridge of our time will cost as much as twenty bridges of the earlier day; and so one might go through the entire catalogue of private and public undertakings. But size often makes simple things difficult. Any one building a house in the country, when he has dug a well has solved the problem of his water supply; but to supply water for a great city calls for the outlay of millions of dollars, and for the employ- ment of the best engineering talent in the land. Yet nothing has happened except that the problem has been magnified. Thus the difficulties created by the multi- plication table are real; so that the very enlargement of opportunity that demo- cracy has brought with it has faced de- mocracy with problems far harder than were formerly presented to any govern- ment. Another cause of the prevailing dis- content, if that be taken for granted, I find in the constant and uprooting changes in life that have been incident to the rapid progress of scientific inven- tion in our day, and from which no class of people have been exempt. The un- rest is so general and so world-wide that it is not surprising that men are seeking to find for it some remedy which, by its thoroughness, seems to give promise of a complete cure. Every one is conscious of the new problems, but no one is wise enough to see how they are to be worked out. Men want a universal panacea. Accordingly, the anarchist and the nihil- ist say that all government, or even so- ciety itself, is a failure; that the thing to do is to destroy the foundations of government or of society as they now exist, and to start fresh. The commu- nist, less radical, says that society is not at fault, but that the institution of pri- vate property is the source of all trouble. If communism could be introduced, and the people could own everything in com- mon, then, he thinks, the inequalities and injustices of life would disappear. The socialist, on the other hand, recog- nizing the fallacy of both claims, says, No, that is not the trouble. The state, as the one preeminently democratic cor- poration of the day, ought to control the instruments of industry and commerce. When these are controlled by the state, for the general good, instead of being held as now for private advantage, then a better day will be ushered in. And so it goes. It cannot be gainsaid that under every form of government the times are trying mens souls in every condition of life; but there is no uni- versal panacea. There is nothing to be done but patiently to meet each problem in the best way possible, in the confi- dence that in the long run the outcome will be advantageous to mankind. This, at all events, I think may be said of our own people, and of their equipment for the problems of the times: that the American people, in great crises, by their self-control, by their willingness to make sacrifices, and by their evident honesty of purpose, have gladdened the hearts of their friends, and have encouraged those who love to believe that mankind is wor- thy of trust. That our country has not perfectly learned the art of self-govern- ment goes without saying; but that it has made progress in many and difficult di- rections I think must also be admitted. In the meanwhile, some of the pro- 164 The Trend of the Century. blems of greatest difficulty are those which come simply from our size. Mere- ly to get out the vote of a great city, or of a state, or of the nation requires so much machinery as to give to the machine in politics a power that does not always make for the public good. It is not sur- prising, therefore, that wherever this pro- blem is greatest, as in the large cities and the large states, there the tendency to the control of the machine by one man, and to the control of the government by one man through his control of the ma- chine, is the most evident. It does not yet fully appear how the country is to se- cure the legitimate results now obtained through the party machines, without pay- ing to the machines, as such, a price which is out of all proportion to the value of their services. It is not to be believed, however, for one moment, that the wisdom and patriotism of the future will be any less equal to the solution of problems than the wisdom and patriot- ism of the past have been. It is appar- ent that the power of the machine, in the last statement, lies in its control of the power to nominate, because the control of that power opens or closes for every man the door to public life. In some way, it must be made easier for men whose aim is simply to serve the public to get into public life and to stay in it without loss of self-respect. The many movements toward primary reform which look to regaining for the people the con- trol of nominations are movements in the right direction. It is evident that the public instinct has recognized the source of the difficulty, and that everywhere men are at work trying to find a remedy for the evils of which they have become aware. The saying, Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty, did not originate in our day. We are conscious of our own shortcomings and of our own difficulties, and we are apt to forget those out of which the world has grown. We have only to remember these things to gain heart. In a single word, I believe the problem of good government, in our day and coun- try, is largely a problem of education; and in this view it is interesting to recall what was pointed out not long ago by Dr. Stanley Hall, that education is the one thing as to . the value of which all men everywhere, at the present time, are agreed. Not that there is agreement on the methods and detail of education, but all men are agreed that education is a thing to be encouraged, a thing to be de- sired, a thing to be struggled for, and a thing to profit by. In this education our universities have a large part to play. They are already doing much in the di- rection of a constructive study of poli- tics and of society. Perhaps they are not doing enough in the direction of the constructive study of industry and com- merce, for in an industrial and commer- cial age both political and social ques- tions are largely shaped by commerce and industry. In economics, the work of the universities is largely critical, not to say destructive; but because of their ability to illuminate the problems of the present with a broad knowledge of what is being done the world over, as well as with the knowledge of the past, and be- cause of their own inherent democracy of spirit which puts them in vital touch with the spirit of the times, I am con- fident that they may, if they will, make valuable contributions to such a study of industry andecommerce as will cause the universities to become still more impor- tant factors in shaping the future of the country. To sum up, therefore, I should say that the trend of the century has been to a great increase in knowledge, which has been found to be, as of old, the know- ledge of good and evil; that this know- ledge has become more and more the property of all men rather than of a few; that, as a result, the very increase of opportunity has led to the magnifying of the problems with which humanity is obliged to deal; and that we find our- selves, at the end of the century, face to The Proper Basis face with problems of world-wide impor- tance and utmost difficulty, and with no new means of coping with them other than the patient education of the masses of men. However others may tremble as they contemplate the perplexities of the coming century, the children of the universities should find it easy to keep heart; for they know that higher things have been developed in pain and strug of English Culture. 165 gle out of lower, since creation began; and in the atmosphere of the university, with its equality of privilege and wealth of opportunity open to all, they must have learned, if they have learned any- thing of value, the essential nobility of the democratic spirit that so surely holds the future in its hands, the spirit that seeks, with the strength of all, to serve all and uplift all. Seth Low. THE PROPER BASIS OF ENGLISH CULTURE. SURELY it is time our popular cul- ture were cited into the presence of the Fathers. That we have forgotten their works is in itself matter of mere impiety which many practical persons would con- sider themselves entitled to dismiss as a purely sentimental crime; but ignorance of their ways goes to the very root of growth. I count it a circumstance so wonder- ful as to merit some preliminary setting forth here, that with regard to the first seven hundred years of our poetry we English-speaking people appear never to have confirmed ourselves unto ourselves. While we often please our vanity with remarking the outcrop of Anglo-Saxon blood in our modern physical achieve- ments, there is certainly little in our pre- sent art of words to show a literary line- age running back to the same aneestry. Of course it is always admitted that there was an English poetry as old to Chau- cer as Chaucer is to us; but it is ad- mitted with a certain inconclusive and amateur vagueness removing it out of the rank of facts which involve grave and important duties. We can deny neither the fact nor the strangeness of it, that the English poetry written between the time of Aldhelm and Ca3dmon in the seventh century, and that of Chaucer in the fourteenth century, has never yet taken its place by the hearths and in the hearts of the people whose strongest prayers are couched in its idioms. It is not found in the tatters of use, on the floors of our childrens playrooms; there are no illuminated boys editions of it; it is not on the booksellers counters at Christmas; it is not studied in our com- mon schools; it is not printed by our publishers; it does not lie even in the dusty corners of our bookcases; nay, the pious English scholar must actually send to Germany for Greins Bibliothek in order to get a compact reproduction of the body of Old English poetry. Nor is this due to any artistic insen- sibility on our part. Perhaps it will sharpen the outlines of our strange at- titude toward the works of our own tongue if we contrast it with our rever- ence for similar works in other tongues, say Greek and Latin. In citing some brief details of such a contrast, let it be said by way of abundant caution that nothing is further from the present in- tention than to make a silly question as between the value of the ancient classic and the English classic. Terms of value do not apply here; once for all, the pro- digious thoughts of Greek poetry are simply invalua.ble: they permeate all our houses like indirect sunlight; we could not read our life without them. In point

The Proper Basis face with problems of world-wide impor- tance and utmost difficulty, and with no new means of coping with them other than the patient education of the masses of men. However others may tremble as they contemplate the perplexities of the coming century, the children of the universities should find it easy to keep heart; for they know that higher things have been developed in pain and strug of English Culture. 165 gle out of lower, since creation began; and in the atmosphere of the university, with its equality of privilege and wealth of opportunity open to all, they must have learned, if they have learned any- thing of value, the essential nobility of the democratic spirit that so surely holds the future in its hands, the spirit that seeks, with the strength of all, to serve all and uplift all. Seth Low. THE PROPER BASIS OF ENGLISH CULTURE. SURELY it is time our popular cul- ture were cited into the presence of the Fathers. That we have forgotten their works is in itself matter of mere impiety which many practical persons would con- sider themselves entitled to dismiss as a purely sentimental crime; but ignorance of their ways goes to the very root of growth. I count it a circumstance so wonder- ful as to merit some preliminary setting forth here, that with regard to the first seven hundred years of our poetry we English-speaking people appear never to have confirmed ourselves unto ourselves. While we often please our vanity with remarking the outcrop of Anglo-Saxon blood in our modern physical achieve- ments, there is certainly little in our pre- sent art of words to show a literary line- age running back to the same aneestry. Of course it is always admitted that there was an English poetry as old to Chau- cer as Chaucer is to us; but it is ad- mitted with a certain inconclusive and amateur vagueness removing it out of the rank of facts which involve grave and important duties. We can deny neither the fact nor the strangeness of it, that the English poetry written between the time of Aldhelm and Ca3dmon in the seventh century, and that of Chaucer in the fourteenth century, has never yet taken its place by the hearths and in the hearts of the people whose strongest prayers are couched in its idioms. It is not found in the tatters of use, on the floors of our childrens playrooms; there are no illuminated boys editions of it; it is not on the booksellers counters at Christmas; it is not studied in our com- mon schools; it is not printed by our publishers; it does not lie even in the dusty corners of our bookcases; nay, the pious English scholar must actually send to Germany for Greins Bibliothek in order to get a compact reproduction of the body of Old English poetry. Nor is this due to any artistic insen- sibility on our part. Perhaps it will sharpen the outlines of our strange at- titude toward the works of our own tongue if we contrast it with our rever- ence for similar works in other tongues, say Greek and Latin. In citing some brief details of such a contrast, let it be said by way of abundant caution that nothing is further from the present in- tention than to make a silly question as between the value of the ancient classic and the English classic. Terms of value do not apply here; once for all, the pro- digious thoughts of Greek poetry are simply invalua.ble: they permeate all our houses like indirect sunlight; we could not read our life without them. In point 166 The Proper Basis of English Culture. of fact, our genuine affection for these beautiful foreign works is here adduced because, in establishing our love for great poetry in general, it necessarily also es- tablishes some special cause for our neg- lect of native works in particular. For example, we are all ready to smile with a lofty good humor when we find Puttenham, in 1589, devoting a grave chapter to prove that there rsiay be an Arte of our English Poesie as well as there is of the Latine and Greeke; we remember the crushing domination of the old culture in his time, and before it we wonder complacently at all that icy business of elegant Latin verses and polite literature, and we feel quite comfortable in thinking how completely we have changed these matters. Have we? One will go into few mod- erately appointed houses in this country without finding a Homer in some form or other; but it is probably far within the truth to say that there are not fifty copies of Beo~vulf in the United States.1 Or, again, every boy, though far less learned than that erudite young person of Macaulays, can give some account of the death of Hector; but how many boys or, not to mince matters, how many men in America could do more than stare if asked to relate the death of Byrhtnoth? Yet Byrhtnoth was a hero of our own England in the tenth century, whose manful fall is recorded in English words that ring on the soul like arrows on armor. Why do we not draw in this poem and its like with our mothers milk? Why have we no nursery songs of Beowulf and the Gren- del? Why does not the serious educa- tion of every English-speaking boy com- mence, as a matter of course, with the Anglo-Saxon grammar? These are more serious questions than any one will be prepared to believe who has not followed them out to their logical results. For the absence of this primal Angli- 1 Since this was written (about 1880), two editions of the work have been published here. cism from our modern system goes, as was said, to the very root of culture. The eternal and immeasurable signifi- cance of that individuality in thought which flows into idiom in speech be- comes notably less recognized among us. We do not bring with us out of our childhood the fibre of idiomatic English which our fathers bequeathed to us. A boys English is diluted before it has be- come strong enough for him to make up his mind clearly as to the true taste of it. Our literature needs Anglo-Saxon iron; there is no ruddiness in its cheeks, and everywhere a clear lack of the red cor- puscles. Current English prose, on both sides of the water, reveals an ideal of prose-writing most like the leaden sky of a November day, that overspreads the earth with dreariness, no rift in its tissue nor fleck in its tint. Upon any soul with the least feeling for color the model editorial of the day leaves a profound dejection. The sentences are all of a height, like regulars on parade; and the words are immaculately prim, smug, and clean-shaven. Out of all this regularity comes a kind of prudery in our literature. It ought not to be, that our sensibilities are shocked with strong individualities of style like Carlyles or even Ruskins. One always finds a cer- tain curious reaction of this sensibility upon these men, manful as they are; they grow nervous with the fine sense of a suspicion of charlatanry in using a ruddy-cheeked style when the general world writes sallow-skinned; and hence sometimes too much color in their style, a blush, as it were. We are guilty of a gross wrong in our behavior toward these authors and their like. A man should have his swing in his writing. That is the main value of it; not to sweep me off my legs with eloquent pro- pagandism, but simply to put me in po- sition where I may place the frank and honest-spoken view of another man along- side my own, and so make myself as large as two men, quoad rem. The Proper Basis of English Culture. But we lack a primal idiomatic bone and substance; we have not the stalwart Anglicism of style which can tolerate departures, breaks, and innovations; we are as uncomfortable over our robustious Carlyle as an invalid, all nerves, with a great rollicking boy in the room, we do not know what he may do next. How wonderful this seems, if we take time to think what a strong, bright, pic- ture-making tongue we had in the begin- ning of the sixteenth century, when the powerful old Anglo - Saxon had fairly conquered all the foreign elements into its own idiom I For it is about with the beginning of that century that we may say we had a fully developed Eng- lish literary instrument. Chaucer was not, and could not be, the well of Eng- lish undefiled which Spensers somewhat forgetful antiquarianism would have him. He was fed with two streams of language which were still essentially distinct in many particulars. It was a long while before the primal English conquered the alien elements into its own idioms, longer, indeed, in Chaucers world than in Langlands. Almost every house will furnish the means of placing in sharp contrast the vivacity and robust manfulness of the English language early in the sixteenth century, and the more flaccid tongue which had begun to exist even as early as the eighteenth. Wartons History of English Poetry, for example, collates a couple of stanzas from The Nut-Brown Maid which must belong to the end of the fifteenth or the beginning of the six- teenth century with the corresponding stanzas of a paraphrase made by Prior in 1718. It may not be amiss to make sure by inserting one of these examples here. In the original ballad, the wild lover, testing the girls affection, cries Yet take good hede, for ever I drede That ye could nat sustayne The thornie wayes, the depe valeis, The snowe, the frost, the rayne, The colde, the hete; for, dry or wete, We must lodge on the playne; And us abofe none other rofe But a brake bush or twayne; Which sone sholde greve you, I believe, And ye wolde gladly than That I had to the grene wode go Alone, a banyshed man. I cannot see how language could well have put it feather than that; but, two hundred years afterward, this is Priors idea of the way it should have been said: Those limbs, in lawn and softest silk arrayd, From sunbeams guarded and of winds afraid, Can they bear angry Jove? Can they resist The parching dog-star and the bleak north- east? When, chilld by adverse snows and beating rain, We tread with weary steps the longsome plain; When with hard toil we seek our evening food, Berries and acorns from the neighbouring wood; And find among the cliffs no other house But the thin covert of some gatherd boughs; Wilt thou not then reluctant send thine eye Around the dreary waste, and, weeping, try (Though then, alas! that trial be too late) To find thy fathers hospitable gate, And seats where ease and plenty brooding sate? Those seats, whence long excluded thou must mourn; That gate, for ever barrd to thy return; Wilt thou not then bewail ill-fated lov~, And hate a banishd man, condemnd in woods to rove? Or, if it be objected that this may be an exaggerated single example which proves little, almost every bookcase con- tains Thomas Johness translation of Froissart, in the notes to which occur here and there extracts of parallel pas- sages from Lord Bernerss translation, made in the time of Henry YIII.; and the least comparison of Berners with Johnes shows how immeasurably more bright, many-colored, and powerful is the speech of the former. And this brightness, color, and power make for the doctrine of this present writing, because they are simply exu- berant manifestations of pure Anglicism put forth in the moment of its triumph. We are all prone to forget the odds against which this triumph was achieved. 167 The Proper Basis of English Culture. For four hundred years that is, in round numbers, from 670 to 1070 the English language was desperately striv- ing to get into literature, against the sacred wishes of Latin; and now, when the Normans come, the tongue of Aid- helm and C~edmon, of Alfred and 1- fric and Cynewulf, must begin and fight again for another four hundred years against French, fight, too, in such depths of disadvantage as may be ga- thered from many a story of the relentless Norman efforts to exterminate the native tongue. Witness, for example, Matthew Pariss account of the deposition of the Bishop of Worcester in 1095 by the Normans because he was a superannu- ated English idiot who could not speak French; or Ralph Higdens complaint, as John Trevisa translates it from the Polychronicon: Children in scole, ayenst the usage and manir of all other nations, beeth compelled for to leve hire owne langage and for to construe hire lessons and hire thinges in French; and so they haveth sethe Normans came first into Engelond; moreover, Gentilmen children beeth taught to speke Frensche from ~the tyme that they bith rokked in hire cradle and kumeth speke and play with a childs broche. Eight hundred years the tough old tongue has been grimly wrestling and writhing, life and death on the issue, now under this enemy, now under that, when Lord Berners and Sir Thomas More begin to speak. It is, therefore, with all the sacred sanction of this long conflict that a man can drive home upon our time these fol- lowing charges: first, that it is doing its best, in most of its purely literary work, to convert the large, manful, and simple idioms of Alfred and Cynewulf into the small, finical, and knowing clevernesses of a smart half-culture, which knows 1 As distinguished from the modern scien- tific English, which is certainly an admirable instrument in the hands of Tyndall, of Huxley, and of many more. neither whence it came nor whither it is going; and secondly, that as a people we are utterly ignorant of even the names of the products of English genius dur- ing the first four hundred of the eight hundred years just mentioned, insomuch that if a fervent English-lover desire to open his heart to some one about Beo- wulf, or The Battle of Maldon, or The Wanderer, or Deors Lament, or The Pha~nix, or The Sea-farer, or The Ad- dress of the Departed Soul to its Body, or Elene, or the like, he must do it by letter, for there are scarcely anywhere two in a town who have read, or can read, these poems. In short, our literary language1 has suffered a dilution much like that which music has undergone at the hands of the weaker devotees since the free use of the semitone began. Soon after the chromatic tone had attained its place a wonderful flexibility shows itself in mu- sic, the art expands in many directions, the province of harmony becomes inde- finitely large; but this very freedom proves the ruin of the weaker brethren: the facilities of modulation afforded by the minor chords and the diminished sevenths tempt into unnieaning and cloy- ing impertinences of composition, and these have to be relieved, again, by set- ting over-harsh and crabbed chords in the midst of a too gracious flow of tone. Now, as music has reached a point where it must pause, and reestablish the dominancy of the whole tone, fortifying it with whatever new tones may be found possible in developing the scale accord- ing to primal or what we may call musically idiomatic principles, so must our tongue recur to the robust forms, and from these to the underlying and determining genius, of its Anglo-Saxon2 period. In other words, for what has so far 2 A term for which it is now pretty gener- ally agreed to substitute Old English. I shall use the two interchangeably in this pa- per. 168 The Proper Basis of English Culture. 169 been said has been in defense and expli- cation of the sentence which stands at the beginning of this paper, culture must be cited into the presence of the Fathers. In the humblest hope of contributing to that end, I eagerly embrace the op- portunity of calling the general readers attention to the rhythmical movement and afterward to the spiritual move- ment of an Anglo-Saxon poem dating from about A. D. 993, known as The Death of Byrhtnoth, or otherwise as The Battle of Maldon, which, in the judg- ment of my ear, sets the grace of loyalty and the grimness of battle to noble mu- sic. I think no man could hear this poem read aloud without feeling his heart beat faster and his blood stir. The rhythm of this poem let it be observed as the reader goes through the scheme is strikingly varied in time- distribution from bar to bar. The poem, in fact, counts with perfect confidence upon the sense of rhythm, which is well- nigh universal in our race, often boldly opposing a single syllable in one bar to three or four in the next. I should not call this bold except for the timidity of English poetry during the last two hundred years, when it has scarcely ever dared to venture out of the round of its strictly defined iambics, forgetting how freely our folk songs and nursery rhymes employ rhythms and rhythmic breaks, as Peas porridge hot, for example, or almost any verse out of Mother Goose, which, though complex from the standpoint of our customary rhythmic limitations, are instantly seized and co- ordinated by children and child-minded nurses.1 [Apart from its literary merit, this poem has other features of interest. It is an example, perhaps singular, of an epic contemporary with the events it re- 1 The historical paragraphs following (in brackets) have been supplied by Dr. William Hand Browne. cites, and probably written by one who had a share in the battle. The poets point of view never moves from the Eng- lish side; he does not know what is done or said among the Danes; he knows none of their names, not even that of their leader. We may therefore rely on its be- ing a faithful picture of what was done, said, and even thought during this last resolute stand of England against the vi- kings. The incident itself is memorable. In A. D. 979 IEthelred Lack-Counsel (gener- ally called the Unready ) was crowned at Kingston, and the bloody cloud in the likeness of fire, seen at midnight, which followed that event, may well have seemed to the old chronicler, in the light of later experience, a foretokening of the years to come, when the heavens, night after night, were red with the glare of burning towns and homesteads, and the ground was crimson with the blood of the slaughtered English. For the Danes had begun their terrible invasions, and met with but little resistance. In the next year, Leicester, Thanet, and South~ ampton were plundered, and the inhab- itants mostly slain, says the chronicle; in the next, Padstow in Cornwall was plundered, and Devonshire harried with fire and sword; in the next, London was burnt. We come at last to the year 991, and we are told In this year came Anlaf with ninety- three ships to Staines and harried all roundabout that; and then fared thence to Sandwich, and thence on to Ipswich, and overran all that, and so to Maldon [Essex]. And there against them came the ealdorman Byrhtnoth with his army, and fought with them, and they slew the ealdorman and held the battlefield. And in this year for the first time men coun- selled that they should rather pay tribute to the Danish men for the mickle terror that they wrought at the sea-coasts. And the tribute was at first a thousand pounds. The giver of the counsel was Sigeric the archbishop. 170 The Proper Basis of English Culture. It is plain from this that the fall of Byrhtnoth snapped the sinews of Eng- lish resistance; and from this time forth we read of nothing but feeble and futile musterings of men, without plan or con- cert of action, and all to no purpose: half-battles lost because the support did not arrive in time; fleets ordered to help the land force, and coming after all was over; and ever, says the chroni- cler, when they should have been for- warder, then were they later, am ever the foes waxed more and more. And the tribute grew heavier and heavier, and there was less to pay it with, and leaders like ~lfric turned traitors in sheer despair, until the doomed king, crowning a life of imbecility by a deed of bloody madness, slaughtered the peace- ful colonists of the Danelagh, and Swe- gen came in a storm of fire and blood, hurling the wretched descendant of Cer- dic from the throne, while England bent her neck to the Danish rule. After half a century, two phantoms of a monk and a warrior, Edward and Harold, seemed to wear the Saxon crown; but the mon- archy of Alfred received its death-blow at Maldon, not because the East Saxon militia was broken, but because Byrht- noth fell. And now who was Byrhtnoth? The chronicler, overmuch given to record- ing investitures and deaths of bishops and abbots, tells us but little; but from the Book of Ely, an abbey founded by Byrhtnoth himself, we get glimpses of him, probably from the hand of one who had seen him face to face. He was eal- dorman that is, lord or general of the East Saxons, and one of the greatest nobles in England. He was, says the monkish historian, eloquent of speech, great of stature, exceeding strong, most skillful in war, and of courage that knew no fear. He spent his whole life in de- fending the liberty of his country, being altogether absorbed in this one desire, and preferring to die rather than to leave one of its injuries unavenged. And all the leaders of the shires put their trust altogether in him. After telling of several of his victories, the historian comes to his last fight. His force was far inferior to that of the in- vaders, but he hastened to meet them without waiting for reinforcements, a piece of rashness like that recorded in the poem, where, from mere excess of haughty courage, he disdains to defend the ford of Panta, and lets the vikings cross unmolested, a fatal hardihood which cost him the battle and his life. On his march, when he came to Ram- sey Abbey he asked for provisions for his men. The abbot said that it was not possible for him to feed so great a num- ber, but, not to seem churlish, he would receive as his guests the ealdorman and seven others. Byrhtnoth rejected the mean offer with scorn. I cannot fight without them, he said, and I will not eat without them, and so marched on to Ely, where Abbot IElfsig bounteously entertained him and his force. But the ealdorman, thinking that he had been burdensome to the abbey, would not leave it unrewarded; and on the following morning bestowed upon it six rich manors, and promised nine more, with thirty marks of gold and twenty pounds of silver, on the condi- tion that if be fell in the battle his body should be brought and buried there. To this gift he also added two crosses of gold and gems, and a pair of curiously wrought gloves. And so, com- mending himself to the prayers of the brethren, he went forth to meet the enemy. When he met them,~undeterred by the multitude of foes and the fewness of his own men, he attacked them at once, and for fourteen days fought with them daily. But on the last day, but few of his men being left alive, and perceiving that he was to die, he attacked them with none the less courage, and had al- most put them to flight, when the Danes, taking heart from the small numbers of The Proper Basis of English Culture. iTi the English, formed their force into a wedge, and threw themselves upon them. Byrhtnoth was slain, fighting valiantly, and the enemy cut off his head, and hare it with them to their own country! Plainly a prince of men, and the true king of England at that day, though he never wavered in his allegiance to ZEthelred, my prince. And this last day of the great dim battle in the east, more worthy the poets song than that merely fabulous battle in the west which the late Laureate celebrated in such singing verse, this last agony of the last vigorous struggle to free Eng- land from the ferocious invaders, is the subject of the poem. True, Byrhtnoth is not so musical a name as Arthur, and Leofsunu and Wulfmier sound harsh compared with Lancelot and Percivale; but the fantas- tic chivalry of the Round Table and their phantom-like king are not only his- torically untrue, but merely impossible, a bright-hued web of the stuff that dreams are made of, while these gal- lant men of Essex and their heroic chief veritably lived, and fought, and died where they stood, rather than yield one foot of English ground or forsake their fallen leader; and they were men of our own race, and it maybe that their blood flows in our own veins. Unflinching courage, personal devo- tion to the chief, absolute contempt of death, are matters of course in this war- rior-poets mind, and need no particular eulogy.] I have translated two hundred lines of the poem, which is a fragment, of three hundred and twenty-five lines in all, lacking the original beginning and end, with special reference to two matters. (1.) In the first hundred lines be- ing the first hundred of the poem as it stands I have had particularly in view the send and drive of the rhythm: and to keep these in the readers mind I have made the translation, so far as the end of that hundred, mostly in dactyls, which continually urge the voice forward to the next word, with an occasional trochee for breath and variety. (2.) But in my second hundred lines being those consecutively following the first, up to the hundred and eighty-fifth line of the poem, when I pass to the last sixteen, with an intercalary account in short of the matter of the imitervening hundred and twenty-five I have aban- doned the metrical purpose, and changed the paramount object to that of show- ing the peculiar idioms of Anglo-Saxon poetry: the order of words, the vigorous use of noun and verb, the parallelisms and repetitions (like those of Hebrew poetry, as in the lines near the last, ]Elfnod and Wulfmier lay slain; by the side of their prince they parted with life), and the like. I have thought that the modern reader might contemplate with special profit the sparing use of those particles such as the, a or an, his, their, and others which have made the modern tongue so different from the old, both in its rhythmical work- ing and in its weight or momentum. The old tongue is notably sterner, and often stronger, by its ability to say man, horse, shield, and not the man, a horse, his shield, etc. and it is an interesting question, at least, whether we might not with advantage educate our modern sense to be less shocked by the omission of these par- ticles at need. Without here adducing many ~onsiderations which would have to be weighed before any one could make up his judgment on this point, I have simply called attention to these particles, where modern usage required me to sup- ply them in the translation, by inclosing them in parentheses. In both the metrical and the unmetrical portions of the translation I have dis- carded the arrangement into lines as in- terfering with the objects in view; the poem showing clearly enough, by the 172 The Proper Basis plane of its thought, that it is a poem, though presented in whatever forms of prose. The fragment begins with the last two words of some sentence, brocen wurde (was broken), and then proceeds as follows: Bade then (that is, Byrhtnoth bade) each warrior loose him his horse and drive it afar, and fare thus on to the hand-fight, hopeful of heart. Then straightway the stripling of Offa beheld that the earl would abide no cowardly thing: so there from his hand he let fly his falcon, his beloved hawk, away through the wood, and strode to the battle; and man might know that never that youth would fail from the fight when once he fell to his weapon. There- at Eadric was minded to stand by his ealdorman fast in the fight; forth gan bear his javelin foe-ward, manful in mood, whilever that he in his hands might hold his buckler and broadsword; his vaunt he avouched with his deeds, that there he should fight in front of his prince. Then Byrhtnoth began to array him his warriors, rode and directed, coun- selled the fighters how they should stand and steadfastly hold to their places, showed them how shields should be gripped full hard with the hand, and bade them to fear not at all. When fair- ly his folk were formed he alighted in midst of the liegemen that loved him fondliest; these full well he wist that his faithfullest hearth-fighters weie. Then stood forth one from the vi- kings, strongly called, uttered his words, shouted the sea-rogues threat to the earl where he stood on the adverse shore: Me have the scathful seamen sent, and bidden me say that now must thou render rings 1 for thy ransom, and bet- ter for you shall it be that ye buy off a battle with tribute than trust the hard- 1 Rings, that is, of gold, a favorite form of treasure among our Anglo-Saxon ancestors. of English Culture. dealing of war. No need that we harm you, if only ye heed this message; firm will we fashion a peace with the gold. If thou that art richest wouldst ransom thy people, pay, for a peace, what the seamen shall deem to be due; we will get us to ship with the gold, and fare off over the flood, and hold you acquit. Byrhtnoth cried to him, brandished the buckler, shook the slim ash, with words made utterance, wrathful and re- solute, gave him his answer: Hearest thou, sea-rover, that which my folk say- eth? Yes, we will render you tribute in javelins poisonous point, and old-time blade good weapons, yet for- ward you not in the fight. Herald of pirates, be herald once more; bear to thy people a bitterer message: that here stands dauntless an earl with his war- riors, will keep us this country, land of my lord, Prince }Ethelred, folk and field; the heathen shall perish in battle. Too base, methinketh that ye with your gold should get you to ship all unfought- en with, now that so far ye have come to be in our land: never so soft shall ye slink with your treasure away: us shall persuade both point and blade grim game of war ere we pay you for peace! Bade he then bear forward bucklers, and warriors go, till they all stood ranged on the bank that was east. Now there, for the water, might never a foeman come to the other: there came flowing the flood after ebb-tide, mingled the streams: too long it seemed to them, ere that together the spears would come. There stood they in their strength by Pantas stream, the East-Saxon force and the ship-host: nor might either of them harm the other, save wheu one fell by an arrows flight. The tide outfiowed: the pirates stood yare, many vikings wistful for war. Bade then the Shelter-of-Men2 a war- 2 Byrlitnoth. The Proper Basis of English Culture. 173 hardened warrior hold him the bridge, who Wulfstan was hight, bold with his kinsmen, Ceolas son; he smote with his spear the first man down that stepped over-bold on the bridge. There stood by Wulfstan warriors dauntless, Maccus and IElfere, proud-souled twain; they recked not of flight at the ford, but stoutly strove with the foe what while they could wield their weapons. When they encountered and eagerly saw how bitter the bridgewards were, then the hostile guests betook them to cunning; ordered to seize the ascents, and fare through the ford and lead up the line. Now the earl in his over-bold mood gave over-much2 land to the foe. There, while the warriors whist, fell Byrht- helms bairn 8 to calling over the waters cold : Now there is room for you, rush to us, warriors to warfare; God wot, only, which of us twain shall possess this place of the slaughter! Waded the war - wolves west over Panta, recked not of water, warrior vi- kings. There, oer the wave they bore up their bucklers, the seamen lifted their shields to the land. In wait with his warriors, Byrhtnoth stood; he bade form the war-hedge of bucklers, and hold that ward firm to the foe. The fight was at hand, the glory of battle; the time was come for the falling of men that were doomed. There was a scream uphoven, ravens hovered, (and) the eagle sharp for car- nage; on earth was clamor. They let from (their) hands (the) file- hard spears, (the) sharp-ground javelins, fly; bows were busy, shield caught spear- point, bitter was the battle-rush, war- riors fell, on either hand warriors lay. Wounded was Wulfmmr, chose (his) bed of death, Byrhtnoths kinsman, his sis- The pirates. 2 Voluntarily drew back and allowed them to gain the hither bank, in order to bring on the fight. ~ Byrhtnoth. ters son; he with bills was in pieces hewn. (But) there to the vikings quit- tance made; heard I that Edward slew one sheerly with his sword, withheld not the swing (of it), that to him at feet fell (the) fated warrior. For that his prince said thanks to him to his bower-thane when he had time. So dutiful wrought (the) strong - souled fighters at battle, keenly considered who there might quick- liest pierce with (his) weapon; carnage fell on earth. Stood (they) steadfast- Byrhtnoth heartened them, bade that each warrior mind him of battle that would fight out glory upon (the) Danes. Waded then (forward) (a) warrior tough, upheaved (his) weapon, shield at ward, and strode at the earl; as resolute went the earl to the carl: ~ each of them to the other meant mischief. Sent then the sea-warrior (a) Southern spear that the lord of warriors ~ was wounded; he wrought then with his shield that the shaft burst in pieces and that spear broke that it sprang again. Angry-souled was the warrior; he with (his) spear stung the proud viking that gave him his wound. Prudent was the chieftain; he let his spear wade through the vikings neck; (his) hand guided it that it reached to the life of his dangerous foe. Then he suddenly shot another that his corse- let burst; he was wounded in the breast through the ring-mail; at his heart stood the fatal spear-point. The earl was all the blither; laughed the valorous man, said thanks to the Creator for the days- work that the Lord gave him. Then some (one) of the warriors let fly from his hand a dart that it forth- right passed through the noble thane8 of lEthelred. Then stood him beside an unwaxen warrior,7 a boy in fight; he full boldly plucked from the prince the bloody javelin (Wulfstans son, Wulf ~ The churl, common person or yeoman. ~ Byrhtnoth. 6 Byrhtnoth. That is, a youthful warrior. 174 iSoine Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. m~r the young) ; let the sharp (steel) fare back again; the spear-point pierced that he lay on the earth who before had griev- ously wounded the prince. Ran there a cunning warrior to the earl; he wished to plunder the prince of (his) treasures, armor and rings and adorned sword. Then Byrhtnoth drew from sheath his broad and brown-edged sword and smote on the (warriors) corselet; (but) too soon one of the pirates prevented him; he maimed the arm of the earl; fell to the ground the yellow-hilted sword; he might not hold the hard blade, not wield (a) weapon. There nevertheless some words spoke the hoary chieftain, heart- ened his warriors, bade the good com- rades go forward; now no longer could he stand firm on (his) feet; he looked towards heaven I thank Thee, Ruler of nations, for all the delights that were mine in the world; now do I own, mild Creator, most need that Tl~u give good to my ghost, whereby my soul may depart unto Thee in Thy kingdom. Prince of (the) angels, may fare forth in peace; I am suppliant to Thee that the hell-foes may humble it not! Then the heathen men hewed him and both the chieftains that stood by him; ]Elfnod and Wulfmmr lay slain; by the side of their prince they parted with life. And hereupon as the next hundred and twenty-five lines go on to relate there was like to be a most sorrowful panic on the English side. Several cowards fled; notably one Godric, who leaped upon Byrhtnoths own horse, and so cast many into dead despair with the belief that they saw what no man had ever dreamed lie saw before Byrht- noth in flight. But presently IElf wine and Offa and other high-souled thanes heartened each other and led up their people, yet to no avail: and so thane after thane and man after man fell for the love of Byrhtnoth and of man- hood, and no more would flee. Finally (at line 309, after which there are but sixteen lines more of the fragment) we find Byrhtwold, an old warrior, sturdily bearing up his shield and waving his ash and exhorting the few that remained, beautifully crying: Soul be the scornfuller, heart be the bolder, front be the firmer, as our might lessens! Here, all hewn, lieth our chief- tain, a good man on the ground; for ever let (one) mourn who now from this war- play thinketh to wend. I am old of life; hence will I not; for now by the side of my lord, by the so-beloved man, I am minded to lie! Then ]Ethelgars son (Godric) the war- riors all to combat urged; oft he (a) javelin let hurl a bale-spear upon the vikings; so he among the folk went foremost, hewed and felled, till that he sank in fight; he was not that Godric who fled from the battle. Sidney Lanier. SOME NEGLECTED ASPECTS OF THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR. THE people of every nation have their own way of writing history. With all the thoroughness and care of the German scholars, they have never been quite able to emancipate themselves so completely from certain fundamental proclivities as to present with impartiality all sides of the historical subject that happens to be under investigation. In France, Thiers glorifies the imperialism of Napoleon, and Lanfrey goes as far in the other direction. The Toryism of Hume .and

174 iSoine Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. m~r the young) ; let the sharp (steel) fare back again; the spear-point pierced that he lay on the earth who before had griev- ously wounded the prince. Ran there a cunning warrior to the earl; he wished to plunder the prince of (his) treasures, armor and rings and adorned sword. Then Byrhtnoth drew from sheath his broad and brown-edged sword and smote on the (warriors) corselet; (but) too soon one of the pirates prevented him; he maimed the arm of the earl; fell to the ground the yellow-hilted sword; he might not hold the hard blade, not wield (a) weapon. There nevertheless some words spoke the hoary chieftain, heart- ened his warriors, bade the good com- rades go forward; now no longer could he stand firm on (his) feet; he looked towards heaven I thank Thee, Ruler of nations, for all the delights that were mine in the world; now do I own, mild Creator, most need that Tl~u give good to my ghost, whereby my soul may depart unto Thee in Thy kingdom. Prince of (the) angels, may fare forth in peace; I am suppliant to Thee that the hell-foes may humble it not! Then the heathen men hewed him and both the chieftains that stood by him; ]Elfnod and Wulfmmr lay slain; by the side of their prince they parted with life. And hereupon as the next hundred and twenty-five lines go on to relate there was like to be a most sorrowful panic on the English side. Several cowards fled; notably one Godric, who leaped upon Byrhtnoths own horse, and so cast many into dead despair with the belief that they saw what no man had ever dreamed lie saw before Byrht- noth in flight. But presently IElf wine and Offa and other high-souled thanes heartened each other and led up their people, yet to no avail: and so thane after thane and man after man fell for the love of Byrhtnoth and of man- hood, and no more would flee. Finally (at line 309, after which there are but sixteen lines more of the fragment) we find Byrhtwold, an old warrior, sturdily bearing up his shield and waving his ash and exhorting the few that remained, beautifully crying: Soul be the scornfuller, heart be the bolder, front be the firmer, as our might lessens! Here, all hewn, lieth our chief- tain, a good man on the ground; for ever let (one) mourn who now from this war- play thinketh to wend. I am old of life; hence will I not; for now by the side of my lord, by the so-beloved man, I am minded to lie! Then ]Ethelgars son (Godric) the war- riors all to combat urged; oft he (a) javelin let hurl a bale-spear upon the vikings; so he among the folk went foremost, hewed and felled, till that he sank in fight; he was not that Godric who fled from the battle. Sidney Lanier. SOME NEGLECTED ASPECTS OF THE REVOLUTIONARY WAR. THE people of every nation have their own way of writing history. With all the thoroughness and care of the German scholars, they have never been quite able to emancipate themselves so completely from certain fundamental proclivities as to present with impartiality all sides of the historical subject that happens to be under investigation. In France, Thiers glorifies the imperialism of Napoleon, and Lanfrey goes as far in the other direction. The Toryism of Hume .and Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 175 the Whiggism of Macaulay show that each took a retainer on his side. For such reasons, of the thousands of histo- ries with which the world has heen flood- ed, scarcely more than half a dozen can fairly he said to he alive after the lapse of a hundred years. When one has named the works of Herodotus, of Xenophon, of Thucydides, of Julius C~esar, of Tad- tus, and of Gibbon, what other historical hooks are there, more than a hundred years old, that can he said at the present day to have any real vitality? It is to he feared that the United States has fared no better than other na- tions. The fierce democracy of Bancroft blinded him to the other side, and the federalism of Hildreth gives to his work a kindred quality of partiality and in- completeness. However unconsciously, both were great advocates rather than great judges. Other historians have had the same defects, and the popular im- agination has been obliged to feed itself upon representations more or less incom- plete. Forty years or more ago, one of the foremost of American scholars re- marked, before a large audience of uni- versity professors and students, that his- tory must be rewritten from the American point of view. Although there may have been some reason for such a declaration, there seems to have been no need to give it special emphasis; for, whatever have been the defects of American historians, lack of patriotism has certainly not been one of them. It may well he doubted whether, in any one of the crucial peri- ods of our history, the unsuccessful side has ever been adequately presented. Nor have we been altogether fortu- nate in our historical novels. The im- portance of fiction as a means of por- traying the spirit of a time is not likely to be denied, either by those who con- scientiously take an inventory of their own historical knowledge, or by those who stop to consider how it is that their fellows acquire historical impressions. Very many of us would have to admit that, aside from the somewhat unpala- table and perhaps nauseating intellectu- al pemmican of the old historical text- books, we have derived our knowledge of European history chiefly from the historical romances of Scott and the other novelists and dramatists of this century. After all, history is but the way in which the thoughts, the impres- sions, and the acts of men and women have moved in procession toward some more or less definite end; and it is hard- ly too much to say that this procession has seldom been so vividly represented by the historians as by the great novel- ists and dramatists. Of the craft and the cunning by which Louis XI. made France into a nation, have not the most of us learned more from Quentin Dur- ward than from all other sources put to- gether? Has not Woodstock given us a large share of what we know of the spirit and the atmosphere of the great Cromwellian struggle? Do we not real- ly know more of the essential characteris- tics of Scotch history than we do of the history of New England, or New York, or Virginia? Nobody is likely to deny that The Antiquary and Rob Roy and Kidnapped and A Window in Thrums have done more to make us feel the at- mosphere of Scotch life, and make us know how the Scotch have lived and moved and had their being during the last two centuries, than all the histories combined. The business of acquiring what passes for knowledge is not altogether a ques- tion of accuracy, although on the matter of accuracy itself there is not a little to be said. Every historical scholar, as well as every lawyer, knows that one of the most difficult things in the world is to be certain about a fact. Our courts are organized for the purpose of pro- moting the quest of facts in case of dif- ferences of interests and opinions. Did not the great Burke say that the highest function of government was to put twelve good men into a jury-box? It is by no 1TG Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. means always certain that the historical description is more accurate as a repre- sentation of the moving forces of society than the novel; but even when it is more accurate, it often fails to make any deep impression on the public, because nine persons are having their opinions rapidly formed from the novel, while only one is slowly reaching his conclusions from the study of history. It can hardly be claimed that we in the United States have been very suc- cessful in presenting historical truth in this way. Not many of our novels have left a lasting impression. Hawthornes Scarlet Letter, it is true, by catching the weird and relentless spirit of Puritanism, and impressing it deeply and permanent- ly upon the imaginations of all readers of good English everywhere, has done more to create a strong and correct un- derstanding of the dominant spirit of New England Puritanism than all the histories of New England put together. Perhaps it should be said that service of a kindred nature was rendered by the representative historical novels of Cooper. But all the works of this au- thor had grave defects. Though the pic- ture was less accurate, it was scarcely less impressive; and consequently, it served its purpose, for right or wrong, in essentially the same way. Americans, as well as Europeans, who fed their ju- venile imaginations upon the Leather- stocking Tales formed impressions which subsequent knowledge has found it dif- ficult to erase. So strong was this im- pression that of thousands of people on both sides of the Atlantic it has mat- tered little that every one who has come into close contact with the Indian in- deed, every one who has even at a dis- tance studied his characteristics with care knows that he is a rudimentary human being; that, with hardly a trace of real nobility of nature, he is inferior to the white man, even in those lower qualities in which he has generally been thought to excel. It is of little conse quence that he has easily been outdone whenever he has come into collision with the white man on even terms; that he is outwitted by the frontiersman in the mysteries of woodcraft, and indeed in all those qualities of resourceful cunning which have been supposed to be his pecu- liar characteristic. It is curious to re- flect how hard it has been to eradicate the impressions of the Indian that were stamped into the minds of all readers of novels some two generations ago. Hawthorne and Cooper are the two great delineators of the spirit of the times and the localities of which they wrote; but where, until recently, have we been encouraged to look for another? The name of Mrs. Stowe will undoubt- edly suggest itself to many minds as an adequate answer; but a little reflection will probably convince any thinking read- er that Uncle Toms Cabin is not an his- torical novel in any true sense whatever. That remarkable book was certainly an important contribution to literature and to history. It is no doubt entitled to the unique distinction of having planted con- trolling impulses in the hearts of millions of people, and of having preached its ser- mon with a power that to a vast number of its readers was absolutely irresistible. It may be admitted, moreover, that it is not unfaithful in its delineation of what it portrays; for it probably cannot be successfully denied that every one of its horrors could be matched by some actual occurrence. But it still remains true that as a representation of slavery in its completeness, except as a political tract, it has the fatal defect of presenting a single phase of the subject as if it were the whole. Even its unrivaled effec- tiveness as a political pamphlet cannot rescue it from a one - sidedness which will forever prevent it from taking rank as a great historical novel. Quentin Durward, The Heart of Midlothian, and Henry Esmond are entitled to high rank, not so much because of their exceptional power of plot and description as be- Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 177 cause of the fidelity with which they portray or reflect all the phases of the life and society which they undertake to present. Bret Harte has described early life in California with a similar spirit, if not with similar success. Simms had some success in depicting certain phases of early life in the South; Miss Mur- free, Joel Chandler Harris, and Thomas Nelson Page have given us graphic pic- tures of more modern conditions. Miss Wilkins has shown with marvelous skill one side of life in New England; and Paul Leicester Ford has made a strong representation of New York political methods in The Honorable Peter Ster- ling. But since the publication of The Spy of Cooper, until within the past year, unless we except Harold Frederics In the Valley, there has been no such representation in fiction of the dominant characteristics of the war for independ- ence. For the most part, we have been obliged to rely, for our impressions of the life and atmosphere of that great contest, upon such representations as the historians have given us. It is not ne- cessary to impute inaccuracy to them, unless it be inaccuracy to give such pro- minence to certain phases of the ques- tion as to leave a warped and imperfect impression upon the mind of the reader. It must be remembered that it is not from the fuller and larger and more carefully prepared histories that popular impressions are derived. They come rather from the books that are used in the public schools. This is evident when we remember how large is the percent- age of the children who never pursue their studies beyond the grammar school grades, and that the masses are obliged to be content with popular books. The school-books naturally present the most obvious events, and they are hard- ly to be condemned for failing to point out the hidden causes which are so often the potent factors of success and defeat. Thus, it has happened that certain very important phases of the war for inde VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 12 pendence have received scant consider- ation by those who have had much to do with framing public opinion. Moreover, there is nothing more sure than that the impressions which a child receives of the right and wrong of a dispute are difficult to eradicate. One of the erroneous impressions lodged in the popular imagination is the supposed unanimity, or approach to unanimity, with which the Revolution was undertaken; and there is also a popular impression, equally erroneous, that the logical and the constitutional objections to the Revolutionary policy were weak and insignificant. The fact is that the Revolutionary War was a civil war in a far more strict and comprehensive sense than was the war between the states which broke out in 1861. But there has never been lodged in the popular ima- gination any adequate impression of the tremendous significance of those who al- ways insisted upon calling themselves Loyalists, but who were early stigma- tized by their opponents with the oppro- brious epithet of Tories. Did we not all receive a nearly indelible impression from our juvenile reading that the Tories of the Revolution were men of such thor- oughgoing badness that simple hanging was too good for them? It is now fair, however, to presume that we are far enough away from that exciting period to admit, without danger of bodily harm, that there were really two sides to the question as to whether fighting for in- dependence was the more promising of the two policies open to the colonists. Until the appearance of Professor Ty- lers Literary History of the Revolution, who among the historians had fairly pre- sented both sides of the case? As usual in times of great excitement, the public was divided by more or less indefinite lines into several parties. These may be conveniently classified into four groups, two on either side. Of those who were governors or other offi- cials of the Crown, and consequently 178 Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. were ready to stand by the king through thick and thin, nothing need be said. But a second class of opponents to the Revolutionary movement was far more important, and is entitled to more care- ful consideration. Many, while fully admitting that the policy of the British government was in many respects bad, denied that forceful revolt was the pro- per way to remedy the evils. They be- lieved, and until the outbreak of the war they boldly asserted, that a loyal and persistent support of the party led by Pitt, Burke, and Fox would finally result in the downfall of the Kings Friends and the restoration of the Whigs, with all attendant advantages. They declared with confidence that open revolt would inevitably close the lips of those who in England sympathized with the American cause, and would drive all the members of Parliament to the sup- port of the government in putting down what would be regarded as a rebellion. They declared also that in case of fail- ure to secure the adoption of this policy by Parliament nothing would be lost, in- asmuch as existing evils were far more than counterbalanced by existing bene- fits. They pointed out, moreover, that there was no evidence of a general dis- position in England to oppress the colo- nists, and that there could be no lurk- ing danger in the policy they advocated. There were many, too, who took the ground that in any event success by armed resistance was so overwhelmingly improbable as to be practicably impos- sible, and that an unsuccessful effort would probably augment the evils com- plained of. Then, on the other hand, the Revolu- tionists, also, may be divided into two classes. There were those who protest- ed earnestly against what they regarded as the oppressions of the mother coun- try, but who, up to 1775, believed that reasonable protests would be met with reasonable replies and concessions. The leaders of this class were Washington and Franklin. Then there were those who at the beginning of the dispute were out-and-out advocates of resistance, and a little later out-and-out advocates of in- dependence. It is not strange that the latter class finally got the upper hand and secured the adoption of its policy. In times of intense political excitement it is the thoroughgoing who are apt to have their way. It was the Rhetts and the Yan- ceys who drew Lee and Stephens and the rest of the reluctant South after them into the whirlpool of 1861; and if they had succeeded, they would have been placed in that category of nation- founders in which Otis and Samuel Adams and Patrick Henry now occupy so lofty a position. After all, as has often been said, the most important dif- ference between a revolution and a re- bellion is the fact that the one justifies itself by success, while the other con- demns itself by failure. The importance of the Tory element in the Revolutionary War may be judged either by its numbers or by its respecta- bility. Of the exact relative strength of the Tories and the Revolutionists it is not now easy to form a very confident opin- ion. Indeed, at the time of the war, in the absence of all machinery for taking a census of Loyalists and Revolutionists, the most careful estimate was not likely to be trustworthy. Two facts, however, are certain. One is that the Tories al- ways claimed that if a census could have been taken, or if the question could have been fairly submitted to an unintimidated vote, it would have shown that a very con- siderable majority of the people through- out the country and throughout the entire war were opposed to the policy of resist- ance. The other fact is that those mem- bers of the Revolutionary party who had the best opportunity for observing and judging men, for example, like John Adams, of Massachusetts, and Judge Mc- Kean, of Pennsylvania believed that at least one third of the people were at Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 119 all times opposed to the war. Moreover, it is obviously probable that many were Loyalists in secret. Indeed, it is well known that in all parts of the country and in all periods of the war many were in the habit of slinking away from the tar and feathers of the Revolutionists, and betaking themselves either stealthily out of the country, or to rocks and caves and other impenetrable hiding - places. Thus, the number of real opponents to the war may easily have been even greater than was apparent. But aside from the opinions of con- temporary judges, if we look into such evidences as are now available, we are forced to the same conclusion. No one can study the energetic and comprehen- sive measures of the various legislatures without seeing that the Tory element was formidable in numbers as well as in character. The records in Massachu- setts show that the Tories were a con- stant source of anxiety and dread. In Connecticut the strength of the opposing element was still greater. In New York the Dutch and their retainers and sup- porters were, as a rule, so notoriously opposed to the war that the Tories in tho aggregate certainly formed a very considerable majority of the population. Here is a typical example. Judge Jones, in describing the election of members to Congress in April, 1775, says: The Loyalists, numbering three fourths of the legal voters, marched in a body to the polls, but their adversaries, having col- lected boys, unemployed sailors, and ne- groes, threatened all who opposed them. The result of this process was that a majority of the ballots cast were found to be in favor of the Revolutionary members. But even the methods of this patriotic mob as portrayed by Jones were not very successful; for in May of 1775 the New York Assembly passed resolutions approving of the course of the British ministry, resolutions which gave great satisfaction in England, and went far to convince the government that the colonial opposition had been greatly exaggerated; that it was indeed insignificant, and could easily be over- come. In New York city, if Washing- ton, soon after his arrival from Boston, had not sent a shivering chill through the enthusiastic opposition of the Tories by promptly hanging the foremost of their leaders, the Loyalist party might have been so successfully organized as to have kept the ~tate solid in its sup- port of the king. It was only this en- ergetic action of Washington, supported as it was a little later by the similar en- ergy of John Jay in judiciously banishing the most formidable of the Tory lead- ers, that finally brought the dominant forces of New York to the support of the war. In Pennsylvania it was long doubt- ful whether the official support of the state could be given to the war move- ment; and that support was never very thorough or very enthusiastic. What Dr. Mitchell, in Hugh Wynne, has repre- sented as the condition in Philadelphia was the condition throughout the state. It is perhaps significant that when, not long after the evacuation of Philadel- phia by Clinton, Arnold was placed in command of the city, he found the To- ries in full social sway, and that he came so far under their influence as to fall in love with the most beautiful and accom- plished of their daughters, a proceed- ing preliminary to that alliance which, years afterward, caused his wife to he called the saddest as well as the hand- somest woman in England. His mar- riage with Margaret Shippen, however happy from a domestic point of view, yet gave an additional motive for Arnolds final plunge. Virginia seems to have had about the same proportion of Tories as Massachu- setts. In North Carolina, the people, throughout the war, were nearly equally divided in their allegiance between the two Georges. South Carolina was Tory; and Georgia was so true to its royal 180 Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. namesake that the state not only refused to supply its quota of troops to the Amer- ican George, but at the moment when the untoward event at Yorktown upset its calculations the legislature was on the point of denouncing the resistance as a failure, and giving its formal allegiance to the British side. But it was not in numbers only that the Tories were formidable. They were even more formidable in influence, char- acter, and respectability. It was natu- ral, of course, that they should include not only the considerable class who held office under the king, but also a very large proportion of those whom we should now ban or bless by calling them conservatives. Thus it happened that in the Tory ranks were many clergymen, lawyers, physicians, as well as college graduates in general. Before the war, these men had been considered not only respectable, but eminent, in their several callings. Professor Tyler has admira- bly shown that even in the political lit- erature of the day the Tories took an important part. While it must be ad- mitted that in the production of the cu- rious concoctions of rhyme and water which in those days passed for poetry the Revolutionary patriots took the lead, yet in elegant, forceful, logical prose, it is hard to see that the writings of such Loyalists as Boucher, Seabury, Leonard, and Galloway were inferior to those of Otis, Dickinson, Paine, and Adams; nev- ertheless, their writings have been quite forgotten. But if we turn from literary merit, and consider simply the soundness or the un- soundness of their political and consti- tutional arguments, we shall find that they are still more worthy of consider- ation. Indeed, the drift of opinion of the most intelligent constitutional critics of to-day, in America as well as in Eng- land, is toward the view that in their constitutional arguments the Loyalist or Tory writers had a strong case. Natu- rally, the long succession of British con- stitutional lawyers, from Lord Mansfield down to Sir William Harcourt, have uni- formly and almost if not quite unani- mously held that, according to the im- memorial custom of the realm, that is, according to the British Constitution, the enactments of the imperial Parlia- ment, consisting of Crown, Lords, and Commons, are constitutionally binding upon all British subjects. While they freely admit the authoritative force of the maxim, No taxation without represen- tation, they insist at all times that the maxim never has had, and has not now, the meaning that was attached to it by Otis, Dickinson, and the other colonial writers. They maintain that, in Parlia- ment, the king, or the queen, represents all the members of the royal family; the House of Lords, all the members of the nobility; and the House of Com- mons, all the commonalty of the colo- nies as well as of the mother country. According to the British theory, every member of the House of Commons repre- sents no more truly the people who elect him than he does also all the other mem- bers of the commonalty, both in Great Britain and in the colonies. It was in accordance with this theory that the great cities of the manufacturing districts, which until recently had never sent a sin- gle member to the House of Commons, were held to be as truly represented as were London and York. This doctrine carried with it the same right to tax the colonies as to tax the citizens of Liv- erpool, Manchester, Birmingham, and Leeds; and the denial of that right by the colonial orators and essayists ap- pears never to have made the least im- pression upon the constitutional law- yers of the mother country. Even Burke, who pleaded so eloquently and vehemently for conciliation with Ameri- ca, freely admitted, and never for a mo- ment denied, that the government was acting within its constitutional rights. His contention was that, although Par- liament possessed the constitutional right Some Neglected A.~pects of the Revolutionary War. 181 to impose taxation, it was nothing less than consummate madness to attempt to exercise that right, inasmuch as such ac- tion would inevitably, sooner or later, result in the loss of the colonies. Now, this was exactly the ground taken by the American rrories, and ex- actly the opposite of the doctrine pro- mulgated by the colonial writers on the Revolutionary side. There were two dominant notes in the contentions of the opponents of the British policy during the whole of the thirteen long years before the spring of 1776. The first was that the British Parliament had no constitu- tional right to tax the colonies; and the second, that it was the duty of the self- respecting colonists to resist the exercise of every unconstitutional act. Accom- panying these assertions was the em- phatic and oft-repeated declaration that nobody sought or was in favor of inde- pendence. As late as the time when the first Continental Congress adjourned in October, 1775, the idea of independence met with no favor from Washington; and Franklin, who was then the Ameri- can agent in London, assured the mem- bers of the British Parliament that he had never heard of anybody, drunk or sober, who favored independence. In view of all these facts, what won- der is it that the Tories, or what may be called the British party in America, con- tained within its ranks many of the most intelligent and the most highly educated people of the colonies? In 1778 the le- gislature of Massachusetts banished and confiscated the property of three hun- dred and ten of the most prominent of the Tory leaders of that state. Who were they? In scanning the list of names, Professor Tyler significantly re- marks that it reads almost like the bead-roll of the oldest and noblest fami- lies concerned in the founding and up- building of New England civilization. Dr. George E. Ellis, some years ago, pointed out the fact that in that list of three hundred and ten persons more than sixty were Harvard graduates. Nor was this exceptional. In the Mid- dle States and in the South the Loyal- ist party contained a large representa- tion of the graduates of Yale, Princeton, William and Mary, and Pennsylvania. Some of these were put to death, some were banished, and some were driven into hiding-places, whence, at the close of the war, they emerged only to be the targets of contempt and of all forms of abuse. A careful investigation of this phase of the contest will unquestionably lead every student to the conclusion that the ranks of the Tories contained a very considerable portion of the most thought- ful, the most intelligent, and the most refined of the colonial people. That every effort should be made to destroy the power and the influence of these people while the war was going on was as natural as the attempt to make the cause successful. But, unfortunately, the severity of public opinion was not re- laxed at the close of the war. Mr. Gold- win Smith has pointed out that there are special and exceptional reasons why the end of a civil war should always be followed by amnesty. But there was no amnesty at the close of the Revolu- tionary War. A single instance will serve as an example of the spirit that was shown. At the final evacuation of Charleston, after the treaty of peace had been signed; the departing British fleet took all the Tories it could carry. Those who, unhappily, were compelled to re- main behind were subjected to the utmost indignities. They were imprisoned, whipped, tarred and feathered, dragged through horse-ponds, and finally twenty- four of their number were hung upon a gallows in sight of the last of the retiring British. So strenuous was the public opinion of the patriots everywhere that even the protests of officers and other men of influence were in vain. General Greene declared that it was an excess of intolerance to persecute men for opinions which twenty years before had been the 182 Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. universal belief of every class of soci- ety; and John Jay denounced the in- judicious punishment and unmanly re- venge, following the Revolution, as without a parallel except in the annals of religions rage in the time of bigotry and blindness. The effect of the spirit so generally shown in all parts of the country was inju- rious in many ways. Mrs. Anne Grant, the vivacious and intelligent Scotch lady who lived for many years in America, and then wrote her interesting and val- uable book, compares the loss of the col- onies in expatriating the Loyalists after the Revolutionary War to the loss of the French in driving out the Huguenots af- ter the Revocation; and Mr. Goldwin Smith, speaking of the fact that the ex- patriated Tories generally betook them- selves, with all their rankling sense of injustice, to Nova Scotia, New Bruns- wick, and the Canadas, remarks that if a power hostile to the republic should ever be formed under European influ- ence in the north of the continent, the Americans would owe such an event to their ancestors who refused amnesty to the vanqnished in civil war. There is another phase of the war to which attention has not perhaps been sufficiently called, namely, what might be termed fortuitous good fortune, in Puritan phraseology, special provi- dence. It is military commonplace to remark that the issue of a battle often turns upon a very trifling circumstance. Napoleon used to say that in war a grain of sand would sometimes turn the scale; and yet that great commander was a firm believer in the doctrine that pro- vidence fights on the side of the heaviest battalions. But in the Revolutionary War providence often seemed to prefer the other side. Several times nothing less than the Puritans providential in- terposition prevented a defeat, which might speedily have ended the contest. For instance, during the siege of Boston, although Tories and spies were every- where, it was never revealed to the Brit- ish that for several months the colonists had not ammunition enough for a single battle. If an assault upon the Ameri- cans had been made, it is difficult t~ see how the British could have failed of overwhelming success. So, too, after the battle of Long Island, when the capture of the entire American force seemed in- evitable, the army was saved partly, no doubt, by the consummate skill of Wash- ington in bringing the boats together, but partly, also, by a dense fog which enabled twelve thousand men, with all their guns and supplies, to cross the river without attracting the attention of the British pickets or the British fleet. When, a little later, in spite of Washing- tons vigorous exhortations and the flat side of his heavy sword, American re- cruits gave way on the first fire of the British at Kipps Bay, the whole of his force in New York seemed to face in- evitable annihilation. The British fleet guarded both shores of Manhattan Is- land, and the British army was above the Americans, opposite to what is now the East Thirty-Fourth Street Ferry. All that was needed to smother the Ameri- can force, and apparently the American cause, was to march without delay across the island, and to hold the Americans with a large army in front and a naval force in the rear, as afterward Wash- ington held Cornwallis at Yorktown. Howes army was more than twice as large as Washingtons; but the doom which the American commander with the flat and the edge of his sword could not prevent, the wit of Mrs. Murray, the resourceful mother of Lindley Mur- ray, readily averted. Occupying the Murray country-seat, or mansion, as it was then called, on Murray Hill, she was directly in the line of the British march. The detention of the army for several hours by her tempting tea and other re- freshments set before the officers ena- bled General Putnam, by a rapid move- ment up the west side of the island, to Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 183 take the American force out of the trap before it was inexorably closed. A still more striking instance of kin- dred nature was the reason why Gen- eral Howe made his fatal move toward Philadelphia in 1777, instead of sending half of his troops northward to act with Burgoyne. The British plan of cam- paign, which resulted in the capture of the northern army, was so well designed and so comprehensive in its nature as to cause the most serious apprehensions. The plan to attack the Hudson from three directions from Montreal, from Oswego, and from New York cer- tainly gave every promise of success. It failed simply for the reason that there was not proper codperation of the three forces. In the absence of Howes co- operation with Burgoyne, the people of New England and New York so gen- erously destroyed the supplies upon which the enemy depended, and turned out in such force, as to compel the in- vaders either to starve or to surrender. Moreover, St. Leger, even after the defeat of Herkimer at Oriskany, was scared away from the siege of Fort Stanwix by the false report of American successes. These several failures could hardly have occurred but for one very curious incident. The war office in London, as is now well known, having designed the cam- paign, issued general orders for the three expeditions; but, in giving preliminary directions to Sir William Howe, the de- partment ordered him to await detailed instructions. These instructions were duly made out, directing him to divide his force, and to leave in New York only men enough to defend the city against any attacks that might be made by Washington, while with about half of his army he was to march north for the purpose of uniting and co~iperating with Burgoyne. The plan threatened to cut off New England from the rest of the colonies, and also to rescue the state of New York. It is not easy to see how it could have failed if carried out as devised. But the final instructions to Howe did not arrive. His consequent inactivity made it possible for Schuyler at Albany, when he found that Bur- goyne w~s likely to be taken care of, or at least was advancing so slowly through the woods to Whitehall as to cause no special anxiety, to send Arnold up the Mohawk to relieve Fort Stanwix and drive back the invading force under St. Leger. Arnolds success, it will be re- membered, was so rapid and so complete as to enable him to return in time to play the leading part in the final entrapment of Burgoyne. Thus, so far as we can see, it was the delay of the anticipated orders of Howe that left Burgoyne to complete isolation and at the mercy of people who flocked to the standard of Gates. But why did not these orders ar- rive? The reason was not discovered until afterward, when it was quite too late. It was found that the papers had been duly made out for the signature of the minister of war, Lord George Ger- main; but the punctilious fastidiousness of that officer was dissatisfied with the copy that had been prepared, and he ordered that a new and fair copy should be written out before he would sign it. When this copy was completed it was placed in the proper pigeon-hole to await the signature of the minister. Meantime, Lord George, having gone to his country-seat, was absent so long that on his return the order was not recalled to mind. After Howe, acting in accord- ance with the traitorous advice of Gen- eral Charles Lee, had moved toward Philadelphia, and Burgoyne had sur- rendered, the order was rescued from its innocent pigeon-hole to mock the fas- tidiousness of the minister. Had the order been sent, who will undertake to say what its influence would have been on the fate of the Revolution? One other example only will be offered. There is abundant reason to believe that the British government, as well as the 184 Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. British officers, regarded the war as practically at an end, when, in the early winter of 1776, New Jersey had been cleared and Washington had been driven south of the Delaware. Howe had re- ceived his knighthood for the capture of New York, and Cornwallis, thinking his services no longer needed, had sent his portmanteau on board a ship, with the purpose of embarking immediately for home. That audacious recrossing of the Delaware on Christmas night, which caused Frederick the Great to put Wash- ington into the rank of great command- ers, broke up the New York festivities, and called for immediate punishment. When Cornwalliss army played the re- turn move, the Americans were in un- questionable peril. With the broad Dela- ware and its floating ice in Washingtons rear, and a British army twice the size of his own in front, it is not difficult to understand why Cornwallis thought he had at last, as he said, bagged the old fox. If the British commander had attacked vigorously on the afternoon of his arrival, as Washington, Grant, Lee, or any other great general would have done, the chances seem to have been more than ten to one that Wash- ington and his whole army would have been taken prisoners. But Cornwallis was so sure of his game that he made the most stupendous blunder of the war, and decided to refresh his men by a nights sleep. It was a blunder precise- ly like that which prevented General W. F. Smith from taking Petersburg in June of 1864; and it appears to have been simply this mistake that enabled Washington not only to draw his army out of extreme peril, but also to fall upon the enemy at Princeton early the next morning, and, by threatening the British stores throughout the state, to force Corn- wallis back into New York, and so, at the end of the campaign, to take posses- sion of the whole of New Jersey with the exception of two or three stations on the Hudson. When Cornwallis finally surrendered at Yorktown, well might he express his admiration of the wonderful skill which had suddenly hurled an army four hundred miles with such accuracy and deadly effect, and then generously add, But, after all, your excellencys achievements in New Jersey were such that nothing could surpass them. One fact which, in the popular repre- sentations of the Revolutionary War, seems often either to have been over- looked or not to have been sufficiently emphasized, is the remarkable degenera- tion of Congress after the war had really begun. The first Continental Congress had brought together many of the very ablest men in the country. The colo- nies fully realized that questions of the utmost importance were to be consid- ered, and they selected the best men as their representatives. With the possible exception of the Constitutional Conven- tion, no other such body of men has ever yet come together in the history of the country. Its qualities went far to justify the remark of the elder Pitt to Franklin that it was the most honorable as- sembly since the times of Greece and Rome. But its successor was not of the same character. Moreover, for reasons which are not difficult to understand, a marked deterioration took place as time went on. As soon as the Declaration of Independ- ence had been put forth, the people of the individual states began to think of organizing their own governments; and they naturally called into the service of constitution-making the ablest men they could command. To adopt thirteen new constitutions and to set thirteen new gov- ernments in motion made large drafts upon the available intelligence of the country. Added to this depleting influence was the still further necessity of a strong re- presentation in Europe. One has only to recall the names of those who were governors of states, and of those who were engaged in France, in Holland, and Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 185 in Spain, between 1776 and 1783, to un- derstand that if these men had been in Congress they would have furnished a swaying and a staying power of incal- culable value. Then, too, the army had drawn into its ranks large numbers of prominent men who otherwise would have been in Congress. Nor can we forget what may as well be called the disaffected element. Samuel Adams, as soon as he had succeeded in fairly launching the Revolution, was so ener- getic in the exercise of his doctrine of state sovereignty that he seems to have dreaded the power of the confederated states scarcely less than he dreaded that of George III.; and consequently he was an almost unceasing obstructionist to the cause of military efficiency. The fiery impatience of John Adams was as much in favor of the absurd and impos- sible policy of a short and violent war in the darkest period of the Revolution as was the impatience of Horace Greeley in 1862. Indeed, with the exception of Gouverneur Morris and John Jay, none of the members of Congress seem to have realized that the only practi- cable way of conducting the war to a successful close was the patient policy that was persistently followed-by the com- mander-in-chief. Now, a simple enumeration of these various facts is enough to show why it was that the second Continental Con- gress was so inferior to its great pre- decessor. When we look into its meth- ods of dealing with the war, we ought not to be surprised to find that it was very far from being that unselfish body of intelligent patriots into which it seems to have been converted by the trans- forming and consecrating influence of time. On the contrary, it is not too much to say that one of the greatest difficulties that Washington had to con- tend with was the stupid, meddling, and obstructing inefficiency of those who sat at Philadelphia and at Yorktown for the supreme control of Continental affairs. At some of the meetings of that Con- gress not more than a dozen members were present, arid these were often men of small ability and dogged pertinacity. It was almost harder for Washington to persuade that is, to conquer Con- gress than it was to conquer the British. One who looks through the long and pathetic series of letters of the great commander, and studies them with the single purpose of understanding the re- lations of Congress to the struggle that was going on, is likely to be amazed not only at the wisdom and tact of Wash- ington, but at the almost infinite stupid- ities and difficulties with which he had to contend. The embarrassments that arose from these relations were partly political, but they were also largely mil- itary. New England, though it had heartily supported Washington at the beginning, found its courage oozing out and becoming lukewarm soon after the theatre of active operations ~vas trans- ferred to New York. It is not al- together strange that, while Washington was being driven from the centre of oper- ations and steadily forced out of New Jersey, the New Englanders should point at what they could do at Bennington and Saratoga when they were energetically commanded; or that the New England sentiment, led by John Adams, had, in consequence, some sympathy with the Conway Cabal. Neither Bancroft nor Hildreth nor any one of the older historians has ade- quately described the strength and the nature of the prevailing dissatisfaction. It is only in the light of letters and other documents that have become available within the past twenty years that we are able fully to understand the spirit of the time. Dr. Mitchell shows that spirit perfectly when he puts into the Diary of Jack Gainor these words: Most won- derful it is, as I read what he wrote to inefficient, blundering men, to see how calmly he states his own pitiful case, how entirely he controls a nature violent and 186 Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. passionate beyond that of most men. He was scarcely in the saddle as commander before the body which set him there was filled with dissatisfaction. This expres- sion of the novelist describes the situation better than do any of our historians, with the exception of John Fiske. It may be added that matters were brought to a favorable crisis only when Washington intimated that he might be driven to resignation, declaring, It will be im- possible for me to be of any further ser- vice, if such insuperable difficulties are thrown in my way. Moreover, it was largely the short- sightedness as well as the energy of John Adams which led Congress to tol- erate the policy of short enlistments. This policy Washington tried in every possible way to prevent, but his efforts were only partially successful. It was not till he failed in his appeals to Con- gress, and in his individual appeals to the governors of the various states, that he finally felt obliged to concentrate his views in the memorable Circular to States of October 18, 1780. What can be more instructive or suggestive than the following words? We have frequently heard the be- havior of the militia extolled upon one and another occasion by men who judge from the surface, by men who had par- ticular views in misrepresenting, by visionary men whose credulity easily swelled every vague story in support of a favorite hypothesis. I solemnly de- clare I never was witness to a single in- stance that could countenance the opin- ion of militia or raw troops being fit for the real business of fighting. I have found them useful as light parties to skirmish in the woods, but incapable of making or sustaining a serious attack. This firmness is only acquired by habit of discipline and service. - . - We may expect everything from ours that militia is capable of, but we must not expect from them any services for which regu- lars alone are fit. The battle of Cam- den is a melancholy comment upon this doctrine. The militia fled at the first fire, and left the Continental troops, sur- rounded on every side and overpow- ered by numbers, to combat for safety instead of victory. Not only was Congress inefficient in securing a proper organization, but it was equally inefficient in dealing with supplies. Later investigations have shown that the sufferings at Valley Forge did not arise from a general in- adequacy of food and raiment, but from the fact that the commissariat depart- ment was so woefully remiss in the distribution of supplies where they were needed. It soon came to be known that at the very moment when thou- sands of Washingtons troops were freez- ing and starving for want of blankets and food an abundant supply was ac- cessible not many miles away. The mischief had been done when Congress, in opposition to Washingtons advice, reorganized the commissariat depart- ment in 1777. At that time Congress decided to divide responsibility, and in place of Colonel Joseph Trumbull, who had been the successful head of the de- partment, it put two men with coequal authority to do his work, the one to make the purchases, and the other to distribute the supplies. Then, too, as if for the purpose of insuring chaos, the subordinate officers were made account- able to Congress rather than to the heads of the department. Colonel Trumbull, who was retained in one of the places, was soon so disgusted with the inevitable results that he resigned. Is it strange that at one time the army was two days without meat, and three days without bread? The quartermasters department was scarcely better. It was afterward ascer- tained that at the very time when, as Washington wrote, twenty-eight hundred and ninety - eight men were unfit for duty because they were barefoot and otherwise naked, hogsheads of shoes, Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 187 stockings, and clothing were lying at dif- ferent places on the roads and in the woods, perishing for want of teams, or of money to pay the teamsters. But even worse than all this, those who provided the supplies were tainted with peculation and fraud. The his- torical student, as he gives up the idea that the legislation of the time was su- premely wise, must also, however reluc- tantly, ahandon the idea that the Re- volutionary period was an age of spot- less political virtue. Again and again Washington pleaded with Congress and with the chief officers of the individual states. In appealing to President Reed, of Pennsylvania, on the 12th of Decem- ber, 1778, to bring those whom he calls the murderers of our cause to con- dign punishment, he unbridled his pas- sion and sent these energetic words: I would to God that one of the most atrocious in each state was hung in gib- bets upon a gallows five times as high as the one prepared by Haman. The situ- ation seemed so desperate that, only six days later, he wrote to Benjamin Harri- son, Speaker of the House of Delegates of Virginia, As there can be no harm in a pious wish for the good of ones country, I shall offer it as mine that each state will not only choose, hut compel their ablest men to attend Congress. But Washingtons prayer, for this once at least, was not answered. When, as time wore on, the French ministers ar- rived, they naturally had little difficul- ty in playing upon the credulity and simple-mindedness of the members. It is now well known that the policy of France in the alliance was twofold. She not only insisted that the colonies should not make peace until independ- ence was recognized, but she was secret- ly determined that the colonies should not be so overwhelmingly successful as to endanger the interests of France and her allies by including the Canadas and the territories lying in the West and South. This latter phase of French policy, revealed as it has been by the publication of the correspondence be- tween the French government and their ministers in America, has made it cer- tain that G6rard, Marbois, and Luzerne employed all those arts of dissimula- tion, as well as of flattery, which have been called the mensonge politique. The letters of Vergennes to the envoys contain frequent references to donat ifs, and those of d~ Circourt to stcours tern- poraires en argent. These expressions refer unmistakably to bribery, for Ver- gennes writes to Luzerne, His Majes- ty further empowers you to continue the gifts which M. G6rard has given or promised, and of which he will surely have handed you a list. The list of persons here referred to, who were to be persuaded with money, has not been disclosed; but Durand tells us that Tom Paine, who was then the secretary of the Committee on Foreign Affairs, and of course knew all its secrets, was en- gaged by the French minister, for a thousand dollars a year, to inspire the people with sentiments favorable to France. No doubt the rascal earned his money, but who the other members were that were thus inspired we do not know. That such inspiration, how- ever, was used to a greater or less ex- tent there can be no possible doubt. One of the biographers of John Jay re- lates that, some thirty years after the events here mentioned, Gouverneur Mor- ris went over from Morrisania to visit his old friend Jay at Bedford. During their conversation Morris suddenly ejac- ulated through clouds of smoke, Jay, what a set of damned scoundrels we had in that second Congress Yes, said Jay, that we had, and the vencr- able ex-Chief Justice knocked the ashes from his pipe. But perhaps the most important of all tbe neglected phases of the Revolution- ary struggle is the stupendous fact that Great Britain was prevented from pro- secuting the war with vigor by complica 188 Some Neglected A spects of the Revolutionary War. tions in Europe. It would only partially express the truth to say that England fought the colonies with one hand tied behind her, or even to declare that it was only her left hand that was free. No adequate impression of the relations of the forces engaged can be obtained without keeping constantly in mind sev- eral all important facts that have too often been neglected. It is necessary to remember that France had but recently been as bitterly humiliated by England as she was a century later by Germany. Those mar- velous years of the domination of the elder Pitt had not only converted the Kingdom of England into the British Empire,. but had accomplished this pro- digious result mainly at the expense of France. It was from the French that India was taken by Clive and Po cock, as Canada was taken by Wolfe and Saunders. Not only was France stripped of her magnificent colonial possessions in Africa, as well as in Asia and America, but she saw her navy everywhere defeated and dispersed, and her commerce completely destroyed. These events had occurred less than twenty years before the outbreak of the American war; and the natural conse- quence was that the hostile feelings of the people of France toward England from 1763 to 1778 were quite as intense as the feelings of the same people toward Germany during the fifteen years after the treaty of 1871. Everybody now knows that if, during that period, Ger- many had in any way become serious- ly involved with a foreign power, the French would have seized the opportu- nity to wipe out the humiliation that had overwhelmed them at Sedan and Paris. Of kindred nature had been the relations of England and France a hundred years before. But even this was not all. The atti- tude of England in regard to the right of search had made her practically the enemy of every one of the European powers. While for some years there was no outbreak, it was evident that nothing but the utmost circumspection could pre- vent a hostile alliance of the most formi- dable character. The fact that Cather- ine II. was prevented from a declaration of war only by the earnest advice of Frederick the Great shows that there was not a little danger of a general European conflagration. Moreover, the English entered upon the American war with a full knowledge of all this rankling hatred upon the part of France, and of the certainty that if at any time the French should see an opportunity to interfere with success they would not fail to do so, and in all probability would draw sev- eral of the other European nations after them. Nor must it be supposed that France had been so completely and permanently crippled as no longer to be formidable. Indeed, the nation had recovered from the material disasters of 1759 nearly as rapidly as, more than a century later, she recovered from the disasters of 1871. But, as their strength grew, the French seemed to remember all the more vivid- ly that their navy had been ruined, root and branch, and that whenever a French merchantman had ventured out of port it had been pounced upon by some watch- ful British cruiser. The armed neu- trality of the Baltic powers had not yet been directed against the supremacy of the sea power of England, and con- sequently not a ship of any nation, sus- pected of transporting goods out of a French port or destined to it, was cx- erupt from search and confiscation; nor could it be forgotten that it was to coun- teract this exercise of what seemed like omnipotence as well as omniscience that the family compact was made which bound Spain to declare war against Eng- land within a year after war was declared by France. It has not always been re- membered by American historians that it was chiefly the discovery of this secret alliance by Pitt, and the opposition of Some Neglected Aspects of the Revolutionary War. 189 the headstrong young king to the mea- sures by which the great minister pro- posed to thwart the alliance, that led to Pitts downfall, and the substitution of Newcastle and Bute in his place. Moreover, the situation was aggravat- ed by certain other very irritating con- ditions. On the one hand, the needless failure of Byng to relieve Minorca, and the consequent fall of that important island into the hands of the French, was a source of such infinite chagrin to the English that it could not be wiped out by the mere execution of an admiral; while, on the other hand, the possession of Gibraltar by the British was so con- stant a humiliation to the Spanish that an offensive and defensive alliance be- tween France and Spain was the inevita- ble consequence of the situation. These inflammatory elements were so menacing that Pitt, at one time, made the remark- able proposal to Spain to give up Gib- raltar as the price of an alliance for the recovery of Minorca. The mere fact that such terms were offered is enough to show the gravity of the situation. At least, it may be said that if the answer of Spain had been different, either France would never have gone to the help of America, or in doing so she would have had Spain as an enemy rather than as an ally. But, whatever the course of France, the union of England and Spain might easily have turned the scale of the war; for, without the French alliance, it is impossible to see how the colonies could have escaped from being overwhelmed by England and Spain combined. Even if France were not prevented from the alliance, her fleet could not have stood against the united navies of England and Spain; the expedition of de Grasse would have been impossible, and the Yorktown campaign could not have occurred. Thus, it is easy to see that if Pitts proposal had been accepted Eng land might not only have regained Mi- norca, but might also have retained the American colonies. Such a result would hardly have been a dear purchase even at the tremendous price of Gibraltar. The main significance of all these con- ditions for our purpose is the fact that the English knew of the discoveries of Pitt; that they were fully aware that Spain and probably other European nations would be allied with France whenever the French government should see fit to go to the assistance of the revolting colo- nies. As is well known, the consumma- tion of this twofold project would have occurred much earlier than it did but for the natural reluctance of Louis XVI. to assist organized opposition to royal authority. These conditions, moreover, explain why it was that while England had not less than two hundred thousand men under arms, on land and sea, not more than about twenty thousand of them could be spared for the war in America. They also explain why it was that England decided to resort to the un- usual method of using a part of the vast wealth she had recently acquired by her commercial supremacy for the employ- ment of mercenary troops from Germany. From the letters and other papers that are now coming to us in authentic form and in rich abundance, we are learning more perfectly than ever be- fore how it was that the Revolution was achieved. These revelations seem likely to teach us that from the begin- ning to the very end the Revolution was a far more desperate and a far more doubtful struggle than the historians have led us to believe. They teach us also that it was kept from the disas- ter that seemed again and again ready to overwhelm it, chiefly by that watch- ful wisdom of Washington which, to use Goethes phrase, was as unhasting and as unresting as the stars. Charles Kendall Adams. 190 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. LIGHTS AND SHADES OF SPANISH CHARACTER. THERE is something enigmatical and peculiar in the make-up of the Spaniard, du je ne sais quoi, as a Frenchman might express it. In trying to fathom Iberian ways of thought and feeling, we are frequently forced to fall back on the supposition of a recent writer, that there is something Spanish in the Spaniard which causes him to behave in a Spanish manner. I remember that when I visited Spain, a few years ago, I was somewhat disappointed in the ap- pearance of the country itself, though it has all the beauty of line and color of a land for the most part devoid of turf and trees. I found, however, an ample compensation in the interest afforded by this intense idiosyncrasy of the national temperament. Abandoning the beaten paths of travel, I spent several months journeying over the Peninsula on foot, from the Pyrenees to Gibraltar. In this way, I was enabled to get beyond the French civilization of Madrid, and penetrate to the old Spanish civilization which still lingers in the villages and pro- vincial towns. But even with these op- portunities for observation I was often at a loss to formulate my impressions of the Spaniards. This arose partly from the strong Moorish and Oriental element which combines in them so strangely with European traits, partly from Spain itself being pre~minently the land of puz- zling anomalies. Both in the country and in the national character a shining virtue usually goes hand in hand with an egre- gious fault. In no like area in Europe, perhaps not in the world, do there exist guch extremes of dryness and moisture, heat and cold, fertility and barrenness, such smiling landscapes and such dreary desolation. And contrasts such as we find between the arid steppes of Aragon and the huerta of Valencia, between the bleak uplands of Castile and the palm groves of Elehe, between the wind-blown wastes of La Mancha and the vega of Granada, are not without counterpart in the character of the inhabitants. What, for instance, can be affirmed of a Cata- lan which will also hold true of a native of Seville? I remember that a theatre audience at Madrid thought it the height of comic incongruity when a stage valet declared that he was a mixture of Ga- lician and Andalusian. ( Yo soy una mezcla de Gallego y Andaluz.) It is hard, indeed, to avoid a seeming abuse of paradox and antithesis in speaking of Spain, that singular country, which, in the words of Ford, hovers between Europe and Africa, between civilization and barbarism; that land of the green valley and barren mountain, of the boundless plain and broken sierra; those Elysian gardens of the vine, the olive, the orange, and the aloe; those track- less, vast, silent, uncultivated wastes, the heritage of the wild bee; . . . that ori- ginal unchanged country, where indul- gence and luxury contend with privation and poverty, where a want of all that is generous or merciful is blended with the most devoted heroic virtues, where igno- rance and erudition stand in violent and striking contrast. We almost refuse to credit Madame dAulnoys account of the mingled squa- lor and magnificence, barbarism and re- finement, that existed at Madrid toward the end of the seventeenth century, when Spain, isolated from the rest of Europe, was still free to express her antithetical nature. Throughout nearly everything Spanish there runs this chiaroscuro, this intense play of light and shade. In the history of what other nation do we find such alternations of energy and inertia, such sudden vicissitudes of greatness and decay? On the one hand, Spanish reli- gion in the sixteenth century culminated

190 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. LIGHTS AND SHADES OF SPANISH CHARACTER. THERE is something enigmatical and peculiar in the make-up of the Spaniard, du je ne sais quoi, as a Frenchman might express it. In trying to fathom Iberian ways of thought and feeling, we are frequently forced to fall back on the supposition of a recent writer, that there is something Spanish in the Spaniard which causes him to behave in a Spanish manner. I remember that when I visited Spain, a few years ago, I was somewhat disappointed in the ap- pearance of the country itself, though it has all the beauty of line and color of a land for the most part devoid of turf and trees. I found, however, an ample compensation in the interest afforded by this intense idiosyncrasy of the national temperament. Abandoning the beaten paths of travel, I spent several months journeying over the Peninsula on foot, from the Pyrenees to Gibraltar. In this way, I was enabled to get beyond the French civilization of Madrid, and penetrate to the old Spanish civilization which still lingers in the villages and pro- vincial towns. But even with these op- portunities for observation I was often at a loss to formulate my impressions of the Spaniards. This arose partly from the strong Moorish and Oriental element which combines in them so strangely with European traits, partly from Spain itself being pre~minently the land of puz- zling anomalies. Both in the country and in the national character a shining virtue usually goes hand in hand with an egre- gious fault. In no like area in Europe, perhaps not in the world, do there exist guch extremes of dryness and moisture, heat and cold, fertility and barrenness, such smiling landscapes and such dreary desolation. And contrasts such as we find between the arid steppes of Aragon and the huerta of Valencia, between the bleak uplands of Castile and the palm groves of Elehe, between the wind-blown wastes of La Mancha and the vega of Granada, are not without counterpart in the character of the inhabitants. What, for instance, can be affirmed of a Cata- lan which will also hold true of a native of Seville? I remember that a theatre audience at Madrid thought it the height of comic incongruity when a stage valet declared that he was a mixture of Ga- lician and Andalusian. ( Yo soy una mezcla de Gallego y Andaluz.) It is hard, indeed, to avoid a seeming abuse of paradox and antithesis in speaking of Spain, that singular country, which, in the words of Ford, hovers between Europe and Africa, between civilization and barbarism; that land of the green valley and barren mountain, of the boundless plain and broken sierra; those Elysian gardens of the vine, the olive, the orange, and the aloe; those track- less, vast, silent, uncultivated wastes, the heritage of the wild bee; . . . that ori- ginal unchanged country, where indul- gence and luxury contend with privation and poverty, where a want of all that is generous or merciful is blended with the most devoted heroic virtues, where igno- rance and erudition stand in violent and striking contrast. We almost refuse to credit Madame dAulnoys account of the mingled squa- lor and magnificence, barbarism and re- finement, that existed at Madrid toward the end of the seventeenth century, when Spain, isolated from the rest of Europe, was still free to express her antithetical nature. Throughout nearly everything Spanish there runs this chiaroscuro, this intense play of light and shade. In the history of what other nation do we find such alternations of energy and inertia, such sudden vicissitudes of greatness and decay? On the one hand, Spanish reli- gion in the sixteenth century culminated Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. 191 in the Inquisition; and on the other, it attained to the purest spirituality and Christian charity in Santa Teresa, Fray Luis de Leon, and San Juan de la Cruz, the last of the great mystics, the splendid sunset glow of medheval Catholicism. The brilliant literature of the Golden Age died away abruptly into platitude and insignificance. Among the masterpieces of this literature itself we pass with lit- tle interval from heights of mysticism and strains of lyric eloquence to the works of the picaresque writers, recount- ing the exploits of rogues and vagabonds. Spanish society, which until recently had no middle class, suggested to Cer- vantes the perfect antithesis of Don Qui- xote and Sancho Panza; and in Sancho Panza himself, the Spanish peasant of Cervantes time and of to-day, there is the contrast between his shrewd mother wit and his ignorance and credulity. Spain has left almost entirely uncultivated that intermediary region of lucidity, good sense, and critical discrimination which France has made her special domain. Perhaps the first requisite to getting a clear notion of the Spaniard is to real- ize in what respects he is not like the Frenchman. We should not allow our- selves to be misled by any supposed soli- darity of the Latin races. In certain essential traits the Spanish differ from the French almost as much as the Hin- dus from the Chinese, and in somewhat the same manner. The chief thing that strikes one in French literature is the absence of what the Germans call In- nigkeit, of inwardness, the subordi- nation of everything in man to his so- cial qualities; among the Spaniards, on the other hand, there is vastly greater capacity for solitude and isolation. In France, reason, insufficiently quickened by the imagination, easily degenerates into dry rationalism; whereas in the land of Don Quixote the imagination tends to break away from the control of the senses and understanding, and is unwill- ing to accept the limitations of the real, and then follows the inevitable disen- chantment when the world turns out to be different in fact from what it had been painted in fancy. Engaiic~ and desengaito, illusion and disillusion, eter- nal themes of Spanish poetry Intimately related to this intemperate imagination of the Spaniard is his pride, his power of self-idealization, his exalted notion of his personal dignity. He is capable of almost any sacrifice when ap- pealed to in the name of his honor, the peculiar form his self-respect assumes, and of almost any violence and cruelty when he believes his honor to be offend- ed. The Spanish classic theatre revolves almost entirely around this sentiment of honor, which is mediawal and Gothic, and the sentiment of jealousy, which is Oriental. It was by working upon his pride and sense of honor far more than upon his religious instinct that Rome in- duced the Spaniard to become her cham- pion in her warfare against the modern spirit. He looked upon himself as the caballero andante who sallied forth to do heroic battle for Mother Church. This self-absorption of the Spaniard has interfered with his acceptance of the new humanitarian ideal. Don Juan, in Moli~res play, tells his valet to give alms to the beggar, not for the love of God, but for the love of humanity. In fact, since the time of Molil~re man has been substituting for the worship of God and for the old notion of individual salvation this cult of Humanity, this apotheosis of himself in his collective capacity. He has idealized his own future, and thus evolved the idea of progress. He has dwelt with minute interest on his own past, and has thus given rise to the his- torical spirit. He has ministered with ever increasing solicitude to his own con- venience and comfort, and has sought to find in this world some equivalent for his vanished dream of paradise. The individual has so subordinated himself to this vast common work that he has al- most lost the sense of his independent 192 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. value. The individual, said M. Ber- thelot only the other day, will count for less and less in the society of the fu- ture. The Spaniard, however, refuses thus to identify the interests of his individual self with the interests of humanity. He is filled with that subtle egotism, engen- dered by mediawal religion, which neg- lected mans relation to nature and his fellows, and fixed his attention solely on the problem of his personal salvation. In the olden time, it was not uncommon for a pious Spaniard, on dying, to de- fraud his earthly creditors in order that he might pay masses for the welfare of his soul; and it was said of such a man that he had made his soul his heir. The Spaniard remains thus self-centred. He has little capacity for trusting his fellow men, for co~iperating with them and working disinterestedly to a common end; he is impatient of organization and discipline. And so, as some one has remarked, he is warlike without being military. We may add that he is over- flowing with national pride without be- ing really patriotic. He still has in his blood something of the wild desert in- stinct of the Arab, and the love of per- sonal independence of the Goth. You would rather suspect, says an old Eng- lish author, speaking of the Spaniards, that they did but live together for fear of wolves. As a public servant the Spaniard is likely to take for his motto, Apr~s mol le d6luge, or, as the pro- verb puts it, El ultimo mono se ahoga (The last monkey gets drowned). In the Spaniards indifference to bod- ily comfort and material refinements we find traces of the Oriental and medkeval contempt for the body. Le corps, cette guenille, est-il dune impor- tance, Dnn prix ~ m~riter seulement quon y pense? However, those happy days of Spanish abstemiousness which Juan Valera de- scribes have passed, never to return; that golden era before the advent of French cookery, when all classes, from grandee to muleteer, partook with equal relish of the national mixture of garlic and red peppers; when window-glass was still a rarity in the Peninsula; when, if a tenth part of the inhabitants of Madrid had taken it into their heads to bathe, there would have been no water left to drink, or to cook those garbanzos (chick-peas) so essential in the Spanish dietary. But in spite of the spread of modern luxu- ry, which Seiior Valera looks upon with ascetic distrust, the Spaniards still re- main in the mass the most temperate people in Europe. The cruelty of the Spaniard or ra- ther, his callousness, his recklessness of his own life and of the lives of others is another mediawal and Oriental survi- val; and then, too, there underlies the Spanish temperament I know not what vein of primitive Iberian savagery. Ma- dame dAulnoy relates that on a certain day of the year it was customary for court gallants to run along one of the main streets of Madrid, lashing furious- ly their bare shoulders; and when one of these penitents passed the lady of his choice among the spectators, lie bespat- tered her with his blood, as a special mark of his favor. Insensibility to the suffering of animals, though general in Spain, is not any greater, so far as my own observation goes, than in the other Latin countries. Possibly, medheval re- ligion, in so exalting man above other creatures, in refusing to recognize his relations to the rest of nature, tended to increase this lack of sympathy with brute creation. The Spanish peasant belabors his ass for the same reason that Malebranche kicked his dog, be- cause he has not learned to see in it a being organized to feel pain in the same way as himself. Closely akin, also, to the Spaniards media,val and aristocratic attitude to- ward life is his curious lack of practical sense and mechanical skill. The good Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. qualities of the Spaniards, writes Mr. Butler Clarke, alike with their defects, have an old world flavor that renders their possessors unfit to excel in an inar- tistic, commercial, democratic, and skep- tical age. Juan Yalera admits this prac- tical awkwardness and inefficiency of the Spaniard, but exclaims, Sublime inca- pacity! and discovers in it a mark of his mystic, ecstatic, and transcendental na- ture. The Spaniard, then, finds it hard to light a kerosene lamp without breaking the chimney, much as Emerson made his friends uneasy when he began to handle a gun. Unfortunately, nature knows how to revenge herself cruelly on those who affect to treat her with seraphic disdain, and on those who, like the Spaniards, see in a lack of prudence and economy a proof of aristocratic detachment. Qui veut faire lange fait la b~te. After centuries of mortal tension, man has finally given over trying to look upon himself as a pure spirit. (Indeed, in the case of M. Zola and his school, he has tried to look upon himself as a pure animal.) He has been gradually learn- ing to honor his senses and to live on friendly terms with nature. The Span- iard, however, has refused to adjust him- self to the laws of time and space. He is unwilling to recognize that the most sublime enterprises usually go amiss from the neglect of the homeliest de- tails. He has failed to develop those faculties of observation and analysis by which man, since the Renaissance, has been laying hold upon the world of mat- ter with an ever firmer grasp. The splendid sonorities of the Spanish lan- guage serve in its poetry as a substitute for the exact rendering of nature, and take the place of a precise mastery of facts in the speech of the orator in Cortes. The Spaniard is reluctant to mar the poetry of existence by an excessive ac- curacy. Steamboats are advertised in Spanish newspapers to start at such and such an hour more or less (mas 4 menos). Procrastination is the national vice. As VOL. LXXXII. ~o. 490. 13 I walked along the alameda at Saragos- sa, shortly after arriving in Spain, the words I caught constantly rising above the hum of voices were, mafiana, ma- fiana por la mafiana, mafiana (to-mor- row, to - morrow morning, to - morrow). In Spain, says Ford, everything is put off until to-morrow except bank- ruptcy. A thing in Spain is begun late, and never finished, runs a native proverb (En Espafia se empieza tarde, y se acaba nunca); and again, Spanish succor arrives late or never (Socorro de Espaiia 6 tarde 6 nunca). Along with this Oriental disregard for the value of time there is a dash of Ori- ental fatalism. I remember once talking the matter over with an old peasant, as we walked together over the pass of Des- pefiaperros into Andalusia. In this ac- cursed world, he ended by saying, a man who is born a cuarto (a copper coin) is not going to turn out a peseta (a coin of silver). A curious comparison might be made between this true East- ern fatalism of the Spaniard, the fatal- ism of predestination, and that fatalism of evolution which seems to be gaining ground with us. Another Oriental and medheval trait in the Spaniard is his lack of curiosity. Quien sabe? (Who knows?) is the formula of his intellectual indifference, just as No se puede (It is impossible) is the formula of his fatalism. The mod- ern world is coming more and more to seek its salvation in the development of the reason and intelligence; and from this point of view Renan is consistent in ex- alting curiosity above all other vir- tues. Christianity, on the other hand, may justly be suspected of having insuffi- ciently recognized from the start the r6le of the intellect, and at times has inclined to show a special tenderness toward ig- norance. Pascal was but true to the tra- dition of the Christian mystics when he branded the whole process of modern scientific inquiry as a form of concupis- cence, libido sciendi, the lust of know- 193 194 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. ing. When he felt the rise within him of the new power of the reason which threatened the integrity of his medhe- val faith, he exclaimed in self-admonish- ment, You must use holy water and hear masses, and that will lead you to believe naturally and will make you stupid. Spain, for several centuries back, has applied with great success this panacea of Pascal for any undue activi- ty of the reason. The abject ignorance into which she has fallen is the result, then, partly of Christian obscurantism, and in part of Oriental incuriousness. Which is worse, after all, some of. us may be prompted to ask in passing, this incuriousness of the Spaniard, or that eager inquisitiveness of his antipode the American, which leads him to saturate his soul in all the infinite futility of his daily newspaper? Spain may at least owe to her ignorance some of that wis- dom of little children so highly prized by Christianity. There is more simplicity, kindliness, and naivet6 in Spain than in the rest of Europe, writes Wilhelm von Humboldt to Goethe. Other Western countries are showing signs at present of intellectual overtraining. The impres- sion we get from a typical Parisian Frenchman of to-day is that the whole energy of the mans personality has gone to feed the critical intellect, at the expense both of what is below and of what is above the intellect, of the body and the soul. The critical intellect of the Span- iard has been so stunted and atrophied by centuries of disuse that he has lost the very sense of his deficiency. Educa- tion is as truly the last object of his con- cern as it is the first of the American. Juan Yalera, who has analyzed with great acuteness the causes of spanish decadence, says that Spains head was turned in the sixteenth century by her sudden accession to world-wide dominion, coinciding as it did with her triumph, after seven centuries of conflict, over the Moors. She became filled with a f a- natical faith in herself, with a delirium of pride, and since then has hugged with desperate tenacity, as embodying absolute and immutable truth, those me- dia~val forms to which she ascribed her greatness. In the meanwhile, the rest of the world has been quietly changing from a medheval to a Greek view of culture. It has been discovering that growth is not in one, but in a multitude of directions, and that the nation no less than the individual is greatest which can take up and harmonize in itself the largest number of opposing qualities. France, indeed, has been almost fatally crippled by her attempt to carry into modern times the principle of medimnval exclusiveness. Sainte-Beuve traces to the persecution of the Jansenists and the expulsion of the Huguenots a loss of balance in the French national charac- ter. It was perhaps no idle fancy that led the Parisian Nefftzer to exclaim, as he heard the boom of the German guns about the city in the siege of 1870, We are paying for Saint Bartholo- mews Day! The history of Spain bears still more tragic witness to the truth of Emersons saying that exclu- siveness excludes itself. Nearly all her skill in finance, manufacture, and agri- culture departed from her with the banishment of the Jews and Moriscos; and the Inquisition shut that intellectual element from her life which was needed as a corrective of her over-ardent imagi- nation and narrow intensity. However, modern ideas have fairly got a footing in Spain during the past forty years, and new and old have been arrayed against each other with a truly Iberian vividness of contrast. This bat- tle beween medheval and modern is the favorite topic of recent Spanish literature. It has been treated, often with great power, by novelists like Gald6s, Alar- con, and Valera, and has inspired the work of poets like Nufiez de Arce and Campoamor. It is curious, this spectacle of a nation hesitating between contradic- tory ideals. Spain looks doubtfully on Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. 195 our scientific and industrial civilization, and in the very act of accepting it feels that she is perhaps entering the path of perdition. She does not share our ex- uberant optimism, and has misgivings about our idea of progress. She cannot, like other Western nations, throw herself with fierce energy upon the task of win- ning dominion over matter, and forget, In actions dizzying eddy whirid, The something that infects the world. She is haunted at times by the Eastern sense of the unreality of life. It is no mere chance that the title of the most fa- mous play of Spains greatest dramatist is La Vida es Sueflo, Life is a Dream. This note, which is heard only occasion- ally in English, and notably in Shake- speare, recurs constantly in Spanish from the Couplets of Manrique to Espronceda. Wisdom, often for the Spaniard as al- ways for the Oriental, reveals herself as some strange process of solitary illumi- nation, comparable to the awakening from a dream. The mysterious vir- gin, she calls herself in Esproncedas poem, on whom man bestows his last affections, and in whom all science be- comes mute. Soy la virgen misteriosa De los iiltiinos amores, etc. Whereas Bacon, speaking for the West, says that the way of knowledge is one that no man can travel alone. We might augur more hopefully of Spains attempt to enter upon the path of modern progress if she had been more happily inspired in the choice of a model. Wilhelm von Humboldt, one of the few philosophical observers of Spain, re- marks that her greatest misfortune is her geographical position. All her ideas come to her through France, and France is above all dangerous to her. In that ideal cosmopolitanism of which Goethe dreamed, each country was to broaden itself by a wise assimilation of the ex- cellencies of other nationalities. The actual cosmopolitanism which has arisen during the present century has perhaps resulted in an interchange of vices rather than of virtues. I have sometimes been tempted to see a symbol of this cosmo- politanism in a certain square at Florence whose fine old native architecture has given way to a cheap imitation of the Parisian boulevard; and over the front of one of these modern structures appear in flaming letters the words Gambri- nus Halle! In theory, Spain should have sent hundreds of her young men to German universities and to English and Amen- caa technical schools, in order that they might thus acquire the scientific method of the Teuton and the practical and executive instinct of the Anglo-Saxon. She should have fostered among her sons an interest in commerce, in manufacture, and above all in agriculture; they should have been encouraged to go forth and reclaim the waste tracts of their native land, plant forests, and heal that long- standing feud between man and nature which in Spain is written on the very face of the landscape. Instead of this, she has turned for her exemplar to France, to the ideal, infinite- ly seductive and infinitely false, embod- ied in Paris. She has been guided in this choice by her incurably aristocratic instinct. It is estimated that in the days of Spanish greatness only three million out of a population of nine million con~ sented to work; and Spain still remains a nation of aristocrats. Every true Cas- tilian still aspires to be a caballero, or horseman; the Spaniard is unwilling to come down from his horse and put his shoulder to the work of modern civiliza- tion. I find in an old English author the following judgment on Spain, which has lost little of its truth: The ground is uncultivated partly through the paucity and partly through the pride of the peo- ple, who breed themselves up to bigger thoughts than they are born to, and scorn to be that which we call ploughmen and peasants. . . . And if you take men of that nation, before they have spoiled 196 Lights and Shades of Spanish Character. themselves, either by getting some great office at home or else by much walking abroad, to seek some employment or for- tune there, you shall find them for the most part to be of noble and courteous and quiet minds, in the very natural con- stitution thereof. Whereas, if you show them a new and sweeter way of life, either at home or abroad, it intoxicates them so with the vanities and vices of the world that they are many of them quickly wont to suck the venom in, and become the very worst of men. So that naturally I hold them good; and that by accident and infection they grow easily to be stark naught. The Spaniards, then, have sucked in the venom of the Parisian boulevard, and have raised up in their capital a showy fa~ade of borrowed elegance to which nothing in the country corre- sponds. I know of no more startling contrast, even in Spain, than to pass sud- denly from some gray, poverty-stricken village of Old Castile into the factitious glare and glitter of the Fuente Castel- lana at Madrid. The highest ambition of thousands of young Spanish provin- cials is to swagger about in close-fitting frock coats, and seek for political prefer- ment, any meaner occupation being un- worthy of such noble hidalgos. Govern- ment places are few compared with the number of applicants; they are ill paid and of uncertain tenure, and the office- holder has little choice except to steal or starve. The vicious traditions of the old absolutism have thus united with the new frivolity to produce in the modern Spanish official that harmonious blend- ing of corruption and incompetency with which we are familiar. However, we must remember how lit- tle these afrancesados, these caf6-haunt- ing, Frenchified Spaniards of Madrid really represent the nation. In Spain, even more than in France and Italy, the germs of promise for the future are to be sought anywhere rather than in the upper classes. Even among the upper classes, if we are to judge from recent literature, there are those who do not ac- cept the French ideal of lhomme moyen sensuel, who would have the Spanish character come under certain modern in- fluences, without therefore sacrificing its own native gravity and religious serious- ness. It is encouraging to note in many of the Spanish books published of late years something of that robustness and virility wherein lies the natural superi- ority of the Spaniard over the other Latins. Spain has as yet no decadent writers, no Zola and no Gabriele dAn- nunzio. To speak, then, of the lower classes, there is a singular agreement among those who have really mingled with them as to their natural possibilities for good. I have found in Spain, says Borrow, amongst much that is lamentable and reprehensible, much that is noble and to be admired, much stern, heroic virtue, much savage and horrible crime; of low, vulgar vice very little, at least amongst the great hody of the Spanish nation. There is still valor in Asturia, gen- erosity in Aragon, probity in Old Cas- tile. But how far will these old world virtues of the Spanish peasantry be able to withstand the contact with nineteenth- century civilization? Will not the pro- found poetry of their simple instinctive life fade away at its touch, and the racy originality of their native ways be smothered under its smug uniformity? Will they be able, in short, to make the difficult passage from the medimeval to the modern habit of mind without f all- ing into anarchy and confusion? More than any other land, Spain came under the control of that Jesuitical Catholicism issued from the Council of Trent which has poisoned the very life-blood of the Latin races; which, rather than lose its hold upon the minds of men, has con- sented through its casuists to sanction self-indulgence; which has retarded by every means in its power the develop- ment of those virtues of self-reliance Ny Friend Ah-Chy. 197 and self-control that more than any oth- ers measure a mans advancement in the modern spirit; and now that the Span- iards are escaping from the artificial re- straint of their religion they are left, pas- sionate and impulsive children, to meet the responsibilities of nineteenth-century life. From my observation of the com- mon people, I should say that already the power of the priesthood is broken, that respect for the institution of mon- archy is undermined, and that there is a rapid drift toward republicanism joined to a profound distrust of the present rulers. The desen~,aito, or rude disillu- sion, they are likely to experience before the end of the present struggle may re- sult in some fierce outburst, boding dis- aster to the political jobbers at Madrid. Yet no prudent man would risk a pro- phecy about Peninsular politics; for Spain is to pays do limpr6vu, the land of the unexpected, where the logical and obvious thing is least likely to happen; and that is perhaps one of the reasons why she still retains her hold on the man of imagination. Whatever comes to pass, we may be sure that Spain will not modify immedi- ately the mental habits of centuries of spiritual and political absolutism. In attempting to escape from the past, she will no doubt shift from the fanatical belief in a religious creed to the fanatical belief in revolutionary formuhe, and per- haps pass through all the other lamenta ble phases of Latin-country radicalism. Yet if space allowed I could give rea- sons for the belief that there are more elements of real republicanism in Spain than in France or Italy. This remark, as well as nearly everything else I have said, I mean to apply especially to the Castiles, Aragon, and the northwestern provinces, the real backbone of the Pe- ninsula. In any case, those who have a first- hand knowledge of Spain will be ~loath to place her on that list of dying na- tions to which Lord Salisbury recently referred. She is still rich in virtues which the world at present can ill afford to lose. It remains to be seen whether she can rid herself of the impediments which are rendering these virtues inef- fectual. Will she be able to expel the Jesuit poison from her blood? Will she learn to found her self-respect on con- science, instead of on the medheval sen- timent of honor, and come to rely on action, the religion of the modern man, rather than on Maria Santissima? Chief question of all, will she succeed in tam- ing her Gotho - Bedouin instincts, and become capable of the degree of orderly cooperation necessary for good govern- ment? Alas! the Spaniards themselves relate that the Virgin once granted va- rious boons to Spain, at the prayer of Santiago, but refused the boon of good government, lest then the angels forsake heaven, and prefer Spain to paradise. Irving Babbitt. MY FRIEND AH-CHY. I FTR5T met him at a port on the river, by which shorter but satisfac- torily definite title all China residents designate the great Yangtsze Kiang. The importance of that magnificent natural highway few of those who have not lived in China realize. Flowing thousands of miles through province af- ter province, it bears on its rushing cur- rent hundreds of thousands of tons of produce yearly, in every conceivable kind of craft, from the stately river steam- ers, which remind one of those which ply on the Hudson, the ocean-going tea clip-

Ny Friend Ah-Chy. 197 and self-control that more than any oth- ers measure a mans advancement in the modern spirit; and now that the Span- iards are escaping from the artificial re- straint of their religion they are left, pas- sionate and impulsive children, to meet the responsibilities of nineteenth-century life. From my observation of the com- mon people, I should say that already the power of the priesthood is broken, that respect for the institution of mon- archy is undermined, and that there is a rapid drift toward republicanism joined to a profound distrust of the present rulers. The desen~,aito, or rude disillu- sion, they are likely to experience before the end of the present struggle may re- sult in some fierce outburst, boding dis- aster to the political jobbers at Madrid. Yet no prudent man would risk a pro- phecy about Peninsular politics; for Spain is to pays do limpr6vu, the land of the unexpected, where the logical and obvious thing is least likely to happen; and that is perhaps one of the reasons why she still retains her hold on the man of imagination. Whatever comes to pass, we may be sure that Spain will not modify immedi- ately the mental habits of centuries of spiritual and political absolutism. In attempting to escape from the past, she will no doubt shift from the fanatical belief in a religious creed to the fanatical belief in revolutionary formuhe, and per- haps pass through all the other lamenta ble phases of Latin-country radicalism. Yet if space allowed I could give rea- sons for the belief that there are more elements of real republicanism in Spain than in France or Italy. This remark, as well as nearly everything else I have said, I mean to apply especially to the Castiles, Aragon, and the northwestern provinces, the real backbone of the Pe- ninsula. In any case, those who have a first- hand knowledge of Spain will be ~loath to place her on that list of dying na- tions to which Lord Salisbury recently referred. She is still rich in virtues which the world at present can ill afford to lose. It remains to be seen whether she can rid herself of the impediments which are rendering these virtues inef- fectual. Will she be able to expel the Jesuit poison from her blood? Will she learn to found her self-respect on con- science, instead of on the medheval sen- timent of honor, and come to rely on action, the religion of the modern man, rather than on Maria Santissima? Chief question of all, will she succeed in tam- ing her Gotho - Bedouin instincts, and become capable of the degree of orderly cooperation necessary for good govern- ment? Alas! the Spaniards themselves relate that the Virgin once granted va- rious boons to Spain, at the prayer of Santiago, but refused the boon of good government, lest then the angels forsake heaven, and prefer Spain to paradise. Irving Babbitt. MY FRIEND AH-CHY. I FTR5T met him at a port on the river, by which shorter but satisfac- torily definite title all China residents designate the great Yangtsze Kiang. The importance of that magnificent natural highway few of those who have not lived in China realize. Flowing thousands of miles through province af- ter province, it bears on its rushing cur- rent hundreds of thousands of tons of produce yearly, in every conceivable kind of craft, from the stately river steam- ers, which remind one of those which ply on the Hudson, the ocean-going tea clip- 198 .M~,, Friend Ah-Uky. pers, the coastwise lorchas, and junks of every size, down to the tiny sampans; and every boat bears upon either side a painted eye, for as any Chinaman will tell you, Suppose no got eye, how fash- ion can see; and suppose no can see, how fashion can walkee? Some day the river will be written of as it deserves, and the description of its wonderful gorges and rapids, its varied beautiful scenery, its yearly rising and falling, will be as interesting as instructive. In summer it often reaches a height of forty feet above its winter level, inundating cities and large tracts of land along its banks. It flows through the finest tea-growing coun- try, and all the porcelain which is used in the empire is distributed over its waters. It is ever changing, ever interesting, and always picturesque, seeming to me a necessary background for my friend Ah- Chy, as he was a citizen of one of the river ports. Meeting Ah-Chy first as the compra- dore of one of the largest tea merchants, who was our neighbor and friend, we had many opportunities of acquaintance with him. Tall, handsome, erect, be- tween forty and fifty years of age, with the most wonderful command of pidgin English it was ever my good fortune to listen to, he was a delight to encounter; and our interest in collecting porcelain brought us so often into our neighbors go-down to inspect fresh installments that we encountered him frequently. He had taken a lower literary degree, I be- lieve, and was eligible for official position and promotion. We were a very small foreign com- munity, foreign in China means any nationality not Chinese, fourteen all told; yet a very cosmopolitan little cir- cle, including English, French, Russian, American, Scotch, Danish, and German representatives; and for a time I found 1 Pidgin is a corruption of the word busi- ness, and pidgin English is the queer jar- gon of broken English arranged according to the Chinese idiom, which, ever since its intro- myself in one of the most enviable, de- lightful positions in the world, that of being the only lady in the port. On the occasion of a great review of Chinese troops gathered from many parts of the province, and the consequent con- gregating of its highest officials who were the inspecting dignitaries, it came about that we were bidden to a dinner given at the residence of Chinas large Mer- cantile Marine Company to meet these provincial magnates. The dinner was served entirely in foreign style, doubtless because of the wish to honor the foreign officials present, and to the great delight of the one lady she was included in the invitation. Perhaps her presence was added to make it seem entirely foreign to the Chinese participants. As I entered the drawing-room all the gentlemen rose, and in response to my inclination intended to be very cour- teous toward each of the gorgeously appareled Chinese, and my murmured Ta-yen hao, each in turn raised his hands slowly to his face, the right clasped over the left, while I heard in reply, Tai Tai hao. I had quite forgotten to ask, as I had fully purposed, what was the proper salutation to make on being intro- duced to such high and mighty person- ages; but suddenly remembering that I had always heard my husband addressed as Ta-yen, and knowing it to be a Chinese official title, I boldly made my little endeavor to be polite, and was af- terward told, to my great relief, that I could not have done better. The Chinese were indeed magnificent- ly robed. From the official hat (which, according to their code of manners, it is discourteous to remove), with flaring black velvet rim, in some cases crowned with a beautiful pink coral bead an inch in diameter, from under which peacock feathers hung down over the back to the duction at Macno as the medium of intercourse between foreigners and Chinese, has formed the language in which the greater part of the do- mestic and commercial relations are carried on. Ky Friend Ah-Uhy. 199 coat collar; the satin coats, with medal- lions embroidered in every hue, or per- haps only in shades of blue, and dark soft sable linings, a short coat over a long one of different color; down to the high black satin boots with their wooden white-covered soles, they were each well worth study and admiration. They were stately, decorous, polite, without even the shadow of a smile on their faces, which might have looked expressionless except for the brightness and intelligence of their eyes. Not so the foreign officials present, who, as they bowed in response to my greeting, smiled almost audibly in very evident enjoyment of the scene. It was the first time some of the Chinese gentle- men had been brought face to face with a foreign lady; and to have that experi- ence at an official dinner, to see her in full evening toilette, d6collet6, must have been a terrible shock to their ideas of what was convenable. When dinner was announced by the long - coated Chinese butler, the official highest in rank rose, bowed before me, and offered me his arm. Rising, I took it, or tried to take it; for I occupied my- self all the way from the drawing-room to the dining-room, through a hall unusu- ally long, and we went very slowly, in trying to find out with the tips of my gloved fingers whether or not there was any arm inside the wide, satin, sable- lined sleeve. That there were several layers of silk under-jacket sleeves, be- sides, I made sure, and as I neared the dining-table I had just arrived at what I thought was solid enough to be an arm. How I longed to give it just a little hard pinch to find out if I were correct! But even if I had pinched it suddenly and viciously, looking up into the face of my magnificent escort mean- while, to find out if .he had felt it in the least, I am sure he would have made no sign whatever. He would not have believed the evidence of his own senses if they had endeavored to tell him that a woman, and that woman a foreigner, was trying to pierce the mantle of his dignity. Fortunately, my very little un- derstood duty as the wife of a foreign official kept me from playing any such prank, but it was a terrible temptation. The deftness and aptitude with which the Chinese used the new and utterly unaccustomed knives, forks, and spoons, in lieu of their universally useful chop- sticks, without showing that they were closely watching what ought to be done with them, was perfectly wonderful. They simply waited a second or two af- ter they were served with a course, and, glancing apparently quite casually round the table, proceeded to use whatever the foreigners did and in exactly the same manner. It was fascinating to watch all these details, and I found that I had to keep myself well in hand, for fear that, in my interest and amazement, I should be detected observing them, and should show that I had less politeness than these quiet, keen - eyed, imitative representa- tives of one of the oldest and most cere- monious civilizations. The dinner-table was beautifully de- corated with flowers and leaves laid on the white table-cloth in many different designs, surrounding the quaintly shaped dishes of fruit and sweetmeats. The va- riety of ways in which a Chinese butler can adorn a table is endless and marvel- ous, and was always a pleasure and sur- prise to me in my own home. In China, no hostess needs to oversee the arrange- ments for a dinner-party, but can walk in with her guests as free from care or anxiety as any of them, without even hav- ing looked beforehand to see that every- thing is in order. Each table napkin is folded in a distinctive shape, sometimes imitating a swan or a bird, with a colored paper eye stuck on either side of the ra- ther queer-looking head, while a button- hole bouquet is tucked in at the top, ready for the guest to appropriate as he sits down. The carving and serving are done entirely from the sideboard, and 200 Ky Friend Ah-CIhy. there are as many men to wait at table as there are guests, for each guest brings his own servant. The butler of the host looks after the opening and serving of the wine, deputing the carving meanwhile to some other butler he can trust. I think it shows the prevailing honesty of the ser- vants who are thus gathered together at every dinner-party (and they are many; I can well remember dining out eleven consecutive evenings) that I never heard of a case of theft. All the domestics of the household where the dinner - party was in progress were busy in the dining- room, pantry, or kitchen, the rest of the house being quite unoccupied; and as we never locked up any of our personal be- longings, it would have been easy enough for a servant to slip away and help him- self to anything he might fancy. Chinese butlers have, too, a strange system of give and take, which twenty- five years ago used to prevail much more extensively than it does now; in fact, it was then universal. At the first large dinner-party to which I was invited I went as a bride I found myself eating with my own brand-new knives, forks, and spoons. I stared at them very hard, but there could be no mistake, for there was the fresh monogram. I was dreadfully distressed, but did not dare to say any- thing. When I reached home I told my husband rather tremblingly, for I was quite sure they had been stolen. To my amazement, he only laughed and said, Oh, you will get quite used to it very soon; and when you have too many guests, you will find that instead of ask- ing you to get more supplies the butler will just get your neighbors, and al- ways make up the deficiency. And so it proved. I can well remember, once when my husband had asked eight in to dinner only half an hour before the usual time (one for each of the delicious first spring snipe he had just shot), that there appeared later a splendid roast leg of mutton as one of our courses. Now I knew that we had no mutton, for ear- her in the day the cook had been be- wailing the non-arrival of the Shanghai steamer by which it always came. Turn- ing to the gentleman on my left, I asked, Did your steamer come from Shanghai to-day? Yes. Why? I looked down to the other end of the table, where my husband was carving the unexpected treasure trove with very evi- dent enjoyment. Well, ours did not, said I, and yet He caught sight of the mutton. Oh, I suppose that is mine, he laughed. No doubt yours will come to-morrow, and probably be much better; so I shall be the gainer this time, and shall enjoy it all the more. The cooks kept very strict accounts among themselves, I am sure, and we never suffered by these exchanges, while it was unspeakably comforting to know that at any time, if occasion arose, we could feel quite sure of having our neigh- bors dinner, cooked in his kitchen and handed over the wall, provided only we remembered to invite him. Away in a northern port, a party of bachelors were once enjoying themselves in a happy, hearty fashion round the din- ner-table; and among them was a fresh arrival from Scotland, whose means of smiling were so capacious that really, when he laughed, which he did almost continuously, there was ever present the old danger of the upper part of his head becoming an island. There was also a gentleman who had spent much time in the interior, and whose knowledge of Chinese was both profound and varied. While conversation and laughter abound- ed, he chanced to overhear a remark made by one of the boys who was waiting at table; and, while pretending not to listen, he soon found out that every foreigner present was being spoken of by a nickname which referred to his personal appearance. When the servants had retired, and the foreigners were enjoying their coffee J[fy Friend Ah-Chy. 201 and cigars, the sinologue told the others what he had overheard, and mentioned as many of the sobriquets as he could re- member. The young Scoteimans was not among them, so he proceeded, next day, to find out from his own boy what it was. When he got him into the room, he locked the door, stood with his back to it, and told the badly scared servant he would not let him out until he confessed. By dint of coaxing and threats he finally induced the poor fright- ened Chinaman to blurt out that it was codfish mouth. The entire appropri- ateness of the nickname overcame him, and he shouted with laughter, making the fitness still more apparent. One of the funniest parts of it all was to watch the faces of his friends when he told them the story, which he did many times and often. Their sense of politeness would make them struggle bravely not to laugh; but when, having reached the climax, he bestowed upon them the full comprehen- siveness of his smile, it was absolutely impossible not to join in the hearty laughter which he always led with con- tagious good humor. I have often wondered since in how many other ways we foreigners were ridiculed by our quiet, demure-looking domestics. Bat I must get back to my official dinner, eveu at the risk of being made fun of. Beside me at table, to my great de- light, I found Ah-Chy, and my husband nearly opposite. After dinner had be- gun, one of the Chinese magnates at my husbands side began telling him an ad- venture of the previous evening, when he had accompanied home one of his colleagues who had imbibed too freely of champagne. While he was describing the struggles and antics of his unsteady friend, I looked up, caught my husbands eye, and laughed heartily. The official stared, turned, and asked quickly in Chi- nese (he could neither speak nor under- stand one word of English), Does your honorable wife understand Chinese? When my husband answered in the affirmative, the poor man was painful- ly distressed and shocked, because he thought he had been telling an indiscreet story. He was unnecessarily penitent, making humble apologies and explana- tions, protesting that he had no idea whatever that I understood his language even a little, else he would never have transgressed in such a manner. He was with difficulty persuaded that I was in reality very much amused, and not in the least shocked; which in turn must have upset his ideas, and probably started him wondering as to the emancipation (he would have called it something very dif- ferent) of foreign women. Ah-Chy had been enjoying it all, mean- time, in several ways, and after we had talked on many matters of local inter- est I suddenly said to him, How many piecee wife you just now have catchee [got], Ah-Chy? Just now? Oh, just now have catchee seven piecee, before time have catchee eight piecee, one piecee have makee finish, so just now have catchee seven piecee. Makee finish, what thing you talkee? I no savey what thing belong makee finish. Oh, makee finish belong all same you talkee makee die, one piecee makee die, all same makee finish. What side you number one [first] wife, Ah-Chy? Oh, he belong Kwangtung side, you savey, he no likee stop this side, so he makee stop Kwangtung, you plenty savey China fashion no belong all same for- eign fashion number one wife any time wantee stop he own home. (There is only one gender in pidgin English; everything is masculine.) After a little I turned and said laugh- ingly, Ah-Chy, talkee my [tell me], what piecee wife you likee more better just now? He threw his head back with a hearty laugh, and with a twinkle in his eyes 202 Mj, Friend Ak-U/4 said, Well, I thinkee I likee number five piecee more better just now. He belong good-look-see [pretty] and plenty young.~~ You belong all same Bluebeard with your eight piecee wife, Ah-Chy. Who man you talkee? Who belong Bluebeard? Oh, he belong one piecee man, live long time ago, and he have catchee eight piecee wife, and by and by he no likee, so he cuttee all he heads off. I no belong all same Bluebeard! he cried. What for because I talkee you one piecee wife have makee finish, you talkee my belong all same Bluebeard? I no likee you talkee my so fashion. I appeased him after a time with many assurances that I had only been telling an old fairy tale; but, to my in- tense surprise and amusement, he went next day into my husbands office to ask him, What for your Tai Tai have talkee my belong all same Bluebeard ? On my husbands also assuring him that I was only joking with him, he went away content, for he also dearly loved a joke. The dinner was a matter of so many courses that I have forgotten all about them, as just such dinners of great length and variety were our universal custom, beginning at eight oclock in the evening, and often lasting two or more hours. During the long time we sat at table Ah-Chy was ever ready to amuse me by talking on any and every subject. At times it was wholly impossible for rue to master the torrent of words in their queer pidgin English setting, and then I would laugh and say, Oh, man, man [slower], please, Ah-Chy. At which he would stop, look rather astonished for an in- stant, smile, and answer, Oh, I savey, you no savey all I talkee, and go on again as rapidly as before. The solemn gorgeous official on the other side vindi- cated his idea of what was due to his dignity by treating me with studied though chilling courtesy. He occasion- ally handed me a dish of sweetmeats within his reach, between the courses, as the only acknowledgment of my inferior (because feminine) existence. My vis-~-vis of the bibulous story was at first very circumspect in his further remarks; but I noticed that after he had himself partaken of several glasses of the ever tempting champagne (the only foreign wine the Chinese are univer- sally very fond of) he forgot his late embarrassment, and only now and then regarded me suddenly with a rather frightened look, as if he had just re- membered me, and ought to be careful. The look passed quickly away, but was upsetting to my gravity, and I found myself almost laughing aloud every tinie. It was easy to see that he was a genial soul, and he seemed thoroughly to enjoy the chance of talking so unreservedly with a foreigner who understood him well enough to be able to give back joke for joke in his own language. Some time afterward, my curiosity which was then a source of great distress to my family and friends, and which now I wish I had gratified a thousand times more led me to desire to see the inte- rior of a Chinese pawnshop. The great tall buildings here and there all over the city, raising their blank walls high above the two-storied uniformity of the vast acreage of the other houses, had a sort of fascination for me. Ah-Chy came to my aid. His brother owned a large pawnshop in the city, and he volunteered to escort me thither. I suspect Ah-Chy had had a hand in estab- lishing his brother in pawubroking, and had himself a large interest in the con- cern; for in China as elsewhere this is said to be an exceedingly lucrative busi- ness. However that may be, it happened that one day my husband and I got into our sedan chairs, each with four bear- ers, and preceded by Ah-Chy, also in a chair, were soon swinging along through the narrow, crowded, wonderfully pictur- esque streets of the native city. I was always glad of an opportunity to make Ky Friend Ak-CAy. 203 an expedition into these strange regions, but I was always a little afraid, and made it a rule to have my chair go in advance of my hnsbands; for the coolies went so quickly, and the crowd was so dense, that his chair could easily turn a corner ahead, and in less time than it takes to tell it I might find myself alone on the streets, many miles from home, and with- out the faintest idea how to get back. The natives never got accustomed to the sight of a foreign lady, and any shop we entered was sure to be soon besieged by an eager crowd, jostling one another good - naturedly to get a better view of the stranger. Oh, those streets, tbose streets! How can they be described so that one who has never seen them can even imagine what they are like? The highways of Egypt (Cairo, for instance) have more picturesque coloring, because of the gor- geousness and variety of the head-dresses and clothing of the wearers, gathered together as they are from every nation under the sun. But Chinese streets are unique. The shops, all wide open to the street, with their endless variety of wares spread in full view, are hung on both sides with multitudinous signs of every length and color, brilliant with gold, green, or red lettering. There are evil smells of awful intensity; and the tre- mendous tide of human life is forever flowing through. Tinkers of every kind abound, each plying his craft at the door of the shop which has supplied him with something to mend. Here is a carnival of repairing, cobbling shoes, mending broken porcelain and glass, riveting um- brellas. There are women mending and patching garments for so many cash each, then moving on with their little bamboo stools in search of more work; barbers busy shaving or shampooing customers, or dressing their hair; men with cook- shops slung on their shoulders from a bamboo, one end weighted with the little earthen charcoal stove, the other with the stock in hand, probably cakes to fry in evil-smelling castor oil; children of all sizes playing in seeming unconsciousness of the din around them; beggars in every stage of filth and tatters. There are Bud- dhist priests with shaven heads and dirty yellow robes, and the ever present, ever empty gourd held out for alms; dogs of every mongrel type; coolies emptying into buckets, by means of long-handled bamboo ladles, the drainage from the huge kangs sunk in the ground at street corners; presently they swing the buckets over their shoulders and stride away, ut- terly indifferent to the stench they trail behind; and as if to supplement the coo- lies task, pigs go grunting along, per- forming their office of scavengers. All these and more are crowded together in streets only wide enough to allow two sedan chairs to pass each other. When an official goes abroad in his chair, he usually has a coolie who runs ahead run he must, for the chair- bearers keep up a wonderfully fast gait and shouts at the top of his voice, Chia Quang Ah! which means, I be- lieve, Give light, give light, and is the polite form of saying, Make way, there. I only hope it is more cour- teous than it sounds, but it certainly makes the pedestrians scuttle into the open shops to get out of the way. So heralded, we brushed through the nar- row streets on our visit to the pawnshop. When we entered the huge building I was almost appalled at its size, and amazed at the order and cleanliness of its vast interior. On the long rows of shelves, running up to a great height, with little passageways between, there were thou- sands upon thousands of bundles, each carefully wrapped up, the little tag with its number hanging in full view from the end. The intense silence and the dim light made it so eerie that I was glad to get out into the sunlight again and hear Ali-Chys cheery flow of pidgin English. I have been told that at the beginning of summer the wealthy Chinese all pawn their furs, of which they have an enor 204 2lI~, Friend Ah-Cliy. mous number and variety; redeeming them when the cold weather returns. Out of these pawnshops come a great many of the curios which foreigners find at the shops in the native cities. They are pledged very often by decaying Chinese families, and never redeemed; after a certain length of time I have forgot- ten just how long Ah-Chy said it was the pawnbroker is allowed to sell them. When summer came, Ah-Chy frequent- ly urged us to visit him at his house on an island in the lake near the city; and little knowing the pleasant things in store for us, we started one hot afternoon with some foreign gentlemen friends to see his summer home. As we stepped out of our boat we found ourselves on what seemed to be enchanted ground. No description can do justice to the beauty of the little island. We walked up by tiny circui- tous paths from the marble steps where the waves twinkled against the white stone. At every turn there were de- lightful surprises: a miniature landscape with tiny lakes, little rivulets and water- falls, the daintiest of fairy bridges, toy summer-houses perched in nooks on arti- ficial mountains scarcely twelve inches high; and out of every crevice peeped delicate maidenhair ferns, tiny shrubs, and wee wild flowers. It made an ex- quisite animated willow - pattern plate scene, and oh, so beautiful! On every side were these artificial landscapes, blended so ingeniously with the natu- ral beauties that it was often impos- sible to tell where the one ended and the other began. Here was an ever- green shrub trained on a wire frame to represent a deer, life-size, with head and horns of colored clay, looking strangely queer as they poked out of the body of living green; there were men and wo- men of the same growing shrub, in na- tive costume, life - size, with heads and hands placed in the proper position, and looking, it must be confessed, exceed- ingly grotesque. Dotted here and there were porcelain barrel - shaped garden- seats of every hue, and immense bowls, beautifully decorated, full of water, in which swam the lovely little gold and silver fish of which the Chinese are so fond. With so many claims to our admira- tion on every hand, we went slowly up to the house on the highest part of the island. We were delighted to find that from one balcony we could look straight down into the lake below, and also away to the magnificent range of mountains beyond. From that side there was no- thing whatever to remind us of the great toiling city which lay just behind us, and the view was exceedingly grand. At the invitation of our courteous, smiling host we entered the house. Every- thing was in the most orthodox Chinese style; all the furniture, most elaborate in design, very stiffly arranged. After admiring the many beautiful bronzes, cloisonn6 porcelains, embroideries, lan- terns, etc., we were taken into our hosts bedroom, where there was a magnificent Ningpo canopied bedstead, carved and inlaid with ivory. The sides and foot were in the shape of an enormous circle, the corners filled in with open carved wood and ivory. The blankets were laid in long, straight, narrow folds at the foot of the bed, and the pillows and mat were of the finest woven cane. After praising everything most enthu- siastically, I turned suddenly to Ah-Chy and said, This belong your room? Yes. You thinkee belong number one handsome? Yes, indeed; but what side your six piecee wife have got? I no can see any room this side belong your wife. He drew himself up very quickly to his full height of over six feet (I am only five feet two inches), raised his arm, and, pointing to another pretty building of which we could just see the irregu- lar skyline above the trees and shrubs, said in a tone of perfectly indescribable scorn, Have got that side. Suppose my wantee, my sendee; talkee he come. lily Friend Ah-Chy. 205 Oh! I gasped. Then, pretending to shake in my shoes with fear and con- sternation, I said, I am plenty glad I no belong China wife, Ah-Chy. I no likee any man talkee my so fashion. His face broke into a smile; he really had looked very angry as he answered me. iNow, turning to me with the most courteous inclination, he paid me the preP tiest compliment I have ever received: Tai Tai, suppose my could catchee one piecee wife all same you, one piecee can do, and my all time likee he stop this side. The repartee was so quick and so per- fect that we were all taken by surprise, and my friends and husband greeted it with acclamation. Upon my laughing protest that I could never believe myself capable of equaling eight piecee wife, he began, to my dismay, to enumer- ate my accomplishments, beginning with, You makee number one music, makee ridee bobbery [frisky] pony, and, abet- ted by the encouragement and laughter of my friends, went on through a long list up to the climax, which he reached ia saying, You just now plenty young and have catchee two piecee boy. That appealed to him most, for his own two sons had died, and he had been obliged to adopt one, in order to insure a de~. scendant who would worship at his grave and keep his memory green. It is the greatest misfortune and sorrow a China- man knows to be sonless, and I felt my heart deeply touched with pity for the man, in the midst of the badinage and fun in which we were all engaged. Meantime, we had been sauntering through the rooms, and found ourselves again in the large cool salon overlook- ing the lake, where we rested and did ample justice to the champagne, crys- tallized fruits, and cakes awaiting us. Then the gentlemen lighted their cigars and I a cigarette, to the delight of our host, who congratulated me, saying, Ah, Tai Tai, you can smokee all same China wife. Yes, but my no can smokee pipe, Ah-Chy. Maskee [no matter]. Cigarette more better look see. My thinkee by an by China lady savey smokee allo same. Before we left, Ah-Chy took us to see his dwarfed fir, a tiny but perfect tree, about nine inches high, which grew in a beautiful porcelain flower-pot, standing on a garden-seat, evidently in a place of honor, and showing evidence of the great- est care and attention. He told us it had been planted by his father on the day his son Ah-Chy was born, and it was easy to see that he held it in the greatest veneration. He added quite seriously that when he had been ill the little tree had drooped and pined, recov- ering always as he grew better, and that when he died it would die too. It cer- tainly looked then as fresh and healthy in its tiny way as our host in his vigor- ous manhood, and we sincerely congratu- lated him upon its flourishing condition. He seemed much pleased and touched by our expressing the hope that it would be many a long year before there was any evidence that less fortunate days had come upon either of them. We strolled down to the lake by another exquisite pathway, and, after thanking our host for the pleasure of the afternoon, rowed away into the sunset, leaving him gazing after us with manifest kindliness and good will. Among the pleasant recollections of our leave - taking of the port are Ah- Chys regrets that we were going away, and his warmly expressed hope that we might be ordered back again before long~ Several years afterward, while we were stationed at a southern port, I was much astonished at seeing our usually very solemn-faced butler appear at the draw- ing-room door with a comical smile. It was instantly explained by the announce- ment, Tai Tai, Ah-Chy have got (is here); and in walked my old friend, looking just as well and happy as ever. I chaffed him about being tied to his 206 Where Angels Fear to Tread. number one wifes apron-strings by at least one thread, in spite of the attrac- tiveness of some of the six piecee away up the river. He laughed, and ad- initted having come south to see her, saying, Must wantee come every two or three year, makee look see how fashion have got (how she is). After a long talk over old times, in what seemed to me more rapid pidgin English than I had ever heard even him use, Ah-Chy bade me good-by, reiterating the hope that we might be ordered back to our former home. So out of my life passed my friend; and as I end this little sketch of him I am very conscious that I am loath to fin- ish it. It seems like breaking one of the links which bind me to the old happy, in- teresting life of which he formed a part. Every remembrance of him is pleasant, courteous, and amusing, so that it is not surprising that I am sorry to take leave of my friend Ah-Chy. Christina Ritchie. WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD. I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of each; and I believe they both get paid in the end, but the fools first. ROBBRT Louis STEYENSOi~. I. iT was a strange crew for the fore- castle of an outward-bound, deep-water American ship. Mr. Jackson, the mate, a gray-eyed giant, looked in vain for the heavy foreign faces, the greasy canvas jackets and blanket trousers, he was accustomed to see. Not that these men seemed to be landsmen; each car- ried in his face and bearing the indefi- nable something by which sailors of all races may distinguish one another from fishermen, tugmen, and deck bands. They were all young men, and their in- telligent faces blemished more or less by marks of overnight dissipationwere as sunburned as those of the two mates who were taking their individual mea- sures. Where a hand could be seen, it showed as brown and tarry as that of the ablest of able seamen. There were no chests among them, but the canvas clothes-bags were the genuine article, and they shouldered and handled them as only sailors can. Yet, aside from these externals, they gave no sign of be- ing anything but well-paid, well-fed, self- respecting citizens, who would read the papers, discuss politics, raise families, and drink more than was proper on pay nights, to repent at church in the morn- ing. The hands that were hidden were covered with well-fitting gloves, kid or dogskin. All had on white shirts and fashionable neckwear; their shoes were polished, their hats in style, and here and there, where an unbuttoned, silk-faced overcoat exposed the garment beneath, could be seen a gold watch-chain with tasty charm. Now, boys, said the shipping-mas- ter cheerily, as he unfolded the Articles on the capstan-head, answer and step over to starboard as I call your names. Ready! Tosser Galvin. Here! A man carried his hag across the deck. Bigpig Monahan. Another, as large a man as the make, answered and followed. Moccasey Gill. Good God! muttered the mate as this man responded. Sinful Peck. An undersized man with a cultivated blonde mustache lifted his hat politely to the first officer, disclosing a smooth, bald

206 Where Angels Fear to Tread. number one wifes apron-strings by at least one thread, in spite of the attrac- tiveness of some of the six piecee away up the river. He laughed, and ad- initted having come south to see her, saying, Must wantee come every two or three year, makee look see how fashion have got (how she is). After a long talk over old times, in what seemed to me more rapid pidgin English than I had ever heard even him use, Ah-Chy bade me good-by, reiterating the hope that we might be ordered back to our former home. So out of my life passed my friend; and as I end this little sketch of him I am very conscious that I am loath to fin- ish it. It seems like breaking one of the links which bind me to the old happy, in- teresting life of which he formed a part. Every remembrance of him is pleasant, courteous, and amusing, so that it is not surprising that I am sorry to take leave of my friend Ah-Chy. Christina Ritchie. WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD. I have seen wicked men and fools, a great many of each; and I believe they both get paid in the end, but the fools first. ROBBRT Louis STEYENSOi~. I. iT was a strange crew for the fore- castle of an outward-bound, deep-water American ship. Mr. Jackson, the mate, a gray-eyed giant, looked in vain for the heavy foreign faces, the greasy canvas jackets and blanket trousers, he was accustomed to see. Not that these men seemed to be landsmen; each car- ried in his face and bearing the indefi- nable something by which sailors of all races may distinguish one another from fishermen, tugmen, and deck bands. They were all young men, and their in- telligent faces blemished more or less by marks of overnight dissipationwere as sunburned as those of the two mates who were taking their individual mea- sures. Where a hand could be seen, it showed as brown and tarry as that of the ablest of able seamen. There were no chests among them, but the canvas clothes-bags were the genuine article, and they shouldered and handled them as only sailors can. Yet, aside from these externals, they gave no sign of be- ing anything but well-paid, well-fed, self- respecting citizens, who would read the papers, discuss politics, raise families, and drink more than was proper on pay nights, to repent at church in the morn- ing. The hands that were hidden were covered with well-fitting gloves, kid or dogskin. All had on white shirts and fashionable neckwear; their shoes were polished, their hats in style, and here and there, where an unbuttoned, silk-faced overcoat exposed the garment beneath, could be seen a gold watch-chain with tasty charm. Now, boys, said the shipping-mas- ter cheerily, as he unfolded the Articles on the capstan-head, answer and step over to starboard as I call your names. Ready! Tosser Galvin. Here! A man carried his hag across the deck. Bigpig Monahan. Another, as large a man as the make, answered and followed. Moccasey Gill. Good God! muttered the mate as this man responded. Sinful Peck. An undersized man with a cultivated blonde mustache lifted his hat politely to the first officer, disclosing a smooth, bald Where Angels Fear to Tread. 207 head, and passed over, smiling sweetly. Whatever his character, his name belied his appearance; for his face was cheru- bic in its innocence. Say, interrupted the mate angrily, what kind of a game is this, anyhow? Are these men sailors? Yes, yes, Mr. Jackson, answered the shipping-master hurriedly; you 11 find em all right. And, Sinful, he add- ed, as he frowned reprovingly at the last man named, dont you get gay till my receipt is signed and I in clear of you. Mr. Jackson wondered, but subsid- ed, and, each name bringing forth a re- sponse, the reader called off Seldom Hel- ward, Shiner OToole, Senator Sands, Jump Black, Yampaw Gallegher, Ghost OBrien, Sorry Welch, Yorker Jimson, General Lannigan, Turkey Twain, Gun- ner Meagher, and Poop-Deck Cahill. Then the astounded Mr. Jackson broke forth profanely. I ye been shipmates, he declared between oaths, with freak names of all nations, but this gang beats me. Say, you, he called, you with the crojack eye, there, what s that name you go by? Who are you ? He spoke to the large man who had an- swered to Bigpig Monahan, and who suffered from a slight distortion of one eye. But, instead of civilly repeating his name, the sailor said curtly and coolly, I m the man that struck Billy Patter- son. Fully realizing that the mate who hesitates is lost, and earnestly resolved to rebuke this man as his insolence re- quired, Mr. Jackson secured a belaying- pin, and had almost reached him when he found himself looking into the bore of a pistol held by the shipping-master. Now stop this, said the latter firm- ly, stop it right here, Mr. Jackson. After you ye signed my receipt for em you can do as you like; but if you touch one of em fore you ye signed, I 11 have you up fore the commissioner. And you fellers, he said over his shoul der, you keep still and be civil till I m clear o you. I ye used you well, got your berths and charged you nothin. All I wanted was to get Capn Benson the right kind of a crew. Let s see that receipt, snarled the mate. Put up that gun, too, or I 11 show you one of my own. I 11 tend to your good men when you get ashore. He glared at the quiescent Bigpig, and followed the shipping - master who, however, still held his pistol ready over to the rail, where the receipt was produced and signed. Away you go, now, you and your gun, said the mate. The shipping-master, with a good-by call to the crew, scrambled down the side to the waiting tug, which then ga- thered in its lines and steamed away. Wrathful of soul, Mr. Jackson turned to the men. They had changed their position; they were now close to the fife- rail at the mainmast, surrounding Bigpig Monahian, who, with an injured expres- sion, was shedding outer garments and voicing his opinion of Mr. Jackson. He had dropped a pair of starched cuffs over a belaying-pin and was rolling up his shirt-sleeves, and Mr. Jackson was just about to interrupt the discourse, when the second mate called his name. Turning, he beheld him beckoning vio- lently from the cabin companionway, and joined him. Got your gun, Mr. Jackson? asked the second officer anxiously, as he drew him within the door. I ye got mine. I cant make that crowd out ; but they re lookin for fight, that s plain. When you were at the rail they were sayin, Soak him, Bigpig. Paste him, Bigpig. Put a head on him. They might be a lot o prize-fighters. Mr. Becker, squat, broad, and hairy, was not afraid, his duties forbade it; he was simply human and confronted with a new problem. Dont care a rap what they ~ answered the mate. We 11 overhaul 208 Where Angels Fear to Tread. their dunnage for whiskey and sheath- knives and turn them to. Come on; I m heeled. They stepped out and advanced to the capstan amidships, each with a hand in his trousers pocket. Pile those bags against the capstan here and go forrard! ordered the mate in his most officer-like tone. Go to hl, they answered What for They re our bags, not yours Who in hl are you, anyhow What are you You talk like a pliceman. Before this irreverence could he re- plied to, Bigpig Monahan advanced. You re spoilin for somethin, old horse, he said. Put up your hands. He threw himself into an aggressive at- titude, one big fist within six inches of Mr. Jacksons nose. Go forrard! roared the officer, his gray eyes sparkling. We 11 settle this, then we 11 go f or- rard. There 11 be fair play, these men 11 see to that; you 11 only have me to handle. Put up. Mr. Jackson did not put up. He repeated his order, and was struck on the nose; not a hard blow, a preliminary tap which started blood. He immedi- ately drew his pistol and shot the man, who fell with a groan. An expression of shock and horror overspread the face of every man in the crew, and they surged hack, away from that murderous pistol. A momentary hesitancy fol~owed; then horror gave way to furious rage, and carnage began. Coats were flung off, belaying-pins and capstan-bars seized. Inarticulate, half- uttered imprecations drowned the storm of abuse with which the mates justified the shot; and two distinct bands of men swayed and zigzagged about the deck, the centre of each an officer fighting ac- cording to his lights, shooting as he could between blows of fists and clubs. Then the smoke of battle thinned, and two men with sore heads and bleeding faces retreated hurriedly to the cabin, followed by snarling maledictions and threats. It was hardly a victory for either side. The pistols were empty and the fight was taken out of the mates for a time, and on the deck lay three moaning men, while two others clung to the fife-rail, draining blood from limp, hanging arms. But eleven sound and angry men were left, and the mates had more ammuni- tion. They entered their rooms, mopped their faces with wet towels, reloaded their firearms, pocketed the remaining car- tridges, and returned to the deck, the mate carrying a small ensign. We 11 run it up to the main, Beck- er, he said thickly, for he suffered, ignoring in his excitement the eti- quette of the quarter deck. Ay, ay, said the other, equally unmindful of his breeding. Will we go for em again? The problem had defined itself to Mr. Becker: these men would fight, but not shoot. No, no, answered the mate, not unless they go for us and it s self-de- fense. They re not sailors; they dont know where they are.~~ So, while the uninjured men were as- sisting the wounded five into the fore- castle, the police flag was run up to the main truck, and the two mates retired to the poop-deck to wait and watch. But either because the ship lay too far over on the Jersey flats for the flag to be noticed, or because harbor police share the fallibility of their shore bre- thren in being elsewhere when wanted, no shiuy black steamer with blue-coated guard appeared to investigate the trou- ble, and it was well on toward noon be- fore a tug left the beaten track to the eastward and steamed over to the ship. The officers took her lines as she came alongside, and two men climbed the side ladder, one a Sandy Hook pilot, the other the captain of the ship. Captain Benson, in manner and ap- pearance, was as superior to the smooth- Where Angels Fear to Tread. 209 shaven arid manly-looking Mr. Jackson as the latter was to the misformed and hairy second mate. With his fashion- ably cut clothing, steady blue eye, and refined features, he would have been taken for au easy-going club man or edu- cated army officer rather than the mas- ter of a working craft. Yet there was no lack of seamanly decision in the leap he made from the rail to the deck, or in the tone of his voice as he demanded, What s the police flag up for, Mr. Jackson? Mutiny, sir. They started in to lick us, and we ye shot five. Lower that flag at once. Mr. Becker obeyed this order; and as the flag fluttered down, the captain re- ceived an account of the crews misdoing from the mate. He stepped into his cabin, and, returning with a double-bar- reled shot - gun, leaned it against the booby-hatch, and said quietly, Call all hands aft who can come. Mr. Jackson delivered the order in a roar, and the eleven men, who had been watching the newcomers from the fore- castle doors, straggled aft and clustered near the capstan, all of them hatless and coatless, shivering palpably in the keen December air. With no flinching of the eyes, they stared at the captain and the pilot. Now, men, said Captain Benson, what s the matter with you? A red - haired, Roman - nosed man stepped out of the group. Are you the captain here? There s matter enough, he answered defiantly. We ship for a run down to Rio Janeiro and back in a big schooner, and here we re put aboard a square - rigged craft that we dont know anything about, and the stew- ard says she s bound for Callao. And fore we re here ten minutes we re howled at and shot. Bigpig Monahan s got a hole iu his shoulder big enough to shove his fist in, thinks he s goin to die. He s bleedin they re all bleed- in like stuck pigs. Sorry Welch and VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 14 Turkey Twain ye got broken arms, and Jump Black and Ghost OBrien got it in the legs and cant stand up. What kind o work is this, anyhow? That s perfectly right. You were shot for assaulting your officers. Do you call yourself able seamen, knowing nothing of square-rigged craft? We re able seamen on the lakes. We can do our work in schooners. Captain Bensons lips puckered, and he whistled softly. The lakes! said he. What part of the lakes? All o them. We live in Oswego; we re all union men. The captain took a turn or two along the deck, then faced them and said: Men, I ye been fooled as well as you. I would not have an Oswego sailor aboard my ship if I could help it, much less a whole crew of them. I ye been on the lakes, and know the aggressive self-respect of your breed. Although I paid five dollars a man for you, I d put you ashore and ship a new crew but for the fact that five wounded men going out of a ship will involve explanation that will delay my sailing and incur ex- pense to my owners. However, I give you the choice, to go to sea and learn your work uncter the officers, or go to jail as mutineers; for to protect my mates I must prosecute you all. Spose we do neither? You will probably be shot, to the last resisting man, either by us or the harbor police. You are up against the law. They looked at one another with vary- ing expressions on their faces; then one asked, What about the bunks? There 5 no bedding. If you failed to bring your own, you will sleep on the bunk-boards. And that stiukin swill the China- man s cookin in the galley, is that for us ? You will get the provisions provided by law, no more; and you will eat in the forecastle. Also, if you have neg 210 Where Angels Fear to Tread. lected to bring pots, pans, and spoons, you will eat without them. This is not a lake vessel, where sailors eat in the cabin, with knives and forks. Decide this matter quickly. The captain began pacing the deck, and the listening pilot stepped forward and said kindly, Take my advice, boys, and go along. You re in for it, if you (lont. They thanked him with their eyes for the sympathy, and conferred together for a few moments; then their spokesman called out, We 11 leave it to the fel- lers forrard, capn, and forward they trooped. In five minutes they were back, with resolution in their faces. We 11 go, capn, their leader said. Bigpig cant be moved without its kill- in him, and says if he lives he 11 fol- low your mate to hell, but he 11 pay him back, and the others talk the same way; we 11 stand by em, we 11 square up this days work. Mr. Jackson, said the captain, overhaul their dunnage, turn them to, and man the windlass. And so, with a crippled crew of schooner sailors, the square-rigger Al- mena towed to sea, smouldering re- bellion in one end of hey, the power of the law in the other, murder in the heart of every man on board. II. Five months later, the Almena lay at an outer mooring - buoy in Callao Roads, again ready for sea, but waiting. Beyond the faint land and sea breeze there had been no wind for several days, and Captain Benson had taken advan- tage of the delay to give a dinner to some captains with whom he had frater- nized on shore. I ye a first-rate stew- ard, he had told them, and I ye the best trained crew that ever went to sea. Come, all of you, and bring your first officers. I want to give you an object lesson on the influence of matter over mind that you cant learn in the books. So they came, at half past eleven, in their own ships dingeys, which were sent back with orders to return at night- fall, six big-fisted, more or less fat captains, and six hig-fisted, beetle-browed, and embarrassed first mates. As they climbed the gangway they were met by Captain Benson and led to the poop, the only dry and clean part of the ship; for the Almenas crew were holystoning the main deck. This operation consists of grinding off the oiled surface of the planks with sandstone, and the resulting slime of sand, oily wood pulp, and salt water made walking unpleasant, as well as being very hard on polished shoe leather. But in this filthy mess the men were on their knees, working the six- inch blocks of stone technically called bibles back and forth with about the speed and motion of an energetic woman over a wash-board. The mates also were working. With legs clad in long rub- ber boots, they filled buckets at the deck- pump and splashed water around where needed, occasionally throwing the whole bucketful at a doubtful spot on the deck to expose it to criticism. As the visitors lined up against the monkey-rail and looked down on the scene, Mr. Becker threw a bucketful, as only a second mate can, and a man who happened to be in the way was rolled over by the unexpected impact. Get out o the way, there! he bawled, eying the man sternly. What are you gruntin at? Water wont hurt you, soap neither. He went to the pump for more water, and the man, gasping and choking slightly, crawled back to his holystone. It was Bigpig Monahan, hollow - eyed and thin, slow in his vol- untary movements; without his look of injury, too, as though he might have welcomed the momentary respite for his aching muscles. Now and then, when the officers backs were partly turned, a man would stop, Where Angels Fear to Tread. 211 rise erect on his knees and bend back- ward. A man may work a holystone much longer and press it much harder on the deck for these casual stretch- ings of contracted tissue; but the two mates chose to ignore this physiological fact, and a moment later a little man, caught in the act by Mr. Jackson, was also rolled over not by a bucket of water; by the boot of the mate, who uttered words suitable to the occasion and held his hand in his trousers pocket, while the little man, grinning with rage, resumed his work. There, said Captain Benson to his guests, see that little devil? See him show his teeth? That is Sinful Peck. I ye had him in irons with a broken head five times, and the log is full of him. I towed him over the stern run- ning down the trades to take the cussed- ness out of him, and if he had nt been born for higher things hed have been drowned. So this is your trained crew, is it, captain? said a grizzled old skipper of the party. What ails that fellow down in the scuppers? Ran foul of the big end of a hand- spike, answered Captain Benson. He 11 carry his arm in splints all the way home, I think. His name is Gunner Meagher. Their names are unique, but they signed them and will answer to them. Look at that outlaw down there by the bitts: that is Poop-Deck Cahill. Looks like a prize-fighter, does nt he? But the steward tells me he was educated for the priesthood, and fell by the way- side. That one close to the hatch, with the red hair and hang-dog jib, is Seldom Helward. He was shot off the crojack yard. He fell into the lee clew of the crojack, so we pulled him in. What did lie do, captain? asked the grizzled skipper. Threw a marlinespike at the mate. Ought to ha killed him on the yard. Are they all of a kind? Every man, schooner sailors from the lakes. Not one knew the ropes or his place when we sailed. I ye set more bones, mended more heads, and plugged more shot-holes this voyage than ever before, and my officers have grown per- ceptibly thinner. But little by little, man by man, we ye broken them in. They re keeping a log, I learn; every time a man gets thumped they enter the tragedy and all sign their names. They re going to law. Captain Ben- son smiled dignifiedly at the outburst of laughter evoked by this, and the men be- low lifted their haggard, hopeless faces an instant and looked at the party with eyes that were furtive, catlike. They could not hear, but knew that they were being laughed at. They got a little law here, resumed the captain. The consul put them all in the calaboose for fear they d desert, and they complained that they were half starved when I took them out. To tell the truth, they did nt throw any grub overboard for a while. Nevertheless, a good four weeks board-bill comes out of their wages. I dont think they 11 have much due them at New York. The na- tives cleaned out the forecastle when they were in jail, and they 11 have to draw heavily oa my slop-chest. Captain, said another skipper of the party, I d pay that crew off. You ought to have let them run, or worked them out and saved their pay. Look at them, look at the devils in their eyes. I notice your mates seldom turn their backs to them. Take my advice; get rid of them. What? answered Captain Benson, with a smile. Just when we have them under control and useful? Oh no. I d only have to ship a crowd of beach-comb- ers and half-breeds at double pay. I ye taken those sixteen hellyons round the Horn, and I 11 take them back. I m proud of theni. Just look at them, he added vivaciously; docile and obedient, down on their knees with bibles in their hands. 212 Where Angels Fear to Tread. And the name of the Lord on their lips, grunted the adviser; but not in prayer, I 11 bet you. Hardly, laughed Captain Benson. Come below, gentlemen; dinner must be ready. Dinner was not ready, but they seated themselves at the cabin table, and while waiting passed around a decanter of ap- petizing yellow fluid, and drank to a speedy and pleasant passage home for the Almena and further confusion to her misguided crew. Then they discussed the depravity of sailors, until the stew- ard, assisted by the Chinese cook, ap- peared with the dinner. For lack of facilities the mild-faced and smiling stew- ard could not serve the dinner in the style which it deserved. He would have liked, he explained, to bring it on in separate courses. But one and all dis- claimed such frivolity. There was the dinner, and that was enough. And it was a splendid dinner; but, either be- cause thirteen men had sat down to the table, or because the fates were unusual- ly freakish, it was destined that not one man there should partake of it. On deck things had been happening; and just as the steward had placed the last smoking dish on the table, a wet, be- draggled, dirty little man, his clothing splashed with the slime of the deck, his eyes flaming green, his face expanded to a smile of ferocity, appeared in the forward doorway holding a cocked re- volver which covered them all. Behind him in the passage were other men, equally unkempt, their eyes wide open with excitement and anticipation. Dont you move, yelped the little fellow, not a man! Keep yer hands out o yer pockets put em over yer heads that s it you too, capn. They obeyed him (there was death in the green eyes and smile), all but one. Captain Benson sprang to his feet with a hand in his breast pocket. You scoundrels! he cried as he drew forth a pistol. Leave this The speech was stopped by a report, deaf- ening in the closed-up space, and Cap- tain Benson fell heavily, his pistol rat- tling on the floor. Shoot me off a yard, will ye? growled another voice through the smoke. In the after door were more men, the red-haired Seldom Helward in the van, holding a smoking pistol. Get the gun, one o you! he called. A man stepped past and picked up the captains pistol, which he cocked. One by one, said Seldom, his voice rising to the pitch and timbre of a trum- pet-blast, you men walk out of the f or- rard companion with your hands over your heads. Plug them, Sinful, if two move together, and shoot to kill. Taken by surprise, the guests, resolute men though they were, obeyed the com- mand. As each rose to his feet, he was first relieved of a bright revolver, which served to increase the moral front of the enemy, then led out to the booby-hatch, on which lay a newly broached coil of hambro-line and a pile of thole-pins from the locker within. Here he was searched again, for jack-knife or brass knuckles, bound with the hambro-line, gagged with a thole-pin, and marched forward past the prostrate first officer, quiet and pale in the slime, and the agonized second officer, gagged and bound to the fife-rail to the port forecastle, where he was locked in with the Chinese cook, who, similarly treated, had preceded. The mild-faced steward, weeping now, was sternly questioned, and allowed his free- dom on promising not to sing out or make trouble. Captain Benson was ex- amined, his injury was diagnosed as brain concussion from the glancing bullet, more or less serious, and he was dragged out to the scuppers and bound beside his unconscious first officer. Then, leaving them to live or die as their subconscious- ness determined, the sixteen mutineers sacrilegiously re~ntered the cabin and de- voured the dinner. When you have cursed, kicked, and Where Angels Fear to Tread. 213 beaten a slave for five months, it is al- ways advisable to watch him for a few seconds after administering correction, to give him time to realize his condition; and when you have carried a revolver in your right-hand trousers pocket for five months, it is advisable occasionally to inspect the cloth of the pocket, to make sure that it is not wearing thin from the chafe of the muzzle. Mr. Jackson had ignored the first rule of conduct; Mr. Becker, the second. Mr. Jackson had kicked. Sinful Peck once too often; but not knowing that it was once too often, had immediately turned his back, and received thereat the sharp corner of a bible on his bump of inhabitiveness, which bump must have responded in its function; for Mr. Jackson showed no immediate desire to move from the place where he fell. Mr. Becker, on his way to the lazaret in the stern for a bucket of sand to assist in the holystoning, had reached the head of the poop steps when this occurred, and, turning at the sound of his superiors fall, bounded to the main deck without touching the steps, reaching for his pistol as he landed, only to pinion his fingers in a large hole in the pocket. Wildly he struggled to re- claim his weapon, down his trousers leg, but he could not reach it; his anxious face betrayed his predicament to the wakening men, and when he looked into Mr. Jacksons pistol, held bySinful Peck, he submitted to being bound to the fife- rail and gagged with the end of the top- gallant sheet, a large rope which filled his mouth and hurt. Then the firearm was recovered, and the descent upon the dinner-party planned and carried out. Without the vocal expression of emo- tion, the conduct of these men, after that good dinner, was somewhat similar to that of a kennel of hunting-dogs loosed after confinement on a fine day. They waltzed, boxed, wrestled, flung each oth- er about the deck, threw handsprings and cartwheels, those not too weak, buffeted, kicked, and clubbed the suffer- ing second mate, reviled and cursed the unconscious captain and chief mate, and when tired of this, as children and dogs of play, they turned to their captives for amusement. The second mate was taken from the fife-rail, with hands still bound, and led to the forecastle; the gags of all and the bonds of the cook were re- moved, and the forecastle dinner was brought from the galley. This the pri- soners were invited to eat. There was a piece of salt beef, boiled a little longer than usual on account of the delay. It was black, brown, green, and iridescent in spots; it was slippery with ptomaines, filthy to the sight, stinking and nauseat- ing. There were potatoes, a year old, shriveled before boiling, hard and soggy, black, blue, and bitter after the process. And there was the usual weevily hard- tack in the bread-barge. Protest was useless. The unhappy captives surrounded that dinner, and, with hands behind their backs and dis- gust in their faces, masticated and swal- lowed the morsels which the Chinese cook put to their mouths, while their feelings were further outraged by the hilarity of the men at their backs, and their appetites occasionally jogged into activity by the impact on their heads of a tarry fist or pistol-butt. At last a port- ly captain began vomiting, and this be- ing contagious the meal ended; for even the stomachs of the sailors were affected. There were cool heads among that crowd of mutineers, men who thought of consequences: Poop - Deck Cahill, square-faced and resolute, but thoughtful of eye and refined of speech; Seldom Helward, who had shot the captain, a man whose fiery hair, arching eye- brows, Roman nose, and explosive lan- guage indicated the daredevil, but whose intelligent though humorous eye gave certain signs of repressive study and thought; and Bigpig Monahan, already described. These three men went into executive session under the break of the poop, to the conclusion that the con- 214 Where Angels Fear to Tiead. sul who had jailed them for nothing would probably hang them for this; and, calling the rest to the conference as a committee of the whole, they out- lined and put to vote a proposition to make sail and go to sea, leaving the fate of their captives for later consideration, which was adopted unanimously and with much profanity, the central thought of the latter being an intention to make em finish the holystoning for the fun they had laughing at us. Then Bigpig Monahan sneaked below and in- duced the steward to toss through the storeroom deadlight every bottle of wine and liquor which the ship carried. Six second mates on six American ships watched doubtingly as sails were dropped and yards mastheaded on board the Almena, and at last sent six din- geys, which could only muster around the mooring-buoy, where a wastefully slipped shot of anchor-chain told that all was not right. But by the time the matter was reported ashore, the Al- mena, having caught the newly arrived southerly wind of the coast, was hull down at sea. Four days later, one of her boats, con- taining twelve sore-headed nien, with faces disfigured and clothing ruined particularly about the knees of the trou- sers by oily wood pulp, came wearily into the roadstead from the open sea, past the shipping and up to the landing at the custom-house docks. From here the twelve went to the American Con- sulate and entered bitter complaint of inhuman treatment at the hands of six- teen mutinous sailors on board the Al- mena, treatment so cruel that they had welcomed being turned adrift in an open boat; whereat the consul, deplor- ing the absence of man-of-war or steamer to send in pursuit, took their individual affidavits; and these he sent to San Francisco, from which point the account of the crime described as piracy spread to every newspaper in Christen- dom. III. A northeast gale off Hatteras: im- mense gray combers, five to the mile, charging shoreward, occasionally break- ing, again lifting their heads too high in the effort, truncated as by a knife, and the liquid apex shattered to spray; an expanse of leaden sky showing be- tween the rain-squalls, across which dull background rushed the darker scud and storm-clouds; a passenger steamer rolling helplessly in the trough, and a square-rigged vessel, hove to on the port tack, two miles to windward of the steamer and drifting south toward the storm-centre. This is the picture that the sea-birds saw at daybreak on a Sep- tember morning; and could the sea- birds have spoken, they might have told that the square-rigged craft carried a navigator who had learned that a whirl- ing fury of storm-centre was less to be feared than the deadly Diamond Shoals the outlying guard of Cape Hatteras toward which that steamer was drift- ing, broadside on. Square-faced and thoughtful of eye, clad in yellow oilskins and souwester, he stood by the after companionway, in- tently examining through a pair of glasses the wallowing steamer to lee- ward, barely distinguishable in the half- light and driving spindrift. At the wheel stood a little man, who sheltered a cheerful face under the lee of a big coat collar and occasionally peeped out at the navigator. What d ye make of him, Poop- Deck? he asked. He s in trouble, Sinful; there goes his ensign American union down. From a flag-locker within the com- panionway Poop-Deck drew out the stars and stripes, which he ran up to the mon- key-gaff. Then he looked again. Down goes his ensign up goes the code pennant. He wants to signal. Come up here, boys! he shouted. Where Angels Fear to Tread. 215 As six men who had been pacing the main deck climbed the poop ladder, he bent on the corresponding code signal to the other part of the halyards and ran it up, while the ensign fluttered down. Go down, one of you, he said, and get the signal - book and shipping - list. He 11 show his number next. Get ours ready, H. L. F. T. One of the sailors sprang below for the books named, the others hooked together the flags forming the ships number, and Poop-Deck resumed the glasses. Q. T. F. N.! he exclaimed. Look it up. The books had arrived, and while one man lowered and hoisted again the code signal which was also the answering pennant the others pored over the shipping-list. Steamer Aldebaran, of New York, they said. The pennant came down, and the ships number went up to the gaff. H. V.! called Poop-Deck, as he scanned two flags now flying from the steamers truck. What does that 2 say. Damaged rudder cannot steer, they answered. Pull down the number and show the answering pennant. Let s see that sig- nal-book. Poop-Deck turned the leaves, studied a page for a moment, then said, Run up H. V. R. That says, What do you want? and it s the nearest thing to it. These flags took the place of the pen- nant, and Poop-Deck again watched; noting first the steamers answering sig- nal, then the letters K. R. N. What does K. R. N. say? he asked. They turned the leaves, and answered, I can tow you. Tow us! exclaimed three or four together. We re all right. We dont want a tow. How can he tow us when he cant steer? He wants to tow us so that he can steer, you blasted fools, said Poop- Deck. He can go where he likes with a big drag on his stern. ~~rrhat s so. Where s he bound? Did nt say; but he 11 fetch up on the shoals soon, if we dont help. Towline s down the fore-peak, said one. Could nt get it up in an hour, remarked another. Yes, we can, re- joined a third. Then, all speaking at once, and each raising his voice to its limit, they argued excitedly: Cant be done Coil it on the forecastle Yes, we can Too much sea Run down to windward Line ud part, anyhow Float a barrel Shut up I tell you we can Call the watch Seldom, yer daft Need nt get a boat over Hell ye can Call the boys All hands with heavin-lines Cant back a topsail in this Go lay down Soak yer head, Seldom Hush Dry up Nothin you cant do Go to hell I tell you, by God, we can Do as I say, and we 11 get a line to him or get his. The affirmative speaker, who had also uttered the last declaration, was Seldom Helward. Put me in command! he yelled excitedly. Do what I tell you and we 11 make fast to him! No captains here, growled one, while the rest eyed Seldom reprovingly. Well, there ought to be. You re all rattled, and dont know any more than to let thousands o dollars in sal- vage slip by you. Salvage? Yes, salvage. Big boat full o pas- sengers and valuable cargo shoals to looward of him cant steer. You poor fools, what ails you? Foller Seldom! vociferated the lit- tle man at the wheel. Foller Seldom and ye 11 wear stripes! Shut up, Sinful. Strike the bell. Call the watch, it s near seven bells. The uproarious howl with which sail- ors call the watch below was delivered down the cabin stairs, and soon eight other men came up, grumbling at the premature wakening, while two more 216 Where Angels Fear to Tread. came out of the forecastle and joined one who, during the signaling, had re- mained forward. Seldom Helwards proposition was discussed noisily in joint session on the poop, and finally accepted. We put you in charge, Seldom, said Bigpig Monahan sternly, against the rule, cause we think you ye got some good scheme in your head. But if you have nt, if you make a mess of things just to have a little fun boss- in us, you 11 hear from us. Go ahead, now, you re capn. Seldom climbed to the top of the af- ter house, looked to windward, then to leeward at the rolling steamer, and called out, I want more beef at the wheel. Bigpig, take it; and you, Tur- key, stand by with him. Get away from there, Sinful. Give her the upper main- topsail; the rest of you, and Poop-Deck, you stand by the signal halyards. Ask him if he s got a towline ready. Protesting angrily at the slight put upon him, Sinful Peck relinquished the wheel and accompanied the others to the main deck. Two men went aloft to loose the topsail, while Poop-Deck exam- ined the signal-book. K. S. G. says, Have a towline ready. That ought to do, he said. Run it up, ordered the newly in- stalled captain, and watch his answer. Up ~vent the signal, and as the men on the main deck were manning the top- sail halyards Poop-Deck made out the answer, V. K. C. That means, All right, Seldom, he said, after examining the book. Good enough; hut we 11 get our line ready, too. Get down and help em masthead the yard; then take em for- rard and coil the towline abaft the windlass. Get out all the heavin-lines, too: Poop-Deck obeyed, and while the main-topsail yard slowly arose to place Seldom himself ran up the answering pennant, and then a repetition of the steamers last message, All right. This was the final signal displayed. It was lowered, and for a half-hour Seldom waited until the others had lifted a nine- inch hawser from the fore-peak and coiled it down. Then came his next orders in a continuous roar Three hands aft to the spanker sheet stand by to slack off and haul in. Man braces for wearing ship, the rest o you. Hard up the wheel. Check in starboard main and crojack braces. Shiver the topsail. Slack off that spanker. His orders were obeyed. The ship paid off, staggered a little in the trough under the right - angle pressure of the gale, swung still farther, and steadied down to a long, rolling motion, dead be- fore the wind, heading for the stern of the steamer. Yards were squared in, the spanker hauled aft, staysail trimmed to port, and all hands waited while the ship charged down the two miles of distance. Handles like a yacht, mut- tered Seldom, as, with brow wrinkled and keen eye flashing above his hooked nose, he conned the steering from his place near the mizzenmast. Three men separated themselves from the rest and came aft. One was tall, broad - shouldered, and smooth - shaven, with a palpable limp; another, short, broad, and hairy, showed a lamentable absence of front teeth; and the third, a blue-eyed man, slight and graceful of movement, carried his arm in splints and sling. I wish to protest, said this man as they climbed the poop steps. I am captain here under the law. I protest against this insanity. No boat can live in such a sea. No help can be given that steamer. I bear witness to the protest, said the tall man. The short, hairy man might also have spoken, but had no time. Get off the poop! yelled Seldom. Go forrard where you belong! He stood close to the bucket-rack around the Where Angels Fear to Tread. 217 skylight. Seizing bucket after bucket, he launched them at his visitors, with the result that the big man was tumbled down the poop steps head first, while the other two followed, right side up, but hurriedly, and bearing some sore spots. Then the rest of the men set upon them, much as a pack of dogs might worry strange cats, and kicked and buffeted them forward. There was not much time for amuse- ment of this sort. Yards were braced - to port, for the ship was careering down toward the steamer at a ten-knot rate. Soon black dots on her rail resolved into passengers waving hats and handker- chiefs, and black dots on the boat-deck into sailors standing by the end of a haw- ser which led up from the bitts below on the fantail. The ship came down until it might have seemed that Seldoms in- tention was to ram the steamer. But not so; when a scant two lengths sepa- rated the two craft, he called out, Hard down! Light up the staysail sheet and stand by the fore braces! Around came the ship on the crest of a sea, sank into the hollow behind, shipped a few dozen tons of water from the next comber, and lay fairly steady with her bows meeting the seas and the huge steamer not a half-length away on the lee quarter. The fore topmast stay- sail was flattened, and Seldom closely scrutinized the drift and heave of the ship. How s your wheel, Bigpig? he asked. Hard down. Put it up a little; keep her ia the trough. He noted the effect on the ship of this change; then, as though satisfied, roared out, Let your fore braces hang forrard there! Stand by heavin-lincs fore and aft! Stand by to go ahead on that steam- er when we have your line! The last injunction, delivered through his hands, went down the wind like a thunder-clap, and the officers on the steamers bridge, vainly trying to make themselves heard against the gale, started perceptibly at tIme impact of sound, and one of them went to the engine-room speaking-tube. Breast to breast the two vessels lifted and fell. At certain moments, it seemed that the ship was to be dropped bodily on the deck of the steamer; at others, her crew looked up a hundred-foot slope to where the other craft was poised at the crest. Then the steamer would drop, and the next sea would heave the ship toward her. But it was noticeable that every bound brought the ship nearer, and also farther ahead; for the sails were doing their work. Kick ahead on board the steamer! thundered Seldom from his eminence. Go ahead! Start the wagon or say your prayers, you blasted idiots! The engines were already turning. But it takes time to overcome three thou- sand tons of inertia, and before the steamer had forged ahead six feet the ship had lifted high above her and de- scended her black side with a grinding crash of wood against iron. Fore and main channels on the ship were carried away, leaving all lee rigging slack and useless; lower braces caught in the steam- ers davit cleats and snapped; but the sails, held by the weather braces, re- mained full, and the yards did not swing. The two craft separated with a roll, and came together again with more scraping and snapping of rigging. Passengers left the rail, dived indoors, and took refuge on the opposite side, where fall- ing blocks and spars might not reach them. Another leap toward the steamer resulted in the ships main topgallant- mast falling in a zigzag whirl, as the snapping gear aloft impeded it, and, dropping athwart the steamers funnel, neatly sent the royal yard with sail at- tached down the iron cylinder, where it soon blazed and assisted the artificial draft in the stoke - hold. Next came the fore topgallantmast, which smashed a couple of boats; then, as the round 218 Where Angels Fear to Tread. black stern of the steamer scraped the lee bow of the ship, jib-guys parted and the jib-boom itself went, snapping at the bowsprit-cap, with the last bite the ship made at the steamer she was helping. But all through this riot of destruction while passengers screamed and prayed, while officers shouted and swore on the steamer, and Seldom Helward, bellow- ing insanely, danced up and down on the ships house, and the hail of wood and iron from aloft threatened their heads men were passing the towline. It was a seven-inch steel hawser with a manila tail, which they had taken to the fore topsail sheet bitts before the jib-boom had gone. Panting from their exertions, they watched it lift from the water as the steamer ahead paid out with a taut strain; then, though the crippled spars were in danger of falling and really needed their first attention, they ignored the fact and hurried aft as one man to attend to Seldom. Encouraged by the objurgations of Bigpig and his assistant, who were steer- ing now after the steamer, they called their late commander down from the house and deposed him in a concert of profane ridicule and abuse, to which he replied in kind. He was str~ick in the face by the small fist of Sinful Peck, and immediately knocked the little man down. Then he was knocked down him- self by a larger fist, and, fighting bravely and viciously, became the object of fist- blows and kicks, until, in one of his whirl- ing staggers along the deck, he passed close to a short, broad, hairy man, who, yielding to the excitement of the moment, added a blow to Seldoms punishment. It was an unfortunate mistake; for he took Seldoms place, and the rain of fists and boots descended on him until he fell unconscious. Mr. Helward himself de- livered the last quieting blow, and then stood over him with a lurid grin on his bleeding face. Got to put down mutiny though the heavens fall, he said painfully. Right you are, Seldom, answered one. Here, Jackson, Benson, drag him forrard; and, Seldom, he added re- provingly, dont you ever try it again. Want to be captain, hey? You cant; you dont know enough. You could nt command my wheelbarrow. Here s three days work to clear up the muss you ye made. But in this he spoke more, and less, than the truth. The steamer, going slow- ly and steering with a bridle from the towline to each quarter, kept the ships canvas full until her crew had steadied the yards and furled it. Then, an un- canny appearance of the sea to leeward and a blackening of the sky to windward indicated a too close proximity to the shoals, and probable increase of wind and sea. The steamer waited no longer. With a preliminary blast of her whistle, she hung the weight of the ship on the starboard bridle, gave power to her en- gines, and rounded to, very slowly, head to sea, while the men on the ship, who had been carrying the end of their haw- ser up the fore topmast rigging, dropped it and came down hurriedly. Released from the wind pressure on her strong side, which had somewhat steadied her, the ship now rolled more than she had done in the trough; and with every starboard roll were ominous creakings and grindings aloft. At last came a heavier lurch, and both crippled topmasts fell, taking with them the miz- zen topgallantmast. Luckily, no one was hurt, and the men disgustedly cut the wreck adrift, stayed the fore and main masts with the hawser, and, resigning themselves to a large subtraction from their salvage, went to a late breakfast, a savory meal of fried ham and pota- toes, hot cakes and coffee, served to six- teen in the cabin, and an unsavory mess of hard-tack hash, with an infusion of burnt bread-crust, peas, beans, and lea- ther, handed, but not served, to three in the forecastle. Three days later, with Sandy Hook Where Angels Fear to Tread. 219 lighthouse showing through the haze ahead, and nothing left of the gale but a rolling ground-swell, the steamer slowed down, so that a pilot boats dingey could put a man aboard each craft; and the one who climbed the ships side was the pilot who had taken her to sea, outward bound, and sympathized with her crew. They surrounded him on the poop and asked for news, while the three men for- ward looked aft hungrily, as though they would have joined the meeting, but dared not. Instead of giving news the pilot asked questions, which the men answered. I knew you d taken charge, boys, he said at last; the whole world knows it, and every man-of-war on the Pacific stations is looking for you. But they re looking out there. What brings you round here, dismasted, towing into New York? That s where the ship s bound, New York. We took her out; we bring her home. We dont want her; dont be- long to us. We re law-abidin men. Law - abiding men? asked the amazed pilot. You bet. We re goin to prosecute those dogs of ours forrard to the last limit of the law. We 11 show em they cant starve and hammer and shoot American citizens just cause they ye got guns in their pockets. The pilot looked forward, answered a nod, and asked, Who s captain? Nobody! they roared. Had enough o captains This ship s an un- limited democracy Everybody s just as good as the next man All but the dogs; they sleep on the bunk-boards, do as they re told, and eat salt mule and dunderfunk, same as we did goin out. Did they navigate for you? Did no one have charge of things? Poop-Deck, here, picked up naviga- tion, and we let him off steerin and standin lookout. Then Seldom wanted to be captain just once, and we let him well, look at our spars. The pilot looked. Then the men ex plained the meeting with the steamer and Seldoms misdoing, and requested infor- mation about the salvage laws. Boys, said the pilot, I m sorry for you. I saw the start of this voyage, and you appear to be decent men. You 11 get no salvage; you 11 get no wages. You are mutineers and pirates, with no standing in court. Any salvage which the Almena has earned will go to her owners, and to the three men whom you deprived of command. What you can get the maximum, though I cant say how hard the judge will lay it on is ten years in states prison and a fine of two thousand dollars each. We 11 have to stop at quarantine. Take my advice: if you get a chance, lower a boat and skip. They laughed at the advice. They had only repressed inhuman brutality. An hour later the pilot pointed to the Almenas number flying from the steam- ers truck. He s telling on you, boys, he said. He knew you when you helped him, and used you, of course. Your re- putation is international and bad. See that signal-station ashore there? You 11 find a police boat at quarantine. He was but partly right. Not only a police boat, but an outward-bound man- of-war and an incoming revenue cutter escorted the ship to quarantine, where the towline was cast off and an anchor dropped. Then, in the persons of a scandalized health officer, a naval cap- tain, a revenue marine lieutenant, and a purple-faced sergeant of the steamboat squad, the power of the law was reha- bilitated on the Almenas quarter deck, and the strong hand of the law closed down on her unruly crew. With blank faces, they discarded, to shirts, trousers, and boots, the slop-chest clothing which belonged to the triumphant Captain Ben- son, and descended the side to the police boat, which immediately steamed away. Then a chuckling trio entered the ships cabin and ordered the steward to bring them something to eat. 220 Where Angels Fear to Tread. Now, there is no record, either in the reports for that year of the police de- partment, or from any official babbling, or from later yarns spun by the sixteen prisoners, of what really occurred on the deck of that steamer while she was go- ing up the bay. Newspapers of the time gave generous space to speculations writ- ten up on the facts discovered by re- porters; but nothing was ever proven. The facts were few. A tug met the steamer in the Narrows about a quarter to twelve that morning, and her captain, on being questioned, declared that all seemed well with her. The prisoners were grouped forward, guarded by eight officers and a sergeant. A little after twelve, a Battery boatman observed her coming, and hied him around to the po- lice dock to have a look at the murder- ous pirates he had heard about, only to see her heading up the North River, past the Battery. A watchman on the eleva- tor docks at Sixty-Third Street observed her charging up the river a little later in the afternoon, wondered why, and spoke of it. The captain of the Mary Powel, bound up, reported catching her abreast of Yonkers. He had whistled as he passed, and, though no one was in sight, the salute was politely answered. At some time during the night, residents of Sing Sing were wakened by a sound of steam blowing off somewhere on the river; and in the morning, a couple of fishermen, going out to their pond-nets in the early dawn, found the police boat grounded on the shoals. On boarding her they had released a pinioned, gagged, and hungry captain in the pilot - house, and an engineer, a fireman, and two deck hands, similarly limited, in the lamp- room. They pried open the nailed doors of the dining-room staircase, and liber- ated a purple-faced sergeant and eight furious policemen, who chased their de- liverers into their skiff, and spoke sternly to the working force. Among the theories advanced was one by the editor of a paper in a small Lake Ontario town, to the effect that it made little difference to a lake sailor whether he shipped as captain, mate, engineer, sailor, or fireman, and that the officers of the New York Harbor Patrol had only underestimated the calibre of the men in their charge, leaving them un- guarded while they went to dinner. But his paper and town were small and far away, he could not possibly know any- thing of the subject, and his opinion ob- tained little credence. Years later, he attended as guest a meeting and dinner of the Shipmasters and Pilots Association of Cleveland, Ohio, when a resolution was adopted to petition the city for a harbor police ser- vice. Captain Monahan, Captain Hel- ward, Captain Peck, and Captain Cahill, having spoken and voted in the negative, left their seats on the adoption of the proposition, reached a clear spot on the floor, shook hands silently, and then, forming a ring, danced around in a cir- cle, the tails of their coats standing out in horizontal rigidity, until reproved by the chair. And the editor knew why. .Miorgan Robertson. DriJ~wood. 221 DRIFTWOOD. THE storm was over. Dawn came with a clear sky and no wind. Though a white-streaked, leaping sea still dashed and thundered upon the encircling reef, the water inside was flat and noiseless save for a gentle plashing at its edge. When, with tropic haste, the sun rose and proclaimed the day, the ocean seemed to have forgotten its anger. Beyond the boiling reef it had become a merry dan- cing sea of sapphires and diamonds, deep blue and sparkling white; inside the bar- rier it lay a placid zone of cobalt, which gradually turned to green as it neared the shore and the yellow sand showed through it. But on the island the palms were bent and tattered; the foliage of the undergrowth was shriveled and black- 9 ened as by a frost; and all along the strand there ran a dark, irregular line of sea-wreck. A few yards above high-water mark, face downward at the foot of a giant palm, lay a man. One arm rested un- der his forehead; the other was stretched out before him. Upon the latter a full- rigged ship had been tattooed. His head and feet were bare, and his torn clothes were still wet. The sun climbed, the heat increased, the frightened birds in the thickets took courage and began to call again, but the man did not move; for he was spent by his struggle with the sea. Later, a gaudy lowrie shrieking over- head roused him, and he sat up, staring about him with wild, frightened eyes. Then, slowly, painfully, he rose, and limp- ing down to the water, he stood, sway- ing unsteadily, with one hand shading his weak eyes, and looked anxiously sea- ward. Now that the tide was out, he could see the swart, jagged crest of the reef upon which the ship had struck. A flock of sea-birds circled and screamed above it in one place, but except the birds, the rocks, and the sea there was nothing. The man sat down heavily, and cov- ered his face with his hands. Again he lifted his head, and gazed sightlessly at the far - away horizon. After a little while a wandering crab caught his at- tention. He watched it stupidly for a moment; then suddenly pounced upon it, pulled off its claws, and carried it above the tide-mark. Now that the instinct of self-preservation was stirred in him, he began to search for food. Instead of striking into the forest, as a landsman would have done, he clung tenaciously to the one thing he knew and called his friend, the sea. The tangled under- brush, the shadowy glades, the mysteri- ous noises of the forest, all caused him apprehension; but on the shore, with the sound of the ocean in his ears and the invigorating smell of seaweed in his nos- trils, he felt more confidence. Some rock-oysters, chipped laborious- ly from the stones uncovered by the tide, appeased his hunger. Water he found in the hollows of the higher rocks. Though the salt spray had mingled with the rain and made it brackish, it con- tented him. Strengthened and encouraged by his meal, he washed the sand from his black hair and beard, cleansed his torn hands and feet, and, manlike, began to plan. He would see what material he had at hand, what wreckage had been washed up, and would search for his shipmates who had taken to the boats. It could not be possible that he alone out of all the ships company had reached the island, he who had been the last to leave the ship. No, surely he was not alone! Cheered by this new thought, he started hopefully along the beach, turning to the right, with a sailors way of doing things with the sun.

DriJ~wood. 221 DRIFTWOOD. THE storm was over. Dawn came with a clear sky and no wind. Though a white-streaked, leaping sea still dashed and thundered upon the encircling reef, the water inside was flat and noiseless save for a gentle plashing at its edge. When, with tropic haste, the sun rose and proclaimed the day, the ocean seemed to have forgotten its anger. Beyond the boiling reef it had become a merry dan- cing sea of sapphires and diamonds, deep blue and sparkling white; inside the bar- rier it lay a placid zone of cobalt, which gradually turned to green as it neared the shore and the yellow sand showed through it. But on the island the palms were bent and tattered; the foliage of the undergrowth was shriveled and black- 9 ened as by a frost; and all along the strand there ran a dark, irregular line of sea-wreck. A few yards above high-water mark, face downward at the foot of a giant palm, lay a man. One arm rested un- der his forehead; the other was stretched out before him. Upon the latter a full- rigged ship had been tattooed. His head and feet were bare, and his torn clothes were still wet. The sun climbed, the heat increased, the frightened birds in the thickets took courage and began to call again, but the man did not move; for he was spent by his struggle with the sea. Later, a gaudy lowrie shrieking over- head roused him, and he sat up, staring about him with wild, frightened eyes. Then, slowly, painfully, he rose, and limp- ing down to the water, he stood, sway- ing unsteadily, with one hand shading his weak eyes, and looked anxiously sea- ward. Now that the tide was out, he could see the swart, jagged crest of the reef upon which the ship had struck. A flock of sea-birds circled and screamed above it in one place, but except the birds, the rocks, and the sea there was nothing. The man sat down heavily, and cov- ered his face with his hands. Again he lifted his head, and gazed sightlessly at the far - away horizon. After a little while a wandering crab caught his at- tention. He watched it stupidly for a moment; then suddenly pounced upon it, pulled off its claws, and carried it above the tide-mark. Now that the instinct of self-preservation was stirred in him, he began to search for food. Instead of striking into the forest, as a landsman would have done, he clung tenaciously to the one thing he knew and called his friend, the sea. The tangled under- brush, the shadowy glades, the mysteri- ous noises of the forest, all caused him apprehension; but on the shore, with the sound of the ocean in his ears and the invigorating smell of seaweed in his nos- trils, he felt more confidence. Some rock-oysters, chipped laborious- ly from the stones uncovered by the tide, appeased his hunger. Water he found in the hollows of the higher rocks. Though the salt spray had mingled with the rain and made it brackish, it con- tented him. Strengthened and encouraged by his meal, he washed the sand from his black hair and beard, cleansed his torn hands and feet, and, manlike, began to plan. He would see what material he had at hand, what wreckage had been washed up, and would search for his shipmates who had taken to the boats. It could not be possible that he alone out of all the ships company had reached the island, he who had been the last to leave the ship. No, surely he was not alone! Cheered by this new thought, he started hopefully along the beach, turning to the right, with a sailors way of doing things with the sun. 222 Driftwood. The masses of fresh kelp which marked the limit of the seas late flood were mixed with sponge growths, coral, poiyps, shells, sea-fans, and dead fish. The shore was littered with strange things wrenched from the ocean - bed. Some- times the man stopped and looked at these things curiously, and once he put a lustrous cowrie in his pocket. As he walked on and on, however, such objects ceased to interest him; for he was seeking wreckage and his fellow men, and he found neither. At every point that cut off his view he would say, I shall see them when I round that, and he would put forth all his strength to reach it; but each time he stood at the turn and opened a new prospect, dis- appointment awaited him. The day wore on, and he became very weary. His limping gait grew slower and slower. His head dropped on his chest. A wide bay, without a cheering sign, had to be skirted before he could reach the next cape; and he felt that he could not go much farther. Presently, a long white object lay at his feet, and with a cry of joy he opened his half-shut eyes. It was an oar. He looked eagerly round for the boat to which it belonged; but no boat was to be seen, neither was there a footprint nor any trace that one had landed there. Capsized! he muttered despondent- ly, and shouldering the oar he limped on. He had gone but a short distance, how- ever, when he stopped again. This time it was before a fancy ships bucket. The wood was white, the hoops were blue, and the rope handle was an elabo- rate piece of sailor handiwork. As he turned it over thoughtfully with his foot, he started; for he saw that the name painted upon it was not the name of his ship, but that of another vessel. Then he dropped the oar, and found that it too was branded with the strange name. D-r-u-i-d, Druid, lie said. My God! Then there were two wrecks! After a pause he continued: And only one man saved! Ha! ha! ha! What a joke! Ha! ha! and he broke into shouts of hoarse laughter. Suddenly his unnatural merriment end- ed; for far down the beach, near to the waters edge, there was a dark something that moved. Though at the moment it was still, the man could have sworn that he had seen it stir, and was instantly filled with a vague fear. Rigid and breath- less, lie stood and watched the thing. It moved again. Then, cautiously, with min- gled feelings of curiosity, fear, and hope, the man approached it. At one moment it looked like a roll of seaweed, at an- other a seal, and at yet another a human body. As he got nearer, he saw that a rocking motion was given to the thing by an occasional wave that ran up higher than its fellows, and that the thing itself was a woman. Forgetting his weariness and pain, the man ran; then stopped, looking down with dismay at the piteous heap before him. The woman lay on her side in a little bed which the weight of her body and the incoming waves had made in the sand; her face and hands were pallid, her lips were set, and her long brown hair was spread upon the beach like a deli- cate seaweed. About her waist two life- belts had been securely lashed, and from her neck there hung by a silken string a small chamois bag. As the man bent over her he was filled with pity, and tears rolled down his cheeks, tears that were partly for her, and partly for his lonely self. Why, oh why, had she not lived? He touched her cold hands and face, placed his ear to her mouth, but could detect no life. On a sudden a new hope sprang within him, and, growing strong with it, he lifted the woman in his arms and staggered up the beach, where he laid her down in the warm sand, out of the reach of the sea. Quickly loosing the life - belts from about her waist, he found to his delight that she was still warm. Though she was apparently drowned, life was not ex Driftwood. 223 tinct, and, with a sailors knowledge, he began at once to practice the methods used to produce artificial breathing. He worked with grim, deliberate persever- ance, until she breathed naturally; then he restored warmth and circulation by stones which had lain in the sun and by rubbing. At last the woman opened her large blue eyes, and gazed wonderingly into the mans eager face. Then she closed them again and fell asleep. With a great joy in his heart the man rose, and went away to collect shellfish; for he knew now that the woman would not die. After the castaways had lived upon rock-oysters and cocoanuts for two days the man made a fire-drill, and by dint of much labor produced fire, which he kept burning day and night. With a sharp stone he hewed out a rude spear for spearing fish, and a throwing-stick to kill the many tame birds that flew about the island. Turtle eggs he found in a cove near by, and in the forest an abun- dance of yams and plantains. When there was no longer any need of being anxious about food, he built the woman a little hut of boughs, so that she might be sheltered from the heavy rains and be alone. The woman, however, grieved exceed- ingly, and would not be comforted. All day she sat in the shadow of the palms, staring at the sea. Though she tried to be brave before the man, he would often return from hunting or fishing to find her weeping bitterly. Fearful that she would go mad or die, he tried to distract her by seeking her advice and help. He taught her to twist cocoa fibre into strings and ropes, to make a net from the same material; he stripped the life- belts of their canvas coverings, and asked her to make him a coat; he took her with him to the cove for turtle eggs and to the forest for fruit, making pretense always that he needed her assistance. And ever he spoke in strong, hopeful words of the future. Some day, he told her, a ship would come and carry them away from their island prison. So cheery, so full of faith was he that she came to believe him; whereupon her grief abated and her cour- age came back. One day he came to her and said, On the other side of the island I have found a better place to live than this. There is plenty of good water and fruit, and a high cliff from which to keep a lookout; and a signal - fire lighted on the cliff could be seen for thirty miles. Shall we go? The womans eyes brightened, and she said, Yes ! yes ! Let us go at once. When they reached the new place, and the woman saw the cliff, the crystal riv- ulet that went singing across the yellow sand to the sea, and the wealth of gay, perfume - laden flowers that decked the slope, she cried, Oh, how beautiful! For the first time since she had been upon the island she smiled. As soon as they were settled in their new camp the man began to build a huge bonfire on the bald summit of the cliff. As all the wood had to be carried from below, and as he had neither axe nor knife to aid him, the task was a long and hard one. He laid alternate layers of dry wood and green branches, so that the fire, when lighted, should send up a column of black smoke. It took him three weeks to raise the pile to the size he wanted, and during this time the wo- man helped him bundle the wood and cooked their simple meals. When the great work was finished and ready for the torch, they went up and looked at it admiringly, and both were filled with eager hopefulness. They felt now that they were ready for the ship; that when she caine they should be seen and saved. Each morning and evening they climbed to their lookout, the man carrying a large bundle of sticks, the woman a small one; for it pleased them to increase the size of their beacon. Panting they would reach 224 Dr~J~wood. the top, and, dropping their burdens, seat themselves in the cool breeze of the height, to scan the horizon and anticipate the coming of the ship. Sometimes they speculated upon her, wondered from which direction she would come, whether she would be a steamer or a sailing ves- sel, and whither she would take them. The ship, indeed, was the one theme of their conversation, their one and only hope, their future. Time went on, the weeks grew to months, but no vessel appeared. Such was their faith, however, that they did not cease to believe, nor stop adding fuel to their great unlighted beacon. In this common work and faith, in spite of daily disappointment, they drew closer togeth- er, and were strangely content. Plain food, physical labor, and an open-air life brought the color back to the womans cheeks, gave health and vigor to both man and woman. Laughter came to their lips easily, gladness to their eyes they sang as they worked, went hand in hand through the forest plucking flowers, and, as though by magic, became chil- dren again. They deceived themselves into think- ing that these things were born of sym- pathy and their mutual interest. Yet, notwithstanding this, there was one sub- ject which they guiltily avoided, the past. In the beginning the past had been their chief topic, but as the months went by they tacitly agreed to bury it. The man, being an ingenious, handy fellow, made tools out of the iron hoops of the bucket he had found, and with them manufactured many things that they needed. Before the rainy season set in he built a stone house for the wo- man, which he made waterproof with a thatch of reeds; and for himself he hol- lowed out a little cave at the foot of the cliff. As soon as these things were ac- complished he set to work making a bark canoe, for he wished to search the bar- rier reef for wreckage. In everything they did, however, nei ther the man nor the woman forgot that their work was but a makeshift, that it was merely to tide them over until they were rescued. Nor did they cease to climb the cliff morning and evening, nor to add continually to their monster sig- nal, nor to plan for the coming of the ship. And in all they undertook, all their plans and anticipations, they found a happiness which constantly brought them nearer and nearer together. By the calendar which the man had scratched upon the smooth surface of a rock, the castaways had been imprisoned by the sea nearly five months before the awakening came. Then, one day, while he was gathering fruit, he looked out over the ocean and saw a great white vessel standing close in to the island. There- upon he ran down quickly to the beach where the woman was, crying joyously, The ship! The ship! When she saw it she laughed and cried by turns. For a moment they stood hold- ing each others hands very tightly, and looking rapturously at this the realization of their one hope. Their ship had come at last! Then the man plucked a burning brand from the camp-fire, and ran with all his speed up the winding pathway they had worn to the beacon. On the way he snatched a handful of dry grass, with which to kindle the blaze. Excited, breathless, and flushed, he impatiently shook himself clear of the view-destroy- ing underbrush, and reached the hilltop. The vessel was then almost abreast of the cliff, and so near that he could look down and see people upon her deck. Realizing that no time was to be lost, the man knelt hurriedly at the foot of the bonfire, thrust the dry grass beneath a mass of small dead wood, and began to blow the smoking flrebrand into life. At the third puff, however, he stopped; his hands fell limply at his sides; his face became contorted, and he shrank back from the pile, shuddering. For at The Tinkling Simlins. 225 that moment there came to him know- ledge, and with it fear. He knew then that he loved the woman, and he knew that the lighting of the fire meant separa- tion. Fearfully he laid the brand down; then rose and edged away from it as though it were a snake. I will not! I will not! he mut- tered fiercely. I will tell her the brand went out. After a brief struggle, however, the mans better nature asserted itself, and he came back. With a trembling hand he again lifted the fire-stick. Once more the charcoal glowed; once more he was on the point of sending aloft the signal. But as he hesitated he heard quick steps behind him, and a sound, half cry, half sob. He turned, and saw that it was the woman. Now, when the man and the woman looked into each others eyes they under- stood all. With a smile upon her love. illumined face, the woman lifted th~ fire- brand and threw it into the sea beneath them. Then the man opened his arms, and the woman came to them. And there at the edge of the cliff, with their signal-fire behind them, these two, who had drifted so strangely together, stood and watched the ship sail away. A thin haze rolling up from the south- ward soon enveloped the vessel. She be- came a phantom shape, then a thin dark line, which grew fainter and fainter, and finally disappeared. H. Phelps Whitmarsh. THE TINKLING SIMLINS. IT was admitted that there was no other man around North Pass who could get together so good a force of berry- pickers as Abe Tweedy, or Twiddy, as he was known by word of mouth. He went out into the wilds of Johnson Coun- ty to engage them in April; imported them to the Floyd farm, near the pass, in May, when strawberries were begin- ning to ripen; and bossed them with forceful patience and suavity until the last blackberry was off the vines in Au- gust. The inhabitants of old John- sing were a lawless people in those days, but it was Tweedys boast that in ten years there had been no killings in his gang, and scarcely ever a fight or a drawn knife, while the quarreling was only enough to give a little human in- terest to the long, hard seasons. Year after year the same families joined his force. Friendships or jealousies which had been interrupted during the winter began afresh along the strawberry rows, and ran their course from the bleak, chilly, VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 15 showery days when Tweedy kindled a bonfire on the edge of the field, so that his gang could warm its numbed hands and dry its dew - drenched clothing, to other days of perfect sunshine and de- light; and on to others still, when the aroma of the raspberries hung like an overpowering incense in the quivering air, and Tweedy advised the pickers to put moist raspberry leaves in their hats and bonnets to keep off the sun. It was the beginning of such a day of fainting heat, and Tweedy had made the rounds of the field with a water- bucket and a dipper. He passed over a little rise of ground, and found him- self near a girl who had fairly buried her head in the waving branches of a tall raspberry bush, and was searching for the great, red, perfect berries which grow beneath the leaves. Fine warm day, he said, setting down the bucket, and taking off his hat to wipe his forehead. The girl did not seem to hear, so he stood a moment

The Tinkling Simlins. 225 that moment there came to him know- ledge, and with it fear. He knew then that he loved the woman, and he knew that the lighting of the fire meant separa- tion. Fearfully he laid the brand down; then rose and edged away from it as though it were a snake. I will not! I will not! he mut- tered fiercely. I will tell her the brand went out. After a brief struggle, however, the mans better nature asserted itself, and he came back. With a trembling hand he again lifted the fire-stick. Once more the charcoal glowed; once more he was on the point of sending aloft the signal. But as he hesitated he heard quick steps behind him, and a sound, half cry, half sob. He turned, and saw that it was the woman. Now, when the man and the woman looked into each others eyes they under- stood all. With a smile upon her love. illumined face, the woman lifted th~ fire- brand and threw it into the sea beneath them. Then the man opened his arms, and the woman came to them. And there at the edge of the cliff, with their signal-fire behind them, these two, who had drifted so strangely together, stood and watched the ship sail away. A thin haze rolling up from the south- ward soon enveloped the vessel. She be- came a phantom shape, then a thin dark line, which grew fainter and fainter, and finally disappeared. H. Phelps Whitmarsh. THE TINKLING SIMLINS. IT was admitted that there was no other man around North Pass who could get together so good a force of berry- pickers as Abe Tweedy, or Twiddy, as he was known by word of mouth. He went out into the wilds of Johnson Coun- ty to engage them in April; imported them to the Floyd farm, near the pass, in May, when strawberries were begin- ning to ripen; and bossed them with forceful patience and suavity until the last blackberry was off the vines in Au- gust. The inhabitants of old John- sing were a lawless people in those days, but it was Tweedys boast that in ten years there had been no killings in his gang, and scarcely ever a fight or a drawn knife, while the quarreling was only enough to give a little human in- terest to the long, hard seasons. Year after year the same families joined his force. Friendships or jealousies which had been interrupted during the winter began afresh along the strawberry rows, and ran their course from the bleak, chilly, VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 15 showery days when Tweedy kindled a bonfire on the edge of the field, so that his gang could warm its numbed hands and dry its dew - drenched clothing, to other days of perfect sunshine and de- light; and on to others still, when the aroma of the raspberries hung like an overpowering incense in the quivering air, and Tweedy advised the pickers to put moist raspberry leaves in their hats and bonnets to keep off the sun. It was the beginning of such a day of fainting heat, and Tweedy had made the rounds of the field with a water- bucket and a dipper. He passed over a little rise of ground, and found him- self near a girl who had fairly buried her head in the waving branches of a tall raspberry bush, and was searching for the great, red, perfect berries which grow beneath the leaves. Fine warm day, he said, setting down the bucket, and taking off his hat to wipe his forehead. The girl did not seem to hear, so he stood a moment 226 The Tinkling Simlins. looking at her. Her skirt was soaked to the waist with the heavy dew which shimmered on the leaves and berries, her sleeves were wet to the shoulders and clung about her strong round arms, and even the ruffle of her sunbonnet was limp from brushing against the vines. It was very early although it was so warm. The sun was low in the east, and its light fell in an almost level flood of gold across the tops of the vines, which were all staked and trained high, so that the field looked like a vineyard. Far away towprd the horizon, the morning shadows were still lurking among the wild blue hills. It seemed a pity that the girl should be soaked with dew and have her head buried in a raspberry bush. Tweedy tried a new tone. Look out you pick them berries clean, Cynthy Lence, he said. She straightened herself, and pushed her bonnet back from a calm-looking face with moist curls flattened against lie temples. Pears to me, when I stand on my haid in a bush, it s a sign I in searchin pretty close for em, she an- swered, freeing the curls with her hand. Tweedy lifted the dripping dipper out of the bucket and held it toward her. I knowed you would nt stop workin long enough to take a drink lessn I faulted yore work, he said. It aint my place, as boss, to make a fuss about anybodys doin too much; but jus count- in myself as Abe rrwiddy, I caint sense why you drive yoreself so hard. If you want to show that you can pick two boxes to Buck Andersons one, you done that long ago. The girl had come a step toward him to take the dipper, but her hand dropped and she did not take it. Pshaw! he said, holding it out fur- ther. She shook her head. Pshaw! he repeated, you re the faithfulest worker I ye got in this field; you dont need any boss, an someway I caint never eount myself as anything but Abe Twid- dy when I m talkin to you. . . . Stan still a minute; it s bound to be said. I caint help seem that you-uns is workin yoreself so unmerciful jus because Buck Anderson married that old Widder Tate instead of you. He s a heap sorrier about it n you be, an she s run him right up agia the wall, too; he das nt lift a eyelash lessn she says, Eyelashes up like we used to play. It dont look to me like there s the stuff in him for a girl to keer so much about. The girl was looking at him so stead- ily that he began to hesitate. You see, Cynthy, I m a mighty old acquaintance of yorn, he apologized. I been boss- in you now since you was jus big enough to stan under the raspberry vines an pull the berries offn the low branches; they mosly went into yore mouth, too. Now dont it look like it was tolable nateral I should take an interest? She smiled at him with a sparkle of resentment in her eyes. Nobody s keepin you from takin an interest, if you want to, she said. I doiit keer. All the rugged lines in Tweedys face took a sudden downward turn. He was not used to finding himself of small ac- count, and if any one who cared had been watching him, it would have been evi- dent that he was not only perplexed, but pained. At last he picked up the water- bucket and started along the row, but, pausing, looked at the girl again. She had bent into the bush once more, and he went slowly away, feeling as if he had lost something there among the raspber- ry leaves. The heat grew more oppressive as the day went on, and Tweedy noticed the list- less, sullen spirit of his gang. The talk and laughter which usually passed be- tween the rows died out, and only an angry mother raised her voice now and then to threaten a child, or Buck Ander- sons wife (still known as the Widow Tate ) was heard railing at her husband. Tweedy himself was indefatigable in good works and in good cheer. He took the heavy hand - crates from the red - faced, The Tinkling Simlins. 227 panting children who were carrying theni to the shed, and, as he passed, he stopped to joke with the row of old women who were playing truant openly and smoking their pipes in the shadow of a tree. But his jokes fell back on him like those of an actor who is facing a stolid house. There was no air stirring, the weight of the atmosphere rested heavy on the field, and all the time he was thinking of Cyn- thia with her head hidden in the rasp- berry hush. Again and again he started to go to see if she still had it there; but talking to her seemed so useless that he did not go until the whole force worked its way over the knoll which had sepa- rated her from the others, and he caught sight of her & dy a few bushes beyond the place where she had been before. She was picking as slowly and wearily as any of the rest, and he hurried to- ward her, reproaching himself for hav- ing taunted her. After all, it was quite as much a pity for her to work slowly as to work swiftly on account of a man like Anderson, and he was ready to tell her so, when he noticed that Anderson and his wife were picking on the row next hers. Through all the season he had been quietly keeping them at a dis- tance from her, but that morning she had come into the field so much earlier than any one else that she had already passed over the knoll when the others began, and so he had been careless in giving out the rows. Andersons black head and thin shoulders were moving rapidly toward Cynthia, but his wife had come to a full stop, and was staring over the bushes at the girl, with a pair of cold blue eyes. Tweedy knew that the Widow Tate had more ,than once drawn a knife and attacked persons against whom she had a prejudice; and as she finally strode forward from one bush to another, he fancied he could see the swing of a knife in the limp folds of her gown; his thoughts followed her with forebod- ing, even while he called himself a fool, and took off his hat and fanned himself as if fanning up a new idea. The widow seemed to have seen all she wished to see of Cynthia, however, and Tweedy drew a breath of relief as he saw her fill the last box in her hand-crate and start off toward the shed. Tweedy hurried away, too, suddenly realizing that he was not plain Abe Twiddy, but a boss, and that this would be a good time to do a little bossing in the parts of the field at a distance from Cynthia; he called them the far parts of the field. Meanwhile, the pickers moved slowly along their rows, and the sun rose slow- ly higher and shot its rays at them with greater force. Cynthia could feel the sharp impact of the heat upon her head; she could feel, too, the strange piercing of an unseen steady gaze. Thinking the Widow Tate might still be looking at her, she tried to keep her own eyes doggedly upon her work; but at last she glanced up, and saw the widows sunbon- net just passing out of sight on its way to the shed. It was Buck Anderson who was looking at her. She had not seen him so close at hand for nearly a year, and his haggard face startled her. It did not seem possible that this was the man with whom she had gayly raced the field last season; for though he might not have been a strong man then, he had been free and light-hearted. She had never seen a human soul in punish- ment before, and she took an involunta- ry step toward him, wonder and pity in her eyes. Anderson glanced over his shoulder to be sure that his wife was out of sight, and then hurried toward her, shaking as if he had a chill. I ye wanted a chance to talk to you, he began in a husky voice. I pretty nigh died las winter, an I 11 die this winter, so I can talk where a well man would be obleeged to keep his mouth shet. After I had axed yon-uns, an you would nt have me, Cynthy, If was plumb wild; I did nt keer what I did, an I jus got married out of devil~ 228 The Tinkling Simlins. ment, because I knowed folkses would say I d throwed you-uns over to git the Widder Tates wheat farm in the bot- toms; an I lowed it would spite you to have the name o bein cut out by the widder. I reckon she took me because she had seed how fast I could work, an she allowed I d make a right good hand on her farm an hyar in the berry fields before wheat harvest; but she drove me too hard. I took a cold last winter He stopped with a sort of gasp from having said so much and spoken so rap- idly. He seemed to have very little strength, and Cynthia noticed that he reeled slightly and put his hand to his head before he went on, while his eyes sought hers with a weak mans long- ing for compassion. She drove me to work when I was nt fit, he began again, trying hard not to make each word an appeal. I had had pneumony, an goin out like that I pretty nigh died. Cynthia was struggling against the shock of the change in him. Her eyes roamed out across the field as she lis- tened to his nervous, hurrying voice, and half consciously she noted how many of the pickers had stopped work to stare across the walls of shimmering green, and wonder what her old lover was saying to her while his wife was gone. They were all like Tweedy: they thought that she had been mourning for him. She was glad that it was she who had borne the humiliation of their sympathy instead of Anderson, yet she resented their inquisitive interest and their theo- ries. It was not her fault that a man too slight for her to love had loved her, though perhaps, if she had been think- ing less of other things, she might have seen that he eared for her, and have kept him from caring quite so much; but she had thought of nothing except to be the best and swiftest picker in Abe Tweedys gang. What made you work when you was nt fit? she asked. Anderson shook his head. You-uns could nt onderstand it, he said wearily. You-uns is one of the sort that jus goes as they please, an dont gee nor haw when folkses jerk the lines; but I m mighty tender to the bit. I don know how she did it, but she jus slipped a curb into my mouth the first day, an she s been a-gee-hawin an a-whippin me up ever since. I lowed I would nt git the chance to say airy word to you- uns before I was drove onderground, an I wanted to tell you that I only mar- ried for devilment, an she s paid me out, that s all. He stopped, but his hollow, sorrowful eyes still lingered on the girls face, and, for the first time in her life, her heart admitted the claim of l~s unanswered love. Even his weakness suddenly be- came sacred from the judgment of her strength. Her face grew full of sorrow for him, but though her lips moved once or twice, she could not find a word to say. The silence of the breathless morning was so deep that she could almost hear what two women were whis- pering together in a row near by. Oh, Anderson began again in his hoarse, eager voice, you dont lay np no grudge agin me, do you? I did it for devilment, but I ye been paid out aready; an when I think Ive got to go on an live with her till I die, an have her stand by me then an shet my eyes, I reckon I 11 have paid more than the little spite it was to you to have a man you did nt keer for throw hissef away. Cynthia went a step closer to him, regardless of the sharp laugh with which the women ended their conference in the other row. Her heart seemed to beat itself against a barrier of wordless- ness. Buck, she said, I m mighty sorry for you, an if I ye ever laid up any grudge or keered a little, it aint any- thing beside what you ye been through; an I 11 say it before my Maker, it s all my fault. I I wisht there was some- thing I could do. The Tinkling Simlins. 229 Anderson looked at her, wondering if all the feeling in her face could be for him; and when he saw it really was for him, a sob came up into his throat, and with a single broken word he went back to his row. Just then Tweedy came along, his water - bucket swinging at his side. What s the matter? lie asked Cyn- thia. You ye scarcely moved a foot since I was talkin to you an hour ago. She smiled a little, and there was still something tender in her eyes. Pears to me you-uns is mighty hard to please to-day, Mr. Twiddy, she replied. A hour ago you was faultin me cause I picked too fast. Well, you was pickin too fast, he said, and his voice was testy; thar s a gait betwixt runnin yore head off an standin still. He had never spoken like that to her before, and she looked at him with a startled face. I was tryin to please you-uns, she began, that is, in the first place. Jus the las few minutes I been talkin to Buck Anderson. So J ye heard an seen, he said. The word of it is clear acrost the field. Her features hardened. An you come acrost to stop it ? she inquired. Well, hem the boss, I naterally have to come this way once in a while, he returned evasively, stooping to pull off a red berry she had missed. It did not prove to be as ripe as he had thought. He jerked at it until it crumbled in his hand, and then laughed as he threw the pieces away. She watched him scorn- fully, but when he finally looked up at her, though his lips still laughed, his eyes were as frank and steady as her own. I m in an awkward place, Cyn- thy, he said. I know you think I meddle too much, an yet I m bound to keep things as quiet an peaceable as I can; an somehow, I m hound likewise to keep you from trouble, if I can. I know you call it yore own business if you choose to pass a word with Buck, same as if he was any other man, an so t is; an yet this whole field has got its eyes open a - watchin, so whatever the Widder Tate dont see, she 11 hear. You dont know her the way I do. I room next em in the barracks, an I hear her goin for him nights. She s the illest-natured woman I ever met up with, an if she gets a notion that you an him is takin notice again, thar 11 be the devil to pay. I wisht you d promise me, Cynthy, not to speak him airy other word. The girl shut her lips. If thar s the devil to pay, I reckon them that owes him 11 have to do it. I aint never had no dealins with him, she said. But that s the trouble with the old boy, Cynthy, the foreman explained. He jus collects whar he has a mind to, without lookin at his books. An thar s another thing, though it aint easy for a man to name it to a honest girl that he s seed growia up right out of the shadder of the vines, the way you have: even if the widder did nt jump on you with a knife some time when you was nt lookin, thar s nothin like a fieldful of long-tongued berry-pickers to blacken a girls name. Cynthia set her hand-crate down very slowly under the bushes, and her hands fell by her sides. Oh, Mr. Twiddy, she said, do you think I keer? If they can make me black so easy, I d ruther be made black an have it done. I dont reckon such kind o talk as theirn 11 be heard at the jedgment seat more the rattlin of a dry ole las years sim- lin full o seeds. You know what the Bible says about them that have not charity, they are become as soundin brass an tinklin simlins. What do I keer if all their round simlin heads bob up an rattle together all acrost the field? Sist! whispered Tweedy. There was a murmur in the air as if a breeze had arisen to shake all the pickers 230 The Tinkling Simlins. tongues. Here and there heads leaned across rows to meet heads leaning from the other side. Some were turned to look at Cynthia and Tweedy, and at An- derson, who was walking in a queer dazed way beside his row, and picking scarce a berry. Others were looking With interest at the Widow Tate, as she marched heavily and slowly down the path from the shed. Cynthias lips curved disdainfully. They had ought to thank me an Buck, she said. They aint feelin half so played out with the heat as they was a hour ago. Pore child! Tweedy sighed, as if he were summing up all her waywardness and his pity for her. You dont mind it very much now, an you dont need to, cause it 11 die out if it aint fed; but caint you pictur how it ud be if it kep on? I ye had flies buzz about my head till I was nigh distracted, but I suppose you think it ud bemean you to take no- tice of a fly. I ye heard em, Cynthia said. They ye kep a-buzzin in my ears jus the way you-uns does, an whenever I brushed em off they d come right back. Mr. Twiddy, you-uns is so skeered o peoples tongues, dont you reckon yore gang 11 be puttin our names together if you spen so much time bossin me, when I m knowed to be the best an fastest picker in the field? Her tone stung Tweedy, and for a mo- ment a glow of resentment tried to fight its way through the sunburn on his face; but as he stared at her, seeking for a re- tort, and yet uncertain whether to retort or to turn on his heel, something spoke to him out of the unchanging depths of his tenderness for her, and he under- stood the burning of injustice, the suf- fering, and the humiliation which held council behind her curving lips and brightened eyes. The anger died out of him, just as discord gives way to silence or to something sweeter, and he looked at the girl in a way that she could not understand. And yet there was nothing he could say to her, and he turned away, leaving her wishing that he had spoken, so that her own words might not sound so clearly in her ears. The ripe berries were gleaming con- spicuously along the row where Buck Anderson had hurried forward without picking them, and Tweedy, in his official character, could not pass them by. He walked swiftly from bush to hush, sweep- ing off a berry here and there as he passed, until he had a handful of the red, fragrant, half-melting jewels with which to accuse Andersons carelessness; but Anderson was nowhere to be seen. Tweedy went on, glancing between the bushes; for lie expected to find Buck stooping somewhere out of sight, picking from the low branches. Along the row from the other end the Widow Tate was approaching; she was looking for Anderson, too, her hard eyes resting an instant on every bush, seeking for some stir among the leaves. Presently she hur- ried forward, calling loudly, What s the matter with you? What you doin down thar ? Tweedy came up and found her stand- ing beside Anderson, who had fallen be- tween the bushes and lay in their shadow. Something of the green tint of the leaves was on his face, and he looked as if he were dead, but the widow did not kneel to touch him; she only bent, looking a little closer, and stirred him with her foot, repeating her questions. Tweedy stooped, and passed a hand across his head and felt above his heart. The widow straightened up and f old- ed her arms. He s only playiii off, she said. He does hit when he gits tired o work. Several of the pickers had already ga- thered, and were elbowing one another around the two bushes which sheltered Anderson, but they waited for Tweedy to speak. I reckon it s sunstroke, Tweedy said. We 11 carry him straight to the The Tinkling Simlins. 231 barracks, Mis Anderson, an put him in wet blankets. I dont know what the chances are, but I m afeard He reached out for his water - bucket, and dashed its contents over Andersons head and face. Oh, he 11 git well, the woman said in her harsh voice, which was sometimes more cruel than her thought. Hit takes a mighty little to git him down, an a mighty lot to git him up; but he 11 git well, an I 11 have him to nuss all through wheat harvest. Cynthia had come up with the others, and when she saw Anderson the sunken blankness of his features appealed to all in her that was strongest and most gen- tle. After his wife had spoken there was a moment of silence, and then Cyn- thia leaned toward Tweedy and said very slowly and clearly, Let me watch be- side him, so he 11 not wake up to be twitted with the trouble that he s made. I 11 take keer of him if he lives, an if he dont live 1 11 not begrudge the time it took me to shet his eyes. So many people had heard her that Tweedy could not ignore what she had said. Dont be foolish, Cynthy, he answered quietly, although he felt out- raged by her folly. Mis Anderson am t goin to grudge nothin to the pore feller, now he s down. If you want to help, run to the shed and tell Mr. Floyd to send a man on horseback after the doctor. Cynthia beckoned to a boy, and seat him on the errand. Some of the men helped Tweedy to lift Anderson and carry him down the row; most of the pickers followed, and, with the green barriers on either hand to prevent strag- gling, the little procession started to leave the field. Cynthia fell into the line, but Andersons wife stood at one side, like a spectator, her face and figure quite rigid except for the slow swelling of the veins upon her forehead. A report that she had stayed behind reached Tweedy, and he halted. Come on, Mis Anderson~ an git things ready for him! he called back, trying to make his tone ignore Cyn- thias interference; and then, more sharp- ly, as the woman did not stir, Come on! She came on with long, cumbrous strides, overtaking the bearers just as they left the field. You-uns need nt call me, Abe Twiddy, she said, stepping into the foremans path and confronting him with a heavy, quivering face, you-uns need nt call me to come an nuss a man that married me to be took keer of, when his pore triflin heart was bound up in Cynthy Lence. I ye seed him stan an look at her acrost the rows. He would have took up with her soon or late, an now that she s spoke like she did to spite me, I make her a free gift of him, alive or dead. She turned on Cynthia, who had come forward, with her head raised and her eyes sparkling, as if to accept the gift. I Oh, I know what s kep you-uns from lookin at him or speak- in to him all the season, she cried, you - uns has been afeard o me; but now I take all these men an women t~ witness that you need nt be afeard o me no more. I m goin back to the bot- toms to harvest my wheat, an I make you-uns a free gift of him. Look at him, an see if hit dont do you proud to git what you been seekin fur so long. Tweedys eyes took fire. Go, he said, go, Mis Anderson, an dont bring yore black heart acrost my path agin. You - uns has been tired o yore bargain these months back, an now yore makin a girls quick speech the excuse for throwin off what you dont want onto her, an tryin to put a slur onto her at the same time. I know yore kind. You git mad, an then you make yore temper serve yore turn. Take yoreself ont o this field, but dont you let man, woman, or child hear you say that you gave yore husband to Cynthy Lence, or I 11 see to it that yore tongue s stiffened so you caint say it agin. I give you- uns, an all you-uns that s listenin, to 232 The Tinkling Simlins. onderstand that, alive or dead, Buck An- derson is lef with me. He started forward, leaving the wo- man glowering after him on the edge of the field. Some of the pickers stayed with her, talking in an eager group; the others followed more silently toward the barracks. Cynthia walked beside Twee- dy. I thank you - uns for closin her mouth, she said, but I want to take keer of Buck, jus the same. You caint, said Tweedy shortly. But I want to, the girl insisted. I I owe it to him, Mr. Twiddy. Tweedy had borne a great deal that day; the last shred of his patience was worn through, and his personal feeling was mingled in such an inextricable tan- gle with his duty that it seemed useless for him to try to tell what was the right thing to do, or to make a stand for doing it, even if he could decide. The girl was her own keeper, after all. You know what y& re askin, an what it means? he said. I know that I m askin to do the las thing that one human can do for anoth- er, Mr. Twiddy, Cynthia answered, looking at him as if she had suddenly grown older than he. You-uns knows that Buck Anderson aint goin to git well. Tweedy was too human and too sorely tried to rise to what she asked of him. We 11 take him to his room, an turn the widders things out of it, he said gruffly, an you-uns can do as you please about sittin thar an keepin watch. Thank you, Mr. Twiddy, the girl said, with a deference that was galling after she had made her point. When they reached the long, many- roomed shed known as the barracks, Tweedy turned upon his troop of curi- ous-eyed, pusj7ling, busy-tongued retain- ers, almost as if h& saw for the first time that they had left the field. We dont want no crowdin an gabbhin here, he said sharply. Me an Cyn- thy is all that s needed, an out yonder the berries are meltin on the vines. Go back to yore rows an work yore peartest till I come an give you the news. If the Widder Tate is hangin around, tell her to yoke up her oxen an git. She 11 find her plunderment lyin here outside the door. He and the men who were helping him laid Anderson down on a straw pallet, and then he started off to the well for water to keep up the cold drench- ing which had been his first thought in the field; the others went with the re- treating gang of pickers back to their work. As Cynthia watched them go, and waited for Tweedy to come back with his unfailing, practical water - buckets, she seemed bitterly unneeded. Ander- son might never return to consciousness; and even if he wakened, the mere ab- sence of his wife would be more than he had hoped for as a final grace. The murmuring of voices died away as the pickers ambled out of her hearing, but she knew that, freed from Tweedys pie- sence and her own, every tongue was un- bridled out there among the raspberries. In spite of Tweedys championship there would be no more escape from comment than from the heat that was glimmering everywhere, over the green fields and the dry ploughed ground, and far over the faint, quivering, shadowless hills. Even the few, like Tweedy, who would take her part against the others would be convinced that she had defied Ander- sons wife from love of Anderson; and as she stood there waiting, she went down into that place of regret and futile rebellion where generous natures some- times pay the price of their unselfishness, and the tears that start burning toward the eyelids freeze before they fall. Then Tweedy came hurrying from the well, and the fight for Andersons useless life began. The doctor came late and went quick- ly, leaving no encouragement behind him; and as all effort to revive Anderson grew into the conscientious formality with The Tinkling Simlins. 233 which the living strive to detain the dying, even when their engagement with death is inevitable, Tweedy, in his turn, began to feel useless in the room. The persistence with which Cynthia knelt beside the unconscious man compelled Tweedy to defer to her, and he left her frequently, to go out and supervise the field. In one of his absences Cynthia heard a stir outside, and, glancing up, saw the Widow Tate and a few compan- ions corning up the slope toward the bar- racks, trying to prod the inertia out of a pair of oxen who had been in pasture and were loath to change their way of life. Cynthia did not look again, but she was acutely conscious of every motion that was made and every word that was spoken while the oxen were yoked to a heavy lumber wagon, and the scanty and disor- dered furnishings outside the door were gathered up. A shadow darkened the doorway, and the girl knew that some one was standing there with arms akimbo, and looking at her. Other shadows came in silence; then there was a hoarse laugh, they all turned away, and Cynthia heard the widow clamber into her wagon and crack her whip like a man; the wagon-wheels began to creak, and finally to rattle, as the weight of the wagon urged the oxen into a rapid pace down- hill. Twilight fell at last like an absolution for the tortured spirit of the day. Even the voices of the pickers were hushed to a sort of peace, as they straggled in from work, and began to build little outdoor fires that sparkled brightly in front of the barracks, under the shadow of the trees. The women bent over the fires, cooking, and voice called to voice, asking or offering the commonplace services of life, but with unusual gentleness, as peo- ple speak when at any moment a guest may enter. Tweedy neither stayed long with Cynthia nor was long absent, but guarded her in every way and saw that she needed nothing. When twilight bad changed to night, and the little evening fires had all gone out, except here and there a coal that blinked like a red glow- worm in the dark, he stood beside her for a little while, looking down at her and at Anderson. The thought of himself had yielded utterly to a great compassion for the sad ending of their love. Anderson would die that night, and he could not bear that Cynthia should feel that even the kindest eyes were watching her, un- less she wished it, when the final renun- ciation came. Do you want me to stay with you ? he asked, after a time. If I dont stay, I 11 be right next door, an I 11 hear if you even tap on the wall. I thought per- haps you d ruther be alone. As the girl looked up at him, the lamp- light glistened upon teardrops in her eyes. Thank you, Mr. Twiddy, she answered, you-uns is mighty kind. I d ruther be alone. Tweedy hardly knew what he did. He stooped suddenly and kissed her fore- head. You pore child! he whispered, and left the room. During the long hours of the night Cyn- thia had the long years of her future for companionship. The white moon- light came in at the doorway, and crept toward Anderson, and finally retreated, fearing to intrude. Once or twice she heard Tweedy get up from his bed, and pace softly back and forth in his room, and with the knowledge that he was awake her longing for his companionship grew almost into a cry. Once she went to the door and looked out over the lone- ly raspberry field, where a thin white fog had settled under the moonlight; but the breath of it was cold, and she feared that Anderson might open his eyes and not find her, if his soul returned to ask for a farewell, before it went upon the way which it was seeking in the dark. A change had come over him even in the moment she was gone. He breathed in sharper and more infrequent gasps, and the lines of death had sunk deeper in his face. She bent above him, watch- 234 The Tinkling Simlins. ing with such intense sympathy that her own breathing seemed almost linked with his, as she waited for each throe, think- ing that each would be the last. But with the tenacity of feebleness his life fought on and on. At last, quite unex- pectedly to herself, Cynthia tapped upon the wall. Tweedy was with her in an in- stant; and when she reached out a trem- bling hand, he took it without a word, and they watched together while the gray light of morning gradually dispelled the moonlight, and on until full dawn, when Anderson died. Cynthia knelt beside him for a little while, but she did not need to close his eyes, for they had not opened to look at her. It was as if, at the moment when he turned away from her in the field, he had known that he had all it was right for him to claim, and his heart had been too full to ask for more. Tweedy stood apart and waited until she came to him. Then they went out- side. There was no stir yet about the barracks, for the overworn pickers were sleeping beyond their usual time. The sun had not risen, but its clearly drawn rays spread like a crown above the east- ern hills, and the sky was scintillant. Only the lower hills and the deep green valleys lay shadowless and still in the diffusion of brightness, like a childs fea- tures that are waiting solemnly for life to set its seal of character upon them. Tweedy broke the silence in a low voice. I spoke hard to you-uns yes- terday, more n once, Cynthy, he said, but I want you to forgit it all, if you can. I was only wantia to see you as happy as you had a chance to be; but now that I see how much deeper yore misry was than I reckoned, thar aint nothin but sorrow for you in my heart an love. The last word was spoken so gently, so much as an added tenderness, that it could not have pained or offended the deepest sorrow, yet Cynthia was startled by it. She looked at him curiously. You-uns does well to pity me, she said. I dont keer what all the others says an thinks, but I want you-uns to know the truth, cause you wont be on- charitable, even to Buck. I aint never loved him. It was him loved me. Tweedy passed his hand across his brow. You-uns did it all for a man you did nt love, lie exclaimed, you dared all them tongues? She nodded. I I owed it to him. Without knowin, I had led him on. Tweedy looked off over the hushed, expectant earth. My God, lie said softly, what would you do for the man you loved? The girls breath came in an unex- pected sob. Oh, Mr. Twiddy, she faltered, I might have to tell him so. He might nt know it for hissef. Tweedy turned. Her face was tremu- lous, but consecrated by the love which she had hidden for so long; and as their eyes met they forgot that there was any- thing but love in all the world. The glory brightened in the east, and the air stirred like an awakening along the fields. One after another the sleepy pickers came out of the barracks, saw the two figures below them on the hillside, and whis- pered back and forth with brightening eyes. At last Tweedy put her gently away from him. I had ought to go an call the gang, an tell them that pore Buck is gone.~~ Cynthia glanced over her shoulder and laughed as she saw the pickers bend- ing discreetly to kindle their morning fires. The simhins has been watchin, she said, an they 11 be tinkhin pearthy to.day. Do you keer? Tweedy shook his head. Before them sunshine and shadow flashed like a smile across the earth, as the sun rose over the distant hills. Mary Tracy Earle. The Commodore. 235 THE COMMODORE. I REMEMBER him as well as though I had seen him yesterday. There are some figures that memory does in sil- houette, and that of my grandfather is one, the lines all definite and clear, and standing out above the flotsam and jetsam of the human tide like some grand old figurehead. A tall man, a little stooped about the shoulders, with long, thin arms and legs which seemed to be without bones, so that he could tie them up and twist them about, and fling them out in a rattling old hornpipe, such as I have never seen performed by any one else, before or since. His ship, the Grampus, was a full- rigged man-of-war, with more stays and halyards in her rigging than there were threads in the piece of Honiton lace which my grandmother wore on her head. She lay at anchor, the ship, I mean, although the same might be said of my grandmother; for in proportion to my grandfathers love for a roving life was her aversion to going abroad. Well, as I said, she lay at anchor off the Navy Yard, over which the Commodore was in command. Every day of his life and he was an old man then lie went down to the dock, threw off his land togs, took a header into the water, and, with a splash and a yell, struck out with a bold stroke for his ship, a good two miles dis- tant. He rode the waves like a cork and climbed the rigging like a cat, scram- bling up the ships side, over the rail, and never drawing breath till he had put betwixt fingers aiid toes every blessed spar and rope, from stem to stern, focas- tle to inizzentop. Summer or winter, it was the same to him. My grandmother, who was a very aristocratic and proper personage, poor, dear lady, went to great pains to prepare a bathing-suit and bath-towel for these aquatic exploits. One fine day the whole Navy Yard was startled to behold Hard Tack, my grandfathers great Newfound- land dog, going from pillar to post in a full suit of bed-ticking trimmed with scar- let braid, and with a towel wound around his head like the turbaned Turk. Af- ter that, no lady could take her walk abroad until after the Commodore had completed his constitutional tub and donned his clothes. Nothing more characteristic than those clothes could be imagined. They seeai now to me very beautiful, but to my childish vision they were exceedingly queer, and something to be just a bit ashamed of. The finest and best qual- ity of broadcloth was used in the man- ufacture of the garments which made him the central figure of our little com- munity. Their color was the regula- tion navy blue. The trousers were bell- shaped, very wide at the ankles, and flapped when he walked, and they came up almost to his chin, under his waist- coat of yellow nankeen, with gilt but- tons. The coat had long, full skirts, with lapels in front, over which rolled a wide linen collar with a flaring black silk tie. His headgear was a cap of cloth, like his clothes, which bulged out all around, and had a visor of patent lea- ther. This came down well over his nose, which was Roman, and quite on a par with his chin as to firmness. The finishing touches to his attire were pa- tent - leather pumps and a white silk handkerchief the size of a sail. These, and a fresh shave every morning, with a plentiful sprinkling of bay rum, made up the sum total of his extravagances. But I must not forget the carnations which all the year round he wore in his buttonhole, and which vied in color with the rosiness of his cheeks. His eyes had the greenish gray-blue of

The Commodore. 235 THE COMMODORE. I REMEMBER him as well as though I had seen him yesterday. There are some figures that memory does in sil- houette, and that of my grandfather is one, the lines all definite and clear, and standing out above the flotsam and jetsam of the human tide like some grand old figurehead. A tall man, a little stooped about the shoulders, with long, thin arms and legs which seemed to be without bones, so that he could tie them up and twist them about, and fling them out in a rattling old hornpipe, such as I have never seen performed by any one else, before or since. His ship, the Grampus, was a full- rigged man-of-war, with more stays and halyards in her rigging than there were threads in the piece of Honiton lace which my grandmother wore on her head. She lay at anchor, the ship, I mean, although the same might be said of my grandmother; for in proportion to my grandfathers love for a roving life was her aversion to going abroad. Well, as I said, she lay at anchor off the Navy Yard, over which the Commodore was in command. Every day of his life and he was an old man then lie went down to the dock, threw off his land togs, took a header into the water, and, with a splash and a yell, struck out with a bold stroke for his ship, a good two miles dis- tant. He rode the waves like a cork and climbed the rigging like a cat, scram- bling up the ships side, over the rail, and never drawing breath till he had put betwixt fingers aiid toes every blessed spar and rope, from stem to stern, focas- tle to inizzentop. Summer or winter, it was the same to him. My grandmother, who was a very aristocratic and proper personage, poor, dear lady, went to great pains to prepare a bathing-suit and bath-towel for these aquatic exploits. One fine day the whole Navy Yard was startled to behold Hard Tack, my grandfathers great Newfound- land dog, going from pillar to post in a full suit of bed-ticking trimmed with scar- let braid, and with a towel wound around his head like the turbaned Turk. Af- ter that, no lady could take her walk abroad until after the Commodore had completed his constitutional tub and donned his clothes. Nothing more characteristic than those clothes could be imagined. They seeai now to me very beautiful, but to my childish vision they were exceedingly queer, and something to be just a bit ashamed of. The finest and best qual- ity of broadcloth was used in the man- ufacture of the garments which made him the central figure of our little com- munity. Their color was the regula- tion navy blue. The trousers were bell- shaped, very wide at the ankles, and flapped when he walked, and they came up almost to his chin, under his waist- coat of yellow nankeen, with gilt but- tons. The coat had long, full skirts, with lapels in front, over which rolled a wide linen collar with a flaring black silk tie. His headgear was a cap of cloth, like his clothes, which bulged out all around, and had a visor of patent lea- ther. This came down well over his nose, which was Roman, and quite on a par with his chin as to firmness. The finishing touches to his attire were pa- tent - leather pumps and a white silk handkerchief the size of a sail. These, and a fresh shave every morning, with a plentiful sprinkling of bay rum, made up the sum total of his extravagances. But I must not forget the carnations which all the year round he wore in his buttonhole, and which vied in color with the rosiness of his cheeks. His eyes had the greenish gray-blue of 236 The Commodore. the sea, and his hair on either temple was soft and white as the crest of a wave. He carried under his arm a brass spyglass, which he delighted in leveling upon certain ladies who on sunny afternoons took coy promenades, under funny little parasols, on the parade-ground. He had one habit which my grandmother had tried in vain to break. This was to whittle. Wherever he went he carried an old black clasp-knife and a piece of pine wood. Clothes-pins were his predi- lection, and he could be tracked all over the Navy Yard, from one end to the other, by a trail of shavings; and as he whittled he hummed in a monotonous voice, which seemed to start somewhere under his cap and come down through his nose, The Girl I left behind Me. This was his favorite tune; I do not think he ever knew any other, and he could never quite master that, but after a few bars would run foul of Days of Absence, and get beached on Oft in the Stilly Night, two exhilarating ditties much af- fected by my grandmother. At this he would pull up taut, with a pucker and a long breath, back water, and go at it afresh, until he had launched his original theme successfully on waters which were not always confluent. Everybody loved the Commodore, but I think the two human beings who were perhaps the most reckless in their admi- ration were myself and a wretched old hulk of a creature, whom my grand- father, for reasons best known to him- self, called Shuttlecock. No one knew him by any other name, and no one knew where he hailed from, except that the Commodore had picked him up some- where during the war of 1812, and brought him home with him, that is to say, as much as was left of the poor fel- low after the battle of Lake Erie. Not only did my grandfather give to this remnant of humanity a living, but he bestowed upon him in addition a wooden leg, a glass eye, an ear-trumpet, and a piece of white plaster to cover the place where his nose had been. For alas! Shuttlecocks nose had been blown off on the field of battle. His winter quarters were in a small, square house, built of stone, with neither doors nor windows. It had a chimney on top and an iron scuttle, and it was a blood-curdling sight to see old Shuttlecock, with a rope lad- der twisted about his waist, crawling, in the dusk of winter, like a huge limpet over the gray walls, to drop mysterious- ly down through the roof. This rude dwelling was set where the beach was bleak and the waves rolled high. But when summer set in be betook himself to a fishing - cabin, which was simply a small one - roomed hut set on a raft, which my grandfather had brought up from Chesapeake Bay, and which, by his orders, had been anchored under the protection of the lee shore. Here old Shuttlecock fished, smoked his pipe, and sat and stewed in the hot sun from its rising to its setting. A more harm- less, happy soul than he never breathed. My grandfather knew this, and I knew it too, and it little mattered to old Shut- tlecock that he was an object of aversion and terror to everybody else for miles around, my grandmother included, who invariably explained him as a pensioner of her husbands. This made the Com- modore angry, and he would hasten to correct the impression of patronage which her term implied. Crony, sir, Shuttlecock is my crony, sir, I beg you to understand; and if it is a question of pensioner, then the term should be ap- plied to me, and not to him. No one ever knew what the service rendered my grandfather had been, but, whatever its nature, it had bound the two men to- gether with bonds which no worldly con- sideration could break. Mrs. Catherine Cull had been my mothers nurse, and now was mine. Every Saturday afternoon, when the weather allowed, my grandfather would take her and me, and Hard Tack the dog, and Plum Duff the tiger cat, and The Commodore. 23T a large white canvas bag in which he had put baccy and grog and fruit and all sorts of goodies. Then we would be tumbled into a rowboat, and the Coin- inodore would pull us across the bay to Shuttlecocks cabin. Such ecstatic afternoons! The light in the old fel- lows one eye, when he turned it on my grandfather, seemed to illuminate all the place. We made lemonade in a conch shell, and we ate strawberries out of lit- tle black and blue mussel shells, and we had bread and butter spread by Nurse Cull with the Commodores knife when he was not whittling, and he and old Shuttlecock would drink their grog and spin their yarns, the wooden leg bobbing up and down the little cabin with a gentle hospitality which I have missed in many a grander host since then. Plum Duff on my grandfathers knee, and Hard Tack at his feet, looked on with superior approval. My grandfather loved animals. I was a little shaver in long clothes when he came home from his three years cruise along the African coast and through the Indian Ocean. But Nurse Cull would tell me how, when his lady went down to the dock to meet the Commodore, after their long separation, she was scan- dalized to behold a flaming macaw flap- ping its gaudy wings on top of his head, an ape perched on his shoulder, and in his arms a huge tiger cat, the subse- quent Plum Duff. He had made the ships gig which conveyed him to the shore a veritable Noahs ark. Now, as my grandmother could not abide ani- mals, the sight did not add to the rap- ture of her welcome. What she would have done had she been aware that a ring-tailed lemur was sound asleep in his roomy coat-tail pocket, I do not dare to think. Matters went from bad to worse, till one day a baby basket, an elaborate affair with its quilted lining of rose- colored silk and lace and ribbon bows, which had been prepared against an ex- pected event, disappeared. Not a trace could be found of it, until some days later it leaked out, after the arrival of my little sister, that my grandfather had appropriated the basket for Plum Duff. That, certainly, was bad enough, but wait until you hear what happened to the baby herself. Like the basket, she too disappeared, one fine day. She was just two months to a day when this occurred, and she came very near never being a day older. Nurse Cull, as was her cus- tom, had left the little creature sound asleep under the mosquito-netting of her bassinet, after first preparing for her a decoction greatly in vogue at that time for babies. It was a wad made of bread and milk and brown sugar rubbed to- gether and tied up in white cambric. Babies whose mouths closed upon this detestable mess were supposed to go to sleep without a whimper. The afternoon was hot and drowsy. Nurse Cull, I f an- cy, must have dropped off herself, in the next room, for she asserted, on the honor of an honest woman, that she heard no sound from the nursery, but that, at five oclock, when she put down her sewing to take the baby up, she found the cradle empty. Then there was a hue and cry, not only up the street, but down the street. The man in the sentry-box, the marines on dress parade, the men in the brass band, everybody, men, women, and children, in the Yard, turned out in the hunt. My poor mother grew wild- eyed and wan as she went here, there, and everywhere, to return to the emp- ty cradle. Her white face must have scared even my grandfather, when he came home from a long afternoon down the bay. What is it, Polly, my girl? he said. My mother could only wail out, My baby, oh, my baby! I did not tell you, I think, that on land the Commodore was one of the most absent-minded of men. But at sea no one ever caught him napping. A sud- den rush of recollection at the sight of my mother sent the blood from his face, 238 The Commodore. until it was as white as her own. He jerked the timepiece from his fob pocket. It lacked fifteen minutes to the sunset gun. We all thought he had gone stark, staring mad when he ran down the stairs, three at a time, and out at the door, no hat on his head, his hair streaming, and tore down the road like one possessed. The men in the ships boat which had fetched him ashore were well on their way hack, but his whistle, loud and shrill, brought them to with a vengeance, and in a jiffy he had leaped into the stern sheets and was commanding the men to pull as they had never pulled hefore. A twenty-dollar gold piece to every Jack Tar of you, if you get me within speak- ing distance of the ship before that shaking his fist in the face of the great dog-day sun which was fast sliding into the water goes down! His voice, ringing out like a trumpet, was the only sound except that of the oars in the rowlocks. No one, not even my mother, knew exactly what terrible thing was impending, but every one surmised that it must have something to do with the missing baby. Under the sharp, strong strokes of the sailors the boat slid over the glassy sea as fast as a fish could swim. The Commodores eyes glared at the great red ball rolling down toward the waters edge as though he would fix it stock-still in the sky. We on the dock could see the gun- ner come on the ships deck, his figure standing out black and grim against the crimson west. Clinging to my mothers hand, which trembled in mine, I looked back to the house to see that my grand- mother stood in her open window, very pale and more proud than ever. I think she was the only one who knew that my grandfather was at the bottom of this ex- citement, as indeed he was of everything that ever caused a stir in our quiet lives. Nurse Cull caught the glass, which my mother had no strength to hold, and, looking through it, saw that the gunner carried his iron rammer, bag of powder, and wad of cotton, it being before the days of the percussion cap. The sun grew redder and bigger as it neared the heaving water-line. There was not the length of an oar between sea and sun when we could see my grandfather spring to his feet in the hoat and roar something at the men who were pulling for dear life. The tone was so terrible that we could hear it even on shore. The sail- ors bent their hacks till their noses were flattened on their knees and the ribbons on their caps stood out straight behind. And then, with a pull that lifted the boat clean out of the water, with a tre- mendous spurt, they brought it well up to the ships side. Again did the Com- modore thunder out something in that awful tone, this time to the man who was about to ram the charge into the black belly of the cannon, so that he let everything fall upon the deck. The great red disk of the sun was now draw- ing itself under the waves. But before it had quite disappeared my grandfather had cleared the bulwarks of the Gram- pus and snatched from the black mouth of the gun a something long and white and fluttering, something which at a distance looked like a bolster-case, but which caused my poor mother to faint dead away. A great crowd bad gathered on the dock by this time, and oh, what a shout they sent up! The baby! the baby! the baby is saved! Hurrah for the baby! With a three times three and a tiger for the baby! This brought my mother to, and I remember how she laughed and cried and kissed me, and how all the women had their handkerchiefs out, and the men, too, as many as had them. Then across the water came the great boom of the sunset gun, for the first time in its history just one minute after the sun had dipped below the horizon. This was the signal for the sky to un- furl itself like a rose, and, blown by some invisible wind, to disperse in little clouds, which floated rosy and pink in The Commodore. 239 the golden twilight. So that, in my child- ish fancy, quickened by Hans Andersen, I thought the good angels were scatter- ing rose leaves upon the boat which was bringing my little sister back to us. She lay in my grandfathers arms, with her long white dress floating out in the breeze, and his cheek pressed against hers. Then, as the boat came dancing over the waves, the marine band struck up the Commo- dores favorite tune, The Girl I left be- hind Me, and to its spirited measures and amid general rejoicing he landed his precious cargo. After this little pleasantry on my grand- fathers part, he did own up to the babys abduction, but he would never acknow- ledge having forgotten her in the can- nons belly. He said that it was only a joke to shake us up out of our dumps and doldrums. But for all that he was very meek and well behaved up to the day of the babys christening, and then he took umbrage at both my grandmother and my mother because they objected when he, as sponsor, sprang the name Gram- pussina upon my sisters unoffending head. Fortunately, the clergyman was deaf, and this gave my mother a chance to set matters straight. Having most effectually put both the women in the east by noreast, as he expressed it, the Commodore went off in high dudgeon for a weeks visit in New York. The relations between my mater- nal grandparents were most certainly strained. I doubt if my grandmother s& id good-by to her husband, when he started out for New York, a consider- able journey in those days. Young as I was, I marveled at this, because over and over again I had heard my ~mother tell what a romantic love-match theirs had been, and how the fashionable world of Baltimore was up in arms when the beautiful young heiress, Cornelia Mac- Tavish Dulaney Hopkins, stole away from her fathers house, in the dead of night, with a flowered bandbox and a dashing young officer, who had risen by bravery from ships cabin boy to lieu- tenant. I have told you what an aristo- cratic name was my grandmothers, but my grandfather, who had no use for the grandiloquent, always called her Polly Hopkins. Well, he did not stop out his week in New York, but came back after the third day. It was in the afternoon of a scorching day in September, not a breath on land or sea. My grandmother and I and the baby were sitting under the shade of a great butternut tree which grew on the lawn in front of the Com- modores house. At the sight of my grandfather coming up the pebbled walk with its high box border, my mother, dear soul, whose heart was too gentle to harbor a grudge, gave a little cry of joy, and ran to meet him, and to receive on her sweet face a sounding smack. But my grandmother, who thought kissing vulgar, turned away her cheek, so that the salutation meant for her fell on empty air. For all that, however, I think that in her heart she was as glad to have him home as we were, although she did ask him in an icy tone if he had brought any pets in the form of orang- outangs, elephants, boa constrictors, or lions from the menagerie of a certain Mr. Barnum, who at that time was causing the wonders of his show to burst upon the metropolis. Meanwhile I was busying myself with the spyglass, my grandfather lying on the grass with Grampussina lie insisted upon calling her that with- out benefit of clergy crawling all over him. Hello!~ I cried, after scanning the offing. Something in my tone made my grand- father ask, What s up, hub? A flag, sir, said I. Where? On old Shuttlecocks fishing-cabin. Well, exclaimed my grandmother, I declare, the airs of that good-for-no- thing old pauper, setting up his colors as if he were the Lord High Admiral! 240 The Commodore, It s a funny-looking flag, said I, ignoring this interpolation, with my eyes screwed up to the glass. It hangs all limp, but I can see its color, and it s bright yellow. This brought my grandfather up with a bound. He reached for the glass, and clapped it to his eyes. By Beelzebubs buttons, you re right, boy! It s the yellow jack, and old Shut- tlecock s down with some infernal, dev- ilish, damned disease. And, jumping to his feet, I m going to him. This was a bombshell. My grandmo- ther expostulated, my mother wept, and I put my nose up in the air and howled. All to no avail. Go he must, go lie would, and go he did. We all rose and followed him into the house to the medicine closet, to help him pack the old canvas bag with such remedies as he selected from its shelves. In addition to these there was a large bottle of brandy, one of cherry bounce, a roll of red flannel, and a box of mustard. Hanging on the wall was an old-fashioned warming-pan of polished brass. My grandfather started off with this over his shoulder. But when my grandmother beheld him thus equipped, she declared he was insulting the family pride of the Dulaneys, and that her grand- mothers heirloom should not be dese- crated. Under ordinary conditions this would have thrown the Commodore into a towering rage, but now he only sighed, Put the warming-pan back on the wall, and stood on the threshold of the door, gazing with a long, wistful look at my grandmother. But she went on fanning herself, and made no sign. So he turned and left the room. My mother and I accompanied him down to the dock; he, on the way, giv- ing us careful directions for the feed- ing of Hard Tack and Plum Duff, who both followed him to the waters edge. There were little knots of sailors and marines huddled together on the planks, speaking with horror of that yellow rag hanging limp in the humid air. There were whispers of yellow fever, Asiatic cholera, and, dreadest of all, lep- rosy. The men were all scared to death. My grandfather knew this, and when the boat was lowered, and two stalwart fellows with blanched faces stepped for- ward to take their places at the oars, he ordered them back. I am going alone, he said in a firm, low voice. He kissed my mother and me a long good- by. Bear up, my girl, he whispered. It s only my duty I m doing, and I should do for old Shuttlecock what he has done for me. If I never come back, take good care of your mother. And then he stooped and stroked the backs of his two faithful comrades, the cat and the dog. We watched him, through our tears, setting out alone on that awful errand. Under the hot sun the sea lay dead as pulp. At each scoop of the oars might be seen on either side of the boat a yeasty streak, which gleamed livid for a second, like the belly of some skulking shark before it slunk away beneath the waveless waters. The unspeakable depression which hung over the landscape was no match for that which had settled upon the house when we returned to it. We passed from room to room, each one more empty than the others, with the vital presence gone, perhaps forever. On the table in the hall lay the copy of Robinson Crusoe and the wax doll he had brought my sister and me from New York, together with a hamper of fruit from Fulton Market for my mother and grandmother. I choked at the sight. Then we went up to my grandmothers room. The door was shut and the key turned from the inside. In answer to my mothers voice she explained that she had gone to bed with a headache from the excessive heat; would my mother preside for her over the tea-table ? I held back my sobs till the yretched meal was over; but once alone in my lit- tle room, I flung myself down in a wild fLhe Commodore. 241 passion of tears, such as only childhood knows. Then I undressed and crept into bed, to dream that a great hero was being buried. The marine band was playing the Dead March in Saul, I thought, and all the soldiers were march- ing with arms reversed, and the marines had crape bands on their arms, and the barracks were hung with long black streamers. So were Plum Duff and Hard Tack. The drums were muffled, and the flags were flying at half - mast, and the minute guns were booming, and in the distance I could hear the church chimes in the city ringing out across the water Adeste Fideles. Then, amid the tumult, there fell upon my ears a sound I had never heard before: my grand- mother was crying to break her heart. I awoke from my dream to hear the night-watch shouting, Twelve oclock, and all s well ! The moonlight flooded my room, and there, leaning over my bed, was the last person in the world whom I should have ever expected to find there, my grandmother! I raised myself o,n my elbows and rubbed my eyes to make sure that I was not still dreaming. But no; there she was, her face all wet with tears. She had thrown a black lace veil over her head, across her arms she had a white camels hair shawl, and in her hand she held nothing more nor less than the warming-pan of my great - great - grandmother Dulaney. I gaped at her, too astonished for words. Frank, she said in a broken voice, would you mind getting up and dress- ing, and going down with me to the dock? I could not have been more dumfounded had my grandmother then and there proposed our mounting the warming-pan and flying up to the moon. I am sorry to disturb you, child, but I thought it might create comment if I were seen going across the yard so late at night, by myself. Now, the sheer idea of my grandmo- ther walking across the parade-ground at the dead of night, with no other pro- VOL. LXXXII. NO. 490. 16 tector than the family warming - pan, struck me as so preposterous that I al- most laughed aloud. But I was soon in my clothes, and we started off on our noc- turnal expedition. As my grandmother felt the warm, sweet-scented night on her cheek, she drew a long breath. I think, too, she softly sighed. I won- dered if she thought of that other night, so many years ago, of which I had heard my mother tell. Frank, she asked, as we hurried across the empty parade-ground, have you any idea what I am going to do? Not the dimmest, grandmother, re- plied I stoutly, which was a deliberate lie. Well, my child, I will tell you: I am going to carry this over to your grand- father. In her agitation she brought the warming - pan down with a clang upon the paving- stones. It rang out like the tocsin of war, and I thought that we should surely have the whole barracks tumbling out about us. As it was, we startled the sentinel; but I was ready for him with the password, and he let us go unchallenged. Fortunately for us, the streets were deserted. As we neared the dock, my grandmother again spoke. I am wondering, child, said she, how we are to find a boat, at this late ~hour. I would have ordered one earlier in the day, but, with a slight hesitancy, I only resolved to do this half an hour ago. Actually, she was proceeding on the impulse of the moment! Dont you worry about the boat, grandmother, I answered. I have a beauty of my own. Grandad gave it to me on my last birthday, when I was ten years old. I have the key of the boat- house in my pocket. See! I cried, hold- ing it up in the moonlight. Then, after a few minutes, a more serious question arose. Frank, said my grandmother, do you think there will be any one on the dock to row me over? I am a litt~ 242 The Commodore. nervous in trusting myself to a strange man whose habits I do not know. You leave that to me, grandmother, I called out to her over my shoulder, for I was now preceding her upon the dock. I know a fellow who will go with you, and his habits are all right. This seemed to reassure her, and with- out more ado I brought the boat around, and helped her down the steps and into the stern. She gave herself up to the novelty of the situation, having, how- ever, before she embarked, drawn on a very fine pair of lavender kid gloves. No lady, born and bred, could think of going abroad with bare hands. I took the oars, and, righting the boat, got clear of the small craft bobbing up and down about the dock. And now, Frank, she asked, peer- ing about in the moonlight, and resting her gloved hands on the gunwale of the boat, where is the man you promised you would get to row me? I pulled steadily ahead for several lengths before I answered, smiling up at her as I leaned on my oars, Here he is, grandmother. The kid gloves became deprecatory. Oh, Frank, Frank, you have de- ceived me! she cried. You said you would get me a man. No, grandmother, I beg your par- don, I did not. I said a fellow. I said, I know a fellow, and he will go with you, and he has no bad habits, which is true, is nt it? I kept on rowing and talking with an audacious persistency which was too much for the. lady in the stern. But I cannot allow you to run into such danger, child. You must let me out. She said this with a sudden re- turn to her old air of authority. You must stop the boat and let me out this instant, I insist upon it! But you will drown if I let you out here, unless you can use the warming- pan as a life-preserver. It is ridiculous, she gasped, a baby like you riding over his grand- mother in this way. What will your grandfather say. I do not know what he will say, but I do know what he would do, if I did not go with you. But your strength will give out, child, before we get halfway over, she urged in a mollified tone. Then we can rig up a mast and sail out of your shawl and the warming-pan, and trust to them to carry us over! This was too much for her, and she sank back resignedly on her cushions, conquered as much by the beauty of the night as by me; for the night was beautiful beyond words. The great har- vest moon was overhead, and beneath its light the sea lay in a golden lan- guor. Under the spell of its enchant- ment, youth knew the wisdom of age without its weariness, and age knew the freshness of youth without its folly. It made my grandmother young, and me old, so that, rocked on that golden tide, the hearts of the woman and child became one. For the first time in my life I loved my grandmother. All the grief and despair of the day had van- ished; I was ecstatically happy, and so, I think, was she. It mattered little to either of us that the burnished pathway over which we were passing led up to the house of death, for we both knew that that which was dearer than life awaited us there. It was the unreal which held sway. I was a very young child to learn, as I did that night, that it is by the unreal that the soul is en- couraged, and that he who would en- dure must be a dreamer. How young you look, dear grand- mamma, I said, resting on my oars and letting the boat drift, and how heauti- ful, just like the ivory miniature which grandad wears about his neck! How odd, child! she answered. I was just about to tell you how old you seem to have grown, quite like a man, since we started out together. The Commodore. 243 Her face was tender in the golden light, and she trailed one hand, the gloves having been removed, in the wa- ter, as a girl would have done. Do I look like that picture? she sighed. I feel to-night just as I did when I had it painted to give your grand- father. That was a long time ago. I was only eighteen.~~ When she spoke again, it was to echo my own thoughts. I have been thinking, child, she said, that your grandfather will not be at all surprised to see us. Everything to-night seems so natural to me, and just as it should be. And so, I am sure yes, very sure that when he sees us he will say that it is just what he thought we would do. I have no right to expect that he should think this of me, she continued sadly, but I believe he knew all the time that I would come. We were now quite close to old Shut- tlecocks cabin. A red lantern swung under the yellow jack, which hung black in the shadow. My grandfather must have seen us a long way off, for he stood on the rafts edge, as if waiting for us. But there was no surprise on his face, only a great happiness. His eyes were riveted on my grandmother. After a little space of silence, she was the first to speak. Did you think I would come, dear? she asked. Yes, Polly, he replied, I was sure of it. Why? she asked, and lowered her eyes. Because you love me, said my grandfather. No, she answered, that was not the reason.~~ Then, for Gods sake, what was it? he cried, catching his breath. Because you love me, she said, lift- ing her eyes, and reaching out her arms for him to take her from the boat. But at this my grandfather drew back, and broke out in vehement self-denuncia tions. He had been weak and coward- ly to allow us to approach so near this awful danger, and then he drew the most harrowing and alarming pictures as to what the consequences would be if we stayed a moment longer in that pestilential place. Old Shuttlecock, it appeared, had been discovered by the Board of Health in a seemingly critical condition, and they had diagnosed the case as Asiatic chol- era, and taken themselves off in great alarm. That is more than I shall do, de- clared my grandmother from the boat. I have come to share the danger with you.~~ But are you not afraid? said he. I am afraid of nothing where you are, she replied. Not even death? he asked. No, said she, again reaching out her arms to him. Then bring the boat alongside, hub. I did so, and he caught my grand- mother in his arms, and kissed her for dear life, I too coming in for my share. For at least five minutes my grandmo- ther and I tasted all the joy of our beau- tiful act of seif-abuegation, and during that time my grandfather made himself sure of something that many times in his life he had had to doubt. Now, both by word and by look, my grandmother gave him the assurance of her affection. And now, he said at last, now it is my turn to make a confession. Old Shuttlecock is no more down with AsP atic cholera than I am. The Board of Health is all a lot of jackasses, who dont know when a man has had too much watermelo~n. At this turn of affairs, which was truly a let-down for everybody but old Shuttlecock himself, who was blissfully sleeping off the effects of cherry bounce, my grandmother began to grow hysteri- cal. Come, said the Commodore, it is getting late; we must go home. I am 244 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. going back with you. But what in thun- der is this? For in jumping into the boat he had landed plump on the warm- ing-pan, which in the excitement of the moment had been forgotten. By all that s sacred, it s the warming-pan of the Dulaneys! Polly, he asked, pin- ning the camels hair shawl about her shoulders, tell me one thing more: did you bring that, with a look at the warm- ing-pan, to me? But my grandmother evaded his ques- tion. After I was safe and sound in my own little bed my grandfather came into my room. Bub, said he, you re a brick; I am proud of you. But tell me one thing: what was your grandmother doing out on the high seas with her warming- 2 pan. She was fetching it to you, sir, I said. On your word of honor, bub? Yes, on my word of honor, I re~ joined. Well, women beat the Dutch! he exclaimed. Good-night, my boy. Justine Ingersoll. REMINISCENCES OF AN ASTRONOMER. I. I MADE my first trip abroad when the oldest transatlantic line was still the fash- ionable one; and when the passenger felt himself amply compensated for poor attendance, coarse food, and bad coffee by learning from the officers on the pro- menade deck how far the ships of the Cunard line were superior to all others in strength of hull, ability of captain, and discipline of crew. One day a ship of the North German Lloyd line was seen in the offing slowly gaining on us. A passenger called the captains atten- tion to the fact that we were being left behind. Oh, they re very lightly built, them German ships; built to car- ry German dolls and such like cargo. Needless to say, the speaker was not Sir James Anderson, who won knighthood by the part he took in laying the Atlan- tic cable, but he was as perfect a type of the old-fashioned captain of the best class as I ever saw. His face looked as if the gentlest zephyr that had ever fanned it was an Atlantic hurricane, and yet beamed with Hibernian good humor and friendliness. He read prayers so well on Sunday that a passenger assured him he was born to he a bishop. Only those readers who never sailed with Cap- tain McMickan will need to be told his name. In London one of the first men we met was Thomas Hughes, of Rugby fame, who made us feel how worthy he was of the love and esteem bestowed upon him by Americans. He was able to make our visit pleasant in more ways than one. Among the men I wanted to see was Mr. John Stuart Mill, to whom I was attract- ed not only by his fame as a philosopher and the interest with which I had read his books, hut also because he was the author of an excellent pamphlet on the Union side during our civil war. On expressing my desire to make Mr. Mills acquaintance Mr. Hughes imme- diately offered to give mc a note of in- troduction. Mill lived at Blackheath, which, although in an easterly direction down the Thames, is one of the prettiest suburbs of the great metropolis. His dwelling was a very modest one, entered through a passage of trellis-work in a little garden. He was by no means the grave and distinguished-looking man I

244 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. going back with you. But what in thun- der is this? For in jumping into the boat he had landed plump on the warm- ing-pan, which in the excitement of the moment had been forgotten. By all that s sacred, it s the warming-pan of the Dulaneys! Polly, he asked, pin- ning the camels hair shawl about her shoulders, tell me one thing more: did you bring that, with a look at the warm- ing-pan, to me? But my grandmother evaded his ques- tion. After I was safe and sound in my own little bed my grandfather came into my room. Bub, said he, you re a brick; I am proud of you. But tell me one thing: what was your grandmother doing out on the high seas with her warming- 2 pan. She was fetching it to you, sir, I said. On your word of honor, bub? Yes, on my word of honor, I re~ joined. Well, women beat the Dutch! he exclaimed. Good-night, my boy. Justine Ingersoll. REMINISCENCES OF AN ASTRONOMER. I. I MADE my first trip abroad when the oldest transatlantic line was still the fash- ionable one; and when the passenger felt himself amply compensated for poor attendance, coarse food, and bad coffee by learning from the officers on the pro- menade deck how far the ships of the Cunard line were superior to all others in strength of hull, ability of captain, and discipline of crew. One day a ship of the North German Lloyd line was seen in the offing slowly gaining on us. A passenger called the captains atten- tion to the fact that we were being left behind. Oh, they re very lightly built, them German ships; built to car- ry German dolls and such like cargo. Needless to say, the speaker was not Sir James Anderson, who won knighthood by the part he took in laying the Atlan- tic cable, but he was as perfect a type of the old-fashioned captain of the best class as I ever saw. His face looked as if the gentlest zephyr that had ever fanned it was an Atlantic hurricane, and yet beamed with Hibernian good humor and friendliness. He read prayers so well on Sunday that a passenger assured him he was born to he a bishop. Only those readers who never sailed with Cap- tain McMickan will need to be told his name. In London one of the first men we met was Thomas Hughes, of Rugby fame, who made us feel how worthy he was of the love and esteem bestowed upon him by Americans. He was able to make our visit pleasant in more ways than one. Among the men I wanted to see was Mr. John Stuart Mill, to whom I was attract- ed not only by his fame as a philosopher and the interest with which I had read his books, hut also because he was the author of an excellent pamphlet on the Union side during our civil war. On expressing my desire to make Mr. Mills acquaintance Mr. Hughes imme- diately offered to give mc a note of in- troduction. Mill lived at Blackheath, which, although in an easterly direction down the Thames, is one of the prettiest suburbs of the great metropolis. His dwelling was a very modest one, entered through a passage of trellis-work in a little garden. He was by no means the grave and distinguished-looking man I Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 245 had expected to see. He was small in stature and rather spare, and did not seem to have markedly intellectual fea- tures. The cordiality of his greeting was more than I could have expected; and he was much pleased to know that his work in moulding English sentiment in our favor at the commencement of the civil war was so well remembered and so highly appreciated across the Atlantic. As a philosopher, it must be conceded that Mr. Mill lived at an unfortunate time. While his vigor and independ- ence of thought led him to break loose from the trammels of the traditional phi- losophy, modern scientific generalization had not yet reached a stage favorable to his becoming a leader in developing the new philosophy. Still, whatever may be the merits of his philosophic theories, it must be conceded that no work on scien- tific method has yet appeared worthy to displace his System of Logic. A feature of London life that must strongly impress the scientific student from our country is the closeness of touch, socially as well as officially, be- tween the literary and scientific classes on the one side and the governing classes on the other. Mr. Hughes invited us to make an evening call with him at the house of a cabinet minister, I think it was Mr. Goschen, where we should find a number of persons worth seeing. Among those gathered in this casual way were Mr. Gladstone, Dean Stanley, and our General Burnside, then grown quite gray. I had never before met General Burnside, but his published portraits were so characteristic that the man could scarcely have been mistaken. The only change was in the color of his beard. Then and later I found that a pleasant feature of these informal at homes, so universal in London, is that one meets so many people he wants to see, and so few he does not want to see. Ostensibly, the principal object of my journey was the observation of a total eclipse of the sun which was to be visi ble in the Mediterranean, in December, 1870. Of another vastly more important object I shall speak subsequently. In view of the interest then attaching 1~o to- tal eclipses of the sun, Congress had made a very liberal appropriation for observa- tions, to be expended under the direc- tion of Professor Peirce, superintendent of the Coast Survey. Peirce went over in person to take charge of the arrange- ments. He arrived in London with sev- eral members of his party a few days before we did, and about the same time came an independent party of my fel- low astronomers from the Naval Obser- vatory, consisting of Professors Hall, Harkness, and Eastman. The invasion of their country by such an army of American astronomers quite stirred up our English colleagues, who sorrowfully contrasted the liberality of our govern- ment with the parsimony of their own, which had, they said, declined to make any provision for the observations of the eclipse. Considering that it was visible on their own side of the Atlantic, they thought their government might take a lesson from ours. Of course we could not help them directly; and yet I sus- pect that our coming, or at least the com- ing of Peirce, really did help them a great deal. At any rate, it was a curi- ous coincidence that no sooner did the American invasion occur than it was semi-officially discovered that no applica- tion of which her Majestys government could take cognizance had been made by the scientific authorities for a grant of money with which to make preparations for observing the eclipse. That the sci- entific authorities were not long in catch- ing so broad a hint as this goes without saying. A little more of the story came out a few days later in a very unexpect- ed way. In scientific England, the great social event of the year is the annual banquet of the Royal Society, held on St. An- drews day, the date of the annual meet- ing of the society, and of the award of 246 its medals for distinguished work in sci- ence. At the banquet, the scientific out- look is discussed not only by members of the society, but by men high in polit- ical and social life. The medalists are toasted, if they are present; and their praises are sung, if, as is apt to be the case with foreigners, they are absent. First in rank is the Copley medal, found- ed by Sir Godfrey Copley, a contempo- rary of Newton. This medal has been awarded annually since 1731, and is now considered the highest honor that scien- tific England has to bestow. The recip- ient is selected with entire impartiality as to country, not for any special work published during the year, but in view of the general merit of all that he has done. Four times in its history the medal has crossed the Atlantic. The first three among us to receive it were Franklin in 1753, Agassiz in 1861, and Dana in 1877.1 The long time that elapsed between the first and the second of these awards affords an illustration of the backwardness of scientific research in America during the greater part of the first century of our independence. The year of my visit the medal was awarded to Mr. Joule, the English physi- cist, for his work on the relation of heat and energy. I was a guest at the banquet, which was the most brilliant function I had witnessed up to that time. The leaders in English science and learning sat around the table. Her Majestys gov- ernment was represented by Mr. Glad- stone, the Premier, and Mr. Lowe, af- terward Viscount Sherbrookc, Chancel- lor of the Exchequer. Both replied to toasts. Mr. Lowe as a speaker was per- haps a little dull, but not so Mr. Glad- stone. There was a charm about the way in which his talk seemed to display the inner man. It could not be said that be had either the dry humor of Mr. 1 The fourth American recipient was Profes- sor Newcomb. THE EDITOR OF THE ATLAN- TIC MONTHLY. Reminiscences of an Astronomer. Evarts or the wit of Mr. Depew; but these qualities were well replaced by the vivacity of his manner and the intellectu- ality of his face. He looked as if he had something interesting he wanted to tell you; and he proceeded to tell it in a very felicitous way as regarded both manner and language, but without any- thing that savored of eloquence. He was like Carl Schurz in talking as if he wanted to inform you, and not because he wanted you to see what a fine speak- er he was. With this he impressed one as having a perfect command of his sub- ject in all its bearings. I did not for a moment suppose that the Premier of England could have taken any personal interest in the mat- ter of the eclipse. Great, therefore, was my surprise when, in speaking of the relations of the government to science, he began to talk about the coming event. I quote a passage from memory, after twenty-seven years: I had the pleasure of a visit, a few days since, from a very distinguished American professor, Pro- fessor Peirce of Harvard. In the course of the interview, the learned gentleman expressed his regret that her Majestys government had declined to take any measures to promote observations of the coming eclipse of the sun by British as- tronomers. I replied that I was not aware that the government had declined to take such measures. Indeed, I went farther, and assured him that any appli- cation from our astronomers for aid in making these observations would receive respectful consideration. I felt that there might be room for some suspicion that this visit of Professor Peirce was a not unimportant factor in the changed position of affairs as regarded British observations of the eclipse. Not only the scene I have described, but subsequent experience, has impressed me with the high appreciation in which the best scientific work is held by the leading countries of Europe, especially England and France, as if its prosecu Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 247 tion were something of national impor- tance which men of the highest rank thought it an honor totake part in. A phy- sicist like Sir William Thomson becomes a peer; a hereditary peer like Rayleigh devotes his life and talents to scientific investigation, becomes a university pro- fessor, and makes researches leading to the discovery of a new chemical element in the atmosphere. The Marquis of Salisbury, in an interval between two terms of service as Premier of England, presides over the British Association for the Advancement of Science, and de- livers an address showing a wide and careful study of the generalizations of modern science. Nor is this intimate relation between intellectual and political work confined to the governing classes. An Englishman may get into Parliament by being an historian, a chemist, or an author, as readily as by being a party manager or a lawyer. More than one American working in a field removed from the public eye may have had some reason to feel that his efforts were more highly appreciat- ed abroad than at home. Mr. George W. Hill, who has made the little post- office of Nyack Turnpike known to math- ematicians and astronomers the world over, is a very modest man. One of the hardest wrestles I ever had with an official superior was in trying to get a Secretary of the Navy to raise his sala- ry to fourteen hundred dollars. A few years later he was one of a procession of distinguished men, headed by the Duke of Edinburgh, who received the degree of Doctor of Laws from the University of Cambridge. In France, also, one great glory of the nation is felt to be the works of its scientific and learned men of the past and present. Membership of one of the five academies of the Institute of France is counted among the highest honors to which a Frenchman can as- pire. Most remarkable, too, is the ex- tent to which other considerations than that of merit are set aside in selecting candidates for this honor. Quite recent- ly a man was elected a member of the Academy of Sciences who was without either university or official position, and earned a modest subsistence as a collab- orator of the Revue des Deux Mondes. But he had found time to make investiga- tions in mathematical astronomy of such merit that he was considered to have fairly earned this distinction, and the modesty of his social position did not lie in his way. In England, the career of Professor Cayley affords an example of the spirit that impels a scientific worker of the highest class, and of the extent to which an enlightened community may honor him for what he is doing. One of the creators of modern mathematics, he never had any ambition beyond the pro- secution of his favorite science. I first met him at a dinner of the Astronomical Society Club. As the guests were tak- ing off their wraps and assembling in the anteroom, I noticed with some sur- prise that one whom I supposed to be an attendant was talking with them on easy terms. A moment later the supposed attendant was introduced as Professor Cayley. His garb set off the seeming haggardness of his keen features so effectively that I thought him either broken down in health or just recovering from some protracted illness. The un- spoken words on my lips were, Why Professor Cayley, what has happened to you? Being now in the confessional, I must own that I did not, at the mo- ment, recognize the marked intellectu- ality of a very striking face. As a re- presentation of a mathematician in the throes of thought, I know nothing to equal his portrait by Dickenson, which now hangs in the hail of Trinity College, Cambridge, and is reproduced in the sixth volume of Cayleys collected works. His life was that of a man moved to in- vestigation by an uncontrollable impulse; the only sort of man whose work is de- stined to be imperishable. Until forty 248 .I?eminiscences of an Astronomer. years of age he was by profession a con- veynacer. His ability was such that he might have gained a fortune by practi- cing the highest branch of English law, if his energies had not been diverted in an- other direction. The spirit in which he pursued his work may be judged from an anecdote related by his friend and co-worker, Sylvester, who, in speaking of Cayleys even and placid temper, told me that he had never seen him ruffled but once. Entering his office one morn- ing, intent on some new mathematical thought which he was discussing with Sylvester, he opened the letter-box in his door and found a bundle of papers relat- ing to a law case which he was asked to take up. The interruption was too much. He flung the papers on the table with remarks more forcible than complimen- tary concerning the person who had dis- tracted his attention at such an inoppor- tune moment. In 1863 he was made a professor at Cambridge, where, no longer troubled with the intricacies of land-tenure, he published one investiga- tion after another with ceaseless activ- ity, to the end of his life. Among my most interesting callers was Professor John C. Adams, celebrat- ed as sharing with Leverrier the honor of having computed the position of the planet Neptune before its existence was otherwise known. The work of the two men was prosecuted at almost the same time; perhaps Adams was a little earlier in the field; but by an unfortu- nate chain of circumstances the work of the Frenchman was the first to attract public notice, and it was through Lever- rier s initiative that the planet was discovered with the Berlin telescope. Adopting the principle that priority of publication should be the sole basis of credit, Arago had declared that no other name than that of Leverrier should even be mentioned in connection with the work. If repute was correct, Leverrier was not distinguished for those amiable qualities that commonly mark the man of science and learning. His attitude toward Adams had always been hostile. Under these conditions chance afforded the latter a splendid opportunity of show- ing his superiority to all personal feel- ing. He was president of the Royal Astronomical Society when its annual medal was awarded to his French rival for his work in constructing new tables of the sun and planets. As such it was his duty to deliver the address setting forth the reasons for the award. He did this with a warmth of praise for Lever- riers works which could not have been exceeded had the two men been bosom friends. Adamss intellect was one of the keen- est I ever knew. The most difficult problems of mathematical astronomy and the most recondite principles that underlie the theory of the celestial mo- tions were to him but childs play. His works place him among the first mathe- matical astronomers of the age, and yet they do not seem to do his ability entire justice. Indeed, for fifteen years previ- ous to the time of my visit his published writings had been rather meagre. I asked a friend how it was that the pub- lished works of so able a man had not been more complete. The fact is, said he, Adams is rather a lazy sort of fellow who loves good dinners and bad puns. I saw a great deal of him subsequently, and, while I always found him good-humored and cheerful, thought our friends characterization was a little overdrawn. But I believe he was justly credited with an elaborate witticism to the following effect: In view of the fact that the only human being ever known to have been killed by a meteor- ite was a monk, we may concede that after four hundred years the Popes bull against the comet has been justified by the discovery that comets are made up of meteorites. Those readers who know on what im- perfect data mens impressions are some- times founded will not be surprised to Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 249 learn of my impression that an English- mans politics could be inferred from his mental and social make-up. As all men are said to be born either Aristo- telians or Platonists, so I supposed that all Englishmen were born Conservatives or Liberals. The utterances of English journalists of the Conservative party about Ameri- can affairs during and after our civil war had not impressed me with the idea that one so unfortunate as to be born for that party would either take much interest in meeting an American or be capable of taking an appreciative view of scientific progress. So confi- dent was I of my theory that I remarked to a friend, with whom I had become somewhat intimate, that no one who knew Mr. Adams could have much doubt that he was a Liberal in politics. An embarrassed smile spread over the friends features. You would not make that conclusion known to Mr. Adams, I hope, said he. But is he not a Liberal ? He is not only a Conservative, but declares himself a Tory of the Tories. I afterward found that he fully justi- fied his own description. At the univer- sity, he was one of the leading opponents of those measures which freed the aca- demic degrees from religious tests. He had even gone so far as to object to Syl- vester receiving his degree, this being on religious rather than on political grounds. But extreme conservatism in religion naturally leads to the same attitude in politics. I had decided to observe the eclipse at Gibraltar. In order that my results, if I obtained any, might be utilized in the best way, it was necessary that the longitude of the station should be de- termined by telegraph. This had never been done for Gibraltar. How great the error of the supposed longitude might have been may be inferred from the fact that a few years later an American found the longitude of Lis bon on the Admiralty charts to be two miles in error. The first arrangements I had to make in England were direct- ed to this end. Considering the relation of the worlds great fortress to British maritime supremacy, it does seem as if there were something presumptuous in the coolness with which I went among the authorities to make arrangements for the enterprise. Nevertheless, the authorities permitted the work, with a cordiality which was of itself quite suffi- cient to remove any such impression, had it been entertained. The astronomers did, indeed, profess to feel it humiliating that the longitude of such a place as Gibraltar should have to be determined from Greenwich by an American. They did not say by a foreigner, because they always protested against Ameri- cans looking upon themselves as such. Still, it would not be an English enter- prise if an American carried it out. I suspect, however, that my proceedings were not looked upon with entire dissat- isfaction even by the astronomers. They might prove as good a stimulant to their government in showing a little more en- terprise in that direction as the arrival of our eclipse party did. The longitude work naturally took me to the Royal Observatory which has made the little town of Greenwich so f a- mous. It is situated some eight miles east from Charing Cross, on a hill in Greenwich Park, with a pleasant out- look toward the Thames. From my youth up I had been working with its ob- servations, and there was no institution in the world which I had approached, or could approach, with the interest I felt in ascending the little hill on which the observatory is situated. When the Cala- bria was once free from her wharf in New York harbor, and on her way down the Narrows, the foremost thought was, Off for Europe; we shall see Green- wich! The day of my arrival in Lon- don I had written to Professor Airy, and received an answer the same even- 250 ]?eminiscences of an Astronomer. ing, inviting us to visit the observatory and spend an afternoon with him a day or two later. I was shown around the observatory by an assistant, while my wife was en- tertained by Mrs. Airy and the daugh- ters inside the dwelling. The family dined as soon as the days work was over, about the middle of the afternoon. After the meal, we sat over a blazing fire and discussed our impressions of London. What place in London interested you most? The first place I went to see was Cavendish Square. What was there in Cavendish Square to interest you? When I was a little girl, my mother once gave me, as a birthday present, a small volume of poems. The first verse in the book was : Little Ann and her mother were walking one day Through Londons wide city so fair; And business obliged them to go by the way That led them through Cavendish Square. To our astonishment the astronomer royal at once took up the thread: And as they passed by the great house of a lord A beautiful chariot there came, To take some most elegant ladies abroad, Who straightway got into the same,~~~ and went on to the end. I do not know which of the two was more surprised: Airy, to find an American woman who was interested in bis favorite ballad, or she to find that he could repeat it by heart. The incident was the commence- ment of a family friendship which has outlived both the heads of the Airy family. We may look back on Airy as the most commanding figure in the astro- nomy of our time. He owes this position not only to his early works in mathe- matical astronomy, but also to his ability as an organizer. Before his time the working force of an observatory general- ly consisted~ of individual observers, each of whom worked to a greater or less extent in his own way. It is true that organization was not unknown in such institutions. Nominally, at least, the as- sistants in a national observatory were supposed to follow the instructions of a directing head. This was especially the case at Greenwich. Still, great depend- ence was placed upon the judgment and ability of the observer himself, who was generally expected to be a man well trained in his specialty, and able to car- ry on good work without much help. From Airys point of view, it was seen that a large part of the work necessary to the attainnient of the traditional end of the Royal Observatory was of a kind that almost any bright schoolboy could learn to do in a few weeks, and that in most of the remaining part plodding in- dustry, properly directed, was more im- portant than scientific training. He could himself work out all the mathematical formula, and write all the instructions required to keep a small army of ob- servers and computers employed, and could then train in his methods a few able lieutenants, who would see that all the details were properly executed. Un- der these lieutenants was a grade com- prising men of sufficient technical educa- tion to enable them to learn how to point the telescope, record a transit, and per- form the other technical operations ne- cessary in an astronomical observation. A third grade was that of computers: ingenious youth, quick at figures, ready to work for a compensation which an American laborer would despise, yet well enough schooled to make simple calcula- tions. Under the new system they need- ed to understand only the four rules of arithmetic; indeed, so far as possible Airy arranged his calculations in such a way that subtraction and division were rarely required. His boys had little more to do than add and multiply. Thus, Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 251 so far as the doing of work was con- cerned, he introduced the same sort of improvement that our times have wit- nessed in great manufacturing establish- ments, where labor is so organized that unskilled men bring about results that formerly demanded a high grade of tech- nical ability. He introduced production on a large scale into astronomy- At the time of my visit, it was much the fashion among astronomers else- where to speak slightingly of the Green- wich system. The objections to it were, in substance, the same that have been made to the ~ninute subdivision of labor. The intellect of the individual was stunt- ed for the benefit of the work. The as- tronomer became a mere operative. Yet it must be admitted that the astronoin- ical work done at Greenwich during the sixty years since Airy introduced his system has a value and an importance in its specialty that none done elsewhere can exceed. All future conclusions as to the laws of motion of the heavenly bodies must depend largely upon it. The organization of his little army necessarily involved a corresponding change in the instruments they were to use. Before his time the trained astro- nomer worked with instruments of very delicate construction, so that skill in handling them was one of the requisites of an observer. Airy made them in the likeness of heavy machinery, which could suffer no injury from a blow of the head of a careless observer. Strong and sim- ple, they rarely got out of order. It is said that an assistant who showed a visiting astronomer the transit circle sometimes hit it a good slap to show how solid it was; but this was not done on the present occasion. The little army had its weekly marching orders and made daily reports of progress to its commander, who was thus enabled to control the minutest detail of every movement. In the course of the evening Airy gave me a lesson in method, which was equally instructive and entertaining. In order to determine the longitude of Gib- raltar, it was necessary that time signals should be sent by telegraph from the Royal Observatory. Our conversation naturally led us into a discussion of the general subject of such operations. I told him of the difficulties we had ex- perienced in determining a telegraphic, longitude, that of the Harvard Obser- vatory from Washington, for example, because it was only after a great deal of talking and arranging on the evening of the observation that the various tele- graph stations between the two points could have their connections successfully made at the same moment. At the ap- pointed hour the Washington operator would be talking with the others, to know if they were ready, and so a general dis- cussion about the arrangements might go on for half an hour before the con- nections were all reported good. If we had such trouble in a land line, how should we get a connection from London to the Gibraltar cable through lines in constant use? But, said Airy, I never allow an operator who can speak with the instru- ments to take part in determining a tele- graphic longitude. Then how can you get the connec- tions all made from one end of the line to the other, at the same moment, if your operators cannot talk to one an- other? Nothing is simpler. I set a moment, say eight oclock Greenwich mean time, at which signals are to commence. Every intermediate office through which the signals are to pass is instructed to have its wires connected in both directions exactly at the given hour, and to leave them so connected for ten minutes, with- out asking any further instructions. At the end of the line the instruments must be prepared at the appointed hour to re- ceive the signals. All I have to do here is to place my clock in the circuit and send on the signals for ten minutes, coin- 252 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. mencing at eight oclock. They are re- corded at the other end of the line, with- out further trouble. But have you never met with a fail- ure to understand the instructions? No; they are too simple to be mis- taken, once it is understood that no one has anything to do but make his connec- tions at the designated moment, without asking whether any one else is ready. Airy was noted not less for his ability as an organizer than for his methodical habits. The care with which he pre- served every record led Sir William iRowan Hamilton to say that when Airy wiped his pen on a blotter, he fancied him as always taking a press copy of the mark. His machinery seemed to work perfectly, whether it was construct- ed of flesh or of brass. He could prepare instructions for the most complicated piece of work with such thorough pro- vision against every accident and such completeness in every detail that the work would go on for years without fur- ther serious attention from him. The instruments which he designed half a century ago are mostly in use to this day, with scarcely an alteration. Yet there is some reason to fear that Airy carried system a little too far to get the best results. Of late years his system has been greatly changed, even at Green- wich. It was always questionable whe- ther so rigid a military routine could accomplish the best that was possible in astronomy; and Airy himself, during his later years, modified his plan by trying to secure trained scientific men as his as- sistants, giving them liberty to combine independent research, on their own ac- count, with the work of the establish- ment. His successor has gone farther in the same direction, and is now gathering around him a corps of young university men, from whose ability much may be expected. Observations with the spec- troscope have been pursued, and the ob- servatory has taken a prominent part in the international work of making a pho tographic map of the heavens. Of spe- cial importance are the regular discus- sions of photographs of the sun, taken in order to determine the law of the varia- tion of the spots. The advantage of the regular system which has been followed for more than fifty years is seen in the meteorological observations; these dis- prove some theories of the relation be- tween the sun and the weather, in a way that no other set of meteorological re- cords has done. While delicate deter- minations of the highest precision, such as those made at Pulkova, are not yet undertaken to any great extent, a regular even if slow improvement is going on in the general character of the observations and researches, which must bear fruit in due time. One of the curious facts we learned at Greenwich was that astronomy was still supposed to be astrology by many in England. That a belief in astrology should survive was perhaps not remark- able, though I do not remember to have seen any evidence of it in this country. But applications received at the Royal Observatory, from time to time, showed a widespread belief among the masses that one of the functions of the astronomer royal was the casting of horoscopes. We went to Edinburgh. Our first visit was to the observatory, then under the direction of Professor C. Piazzi Smyth, who was also an Egyptologist of repute, having made careful measurements of the Pyramids, and brought out some new facts regarding their construction. He was thus led to the conclusion that they bore marks of having been built by a people of more advanced civiliza- tion than was generally supposed, so advanced, indeed, that we had not yet caught up to them in scientific investi- gation. These views were set forth with great fullness in his work on The An- tiquity of Intellectual Man, as well as in other volumes describing his researches. He maintained that the builders of the Pyramids knew the distance of the sun Edward Bellamy. rather better than we did, and that the height of the great Pyramid had been so arranged that if it was multiplied by a thousand millions we should get this dis- tance more exactly than we could mea- sure it in these degenerate days. With him, to believe in the Pyramid was to believe this, and a great deal more about the civilization which it proved. So, when he asked me whether I believed in the Pyramid, I told him that I did not think I would depend wholly upon the Pyramid for the distance of the sun to be used in astronomy, but should want its indications at least confirmed by modern researches. The hint was sufficient, and I was not further pressed for views on this subject. He introduced us to Lady Hamilton, widow of the celebrated philosopher, who still held court at Edinburgh. The daughter of the family was in repute as a metaphysician. This was interesting, because I had never before heard of a female metaphysician, although there were several cases of female mathemati- cians recorded in history. First among them was Donna Maria Agnesi, who wrote one of the best eighteenth-century books on the calculus, and had a special dispensation from the Pope to teach 253 mathematics at Bologna. We were therefore very glad to accept an invita- tion from Lady Hamilton to spend an evening with a few of her friends. Her rooms were fairly filled with books, the legacy of one of whom it was said that not a thought had come down to us through the ages which he had not mas- tered and made his own. The few guests were mostly university people and philosophers. rrhe most interesting of them was Professor Blackie, the Gre- cian scholar, who was the liveliest little man of sixty I ever saw; amusing us by singing German songs, and dancing about the room like a sprightly child among its playmates. I talked with Miss Hamilton about Mill, whose Examina- tion of Sir William Hamiltons Philoso- phy was still fresh in mens minds. Of course she did not believe in this book, and said that Mill could not understand her fathers philosophy. With all her intellect, she was a fine healthy-looking young lady, and it was a sad surprise, a few years later, to hear of her death. Madame Sophie Kovalevsky afterward appeared on the stage as the first female mathematician of our time, but it may be feared that the woman philosopher died with Miss Hamilton. Sinum Neweomb. EDWARD BELLAMY. THE first book of Edward Bellamys which I read was Dr. Heidenhoffs Pro- cess, and I thought it one of the finest feats in the region of romance which I had known. It seemed to me all the greater because the authors imagination wrought in it on the level of average life, and built the fabric of its dream out of common clay. The simple peo- ple and their circumstance were treated as if they were persons whose pathetic story he had witnessed himself, and he was merely telling it. He wove into the texture of their sufferings and their sorrows the magic thread of invention so aptly and skillfully that the reader felt nothing improbable in it. One even felt a sort of moral necessity for it, as if such a clue not only could be, but must be given for their escape. It became not merely probable, but imperative, that there should be some means of extir- pating the memory which fixed a sin in lasting remorse, and of thus saving

Edward Bellamy. rather better than we did, and that the height of the great Pyramid had been so arranged that if it was multiplied by a thousand millions we should get this dis- tance more exactly than we could mea- sure it in these degenerate days. With him, to believe in the Pyramid was to believe this, and a great deal more about the civilization which it proved. So, when he asked me whether I believed in the Pyramid, I told him that I did not think I would depend wholly upon the Pyramid for the distance of the sun to be used in astronomy, but should want its indications at least confirmed by modern researches. The hint was sufficient, and I was not further pressed for views on this subject. He introduced us to Lady Hamilton, widow of the celebrated philosopher, who still held court at Edinburgh. The daughter of the family was in repute as a metaphysician. This was interesting, because I had never before heard of a female metaphysician, although there were several cases of female mathemati- cians recorded in history. First among them was Donna Maria Agnesi, who wrote one of the best eighteenth-century books on the calculus, and had a special dispensation from the Pope to teach 253 mathematics at Bologna. We were therefore very glad to accept an invita- tion from Lady Hamilton to spend an evening with a few of her friends. Her rooms were fairly filled with books, the legacy of one of whom it was said that not a thought had come down to us through the ages which he had not mas- tered and made his own. The few guests were mostly university people and philosophers. rrhe most interesting of them was Professor Blackie, the Gre- cian scholar, who was the liveliest little man of sixty I ever saw; amusing us by singing German songs, and dancing about the room like a sprightly child among its playmates. I talked with Miss Hamilton about Mill, whose Examina- tion of Sir William Hamiltons Philoso- phy was still fresh in mens minds. Of course she did not believe in this book, and said that Mill could not understand her fathers philosophy. With all her intellect, she was a fine healthy-looking young lady, and it was a sad surprise, a few years later, to hear of her death. Madame Sophie Kovalevsky afterward appeared on the stage as the first female mathematician of our time, but it may be feared that the woman philosopher died with Miss Hamilton. Sinum Neweomb. EDWARD BELLAMY. THE first book of Edward Bellamys which I read was Dr. Heidenhoffs Pro- cess, and I thought it one of the finest feats in the region of romance which I had known. It seemed to me all the greater because the authors imagination wrought in it on the level of average life, and built the fabric of its dream out of common clay. The simple peo- ple and their circumstance were treated as if they were persons whose pathetic story he had witnessed himself, and he was merely telling it. He wove into the texture of their sufferings and their sorrows the magic thread of invention so aptly and skillfully that the reader felt nothing improbable in it. One even felt a sort of moral necessity for it, as if such a clue not only could be, but must be given for their escape. It became not merely probable, but imperative, that there should be some means of extir- pating the memory which fixed a sin in lasting remorse, and of thus saving 254 Edward Bellamy. the soul from the depravity of despair. When it finally appeared that there was no such means, one reader, at least, was inconsolable. Nothing from romance remains to me more poignant than the pang that this plain, sad tale imparted. The art employed to accomplish its effect was the art which Bellamy had in degree so singular that one might call it supremely his. He does not so much transmute our every-day reality to the substance of romance as make the airy stuff of dreams one in quality with veri- table experience. Every one remembers from Looking Backward the allegory which figures the pitiless prosperity of the present conditions as a coach drawn by slaves under the lash of those on its top, who have themselves no firm hold upon their places, and sometimes fall, and then, to save themselves from being ground under the wheels, spring to join the slaves at the traces. But it is not this, vivid and terrible as it is, which most wrings the heart; it is that moment of anguish at the close, when Julian West trembles with the nightmare fear that he has been only dreaming of the just and equal future, before he truly wakes and finds that it is real. That is quite as it would happen in life, and the power to make the reader feel this like something he has known himself is the distinctive virtue of that imagination which revived throughout Christendom the faith in a millennium. A good deal has been said against the material character of the happiness which Wests story promises men when they shall begin to do justice, and to share equally in the fruits of the toil which operates life; and I confess that this did not attract me. I should have preferred, if I had been chooser, to have the millennium much simpler, much more independent of modern inventions, mod- ern conveniences, modern facilities. It seemed to me that in an ideal condition (the only condition finally worth having) we should get on without most of these things, which are but sorry patches on the rags of our outworn civilization, or only toys to amuse our greed and va- cancy. 2Esthetically, I sympathized with ~those select spirits who were shocked that nothing better than the futile lux- ury of their own selfish lives could be imagined for the lives which overwork and underpay had forbidden all plea- sures; I acquired considerable merit with myself by asking whether the hope of these formed the highest appeal to human nature. But I overlooked an important condition which the other critics over- looked; I did not reflect that such things were shown as merely added unto those who had first sought the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and that they were no longer vicious or even so foolish when they were harmlessly come by. I have since had to own that the joys I thought trivial and sordid did rightly, as they did most strenuously, appeal to the lives hitherto starved of them. In depicting them as the common reward of the com- mon endeavor Edward Bellamy huilded better than we knew, whether he knew better or not, and he builded from a thorough sense of that level of humanity which he was destined so potently to influence, that American level which his book found in every Christian land. I am not sure whether this sense was ever a full consciousness with him; very possibly it was not; but in any case it was the spring of all his work, from the earliest to the latest. Somehow, whether he knew or not, he unerringly felt how the average man would feel; and all the webs of fancy that he wove were essen- tially of one texture through this sym- pathy. His imagination was intensely democratic, it was inalienably plebeian, even, that is to say, humane. It did not seek distinction of expression; it never put the simplest and plainest read- er to shame by the assumption of those fine-gentleman airs which abash and dis- hearten more than the mere literary swell can think. He would use a rhrase Edward Bellamy. 255 or a word that was common to vulgari- ty, if it said what he meant; sometimes he sets ones teeth on edge, in his earlier stories, by his public school diction. But the nobility of the heart is never absent from his work; and he has always the distinction of self-forgetfulness in his art. I have been interested, in recurring to his earlier work, to note how almost en- tirely the action passes in the American village atmosphere. It is like the greater part of his own life in this. He was not a man ignorant of other keeping. He was partly educated abroad, and he knew cities both in Europe and in Amer- ica. He was a lawyer by profession, and he was sometime editor of a daily newspaper in a large town. But I re- member how, in one of our meetings, he spoke with distrust and dislike of the environment of cities as unwholesome and distracting, if not demoralizing (very much to the effect of Tolstoys philosophy in the matter), and in his short stories his types are village types. They are often such when he finds them in the city, but for much the greater part he finds them in the village; and they are always, therefore, distinctively Amen- can; for we are village people far more than we are country people or city peo- pIe. In this as in everything else we are a medium race, and it was in his sense, if not in his knowledge of this fact, that Bellamy wrote so that there is never a word or a look to the reader implying that he and the writer are of a different sort of folk from the people in the story. Looking Backward, with its material delights, its communized facilities and luxuries, could not appeal to people on lonely farms who scarcely knew of them, or to people in cities who were tired of them, so much as to that immense aver- age of villagers, of small-town-dwellers, who had read much and seen something of them, and desired to have them. This average, whose intelligence forms the prosperity of our literature, and whose virtue forms the strength of our nation, is the environment which Bellamy rare- ly travels out of in his airiest romance. He has its curiosity, its principles, its aspirations. He can tell what it wishes to know, what problem will hold it, what situation it can enter into, what mystery will fascinate it, and what noble pain it will bear. It is by far the widest field of American fiction; most of our finest artists work preferably in it, but he works in it to different effect from any other. He takes that life on its mystical side, and deals with types rather than with characters; for it is one of the prime conditions of the romancer that he shall do this. His people are less objectively than subjectively present; their import is greater in what happens to them than in what they are. But he never falsifies them or their circumstance. He ascer- tains them with a fidelity that seems al- most helpless, almost ignorant of differ- ent people, different circumstance; you would think at times that he had never known, never seen, any others; but of course this is only the effect of his art. When it comes to something else, how- ever, it is still with the same fidelity that he keeps to the small-town average, the American average. He does not address himself more intelligently to the mystical side of this average in IDr. Heidenhoffs Process, or Miss Luding- tons Sister, or any of his briefer ro- mances, than to its ethical side in Equal- ity. That book disappointed me, to be frank, I thought it artistically inferior to anything else he had done. I thought it was a mistake to have any story at all in it, or not to have vastly more. I felt that it was not enough to clothe the dry bones of its sociology with paper gar- ments out of Looking Backward. Except for that one sublime moment when the workers of all sorts cry to the Lords of the Bread to take them and use them at their own price, there was no thrill or throb in the book. But I think now that any believer in its economics may 256 be well content to let them take their chance with the American average, here and elsewhere, in the form that the au- thor has given them. He felt that av- erage so wittingly that he could not have been wrong in approaching it with all that public school exegesis which wea- ries such dilettanti as myself. Our average is practical as well as mystical; it is first the dust of the earth, and then it is a living soul; it likes great questions simply and famil- iarly presented, before it puts its faith in them and makes its faith a life. It likes to start to heaven from home, and in all this Bellamy was of it, voluntarily and involuntarily. I recall how, when we first met, he told me that he had come to think of our hopeless conditions sud- demily, one day, in looking at his own children, and reflecting that he could not place them beyond the chance of want by any industry or forecast or providence; and that the status meant the same im- possibility for others which it meant for him. I understood then that I was in the presence of a man too single, too sincere, to pretend that he had begun by thinking of others, and I trusted him the more for his confession of a selfish premise. He never went back to him- self in his endeavor, but when he had once felt his power in the world, he de- dicated his life to his work. He wore himself out in thinking and feeling about it, with a belief in the good time to come that penetrated his whole be- ing and animated his whole purpose, but apparently with no manner of fanati- cism. In fact, no one could see him, or look into his quiet, gentle face, so full of goodness, so full of common sense, without perceiving that he had reasoned to his hope for justice in the frame of things. He was indeed a most practical, Edward Bellamy. a most American man, without a touch of sentimentalism in his humanity. He believed that some now living should see his dream the dream of Plato, the dream of the first Christians, the dream of Bacon, the dream of More come true in a really civilized society; but he had the patience and courage which could support any delay. These qualities were equal to the suf- fering and the death which came to him in the midst of his work, and cut him off from writing that one more book with which every author hopes to round his career. He suffered greatly, but he bore his suffering greatly; and as for his death, it is told that when, toward the last, those who loved him were loath to leave him at night alone, as he pre- ferred to be left, he asked, What can happen to me? I can only die. I am glad that he lived to die at home in Chicopee, in the village en- vironment by which he interpreted the heart of the American nation, and knew how to move it more than any other American author who has lived. The theory of those who think differently is that he simply moved the popular fancy; and this may suffice to explain the state of some people, but it will not account for the love and honor in which his name is passionately held by the vast average, East and West. His fame is safe with them, and his faith is an ani- mating force concerning whose effect at this time or some other time it would not be wise to prophesy. Whether his ethics will keep his ~sthetics in remembrance I do not know; but I am sure that one cannot acquaint ones self with his merely artistic work, and not be sensible that in Edward Bellamy we were rich in a romantic imagination surpassed only by that of Hawthorne. W. D. Howells. At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 257 AT NATURAL BRIDGE, VIRGINIA. II. M~ enjoyment of the country about the Bridge may be said to have begun with my settling down for a more leisure- ly stay. Hurry and discontent are poor helps to appreciation. That afternoon, the morning having been devoted to or- nithological excitements, I strolled over to Mount Jefferson, and spent an hour in the observatory, where a delicious breeze was blowing. The mountain proved to be nothing more than a round grassy hilltop, the highest point in a sheep- pasture, but it offered, nevertheless, a wide and charming prospect: moun- tains near and far, a world of green hills, with here and there a level stretch, most restful to the eye, of the James River val- ley, the great Valley of Virginia. Up from the surrounding field came the tin- kle of sheep-bells, and down in one cor- ner of it young men were slowly gather- ing, some in wagons, some on horseback, for a game of ball. There was to be a match that evening, I had been told, between the Bridge nine (I am sorry not to remember its name) and the Buena Vistas. It turned out, however, so I learned the next day, that a supposed case of smallpox at Buena Vista had made such an interchange of athletic courtesies inexpedient for the time being, and the Bridge men were obliged to be content with a trial of skill among themselves, for which they chose up ( picked off ) after the usual fashion, the two leaders deciding which should have the first choice by the old Yankee test of grasping a bat alternately, hand over hand, till one of them should be able to cover the end of it with his thumb. Such things were pleasant to hear of. I accepted them as of patriotic significance, tokens of national unity. My informant, by the way, was the same man, a young West VOL. Lxxxii. xo. 490. 17 Virginian, who had told me where to look for Washingtons initials on the wall of the bridge. My specialties am pealed to him in a measure, and he con- fessed that he wished he were a botanist. He was always very fond of flowers. His side had been victorious in the ball game, he said, in answer to my inquiry. Some of the players must have come from a considerable distance, it seemed to me, as there was no sign of a village or even of a hamlet, so far as I had dis- covered, anywhere in the neighborhood. The Bridge is not in any township, but simply in Rockbridge County, after a Virginia custom quite foreign to all a New Englanders notions of geographi- cal propriety. The prospect from Mount Jefferson was beautiful, as I have said, but on my return I happened upon one that pleased me better. I had been down through Cedar Creek ravine, and had taken my own way out, up the right-hand slope through the woods, noting the flowers as I walked, especially the blue-eyed grass and the scarlet catchfiy (battlefield pink), a marvelous bit of color, and was fol- lowing the edge of the cliff toward the hotel, when, finding myself still with time to spare, I sat down to rest and be quiet. By accident I chose a spot where between ragged, homely cedars I looked straight down the glen over a stretch of the brook far below to the bridge, through which could be seen wooded hills backed by Thunder Mountain, long and massive, just now mostly in shadow, like the rest of the world, but having its lower slopes touched with an exquisite half-light, which produced a kind of pris- matic effect upon the freshly green foli- age. It was an enchanting spectacle and a delightful hour. Now my eye settled upon the ravine and the brook, now upon the arch of the bridge, now upon the

At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 257 AT NATURAL BRIDGE, VIRGINIA. II. M~ enjoyment of the country about the Bridge may be said to have begun with my settling down for a more leisure- ly stay. Hurry and discontent are poor helps to appreciation. That afternoon, the morning having been devoted to or- nithological excitements, I strolled over to Mount Jefferson, and spent an hour in the observatory, where a delicious breeze was blowing. The mountain proved to be nothing more than a round grassy hilltop, the highest point in a sheep- pasture, but it offered, nevertheless, a wide and charming prospect: moun- tains near and far, a world of green hills, with here and there a level stretch, most restful to the eye, of the James River val- ley, the great Valley of Virginia. Up from the surrounding field came the tin- kle of sheep-bells, and down in one cor- ner of it young men were slowly gather- ing, some in wagons, some on horseback, for a game of ball. There was to be a match that evening, I had been told, between the Bridge nine (I am sorry not to remember its name) and the Buena Vistas. It turned out, however, so I learned the next day, that a supposed case of smallpox at Buena Vista had made such an interchange of athletic courtesies inexpedient for the time being, and the Bridge men were obliged to be content with a trial of skill among themselves, for which they chose up ( picked off ) after the usual fashion, the two leaders deciding which should have the first choice by the old Yankee test of grasping a bat alternately, hand over hand, till one of them should be able to cover the end of it with his thumb. Such things were pleasant to hear of. I accepted them as of patriotic significance, tokens of national unity. My informant, by the way, was the same man, a young West VOL. Lxxxii. xo. 490. 17 Virginian, who had told me where to look for Washingtons initials on the wall of the bridge. My specialties am pealed to him in a measure, and he con- fessed that he wished he were a botanist. He was always very fond of flowers. His side had been victorious in the ball game, he said, in answer to my inquiry. Some of the players must have come from a considerable distance, it seemed to me, as there was no sign of a village or even of a hamlet, so far as I had dis- covered, anywhere in the neighborhood. The Bridge is not in any township, but simply in Rockbridge County, after a Virginia custom quite foreign to all a New Englanders notions of geographi- cal propriety. The prospect from Mount Jefferson was beautiful, as I have said, but on my return I happened upon one that pleased me better. I had been down through Cedar Creek ravine, and had taken my own way out, up the right-hand slope through the woods, noting the flowers as I walked, especially the blue-eyed grass and the scarlet catchfiy (battlefield pink), a marvelous bit of color, and was fol- lowing the edge of the cliff toward the hotel, when, finding myself still with time to spare, I sat down to rest and be quiet. By accident I chose a spot where between ragged, homely cedars I looked straight down the glen over a stretch of the brook far below to the bridge, through which could be seen wooded hills backed by Thunder Mountain, long and massive, just now mostly in shadow, like the rest of the world, but having its lower slopes touched with an exquisite half-light, which produced a kind of pris- matic effect upon the freshly green foli- age. It was an enchanting spectacle and a delightful hour. Now my eye settled upon the ravine and the brook, now upon the arch of the bridge, now upon the 258 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. hills beyond. And now, as I continued to look, the particulars fell into place, dropping in a sense out of sight, and the scene became one. By and by the light increased upon the broad precipitous face of the mountain, softness and beauty inexpressible, while the remainder of the landscape lay in deep shadow. I fell to wondering, at last, what it is that constitutes the peculiar attractive- ness of a limited view limited in breadth, not in depth as compared with a panorama of half the horizon. The only answer I gave myself was that, for the supreme enjoyment of beauty, the eye must be at rest, satisfied, with no temptation to wander. We are finite creatures with infinite desires. The sight must go far, to the rim of the world, or to some grand interposing object so remote as to be of itself a natural and satisfying limit of vision; and the eye must be held to that point, not by a dis- tracting exercise of the will, but by the quieting constraint of circumstances. Let my theorizing be true or false, I greatly enjoyed the picture; the deep, dark, wooded ravine, with the line of water running through it lengthwise, the magnificent stone arch, the low hills in the middle distance, and Thunder Moun- tain a background for the whole. The mountain, as has been said, was a long ridge, not a peak; and sharp as it looked from this point of view, it was very likely fiat at the top. Like Lookout Mountain and Waldens Ridge, it might, for any- thing I knew, be roomy enough to hold one or two Massachusetts counties upon its summit. While I sat gazing at it the sun went down and left it of a deep som- bre blue. Then, of a sudden, a small heron flew past, and a pileated wood- pecker somewhere behind me set up a prolonged and lusty shout; and a few minutes later I was startled to see be- tween me and the sunset sky a flock of six big herons flying slowly in single file, like so many pelicans. From their size they should have been Ardea herodias, but in that light there was no telling of colors. It was a ghostly procession, so silent and unexpected, worthy of the place and of the hour. I was beginning to feel at home. A wood thrush sang for me as I continued my course to the hotel, and my spirit sang with him. Im glad I am alive, my pencil wrote of its own accord at the end of the days jot- tings. I woke the next morning to the lively music of a whippoorwill, the same, I suppose, that had sung me to sleep the evening before. He performed that ser- vice faithfully as long as I remained at the Bridge, and always to my unmixed satisfaction. Whippoorwills are among my best birds, and of recent years I have had too little of them. Immediately after breakfast I must go again to the roadside wood, and then to Buck Hill, as a dog must go again to bark under a tree up which he has once driven a cat or a squirrel. But there is no duplicat- ing of experiences. The birds the flocks of travelers were not there. Chats were calling ceow, ceow, with the true countrymans twang; and what was much better, a Swainson thrush was singing. Better still, a pair of blue yel- low-backed warblers (the most abun- dant representatives of the family thus far) had begun the construction of a nest in a black walnut tree, suspending it from a rather large branch ( as big as my thumb ) at a height of perhaps twenty feet. It was little more than a frame as yet, the light shining through it everywhere; and the bird, perhaps be- cause of my presence, seemed in no haste about its completion. I saw her bring what looked like a piece of lichen and adjust it into place (though she carried it elsewhere first with wonderful sly- ness !), but my patience gave out before she came back with a second one. On Buck Hill, in the comparative ab- sence of birds, I amused myself with a dry land tarrapin, as my West Vir- ginia acquaintance had called it (other At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 259 wise known as a box turtle), a creature which I had seen several times in my wanderings, and had asked him about; a new species to me, of a peculiarly humpbacked appearance, and curious for its habit of shutting itself up in its case when disturbed, the anterior third of the lower shell being jointed for that purpose. A phlegmatic customer, it seemed to be; looking at me with dull, unspeculative eyes, and sometimes re- sponding to a pretty violent nudge with only a partial closing of its lid. It is very fond of may apples (mandrake), I was told, and is really one of the fea- tures of the dry hill woods. I ran upon it continually. A lazy afternoon jaunt over a lonely wood road, untried before, yielded little of mentionable interest except the sight of a blue grosbeak budding the upper branches of a tree in the manner of a purple finch or a rose-breast. I call him a blue grosbeak, as I called him at the time; but he went into my book that evening with a damnatory question mark attached to his name. He had been rather far away and pretty high; and the possibilities of error magnified themselves on second thought, till I said to myself, Well, he may have been an indigo-bird, after all. Second thought is the mother of uncertainty; and un- certainties are poor things for a mans comfort. The seasons were met here; for even while I busied myself with the blue grosbeak (as he pretty surely was, for all my want of assurance) a crossbill flew over with loud calls. In the same place I heard a tremen- dous hammering a little on one side of me, so vigorous a piece of work that I was persuaded the workman could be nobody but a pileated woodpecker. A long time I stood with my gaze fas- tened upon the tree from which the noise seemed to come. Would the follow never show himself? Yes, he put his head out from behind a limb at last (what a fiery crest!), saw me on the in~ stant, and was gone like a flash. Then from a little distance he set up a re- sounding halloo. This was only the sec- ond time that birds of his kind had been seen hereabout, but the voice had been heard daily, and more than once I had noticed what I could have no doubt were nest-holes of their making. One of these, on Buck Hill, freshly cut, if appearances went for anything, I un- dertook to play the spy upon; but if. the nest was indeed in use the birds were too wary for me, or I was very unfortu- nate in my choice of hours. Time was precious, and the secret seemed likely to cost more than it would bring, with so many other matters inviting my atten- tion. INest or no nest, I was glad to be within the frequent sound of that wild, ringing, long-drawn shout, a true voice of the wilderness; as if the Hebrew prophecy were fulfilled, and the moun- tains and the hills had found a tongue. It was not until the sixth day that I went to Lincoln Heights, a place worth all the rest of the countryside, I soon came to think, with the single exception of Cedar Creek ravine. A winding wood road carried me thither (the dis- tance may be two miles; but I have lit- tle idea what it is, though I covered it once or twice a day for the next four days), and might have been made half made, just to my liking for my private convenience. I believe I never met any one upon it, going or coming. The glory of the spot is its trees; but with me, as things fell out, these took in the order of time a second place. My first admiration was not for them, ad- mirable as they were, but for a few birds in the tops of them. In short, at my first approach to the Heights (there is no thought of climbing, but only the most gradual of ascents) I began to hear from the branches overhead, now here, now there, an occasional weak warblers song that set my curiosity on edge. It was not the parulas (blue yellow-backs), but like it~ What should it be, then, 260 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. except the ceruleans? By and by I caught a glimpse of a bird, clear white below, with a dark line across the breast; and yes, I saw what I was looking for, though the bird flew to another branch the next moment, black streaks along the sides of the body. There were at least eight or ten others like him in the treetops; and it was a neck-break- ing half-hour that I passed in watching them, determined as I was to gain a view not only of the under parts, but of the back and wings. The labor and difficulty of the search were increased indefinitely by the confusing presence of numerous other warbiers of various kinds in the same lofty branches, making it inevitable that many opera - glass shots should be wasted. It is no help to a mans equanimity at such a time to spend a priceless three minutes any one of which may be the last in getting the glass upon a tiny thing that flits inces- santly from one leafy twig to another, only to find in the end that it is nothing but a myrtle warbler; a pretty creature, no doubt, but of no more consequence just now than an English sparrow. To- day, however, the birds favored me; no untimely whim hurried them away to another wood, and patience had its re- ward. Little by little my purpose was accomplished and my mind cleared of all uncertainty. Then I took out my pencil to characterize the song while it was still in my ears, and still new. Greatly like one of the more broken forms of the parulas, I wrote, a bird repeating it at that very instant by way of confirmation. I can imagine a fairly sharp ear being deceived by it, es- pecially in a place like this, where pam- las have been singing from morning till night, until the listener has tired of them and become listless. This sentence the reader may keep in mind, if he will, to glance back upon for his amusement in the light of a subsequent experience which it will be my duty to relate before I am done with my story. Between the migratory transients and the birds already at home, the place was pretty full of wings. A Swainson thrush sang, and from a bushy slope came a nasal thrush voice that should have been a veerys. I took chase at once, and caught a glimpse of a reddish- brown bird darting out of sight before me. Do my best, I could find nothing more of it. If it was a veery, as I suppose, it was the only one I saw in Virginia, where the species, from Dr. Rivess account of the matter, seems to be a rather uncommon migrant. Un- happily, I could not bring my scientific conscience to list it on so hurried a sight, even with the note as corroborative tes- timony. That, for aught I could posi- tively assert, might have been a gray- cheeks, while the reddish color might with equal possibility have belonged to a wood thrush, clear as it had seemed at the moment that what I was looking at was the back of the bird itself, and not the back of its head. Doubt is cred- ulous. All kinds of negatives are plau- sible to it, and once it has adopted one it will maintain it in the face of the five senses. On the opposite side of the path, in the bushy angles of a Virginia fence, a hooded warbler showed himself, fur- tive and silent, my only Bridge spe- cimen, to my great surprise; and near him was a female black-throated blue, a queer-looking body, like nothing in particular, yet labeled past mistake, which I can never see without a kind of wonder. Among the treetop birds were Blackbumnian warblers, black - throated greens and blues, chestnut - sides, red- starts, myrtle - birds, red - eyed and yel- low - throated vireos, and indigo - birds. Many white-throated sparrows still lin- gered; singing flat, as usual, the only birds I know of that find it impossible to hold the pitch. The defect has its favorable side; it makes their concerts amusing. I remember seeing a quiet gentleman thrown into fits of uncontrol At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 261 lable laughter by the rehearsal of a spring flock, bird after bird starting the tune, and not one in ten of them keep- ing its whistle true to the conclusion of the measure. All these things, though they may seem not many, with the long rests and numerous side excursions that went with them, consumed the morn- ing hours before I knew it, so that I was hardly at the end of the way before it wa~ time to return for dinner. For the afternoon nothing was to be thought of but another visit to the same place, the finest place I have seen yet, and the finest walk. So I had put down the mornings discovery. The cerulean warbler I found spoken of by Dr. Rives as accidental or very rare; in the light of which entry the dozen or so of specimens seen and heard during the forenoon acquired a fresh interest. The second jaunt, because it was a second one, could be taken more at lei- sure; and as the birds gave me less employment, my eyes were more upon the trees. These, as I had felt before, were a wonder and a comfort; it was a benediction to walk under them, as if one were within the precincts of a holy place: oaks for the most part (of sev- eral kinds), with black walnut, shagbark, tulip, chestnut, and other species, set ir- regularly, or rather left standing irregu- larly, two or three deep, beside the road on either hand; a royal upbill avenue, which near the top became an open grove. Except in Florida, I had never seen a more magnificent growth. Some of the trees had grapevines and Yirginia creeper clinging about them. Up one huge oak, with strange flaky bark, like a shagbark trees (a white oak, neverthe- less, to judge from its half-grown leaves), a grapevine had mounted for a height of forty feet, as I estimated the distance, not making use of the bole, but of the limbs, seeming to leap from one to an- other, even when they were ten feet apart. It must have been of the trees age, I suppose, and had grown with its growth. In the shadow of these giants, yet not overshadowed by them, were flowering dogwoods and redbuds. It is a pretty habit these two have of grow- ing side by side, as if they knew the value of contrasted colors. At a point on the edge of the grove I turned to enjoy the prospect southward: niountains everywhere, with the more pointed of the twin Peaks of Otter show- ing between two oaks that barely gave it room; all the mountains radiantly beautiful, with cloud shadows flecking their wooded slopes. INot a house was in sight; but in one place beyond the middle-distance hills a thin blue smoke was rising. There, doubtless, lay the valley of the James. Just before me, on the left of the open field, stood a pe- culiarly graceful dogwood, all in a glory of white, one fan-shaped branch above another, a miracle of loveliness. The eye that saw it was satisfied with see- ing. Beyond it a chat played the clown (knowing no better, even to-day), and a rose-breast began warbling. It seemed a tender story, sweetness beyond words, and happiness without a shadow. From a second point, a little farther on, the entire southern horizon came into view, with both the Peaks of Otter visible; a truly enchanting picture, the sky full of sunlight and floating wbite clouds. In a treetop behind me a cerulean warbler had been singing, but flew away as I turned about. My only sight of him was on the wing, a mere speck in the air. Afterward a parula gave out his tune, running the notes straight upward and snapping them off at the end in whiplash fashion, as much as to say, Now see if you can tell tbe difference. And then, just as I was ready to leave the grove, stepping along a footpath through a bramble patch, I descried al- most at my feet a warbler, a female by her look and demeanor, and a stran- ger; blue and white, with dark streak- ings along the sides. I lost her soon; but she had seemed to be looking for 262 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. nest materials, and of course I waited for her to return. This she presently did, and now I saw her strip bits of bark from plant stems till she had her bill full of short pieces. Carrying these, she disappeared in a bramble and grape- vine thicket. I waited, but she did not come back. Then I stole into the place after her, and in a moment there she was before me; but without complaint or any symptom of perturbation she passed quietly along, and again I lost her. I kept my position till I was tired, and then went back to the wood and sat down; and in a few minutes how it happened I could not tell there she stood once more, wearing the same in- nocent, preoccupied air. This time I saw her fly down the slope and disap- pear in a clump of undergrowth. I fol- lowed, took a seat, waited, and contin- ued to wait. All was in vain. That was the last of her. She had played her cards well, or perhaps I had played mine poorly; and finally I turned my steps homeward, where a comparison of my notes with Dr. Couess description proved the bird to be, as I had believed, a fe- male cerulean warbler. Her nest would probably be the first one of its kind ever found in Virginia. On the way a male sang and showed himself. Now, too, I discovered for the first time that there were tupelo trees among the large oaks and walnuts; much smaller than they, and for that reason, it is to be snpposed, not noticed in my three previous passages along the ave- nue. They are particular favorites of mine, and I made them sincere apolo- gies. In another place was a patch of what I knew must be the fragrant su- macli, something I had wished to see for many years: low, upright shrubs, yet resembling poison ivy so closely that for a minute I shrank from gathering a spe- cimen, although I was certain beyond a peradventure that the plant was not poison ivy and could not be noxious to the touch; just as people in general, through force of early instruction and example (miscalled instinct), shiver at the thought of handling a snake, though it be of some kind which they know to be as harmless as a kitten. While in chase of the cerulean, also, I had stum- bled on several bunches of cancer-root (Conopholis), rising out of the dead leaves, a dozen or more of stems in each close bunch; queer, unwholesome-look- ing, yellowish things, reminding me of ears of rice-corn, so called. I had never seen the plant till the day before. The next morning my course was be- yond discussion or argument. I must go again to Lincoln Heights. The thought of the female cerulean warbler and her nest would not suffer me to do anything else. But for that matter, I should prob- ably have taken the same path had I never seen her. The trees, the prospects, and the general birdiness of the place were of themselves an irresistible attrac- tion. On the way I skirted a grove of small pines, standing between the road and the edge of Cedar Creek ravine: dull, scrubby trees, like pitch-pines, but less bright in color; of the same kind as those amid which, on Cameron Hill and Lookout Mountain, in Tennessee, there had been so notable a gathering of warblers the year before. Pinus pun- gens, Table Mountain pine, I suppose they were, though it must be acknow- ledged that I was never at the pains to settle the point. Here at Natural Bridge I had found all such woods deserted day after day, till I had ceased to think them worth looking into. Now, however, as I idled past, I caught the faint sibilant notes of a bird - song, and stopped to listen. Not a blackpolls, I said to my- self, but wonderfully near it. And then it flashed into my mind what a friend had told me a few years before. When you hear a song that is like the black- polls, but different, he had said, look the bird up. It will most likely be a Cape May. He was one of the lucky men (almost the only one of my acquaint- At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 263 ance) who had heard that rare warblers voice. I turned aside, of course, and made a cautious entry among the pines. The bird continued its singing. Yes, it was like the blackpolls, but with a zip rather than a zee. Nearer and nearer I crept, inch by inch. If the fellow were a Cape May, it would be careless- ness inexcusable not to make sure of the fact. And soon I had my glass upon him, in high plumage, red cheeks and all. He had not been disturbed in the least, and kept up his music till I had had my fill and could stay no longer, all the while in low branches and in clear view. Few songs could be less interest- ing in themselves, but few could have been more welcome, for the better part of twenty years I had been listening for it: about five notes, a little louder and more emphatic than the blackpolls, it seemed to me, but still faint and, as I expressed it to myself, next to no- thing. The handsome creature olive and bright yellow, boldly marked with black and white remained the whole time in one tree, traveling over the limbs in a rather listless fashion, and singing almost incessantly. He was my hun- dredth Virginia bird, as my list then stood, question marks included, and the second one whose song I had heard for the first time on this vacation trip. The day had begun prosperously. After such a stirring up, a mans ears are apt to be abnormally sensitive, not to say imaginative; then, if ever, he will hear wonders: for which reason, it may be, I had turned but a corner or two be- fore I was stopped by another set of notes, a strain that I knew, or felt that I ought to know, but could not place a name upon at the moment. This bird, too, was run down without difficulty, and proved to be a magnolia warbler, another yellow-rump, like the Cape May and the myrtle-bird. The song, unlike its owner, is but slightly marked, and to make matters worse, is heard by me only in the season of the birds spring pas sage; but I laughed at myself for not recognizing it. I was still in a mood for discoveries, however, and within half an hour was again in eager chase, this time over a crazy zigzag fence into a dense thicket, all for a black-and-white creeper (my fiftieth specimen, perhaps, in the last fortnight), whose notes, as they came to me from a distance, sounded like a creepers, to be sure, but with such a measure of difference as kept me on net- tles till the author of them was in sight. I felt like a fool, as the common expres- sion is, but was having a good time, notwithstanding. Here were the first trailing blackber- ry blossoms. The season was making haste. Come, children, it is the 7th of May, I seemed to hear the bud- crowned spring saying. The woods had burst into almost full leaf within a week. This morning, also, I found the first flowers of the Dodecatheon; three plants, each with only one bloom as yet; white, odd - looking, pointed, like a stylographic pen, my profane clerical fancy suggested. American cowslip and shooting star the flower is called in the Manual. American cyclamen would hit it pretty well, I thought, its most strik- ing peculiarity being the reflexed, cycla- menic carriage of the petals. I had been wondering what those broad root-leaves were, as I passed them here and there in the woods. The present was only my second sight of the blossom in a wild state, the first one having been on the battlefield of Chickamauga. It is mat- ter for thankfulness, an enrichment of the memory, when a pretty flower is thus associated with a famous place. Among the old trees on the Heights a cerulean warbler and a blue yellow-back were singing nearly in the same breath. If I did not become lastingly familiar with the distinction between the two songs, it was not to be the birds fault. A second cerulean (or possibly the same one; it was impossible to be certain on that point, nor did it matter) was near 264 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. the grapevine tangle, and at the mo- ment of my approach was holding a con- troversy with a creeper. He had re- served the spot, as it appeared, and was insisting upon his claim. My spirits rose. It was this clump of shrubbery that I had come to sit beside, on the chance of seeing again, and tracking to her nest, the female whose behavior had so excited my hopes the afternoon be- fore. Nest small and neat, in fork of a bough 2050 feet from the ground: so I had read in the Key, and hence- forth knew what I was to look for. For a full hour I remained on guard. Twice the male cerulean chased some other bird about in a manner extremely sus- picious; but he kept her (or him) so con- stantly on the move that I had no fair sight of her plumage. Beyond that my vigil went for nothing. I must try again. If a man cannot waste an hour once in a while, he had better not undertake the finding of birds nests. For the walk homeward I took a course of my own down the open face of the hill, climbing a fence or two (I could tell far in advance the safest places at which to get over the soundest spots by seeing the lumps of dry red clay left on the rails by the boots of pre- vious travelers across lots), past prairie warbiers and my first Natural Bridge bluebird, to the bottom of the valley. Then, finding myself ahead of time, I turned aside to see what might be in the woods of Buck Hill. There was little to mention: a blossom of the exquisite vernal fleur-de-lis, not before noticed here, and at the top two cerulean war- blers in full song. I had begun by this time to believe that this rare Virginia species would turn out to be pretty com- mon hereabout in appropriate places. Partly to test the truth of this opinion I planned an afternoon trip to a more distant eminence, which, like Buck Hill and Lincoln Heights, was covered with a deciduous forest. In the valley woods a grouse was drumming a pretty fre quent sound here and Swainson thrushes were singing. These New Hampshire thrushes, by the bye, are singers of the most generous sort, not only at home, but on their travels, all statements to the contrary notwithstand- ing. From May 5 to May 12 includ- ing the latter half of my stay at Natu- ral Bridge, two days at Afton, and one day in the cemetery woods at Arlington I have them marked as singing daily, and one day at the Bridge they were heard in four widely separate places. The hill for which I had set out lay on the left of the road, and between me and it stood a row of negro cabins. As I came opposite them I suddenly caught from the hillside the notes of a Nash- ville warbler, or so I believed. This was a bird not yet included in my Vir- ginia list. I bad puzzled over its ab- sence the country seeming in all re- spects adapted to it till I consulted Dr. Rives, by whom it is set down as rare. Even then, emboldened by more than one happy experience, I told myself that I ought to find it. It is common enough in New England; why should it skip Virginia? And here it was; only I must go through the for- mality of a visual inspection, especially as just now the song came from rather far away. I entered one of the house- yards, nobody objecting except a dog, climbed the rear fence, and posted up the steep, rocky hill, past a humming- bird sipping at a violet, and by and by lifted my glass upon the singer, which had been in voice all the while. By this time I was practically sure of its identity. In imagination I could already see its bright yellow breast. The name was as good as down in my book, Helminthophila ruficapilla. But the glass, having no imagination, showed me a white breast with a dark line across it, a cerulean warbler! Verily, an ear is a vain thing for safety. See your bird, I say, and take a second look; and then go back and look again. In another tree a At Natural Bridge, Virginia. 265 parula warbler was singing. About him, by good luck, I made no mistake. As for the other bird, even after I had seen his white breast, his tune with which he was literally spilling over contin- ued to sound amazingly Nashvillian; though there are few warbler songs with which I should have supposed myself more thoroughly acquainted than with this same clearly chara~terized Nash- ville ditty, a hurried measure followed by a still more hurried trill. Perhaps this particular cerulean had a note pe- culiarly his own. I should be glad to think so. Perhaps, on the other hand, the fault was all with the man who heard it; in which case the less said the bet- ter. In either event, my theory as to the ceruleans commonness was in a fair way to be verified. It was well I had that comfort. Before I could get down the hill again I must stop to listen to a gnatcatcliers squeaky voice, and the next moment I saw the bird, and another with him. The second one proceeded immediately to a nest, conspicuously displayed on an oak branch, while her mate hovered about, squeaking in the most affection- ate manner. Then away they flew in company, and after a long absence were back again for another turn at building. They were making a joy of their labor, the male especially; but it is true he made little else of it. With him I was at once taken captive, so happy, so proud, and so devoted. A paragon of amorous behavior, I called him; having the French idea of assistance, no doubt, but a lover in every movement. Never was the good old-fashioned phrase waiting upon her more prettily il- lustrated. Birds are imaginative crea- tures, says Richard Jefferies, and I be- lieve it; and this fellow, I am sure, had endowed his spouse with all the graces of all the birds that ever were or ever will be. In other words, he was truly in love. The nest was already shingled throughout with bits of gray lichen, laid on so skillfully that Father Time himself might have done it. That is the right way. Let the house look as if it were a growth, a something native to the spot, only less old than the ground it rests on. The gnatcatchers nest is always a work of art. Gnatcatcher eggs could hardly be counted upon to hatch in any other. As I passed up the road, on my way homeward, a flock of eight nighthawks were swimming overhead. Their genius runs, not to architecture, but to grace of aerial motion. They do not shoot like the swifts, nor skim and dart like the swallows, nor circle on level wings like the hawks, but have an easy, slow-seem- ing, wavering, gracefully limping flight, which is strictly their own. At the same time two buzzards met in mid- air, one going with the breeze, the other against it. I could have told the fact, without other knowledge of the winds course, by the different carriage of the two pairs of wings. So the bird trims her to the gale. Having the cerulean warbler question still upon my mind, and seeing another hard-woodhill within easy reach, I turned my steps thither. Yes, I was hardly there before I heard a bird singing; but the reader may be sure I did not take my ears word for it. This was the fourth hilltop I had visited to-day, and on every one the rare warbler (but it is well known to be abundant in West Virginia) had been found without so much as a five-minute search. The next thing, of course, was to find the nest, and so establish the fact of the birds breeding. For that I had one day left; and it may be said at once that I spent the greater share of the next forenoon in the vicinity of the grapevine thicket, before mentioned, on Lincoln Heights. A male cerulean was there, I both heard and saw him, but no female showed herself; and when at last my patience ran out, I gave up the point for good. She had been seen in the 266 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. diligent collection of building materials, and that, considered as evidence, was nearly the same as a discovery of the nest itself. With that I must be con- tent. The comfortable way of finding birds nests is to happen upon them. A regular hunt a dead set, as we call it is apt to be a discouraging busi- ness. My present attempt, it is true, was a quiet, inactive piece of work, little more than an idle waiting for the lady of the nest to give herself away; and even that was relieved by much looking at mountain prospects and frequent turns in the surrounding woods. Once a crossbill called and a cardinal whistled almost in the same breath, a kind of northern and southern duet. Then a cuckoo and a dove fell to cooing on opposite sides of me; very different sounds, though in our poverty we designate them by the same word. The doves voice is a thousand times more plaintive than the cuckoos, and to hear it, no matter how near, might come from a mile away; as I have known the little ground dove to be mourning from a figtree at my elbow while I was endeavoring to sight it far down the field. The doves note is the voice of the future or of the past, I am not certain which. A few rods from the spot where I had taken my station, a single deerberry bush ( Vctccinium stctrni- neum) was in profuse bloom, and made a really pretty show; loose sprays of white flaring blossoms all hanging down- ward, each with its cluster of long pro- truding stamens, till the bush, I thought, was like a miniature candelabrum of electric lights. As Thoreau might have said, for so homely a plant the deerberry is very handsome. Either from associ- ation or for some other reason, it wears always a certain common look. When we see an azalea shrub or even an ap- ple tree in bloom, we seem to see the very object of its being. The flower calls for no ulterior result, though it may have one; its fruit is in itself. But a blossoming blueberry bush, no matter of what kind, looks like a plant that was made to bear something edible, a plant whose end is use rather than beauty. If the forenoon had been indolent, the noonday hour was more so. I descend- ed the hill by a way different from any I had yet taken, and found myself at the foot in a public road running through a cultivated valley. The day was pecu- liarly comfortable, with a bright sun and a temperate breeze, ideal weather for such inactivities as I was engaged in. Coming to an old cherry tree, I rested awhile in its shadow. A farmhouse was not far off, with apple trees before it, a barn across the way, and two or three men at work in the sloping ploughed field beyond. To one as lazy as I then was, it is almost a luxury to see other men hoeing or ploughing, so they be far enough off to become a part of the land- scape. Near the barn stood a venerable weeping willow, huge of girth, a very patriarch, yet still green as youth itself. Here were good farm-loving birds, a pleasant society. A pair of house wrens came at once to look at the stranger, and one of them interested me by dust- ing itself in the road. Two kingbirds were about the apple trees (apple-tree flycatchers would be my name for them, if a name were in order), now sitting quiet for a brief space, now scaling the heavens, as if to see how nearly perpen- dicular a birds flight could be made, and then tumbling about ecstatically with rapid vociferations, after the half-crazy manner of their kind. The kingbird is plentifully endowed not only with spirit, but with spirits. A goldfinch sang and twittered in the softest voice, and a cat- bird mewed. From a quince bush, a lit- tle farther off, a wild bobolinkian strain was repeated again and again, an orchard oriole, I thought most likely. I went nearer (to the shade of a low cedar), and soon had him in sight, a young male in yellow plumage, with a black throat-patch. The song was extremely At Natural Bridge, Virgsn& a. 267 taking, and the more I heard it, the more it seemed to have the true bobo- link ring. The quince bushes were in pale pink bloom, and the branches of a tall snowball tree in the unfenced front yard of the house fairly drooped under their load of white globular clusters. Just opposite was a sweet-brier bush, the pastoral eglantine, half dead like others that I had noticed here, and like the whole tribe of its New England bro- thers and sisters. Here as in Massa- chusetts a blight was upon them; they were living with difficulty. It would be good, I thought, to see the sweet-brier once where it flourishes; where the beau- ty of the plant matches the beauty and sweetness of the rose it bears. Can it be that it is not quite hardy even in Virginia? My seat under the snowball tree (to the coolness of which I had moved from under the cedar) had presently to be given up. The women of the house be- came aware of me, and out of a bashful regard for my own comfort I took the road again. Soon I passed a double house, with painted doors and two-sash windows! And in one of the windows were lace curtains! It was wonderful, I was obliged to confess it, in spite of a deep-seated masculine prejudice against all such contrivances, it was wonderful what an air of elegance they conferred, though the paint of the doors was to be considered, of course, in the same con- nection. By this time the road was approaching the slope of Buck Hill, and high noon as it was, I must run up for another half- hour among the old trees at the top, with no special result except to disturb a summer tanager, who fired off volley after volley of objurgatory expletives, and altogether seemed to be in a terrible state of mind. His excitement was all for nothing; unless what was likely enough it served to give him favor in the eyes of his mate, who may be pre- sumed to have been somewhere within hearing. Lovers, I believe, are supposed to welcome an opportunity to play the hero. My last afternoon at the Bridge was devoted to a longish tramp into a new piece of country, where for an hour I had hopes of adding at least a name or two to my Virginia bird-list, which for twenty-four hours had been at a stand- still. I came unexpectedly upon a mill, and what was of greater account, a mill- pond, a long, dirty pond, as my uncivil pencil describes it. Here were swallows, as might have been foreseen, but the most careful scrutiny revealed nothing beyond the two species already catalogued, the barn swallow and the rough - wing. Here, too, in an apple orchard, were a Baltimore oriole gather- ing straws, a phwbe, a golden warbler, and several warbling vireos, the only ones so far noticed with the exception of a single bird at Pulaski. About the bor- der of the pond were spotted sandpipers (no solitaries, to my disappointment) and two male song sparrows. This last species I saw but twice in Virginia, along the bushy shore of the creek at Pulaski, and here beside this millpond. Wherever the song sparrow is scarce, it is likely to be restricted to the imme- diate neighborhood of water. Even in Massachusetts it is pretty evident that such places are its first choice. As I sometimes say, the song sparrow likes a swamp as well as the swamp sparrow; but the species being so exceedingly abun- dant, there are not swampy spots enough to go round, and the majority of the birds have to shift as they can, along bushy fence - rows and in pastures and scrub- lands. The building interested me almost as much as the sandpipers and the spar- rows. It was painted red, and served not only as a mill, but as a post-office ( IRed Mills ) and a department store, with its sign, Dry Goods, Gro- ceries, & c. A tablet informed the pass- er-by that the mill had been estab 268 At Natural Bridge, Virginia. lished in 1798, destroyed in 1881, and reopened in 1891; and on the same tab- let, or another, was the motto, Labo- rare est orare. I regretted not to meet the proprietor, but he was nowhere in sight, and I felt a scruple about intrud- ing upon the time of a man who was at once postmaster, miller, farmer, store- keeper, and scholar. With that motto before me, Apologia pro vita sua, he might have called it, such an in- trusion would have seemed a sacrilege. What I remember best about the whole establishment is the song of a blue-gray gnatcatcher, to which I stopped to listen under a low savin tree on a bluff above the mill. He was directly over my head, singing somewhat in the manner of a catbird, but I had almost to hold my breath to hear him. It was amazing that a birds voice could be spun so fine. A mere shadow of a sound, I was ready to say. It was only by the happiest ac- cident that I did not miss it altogether. Then, when the fellow had finished his music, he began squeaking in that pe- culiarly teasing manner of his, and kept it up till I was weary. The gnatcatch- er is a creature by himself, a miniature bird, wonderfully slender, with a strange- ly long tail, which he carries jauntily and makes the most of on all occasions. But if he only knew it, his chief claim to distinction is his singing voice. If the humming-birds is attenuated in the same proportion (and who can assert the contrary ?), he may be the finest vocalist in the world, and we none the wiser. I was to start northward by the next noonday train, and had already laid out my forenoons work. Before breakfast I took my last look at the famous bridge, and my last stroll through Cedar Creek ravine. I had been there every day, I think, and had always found something new. This time it was a slippery elm tree by the saltpetre cave. I had brought away a twig, and was sitting in my door putting a lens upon it and upon a se- dum specimen, when the veranda was suddenly taken possession of by a dozen or more of young men. They were just up from the railway station, and were deep in a discussion of ways and means, tickets, luncheons, and time-tables. Then, in a momentary lull in the talk, I heard a quiet voice say, Sedum. They were a company of Johns Hopkins men out upon a geological trip. So I learned at noon when we met at the railway sta- tion; and a pleasant botanical hour I had with one or two of them as we rode northward. Now, on the piazza, they did not tarry long; time was precious to them also; and as soon as they had gone down to the bridge I set off in the oppo- site direction. My final ramble was to be to Lincoln Heights, to see once more that magnificent avenue of trees and that beautiful mountain prospect. The cerulean warbler was singing as usual, but there was no sign of his mate, though I could not do less than to wait a little while by the grapevine thicket in a vain hope of her appearance. Here, as in the ravine, I had not yet seen everything. Straight before me stood a locust tree, every branch hung with long, fragrant white clusters. I had overlooked it com- pletely till now. If I learned nothing else in Virginia, I ought to have learned something about my limitations as an observer. But I need not have tra- veled so far for such a purpose. Wis- dom so common as that may be picked up any day in a mans own dooryard. Bradford fLorrey. The Battle of the Strong. 269 THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XXV. GUIDA was sitting on the veille read- ing an old London paper which she had bought of the mate on the packet from Southampton. One page contained an account of the execution of Louis XVI.; another reported the fight between the English thirty-six gun frigate Araminta and the French Niobe. The engagement had been desperate, the valiant Aramin- ta having been fought not alone against odds as to her enemy, but against the irresistible perils of a coast of which the Admiralty charts gave cruelly imperfect information. To the Admiralty was due the fact that the Araminta was now at the bottom of the sea, and its young com- mander confined in a French fortress, his brave and distinguished services lost to the country. Nor had the government yet sought to lessen the injury by ar- ranging a cartel for the release of the unfortunate commander. The Araminta! To Guida the letters of the word seemed to stand out from the paper like shining hieroglyphs on a misty gray curtain. All the rest of the page was resolved into a filmy floating substance, no more tangible than the ashy skeleton of burnt paper on which writing still lives when the paper itself has been eaten by flame, and the flame swallowed by the air. Araminta, this was all her eyes saw; that familiar name in the flaring, fantastic handwriting of the genius of life, who had scrawled her destiny in that one word. Slowly the monstrous ciphers faded from the gray hemisphere of space, and she saw again the newspaper in her trem- bling fingers, the kitchen into which the sunlight streamed from the open window, the dog Biribi basking in the doorway. That living quiet which descends upon a kitchen when the midday meal and work are done came suddenly home to her, in contrast to the turmoil of her mind and being. So that was why Philip had not writ- ten to her! While her heart was grow- ing bitter against him, he had been fight- ing his vessel against great odds, and at last had been shipwrecked and carried off a prisoner. A strange new understand- ing took possession of her. Her life widened. She realized all at once how the eyes of the whole world might be fixed upon a single ship, a few cannon, and some scores of men. The general of a great army leading tens of thousands into the clash of battle, that had al- ways been within her comprehension; but this was almost miraculous, this abrupt projection of one ship and her command- er upon the canvas of fame. Philip had left her, unknown save to a few; with the nations turned to see, he had made a gallant and splendid fight, and now he was a prisoner in a French fortress! This, then, was why her grandfather had received no letter from Philip con- cerning the marriage. Well, she must now speak for herself; she must an- nounce her marriage. Must she show Philips letters? No, no, she could not. Then a new suggestion came to her: there was one remaining proof of her marriage. Since no banns had been published, Philip must have obtained a license from the dean of the island, and he would have a record of it. All she had to do now was to get a copy of this record. But no, a license to marry was no proof of marriage; it was but evi- dence of intention. Still, she would go to the dean this very moment. It was not right that she should wait longer: indeed, in waiting so long she had already done great wrong to herself, and maybe to Philip.

The Battle of the Strong. 269 THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XXV. GUIDA was sitting on the veille read- ing an old London paper which she had bought of the mate on the packet from Southampton. One page contained an account of the execution of Louis XVI.; another reported the fight between the English thirty-six gun frigate Araminta and the French Niobe. The engagement had been desperate, the valiant Aramin- ta having been fought not alone against odds as to her enemy, but against the irresistible perils of a coast of which the Admiralty charts gave cruelly imperfect information. To the Admiralty was due the fact that the Araminta was now at the bottom of the sea, and its young com- mander confined in a French fortress, his brave and distinguished services lost to the country. Nor had the government yet sought to lessen the injury by ar- ranging a cartel for the release of the unfortunate commander. The Araminta! To Guida the letters of the word seemed to stand out from the paper like shining hieroglyphs on a misty gray curtain. All the rest of the page was resolved into a filmy floating substance, no more tangible than the ashy skeleton of burnt paper on which writing still lives when the paper itself has been eaten by flame, and the flame swallowed by the air. Araminta, this was all her eyes saw; that familiar name in the flaring, fantastic handwriting of the genius of life, who had scrawled her destiny in that one word. Slowly the monstrous ciphers faded from the gray hemisphere of space, and she saw again the newspaper in her trem- bling fingers, the kitchen into which the sunlight streamed from the open window, the dog Biribi basking in the doorway. That living quiet which descends upon a kitchen when the midday meal and work are done came suddenly home to her, in contrast to the turmoil of her mind and being. So that was why Philip had not writ- ten to her! While her heart was grow- ing bitter against him, he had been fight- ing his vessel against great odds, and at last had been shipwrecked and carried off a prisoner. A strange new understand- ing took possession of her. Her life widened. She realized all at once how the eyes of the whole world might be fixed upon a single ship, a few cannon, and some scores of men. The general of a great army leading tens of thousands into the clash of battle, that had al- ways been within her comprehension; but this was almost miraculous, this abrupt projection of one ship and her command- er upon the canvas of fame. Philip had left her, unknown save to a few; with the nations turned to see, he had made a gallant and splendid fight, and now he was a prisoner in a French fortress! This, then, was why her grandfather had received no letter from Philip con- cerning the marriage. Well, she must now speak for herself; she must an- nounce her marriage. Must she show Philips letters? No, no, she could not. Then a new suggestion came to her: there was one remaining proof of her marriage. Since no banns had been published, Philip must have obtained a license from the dean of the island, and he would have a record of it. All she had to do now was to get a copy of this record. But no, a license to marry was no proof of marriage; it was but evi- dence of intention. Still, she would go to the dean this very moment. It was not right that she should wait longer: indeed, in waiting so long she had already done great wrong to herself, and maybe to Philip. 270 The Battle of the Strong. She rose from the veille with a sense of relief. No more of this secrecy, mak- ing her innocence seem guilt; no more painful dreams of punishment for some intangible crime; no more starting if she heard an unexpected footstep; no more hurried walk through the streets, look- ing neither to right nor to left; no more inward struggles wearing away her life. To-morrow to-morrow no, this very night, her grandfather and one oth- er, even Maitresse Aimable, should know all; and she should sleep so quietly, oh, so quietly, to-night. Looking into a mirror on the wall, it had been a gift of the chevalier, she smiled at herself. Why, how foolish of her it had been to feel so much and to imagine terrible things! Her eyes were shining now, and her hair, catching the sunshine from the window, glistened like burnished copper. She turned to see how it shone on the temple and the side of her head. How Philip had loved her hair! Her eyes lingered for a moment placidly on herself; then she started abruptly. A wave of feeling, a shiver, passed through her, her brow gathered in perplexity, she flushed deeply. Turning away from the mirror, she went and sat down again on the edge of the veille. Her mind had changed. She would go to the deans, but not till it was dark. She suddenly thought it strange that the dean had never said any- thing about the license. Why, again, perhaps he had! How should she know what gossip was going on in the town? But no, she was quick to feel, and if there had been gossip she would have felt it in the manner of her neighbors. Besides, gossip as to a license to marry was all on the right side. She sighed she had sighed so often of late to think what a tangle it all was, of how it would be smoothed out to-morrow, of what There was a click of the garden gate, a footstep ou the walk, a half-growl from Biribi, and the face of Carterette Mattingley appeared in the kitchen door- way. Seeing Guida sitting on the veille, she came in quickly, her dancing dark eyes heralding great news. Dont get up, ma couzaine, she said, please dont. Sit just there, and let me sit beside you. Ah, but I have the most wonderful news! Carterette was out of breath. She had hurried here from her home. As she said herself, her two feet were nt in one shoe on the way, and that and her news made her quiver with excitement. At first, palpitating with eagerness, bursting with mystery, she could do no more than sit and look into Guidas face. Carterette was quick of instinct in her way, but yet she had not seen any marked change in her friend during the past few months. Certainly Guida had not been so buoyant as was her wont, but Carterette herself had been so occu- pied in thinking of her own particular secret that she was not observant of oth- ers. At times she saw Ranulph, and then she was uplifted, to be immediately de- pressed again; for she perceived that he was cast down, that his old cheerfulness was gone, and that a sombreness had settled on him. Somehow, though she was not quite happy when she did not see him, she was then even happier than when she did, for she seemed so power- less to lighten his gravity. She flattered herself, however, that she could do so if she had the right and the good oppor- tunity, the more so that Ranulph no longer visited the cottage in the Place du Vier Prison. That drew her closer to Guida, also; for in truth Carterette had no loftiness of nature. Like most people, she was selfish enough to hold a person a little dearer for not standing in her own par- ticular light. Long ago she had shrewd- ly guessed that Guidas interest lay else- where than with Ranulph, and when Philip dAvranche was in St. Heliers she had fastened upon him as the object of Guidas favor. But then many sail- ors had made love to her, and knowing The Battle of the Strong. 271 it was here to-day and away to-morrow with them, her heart had remained un- touched. Why, then, should she think Guida would take the officer seriously where she herself held the sailor light- ly? But at the same time she had an instinct that what concerned Philip would interest Guida, she herself al- ways cared to hear the fate of an old ad- mirer, and this was what had brought her to the cottage to-day. Guess who I ye got a letter from! she asked of Guida, who had taken up some sewing, and was now industriously regarding the stitches. At Carterettes question Guida looked up and said with a smile, From some one you like, I know. Carterette laughed gayly. Ba sfi, I should think I did in a way. But what s his name? Come, guess, Mam- selle Dignity. Eh ben, the fairy godmother, an- swered Guida, trying hard not to show an interest she felt all too keenly; for nowadays it seemed to her that all news should be about Philip. Besides, she was gaining time and preparing herself for she knew not what! Oh my grief! responded the brown- eyed elf, kicking off the red slipper that had once so vexed the Lady of St. Michael, and thrusting her foot into it again, never a fairy godmother had I, unless it s old Manon Moignard, the witch: Sas, son, bileton, My grandm~the a-fishing has gone: She 11 gather the fins to scrape my jowl, And ride back home on a barnyard fowl! Nannin, mamselle, it s plain to be seen you cant guess what a cornfield grows besides red poppies! and laughing in sheer delight at the mystery she was making, she broke off into a whimsical nursery rhyme: Coquelicot, jai mal an Coquelicot, quest qni la fait? Coquelicot, chtai moa valet. She kicked off her red slipper again, and flying halfway across the room it alighted on the table, and a little mud from the heel dropped on the clean scoured surface. With a little moue of mockery, she slowly got up and tiptoed across the floor, like a child afraid of being scolded. Gathering the dirt care- fully, and looking demurely askance at Guida the while, she tiptoed over to the fireplace with it. Naughty Carterette! she said at herself with admiring reproval, as she looked in Guidas mirror, and added, as she glanced with farcical approval round the room, And it all shines like a pea- cocks feather, too! Guida longed to snatch the letter from Carterettes hand and read it, but she only said calmly, though the words flut- tered in her throat, You re as gay as a chaffinch, gar~on Carterette! Gar~on Cctrterette! Instantly Carte- rette sobered down. No one save Ra- nulph had ever called her gar~on Car- terette! Guida had used the words purposely; she had heard Ranulph call Carterette by them, and she knew they would change the madcaps mood. Carterette, to hide a sudden flush, stooped and slowly put on her slipper. Then she came back to the veille, and sat down beside Guida, saying as she did so, Yes, I m always as gay as a chaffinch me! She unfolded the letter slowly, and Guida stopped sewing, but with the point of her needle mechanically began to prick the linen lying on her knee. Well, said Carterette deliberately, this letter is from a pendloque of a fel- low, at least, we used to call him that, though if you come to think, he was always polite as a mended porringer. It was nt often he had two sous to rub against each other, and and not enough buttons for his clothes! Guida smiled. She guessed whom Car- terette meant. Has Monsieur D& ri- cand more buttons now? she asked, with a little whimsical lift of the eyebrows. 272 The Battle of t~he Strong. Ah bidemme, yes, and gold too, all over him like that! She made a quick sweeping gesture with her hand, which would seem to make D6tricand a very spangle of buttons. Come, what do you think? He s a general now! A general ! Instantly Guida thought of Philip, and a kind of envy shot into her heart that this vaurien D6tricand should mount so high in a few months, a man whose past had shown nothing to warrant such success. A general! Where? she asked. In the Yend& army, fighting for the new King of France; you know the Revolutionists cut off the ]ast Kings head. At another time Guidas heart would have throbbed with elation, for the ro- mance of that union of aristocrat and peasant appealed keenly to her imagina- tion; but she only said in the patois of the people themselves, Ma fuifre yes, I know. Carterette was delighted to dole out her news thus, and get her due reward of astonishment. And he s got an- other name, she added. At least, it s not another; he always had it, but be did nt call himself by it. Pardi, he s more than the chevalier; he s the Comte D~tricand de Tournay. Ah, then, be- lieve me if you choose! There it is. She pointed to the signature of the let- ter, and with a gush of eloquence ex- plained how it all was about D6tricand the vaurien and D~tricand the Comte de Tournay. Good riddance to Monsieur Savary dit D6tricand, and good welcome to Monsieur the Comte de Tournay, an- swered Guida, trying hard to humor Carterette, that she might sooner hear the news yet withheld. And what comes after that? Carterette was half sorry that her great moment had come; she wished she could have prolonged the suspense. But she let herself be comforted by the an- ticipated effect of her wonderful on dit. I 11 tell you what comes after ah, but see, then, what a wonder I have for you! You know that Monsieur Philip dAvranche: well, what do you think has happened to him? Guida felt as if some mor~trous hand had her heart in its grasp, crushing it. Presentiment took possession of her. Carterette was busy running over the pages of the letter, and did not notice how her face bad lost its color. She had no thought that Guida had any vital interest in Philip, and she ruthlessly, though unconsciously, began to torture the young wife as few are tortured in this world. She read aloud D6tricands descrip- tion of his visit to the castle of Bercy, and of the meeting with Philip. See what comes of a name! wrote D6tricand, and repeated Carte- rette. Here was a poor prisoner whose ancestor, hundreds of years ago, may or may not have been a relative of the dAvranches of Clermont, when a disap- pointed duke, with an eye open for heirs, takes a fancy to the good-looking face of the poor prisoner, and voih! you have him whisked off to a castle, fed on milk and honey, and adopted into the family. Then a pedigree is nicely grown on a summer day, and this fine young Jersey adventurer is found to be a green branch from the old root; and there s a great blare of trumpets, and the states of the duchy are called together to make this English officer a prince and thats the Thousand and One Nights in Arabia, Mamselle Carterette! Guida was sitting rigid and still. In the slight pause Carterette made, a hun- dred confused, torturing thoughts ran swiftly through her mind, and presently floated into the succeeding sentences of the letter: As for me, I m like Rabots mare, I have nt time to laugh at my own fool- ishness. I m either up to my knees in grass or clay fighting Revolutionists, or I m riding hard day and night till I m The Battle of the Strong. 273 round-backed like a wood-louse, to make up for all the good time I so badly lost in your little island. You would not have expected that, my friend with the tongue that stings, would you? But then, mamselle of the red slippers, one is never butted save by a dishorned cow, as your father used to say. Carterette paused again, saying in an aside, That is msieu all over, all so gay. But who knows? For he says, too, that the other day, a-fighting Fon- tenay, five thousand of his men come across a cavalry as they run to take the guns that eat them up like cabbages, and they drop on their knees, and he drops with them, and they all pray to God to help them, while the cannon-balls whiz- whiz over their heads. He says God did hear them, for He told theni that if they fell down fiat when the guns were fired the balls would nt touch em. During this interlude, Guida, full of impatience and anxiety, could scarcely sit still. She began sewing again, though her fingers trembled so that she could hardly make a stitch. But Carterette, the little egotist, did not notice her dis- turbance; her own excitement dimmed her observation. She began reading again. The first few words had little or no significance for Guida, but presently she was held as by the fascination of a serpent. And, Mamselle Carterette, what do you think this young captain, now Prince Philip dAvranche and successor to the title of Bercy, what do you think he is next to do? Even to marry a countess of great family whom the old duke has chosen for him, so that the name of dAvranche may not die out in the land. And that is the way that love begins. . . . Wherefore I want you to write and tell me What he wanted Carterette to tell him Guida hever heard, though it con- cerned herself, for she gave a cry like a dumb animal in agony, and sat rigid and blanched, the needle she had been VOL. LXXXII. ~ No. 490. 18 using imbedded in her finger to the bone, but not a motion, not a sign of human animation, in her face or figure. All at once some conception of the truth burst upon the aifrighted Carte- rette. She had all along thought that Philip and Guida had liked each other, but she had never thought of aught se- rious between them. Besides, in her childish egotism, as unconscious as it was heartless, she had seen in the present letter no more than the great news it contained. She imagined the real truth as little as D6tricand had done. But now she saw the blanched face, the filmy eyes, the stark look, the finger pierced by the needle, and she knew that a human heart had been pierced, too, with a pain worse than death. It was worse; for she had seen death, and she had never seen anything like this in its dire misery and horror. She caught the needle quickly from the finger, wrapped her kerchief round the wound, threw away the sewing from Guidas lap, and running an arm about her waist made as if to lay a hot cheek against the cold face of her friend. Suddenly, however, with a new and painful know- ledge, and a face as white and scared as Guidas own, she ran to the dresser, caught up a hanap, and brought some water. Guida still sat as though life had left her, and the body, arrested in its activity, would presently relax and collapse. Carterette was no irresponsible, light- headed, stupid peasant; she had sense, resolution, and self-possession. She ten- derly put the water to Guidas lips, with comforting, reassuring words, though her own brain was in a whirl, and a hun- dred dark premonitions flashed through her mind. Ah, man gui, man p~the! she said in the homely patois. There, drink, drink, dear, dear couzaine! Guidas lips opened, and she drank slowly, put- ting her hand to her heart with a gesture of pain. Carterette set down the hanap 274 The Battle of the Strong. and caught her hands. Come, come, these cold hands, pergui, but we must stop that! They are so cold! She rubbed them hard. The poor child of heaven, what has come over you? Speak to me. . . . Ah, but see, every- thing will come all right by and by! God is good. Nothing s as bad as what it seems. There was never a gray wind but there s a grayer. Nannin-gia, take it not so to heart, my couzaine; thou shalt have love enough ia the world! Ah, grand doux dla vie, but I could kill him! she added under her breath, and she rubbed Guidas hands still, and looked frankly, generously, into her eyes. Yet, try as she would in that supreme moment, she could not feel all she used to do concerning her. There is some- thing humiliating in even an undeserved injury, something which, in average human eyes, depreciates the worthiness of its victim. To this hour Carterette had looked upon Guida as a being far above her own companionship, an idea which Guida herself always had combated. All in a moment, however, in this new office of comforter to her anguished and abandoned friend, their relative status was altered. The plane on which Guida had moved was lowered; pity, while it deepened the kindness and tenderness, lessened the gap between them. Perhaps something of this passed through Guidas mind, and the deep pride and courage of her nature came to her assistance. She withdrew her hands from Carterettes and mechani- cally smoothed back her hair, and then, as Carterette sat watching her, folded up the sewing and put it in the work- basket hanging on the wall beside the veille. There was something unnatural in her governance of herself now. She seemed as if doing things in a dream, but she did them accurately and with apparent purpose. She looked at the clock; then went to light the fire, for it was almost time to get her grand- fathers tea. She did not appear con- scious of the presence of Carterette, who still sat on the veille, not knowing quite what to do. At last, as the flame flashed up in the chimney, she came over to her friend, and said, Carte- rette, I am going to the deans. Will you run and ask Maitresse Aimable to come here to me soon? Her voice was steady, but it was the steadiness of despair, that steadiness which comes to those upon whose nerves has fallen a great numbness, upon whose sensibilities has settled a cloud which stills them as the thick mist stills the ripples on the waters of a fen. All the glamour of Guidas youth had dropped away. She had deemed life good, and behold, it was not good; she had thought her dayspring was on high, and her happiness had burnt out into the darkness like quick-consuming flax. But all was strangely quiet in her heart and mind. Nothing more that she feared could happen to her; the worst had happened, and now there came down on her the impervious calm of the doomed. Carterette was awed by her face, and saying that she would go at once to Mal- tresse Aimable she started toward the door, but as quickly stopped and came back to Guida, who was taking her hat from a nail. With none of the impulse that usually marked her actions, Carte- rette put her arms round Guidas neck and kissed her, saying with a subdued intensity and purpose, I d go through fire and water for you. I want to help you every way I can me! Guida did not reply, but she kissed the hot cheek of the smuggler-pirates daughter as in dying one might kiss the face of a friend seen with filmy eyes, and sent her away. When she had gone Guida drew her- self up with a shiver; yet she was con- scious that new senses and instincts were born in her, or were now first awakened to life. She could not quite command The Battle of the Strong. 275 them yet, but she felt them, and, in so far as she had power to think, she used them. Leaving the house and stepping into the Place du Vier Prison, she walked quietly and steadily up the Rue dDri~re. She did not notice that people she met glanced at her curiously, and turned to look after her as she hurried on. XXVI. It had been a hot, oppressive day, but when, a half-hour later, Guida hastened back through the Place du Vier Prison a vast black cloud had drawn up from the southeast, dropping a curtain of dark- ness upon the town. As she neared the doorway of the cottage a few heavy drops began to fall, and in spite of her over- powering trouble she quickened her foot- steps, fearing that her grandfather had come back to find the house empty and no light or supper ready. M. de Mauprat had preceded her by not more than five minutes. His foot- steps across the Place du Vier Prison had been unsteady, his head bowed, though more than once he raised it with a sort of effort, as it were in indignation or defiance. He muttered to himself as he opened the door, and he paused in the hallway as though hesitating to go forward. After a moment he made a piteous gesture of his hand toward the kitchen, and whispered to himself in a kind of reassurance. Then he entered the room and stood still. All was dark save for the glimmer of the fire. Guida! Guida! he said in a shak- ing, muffled voice. There was no an- swer. He put his hat and stick in the corner, and felt his way past the table to his great chair, he seemed to have lost his sight. Finding the familiar worn arm of the chair, he seated himself with a heavy sigh. His lips moved, and he shook his head now and then as though in protest against some unspoken thought. Presently he brought his clenched hand down heavily on the chair-arm, and said aloud, They lie! they lie! The conn6table lies! Their tongues shall be cut out. . . . Ah, my little, little child! - . . The conn6table dared he dared to tell me this evil gossip of my little one of my Guida! He laughed contemptuously, but it was a crackling, dry laugh, painful in its cheerlessness. He drew his snuff-box from his pocket, opened it, and slowly taking a pinch raised it toward his nose; but the hand paused halfway, as though a new thought had arrested it. In the pause there came the sound of the front door opening, and then foot- steps in the hall. The pinch of snuff fell from the fin- gers of the old man upon the white cloth of his short-clothes, but as Guida entered the kitchen and stood still a mo- merit he did not stir in his seat. The thundercloud had come still lower and the room was dark, even the coals in the fireplace being now covered with gray ashes. Grandpethe! Grandp~the! Guida said. He did not answer. His heart was fluttering; his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, dry and thick. Now he should know the truth; now he should be sure that they had lied about his lit- tle Guida, those slanderers of the Vier Marchi. But, too, he had a strange, de- pressing fear, at variance with his loving faith and belief that in Guida there was no wrong, such a belief as has the strong swimmer that he can reach the shore through the wave and tide; yet also with the strange foreboding, prelud- ing the cramp that makes powerless, de- fying youth, strength, and skill. He could not have spoken if it had been to save his own life or hers. Getting no answer to her words, Guida went first to the chimney and stirred the fire, the old man sitting rigid in his chair, and regarding her with fixed, 276 The Battle of the Strong. watchful eyes. Then she found two candles and lighted them, placing them on the mantel, and, going to the eras- set which hung by its osier rings from a beam in the middle of the room, slowly lighted it. Turning round, she was full in the light of the candles and the shoot- ing flames of the fire. The Sieur de Mauprats eyes had fol- lowed her every motion, unconscious of his presence as she was. This, this was not the Guida he had known! This was not his grandchild, this woman with the pale, cold face and dark, unhappy eyes; this was not the laughing girl who but yesterday was a babe at his knee. This was not The truth, which had yet been before his blinded eyes how long, burst upon him. The shock of it snapped the filmy thread of being. As the soul, escaping, found its wings, spread them, and rose from that dun morass called life, the Sicur de Mauprat, giving a long, deep sigh, fell back in the great armchair dead, nnd the silver snuff-box rattled to the floor. Guida turned with a sharp cry. She ran to him, and lifted up the head that lay over on his shoulder; she called to him, she felt his pulse. Opening his waistcoat, she put her ear to his heart; but it was still still. A mist came over her own eyes, and without a cry or a word she slid down- ward to the floor, unconscious, as the black thunderstorm broke upon the Place du Vier Prison. The rain was like a curtain let down between the prying, clattering world without and the strange peace within: the old man in his perfect sleep; the young, misused wife in that oblivion bor- rowed from death, and as tender and companionable while it lasts. As if in a merciful indulgence, Fate permitted no one to enter upon the dark scene save a woman in whom was a deep motherhood which had never nourished a child, and to whom this silence and this sorrow gave no terrors. Silence was her constant companion, and for sorrow she had been granted the touch that assuages the sharpness of pain, and the love that is called neighborly kind- ness. Unto her it was given to minister here. As the night went by, and the offices had been done for the dend, she took her place by the bedside of the young wife, who lay staring into space, tearless and still, the life consuming away within her. But at last, toward morning, sleep caine, as suddenly as death had come to the Sicur de Mauprat. Then Maitresse Aimable went into the kitchen, and on to the front room, where, with his head buried in his hands, Ranuiph Delagarde sat watching beside the body of the Sicur de Mauprat. XXVII. In the IRue dDriere, the undertaker and his head apprentice were very mer- ry. But why should they not have been? People had to die, quoth the undertaker, and when dead they must be buried: burying was a trade, and wherefore should not one discreetly be cheer- ful at ones trade? In undertaking there were many miles to trudge with coffins in a week, and the fixed, sad, sympa- thetic look which long custom had ste- reotyped was as wearisome to the face as a cast of plaster of Paris. M6reover, the undertaker was master of ceremonies at the house of bereavement as well. He not only arranged the funeral; he sent out the invitations to the friends of deceased, who are requested to return to the house of the mourners after the obsequies for refreshment. The pre- parations for this feast were all made by the undertaker, master of burials, as he chose to be called. Once, after a busy six months, in which a fever had carried off many a Jersiais, this master of burials had given The Battle of the Strong. 277 a picnic to his apprentices, workmen, and their families. At this buoyant function he bad raised his glass, and with a play- ful plaintiveness had proposed, The day we celebrate! He was in a no less blithesome mood this day. The head apprentice was read- ing aloud the accounts for the burials of the month, while the master was check- ing off the items, nodding approval, com- menting, correcting, or condemning with strange expletives. Dont gabble, gabble! Next one slowlee! said the master of burials, as the second account was laid aside, duly approved. Eli ben, now let s hear the next. Who is it him? That Josu6 Anquetil, answered the apprentice. The master of burials rubbed his hands together with a creepy sort of glee. Ah, that was a clever piece of work! Too little of a length and a width for the box; but let us be thankful, it might have been too short, and it was nt. No danger of that, pardingue, broke in the apprentice. The first it belonged to was a foot longer than Josu6 he. But I made the most of Josu6, con- tinued the master. The mouth was crooked, but he was clean, clean, I shaved him just in time. And he had good hair for combing to a peaceful look, and he was light to carry, oh my good! Go on: what has Josu6 the centenier to say for himself? With a drawling, dull indifference, the lank, hatchet-faced servitor of the master servitor of the grave read off the items: The Relict of J4sue Anquetil, (Jentenier, in ac- count with Etienne Mahye, Master of Burials. Livres. Sols. Item: Paid to gentlemen of Vingtaine, who carried him to his grave 4 Ditto to me, Etienne Mahye, for coffin 4 Ditto to me, E. M., for proper gloves of silk and cotton 1 Ditto to me, E. M., for laying of him out and all that appertains 0 Ditto to me, E. M., for divers 0 4 0 0 7 4 The master of burials interrupted: Bat dla goule, you ye forgot the black- ing for coffin! The apprentice made the correction without deigning reply, and then pro- ceeded : Ditto to me, E. M., for black for blacking coffin 0 3 Ditto to me, E. M., paid out for sup- per after obsquies 3 2 Ditto to me, E. M., paid out for 18 lbs. of pork at 4s. pr lb. for ditto 4 8 Ditto to me, E. M., paid out for 1 lb. suet for ditto 0 7 Ditto to me, E. M., paid out for wine (3 pots and I pt. at a shil- ling) for ditto 2 5 Ditto to me, E. M., paid out for oil and candle 0 7 Ditto to me, E. M., given to the poor, as fitting station of de- ceased 4 0 The apprentice stopped. That s all, he said. There was a furious leer on the face of the master of burials. So, after all his care, apprentices would never learn to make mistakes on his side. Always on the side of the corpse, that can thank nobody for naught, oh my grief! was his snarling comment. What about those turnips from D6nise Gareau, num- skull! he squeaked, in a voice some- thing between a sneer and a snort. The apprentice was unmoved. He sniffed, rubbed his nose with a fore- finger, laboriously wrote for a moment, and then added: Ditto to Madame D~nise Gareau for turnips for supper after ob squies 10 sols. Saperlote! leave out the madame, calf-logs you! The apprentice did not move a finger. Obstinacy sat enthroned on him. In a rage, the master made a snatch at a metal flower-wreath to throw at him. Shant! She s my aunt. I knows my duties to my aunt me! remarked the apprentice stolidly. The master burst out in a laugh of scorn. Gadrabotin, here s family 278 The Battle of the Strong. pride for you! I 11 go stick dandelines in my old sows ear, resp6 dla corn- pagnie. The apprentice was still calm. If you want to flourish yourself, dont mind me, said he, and picking up the next account he began reading Mademoiselle Landresse, in the matter of the burial of the Sieur de Mauprat, to Etienne Miahye, etc. Item The first words read by the appren- tice had stilled the breaking storm of the masters anger. It dissolved in a fra- grant dew of proud reminiscence, profit, speculation, and scandal. He himself had no open prejudices. He was an official of the public, or so he counted himself, and he very shrewdly knew his duty in that walk of life to which it had pleased Heaven to call him. The greater the notoriety of the death, the more in evidence was the master and all his belongings. Death with honor was an advantage to him; death with disaster was a boon; death with scandal was a godsend. It brought tears of gratitude to his eyes when the death and the scandal were in high places. These were the only real tears he ever shed. His heart was in his head, and the head thought solely of Etienne Mahye. Though he wore an air of sor- row and sympathy in public, he had no more feeling than a hangman. His sym- pathy seemed to say to the living, I wonder how soon you 11 come into my hands! and to the dead, What a pity you can die only once, and that second- hand coffins are so hard to get! Item paid to me, Etienne Mahyc, for rose- wood coffin droned the voice of the apprentice, Oh my good! interrupted the mas- ter of burials, with a barren chuckle. Oh my good, that was a day in a life- time! I ye done fine work in my time, but the Lord bestowed his countenance upon that day, not a cloud above, no dust beneath, a flowing tide, and a calm sea. The Royal Court, too, caught on a sudden marching in their robes, turns to and joins the cortegee, and the little birds a-tweeting-tweeting, and two parsons at the grave. Pardingue, but the Lord was with me, and The apprentice laughed, a dry, mirthless laugh of disbelief and ridicule. Ba s~, master, the Lord was watching you. There was two silver bits inside that coffin! Bigre! The master was pale with rage. His lips drew back, disclosing his long dark teeth and sickly gums, a grimace of fury. He reached out to seize a hammer lying at his hand, but the apprentice said quickly, That s the cholera hammer ah bah! The mastei~ of burials dropped the hammer as though it were at white heat, and eyed it with scared scrutiny. This hammer had been used in nailing down the coffins of six cholera patients who had died in one house at Rozel Bay a year before. The master would not go near the place, so this apprentice had gone, on a promise from the Royal Court that he should have for himself this is what he asked free lodging in two small up- per rooms of the Cohue Royale, just un- der the bell which said to the world, Chi- cane chicane! Chicane chicane! This he asked, and this he got, and he alone of all Jersey went out to bury three persons who had died of cholera; and then to watch three others die, to bury them as soon as they were cold, and come back, with a leer of satisfaction, to claim his price. At first people were inclined to make a hero of him, but that only made him grin the more, and the island reluctantly decided at last that he had done the work solely for fee and reward. The hammer he had used in nailing the coffins he had carried through the town, like an emblem of terror and death, and henceforth he alone in the shop of the master of burials used it. It wont hurt you if you leave it The Battle of the Strong. alone, said the apprentice grimly to the master of burials. But if you go bothering, I 11 put it in your bed, and it 11 do after to nail down your coffin you! Then he went on reading with a dull, malicious calmness, as if the matter were the merest trifle, and he were anxious to get on with his work: Item one dozen pairs of gloves for mourners. Par mad6! that s one way of putting it, commented the apprentice; for what mourners was there but mamselle herself, and she as quiet as a mice and not a teardrop, and all the island with necks end to end for a look at her, and you, master, whispering to her, The Lord is the Giver and Taker, and the femme de ballast tother side, saying, My de-are, my de-are, bear thee up, bear thee upthee? And she looking so steady in front of her, as if never was shame about her and her there soon to be! and no ring of gold upon her hand, and all the world staring! broke in the mas- ter, who, having now edged far off from the cholera hammer, was launched upon a theme that roused all his emotions. All the world staring, and good rea- son! And she scarce winking, eh? True, that! Her eyes did nt feel the cold, said the master of burials with a leer, for to his sight, as to that of oth- ers, only as boldness had been Guidas bitter courage, the numb, blank, despair- ing gaze, coining from eyes that turned their agony inward. What I want to know is, added the master, what I want to know is, who was the man, bi~ sli? That s what none but they two knows, and she says neither bouf ni baf, said the apprentice. But it s none business to we nannin-cria! He took up the account again, and prepared to read it. The master, how- ever, had been awakened to a congenial theme. Poor fallen child of nature! ~ said he. For what is birth or what is looks of virtue like a summer flower! It is to be brought down by hand of man. He was warmed to his theme. Habit had so long made him as much hypocrite as his trade had made him stony-hearted that he was at once senti- mentalist and hard materialist. Some pendloque has brought her beauty to this pass, but she must suffer; and also his time will come, the sulphur, the tor- ment, the worm that dieth not and no Abraham for parched tongue misery me! They that meet in sin here shall meet hereafter in burning fiery furnace.~~ The cackle of the apprentice rose above the whining voice: Murder, too, dont forget the murder, master. The conn6table told the old Sieur de Mauprat what people were blabbing, and in half- hour dead he was he! The sieurs blood it is upon their heads, continued the master of burials; it will rise up from the ground The apprentice interrupted: A good thing if the sieur himself does nt rise, for you d get naught for coffin or the obsquies. It was you tells the conn6table what folks blabbed, and the conn6table tells the sieur, and the sieur it kills him dead. So if he rised, he d not pay you for murdering him, no, bidemme! And this is a gobbly mouthful this! he added, holding up the bill. The undertakers lips smacked softly, as though in truth he were waiting for the mouthful. Rubbing his hands, and drawing his lean leg up so that it touched his nose, he looked over it with avid eyes, and said, How much is it ? dont read the items, but come to~ total debit, how much is it? How much. does she pay me? Mamselle Landresse, debtor in all for one hun- dred and twenty livres, eleven sols, and two farthings. Shant we make it one hundred and twenty-one livres? asked the appren- tice. No; the odd sols and farthings look 2T9 280 The Battle of the Strong. better, returned the master of burials, they look exact. But the courage it needs to be honest! Oh my grief, if said the apprentice, pointing, and the master of burials, turning, saw Guida pass the doorway. With a hungry instinct for the morbid, they stole to the doorway and looked down the Rue dDri~re after Guida. The master was sympathetic, for had he not in his fingers a bill for a hundred and twenty livres odd, at that moment? The face of the apprentice was implacable, but the way he craned his neck and tightened the forehead over his large, protuberant eyes showed his intense cu- riosity. His face was like that of some strong fate, superior to the influences of mans sorrow, shame, or death. Pre- sently he laughed, a crackling cackle like new-lighted kindling-wood; nothing could have been more inhuman in sound. What in particular aroused this arid mirth probably he himself did not know. Maybe it was a native cruelty which had a sort of sardonic pleasure in the mis- eries of the world. Or was it the one perception sometimes given to the dull- est mind, of the futility of goodness, the futility of all? This is the kinder prob- ability, for the apprentice was the new companion of Dormy Jamais, and now shared with him his rooms at the top of the Cohue Royale; and certainly Dormy Jamais was neither sardonic nor cruel. In truth, there must have been some nat- ural bond between the blank, sardonic undertakers apprentice and the poor b6ganne. Of late Dormy had haunted the precincts of the Place du Vier Prison, and was the only person besides Mal- tresse Aimable whom Guida welcomed. His tireless feet went cicte-clac past her doorway, or halted by it, or entered in when it pleased him. He was more a watch-dog than Biribi; he fetched and carried; he was silent and sleepless. It was as if some past misfortune had opened his eyes to the awful bitterness of life, and they had never dosed again. The dry cackle of the apprentice as he looked after Guida roused a mockery of indignation in the master. Sacr6 matin, a back-hander on the jaw d do you good, slubberdegullion you! Ab, get out, and scrub the coffin blacking from your jowl! he rasped out, with furious contempt. The apprentice seemed not to hear, but kept on looking after Guida, a piti- less leer on his face. Et ben, lucky for her the sieur died before he had chance to change his will. She d have got ni fiche ni bran from him! Holy jacks, if you dont stop that I 11 give you a coffin before your time, you keg of nails! Sorrow and prayer at the throne of grace that she may have a contrite heart he clutched the fu- neral bill tighter in his fingers is what all must feel for her. The day the sieur died and it all came out, I wept; bedtime come I had to sop my eyes with elder-water. The day o the burial mine eyes were so sore a-draining, I had to put a rotten sweet apple on em overnight me! Ah bah! she does nt need rosemary wash for her hair! said the apprentice admiringly, looking down the street af- ter Guida as she turned into the Rue dEgypte, near the Vier Prison. Perhaps it was a momentary sympa- thy for beauty in distress which made the master say, as he backed from the doorway stealthily, Gatden~de, t is well she has enough to live on, and to provide for what s to come! But if it was a note of humanity in his voice it passed quickly, for presently, as he examined the bill for the funeral of the Sieur de Mauprat, he said to the apprentice in a shrill voice, Achocre, you ye left out the extra satin for his pillow you! There was nt any extra satin, drawled the apprentice. With a snarl the master of burials seized a pen and wrote in the account: Item to extra satin for pillow, three livres. The Battle of the Strong. 281 XXVIII. Gaidas once blithe, rose-colored face was pale as ivory, the mouth had a look of deep sadness, and the step was slow; but the eye was clear and steady, and her hair, brushed back under the black crape of the bonnet as smoothly as its nature would admit, gave to the broad brow a setting of rare attraction and sombre nobility. It was not a face that knew inward shame, but it carried a look that showed knowledge of lifes cruelties, and a bitter sensitiveness to pain. It was, however, fearless, and it had no touch of the consciousness or the consequences of sin ; it was purity itself. Her face alone should have pro- claimed abroad her innocence, though she had uttered no word in testimony. To most people, nevertheless, her fearless sincerity only added to her crime, and increased the scandalous mystery. Yet her manner awed some, and tier silence held most back. The few who came to offer sympathy, with rude curiousness in their eyes and as much inhumanity as pity in their hearts, were turned away, gently but firmly, more than once with proud resentment. So it chanced that soon only Maitresse Aimable came, she who asked no ques- tions, desired no secrets. The Cheva- lier du Champsavoys had not been with Guida, for on the afternoon of the very day that her grandfather died he had gone a secret voyage to St. Malo, to meet the old solicitor of his family. He knew nothing of his friends death or of Guidas trouble. Nor yet did Maitre Ranuiph visit her after the funeral of the Sieur de Mau- prat. The horror of the thing had struck him dumb, and his mind was one confused mass of conflicting thoughts. He believed in Guida utterly, but there there were the terrifying facts before him. Yet, with an obstinacy peculiar to him, he still went on believing in her goodness and in her truth. Of the man who had injured her he had no doubt, and his mind was clear as to his course in the hour when he and Philip dAvranche should meet. But meanwhile, though he seldom went near the Place du Vier Prison, he visited Maitresse Aimable, and from day to day he knew all that happened to Guida. As of old, without her knowledge, he did many things for her through the same Maitresse Aimable. It quickly came to be known in the island that any one who spoke ill of Guida in his presence did so at no little risk. At first there had been those who marked him as the culprit; but somehow that did not suit with the case, for it was clear he loved Guida now as he had always done, and this all the world knew, and knew also that he would have married her all too gladly. Presently D6tricand and Philip were the only names mentioned; final- ly, as though by common consent, Philip was settled upon, for such evidence as there was pointed that way. The gossips set about to recall all that had happened when Philip was in Jersey last. Here one came forward with tittle of truth, and there another with tattle of falsehood, and at last as wild a story was fabricat- ed as might be heard in a long day. But the truth none of them knew, for in bitterness Guida kept her own counsel. When she reached the cottage in the Place du Vier Prison now, she took from a drawer the letter Philip had written her on the day he first met the Comtesse Chantavoine. She had received it a week before. She read it through slow- ly, shuddering a little once or twice. When she had finished reading, she drew paper to her and began a letter. No, Philip dAvranche [she wrote], your message came too late. All that you might have said and done should have been said and done long ago, in that past which I believe in no more. I will not now ask you why, from the first, you acted as you did toward me. 282 like Battle of the Strong. Words can alter nothing now. Once I thought you sincere, and this letter you send me would have me believe so still. Do you then think so poorly of my in- telligence ? In spite of all your promises, in spite of the surrender of an honest heart and a good life to you, in spite of truth and loyalty and love, ia spite of every call of honor, you denied me dared to deny me at the very time you wrote me this letter. For the passing honors of this world you set aside, first by secrecy, and then by falsehood, the helpless girl to whom you once swore faith and undying love. You, who knew the open book of her heart, you threw it in the dust. Of course there is no wife? the Due de Bercy said to you before the states of Bercy. Of course, you answered. Without pity you told your lie. Were you blind, that you did not see the consequences? Did you not realize the horror of it? Or were you so wicked that you did not care? For I know that before you wrote me this let- ter, and afterward when you had been made heir to the duchy, the Comtesse Chantavoine was openly named by the Due de Bercy for your wife. I understand all now, and I want you clearly to know that I am no longer the thoughtless, believing girl whom you drew from her simple life to give her so cruel a fate. Yesterday I was a child; to-day Oh, above all else, do you think I can ever forgive you for having kiiled the youth, the trust, the joy of life that was in me! You have made me old old; for all the real youth in me is gone forever. You have spoiled for me forever my rightful share of the joyous and the good. My heart is sixty, though my body is not twenty. You have killed the summer of my life; it is winter with me, and I shall never see another spring. How dared you rob me of all that was my birthright, and give me nothing, nothing in return? Do you remember how I begged you not to make me marry you, but you urged me, and because I loved you and trusted you I did? How I entreated you not to make me marry you secretly, and you insisted, and, loving you, I did? How I made you promise you would leave me at the altar, and not see me un- til you came again to claim me for your wife openly, and you broke that pro- mise? Do you remember? Do you remember that night in the garden, when the wind came moaning from the sea? Do you remember how you took me in your arms, and even while I listened to your tender and as- suring words, in that moment Ah, the hurt and the wrong and the shame of it! Afterward, in the strange confusion, in the blind helplessness of my life, I tried to say, But he loved me, and I also tried to forgive you. Not realizing your wickedness wholly, perhaps in time I might have seemed to you to forgive, and to make myself believe I did; but understanding all now, I feel that in the hour when you betrayed me, your own wife, I really ceased to love you. The death of love began then, and when at last I knew you had denied me it was buried forever. I must go on alone, deprived of all that makes life bearable; it is for you to keep on climbing higher by your van- ity, your strength, and your deceit. But yet I know that, however high you climb, you will never find repose. The mem- ory of a wronged woman will be with you always. You will not exist for me, you will not be even a memory; but even against your will I shall always be part of you, of your brain, of your heart, of your soul; for the haunting thought of the innocence you wronged will be youl- torment in your greatest hour. This is not a threat; it is a prophecy. Your worst torment will be then; mine has already been with me. When the weight of my miseries first fell upon me I thought that I must die. Why should The Battle of the Strong. 283 I live, why should I not die? The sea was near7 and it buries deep. I thought of all the people that live on the great earth, and I said to myself that the soul of one poor girl could not count in it all, that it could concern no one but my- self. It was all clear to me, it was certain that I must die. The end of it all should be quietness and rest, no more aching heart, no more heavy feet, no more sleepless eyes that look upon the world as through a flame of fire. I live still, you see, not because I fear to die, but because there came to me a voice in the night which said, Is thy life thine to give or to destroy? The voice was clearer than my own thinking. It told my heart that death by ones own hand meant shame; and I understood that to reach that peace I must drag un- willing feet over the good name and memory of my beloved dead. I remem- bered my mother, if you had remem- bered her, perhaps you would have guarded the gift of my love, and not have trampled it under your feet, I remembered my mother, and so I live on. You live on, also, but your star has fallen from the sky. I know that, for I know what I might have been to you. I was your good destiny, hut, like some madman who destroys his child, you dragged me from my quiet home, and with rough denial left me helpless in the highway. God sent my love to bless you, but you have turned it on me as a scourge. Your passion and your cow- ardice have lost me all and your losses God will send you. There is but little more to say. If it lies in my power, I shall never see you again while I live. And you will not wish it. Yes, in spite of your eloquent letter lying here beside me, you will not wish it, and you shall not expect it. I am not your wife save by the law; and little have you cared for law! Little, too, would the law help you in this now, for which you will rejoice. For the ease of your mind I hasten to tell you why. First let me inform you that none in this land knows me to be your wife. Your letter to my grandfather never reached him, and to this hour I have held my peace. The clergyman who married us is a prisoner among the French, and the strong-box which held the register of St. Michaels Church was stolen. The one other witness, Mr. Shoreham, your lieutenant, as you tell me, went down with the Araminta. So you are safe in your denial of me. For me, I am firmly set to live my own life, in my own way, with what strength I can. A few short months ago I thought that the love I knew would never change through time or tears. Time has not changed it, but the tears which are my portion have. At last I see beyond the Hedge; and now I would endure all the tortures of earth and time rather than call you husband ever again. Your course is clear. You cannot turn hack now; you have gone too far. Your new honors and titles were got at the last by a coarse lie. To acknowledge the lie would be ruin, for all the world knows that Commander Philip dAvranche of the Kings Navy is now the adopted son of the Prince dAvranche, Due de Bercy, second in succession to his serene high- ness. Surely the house of Bercy has cause for joy, with an imbecile for the first in succession, and a traitor for the second! I return herewith the fifty pounds you sent me, you will not question why. - . And so all ends. This is a last farewell between us. Henceforth my life is my own. Do you remember what you said to me on the Ecr6hos? If ever I deceive you, may I die a black, dis- honorable death, abandoned and alone! I should deserve that if ever I deceived you, Guida. Think of that, in your vain glory hereafter. GUIDA LANDRESSE DE LANDnESSE. Gilbert Parker. (To be continued.) 284 Craven. CRAVEN. (MOBILE BAY, 1864.) OVER the turret, shut in his ironclad tower, Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, Now was the time for a charge to end the game. There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; There lay the enemys ships, and sink or swim The flag was flying, and he was head of the line. The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hung Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed; Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed. Into the narrowing channel, between the shore And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar, A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank. Over the manhole, up in the ironclad tower, Pilot and captain met as they turned to fly: The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour, For one could pass to be saved, and one must die. They stood like men in a dream; Craven spoke, Spoke as he lived and fought, with a captains pride: After you, Pilot. The pilot woke, Down the ladder he went, and Craven died. All men praise the deed and the manner; but we We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud, The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free, The grace of the empty hands and promises loud. Sidney thirsting a humbler need to slake, Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeons hand, Lucas crushed with chains for a comrades sake, Outram coveting right before command: These were paladins, these were Cravens peers, These with him shall be crowned in story and song, Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears, Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong. Henry Newbolt.

284 Craven. CRAVEN. (MOBILE BAY, 1864.) OVER the turret, shut in his ironclad tower, Craven was conning his ship through smoke and flame; Gun to gun he had battered the fort for an hour, Now was the time for a charge to end the game. There lay the narrowing channel, smooth and grim, A hundred deaths beneath it, and never a sign; There lay the enemys ships, and sink or swim The flag was flying, and he was head of the line. The fleet behind was jamming: the monitor hung Beating the stream; the roar for a moment hushed; Craven spoke to the pilot; slow she swung; Again he spoke, and right for the foe she rushed. Into the narrowing channel, between the shore And the sunk torpedoes lying in treacherous rank; She turned but a yard too short; a muffled roar, A mountainous wave, and she rolled, righted, and sank. Over the manhole, up in the ironclad tower, Pilot and captain met as they turned to fly: The hundredth part of a moment seemed an hour, For one could pass to be saved, and one must die. They stood like men in a dream; Craven spoke, Spoke as he lived and fought, with a captains pride: After you, Pilot. The pilot woke, Down the ladder he went, and Craven died. All men praise the deed and the manner; but we We set it apart from the pride that stoops to the proud, The strength that is supple to serve the strong and free, The grace of the empty hands and promises loud. Sidney thirsting a humbler need to slake, Nelson waiting his turn for the surgeons hand, Lucas crushed with chains for a comrades sake, Outram coveting right before command: These were paladins, these were Cravens peers, These with him shall be crowned in story and song, Crowned with the glitter of steel and the glimmer of tears, Princes of courtesy, merciful, proud, and strong. Henry Newbolt. Neptunian. ~285 NEPTUNJAN. MIDWAY the height of one sheer granite rock I sat in face of the barbarian sea, And heard the god, out of the dreadful, deep, Midmost Atlantic summoning strength, and here, In accents clear above the sullen roar Of all his waves, condemn the jutting world. Populous Egypt was a realm and ruled By men that strove when Greece was yet unborn. I strive not, yet is Pharaoh deep in death, And still the seas sweep unappeased and new. Kings were ere Priam. Knew ye not? I hold The substance, in my swift and solvent brine, Of all the race since Adam, and of strange, Unfeatured men ere Paradise. And I Sang to them all, and cradled them, and drank Their breath, their dust, their family and fame. Earth the grain-giver in my hands I hold, And if I will I love, and if I will Hate, and I know no master hut the sun, Who drinks the years up in a thin blue flame. From me the rivers and the rain from me Lead down their due-returning silver streams In circuit just; and all the gulfs are mine Beneath the earth that echo of the deep. Laugh, then, be glad! Een though I swallow down, To rock upon my oozy floor, the hulls Of odd ten thousand hurrying ships. They swell And mantle oer with all the amorous life Ye reck not of, and in a year are gone. Laugh and he glad! Tremble and fear! I beat Beneath the shining forward of the dawn, The dim high noon, and the red stars at night, Daylight and dark forever I heat, I heat, Indefatigably reiterant, The bulwarks of the shore, daylight and dark, With the blue night about me, and the dawn. On billow billow rolling, in the press Confounded of the furious, following surge, Thunders the Deep, intolerant and sublime; Gray-heart and grim to spurn of this black rock The temerarious front, and here to wrench The frame of earth aside before the sea. P. H. Savage.

Neptunian. ~285 NEPTUNJAN. MIDWAY the height of one sheer granite rock I sat in face of the barbarian sea, And heard the god, out of the dreadful, deep, Midmost Atlantic summoning strength, and here, In accents clear above the sullen roar Of all his waves, condemn the jutting world. Populous Egypt was a realm and ruled By men that strove when Greece was yet unborn. I strive not, yet is Pharaoh deep in death, And still the seas sweep unappeased and new. Kings were ere Priam. Knew ye not? I hold The substance, in my swift and solvent brine, Of all the race since Adam, and of strange, Unfeatured men ere Paradise. And I Sang to them all, and cradled them, and drank Their breath, their dust, their family and fame. Earth the grain-giver in my hands I hold, And if I will I love, and if I will Hate, and I know no master hut the sun, Who drinks the years up in a thin blue flame. From me the rivers and the rain from me Lead down their due-returning silver streams In circuit just; and all the gulfs are mine Beneath the earth that echo of the deep. Laugh, then, be glad! Een though I swallow down, To rock upon my oozy floor, the hulls Of odd ten thousand hurrying ships. They swell And mantle oer with all the amorous life Ye reck not of, and in a year are gone. Laugh and he glad! Tremble and fear! I beat Beneath the shining forward of the dawn, The dim high noon, and the red stars at night, Daylight and dark forever I heat, I heat, Indefatigably reiterant, The bulwarks of the shore, daylight and dark, With the blue night about me, and the dawn. On billow billow rolling, in the press Confounded of the furious, following surge, Thunders the Deep, intolerant and sublime; Gray-heart and grim to spurn of this black rock The temerarious front, and here to wrench The frame of earth aside before the sea. P. H. Savage. 286 Old Broideries. OLD BROIDERIES. I. OUT of the carven chest of treasured things, That holds them dark and breathless, like a tomb, I lift these scriptured songs of many a loom That labors now no longer, nay, nor sings. And one by one, their soft unfolding brings Along the air some touch of ghostly bloom; The tacit reminiscence of perfume, The uncomplaining dust of mouldered springs. Whether it be from hues, once richly bled Of rooted flowers, some magic takes the sense, Or if it be that meek aroma, wed To flush and sheen and shadow, shaken thence, Or clinging touch of aging silken thread, They hold me, with a tongueless eloquence. II. I marvel how the broiderers could find So sweet the summer shapes that never fade, Though some mere passing race of man and maid Have paled and wasted and gone down the wind! Yet here the toilful art of one could bind No dream with tenderer woven light and shade, Than sovran bloom and fruitage, rare arrayed, Or listless tendrils idly intertwined. Ah, bitter-sweet! For caged care to slake Its thirst with joyance of the weed that grows, The whim of leaf and leaf, and petal flake, Whatever way the breath of April blows: And poor, wise, withered hands, with skill to make The red unhuman gladness of the rose! IT. There is a certain damask here, moon-pale, With the wan iris of a snow on snow, Or petal against petal cheek, ablow. It wears its glories bridelike under veil; But shadowed, half, the blanch~d folds exhale Sweet confidence of color: and there grow Entwined and sundered, by the gloom and glow Dim vines, to muse upon till fancy fail.

286 Old Broideries. OLD BROIDERIES. I. OUT of the carven chest of treasured things, That holds them dark and breathless, like a tomb, I lift these scriptured songs of many a loom That labors now no longer, nay, nor sings. And one by one, their soft unfolding brings Along the air some touch of ghostly bloom; The tacit reminiscence of perfume, The uncomplaining dust of mouldered springs. Whether it be from hues, once richly bled Of rooted flowers, some magic takes the sense, Or if it be that meek aroma, wed To flush and sheen and shadow, shaken thence, Or clinging touch of aging silken thread, They hold me, with a tongueless eloquence. II. I marvel how the broiderers could find So sweet the summer shapes that never fade, Though some mere passing race of man and maid Have paled and wasted and gone down the wind! Yet here the toilful art of one could bind No dream with tenderer woven light and shade, Than sovran bloom and fruitage, rare arrayed, Or listless tendrils idly intertwined. Ah, bitter-sweet! For caged care to slake Its thirst with joyance of the weed that grows, The whim of leaf and leaf, and petal flake, Whatever way the breath of April blows: And poor, wise, withered hands, with skill to make The red unhuman gladness of the rose! IT. There is a certain damask here, moon-pale, With the wan iris of a snow on snow, Or petal against petal cheek, ablow. It wears its glories bridelike under veil; But shadowed, half, the blanch~d folds exhale Sweet confidence of color: and there grow Entwined and sundered, by the gloom and glow Dim vines, to muse upon till fancy fail. Democracy. 287 I wonder: was it woven in a dream, When, for a space, one dreamer had his fill Of perfectness, all white desires supreme That lure and mock the thwarted human will? The worker s dumb. The web lives on, agleam, Untroubled as a lily, and as still. Iv. Ah, nameless maker, at whose heart I guess Through the surviving fabric! You were one With potter and with poet, you that spun And you that stitched, unsung for it; no less A part and pulse of all the want and stress Of effort without end, till time be done, The lift of longing wings unto the sun, Forever beckoned by far loveliness. O wistful soul of all men, heart I hear Close beating for the heart that understands, Kin I deny so often, now read clear Across the foreign years and far-off lands, Let me but touch and greet you, near and dear, Cherishing these, with hands that love your hands! Josephine Preston Peabody. DEMOCRACY. Oun mighty bark, with masts that rake the stars, Has lagged too long in port, and we have drowsed An idle crew or with wild mates caroused, Forgetful of our part in Freedoms wars. But now, at last, with sail taut to the spars, For her whose rightful cause our sires espoused, Again our ship must steer where blow unhoused The winds of God, beyond the shoals and bars. For still our orders hold, as in the past, That glorious day we shook our banner free, And broke from out the line and took the van, With linstocks lit, and bade them follow fast, Who held with us, to sail and search the sea Until we find a better world for man. William Prescott Foster.

Democracy. 287 I wonder: was it woven in a dream, When, for a space, one dreamer had his fill Of perfectness, all white desires supreme That lure and mock the thwarted human will? The worker s dumb. The web lives on, agleam, Untroubled as a lily, and as still. Iv. Ah, nameless maker, at whose heart I guess Through the surviving fabric! You were one With potter and with poet, you that spun And you that stitched, unsung for it; no less A part and pulse of all the want and stress Of effort without end, till time be done, The lift of longing wings unto the sun, Forever beckoned by far loveliness. O wistful soul of all men, heart I hear Close beating for the heart that understands, Kin I deny so often, now read clear Across the foreign years and far-off lands, Let me but touch and greet you, near and dear, Cherishing these, with hands that love your hands! Josephine Preston Peabody. DEMOCRACY. Oun mighty bark, with masts that rake the stars, Has lagged too long in port, and we have drowsed An idle crew or with wild mates caroused, Forgetful of our part in Freedoms wars. But now, at last, with sail taut to the spars, For her whose rightful cause our sires espoused, Again our ship must steer where blow unhoused The winds of God, beyond the shoals and bars. For still our orders hold, as in the past, That glorious day we shook our banner free, And broke from out the line and took the van, With linstocks lit, and bade them follow fast, Who held with us, to sail and search the sea Until we find a better world for man. William Prescott Foster. 288 After the Days Business. Night. 9 AFTER THE DAYS BUSINESS. WHEN I sit down with thee at last alone, Shut out the wrangle of the clashing day, The scrape of petty jars that fret and fray, The snarl and yelp of brute beasts for a bone, When thou and I sit down at last alone, And through the dusk of rooms divinely gray Spirit to spirit finds its voiceless way As tone melts meeting in accordant tone, Oh, then our souls far in the vast of sky Look from a tower too high for sound of strife Or any violation of the town, Where the great vacant winds of God go by, And over the huge misshapen city of life Love pours his silence and his moonlight down. Richard Hovey. NIGHT. DEEP in the starry silence of the night Breathes low the mystery of Life and Death, While oer the darkened waters wandereth A voiceless spirit, veiled from mortal sight. Upheld, enfolded in the encircling height Of heaven, the hushed Earth softly draws her breath, And in the holy stillness listeneth To sweeping wings of far-off worlds in flight. Beauty ascends in elemental prayer: Lifted in worship, lost in wonderment, I join in Natures night antiphony That vibrates in the calm and sentient air; And through the veil of darkness am content To touch the garment of Eternity. Katharine Coolidge.

288 After the Days Business. Night. 9 AFTER THE DAYS BUSINESS. WHEN I sit down with thee at last alone, Shut out the wrangle of the clashing day, The scrape of petty jars that fret and fray, The snarl and yelp of brute beasts for a bone, When thou and I sit down at last alone, And through the dusk of rooms divinely gray Spirit to spirit finds its voiceless way As tone melts meeting in accordant tone, Oh, then our souls far in the vast of sky Look from a tower too high for sound of strife Or any violation of the town, Where the great vacant winds of God go by, And over the huge misshapen city of life Love pours his silence and his moonlight down. Richard Hovey. NIGHT. DEEP in the starry silence of the night Breathes low the mystery of Life and Death, While oer the darkened waters wandereth A voiceless spirit, veiled from mortal sight. Upheld, enfolded in the encircling height Of heaven, the hushed Earth softly draws her breath, And in the holy stillness listeneth To sweeping wings of far-off worlds in flight. Beauty ascends in elemental prayer: Lifted in worship, lost in wonderment, I join in Natures night antiphony That vibrates in the calm and sentient air; And through the veil of darkness am content To touch the garment of Eternity. Katharine Coolidge.

288 After the Days Business. Night. 9 AFTER THE DAYS BUSINESS. WHEN I sit down with thee at last alone, Shut out the wrangle of the clashing day, The scrape of petty jars that fret and fray, The snarl and yelp of brute beasts for a bone, When thou and I sit down at last alone, And through the dusk of rooms divinely gray Spirit to spirit finds its voiceless way As tone melts meeting in accordant tone, Oh, then our souls far in the vast of sky Look from a tower too high for sound of strife Or any violation of the town, Where the great vacant winds of God go by, And over the huge misshapen city of life Love pours his silence and his moonlight down. Richard Hovey. NIGHT. DEEP in the starry silence of the night Breathes low the mystery of Life and Death, While oer the darkened waters wandereth A voiceless spirit, veiled from mortal sight. Upheld, enfolded in the encircling height Of heaven, the hushed Earth softly draws her breath, And in the holy stillness listeneth To sweeping wings of far-off worlds in flight. Beauty ascends in elemental prayer: Lifted in worship, lost in wonderment, I join in Natures night antiphony That vibrates in the calm and sentient air; And through the veil of darkness am content To touch the garment of Eternity. Katharine Coolidge.

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: ~ Iflac~a~in~ of ILit~rature, ~ct~nci~, art, amO ~poIitic~, VOL. LXXXIL SEP TE1JIBER, 1898. No. CCUCXCL -4- UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF CARLYLE. I. THE letters of which the first install- ment is herewith printed were in great part written by Thomas Carlyle to his youngest sister, Mrs. Robert Hanning, who died in Toronto, December 13,1897. Other members of the family are repre- sented in the correspondence: there are a number of letters these perhaps the most interesting from Carlyle to his mother; and a few from the mother to her oldest and to her youngest child. The collection extends from 1832 to 1890, when Mr. John Carlyle Aitken wrote to inform his aunt, Mrs. Hanning, of the death of James Carlyle, her young- est brother. Mrs. Hanning (Janet Carlyle) was born, as were all her brothers and sis- ters before her, in the village of Eccle- fechan, in a house, still standing, which their father had built with his own hands. The following notes of her life are sup- plied by her son-in-law, the Rev. George M. Franklin : She was reckoned the neatest seam- stress of the family, and received the rare compliment of praise from her eld- est brother (Thomas Carlyle) for hav- ing done excellent work on some shirts. Robert Hanning, an old friend of the Carlyles, going to the same school with Janet, and looking on the same book, wooed and won her. They were mar- ried at Scotsbrig, on March 15~ 1836. They went to Manchester, England, to live, as Mr. Hanning was employed by a Mr. Craig, and subsequently was a part- ner in the business. This business hav- ing proved unprofitable, they returned to Scotland, and Mr. Hanning entered into business with his brother Peter as part- ner. This proved also a failure. Soon afterward the family went back to Dum- fries. Mr. Hanning sailed for Amer- ica, arriving at New Ysrk ~ and after working there for a time left that city for Hamilton, Ontario, his future home. Mrs. Hanning and her two children re- mained in Dumfries, although she had wished much to go with her husband and share his fortunes. Thomas persuaded her, against her judgment, as she has said, to wait until her husband was set- tled. Mr. Hanning was a man of strong convictions and the highest moral prin- ciple. The reunion of his family was effected in 1851~ when the wife and two daughters left Glasgow in a sailing-vessel, the passage to Quebec occupying about seven weeks. Then taking a steamer from Quebec, th0y reached Hamilton in good time. This was before the building of the Great Western Railway. Mrs. Hanning soon made a home for her de- voted husband, earning the commenda- tion brave little sister. Mr. Hanning entered the service of the Great West- ern Railway of Canada in 1853, and remained with that company until his death, which occurred March 12, 1878. An indispensable guide to the corre- spondence will be found in the following list, given by Professor Norton, of the children of James Carlyle, with the dates 290 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. of their births: Thomas, born December 4, 1795 (died at Chelsea February 5, 1881); Alexander, born August 4,1797; Janet, born September 2, 1799; John Aitken, born July 7, 1801; Margaret, born September 20, 1803; James, born November 12, 1805; Mary, born Febru- ary 2, 1808; Jean, born September 2, 1810; Janet (Mrs. Hanning) born July 18, 1813. Among the persons mentioned by Mr. Franklin as visiting Mrs. Hanning, the most distinguished was Emerson, who went to Hamilton in the summer of 1865. Mr. Emerson placed her in a chair near the window, so that he might the more readily examine her features, and, looking into her eyes, exclaimed, And so this is Carlyles little sister! Mention of the youngest stay of the house, little Jenny, is rare and slight in the published letters and memorials of Carlyle. Froude, in an ingeniously careless passage, confuses her with an older sister, Jean. He speaks of the youngest child of all, Jane, called the Craw, or Crow, from her black hair. Carlyle, on pages 92 and 93 of the sec- ond volume of the Reminiscences, in Mr. Nortons edition, mentions both Jean and Jenny: There was a young- er and youngest sister (Jenny), who is now in Canada; of far inferior specu- lative intellect to Jean, but who has proved to have (we used to think) su- perior housekeeping faculties to hers. My prayers and affection are with you all, from little Jenny upwards to the head of the house, writes Carlyle to his mother on October 19, 1826, af- ter a form common enough, with its va- riations, in his early letters. Occasion- ally she has done something to be noted. On October 20, 1827: Does Jenny bring home her medals yet? On No- vember 15: Does Jenny still keep her medals? Tell her that I still love her, and hope to find her a good lassie and to do her good. In the spring of 1828 Carlyle writes from Scotsbrig to his Dear Little Craw in Edinburgh: Mag and Jenny are here; Jenny at the Sewing.school with Jessie Combe, and making great progress. Mrs. Carlyle adds, in a postscript to an 1835 letter to Mrs. Aitken: Carlyle has the impu- dence to say he forgot to send his com- pliments to Jenny; as if it were possible for any one acquainted with that morsel of perfections to forget her! Tell her I will write a letter with my own hand, and hope to see her an ornament to so- ciety in every direction. In a preface written many years after to a letter to Jean Carlyle, bearing date November, 1825, and signed Jane Baillie Welsh, Carlyle explains: This Jean Carlyle is my second youngest sister, then a little child of twelve. The youngest sister, youngest of us all, was Jenny [Janet], now Mrs. Robert Hanning, in Hamil- ton, Canada West. These little beings, in their bits of grey speckled [black and white] straw bonnets, I recollect as a pair of neat, brisk items, tripping about among us that summer at the Hill. Letter and preface are given by Froude, as is also a letter from Carlyle to his wife, dated Scotsbrig, May 3, 1842, and ending thus: Yesterday I got my bair cropped, partly by my own endeavours in the front, chiefly by sister Jennys in the rear. I fear you will think it rather an original cut. In 1827: Tell her that I still love her, and hope to find her a good lassie and to do her good; in 1873, in Carlyles last letter to Mrs. Hanning written with his own hand: I please myself with the thought that you will accept this lit- tle New Years Gift from me as a sign of my unalterable affection, whh, tho it is obliged to be silent (unable to write as of old), cannot fade away until I my- self do! Of that be always sure, my dear little Sister; and that if in anything I can be of help to you or yours, I right willin~gly will. All the letters that follow are strung on a slender thread of biography. Even Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 291 readers who know their Carlyle thor- oughly may like to see, from year to year and from page to page, the con- trast between his life in the world and his life with the peasant kindred who were so far from everything that men call the world. And although nothing in these letters will add to our know- ledge of Carlyle, they cannot taken together fail to touch us freshly with the sense of what he was to his people, and what they were to him. Carlyles life until 1832, the year of the first letter, may be most briefly sum- marized. The son of James Carlyle, a stone-mason, he was horn at Ecciefechan, in a room inconceivably small, on the 4th of December, 1795. He went to school at Annan, and, in 1809, to the University of Edinburgh. Five years later he returned to the Annan school as a teacher of mathematics, and in 1816 went to Kirkcaldy to teach the same sub- ject. After an experience of literary hack work in Edinburgh, which began when he was twenty-three years old, he became tutor in the Buller family. A long, strange, and ill - boding courtship ended, on the 17th of October, 1826, in his marriage with Jane Baillie Welsh. She had a small inherited estate at Crai- genputtock, high up on the moors, and sixteen miles from Dumfries; and there, two years after their marriage, they went to live for six years more. In 1831 and 1832 they were trying their wings in London. Mrs. Welsh was Mrs. Carlyles mother. Maister Cairlill was a fre- quent name for Carlyles brother James. The family had been living at Scotsbrig since 1826. Carlyle was thirty - seven years old, and his sister nineteen, when the following letter was written. I. CARLYLE TO JANET cARLYLE, scoTsnRIG. AMPTON ST., LONDON, 23rd January, 1832. M~ DEAR JENNY, Will you put up with the smallest of letters rather than with none at all? I have hardly a mo- ment, and no paper but this thick, coarse sort. Understand always, My dear Sister, that I love you well, and am very glad to see and hear that you conduct your- self as you ought. To you also, my little lassie, it is of infinite importance how you behave: were you to get a Kingdom, or twenty Kingdoms, it were but a piti- ful trifle compared with this, whether you walked as God command you, and did your duty to God and to all men. You have a whole Life before you, to make much of or to make little of: see you choose the better part, my dear little sister, and make yourself and all of us pleased with you. I will add no more, but commend you from the heart (as we should all do one another) to Gods keeping. May He ever bless you! I am too late, and must not wait another minute. We have this instant had a long letter from Mrs. Welsh, full of kind- ness to our Mother and all of you. The Cheese, & c., & c., is faithfully commemo- rated as a noble one; Mary is also made kind mention of. You did all very right on that occasion. Mrs. Welsh says she must come down to Scotsbrig and see you all. What will you think of that? Her Father, in the meantime, is very ill, and gives her incessant labour and anxiety. See to encourage Jean to write, and do you put your hand a little to the work. What does Maister Cairlill think of the last letter he wrote us? Was it not a letter among many? He is a graceless man. I send you a portrait of one of our Chief Radicals here: it is said to be very like. I remain always, My dear Sister, Your affectionate T. CARLYLE. On January 24, Froude gives the date wrongly as the 26th, the day after the date of this letter, Carlyle, still in London, heard of the death of 292 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. his father, at the age of seventy-three. He wrote immediately to his mother in terms which place the letter high even among his letters; and in less than a week he had uttered the wail of genius that stands first in the Reminiscences, a book which has no language but a cry. By April he was back again at Craigenputtock, where it was so still that poor Mrs. Carlyle could hear the sheep nibbling a quarter of a mile away. Carlyle had now a new grief in the death of Goethe, who, making of him a disciple, had left him a teacher on his own account. The loss of Goethe found a measurable compensation in cor- respondence with Mill, who had been kindled into something very like firp by Carlyles review of Crokers Boswell, just published in Frasers Magazine. It is one of the greatest of Carlyles briefer performances, although written at short notice. Carlyle, said his wife, always writes well when he writes fast. rrlis essay, indeed, has a high place in the development of an idea which may be stated as Crokers Boswell, Macaulays Boswell, Carlyles Boswell, and Bos- well. There followed now essays on Goethe and Ebenezer Elliotts Corn Law Rhymes (Carlyles last contribution to the Edin- burgh Review), and a highly important article on IDiderot for the Foreign Quar- terly. In the autumn of 1832, Carlyle notes that the money from the essay on Goethe has gone in part payment of Jeffreys loan, that Craigenputtock has grown too lonely even for him, and that his literary plans demand a library. Not only must the work on Diderot have as- sured him of his ability to fuse and weld the most stubborn materials, but it opened his eyes to the French Revolution as a subject for his pen. Moved, then, by weariness of the solitude ~t deux among the peat moss, and by this new purpose in writing, the twain removed to Edin- burgh toward the end of 1832. Four months of Edinburgh were enough to convince Carlyle that here was for him no continuing city; enough, also, to enable him to collect and carry back to Craigenputtock the substance of The Diamond Necklace, one of the best of his tragi-comic pieces. The loneliness of the whinstone stronghold on the moors was cheered in the following August by Emersons memorable visit. We went out to walk over long hills, writes Emerson in English Traits, and looked at Criffel, then without his cap, and down into Wordsworths country. There we sat down and talked of the immortality of the soul. The essay on Cagliostro, written in March, 1833, was printed in Frasers Magazine for July and August; and Fraser agreed to publish Sartor Resar- tus in the next volume, only fining Car- lyle eight guineas a sheet for his ori- ginality. This gadfly tax on genius; the Foreign Quarterlys refusal of The Diamond Necklace, patently a master- piece though it was; Jeffreys refusal to recommend Carlyle for a profes- sorship of astronomy; and, climactical- ly, the defection of one of those maids whose misdemeanors continue a servile war through so many of the Carlyle chronicles, directed Carlyles gaze to- ward what Johnson thought the fairest prospect ever spread before a Scotchman. Emerson had observed that he was al- ready turning his eyes towards London with a scholars appreciation, and at last, on the 25th of February, 1834, Car- lyle wrote to his brother John: We learned incidentally last week that Grace, our servant, though without fault to us, and whom we, with all her inertness, were nothing but purposing to keep, had re- solved on going home next summer. The cup that had long been filling ran over with the smallest of drops. After meditating on it for a few minutes, we said to one another: Why not bolt out of all these sooty despicabilities, of Ker- rags and lying draggle - tails of byre Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 293 women, and peat-moss and isolation and exasperation and confusion, and go at once to London? Gedctcht, fj,ethctn! Two days after we had a letter on the road to Mrs. Austin, to look out among the houses to let for us, and an ad- vertisement to Mac Diarmid to try for the letting of our own. Cattle, poul- try, and various superfluities, were sold. Carlyle went on ahead, and was guided by the airy steps of Leigh Hunt, then a dweller in Upper Cheyne Row, Chelsea, to the house Number 5, Great Cheyne Row, which the new tenants soon made interesting to much of what was best in London (to much, also, Mrs. Oliphant has taken pains to say, of what was not the best), and eventually to the English- speaking world. The house was not taken until Mrs. Carlyle had inspected and ap- proved it. A few days after the 10th of June, the date of their installation, Carlyle wrote to his mother: We lie safe at a bend of the river, away from all the great roads; have air and quiet hardly inferior to Craigenputtock, an outlook from the back windows into mere leafy regions, with here and there a red high-peaked old roof looking through; and see nothing of London, except by day the summits of St. Pauls Cathedral and Westminster Abbey, and by night the gleam of the great Babylon affront- ing the peaceful skies. The house it- self is probably the best we have ever lived in, a right old, strong, roomy brick- house, built near one hundred and fifty years ago, and likely to see three races of these modern fashionables fall before it comes down. It all sounds like a sunny backwater, but in truth the Car- lyles had taken a very bold plunge into the world-sea. Their reserve of money could have been, at the utmost, no more than three hundred pounds; and the only personal sign of the times for them was the fact that the writer of Sartor now coming out in chapters was thought a literary maniac, and that Fra- ser feared the ruin of his magazine. The household gods, however, once templed in Cheyne Row, were never car- ried back across the Border; nor, in fact, were they, in the half-century of life that remained to Carlyle, removed to any other spot. Here he caught the last glimpse of Edward Irving, the friend of his youth; here he welcomed Sterling, a new young figure, the closest friend of his middle life; and hither came to him Froude and Ruskin, his latest fol- lowers. At first, in the chosen habitation, it was desperate hope and bitter thrift. The readers of Frasers Mag- azine received Sartor each month with renewed disgust. Sartor, said the publisher, excites universal disappro- bation. While this passionate history of a soul, with its motive so strangely drawn from the Holy Bible and the great, unholy Dean, was waiting to touch the slow spirit of the British reading public, Carlyle taking counsel of his necessities, his ambition, and his inspira- tions applied himself to the history of the French Revolution. The first vol- ume as all the world knows was lent in manuscript to Mill, who lent it to Mrs. Taylor, his veevid and in- descent Egeria, whose servant kindled fires with it. Carlyle had not been of- fered, as he thought he should have been, the editorship of the new London and Westminster Review; and Mill, for fear of his father, did not dare even to give him work to do for it. Carlyle him- self had refused to sell his independence to the Times. There was thus nothing for it hut to rewrite the burnt volume, of which he had kept no notes. With such vigor did he drive his mind and his pen that the lost chapters were restored by September 22, 1835. Mill had told him of the loss on the 6th of the preced- ing March. Mrs. Carlyle wrote to her sister-in-law, Mrs. Aitken, in August: I do not think that the second version is, on the whole, inferior to the first; it is a little less vivacious, perhaps, but bet- 294 Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. ter thought and put together. One chap- ter more brings him to the end of his sec- ond first volume, and then we shall sing a Te Deum and get drunk; for which, by the way, we have unusual facilities at present, a friend (Mr. Wilson) having yesterday sent us a present of a hamper (some six or seven pounds worth) of the finest old Madeira wine. Better yet than wine was an American edition of Sartor, godfathered by Em- erson, to the number of five hundred copies. This was in April, 1836, and an- other edition was soon demanded. Car- lyle amused himself by quoting Sartor, in his essay on Mirabeau, as the work of a New England writer. The Doctor, mentioned in the let- ter to follow, was Carlyles brother John, who, thanks to Jeffrey, had been for some years traveling physician to Lady Clare. Anne Cook was an An- nandale servant whom Carlyle brought with him on his return from Scotsbrig, in October, 1835. Mrs. Carlyle wrote of Anne Cook, She amuses me every hour of the day with her perfect incom- prehension of everything like ceremo- ny; and several of her homespun say- ings became proverhs in Cheyne Row. Short, ns Carlyle uses it in writing to his sister, has apparently the meaning often attached to it in New England, short of temper. The whole sentence bears a quizzing reference to the year before, when, on the 4th of June, Car- lyle had written: Alick, writing to me yesterday, mentions among other things that you are shorted (as he phrases it) because I have not written. - . . Do not you shorten, my dear little Bairn, but lengthen, and know that if you take anything amiss, it is for mere want of seeing how it really was; that of all de- lusions Satan could tempt you with, that of wanting my brotherly affection, now and always while we inhabit the Earth together, is the most delusive. And on the 23d of December: Do not shorten, but lengthen. The second volume is, of course, the second volume of The French Re- volution. Of both first and second Car- lyle had written more vehemently to Emerson, a few weeks before: I got the fatal First Volume finished (in the miserablest way, after great efforts) in October last; my head was all in a whirl; I fled to Scotland and my Mother for a mouth of rest. Rest is nowhere for the Son of Adam; all looked so spec- tral to me in my old-familiar Birth- land; Hades itself could not have seemed stranger; Annandale also was part of the kingdom of Time. Since November I have worked again as I could; a second volume got wrapped up and sealed out of my sight within the last three days. There is but a Third now: one pull more, and then! It seems to me, I will fly into some obscurest cranny of the world, and lie silent there for a twelve. month. The mind is weary, the body is very sick; a little black speck dances to and fro in the left eye (part of the retina protesting against the liver, and striking work). I cannot help it; it must flutter and dance there, like a signal of distress, unanswered till I be done. My familiar friends tell me farther that the Book is all wrong, style, cramp, & c., & c. My friends, I answer, you are very right; but this also, Heaven be my wit- ness, I cannot help. In such sort do I live here; all this I had to write you, if I wrote at all. The contrast between such a passage and the whole letter to his sister is but one of a multitude of instances that show the change in Carlyles spirit whenever he sat down to write to his home people. IL cAELvLE To MRS. MANNING, MANCHESTER. 5 CHEYNE Row, CHELSEA, LoNDoN, 16th May, 18~6. M~ DEAR JENNY, Your letter has been here several weeks, a very welcome messenger to us, and I did not think at the time I should have been so long in answering it. But I have been drawn Unpublished Letters of Uarlyle. 295 hither and thither by many things, of late; besides, I judged that Robert and you were happy enough of yourselves for the present, and did not much need any foreign aid or interruption. I need not assure you, my dear little Jenny, of the interest I took in the great enterprise you had embarked on; of my wishes and prayers that it might prove for the good of both. On the whole, I can say that, to my judgment, it looks all very fair and well. You know I have all along regarded Hanning as an uncommonly brisk, glegg little fellow since the first time I saw him (hardly longer than my leg, then), and prophesied handsome things of him in the world. It is very rare and very fortunate when two par- ties that have affected each other from childhood upwards get together in in- dissoluble partnership at last. May it prove well for you, as I think it will. You must take the good and the ill in faithful mutual help, and, whoever or whatever fail you, never fail one another. I have no doubt Robert will shift his way with all dexterity and prudence thro that Cotton Babylon, looking sharp about him; knowing always, too, that honesty is the best policy for all man- ner of men. Do thou faithfully second him, my bairn: that will be the best of lots for thee. I think it possible that now and then, especially when you are left alone, the look of so many foreign things may seem dispiriting to you, and the huge smoke and stour of that tumultuous Man- chester (which is not unlike the uglier parts of London) produce quite other than a pleasant impression. But take courage, my woman, you will use, you will use, and get hefted to the place, as all creatures do. There are many good people in that vast weaving- shop, many good things among the in- numerable bad. Keep snug within your own doors, keep your own hearth snug; by and by you will see what is worth venturing out for. Have nothing to do with the foolish, with the vain and ill- conducted. Attach yourself to the well living and sensible, to every one from whom you find there is real benefit deriv- able. Thus, by degrees a desirable little circle will form itself around you; you will feel that Manchester is a home, as all places under the heavenly sun here may become for one. In a newspaper you would notice that the Doctor was come. Till this day, almost, there was little else to be said about him than that he was here and well. He has been speculating and enquiring as to what he should do, and now has determined that London practice will not do for the present; that he should go back with his Lady and try again to get practice there. He is gone out this moment to make a bargain to that effect. They are to set out for Rome again on the first of September; from that till the first of March the Doctor is Lady Clares doctor, but lives in his own lodging at Rome; after that he is free to do what- soever he will: to stay there, if they seem inviting; to return home, if other- wise. I believe, myself, that he has de- cided wisely. Till September, then, we have him amongst us. He talks of be- ing off in a week or two for Scotland; he charged me to say that he would see Manchester, and you, either as he went or as he returned. It is not much out of the way, if one go by Carlisle (or rather, I suppose, it is directly in the way), or even if one go by Liver- pool, but I rather think he will make for Newcastle this time; to which place we have a steamboat direct. This is a good season for steamboats, and a bad one for coaches; for with latter, indeed, what good season is there? Nothing in the world is frightfuller to me of the travelling rout, than a coach on a long journey. It is easier by half to walk it with peas (at least boiled peas) in your shoes, were not the time so much short- er. The Doctor looks very well and sonsy; he seems in good health and well 296 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. to live; the only change is that his head is getting a shade of grey (quite ahead of mine, though I am six years older), which does not mis-seem him, but looks very well. We had a long speculation about go- ing to Scotland, too, but I doubt we must renounce it. This summer I have finished my second volume, but there is still the third to do, and I must have such a tussle with it! All summer I will struggle and wrestle, but then about the time of the gathering in of sheaves I too shall be gathering in. Jane has gone out to buy a cotton gown, for the weather is, at last, beautiful and warm. Before going she bade me send you both her best wishes and regards, prayers for a happy pilgrimage together. She has been but poorly for a good while (indeed, all the world is sick with these east winds and perpetual changes), but will probably be better now. Jack and I, too, have both had our colds. Then Anne Cook fell sick, al- most dangerously sick for the time; but Jack was there and gave abundant med- ical help; so the poor creature is on her feet again, and a great trouble of con- fusion is rolled out of doors thereby. I am writing to our Mother this day. I have heard nothing from that quarter since the letter that informed me the poor little child was dead. Jean wrote part of it herself,and seemed in a very composed state, keeping her natural sor- row courageously down. Our Mother, I believe, continues there till Jean be ill again, and we hope happily well. Whether there be a frank procurable to-day I know not, but I will try. At worst I will not wait, lest you grow im- patient again and get short. If you knew what a fizz I am kept in with one thing and another! Write to me when you have time to fill a sheet, news, descriptions of how you get on, what you suffer and enjoy, what you do: these are the best. I will answer. Send an old newspaper from time to time, with two strokes on it, if you are well. Pro- mise, however, to write instantly if you are ill. Then shall we know to keep ourselves in peace. Farewell, dear little Sister. Give our love to our new Brother. Tell him to walk wisely and be a credit to your choice. God be with you both. T. CARLYLE. In Carlyles journal for June 1 occur these words: An eternity of life were not endur- able to any mortal. To me the thought of it were madness even for one day. Oh! I am far astray, wandering, lost, dyeing the thirsty desert with my blood in every footprint. Perhaps God and His providence will be better to me than I hope. Peace, peace! words are idler than idle. ~ I have seen Wordsworth again. I have seen Landor, Americans, French- man-Cavaignac the Republican. Be no word written of them. Bubble bubble, toil and trouble. I find emptiness and chagrin, look for nothing else, and on the whole can reverence no existing man, and shall do well to pity all, my- self first, or rather, last. To work, therefore. That will still me a little, if aught will. Presently the household purse be- came so shrunken that the Revolution had to be dropped for two weeks, while Carlyle wrote the article on Mirabeau. This printed first in Mills Review, and afterward in the Miscellanies brought in about fifty pounds. Mrs. Carlyle, meanwhile, became so ill that it was arranged for her to go home to her mother. The voyage part of the plan, by steamer from Liverpool to Annan, which had been merely for economy, was not carried out. Mrs. Carlyles Liverpool uncle, John Welsh, paid her fare in the coach to Dumfries, and gave her a handsome shawl as a present for her birthday, the 14th of July. Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 297 III. CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, MANCHESTER. CHELSEA, 8th July, Friday, 1836. DEAR JENNY, I write you a few words in the greatest haste, with a wor- thy Mr. Gibson even talking to me all the while; but I must write, for there is not a post to lose, and I think the news will not be unwelcome to you. Jane is getting ill again in this fiercely hot weather, and I have persuaded her to go home for a month to her mother. She is going by Manchester, and you. Off some time to - morrow (Saturday), and will be in your town, we calculate, on Sunday, and hopes to sleep in your house that night. This is the news. Now we know not as yet by what coach she will come, or at what hour and what Inn she will arrive, but this Mr. Gibson, who has undertaken to go out and search over the city for the suitablest vehicle, and to engage a seat in that for her, will take this letter in his pocket. He, hav- ing engaged the seat, will mark the name of it on the outside (where see). I judge farther that this letter will reach you on Saturday evening or next morn- ing soon, so that there will be time. The rest you will know how to do with- out telling. I think Robert, if he be not altered from what he was, will suc- ceed in meeting the tired wayfarer as she steps out, which will be a great com- fort to her. She calculates on being at full liberty to sit silent with you, or to sit talking, to lie down on the bed, to do whatsoever she likes best to do, and to be in all senses at home as in her own home. There are few houses in Eng- land that could do as much for her. I think she would like best to be well let alone. Next day, or when once right rested, Robert will conduct her to the Liverpool Railway, and give her his Luck by the road; after which she has but a little whirl, a little sail, by the force of steam both ways, and is at Templand or Annan. She will tell you all our news and get all yours, so I need not add an- other word. Did you get a frank that I sent you some months ago? Did you ever send even a newspaper since? Jane has half a thought that she may find the Doctor and our mother with you. All good wishes to your Goodman. Yours, my dear Jenny, affectionately, T. CARLYLE. iv. TO MRS. HANNING, MANCHESTER, FROM HER MOTHER, IN SCOTSHRIG. November 3, 1836. DEAR JENNY, I have long had a mind to write you, but have put off, as you see, till now, and though I have nothing worth while to say but to tell you of my welfare, which I know you are still glad to hear. I have been very well since you left me, though I have taken no med- icine of any kind. You will be ready to say, What have you been doing all this time? I have been very throng in my own way. I have spun a little web of droget and done many odd things. We have got another fine little boy here last Monday morning. Isabella is doing well. They have had a long and sore fight with the harvest. It is nearly finished. It is a good crop, and upon the whole no great damage is done. We had a bit- ter snow and frost last week; it is gone again, however, but the weather is still coarse, with good days among. I had a long letter from London about the time I got yours with the socks, which are very comfortable indeed. I have them on at this moment, and my feet are as warm as pie. Many thanks to the giver. The iron is likewise an excel- lent one, a perfect conceit. Many, many thanks. I was sorry to hear of your lassie turn- ing out so badly. She had too much confidence. One should trust them no farther than they see. Old James of the hill is just come up for some beasts of Alicks. He talks of taking them over the water to sell them soon. So you will perhaps have a visit of him soon. 298 Unpublished Letters of Carigle. You must not be long in writing to me, my good bairn, and tell me how you are coming on. Are you anything healthy now? I intend visiting you, if I be well. Afterward it will be the next year before I think of coming. They were all well at London when I got their letter. John was at Geneva. I long to hear from him, and to know where he is now. I am expecting word daily. The rest are all well, for aught I know; but Jainie is at Annan to-day, and he will hear of them all, as Alick was at Dumfries yesterday. Your folk are all well. I saw Wil- liam Hanning last week at the market with John. He told me he had sent away a letter that day, I think, to you. I forgot to tell you how Toni is getting on with his book. He intends going to press about New Years Day. It will be a fine time for him. May we all go on in the strength of God, the Lord, making mention of His righteousness, even of His only, trusting in Him for all we need for time and for eternity. I had done, but have just got a letter from the good Doctor, wrote about a fortnight since. If he is well, lie is near Rome by this time. Write, for I can write none. Send me a long letter. No more. From your own mother, M. A. CAIrLYLE. They are all well at Annan and Dam- fries. Friday. I believe Alick goes off for Liverpool to-day. Send me word when to come over, and write soon. By the end of October, 1836, Carlyle was already wondering what he should do after finishing The French Revolu- tion, and wrote to his brother John: Here, with only literature for shelter, there is, I think, no continuance. Bet- ter to take a stick in your hand, and roam the earth Teufelsdrsckhish; you will get at least a stomach to eat bread, even that denied me here. On the evening of the 12th of January, 18~?7, the book was finished which raised Car- lyle from obscurity so far as the pub- lic was concerned to an undisputed place among great writers. Though popularity did not come for many a year, fame attended him from this point onward. The French Revolution was not published, however, until June; and in the interim Carlyles circumstances looked little more promising than be- fore. A week after he had finished the last sentence, and handed the manuscript to his wife with a since famous and often-quoted speech, he found time and spirits to send prescriptions of cheer- fulness to Mrs. Hanning. The two strokes of a pen on a newspaper sig- nified to the Carlyle who received the paper that all was well with the Carlyle who sent it. V. CARLYLE TO MRS. HAENING, MANcHESTER. 5 CHEYNE Row, CHELSEA, LoNnoir, 19th Jany, 1837. REAR JENNY, It is a long time since I heard directly of you at any length, or since you heard of me. To- day, tho I have not the best disposition or leisure, I will send you a line: there are no franks going, but the post is always going, and you will think a shil- ling might be worse spent. We are very sorry, and not without our anxieties, at the short notice Robert sent us on the Newspaper; however, the next week brought confirmation on the favourable side, and I persuade my- self to hope that all is getting round again to the right state. Your health is evidently not strong; but you are grow- ing in years, arid have naturally a sound constitution; you must learn to take care and precautions, especially in the life you are now entered upon, in that huge den of reek and Cotton-fuz, when one cannot go on ns in the free atmo- sphere of the Country. Exercise, espe- cially exercise out of doors when it is convenient, is the best of all applianees. Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 2~Y9 Do not sit motionless within doors, if there is a sun shining without, and you are able to stir. Particularly endea- vour to keep a good heart, and avoid all moping and musing, whatever takes away your cheerfulness. Sunshine in the in- side of one is even more important than sunshine without. I do not understand your way of life so well as to know whether the Good- man is generally at your hand; in that case, you have both a duty to do, and society in the doing of it independently of others; but, at all events, frank coin- munication with ones fellow-creatures is a pleasure and a medicine which no life should be without. Be not solitary, be not idle! That is a precept of old standing. Doing ones duties (and all creatures have their solemn duties to do), living soberly, meekly, walking humbly before God, one has cause to hope that it will be well with him, that he shall see good in the world. Write me a let- ter, full of all your concerns and con- siderations, when you can muster dispo- sition. I shall always be right glad of such a message. In fine, I hope the spring weather will come and set us all up a little. Before going farther, let me mention here that a Newspaper came to me last Monday, charged nineteen shillings and some pence! I, of course, refused it. I got a sight of it, but could not ascertain accurately from whom it was. Either Alick or your Robert, I thought, but the Post people had stamped it, and sealed it, and smeared it all over, and marked it Written on, so that I could make little of it. The cover, I noticed, was in writing paper scored with blue lines: it strikes me it may have been the Man- chester paper, after all, and no writing in it but the copper - plate on a piece of one of Roberts account papers. At all events, when any more Newspapers come, the law is that the cover be of vacant blank paper; likewise we will cease writing or marking except two strokes on the cover, lest we get into trouble by it. I refused this nineteen shillings fellow; and they will be able to make no more of it, but it will make them more watchful in future. I mean to write into Annandale to the like effect. The Doctor sends me word out of Rome that he wants a Dumfries Herald forwarded to him thither. I have not yet arranged that; but I am thinking of having this Herald (if the days answer) sent by Manchester, thro your hands. I think it would reach you on Satur- day. You could look at it, and send it on, the same day, whereby no time at all would be lost. The two strokes would always be a satisfaction. We shall see how it answers. If any such Herald, then, come your way, you know what to do with it. It is several weeks since I had any direct tidings out of Scotland, except what James Aitkens address of the Courier gives me: it had the sign of well-being on it last week. I am to write thither shortly, having a letter of the Doctors lying here, as I have hint- ed. The Doctor says he had written a few days before to our Mother, which has made me less anxious about speed with this to her. He is well and doing tolerably well, getting what Practice in Rome a beginner can expect. The Cholera was about gone from Naples, and the panic of it from Rome, so that more English were coming in, and he hoped to do still better. You can send this news into the Scotch side when you have opportunity. All people here have got a thing they call Influenza, a dirty, feverish kind of cold; very miserable, and so general as was hardly ever seen. Printing-offices, Manufactories, Tailor-shops, and such like are struck silent, every second man lying sniftering in his respective place of abode. The same seems to be the rule in the North, too. I suppose the mis- erable temperate of climate may be the 300 Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. cause. Worse weather never fell from the Lift, to my judgment, than we have here. Reek, mist, cold, wet; the day before yesterday there was one of our completest London fogs, a thing of which I suppose you even at Manches- ter can form no kind of notion. For we are exactly ten times as big as you are, and parts of us are hardly less reeky and dirty; farther, we lie flat, on the edge of a broad river: and now sup- pose there were a mist, black enough, and such that no smoke or emanation could rise from us, but fell agaiu the instant it had got out of the chimney- head! People have to light candles at noon, coaches have torch-bearers run- ning at the horses heads. It is like a sea of ink. I wonder the people do not all drop down dead in it, since they are not fishes, of a particular sort. It is cause enough for Influenza. Poor Jane, who misses nothing, has caught fast hold of this Sunday last, and has really been miserably ill. She gets bet- ter these last two days, but is weak as water; indeed, the headache at one time was quite wretched. She has been, on the whole, stronger since you saw her, but is not at all strong. As for myself, I have felt these wretched fogs pene- trating into me, with a clear design to produce cough; but I have set my face against it and said No. This really does a great deal, and has served me hitherto. I hope to escape the Influ- enza; they say it is abating. The Book is done, about a week ago: this is my best news. I have got the first printed sheet, since I sat down to write this. We shall go on swiftly, it is to be hoped, and have it finished and forth into the world, say, before the month of March end. I care little what becomes of it then; it has been a sore Book to me. There are two things I was printing lately, which I would send to you, but there is no conveyance. I fear you would do little good with them, at any rate; not five shillings worth of good, which they would cost you. Be- sides, if Robert or you want to see them, you can let him go to a Circulating Li- brary and ask for the last Number of the London and Westminster Review. In it he will find a thing called Memoirs of Mirabeau: that thing is mine. The other thing is in Frasers Magazine, half of it; the other half will be in the February Number: it is called Diamond Necklace. This latter was written at Craigenput- tock a good while ago. I see your Man- chester Editor feels himself aggrieved by it, worthy man, but hints that there may be some mistake on his part; which I do very seriously assure him is my opinion, too. Other Editors, it would seem, sing to the same tune. After this Book is printed, it remains uncertain what I shall do next. One thing I am firmly enough resolved on: not to spend the summer here. I will have myself rested, and see the fields green and the sky blue yet one year, follow what may. Many things call me towards Scotland; but nothing can yet be determined upon. If I go North- ward, Manchester is a likely enough step for me; nay, perhaps the Doctor may be home from Rome, and we shall both be there! Nothing is yet fixed; we will hope all this. And now, my dear Sister, I must bid thee good day. Salute Robert from me with all manner of good wishes. I have known him as a fell fellow since he was hardly longer than my leg. Tell him to be diligent in business, and also (for that is another indispensable thing) fervent in spirit, struggling to serve God. Make thou a good wife to him, helping him in all right things by counsel and act. Good be with you both! Jane sends you all good wishes from her sick bed, and was grieved to hear of what had happened you. She will be better in a day or two. Your affectionate Brother, T. CARLYLE. Unpublished Letters of Carl gle. 301 The next letter, a holy and a cheer- ful note from Margaret Carlyle to her daughter, falls of necessity between 1836 and 1840, the year of Mrs. Hannings going to Manchester and that of her leaving it. The statement that Tom has to begin to lecture the first of May, and has no time to prepare, points to 1837; for all the following courses Carlyle had time to make ready. This first series, with German Literature for subject, was suddenly arranged by a num- ber of Carlyles friends, Miss Marti- neau zealous among them, in the fear that, unless things brightened for him, he would be forced to leave London, and perhaps England. The lectures were a great success; Carlyle spoke, instead of reading, to an audience of Marchion- esses, Ambassadors, ah me! and what not; and the resulting sum of one hun- dred and thirty - five pounds, with the promise of another course for the next season, settled the household gods more firmly on their pedestals. In the words of Mrs. Carlyle, Nothing that he has ever tried seems to me to have carried such conviction to the public heart that he is a real man of genius, and worth being kept alive at a moderate rate. VI. ro MRS. HANNING, MANCHESTER, rRoM HER MOTHER. SoorsuRiG, April 9th [183711. DEAR JENNY, I have nothing worth writing at this time. We are all in our usual health. I have had little Grace with me these three weeks. Now I have to go to Dumfries this week to put some money in the bank for John, your bro- ther. It is at Dumfries by this time. I told Mary to bid you write me soon and tell me how you are coming on. If you have not written, write to Dumfries. Do you know that Jane has been very badly? She is rather better. Thank God, her mother is there with them. She took a coach and went straight for London. Tom is in a great hubble at this time: you will know he has to be- gin to lecture the first of May, and has no time to prepare. May God be with him and all of us, and as our day is so may our strength be, and may He pre- pare us for whatever He see meet to come in our way, that it may be for His glory and our good in the end. Our time is short at longest: may we have grace given us to improve it. I had no thought of writing at this time, but Fanny Caruthers called and told me she was going to Manchester. She is much altered: I did not know her. Now, Jenny, I intend to see you this summer; I cannot say when, but if health permit I will come. If I am long in coming, I can stay the longer: it de- pends on Tom when he comes home. It will be June at the soonest before he can get away. I had a letter from him shortly which troubled me not a little, telling of Janes illness. She is rather better, but still confined to her bed at last accounts, which was about a week ago. I had a letter of John: he was well then. Write soon and tell me how you keep your health, now this cold weather is come, and how is Robert. Thank him in my name for nursing you s~ well when you were poorly. I hope you are stout now. Take good care of yourself and be well when I come over. I long to see you both. I will add no more, but am still Your loving mother, MARGARET A. CARLYLE. God be with us all, and bless us, and do us good. Clap your thumbs on mistakes. On the 7th of June Carlyle wrote to Sterling, I cannot say a word to you of the book or of the lectures, ex- cept that by the unspeakable blessing of Heaven they are finished. A few days after the date of this letter, says Froude, Carlyle fled to Scotland, fairly broken down. That he lingered a fort- night longer in Chelsea, however, the fol- lowing letter is witness. 302 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. VII. CARLYLE TO MES. HANNING, MANCHESTER. 5 CHEYNE Row, CHELSEA, LONDON, 20th June, 1837. M~ DEAR JENNY, I write to-day with one of the worst of pens and in the extreme hurry of packing, to say that I am just coming off for Annandale, and shall take Lancashire in my way. I think of taking the steamboat to-morrow morning for Hull. After that, I believe we go by Leeds and then to Manchester, where I hope to find you and your Good- man well. The times and the distances after getting to Hull, as we hope on Thursday, are unknown to me. Most probably, I should think, it will be on Saturday that I get to you, but it may be the day after, it may be the day be- fore, for all is yet uncertain; nay, there is a certain Dr. Hunter in Leeds, a cousin of Janes, with whom I may (thougb that is not very likely) loiter an hour or two. We shall see. We shall hope to meet all in order some how or other at last. Jane is to stay here till I come back, her mother keeping her company. Jane, as you perhaps know, has been very ill. She has now grown much stronger again, but still not strong enough. Her mother hastily joined us when things were at the worst in the month of April, and will not quit us till we get together again. I am not very eminently well at pre- sent, yet neither is anything special gone wrong with me. I want rest, and mean to have that now at Scotsbrig. I have got my book completely done. I gave a course of lectures too, & c., & c., and have got all by for the present. I seem to myself to require a little while of repose as the one thing needful. A newspaper came the other day from the Doctor, indicating that he was well. He is not in Rome through the Summer, but in a place called Albano, not far from Rome. He seemed to consider it as not unlikely that he might be here in Sep- tember again. He bad succeeded pretty well at Rome as a Practitioner. Last time I heard from Annandale our Mother and all the rest were well. It is not very long since, some three weeks or little more. They also reported well of you at Manchester. Give my compliments to Robert. Say I mean to ask his assistance in buying a quantity of breeches, as I pass through that huge Weaving-shop of the World. I ought to get them there better than else- where. Let us hope, therefore, that on Satur- day, or some time near before or near after that day, I shall succeed in finding you at Bank Street and finding all right. I have not a moments time more. Indeed, what more is there to be said at present with such a pen? I remain always, my dear sister, Your affectionate T. CARLVLE. James Carlyle was now with his mo- ther, farming Scotsbrig for her. Alick~ did afterward go to America, and died there. John of Cockermouth was a half - brother. James Austin and Mary are Carlyles brother-in-law and sister. VIII. CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, MANCHES- TER. SCOTSBRIG, 18th July, 1837. M~ DEAR JENNY, According to pro- mise, I set about writing you a word of Scotch news, now that I am fairly settled here and know how things are. The railway train whirled me away from you rapidly that evening. INext evening, about the same hour, we were getting out of Liverpool harbour, and on the fol- lowing morning, between seven and eight oclock, I had got my eye upon Ahick waving to me from the end of the Jetty at Annan. It is almost three weeks now that I have been here and found all well, but it was only the day before yesterday that we got our first visit to Dumfries made out, and could rightly report about matters there. I fancied a newspaper with two strokes would communicate the Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 303 substance of what was to be said in the interim. There has been a good deal of dis- cussion about Alick and his going to America. He himself seemed of mind to go, but not very strongly or hopefully set on it. Our Mother, again, was reso- lute against it, and made such a lament- ing as was sufficient to dishearten one more inclined than he. So now I think it seems fixed so far as that he will not go. What he is to do here one does not so well see, but it will evidently be a great point gained for him that he give up thinking about departure, and direct his whole industry to ascertaining how he can manage here where he is. Men of far less wit than he do contrive to manage, when once they have set their heart on it. Jamie is quite ready to go to Puttock and give up Scotsbrig to him, but I still rather think there will nothing come of that; nay, some think Alick him- self does not at bottom wish that, but is satisfied with finding Jamie so far ready to accommodate him and keep him at home. He seems very tranquil, cheer- fuller than he was and altogether steady; likelier to have a little fair luck than he was a while ago. He must persist where he is. There is nothing that can pro- sper without perseverance. Perseverance will make many a thing turn out well that looked ill enough once. John of Cockermouth is gone off to America about a fortnight ago with all his family. I got him a letter from Burnswark to a brother of his at New York. I doubt not he will do well. Clow of Land has his property advertised for sale; means to be off about the end of August, which also I reckon prudent. With two or three thousand pounds in his pocket and four or five strong sons at his back, a man may make a figure in America. James Austin and Mary were at one time talking of America, but they also have given it up. We had a letter from the Doctor shortly after my arrival here. He is well, living at Albano, a summer resi- dence some twenty miles from Rome. He speaks of it being possible, or prob- able, that he may get back to England in September, but it is not certain. He will be pretty sure to come by Manches- ter and you if he come Northward. The rest, as I have already hinted, are all well and following their usual course. Jamie and his wife and two sons go along very briskly. His crops look well. He had his Peat-stack up (and mothers little one beside it) and his hay mown, though the late rains and thunder have retarded that a little. The country never looked beantifuller in my remembrance, green and leafy; the air is fresh, and all things smiling and rejoicing and growing. Aus- tin is busy enough now with work. He had a bad time of it in spring, when horse provender was so dear. The chib dren are well, even the eldest looks better than I expected, and Mary, their mother, seems hearty and thrifty. I mentioned that we had been at Dum- fries. Alick took up our Mother and me on Friday last in a rough Dandy- cart of Mrs. Scotts with a beast of Jamies. One of the first questions my Mother asked of Jean was, Hast thou had any word from Jenny? To which the answer was No. Jeans child is running about qt~ite brisk, though a lit- tle thinner than it once was; from teeth, I suppose. James Aitken has plenty of work, three or four journeymen. In short, they seem doing well. Finally, Jamie (Maister Cairlill) authorizes me to report that he this day met with a brother of thy Roberts, who said that the Peat-knowes too were all well. The day after my arrival here I fell in with William Hanning, the father, on Mid- dlebie Brae, measuring some Dykes, I think, with a son of Pottsfowns. He looked as well as I have seen him do. The same man as ever, though he must be much older than he once was. The tea parcel was forwarded to him, or sent for, by my desire, that same night. 304 Unpublished Letters of Garlyle. Our good Mother here is quite well in health; indeed, as well every way as one could expect, though doubtless she is a lit- tle lonelier now than when you were with her. She complains of nothing, but does her endeavour to make the best of all things. She wishes you to write very soon and tell her how the world is serv- ing you. She would have sent a word or two to that effect in her own hand, she says, but having a good clerk (me, namely) she does not need. I am to confirm her promise of coming with me when I return southward, and staying till you tire of her. There was word from Jane on Sunday gone a week. She wrote in haste, but at great length, and seemed very cheerful. She will not come hither this time, I think. Her mother is to return home about the end of this month. Jane appears quite pre- pared to stay by herself. She has some friends yonder whom she is much with, and she rather likes the treat. Mrs. Welsh expects Liverpool people with her to Templand, and can stay no longer. I have ended my paper, dear Jenny, and given one of the meagrest outlines of our news. You will see, however, that nothing is going wrong with us; that we are thinking of you and desirous to hear from you. Be a good bairn and a good wife, and help your Goodman faithfully in all honest things. He is a thrifty fel- low with a good whole heart. There is no danger of him. Help one another. Be good to one another. Gods bless- ing with you both. All here salute you. I am always Your affectionate brother, T. CARLYLE. Meantime, while Jamie was building his peat-stack in the beautifullest wea- ther that Carlyle had ever seen, Alick w~s setting up a shop in the village of Ecciefechan, and The French Revolu- tion was beginning to take the English- reading world for its parish. The French verdict was for the most part adverse. M~rim6e, whether or not he agreed with the translators in describing Carlyle as le phenom~ne dun protestant po6tique, expressed a sincere desire to throw the writer out of the window. But Dickens carried the book about with him, Southey read it six times running, and Mill, approving his opposite, main- tained that the much berated style was of high excellence. Carlyle, wishing to lie vacant, neither read nor so much as saw many of the reviews, though he heard of most of them. One untactful friend sent him the opinion of a certain critical journal, with which he forthwith boiled his teakettle. Much more than a pot-boiler was one enthusiastic review, although that function of his ar- ticle was sadly important to the writer, for whom Vanity Fair and fame were still ten years ahead. Writes Carlyle to his brother: I understand there have been many reviews of a very mixed char- acter. I got one in the Times last week. The writer is one Thackeray, a half-mon- strous Cornish giant, kind of painter, Cambridge man, and Paris newspaper correspondent, who is now writing for his life in London. I have seen him at the Bullers and at Sterlings. His ar- ticle is rather like him, and I suppose calculated to do the book good. Brigadier, r4pondit Pandore, Brigadier, vous avez raison. Without regard to reviewers, and in spite of the cholera, the homely idyl goes melodiously on. Jean and her two Jamies are Carlyles sister, Mrs. Aitken, her husband and little son. Jamie of Scotsbrig is, of course, Car- lyles brother. Betty Smails short his- tory may be found in Froudes First Forty Years of Carlyle, vol. i. p. 119. Ix. cARLYLE TO MRS. MANNING, MANcHEsTER. ScorsrnuG, EccEEFEcHAN, 28 Aug. 1837. DEAR JENNY, Your letter to Mary at Annan got this length on Saturday night. As you appear to be impatient Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 305 for news from this quarter, not unrea- sonably, having had none for six weeks, I am appointed to write you a few lines without any loss of time whatever, a thing I can easily enough do, being even idler to-day than common. We were not so well pleased to hear of your fecklessness and pain in the stomach during the last fortnight, but we hope it is but something derived from the season and will not continue. There is very often a kind of British Chol- era in this harvest time. It is even very frequent at present in this region, owing partly to the air (as they say), and chiefly, perhaps, to the new potatoes and other imperfectly ripened substances which people eat. Jamie, here, had a cast of it for two days just a week ago, rather sharp, but he is free now. Our Mother too was taken with it, came home rather ill from Ecclefechan one day, but by aid of Castor and some prime Brandy has got quite round again. You do not say that the disor- der has got that length with you, but very probably it is something related to the same business. The only remedy is to be careful of what one eats, to take due moderate exercise in the open air, in case of extremity employing a little medicine. Cold, especially cold feet are very bad; but the great thing is to take care of ones self, especially to take care what one eats. New potatoes are very unwholesome for some people. We are now all well here, and with the slight exception mentioned above have been so ever since I wrote last. Alick brought us news of you. Alicks news are the main ones I have now to send you. He quitted Annan on Mon- day last (this day gone a week), and has been in the Big house at Ecclefechan ever since. I suppose he explained to you and Robert the plan he had of set- ting up a shop there. He has gathered himself together, and is all alive after that same enterprise now. We had him and little Tom over here all yesterday. VOL. LXXXII. NO. 491. 20 Mother, Jamie, and I walked with them to Cleughbrae in the evening. To-day, as we understand, he has got masons and actually broken in upon the house to re- pair it and arrange it for that object; Hale Moffet and his retinue having been got out. It is in a sad state of wreck, the poor house, but Alick expects to put a new face on it with great despatch in- deed; and then, shop drawers and all the rest being provided, and James Aitkens brush having given the last touch to it, he will unfold his wares and try the thing in the name of Hope. We all pray heartily that it may prosper be- yond his expectations. Ecclefechan is a sad Village: only last Friday night some blackguard broke 14 panes of the Meet- ing House windows. Fancy such an act of dastardly atrocity as that! But it lies in the centre of a tolerable country, too, and certain there is need of some good shop and honest Trader there. I have seen Mary pretty frequently, the last time on Friday last. She is very well, and all her bairns are well. James has always some work, though seldom enough, and Mary is the bright- est, thriftiest little creature that can be. They go on there as well as one could hope in these times. We had a letter from the Doctor, too: still in the same place, Albano, near Rome; still well; uncertain as to his future movements or engagements, though it must be settled some way before this date, if we knew how. He seemed to think it very unlike- ly that he would be here in the present autumn, the likeliest of all that he would try to return next spring. The Cholera was in that country, but had not got to them. We fancy they will not fail to fly out of the road of it, if it advance too near. I was at Dumfries since I wrote: up to Templand, and then again at Dum- fries on my return. Mrs. Welsh came home several weeks ago, and had at the time I was up, and has still, her Liverpool friends with her. The house was very 306 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. crowded. I was not very well, and stayed only four and twenty hours or so, cut- ting out my way in spite of all entrea- ties. Jean and her two Jamies are very tolerably well: the elder Jamie a thrifty, effectual, busy man; the younger as yet altogether silent, staggering and tripping about, one of the gleggest little elves I have seen. There is talk of her com- ing down to Annan this very week to have the benefit of the tide for sea bath- ing. Jamie of Scotsbrig, who goes up tomorrow to pay his rent, will bring us word. The other morning, walking out, I met Roberts father at the Lenglands Nett, coming down from Dairlaw Hills with a row of bog-hay carts he had been buying at Dairlaw Hills. He was hale and well to look at, and reported all well. I suppose he has been very busy of late; seldom were so many roups seen in one season; all the farmers sell- ing off, none of them having money for their rent day ; Land farm, and now all the stock, crop, and household furniture have been sold off. Poor Clow goes off for America on Wednesday morning by the Liverpool steamer. People are all sorry. The Burnfoot Irvings, or Sandy Cowie for them, have bought his land: 4000. Betty Small, bound for Ecelefechan, has been waiting this half hour till I should be done; I did not know of her when I began. The needfullest thing, therefore, that I can do is to tell you about our coming. It will be soon, but is still uncertain when. I should say in about a fortnight, nay, in a day or so less; but it depends somewhat on a letter we look for from Jane which has not yet come to hand. Jane, you must know, after her mothers departure went into the country with the Sterlings, friends of hers. I wish her to stay there while she likes, and would get home about the same time as she; a month was the time she first spoke of, and that I have little doubt will suffice, so my guess is as above given. A newspaper with one stroke on it will come to you (bar- ring mistakes) two days before you are to look for us. This shall be a token, and we need not write any more. Alick has some talk of coming with us to get his goods ready then, but I think he will hardly be ready. The butter and another firkin of butter has been talked of and will be forthcoming, but it seems dubious whether any of it will get with us. It can come before or after, I be- lieve safe and with little expense. Mo- ther will bring some pounds of it in her box. I shall perhaps be obliged to go back by Liverpool, and must not cal- culate to stay more with you than a day. My Mother sends you both her love (she is smoking here); she will tell you all her news when we come. Compliments and good wishes to Robert from all of us. We are glad to hear his trade is better. A glegg fellow like him will get through worse troubles than this. God keep you, my dear little Jenny. Your affectionate Brother, T. CARLYLE. X. TO MRS. HANNING, MANcHEsTER, FROM HER MOTHER. [ScoTsBRIG] January 11th [1838]. DEAR CHILDREN, I received your letter this day about mid-day. Then Alick and his family came here, so we talked on till bedtime; and now they are gone to bed. I am sorry to hear that Jenny is poorly. I intend to see you very soon; I cannot say pointedly which day yet. I am going down to Annan with Alick, and will fix. It shall not he long, God willing. I have some thoughts of taking the steamer. Keep up your heart, Jenny, and be well when I come. Trust in God, casting all your cares on Him. He is a kind father to all them that put their trust in Him. I will say no more to-night; it is late. Do you think the railway is passable? I had not finished this scrawl when I received your last letter, of which I was F Year3 of American Science. 307 very glad. It is all well, Gods will be done. I was coming by the steamer on Thursday or Friday. Now I will let the storm blow by. Now, Jenny, be very careful of yourself; take care of cold, and likewise what you eat. May Gods blessing rest on us all. May He make us thankful for all His ways of dealing with us. Write soon. You may direct to Annan, as I will be there some time. Could you let Tom know that Jam there, also, and that I am well? Now, bairns, write soon. You see I cannot write, though nobody would take greater plea- sure in it. Your own mother, MARGARET A. C. P. S. My tooth is better, though not very sound yet. I forgot to thank you very kindly for the things you sent me. In the two ensuing years Carlyle gave two more courses of lectures, both nota- bly successful. Among many other new acquaintances was Mr. Baring, after- ward Lord Asliburton, who, with his two wives, was to figure so largely in the lives of Carlyle and his wife. Sartor Resartus was published in England, and republished in the United States. Chart- ism was written and printed. Other events of the same biennium were Mrs. Carlyles only Soir~e, tbe appearance of Count dOrsay in Cheyne Row, and Mr. Marshalls gift to Carlyle of a mare, Citoyenne to be called. Charles Townsend Copeland. FIFTY YEARS OF AMERICAN SCIENCE. ON April 2, 1840, eighteen American savants met in Philadelphia and organ- ized themselves into The American Society of Geologists. Within two years the association extended its field of ac- tivity, and added and Naturalists to its title. Still later other sciences were given hearing, and at a notable meet- ing held in Boston in 1847 it was de- cided to remodel the organization on the lines of a British association that had been a power in shaping intellectual progress for a quarter-century. In ac- cordance with this action, the leading scientific men of the country met in Phil- adelphia, September 20, 1848, and insti- tuted The American Association for the Advancement of Science. Such was the origin of the leading American sci- entific society, a distinctively American body, meant to increase and to diffuse exact knowledge among the people; and its semi-centenary anniversary, celebrat- ed by the meeting in Boston, is a Jubilee of American Science. Scientific progress, especially in a land of free institutions, is so closely inter- woven with industrial and social progress that the advance of one cannot be traced without constant reference to the other. Indeed, the statement of our national progress during the past half-century is little more than a summary of results and practical applications of scientific re- search. Fifty years ago our population was hardly more than twenty millions, now it is seventy millions; then our wealth was less than seven billion dol- lars, now it is eighty billions. At the beginning of the year 1848 there were fifty-two hundred and five miles of rail- way in the United States, now there are two hundred thousand, far more than any other country has, more than all Europe; nearly as many miles, in- deed, as all the rest of the world put together. Some of those who attended the first meeting of the Association made their journey, or part of it, by stage- coach or in the saddle. They met many

F Year3 of American Science. 307 very glad. It is all well, Gods will be done. I was coming by the steamer on Thursday or Friday. Now I will let the storm blow by. Now, Jenny, be very careful of yourself; take care of cold, and likewise what you eat. May Gods blessing rest on us all. May He make us thankful for all His ways of dealing with us. Write soon. You may direct to Annan, as I will be there some time. Could you let Tom know that Jam there, also, and that I am well? Now, bairns, write soon. You see I cannot write, though nobody would take greater plea- sure in it. Your own mother, MARGARET A. C. P. S. My tooth is better, though not very sound yet. I forgot to thank you very kindly for the things you sent me. In the two ensuing years Carlyle gave two more courses of lectures, both nota- bly successful. Among many other new acquaintances was Mr. Baring, after- ward Lord Asliburton, who, with his two wives, was to figure so largely in the lives of Carlyle and his wife. Sartor Resartus was published in England, and republished in the United States. Chart- ism was written and printed. Other events of the same biennium were Mrs. Carlyles only Soir~e, tbe appearance of Count dOrsay in Cheyne Row, and Mr. Marshalls gift to Carlyle of a mare, Citoyenne to be called. Charles Townsend Copeland. FIFTY YEARS OF AMERICAN SCIENCE. ON April 2, 1840, eighteen American savants met in Philadelphia and organ- ized themselves into The American Society of Geologists. Within two years the association extended its field of ac- tivity, and added and Naturalists to its title. Still later other sciences were given hearing, and at a notable meet- ing held in Boston in 1847 it was de- cided to remodel the organization on the lines of a British association that had been a power in shaping intellectual progress for a quarter-century. In ac- cordance with this action, the leading scientific men of the country met in Phil- adelphia, September 20, 1848, and insti- tuted The American Association for the Advancement of Science. Such was the origin of the leading American sci- entific society, a distinctively American body, meant to increase and to diffuse exact knowledge among the people; and its semi-centenary anniversary, celebrat- ed by the meeting in Boston, is a Jubilee of American Science. Scientific progress, especially in a land of free institutions, is so closely inter- woven with industrial and social progress that the advance of one cannot be traced without constant reference to the other. Indeed, the statement of our national progress during the past half-century is little more than a summary of results and practical applications of scientific re- search. Fifty years ago our population was hardly more than twenty millions, now it is seventy millions; then our wealth was less than seven billion dol- lars, now it is eighty billions. At the beginning of the year 1848 there were fifty-two hundred and five miles of rail- way in the United States, now there are two hundred thousand, far more than any other country has, more than all Europe; nearly as many miles, in- deed, as all the rest of the world put together. Some of those who attended the first meeting of the Association made their journey, or part of it, by stage- coach or in the saddle. They met many 308 Fifty Years of American Science. a boy riding to the neighborhood mill with a bag of corn as grist and saddle, and the itinerant doctor or minister on horseback, with his wife on a pillion be- hind; they passed by farmers swinging the back-breaking cradle or wielding the tedious hoe, while lusty horses grew fat in idleness; they caught glimpses of housewives spinning and dyeing and weaving with infinite pains the fabrics required to clothe their families; they followed trails so rough that the trans- portation of produce to market multiplied its cost, and carrying back family sup- plies was a burden: everywhere they saw hard human toil, enlivened only by the cheer of political freedom, and they did not even dream of devices whereby nature should be made to furnish the means for her own subjugation. Most of the mails were carried slowly by coaches and postboys; the telegraph was little more than a toy; the telephone, the trolley-car, and the typewriter had not begun to shorten time and lengthen life; and steel was regularly imported from Sheffield, and iron from Norway. The slow and uncertain commerce of interior navigation was the pride of publicists, and Chicago boasted a population of twenty - five thousand; a shallow wave of settlement was flowing over the vast interior to break against the bluffs of the Missouri, though the pioneers still feared to pitch tents on the broad prairie- lands, and chose rather the rugged and rocky woodlands skirting the waterways as sites for homesteads; the fertile sub- humid plains, with ten million buffalo feeding on their nutritious grasses, were still mapped as the great American desert; the Rocky Mountain region be- yond was a mystical land, yielding the wildest and weirdest of travelers tales; California was an Ultima Thule more remote in thought and interest than are Hawaii or even the Philippines to-day. Then, as now, the nation was in the throes of growing-pains, acuter than now, because territorial expansion was more rapid: Texas had recently given its em- pire, an empire of barren breadths and bloody bandits, according to the critics, and Florida had lately come to us from Spain; Iowa and Wisconsin had entered the family of states, and Oregon had hecome a troublesome ter- ritory; and the treaty of Guadalupe- Hidalgo had just been approved, bring- ing California and New Mexico (with most of what is now Arizona) into our possession, adding the care of hope- less deserts and the control of trea- cherous tribes and an alien population to the duties of an overworked legisla- tive and administrative government, and preparing the way for the witticism, Mexico will be forgiven all if she will only take back her lands. In truth, there was danger, painfully manifest thirteen years later, of disruption through overgrowth of the local interests and provincialisms always straining our theo- retic union, a danger happily removed forever a quarter-century later by the railway and the telegraph, which gave a stronger unity than political faith or governmental doctrine. The progress of the nation during the half-century is beyond parallel. By nor- mal growth and peaceful absorption with- out foreign conquest the population has trebled, and the national wealth has in- creased tenfold. The subjugation of nat- ural forces has proceeded at a higher rate, and the extension of knowledge and the diffusion of intelligence have gone forward more rapidly still. This advance, so great as to be grasped by few minds, is the marvel of human his- tory. The world has moved forward as it never did before. Yet fully half of the progress of the world, during the last fifty years, has been wrought through the unprecedented energy of American enterprise and genius, guided by Ameri- can science. It is to a great degree through special research that knowledge advances; yet it is by no means to be forgotten that the Fifty Years of American Science. 309 specialty is but a column in the Lane of science, and that arcades and keystones and swelling dome hold higher places. Worthy has been the work of specialists in the extension of knowledge, during the half-century; but nobler still have been the tasks of the fewer searchers who have been able to span two or more specialties, and to simplify knowledge by co6rdination. The solidarity of science is well illustrated by the work of the phy- sicist Bunsen and the chemist Kirchoff, both of Germany, who in 1859 combined their specialties (as few great men are able to do) and blent ideas in the inven- tion of the spectroscope, which has revo- lutionized several sciences. By aid of this device, later chemists and physicists have discovered new facts and made some of the most important generaliza- tions of the time; by its daily aid, the metallurgist applies the Bessemer pro- cess, which has revolutionized the steel production of the world; aided by a de- rivative device (the bolometer), Langley has been able to measure and weigh the light and combustion rate of the firefly lamp, and thus to gain a new point of view in physiology. Still greater has been the service of the spectroscope to the astronomer; for it has brought, as it were, to the test-tube and crucible, our sun and other suns, and the luminous planets and comets, so that their substance may be analyzed hardly less definitely than the rocks beneath our feet; it even enables the astronomer to read from the shifting lines of the spectrum the relative mo- tions of stars long thought to be fixed. This application of the spectroscope marks the most noteworthy advance in astronomy not only of the half-century that is now closing, but of all time. No key ever unlocked sublimer revelations or more inspiring vistas than this instru- ment which opened the door of the New Astronomy. A few of the principal advances in science, made in the last fifty years, may be noted. Europe and America have contributed to astronomy, during the half-century, in fairly equal measure. The spectroscope was the gift of the older country, and some of its most brilliant products were brought forth by Huggins and other transatlantic students; yet spectroscopy was revolutionized by the American physicist Rowland, with his exquisitely delicate diffraction gratings and his mar- velous mechanism for producing them. So, too, the photometric work of the Pickerings in Harvard Observatory, with its adjunct in Peru, and the star cata- logues of the lamented Gould and his successors in Cordova, are unexcelled, while the best inventory of modern star science, The New Astronomy, is the work of the American astronomer Lang- ley. Some part of the success of cis- atlantic astronomers must be ascribed to the mechanical ingenuity which seems to spring up spontaneously with intel- lectual freedom, and which enabled the Alvan Clarks, father and son, to produce the finest telescopic lenses the world has seen, with no less excellent fittings. Yet there has been no lack of patient wait- ing and minute scrutiny of the stolid mid - European type, as shown by the half-centurys discoveries of asteroids and planetary satellites and comets, of which America has done the greater part. The prophecy of American pres- tige in astronomy came in 1860, when Newcomb reduced the orbits of the as- teroids to a simple system; and it is just now fulfilled beyond all early anti- cipation in a recomputation of the ele- ments of the solar system by the same indefatigable delver among definite quantities. This work alone marks an epoch; the sun and moon and planets have been weighed as exactly as sugar and tea at the grocers, and their paths measured as precisely as silks and wool- ens at the drapers. Most of the ships of civilized nations set their courses by nautical almanacs computed on the New- combian basis; and the name of New- 310 Fifty Years of American Science. comb is more widely known than the name of any other astronomer, and has brought tribute to America from every civilized country. Characteristically American is the recent work of Chan- dler, who, first following and then out- stripping the brilliant Euler, has recon- ciled the discrepancies in latitude-records of European and American observato- ries, and discovered a new law of plan- etary motion, expressed in periodic wan- dering of the terrestrial poles. Equally characteristic is the work of Young on the sun, Newton on meteoroids, Bar- nard on comets, and a dozen others in as many special lines, including the sug- gestive results of Percival Lowell in his observatories on both American conti- nents. The genius of American astronomers has brought appreciation from laymen as well as investigators, and their labors have been rewarded by increased facil- ities; America is better endowed to- day with observatories and apparatus than any other country, nearly as well as all the rest of the world. Most of our rapidly growing universities have their own observatories. A dozen years ago the installation of Lick Observatory was an event in the scientific world, and attracted such public attention as to leave little for the two observatories installed within the year, Flower Observatory in Pennsylvania, and Yerkes Observa- tory, an adjunct of the University of Chicago. Fifty years ago astronomy was a sober and sluggish science, far removed from practical every-day inter- ests, cultivated respectably in Europe and beginning to attract serious atten- tion in this country. To-day its data are doubled and its activity is tripled; it touches industry and the public wel- fare at many points, and advances more rapidly than ever before; and a full share of this progress is due to Ameri- can genius and industry. Half a century ago, Dr. Joule, of Eng land, was engaged in a series of physical experiments, beginning with solids and ending with liquids, which indicated that while force may be controlled, it can- not be created or destroyed. Faraday, Helmholtz, and Grove repeated and ex- tended the experiments, and through the combined efforts of the four masters in physical science the law of the conser- vation of energy was developed, and a new era in the history of science was opened. Half a century earlier, chem- istry had established the indestructibil- ity of matter, and incidentally proved that the material world is a world of law, and not of chance. The complementa- ry demonstration of the indestructibility of force completed the groundwork for rational thought, and a phalanx of ex- ponents and defenders of the doctrine of the uniformity of nature, marshaled under John Tyndall, was soon in the ~field. By timely chance they fell in with an equally vigorous phalanx head- ed by Huxley, who were expounding and defending the Darwinian doctrine of derivation, or the law of the uniform- ity of nature applied to organic species; and the joint forces quickly consum- mated the most sweeping intellectual re- volution in history. Unhappily, cede- siasticism was aroused, and for a time Tyndall and Huxley were denounced as destroyers of the eternal peace of their converts; but the balm of personal as- sociation soon smoothed the acerbities and aided in fixing the respective bounds of science and faith, and serious antag- onism to applied physics came to an end. Meantime, the mechanician found himself in line with the thinker, the stu- dent turned from hereditary introspec- tion of the supernal toward the new-found beauties of the real world, and gradual- ly teachers came to be esteemed for what they knew rather than for what they conjured; practical men became thinkers, and thinking men became prac- tical; industry was regenerated, and the real glory of the Victorian era began. Fifty Years of American Science. 311 At first the law of the conservation of energy was not the counterpart of the law of the conservation of matter recog- nized by chemists; for the ultimate and persistent basis of matter is the atom, while the physicists held only that the sum of energy persists in the universe. Recently, Powell has revised the law in the light of generalized human experi- ence, and suggested that motion, like matter, inheres and persists in the ulti- mate particle; and thereby chemistry and physics, and the other sciences as well, are brought into harmony. This rendering of the fundamental law of physics is accepted by several savants; it is in accord with the lines of intel- lectual and industrial progress, and gives brilliant promise as a means of extend- ing conquest over nature. Physical sci- ence has been the giver of many gen- erous gifts, but the goodliest of all was the gift of right thinking, which was a by-product of the law of the conserva- tion of energy. The formula of physical science came to America as a mariners compass to a crew of maroons. Already a nation of inventors inspired by intellectual free- dom, Americans were still blind leaders of the blind; for invention is impossi- ble without at least intuitive recognition of the uniformity of nature, while with- out conscious recognition of this law the inventor drifts in a sea of uncertain- ties, making port only by chance. The newly formulated doctrine was seized and assimilated with such avidity that within a decade it was more generally understood and adopted in this country than in all Europe. Under its stimulus invention throve and manufacturing grew apace: the crude reaper was made a self-raker, next a harvester or header, then a self-binder or field-thresher, ac- cording to local needs; the hoe gave way to the horse-cultivator, and the flail to the horse-power thresher, the neigh- borhood water-mill to the steam-driven roller-mill grinding for all the people of a whole state; and the farmer learned to live by the strength of his beasts and the craft of his machines merely guided by his own intelligence. The mechanic arts were regenerated; steam was har- nessed more effectively than before, and our railway-making and locomotive-build- ing became and remain a revelation to the world; for within this year, 1898, European engineers have been compelled to swallow incredulity as to the rapidity of American bridge-building, while IJ3rit- ish promoters hastening to supply Egypt with locomotives have saved half the time required for delivery, despite the doubling of distance, by ordering from American builders. The tide of foreign importation was soon stayed, and then turned, and now American steel tools are sold in Sheffield and fine American hardware in Norway, while the products of American machines in the form of foodstuffs and fabrics are carried into every quarter of the globe. The char- acteristic of American inventiveness is its diffusion. Invention is as free as the franchise, and open competition gives life to genius no less than to trade. American devices (temporarily protect- ed by patents) are so diffused that every citizen is in contact with the products of physical science and mechanical skill ;- everybody may have a machine-made watch better than the average hand- made product of Geneva, nearly equal to the tested Swiss chronometer; every family may have its sewing-machine and telephone; and every man, woman, and child wears machine-made buttons, pins, hats, and textile fabrics. A typical American device is the bicy- cle. Invented in France, it long remained a toy or a vain luxury. Redevised in this country, it inspired inventors and capti- vated manufacturers, and native genius made it a practical machine for the multitude; now its users number mil- lions, and it is sold in every country. Typical, too, is the bicycle in its effect on national character. It first aroused 312 Fifty Years of American Science. invention, next stimulated commerce, and then developed individuality, judg- ment, and prompt decision on the part of its users more rapidly and completely than any other device; for although as- sociation with machines of any kind (ab- solutely straightforward and honest as they are all) develops character, the bicy- cle is the easy leader of other machines in shaping the mind of its rider, and transforming itself and its rider into a single thing. Better than other re- sults is this: that the bicycle has broken the barrier of pernicious differentiation of the sexes and rent the bonds of fash- ion, and is daily impressing Spartan strength and grace, and more than Spar- tan intelligence, on the mothers of com- ing generations. So, weighed by its ef- fect on body and mind as well as on material progress, this device must be classed as one of the worlds great in- ventions. With the advance of the half-century in simply applied mechanics, there have been still greater advances in the know- ledge of the more obscure powers of na- ture, manifested in electricity and mag- netism, in sun and wind and storm, even in vitality and mental action. Some of these have been made in Europe, but more in America. Fifty years ago Morse and Henry were doing the final work required to transform the electric tele- graph from a physical experiment to a commercial agency, and soon nerves of steel and copper, throbbing with intelli- gence, were following the pioneer into the remotest recesses and pushing be- neath the ocean; Faraday, the Siemens brothers, Helmholtz, and later Sir Wil- liam Thomson (Lord Kelvin) freely gave genius and toil; then came Edison with an eruption of brilliant inventions; and to-day time and space are as if they were not, and from sea to sea our subjects of thought are as one. It was but yester- day that half our world knew not how the other half lived; now both halves read ~the same items at breakfast. Themselves harvesters after the cx- perimentalists in physics, the early te- legraphers were planters for Graham Bell, and the telephone came to carry the word of man afar, and the grapho- phone to perpetuate it forever, and thus to complete the annihilation of space and time as obstacles to the diffusion and unification of intelligence. Inspired by success in conveying thought, invent- ors sought to convey grosser powers, and dynamos were invented to furnish light better and cheaper than the world had known before; devices for warming and even for cooking, and for lowering tem- perature by fans and refrigerant pipes, quickly followed; and now the lightning is harnessed in our houses as the thun- der is subdued in telephone and grapho- phone. Meantime, motors and trans- mitters were perfected, and electric transportation came into successful com- petition with steam locomotion, while the power derived from waterfalls and central plants was made divisible, so that units of power are now sold as freely as pounds of tea or sugar were fifty years ago; and a way has been found to counteract the concentration of artisans in factories located by waterfall or engine. The conquest of nature by electric power, gained through control- ling an infinitesimal part of the vibrant atomic energy of our corner of the cos- mos, has come rapidly, and so steadily as almost to escape notice; yet it is a marvel beside which the magical lamp of Aladdin and all other figments of Oriental fancy are as nothing. In 1848 a Frenchman and an Eng- lishman made advances in the new art of photography, developed partly by Pro- fessor Draper, of New York, a few years before. In 1850 a journal of photo- graphy was established in this country, and the art became the property of the people. Its progress well illustrates the growing solidarity of nations, for contri- butions have been made by England, France, Germany, and other countries, Fifty Years of American Science. 313 as well as America, and parts of the same apparatus are often the handiwork of two or more countries. Americas contributions to the art are characteris- tic in that they have reduced the cost and increased the use of the apparatus so far that every village and a tenth of our families have their cameras. Recent events indicate that a new field is open- ing for the picture-maker, and the next half - century may see advances much greater than those of the last; for while photography has been limited to lumi- nous rays and to portraiture of external surfaces, Roentgen has proved the pos- sibility of using other phases of radiant energy, and of depicting internal struc- tures as well as outer forms. Half a century ago Joseph Henry pub- lished the plan of the Smithsonian Insti- tution, and his first-mentioned means of increasing knowledge was a system of extending meteorological observations for solving the problem of American storms. So began a line of research which has added much to science, and is daily contributing to personal com- fort and material prosperity. Of old the wind blew where it listed, the rain fell on the just and the unjust alike, and men reeked no more of the hurricane than of the earthquake, for both were ascribed to malevolent and unavoidable fate. The dark confession of weakness still clings to those who go down to the sea in ships, making them the most superstitious of modern folk, and it crops up uncannily in the exemption phrase of even modern transatlantic contracts, acts of God ex- cepted. Against this blighting faith in the malign Franklin set himself a cen- tury before Henry, when he led light- ning from the skies on a kite-string, and invented the lightning-rod; but the real awakening began with the Smithsojiian Institution. For twenty years the work was little more than observation in East- ern cities, giving data for laws, but not the laws themselves. During the reac- tion from the civil war several military men turned toward nobler conquest, and observation was extended and systema- tized in a science so definite as to confer the gift of prevision. Up to the present generation the principal contributions to meteorology came from Europe, and such names as Buys - Ballot, Buchan, Dove, and Delaunny were better known in this country than those of our own in- vestigators, while so late as 18Th the data for Coffins Winds of the Globe were submitted to the Russian Weikoff for discussion before they were issued by the Smithsonian Institution. Now the tide has turned. Generals Hazen and Greely and the civilians Harrington and Moore have built up the largest weather bureau in the world, and with the aid of physicists like Ferrel, Abbe, and Mendenhall have shi~ped weather science; while Langley has led thinkers into new paths by his studies of the internal work of the wind, and their application to problems of aerial flight. Much of the success of Ameri- can air science must be ascribed to the accident of geography, which gives a broader field for the study of the atmo- sphere than any other nation enjoys, more favorable, even, than the two em- pires of Russia. Yet geographic bigness is but one of the elements of Ameri- can greatness, in this as in other depart- ments of knowledge, such as engineer- ing, geology, and anthropology. To-day a central office cotwdinates observations not only from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from the Great Lakes to the Gulf, but, through international comity, from Canadian territory on the north to Mex- ican territory on the south. The obser- vations yield predictions benefiting agri- culture and shipping to the extent of millions annually. They yield also prin- ciples which are enlightening the world, mitigating faith in Moloch and strength- ening confidence in human might, and so preparing the way for still more brilliant conquest by generations yet to come. Meteorology does not give control of 314 Fifty Years of American Science. the powers of the air and the vapors within it (pseudo-science to the contrary notwithstanding), but only enables men so to adjust themselves to these agents as to gain benefit and to avoid injury; yet conquest over the immeasurable po- tentialities of the atmosphere is extend- ing in other ways. Half a century ago gases were the most elusive of substances, seldom allied in thought to liquids save in loose speculation, hardly brought from the domain of mysticism into the realm of reality. Now the continuity of the gaseous condition with liquidity and so- lidity has been established for the more important terrestrial substances. A dozen years ago Cailletet in France and Pic- tet in Switzerland liquefied various gases by high pressure and low tempera- ture. Dewar, of England, followed in a striking series of operations, liquefying gas after gas, until within a few weeks hydrogen most refractory of the ele- ments and the unit of matter has been brought into liquid form, and the Arner- ican Tripler has devised means of liquefying air in large quantities at lim- ited cost. To-day scientists find them- selves on the threshold of a new pro- spect opened by these conquests. The possibilities of future applications can- not be presaged clearly, but there are indications that they will equal those made through the control of electricity. Liquid hydrogen is only one fourteenth the weight of water; it boils at 238~ C. (~396o F.), or only 350 C. above abso- lute zero, while liquid air is a little light- er than water, and boils (or vaporizes) at1910 C. (~312o F.). In the ab- stract the figures carry little meaning, but made concrete they signify that just as the astronomer finds himself approach- ing the limits of the material universe through the telescope and the spectro- scope, and just as the morphologist is approaching actual vision of molecular constitution through the microscope, so the physicist finds himself nearing the point at which the definite constitution of matter must begin, the real sunrise of the material universe, beyond which lies chaos only. Considered in their con- crete application, the figures are still more significant. The uses of liquid air for wholesale cooling, as an adjunct in chemical and metallurgical operations, and even as a terrible instrument of war, have already been tested or suggested; yet the stimulus of discovery has hardly begun to affect the mass of inventors. As doctrinal prejudice melted, and as chemistry established the continuity be- tween organic and inorganic substances, the sum of experience and weight of reason wrought a revolution in thought, and the dominion of law over living mat- ter was soon accepted implicitly, if not explicitly. The extension of law into the realm of intellectual processes came later, and more tediously and haltingly. A noteworthy step was taken in 1859, when Joseph Le Conte illustrated cer- tain cases of interconvertibility of physi- cal and mental forces. His exposition was republished and widely reviewed and discussed in Europe, where it in- spired experiments and the making of special apparatus, always the strong side of transatlantic research; for the European pioneer puts stepping-stones where the American lays a bridge. Meantime, Barker, after demonstrating the interconvertibility of physical and vital forces in 1875, passed into the higher realm, and definitively extended the correlation to mental force. Other contributions followed; and while there are still those who dread to lift the veil of mystery above a certain point, per- chance through confounding mental pro- cess and intellectual product, the more vigorous investigators recognize the phy- sical basis of mentation, and a science of psychology has arisen, standing to metaphysical psychology much as astro- logy stood to astronomy and alchemy to chemistry. It is represented fittingly in America. The consequences and ap- plications of this advance of the half- Fifty Years of American Science. 315 century may no more be foretold than those of others newly made; yet even if it mean no more thai~t the extension of law into a new realm, and the replace- ment of chaos by order in human thought, it must take an important place in the history of science. An important advance in chemistry was forecast in 1811 by the Italian Avo- gadro, and soon after by the French- man Ainp~re, through the discovery that equal volumes of all substances, when in the gaseous state and under like condi- tions, contain the same number of mole- cules; that is, that the constitution of matter is connected with its own inher- ent motion. The discovery was barren until fertilized by the law of the con- servation of energy, and became fully fruitful only under the skillful treatment of the American Cooke, who used it as the basis of the New Chemistry about the middle of the half-century. The advance marked the extension of natural law into a field long cumbered by the mystical wreckage of alchemy, and sig- nalized the lifting of interpretation from the plane of the material to that of the kinetic. A new chapter in the history of chemistry was opened by KekuM, of Flanders, in 1858. This was the dis- covery of valence, or the law of propor- tion under which atoms combine to form substances, a far-reaching, though pos- sibly not final law governing the consti- tution of matter. The laws of Avogadro and Kekul~ yielded a larger view of the unknown; and by their aid Mendelejeff, of Russia, and almost at the same time (186970) Lothar-Meyer, of England, discovered that the known elementary substances fall naturally into groups dis- playing certain family resemblances, while the groups fall into series defined by properties of the atoms; and these facts were formulated in the remarkably comprehensive periodic law, or law of Mendelejeff. From the culminating point of view afforded by this law the domain of chemistry may be surveyed, as was the domain of astronomy through aid of Keplers law, and the endless actions and reactions involved in the making and decomposition of materials, in growth and decay, are found to be no less orderly and harmonious than the swing of satellites and planets and suns in our solar and stellar systems; chem- ists can now invade the unseen urn- verse, and determine the properties of elements not yet discovered, as Adams located Neptune by formulas before it was detected by lenses. The power of prevision possessed by chemists, under the periodic law, has been established over and over again by successful pre- dictions. Indeed, at a meeting in To- ronto, last year, the president of a chem- ical body dared to devote his address to description of an element still unseen, and the developments of the year have justified his courage. One of the results of these epoch- making discoveries was increased confi- dence on the part of the organic chem- ists, who, beginning with Wdhler and Berzelius, were cautiously~creating bylab- oratory synthesis compounds previously held to transcend simple nature. Within the half-century the laws of the inor- ganic world have been extended, first to organic compounds, then to organic pro- cesses, and finally to the essentially vital processes exhibited by both plants and animals; to-day the chemist and physi- cist stand on common ground to sus- tain and explain physiology, and even the modern psychology which finds the source of mentation in cerebral decom- position and recomposition. During recent decades the applications of chemistry have multiplied and extend- ed in various directions. The new alloys required fornovel physical and industrial devices have been produced; high explo- sives innumerable have been compound- ed; and the chemist has cooperated with the physicist in liquefying gases, and with 316 Fifty Years of American Science. the astronomer in analyzing suns and comets and the rings of Saturn. Mean- time, chemistry has been brought into touch with daily life as an adjunct to medicine, and as a means of testing foods and drugs in public sanitation. Perhaps the most brilliant applications of chem- istry sprang from researches concerning the hydrocarbons preserved in the rocks of the earth as records of vitality dur- ing ages past; and the coal-tar products have been made to yield dyes rivaling the rainbow in brilliancy and range of color, perfumes stronger than musk and sweeter than attar of roses, flavors more sapid than sugar and spice, and a plente- ous series of unguents and medicaments, indeed, every material requisite for life and luxury except food. The contributions of chemistry to knowledge and welfare during the half- century have been many, yet relatively fewer and poorer than the rich returns from other sciences; and it is a con- spicuous fact that few American names are connected with the greater advances in the science. While Americas addi- tions to astronomy, physics, geology, and anthropology have been of the first magnitude, modern chemistry remains a monument to European genius almost alone. In connection with this fact perhaps in explanation of it it is to be noted that there are no great chem- ical laboratories in this couRtry, no in- stitutions comparable with the astro- nomical observatories and geological sur- veys and natural history museums which have given prestige to American science. Half a century ago geology was on the plane to which it had been raised by Lyells law of uniformism, a law which contributed much to the cult pro- claimed by Tyndall and Huxley; and this plane was effectively expanded by the efforts of several American geolo- gists. With singular perspicacity and pertinacity, Hall and his associates devel- oped an American scheme of rock classi fication (the New York system), which was expounded and crystallized by Dana, and has since served as the model for the continent; and in an address deliv- ered in 1857, though not printed for a generation, Hall foreshadowed the laws of mountain-making and other distinc- tive principles of modern geology. Thus, within the first decade of the half-cen- tury the earth science of America had come to stand well abreast of that of Europe. Checked by the social shock of the early sixties, research rested; but toward the end of the decade it began anew, and as exploration pushed into the Cordilleran region, where the Stone Book lies open, it sprang forward with unprecedented vigor. Hayden, King, and Powell in the territories, and Whit- ney in California, were the principal pioneers in the field, while Powell, Gil- bert, and Dutton led in lifting the sci- ence to the third plane in its develop- ment; for, through recognition of the baselevel of erosion, they laid the foundation for the New Geology, which reads earth history from the forms of hill and vale as well as from the formations and fossils of past ages. Within a dozen years the principles have been applied and extended in the coast plains of the southeastern states, where they have made both land forms and unconformi- ties eloquent records of continent growth; while Davis, of Harvard, has success- fully employed the same principles in reading from topographic maps the later chapters of earth history. Meantime, the glacial theory, import- ed by Agassiz from Switzerland, rooted kindly in American soil, and soon bore fruit; Chamberlin, Shaler, Salisbury, and a score of others have scanned our incomparable drift plains and drumlins, moraines and kames, sand plains and paha, and have solved the riddle of the bess; and during the last quarter- century the records of the ice ages have been more thoroughly scrutinized and more fully interpreted in America than 31T Fifty Years of American Science. in all the rest of the world. Mean- time, too, geology ramified in other di- rections, and its applications multiplied; the second half of the nineteenth cen- tury is distinguished by activity in in- vestigation of rocks and resources in every country, but especially in Amer- ica, with its federal survey and score of state surveys, maintained at a cost of more than a million dollars annually, and enricbing the nation at an indefinitely larger rate. It is fair to remember that the success of the science on this conti- nent is largely due to the great conti- nental expanse and the wide distribu- tion of resources in the rocks; that the plateau region and the caiion country of the southwest furnish the best known record of geologic process; that the Ap- palachian region affords the worlds finest example of a distinctive type of structure; that the glaciated plains of the northern United States are among the widest in the world, by far the widest of those equally accessible; also, that our coal and iron, gold and silver, oil and gas, and numberless other valuable minerals tempt curiosity and cupidity, as well as serious inquiry from sea to sea. While the opportunities are unsurpassed, there has been no dearth of genius to seize them; and while America may still take lessons from Europe in mineralogy and perhaps in petrography, the relation is reversed in other departments and in the principles of the science, and lead- ing European geologists take frequent field lessons on this side the Atlantic. Hardly a serious question as to the eternal fixity of species and genera and orders had been raised in scientific minds before 1848, save by Lamarek and a few other quasi - visionaries, while con- servative leaders like Agassiz in Switzer- land, Cuvier in France, and Owen in England were so deeply grounded in the philosophy of fixity as only to be the more firmly set by each shock of new discovery. Just ten years later Darwin and Wallace independently announced the inconstancy of species and the de- rivation of organic units through succes- sive changes; and the idea grew, until it wrought, within a quarter-century, the most profound revolution in the history of human thought. This effect was not due alone to Darwins wealth of facts and uprightness of record, nor was it due in more than partial measure to Huxleys eloquent and aggressive advo- cacy. The discovery of the conservation of energy by Joule and Grove, and its ex- position by Tyndall, contributed much; Lyells doctrine of uniformism strength- ened the movement in many circles; the extension of chemistry to organic com- pounds was a potent factor; the en- largement of the known universe by the spectroscope had its effect; while all these combined with the habit of thought established through larger associations of thinkers with practical men and with mechanical devices, so that the formula the uniformity of nature won common assent. The wide and ready acceptance of the Darwinian doctrine was but the co- ordination of knowledge already gained. Yet the revolution would have been long delayed had Englishmen alone contrib- uted to it, or even men of Continental Eu- rope; for, with a half dozen exceptions, the earliest and strongest apostles were Americans, with Asa Gray and Morse among the leaders. Tbe free, vigorous, and trenchant American mind was pe- culiarly hospitable to the tenets of the new law; and it was accepted here as the foundation for the cult of science years before it was similarly accepted in Great Britain. Seen in the perspec- tive now possible, Darwins doctrine is but the extension into the organic realm ef the laws of action and sequence which form the basis of all definite thought, and find their highest expression in that power of invention which enables man to dominate duller nature for his own behoof. Thus, the rise of the doctrine merely marked a normal and necessary 318 Fifty Years of American Science. stage in the development of knowledge concerning the several realms of nature. Made definite by the recognition of action and sequence, biology has ad- vanced apace during the last quarter- century. The causes of most ills to which flesh is heir have been traced to germs and microbes, and modes of prevention and cure have resulted; the nature of sepsis has been found out, and anti- sepsis has been perfected with such ra- pidity that its leader (Lord Lister) has lived to see the average civilized life lengthened by months through efforts initially his own; and both medicine and surgery have been reconstructed. Entomology has traced the laws govern- ing insect life, suggesting methods of successfully opposing physical force to insect activity, and even of opposing in- sect to insect in such manner as to pro- tect and multiply the crops on which the nations are fed. Phytology has made clear the laws of plant life, indicating ways of fertilizing and hybridizing and even reproducing useful plants, ways more economical than those of nature; while zoilogy is daily applied in re-cre- ating and perpetuating needful domestic animals. The science of living things is too broad and its lines are too many for full statement in a brief summary; but its results may be summed in saying that it has taught man to control life almost at will, annihilating it if bad, and pre- serving it if good, and has enabled him to subjugate vitality to his needs even more completely than the physical forces are subjugated. As a science sim- ply, biology abounds in problems of pro- found interest; as an applied science, its uses and benefactions are incalculable. Half a century ago a shadow ob- scured a considerable part of the field of science, seriously obstructing its cul- tivation; it was the shadow cast by man himself, then held too sacred to serve as suitable subject for scientific research. In 1863 Huxley published Mans Place in Nature, and an anthropological soci- ety was instituted in London and began the issue of a journal; eight years later Darwin published The Descent of Man. These events marked the gradual lift- ing of the shadow from science, the slow extension of the law of the uniformity of nature to the human organism. Con- tributions came from other countries; Herbert Spencer bent his fertile mind and facile pen to inquiry and exposition; America awoke rapidly; and within a quarter-century anthropology was regu- larly classed as one of the sciences. At first man was studied simply as an ani- mal, and men were classed in races de fined by characters shared with brutes. A notable advance was forecast when students perceived that man occupies a distinct plane, in that his essential attri- butes are collective rather than individ- ual; and the American Morgan laid the foundation for objective sociology in his work on Ancient Society in 1877, while the Frenchman Comte formulated a subjective sociology, and the Briton Spencer pushed forward his imposing folios on Descriptive Sociology. Then came the creation of the Bureau of American Ethnology in 1879, and the beginning of the classification of the American aborigines by human activi- ties rather than by animal features. So arose a New Ethnology, in which men are classified by mind rather than by body, by culture rather than by color; and the rise marked the most notable advance in the history of anthropology. Under this classification, the peoples of the earth fall into four culture grades, which are also stages in development, namely: (1) savagery, with a social or- ganization resting on kinship reckoned in the female line; (2) barbarism, in which the social organization is based on kinship reckoned in the male line; (3) civilization, in which the organiza- tion has a territorial basis; and (4) en- lightenment, in which the laws and cus- toms are based on intellectual rights. Fifty Years of American Science. 319 The principal advance in anthropolo- gy was distinctly American; it grew out of conditions existing alone on this con- tinent, and could not well have origi- nated elsewhere; indeed, it is not yet fully appreciated in any other country. Like the American geologist, the cis- atlantic anthropologist found the finest field the world affords. With a pop- ulation coming from every European country, with an aboriginal people of threescore tongues and a thousand tribes always on his frontier, with the denizens of the dark continent long chained to his footstool, with representatives of China and Japan and the islands of the seas constantly competing in his indus- tries, and with a more extensive and in- timate blending of bloods than any stu- dent had seen before, his opportunities for testing ethnic principles were un- paralleled; when lost in the labyrinth of meaningless distinctions of color and hair, of cranial form and capacity, of stature and length of limb, and in need of new criteria, he was inspired to note what men do rather than what they are, and soon followed the physicist and the chemist and the geologist into kinetic interpretation. Then he found a third of the thousand aboriginal tribes in the stage of maternal organization, another third in paternal organization, and the remaining third ranging through transi- tional conditions of such sort as to show the courseof development. At the same time, he found inbred traditions of ter- ritorial organization shaping habit and thought in the million immigrants and visitors from monarchical nations; and he alone hm~d constantly before him the object-lesson of governmental control despite and indeed by virtue of intellectual and social and political free- dom. Our physical progress has been great because invention is encouraged by free institutions; our progress in geo- logy has been rapid by reason of intel- lectual freedom and a vast domain; while our progress in anthropology has been marvelous because of the elevated point of view and an incomparable range of types both of blood and of activity. The main movements made way for others, especially in connection with the aborigines; the sources of ~esthetics and ethics have been successfully sought, the early steps in the course of industri- al development have been traced, the beginnings of law have been analyzed, and the course of human development has been brought to light; and it is now known that the lines of human progress in the arts and industries, in sociology, in language, and in thought are conver- gent, rather than divergent like the lines of development among beasts and plants, and that the unification of ideas by tele- graph and telephone and press is but a ripple marking the course of the great stream of human activity. The conver- gent lines of progress suggest multipli- city of cradle-places for the American tribes, as recently expounded by Powell, and still more for mankind in gene~ral. Endogamy and exogamy have been de- fined, in the light of careful observa- tion, as correlative regulations among given peoples rather than developmental stages; matriarchy has been shown to be the complement of patriarchy, and not a rival of avuncular control; while the trite marriage - by - capture has been reduced to due place as an inci- dental development rather than a prim- itive condition of mating. Meantime, a sound basis has been given to American arckeology, as just attested by the award of the first Loubat prize to Holmes in recognition of distinctively American work. The view afforded by the recog- nition of the collective character of man- kind has guided inquiry concerning the individual, and now bodily structures are studied as products of mind-led activity, while the brain is studied as a mechan- ism more complex, but otherwise no more mysterious, than the structures of plants and animals, or devices which mcmi have made. So in the science of man as in 320 ]?~fty Years of American Science. the other sciences the magicians wand has been cast aside, and the veil of mys- tery has fallen away forever, and the early shadow is gone from the field of definite knowledge. Such have been a few of the advances in science of the half-century; the dis- covery of the persistence of motion, the invention of spectroscopy, the control of electricity, the discovery of the periodic law, the recognition of evolution, and the culture classification of mankind may be considered the first half-dozen. If summed in a single term, the half- centurys advance in science may be ex- pressed as recognition of the uniformi- ty and potentiality of nature; while the applications are invention on the prac- tical side, and kinetic interpretation (or interpretation in terms of motion and sequence) on the philosophic side. Most of the advances began in Europe, to be hastened in America, and a full half of the progress must be cr5dited to cis- atlantic genius and enterprise. In truth, America has become a nation of science. There is no industry, from agriculture to architecture, that is not shaped by research and its results; there is not one of our fifteen millions of fam- ilies that does not enjoy the benefits of scientific advancement; there is no law in our statutes, no motive in our con- duct, that has not been made juster by the straightforward and unselfish habit of thought fostered by scientific meth- ods. A nation of free minds will not be selfish or cruel; and the sense of uni formity in nature finds expression in national character, in commercial hon- esty, in personal probity, in unparalleled patriotism, as well as in the unequaled workmanship which is the simplest ex- pression of straight thinking. Every step in our national progress has been guided by the steadfast knowledge born of assimilated experience. The tre- bling of population in a half-century, raising the republic from an experiment in state-making to a leading place among the nations, is the wonder of history; the thrice-trebled wealth and educational facilities gained through application of new knowledge are a marvel, before which most men stand dazzled at home, and wholly blinded abroad; the three times thrice-trebled knowledge itself, lift- ing the nation high in enlightenment and making way for still more rapid pro- gress, is a modern miracle wrought by scientific work; but greatest of all in present potency and future promise is the elevation of moral character attained by that sense of right thinking which flows only from consciously assimilated experience, and this is the essence of science now diffused among our people. Since American science was young, the course of research and conclusion has been guided by an association of science-builders who have freely contrib- uted their mental and moral riches to their younger and poorer fellows. This association has shaped the progress of American science, and its semi-centen- nial anniversary is Americas Jubilee of Science. WJMcGee. ]Yew Opportunities for American Commerce. 321 NEW OPPORTUNITIES FOR AMERICAN COMMERCE. Tim possibilities of extending the commercial relations of the United States with foreign countries present no feature more inviting than the suggest- ed opening of Asia to the trade and in- fluence of the West. China may ba ex- ploited under European methods, and even under European domination. With the fall of Spanish rule in the Philip- pines will disappear the last vestige of the exclusive colonial policy so rigidly applied by all colonizing powers in the last century. The effect of bringing into new or greater activity not merely millions, but hundreds of millions of producers and consumers, hitherto care- fully guarded from the modern commer- cial spirit, offers a study of immediate interest and of the highest importance to this country. It is appreciated that the industrial power of the United States, applied to its remarkable resources and with its equally remarkable ingenuity, is now able to compete with other na- tions on its own merits, without the fac- titious aid of legislation conferring par- tial or entire monopoly privileges. At the moment when, conscious of their own strength, the industries of the United States are realizing the inadequacy of the home market, and the necessity of other vents to permit a continuance of growth, or even a continuance of actual production, a continent swings into view as a possible market, and many islands, of unknown because untried capacity, are placed within reach of commercial influ- ence, if not of political accession. China has held the same relation to the commerce of the world as bave the Spanish colonies in America and Asia~ They have been territory closed to enter- prise and development from the outside, and the policy that controls in the one case differs but little in essence from that imposed in the other. Only a VOL. Lxxxii. No. 491. 21 superficial knowledge of the actual re- sources of China is available. A few ports in that vast ~npire, opened to trade reluctantly and under threats of or a virtual resort to force, and forming only depots for collecting what is sent to them from the interior or surrounding territory, have handled a large trade, but one that is incomparable to the vast domestic exchanges of hundreds of mil- lions of souls. The merchant must take what is sent to him; but he cannot es- tablish factories of production, control plantations for cultivation, or utilize the mineral wealth of the empire. The de- velopment under foreign direction and management, which has made so many colonies and states important commer- cial factors, has been entirely wanting in China. In an economic sense, she is to- day little other than she was a century ago. Her commerce has increased some- what, reflecting the growth of neighbor- ing countries rather than her own; but the details have remained rigidly fixed. Even in the few lines of production once peculiar to herself, the ability to com- pete has been impaired, as well in Asia, where Japan and India have used with such effect the resources of modern art and industry, as in Europe and the Unit- ed States, where science has supplanted many of the distinctive products of the East. It remains true that China is yet to be studied as a commercial power, for her trade policy has been as strange and exclusive as her political r~gime, and may prove as weak when touched by some outside and more active influence. The administrative failure of China in the war with Japan may foreshadow a like surprise when her resources of commerce and industry are put to a similar test. As little is known of the Spanish col- onies, for they have been held to be ex- ploited for the benefit of the mother

]Yew Opportunities for American Commerce. 321 NEW OPPORTUNITIES FOR AMERICAN COMMERCE. Tim possibilities of extending the commercial relations of the United States with foreign countries present no feature more inviting than the suggest- ed opening of Asia to the trade and in- fluence of the West. China may ba ex- ploited under European methods, and even under European domination. With the fall of Spanish rule in the Philip- pines will disappear the last vestige of the exclusive colonial policy so rigidly applied by all colonizing powers in the last century. The effect of bringing into new or greater activity not merely millions, but hundreds of millions of producers and consumers, hitherto care- fully guarded from the modern commer- cial spirit, offers a study of immediate interest and of the highest importance to this country. It is appreciated that the industrial power of the United States, applied to its remarkable resources and with its equally remarkable ingenuity, is now able to compete with other na- tions on its own merits, without the fac- titious aid of legislation conferring par- tial or entire monopoly privileges. At the moment when, conscious of their own strength, the industries of the United States are realizing the inadequacy of the home market, and the necessity of other vents to permit a continuance of growth, or even a continuance of actual production, a continent swings into view as a possible market, and many islands, of unknown because untried capacity, are placed within reach of commercial influ- ence, if not of political accession. China has held the same relation to the commerce of the world as bave the Spanish colonies in America and Asia~ They have been territory closed to enter- prise and development from the outside, and the policy that controls in the one case differs but little in essence from that imposed in the other. Only a VOL. Lxxxii. No. 491. 21 superficial knowledge of the actual re- sources of China is available. A few ports in that vast ~npire, opened to trade reluctantly and under threats of or a virtual resort to force, and forming only depots for collecting what is sent to them from the interior or surrounding territory, have handled a large trade, but one that is incomparable to the vast domestic exchanges of hundreds of mil- lions of souls. The merchant must take what is sent to him; but he cannot es- tablish factories of production, control plantations for cultivation, or utilize the mineral wealth of the empire. The de- velopment under foreign direction and management, which has made so many colonies and states important commer- cial factors, has been entirely wanting in China. In an economic sense, she is to- day little other than she was a century ago. Her commerce has increased some- what, reflecting the growth of neighbor- ing countries rather than her own; but the details have remained rigidly fixed. Even in the few lines of production once peculiar to herself, the ability to com- pete has been impaired, as well in Asia, where Japan and India have used with such effect the resources of modern art and industry, as in Europe and the Unit- ed States, where science has supplanted many of the distinctive products of the East. It remains true that China is yet to be studied as a commercial power, for her trade policy has been as strange and exclusive as her political r~gime, and may prove as weak when touched by some outside and more active influence. The administrative failure of China in the war with Japan may foreshadow a like surprise when her resources of commerce and industry are put to a similar test. As little is known of the Spanish col- onies, for they have been held to be ex- ploited for the benefit of the mother 822 New Opportunities for American Commerce. country. They were made Spanish markets only by excluding the products and shipping of other powers, thus for-. cing upon the consumers in these islands the manufactures of Spain. This was readily accomplished by framing the co- lonial customs ta~iffs on a double plan. Under one and a lower set of duties, Spanish products were admitted; under another set of duties, penal in their amount, foreign products were kept at a distance, and competition was out of the question. The same system of dif- ferential or discriminating duties was applied to shipping; and thus it hap- pened that, as a rule, only a vessel fly- ing the Spanish flag could find a profit in the colonial trade. The introduction of foreign capital was discouraged, and under the incompetency of Spanish agents any management entrusted to them was hazardous, almost inviting failure. While it was insisted that the colonies should purchase only Spanish manufactures, no market in the Penin- sula was maintained for colonial pro- ducts. The leading interests of the pos- sessions were obliged to seek their own markets, outside of Spain, and in the face of the worlds competition. Buy- ing all that they consumed, even the flour for their bread, under a monopoly system, they sold what they raised or manufactured in open market. Only one product appeared to be favored, Spain did purchase Cuban tobacco. The favor was illusory, as the tobacco r4gime was framed for the benefit of those at home, with little regard for the interests of the tobacco-grower. With these con- ditions, it has been impossible to gauge the abilities of the islands to produce or consume, for they must be tested under some system other than monopoly. In the face of this ignorance of actual economic power, it is easier to take too sanguine a view of the possible power than calmly to weigh influences and estimate a new distribution of ability. Whatever have been the defects of the commercial policy applied to these pos- sessions and to China, certain lines of production have been adopted as best suited to the soil, climate, and form of labor. Like other forces, economic forces work along the lines of least re- sistance. It would be a long story to relate why Cuba grows sugar and to- bacco as her leading products, or the Philippines sugar and hemp, or China tea and silk; but for more than a century these articles have been closely associ- ated with those countries, and have fed their foreign trade. They come into the market with clearly defined commercial uses, for which experience of many years proves them to be best suited. Under a new control, Cuba will still send to the market sugar, fruit, and tobacco; Porto Rico will still offer sugar and coffee; the Ladrones will go on in the growing of cocoanuts; and Manila hemp and sugar will still form the contribution of the Philippines to commerce. What may be changed is the relation of the native to the responsible producer, a delicate problem certain to arise in the Spanish islands. The introduction of foreign capital, and the extraordinary activity that follows the opening of a new and promising field of investment, will create a demand for labor very dif- ferent from that now existing. The white races of Europe have found it diffi- cult to live in the tropics, and they con- stitute a very small though ruling ele- ment of the population. Even when they have attempted to amalgamate with the natives, the descendants have soon lost their inherited energy, and dropped back into the ranks of the lowest cultiva- tors or idlers. In this dilemma aid has been sought from the outside. Slavery, and subsequently coolie labor, prevailed in Cuba. In the Philippines slavery does not exist, and never has existed; but the native races have no initiative, and are subject to an invariable routine and discipline, such as the priestly or- ders enforced in California and Para New Opportunities for American Commerce. 323 guay. This rule is not favorable to economic activity, and little progress ap- pears to have been made in using the resources of the islands. The Chinese have migrated to those parts just as they have crept down the Asiatic peninsula, giving an abundant and cheap form of labor. It is hardly desirable, however, to resort to them further, even though they now form the real labor supply of the islands. A European control of the Philippines might not be particular as to the kind of labor it obtained, but the attitude of Australia and the United States toward the Chinese is too pro- nounced to be modified. A lesson may be learned from the policy of the Dutch in Java. Whether the conclusion could be applied to the Spanish islands is doubtful, for the sys- tem was adopted more than seventy years ago, when very different ideas of the responsibility of the state to its sub- jects were entertained. For many years after claiming Java the Dutch were only merchants in their East Indian posses- sions, opening factories and establishing trading - centres, but not assuming any control over the natives, or imposing upon them the task of cultivating the lands for the benefit of Dutch commerce. The mercantile company trading with the island was a monopoly, and almost held a monopoly in the worlds supply of spices; but it was a commercial organi- zation only, and not a political or admin- istrative instrument. After the com- pany had ceased to exist, the govern- ment of the Netherlands introduced a system of colonial management for its own benefit, not unattended with suc- cess. The government merely took the places of the native kings or rulers, re- ceiving their tributes or levies, reducing these potentates to salaried agents of the administration. The king of a pro- vince thus stood between his people and the government, and acted as revenue collector for the latter. The levies were one fifth of the years product, and one days labor in every five, from each cul- tivator. In realizing the new relations thus entered into by Holland, the authori- ties directed that one fifth of the land subject to the levy should be devoted to such products only as found favor in the markets of Europe, as coffee, sugar, tobacco, indigo, tea, and certain spices. The commodities raised on this land were sold at a profit in Holland, giving a handsome revenue to the state, and feeding a colonial commerce of some mag- nitude. In course of time this system was modified. It was seen that the highest profits were obtained from coffee and sugar, and the government lands were devoted to those crops. The trib- ute of labor could be commuted, and greater freedom was accorded to indi- vidual cultivators, on condition of their selling one fifth of their crops to the of- ficials, and even a larger proportion of the product at a mean price. At the pre- sent time the corvee applies only to coffee lands, and the exports of individuals far exceed those of the government. There is little doubt that this system has done much to build up the commerce of Java, and has produced a practical solution of the labor problem. The native was in- terested and encouraged in his plant- ing, and the state obtained large profits through a long period of time. The de- cay of the sugar industry would offer one serious obstacle to any extension of the system, and private initiative could not apply its leading features to the Philip- pines without resorting to means but lit- tle short of slavery. In each instance the native population is stationary in civilization. Indian, Chinese, and Malayan are alike in pre- senting few promises of awakening. A stagnating civilization is modified -with difficulty, for custom has become well- nigh absolute, and determines even the particular activity of the individual in the community. In British India is to be seen a remarkable instance of such a 324 New Opportunities for American Commerce. modification, but the results are as yet in an embryonic form. The mere con- quest of the many tribes of that vast and varied empire was a problem of sec- ondary importance to that of governing them after conquest. The occupation of territory sparsely settled by native tribes of nomads, or tribes lightly held to one locality, was a familiar experience in colonization, and the general course of events led to a solution acceptable to the colonists, however repulsive to the moral sense. The natives were exterminated or contracted into a few settlements, en- tirely subordinated to the newcomers, and protected in much the same manner in which a disappearing species of animal is preserved. They are not sufficiently strong to offer resistance to the change, nor are they possessed of such cohesion as to present a serious obstacle to being governed as wards of the nation, with- out any share whatever in the govern- ment or any voice in the disposal of their own property. The American Indian has long been in a similar position of in- feriority, and the same conditions were found in Australia and exist in South Africa. In India another set of problems pre- sented itself. The economy of the com- munities of natives bad become rigid through centuries of inertia. The rule of custom, absolute and unchangeable, was - as opposed to the freer system of contract of the West as the mental attitude of the East was opposed t~ that of the in- vaders and conquerors. In the attempt to introduce into India the principles of government as understood in England, strange anomalies were encountered, not only neutralizing the good expected from the change, but producing such confusion as to give greater opportunity for injus- tice and oppression than could have oc- curred under the customary rule of the native princes. Years of careful study and intelligent experiment were required to devise a working system, and the pro- cess is still going on, for the subject now bristles with difficulties awaiting adjust- ment. A measure of success has followed this application of an administrative sys- tem to an alien and not receptive people. The economic consequences alone con- cern us, but they are necessarily con- nected with, and more or less dependent upon, the moral and social results. In place of diminishing in numbers, the na- tives are increasing so rapidly as to ex- cite anxious forebodings in their govern- ors. Now that they are freed from war, and relieved in part from the periodical recurrence of plague and famine, not very long ago recognized as inevitable incidents, few natural checks to the growth of population remain in force. Crowded as many parts of the empire are, the entire country threatens to become a huge congested district through the large birth-rate and the immovability of the population. The problem of employ- ing this mass of humanity solved itself under native rule. A great part, rang- ing from eighty to ninety-five per cent, according to the province, was connected with the cultivation of the land and de- pendent upon its produce. The other part of the population lived by house- hold industry, catering to the wants of a village or restricted territory outside of the village, and making and selling un- der the iron laws of custom. About 1860 it was noticed that this household industry was suffering in many branches through outside competition, a factor almost unknown in India up to that time. The bazaars no longer dealt in native cloth, but displayed the cottons of the English looms. The metal-work of the Indian was supplanted by the pro- ducts of Birmingham. The hand-work- ers of the East could not compete with the machinery of the West, and so they were gradually crowded from their mar- kets and occupations, and driven to seek a living from the land, already tilled to its utmost capacity. The added bur- den on the agriculture of the country Neu Opportunities for American Commerce. 325 threatened to produce a crisis, and would have done so had it not been for the phenomenal though temporary profits of cotton culture. The failure of the United States to grow even a share of its usual cotton crop gave India its op- portunity. At the end of our civil war, India continued to raise cotton and to manufacture it on an experimental scale. Jute, rising into great commercial im- portance because of its cheapness and suitability for many purposes, gave an- other commercial interest and manufac- turing industry. Finally, wheat added its somewhat uncertain profits, creating employment for many native agricultur- ists, and furnishing an article of export whenever the wheat markets of Europe were in need of a further supply. In this manner, after nearly forty years of slow development, India has corrected the tendency of foreign competition to crowd the entire population upon the land, and not only produces enough food for its own people, but is a large and increas- ingly important exporter of manufac- tured cotton and jute. This record of industrial change has been dwelt upon, because it presents in a clear light certain difficulties to be encountered in seeking to develop the commerce and industry of such a coun- try as China, where the conditions of population are not unlike those found in India. It is true the village community is not so important a social factor, and the population is freer in its movement and thought. The beliefs and supersti- tions of the Chinese have opposed in the past all attempts to introduce the mech- anism of modern progress, and there is little reason to expect any notable re- duction in this opposition for the pre- sent. The passive Indian permitted the construction of military roads, railroads, and canals of navigation and irrigation, with only a dim perception of what they might mean, and eventually with a ready acceptance of what they migbt offer. The Chinese see in worJ~s of a like na ture a violation of their most cherished beliefs, and a most potent agency for in- troducing and fastening upon them the influence of the hated foreigner. Con- cessions for railroads have been granted, and are being granted; and trading and mining privileges are still extorted from the court of Peking. The immensity of the field to be worked, and the local obsta- cles studiously interposed to the accom- plishment of these undertakings, make a realization of the hopes of the under- takers somewhat distant and problemat- ical. Given the means of transportation, it does not follow that a new market of import or export would spring into being. Even the food of the Chinese, rice and beans, cannot be of European or Ameri- can origin; and meats, one of the great articles of export from the United States, will find no market in the East. As to manufactured goods, at the very thresh- old of the Chinese market stands Japan, eager and able to seize upon every open~ ing offered. It must be remembered, also, that at the peace Japan obtained the privilege of erecting mills and manu- factories in Chinese ports, a privi- lege as yet unused, because of the de- termined opposition encountered. If a neighboring state, whose people are in a better position to understand the wants of China, cannot make its advantage from this privilege, how unreasonable it is to expect a distant and very alien peo- ple to get more favorable results! Japan is yearly becoming of greater importance in the commerce of Asia, and with a twofold effect. On the one hand, her growing industries buy more foreign materials, such as American cot- ton and Indian yarn, English machinery and American petroleum; to that extent her progress is reflected in the widening commercial relations with the United States and Europe. On the other hand, this very progress serves as a barrier to extending the foreign trade of China with Western powers. The machinery 326 New Opportunities for American Commerce. obtained from Europe and the raw mate- rials secured from the United States are employed in manufacturing for China and other parts of Asia, at the expense of the countries of the West. More than that, Chinese trade suffers through the competition of Japan, the result of a more intelligent application of science to some of the leading products of that country. In any estimate of the commercial possi- bilities of the East, due prominence must be given to the ability of Japan to reap the larger share of any gain. If the opportunities offered to Amer- ican trade on the continent of Asia promise little, will such islands as the Philippines give better results? The market for our products will be small, limited to supplying the wants of a few white settlers. The native Malayans do not make any demand for manufactured goods, and their wants are of the most primitive description. The supposition that the islands are so rich in minerals that a new population will flow in is one as yet not proven, and at best could not create a market commensurate with the predictions of those who believe that trade follows the flag. Until a new population is introduced into the islands, and the industrial spirit of China awakened into activity on new lines, the existing conditions will supply whatever trade will demand. Before there can be such a development of commerce as the more sanguine count upon, China must pass through the same change that British India and Japan have endured. No merely colonial r~gime, in which the lands and people are re- garded as plantations, to be exploited as Java and Cuba have been, will suffice. A great social revolution, one of far- reaching results, must be initiated and superintended until it is well under way. The lessons of the Dutch and English in the East deserve careful study, be- cause they represent serious and on the whole successful attempts to solve the problem of ruling an inferior people in such a way as to bring into force a latent economic power. If it is concluded that the policies of Germany and Russia, so far as they can be known, do not con- tain this fertile germ of colonization for the benefit of the governed as well as of the governors, these countries are not de- sirable occupants and controllers of Asia. If the extreme tariff policy of the United States is to be applied to such posses- sions as may fall to it at the termination of this war, the highest and most desired results cannot be attained. A century ago the colony or dependency alone had duties to perform, and duties almost en- tirely commercial; to - day the respon- sibility has been shifted to the mother country, and is mainly political. The creation of self-supporting and self-gov- erning communities is the end of coloni- zation. In this light Great Britain and Spain represent the two extremes; for Spain has never left a possession in a position of self-sufficiency. Only through revolutions could a stable government be secured. If political control, with its many and serious responsibilities, be set aside, an alternative presents itself. An open port in the Philippines, it is urged, would give our exporters a fulcrum for secur- ing immense benefits from the Asiatic trade. In support of this view the ex- perience of the English in Hong Kong is accepted as conclusive. The plea is on its face a promising one. Since 1881 the tonnage of shipping in the foreign trade entering and clearing at Hong Kong has more than doubled in quantity, and the shipping of England has more than held its own in the increase. The actual movement of merchandise at this port is not recorded, and only indirect evidence can be obtained from the re- turns of other countries. As it natu- rally forms a distributing centre for the China coast trade, the returns of that empire should be first consulted. The value of imports into China from Hong Kong has nearly trebled since 1881, and New Opportunities for American Commerce. 327 the same rate of increase has held for exports from China to the free port. The transactions of Japan with Hong Kong have nearly doubled, and are in- creasing every year at a rapid rate. So far the record is clear, and points to the advantages of a free or open port. No light is thrown on the principal point to be determined, how far has England, or the United States, or Germany bene- fited by this increase? Take British India, a possession that has much to turn intJ its commerce with its neighbors, and a decided advantage over distant rivals in geographical posi- tion. The entire export movement to Hong Kong, including merchandise and specie, on private and government ac- count, was less in 1896 than it was in 1882, and the import movement had not materially altered, showing, if anything, a tendency to decrease. The mother country gives an even more discourag- ing showing. The exports of British goods to this Asiatic port have fallen off in value by one half since 1881, and the imports by one third. The entire trade forms but a very small item in the total~ movement of Englands foreign com- merce. The United States might be looked upon as somewhat more favored than the United Kingdom in its trade relations with the East, but it has not derived material benefit from this de- velopment of Hong Kong. The imports into the United States have decreased more than one third in a period of seven- teen years, and the exports to Hong Kong have increased in about the same proportion. With this change, Hong Kong figures in the total trade of the United States for less than four tenths of one per cent, a proportion hardly worth considering. Even Germany, with its restless and pushing commercial policy, passes over Hong Kong, and seeks to build up its interests in China itself, with only partial success. In the face of such a showing, covering a series of years marked by an almost phenome nal increase in the worlds commerce, it is difficult to accept the theory of a free port in the Philippines as an agency to increase the importance of the United States in the East. Asia is feeding Asi- atic trade, and will continue to do so without respect to any outside agency. Asia must cease to be Asia before the West can participate in its development. The prospect of gain to ourselves be- comes even less when the contingency of a partition of China among European powers is presented. If we regard re- cent experiments in colonization, that of the French in Tonquin must be taken as an example of a decided failure. No one of the benefits anticipated from con- quest has followed the occupation of the land, and they seem as remote to-day as they ever have been. The genius of the French people has not shown itself in their colonial settlements, and the desire to exploit the new possessions by com- panies enjoying special and monopoly concessions has given a flavor of job- bery little creditable to the administra- tion of these dependencies. A number of such companies, and a host of function- aries sent out from France to govern the colonies, have produced a policy costly and wearisome to the home gov- ernment, distasteful to the people, who are not inclined to emigrate, and pro- ductive of profit only to a favored few. Whether in Tonquin or Madagascar, the result has been the same, and only in Algiers does France enjoy the sem- blance of successful management of a dependency. The advent of Germany and Russia as claimants to a large share of the apparently moribund empire of China would mean the practical exclusion of the United States from such markets as should fall under the control of those powers. In this they would only be following the example set to them by our tariff policy, and our government would be in no position to protest while that policy remains in force. The pos 328 New Opportunities for American Commerce. sible union or combination of England, Japan, and the United States against the Russian and German claims, terri- torial and commercial, could only post- pone the event, not alter the current of the inevitable. Germany might secure a foothold in China, but it would be not un- like that now enjoyed by France. She would represent an alien race, with no sympathies for the subject people, and more intent upon aggrandizement of self than upon the establishment of a dependency, to become in the future a self-governing state. An outlet for her teeming population, and a market for the ever rising tide of home manufac- tures, already dependent upon foreign demands for profit, would be her first aim. A purely commercial colony has little excuse for existing, and is more apt to end in disaster than with credit to the state recognizing it. Even Eng- land, with a vast and varied record in all forms of colonizing, cannot regard the Niger or the South Africa company an unalloyed success. Russia, with its genius for controlling Asiatic peoples, itself a power more AsiatIc than Euro- pean, will prove of greater political strength in China than Germany, but even less disposeA to share commercial privileges with the outside world. Mod- ern diplomacy is commercial and finan- cial rather than political. Under existing conditions, in which the United States enjoys in Chinese ports commercial privileges equal to those of any other power, the share of the trade coming to us is small, only four per cent of the imports and twelve per cent of the exports. Were it not for silk and tea, the exports would be re- duced by more than one half, and would be confined to opium, sugar, and a few ar- ticles so distinctively Chinese that they could not be obtained from any other country. With the gradual decay of the sugar trade, and the successful com- petition from Japan and Italy in silk, no decided increase in the takings of thesc commodities may be expected. On the other side, that of imports, petroleum and cotton cloths give the greatest part of the values from the United States. In each of these articles competition is encountered. The Russian oil is mak- ing inroads into the Asiatic markets, but not to the exclusion of the Ameri- can product. Japan and British India manufacture a cloth equally well adapted for the Chinese market, and it is believed at a lower cost than the American goods. This advantage, now slight, may be in- creased as the wants of the market are better known, and the cotton industry of Japan is better equipped in labor and machinery. It is not in Asia that new opportu- nities for American commerce should be sought. A monopoly, even partial in its nature, of the Cuban and Porto Rican markets would offer far larger returns in a year than a long period of Asian trade. Not finding a market in Spain for their chief products, these islands sought others, and the United States naturally absorbed a good part. In sugar here was the only market; and under the stimulus of free sugar the cultivation of the cane was greatly extended in Cuba, often with American capital. In 1894 nearly one half of the entire import of sugars into the United States was obtained from Cuba, and it is stated with confidence that a continuance of a free market would have led to a growth in the island sufficient to meet all the needs of this country, or more than four and a half billion pounds a year. In tobacco, in fruit, in coffee, and in all tropical products, the two possessions now slipping from Spain could rise to any demand made upon them. Nor is this an idle boast, though savoring of exaggeration. The existing populatiorrs of the islands would not be equal to it, and the scheme of making them dependent on the United States, whether under a protectorate o~ as annexed territory, looks to the intro- The Vivisection of China. 329 duction of a more active and less inert race, and the stimulus of larger capital, working for its own gains rather than for a band of foreign extortioners serving as the administration. The trade of a single year under favorable conditions in the past and they could be only relatively favorable has been six times the amount of the trade of the United States with China. Nor would the advantage be only on the side of imports from these islands. The West Indies have always looked to the United States for certain supplies: flour and fish and such meats as are used, machinery, and wooden staves or box-shooks for packing their sugar and sugar products. The good quality of these articles was quite as potent in de termining the direction of the trade as any question of actual cheapness. Early in the century England sought to restrict the transactions of her West Indies with the United States, and inflicted lasting damage upon their interests. Spain has maintained the same policy in all its vigor up to the present war, and has sucked the life-blood from her colonies by that tribute and a host of similar taxes. The reciprocity agreement en- t~red into with Spain in 1891 opened the Cuban market to American flour, and gave proof of the importance of that market to our millers. Apart from certain articles of luxury, the United States could hold its own in the two islands, and here will be found the true openings for our commerce. Worthington C. Ford. THE VIVISECTION OF CHINA. THE great events which are creating such an excitement in the West Indies over the last shreds of the ancient colo- nial empire of Spain will undoubtedly have consequences of extreme impor- tance, and become, in the fullest sense of the term, a part of history. But, how- ever intense their interest, and however marked the change which they are cer- tain to occasion in the equilibrium of the world, they remain altogether inferior in real significance to the revolutions which are taking place in the Far East. War of some sort between America and Spain on the subject of Cuba had long been unavoidable. No less than a century ago, at the time when France lost her plantations in San Domingo, and the republic of Hayti was born, it was easy to foresee the rupture of the ties which had bound to the Spain of Cortez and Pizarro the insular frag- ments of the great hemisphere appro- priated by Pope Alexander VI. The various colonies were sure to break away, one by one, from their metropolitan step- mother, set up for themselves, and live their own life. Cuba and Porto Rico, sucked into the whirlpool of war, are but accomplishing their manifest destiny, and fulfilling the prophecies repeatedly uttered by the historians of the last gen- eration but one. The progress of events in the eastern portion of the Asian continent had by no means been so fully anticipated. One might certainly have ventured to predict that there, also, populations long crushed by civil and military oppression would one day lay claim to the rights of free men; but it could never have been fore- seen under what amazingly dramatic conditions the claim would be asserted. Our ancestors, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, would never have harbored, in their wildest dreams, the fantastic notion that Japan, the empire of the Rising Sun, would spontaneously

The Vivisection of China. 329 duction of a more active and less inert race, and the stimulus of larger capital, working for its own gains rather than for a band of foreign extortioners serving as the administration. The trade of a single year under favorable conditions in the past and they could be only relatively favorable has been six times the amount of the trade of the United States with China. Nor would the advantage be only on the side of imports from these islands. The West Indies have always looked to the United States for certain supplies: flour and fish and such meats as are used, machinery, and wooden staves or box-shooks for packing their sugar and sugar products. The good quality of these articles was quite as potent in de termining the direction of the trade as any question of actual cheapness. Early in the century England sought to restrict the transactions of her West Indies with the United States, and inflicted lasting damage upon their interests. Spain has maintained the same policy in all its vigor up to the present war, and has sucked the life-blood from her colonies by that tribute and a host of similar taxes. The reciprocity agreement en- t~red into with Spain in 1891 opened the Cuban market to American flour, and gave proof of the importance of that market to our millers. Apart from certain articles of luxury, the United States could hold its own in the two islands, and here will be found the true openings for our commerce. Worthington C. Ford. THE VIVISECTION OF CHINA. THE great events which are creating such an excitement in the West Indies over the last shreds of the ancient colo- nial empire of Spain will undoubtedly have consequences of extreme impor- tance, and become, in the fullest sense of the term, a part of history. But, how- ever intense their interest, and however marked the change which they are cer- tain to occasion in the equilibrium of the world, they remain altogether inferior in real significance to the revolutions which are taking place in the Far East. War of some sort between America and Spain on the subject of Cuba had long been unavoidable. No less than a century ago, at the time when France lost her plantations in San Domingo, and the republic of Hayti was born, it was easy to foresee the rupture of the ties which had bound to the Spain of Cortez and Pizarro the insular frag- ments of the great hemisphere appro- priated by Pope Alexander VI. The various colonies were sure to break away, one by one, from their metropolitan step- mother, set up for themselves, and live their own life. Cuba and Porto Rico, sucked into the whirlpool of war, are but accomplishing their manifest destiny, and fulfilling the prophecies repeatedly uttered by the historians of the last gen- eration but one. The progress of events in the eastern portion of the Asian continent had by no means been so fully anticipated. One might certainly have ventured to predict that there, also, populations long crushed by civil and military oppression would one day lay claim to the rights of free men; but it could never have been fore- seen under what amazingly dramatic conditions the claim would be asserted. Our ancestors, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, would never have harbored, in their wildest dreams, the fantastic notion that Japan, the empire of the Rising Sun, would spontaneously 330 The Vivisection of China. transform itself into a European pow- er; European, at least, if not in lan- guage, history, and traditions, in the complete recasting of its administration, institutions, customs, and theories, in its devotion to science, and in its entire and unreserved acceptance of a policy based on observation and experience. This is the great event of the century, one which casts into the shade all the other occurrences of an epoch which has nevertheless been rich in memorable events. And it will be no solitary ava- tar; there are unmistakable signs that other transformations of the same char- acter are about to take place in the vast empire of China, and in all those coun- tries where inhabitants of different race, yellow, red, or black, are brought into close contact with the men of our own Aryano - Greco - Latin civilization. So vanishes that oft-repeated assertion of the ethnologists, that race is a final and ir- reducible fact, and that no possible pro- gress in the perception of scientific or moral truths can ever prevail against it. It is from this point of view that the re- cent history of the Far East presents phe- nomena to which it behooves us to de- vote our most serious attention. There are those, of course, who tell us that all these events are illusory; that the prodigious changes which have taken place in the Japanese world are a lying phantasmagoria and a vain show; that the national mind and character have undergone no real modification; and that the Japanese are sure to escape, sooner or later, from the sphere of European attraction. We hear them compared to savages, who, having learned in the schools of London or Paris the customs of civilization, make haste, as soon as they get back to their forests and sa- vannas, to cast aside their conventional garments, and array themselves in the toggery consecrated by ancestral instinct and hereditary custom. Such assertions appear to us to rest on a complete misconception of indis putable facts. The Japanese have most certainly entered into that realm of civili. zation on which Bacon and Darwin have set their seal; for if imperial caprice and the spread of bourgeois fashions have power to alter the external aspect of a nation, such influences can have but little effect on its underlying moral sense, its religious beliefs, its educational the- ories, and the essential principle of its institutions. But it is precisely these foundations of society which we have seen removed. Japan has been shaken to the very roots of its political and so- cial being, and agents other than f ash- ion or caprice have been called into play. Is not the suppression of the feudal sys- tem, and the substitution for it of a bourgeois organization after the Europe- an model, a fact of capital importance? And how complete were the changes ef- fected is shown by the fact that they entailed a formidable reaction, and had to be confirmed by domestic wars, revo- lutions and counter-revolutions. The re- sistance of the daimyc, or feudal lords, and of the samurai, or lesser noblemen, continued for fifteen years, and assumed the proportions of a magnificent epic; while the shock of contact between the two societies was so violent as ultimate- ly to shatter all the traditional moulds handed down from the Middle Ages. These facts are no longer open to question. The amazing, and until very recently impossible spectacle has been presented of mixed marriages, that is to say, between patricians and the pro- letariat; and of schools where the sons of noblemen and mechanics have sat side by side, and applied themselves to the solution of the same problems. Serfdom was abolished, setting free two millions of slaves, at the very momcnt when, by the strangest of historical coincidences, four millions of blacks recovered their liberty in the United States of America; and, by another curious freak of fate, it was an American, Commodore Perry, who, in 1853 and in the name of the The Vivisection of China. 331 worlds commerce, forced the opening of the Japanese ports, and thus became the chief agent in a tremendous upheaval. The tenure of property, the corner-stone of the economic system, was also revo- lutionized by the same blow. The land no longer belongs to the state, and pea- sant laborers become the virtual proprie- tors of the soil on payment of a tax of two and a half per cent. It is true that there have been some obstacles to the evolution of Japanese law in the direc- tion of that Roman law, or personal privilege of use and abuse, which gov- erns Europe; and the fact that specula- tors have seized the opportunity to buy up large tracts of forest, moor, and other waste land seems to open a vista of fu- ture revolutions. But, on the other hand, the remedy has grown up beside the evil, and the pretensions of capital aiming at an absolute sovereignty of labor are con- fronted by Socialism, with all the shades of opinion and tendency which it pre- sents in the rest of the civilized world. So remarkable is the coincidence of ideas that the selfsame phrases appear to flow spontaneously from the pens of two So- cialist writers, who appeal to the work- ingman, the one at Berlin, and the other at Tokio or Yokohama. But the European art for which, un- happily, the Japanese have shown most aptitude is that of war. They have learned with astonishing rapidity how to handle firearms and bayonets, how to load and fire cannon, how to equip na- vies and conduct land manwuvres. In short, they have become adepts in the science of human slaughter. This peo- ple, in whom the old instincts of the Ma- lay pirate still survive here and there, do great honor, unquestionably, to their military instructors, trained in the Prus- sian school. The Chinese despise the islanders of Japan precisely on account of their warlike spirit. They call them Ow.hang, or brutes, and say that the only two things they can do well are to give a sword-thrust and make bang, that is, let off firearms; and indeed, they had dismal personal experience, during the late war, of the homicidal talents of their adversaries. The European influence which has been so potent and so subversive in Japan was bound to be equally so in China, and, whatever the lovers of set phrases may say to the contrary, it is already working, powerfully and effec- tively. But the enormous mass of the Chinese continental empire represents a body far more difficult to permeate than the archipelago of Japan, which is open on all sides. In the middle of the present century, when the kingdom of the Rising Sun had already entered de- cisively upon its career of readjustment, China, with a population at least ten times as great as that of Japan, was able to oppose a resistance ten or twelve times as formidable as that of the latter, to foreign elements of transformation; just as the color of a liquid seems deeper or paler to the eye according to the pro- portion of pure water with which it is mixed. If, as has been rashly said, China has indeed undergone no modifi- cation by foreign influence, it is because the government is petrified in the rou- tine of a ceremonial ten centuries old. But it should be remembered that every essentially conservative government is, for that very reason, a backward govern- inent, one forced upon the nation; and that it is among the depressed masses that we have to look for its accomplished work. In proof of what has really been achieved among the lowest of the lowly in China, we may mention first the great revolt of the Tai-ping, which may have been surpassed by previous revolutions in the loss of life and the general destruc- tion which it entailed, but which differs from them all in having been of foreign origin. The men who provoked the con- flict that broke out in 1850, side by side with the intestine disorders then agi- tating Europe, were all of pure Chinese 332 The Vivisection of China. race. Rejecting the precepts of their of- ficial masters, these yellows were so influenced by the propaganda Qf certain missionaries, whom they but half under- stood, that they adopted the Bible as their sacred book, and caused parts of it to be translated. They raised Jesus Christ to the rank of their own gods, and recognized the Protestants of Europe and America as brethren in the faith. They used reverently to recite the ten great laws of Heaven, which are none other than the ten commandments of the Jews, translated very correctly, but with one addition: Thou shalt not use un- clean things; that is to say, opium and tobacco. The communism of the primitive Christians awoke in them certain long- sleeping ancestral instincts, and caused them to proclaim a community of goods, and to devise a redistribution of landed property among groups composed of twenty-five families, who were all to live together on a single domain. For four- teen years they constituted an imperiuns in imperio, and they would most assured- ly have succeeded in altering the whole equilibrium of the Chinese world had they not accepted the guidance of a wild visionary, who lost his wits under the dizzying effects of power, and who, after he bad become one of the persons in the Holy Trinity, could deign to take no fur- ther notice of the affairs of earth. They also committed the mad mistake of reck- lessly attacking the European settlements along the coast. Europe, however, pre- ferred dealing with the decrepit govern. ment at Peking, whose foibles she under- stood, and which was docile under her orders, to entering upon an untried course of wily diplomacy in order to reconcile her own interests with those of a trans- formed China; and troops of mercena- ries of every nationality, commanded by French, English, and American adven- turers, Brethon de Coligny, dAigue- belle, Ward, Burgevine, Holland, and Gordon, undertook to quell the insur- rection in the interests of the Manchu nan government. Thus it was by aid of the European element that official China was enabled to put down a revolu- tion largely due to European influence. Now, however, fifty years after the revolt of the Tai-ping, changes of an- other sort have been accomplished, changes all the more remarkable in that they could never have come about save by the consent of the entire nation. All over the empire railways have been built from city to city, under the direction of red-haired engineers; and the popu- lace has not arisen and stoned these vio- lators of the ancestral graves. The Fang- Choui that is to say, the collective ge- nii of earth, air, and water have been dethroned at the bidding of a more pow- erful divinity. European industry has conquered China, launching steamboats on her rivers and erecting factories along their banks, and it is to Chinese work- men that the responsibility has been en- trusted of managing and maintaining these engines of revolution. Again, science that genuine science which observes, experiments, and com- pares results has penetrated into the Chinese schools; and the geographers among the Sons of Heaven have re- signed themselves to the conviction that China alone does not occupy nearly the whole of the earths surface, while the barbarians are relegated to nooks and corners. Students of every description are learning a new orientation of ideas: their horizon is widening; to the study of Confucius and other moral philoso- phers they are adding that of the sa- vants and the economists of to-day; they are going on it may be even too rash- ly to reform their medical practice. All is movement and transformation. The very music of our European artists, to which the Chinaman was supposed to be absolutely insensible, has finally pre- vailed over his ancestral prejudices; and Canton, Shanghai, Fu-chau, already show a fine appreciation of the music of the future. These are prodigious changes, The Vivisection of China. 333 but they are due to the influi~nce of a very small number of men. The foreign element is increasing rapidly in Cbina, but as yet there are not more than twelve thousand civilized Europeans in the entire empire; that is to say, one to forty thousand Chinese. A quantity so infinitesimal would be utterly without importance, were it not that these for- eigners, however lacking they may be, as individuals, in nobility and seriousness of purpose, are often, in spite of them- selves, torch-bearers of learning and har- bingers of ideas. The nation is being modified to its depths, while the government remains obstinately conservative; that cannot be modified without going utterly to pieces. The examinations for the mandarin- ate are kept up exactly as of old; the clumsy machine cannot adapt itself to the complete change in its environment. This is evident from the fact that the capital of the empire has remained the same since the Manchurian conquest; whereas the political situation actually required the choice of a new centre of gravity whose defense could have been more easily organized. Formerly, no doubt, the strategic importance of Pe- king, the Northern Residence, was indisputable, because the dangers most readily foreseen were those which men- aced the northern frontier. The em- perors of the Manchurian dynasty had always reason to dread the warlike in- habitants of their former country, no less than the Mongolian hordes who were perpetually descending from their high tablelands, in the attempt to thrust the Chinese back into the plains, and install themselves in their place. This is why the capital of the empire was long main- tained so far to the north of its true centre, which is that Flower of the Midland comprised between the two great rivers. The mandarins had to leave the peaceable tribes to themselves, in order to keep watch over their tur- bulent neighbors. Behind these neighbors there loomed, with the stern front of inflexible destiny, a power more formidable than that either of Manchurians or of Mongolians, the Niuscovite power. Up to the middle of the present century the menace of Rus- sia was still remote. Encroachment along the seaboard was apparently much more to be dreaded. While the Euro- pean powers remained separated from the Far East by the whole vast mass of the continent, they had every facility for approaching it by sea; and the countries which it most behooved them to draw within the sphere of their influence were precisely the middle and southern pro- vinces, the estuary of the Sikiang, the bay of Hang-chau, and the mouths of the Yang-tse. These, then, were the threatened points, against which the main resistance of the Chinese nation ought by rights to have been directed; and if that huge body had still possessed organic life; if the official rulers of the empire, with their hierarchy of manda- rins, had not been mummified inside the walls of their trebly inclosed city, the stately sepulchre of the court, they could not have failed to go forth and meet the danger, as their predecessors had done at critical times. A move toward Nanking, the South- ern Residence, would have massed the defensive forces of the state near the chief centre of wealth and population. Had the Chinese furnished such an ex- ample of spirit and sagacity under the impending peril, the internal dissensions, which were so exacerbated during the revolt of the Tai-ping, would have been in a great measure avoided, and the mandarins would never have had to un- dergo the humiliation of entrusting the defense of their people to mercenary foreigners. Han-kau, the commercial centre of 1~he empire, the depot for the products of all the provinces, might also hay, been well chosen; but from a strate- gic point of view for advantages both of defense and of attack the spot 334 The Vivisection of China. indicated by nature was the city of Kiu- kiang, perched upon a rocky peninsula on the south bank of the Yang-tse, be- tween that mighty stream and the inland sea of Poyang, and traversed in all di- rections by those navigable canals which have given the great trading - centre opened by the English to European com- merce the name of the City of Riv- ers. From this focal point, almost equidistant from Nanking and Han-kan, highways radiate in every direction, some by river routes, and some by moun- tain passes: first, toward all points in the great river basin of the Flower of the South; then southeast in the direc- tion of Fu-chau, southwest toward Can- ton, and north toward Kai-feng and Peking. But no! If ever the govern- ment, now paralyzed by alarm, should quit Peking, it would be to retreat to- ward Singan; or rather, into the interior, by the defiles of the liwang-ho. Such a movement would be nothing more nor less than fiighb a final proof of irre- mediable intimidation. And so, while the rulers of China, shut up in their palaces, are allowing themselves to be lulled into a fatal slum- ber by the crooning of the old formu- las, events are taking their course. At the close of the Japanese war, the Em- peror of China, who had been saved by the intervention of the European pow- ers, turned over and went to sleep again. He was rudely awakened by a fresh ca- lamity. One fine morning it was the 4th of November, 1897 news arrived that the Germans had seized the bay of Kiao-chau, on the southern side of the peninsula of Shan-tung. The choice was unquestionably the best that could have been made, and this important event was probably determined by the advice of the eminent geographer Richt- hofen. It is true that this bay does not open directly upon the Gulf of Pechili, and does not appear to command the city of Peking; but appearances are deceitful. The position of Kiao-chau combines what would seem to be oppo- site advantages. Situated nearer the centre of China and its fertile plains than the towns on the Gulf of Pechili, it is at the same time more easily acces- sible from the high seas; and it also communicates with the northern district by means of a level region, extremely busy and populous, where nothing would be easier than to construct a railway, and where advantage might even be taken of the bed of an ancient stream to dig a canal which would require no locks. Kiao-chau would thus be connected with the opposite shore of the Gulf of Pc- chili, and would command two seas. If this natural highway were closely guard- ed by German troops, it would cut off, so to speak, from the continent all the mountainous region to the east of Shan- tung, and it would sever from the em- pire and virtually absorb the extensive territory comprising the great port of Chi - fu and the much disputed milita- ry position of Wei-hai-wei. Ten mil- lions of people, together with strategic and commercial points of the utmost im- portance, have thus been detached, at one blow, from China, and brought with- in the sphere of German influence. Moreover, Kiao.chau is the natural port of a mining region extremely rich in coal, and a concession has already been obtained for the construction of several railways which will ramify all over the interior, even to the promised land of the Yellow Sun. By way of parrying this master stroke, which for the rest had been de- livered with singular ostentation, Rus- sia took an instantaneous resolve; and, like Germany, she proceeded to seize upon the port, or the assemblage of ports, which offered the greatest politi- cal advantages to herself. As a mat- ter of fact, it does deeply concern Rus- sia to get possession of the countries which border upon her empire and its dependencies. Now, continental Man- churia, across which the Tsars engi The Vivisection of China. 335 neers are already carrying the eastern section of the trans-Siberian railway, may almost be considered a part of Holy Russia; all that is needed being to add to tha territory already annexed the peninsula of Liao - tung, a sharp point, running out in the direction of China, and aptly described upon the Chi- nese maps by the name of The Sword. Citadels, arsenals, and formidable re- doubts occupy the extremity of the penin- sula, offeriug safe shelter to the Russian fleet, and easy access, at all times of the year. Port Arthur and Talien-wan are like two bolts which secure the approach by sea to northern China, and Russia can draw or withdraw them at her will. Being essentially a continental power, she can thus pursue her victorious march across the continent of Asia without having to double the peninsula of Corea. Russian invasion, in this quarter, wears the aspect of a rising tide. From Slav to Mongolian, from Mongolian to China- man, the transitions are insensible. The southern frontier of Siberia is being al- tered, so to speak, before our eyes, for a distance of thousands of miles; the fact being that the immense territory comprising Kashgaria, Mongolia, and Manchuria, which is being gradually Russifled by the prestige of the White Tsar, covers an extent of fifteen hundred thousand square miles, a territory al- most seven times as large as France, and containing a population of at least thirty millions. It is plain that the balance of the world is going to be greatly affected by an historical phenomenon which at first sight seemed unimportant. There is but one power, after Rus- sia, which can aim with any chance of success at the permanent annexation of China, or even a portion of her territo- ry, and that power is Japan. Stretch- ing in a series of curves along the front of the Chinese territory, the Japanese archipelago offers a sort of preliminary step to the shores of the Flower of the Midland; and if the European powers had not intervened to arrest the victors in the late war, they would soon have effected a solid lodgment upon the Chi- nese coast. But the fragment of the con- tinent on which their hearts are specially set is the peninsula of Corea, which, by its formation and its position between two gulfs, seems rather to belong to the collective insular territory of the Ris- ing Sun. Even now, in their childishly boastful talk, the men of Japan speak of Corea as belonging to themselves, and her merchants and artisans assume that their shops and factories will, in fu- ture, be erected there. Thanks to the possession of Liu-kiu, and the conquest of Formosa and the Pescadores, which form a kind of line of circumvallation, the Japanese do really command, in a military sense, the seas of Eastern China; and the development of Corca, with its ten millions of inhabitants, would but afford a new opening for the yearly emigration, which is already con- siderable, and must needs become larger and larger, since the annual increase in the inhabitants of that confined archi- pelago amounts to more than three hun- dred thousand souls. The treaty lately concluded with Russia appears to give entire satisfaction in the empire of the Rising Sun; for while stipulating that the sovereign of Corea shall continue to reign independently under the double protection of the two high contracting powers, the compact recognizes, and by so doing encourages, the commercial and industrial preeminence of Japan in Corea. That the colonists and speculators of Ja- pan are in actual possession of the penin- sula is proved by the tenor of this dip- lomatic agreement; and whatever may be the remote consequences of this move of theirs, even though it should entail a terrible convulsion at some future day, they will none the less have been the leading spirits, for a time, in a gzeat po- litical work. Russias attitude, in thus generously conceding to Japan the first place in the 336 The Vivisection of China. Corean condominium, has been deter- mined by the conduct of Great Britain, which does not seem, in the present in- stance, to have been particularly astute. England has never yet played, in the northern seas of the Far East, that lead- ing part which she believes to be her due. In 1885, for example, after she had seized Port Hamilton in the Nan- hou group, she proceeded to evacuate it, at the invitation of Russia, who under- took, on her part, never, upon any pre- text, to occupy any Corean port. But we all know what such promises are worth. Hardly two lustres have elapsed since then, and Russia is already signing, with another rival, a compact implying very different views. England, mean- while, startled by the transformation scene at Kiao-chau and the capture of Manchuria by the Russians, proceeded to demand her slice of the cake, and fixed her eyes upon Wei-hai-wei, under peril of wounding the sensibilities of the Japanese, who were still holding that witness to their triumph over China, and had hoped, no doubt, to keep it, in case the court of Peking failed to pay the promised indemnity. It was no light thing thus to mortify a people who hold their grudges with pe- culiar tenacity, and to throw them back upon a closer alliance with Russia, the enemy whom England has to encoun- ter at all points, from Constantinople to Peshawur, and from Peshawur to Han- kau. From a political point of view, this risk might have been justified by conquests of exceptional value; but Wei- hai-wei is absolutely of no value to the English, save as a station for docks and arsenals, and for keeping a close watch over the great neighboring market of Chi-fu. As a strategic point, at the en- trance to the Gulf of Pechili, Wei-hai- wei is very inferior to Port Arthur, which actually commands the inner wa- ters; nor can it compare with the Ger- man Kiao-chau, of which the appurte- nances and dependencies extend into the very heart of the Chinese territory, and which is thus in a position to neutralize any movement from the interior. The very costly military station of Wei-hai- wei in no way augments the real strength of England, whose commercial interests all centre in the south, on the shores of the Flower of the Midland, and in the valleys of Sikiang and of the Yang-tse. An unexpected event, almost grotesque in the sharp contrast which it affords to the usual slow phases of Oriental dip- lomacy, has improved, though quite in- directly, Great Britains position with regard to Russia. The destruction of the Spanish fleet in the bay of Manila, with its inevitable consequences, that is to say, the prolonged, and it may be permanent intervention of North American influence among the islands of Indonesia, will certainly react, in an increase of prestige, upon that na- tion, which is most closely bound to the American republic by language, sympa- thy, and common traditions. There can be no question that in the popular ima- gination, of the Orientals especially, the Americans and the English, however different in many ways, even in the ad- mixture of ethnic elements, are looked upon as sister nations; or rather, as one and the same nation under different ad- ministrations. Experience shows that, at grave crises, the two English-speak- ing peoples have outbursts of sympa- thetic feeling, a sort of gush of mutual affection, not to say common patriot- ism, which is powerful enough at times to manifest itself in semi-official acts. A Greater Britain, very much greater even than that of which the politicians were talking but yesterday, is looming in the near future. It is a fact of the first importance, showing as it does how the very shrinkage of the earth, brought about by the progress of science and by increased facilities of communi- cation, has the effect Qf enlarging mens minds and of broadening every question. Contemporaneous history is far outstep The Vivisection of China. 337! ping the narrow conceptions of the Mon- roe Doctrine. That doctrine was rea- sonable in its day, and sufficed for a time for the political guidance of Amer- ica; but it has been shattered once for all by its own indirect extension, the very first act in the war of Cuban in- dependence having taken place at the Philippines, or precisely at the antipo- des of the Pearl of the Antilles. The worlds equilibrium is destroyed at once, and Spain, France, the German Em- pire, Great Britain, Japan, China, Europe and Asia, are agitated alike. America for the Americans! How trivial the formula in comparison with that other, equally applicable to all races and coun- tries, A free land for free men! His- tory is making haste, and precipitating the consequences of previous events. But what is to become of China her- self, in this squabble of the nations about her territory? In the first place, it is quite evident that the four hundred mil- lions of the children of Han do not constitute, for Europe, a yellow peril, in the sense lately given to that term by certain pessimistic prophets. The Chi- nese have survived by many centuries their belligerent age. More civilized in this respect than the Europeans them- selves, they do not believe that iron is good only to make swords of; and if they are compelled to fall into milItary step, it will always be against their own convictions that they engage in wars of conquest or even of defense. Mongo- lians and Manchurians will doubtless serve as recruits in the Russian armies, but they will never again invade Europe in independent hordes, as the Huns and the Mongols did in days of yore. The civilized world is no more hemmed in by barbarians, as it was at the down- fall of the Roman Empire. It is the barbaric regions, on the contrary, which have become rapidly diminishing frag- ments, melting like icicles in the sun. But ought the term yellow peril to be understood as implying a different VOL. Lxxxii. NO. 491. 22 sort of menace, and one much more to be dreaded than the first, were it ever to be realized? Will the countries which have achieved an Aryan civ- ilization that is to say, Europe and the New World have to encounter the competition of the Far East in the labor market, under such conditions of inferiority that the centre of industrial and commercial civilization will be re- moved toward the Flower of the Mid- land, entailing a widespread material ruin, of which moral decadence will be the inevitable result? This fear is equally chimerical. Doubtless there will be great alterations in the balance of power among the different nations of the earth, no less than in the activity of their several markets. Doubtless, brute capital, ever eager to obtain the most labor for the lowest wage, will speculate as long as practicable on the traditional moderation of the Chinese and Japanese; but in the end there will assuredly be something like an equaliza- tion in the rewards of the great indus- tries. Even now, we are told, the China- man in New York or Boston knows per- fectly well how to secure for his labor the same pay that his white rival gets; while, at the same time, how many Irish workmen, Lombard contadini, and Rus- sian moujiks are painfully striving to keep soul and body together, at famine prices, prices quite as low as those of which the poorest Japanese complains! There will be no change in the relations of labor and capital save this: that they will henceforth contend upon a broader stage; that all social questions will be discussed openly, before the great pub- lic, with a full understanding on the part of the opponents that their strug- gle involves the disinherited in all parts of the globe. Everything now assumes an international character; and as the Americans have set out in the present war by enlarging the narrow bounds of the Caribbean Sea so as to take in the seas of the Far East, so every labor crisis 338 Prince Kropotlcin. hereafter, every strike and lockout, every lowering or raising of wages, will be pro- pagated from country to country, as far as the ends of the earth. What passes in China or Japan will affect Europe and America; and the events which take place among ourselves will make part of the history of our autochthones. Thus, all things lead us back to the larger human question: the shock of navies in the Chinese seas; annexations of territory consummated by this power or that, to the detriment of the Flower of the Midland; commercial and indus- trial societies, founded upon the Euro- pean model, in lands but lately closed to the barbarian, all those facts, in short, of contemporary life which in their rapid succession help to confront us with that supreme problem of bread and justice for all, which each one of us is bound to study for himself. Elis6e Reclus. PRINCE KROPOTKIN. THE recent visit of Prince Kropotkin to America has called attention anew to one of the most remarkable men of this generation. The career of perhaps no other man living has been so striking in its contrasts. An aristocrat by birth, he deliberately sacrificed great wealth and high position to become a revolutionist and a refugee, exchanging the favor of the Russian court for a prison cell and perpetual exile. He has won fame in two directions, as an explorer and a scientist, and as the foremost of the communist Anarchists. From whatever point of view, his personality and his work are an interesting study. Prince Peter Kropotkin was born in Moscow, December 9, 1842. His fami- ly, descended from the house of Rurik, belongs to the older or Moscow aristo- cracy, and is of a more ancient stock than the reigning dynasty of the Roma- noffs. It used to be said by his intimates that Kropotkin had a much better claim to the throne than Alexander II., who was only a German. Prince Kropot- kins father, General Alexander Kropot- kin, held a prominent position in the military service of the Tsar. He was essentially a soldier, with the strength and defects of the military temper. His ambition for his son was a career in the army; nothing else seemed to him worth while. For the life of the civil- ian he felt a sort of contempt, and the tastes and accomplishments of the schol- ar he could not understand. When the prince wished to take lessons in music, his father said roughly that all a man needed to know about music was how to turn the pages for a lady. Skill in horsemanship was better than any amount of knowledge. His mother, who died while he was very young, was of a different disposition. She was a highly educated woman, possessing remarkable intellectual powers and much personal beauty. Her character was so lovable that the serfs of the estate were devoted to her; her unselfishness, her delicate consideration for others, won all hearts. Prince Kropotkiu is his mothers son. According to the traditions of the family, he closely resembles his maternal grand- father and uncles. When his father mar- ried again, some of the household servants hinted to the newcomer that she should treat the children with special care. As may be imagined, this did not promote domestic peace. Kropotkin was at this time about five and a half years of age, his brother Alexander was a year older, and another brother, Nicholas, and a sis- ter, Helen, were older still.

338 Prince Kropotlcin. hereafter, every strike and lockout, every lowering or raising of wages, will be pro- pagated from country to country, as far as the ends of the earth. What passes in China or Japan will affect Europe and America; and the events which take place among ourselves will make part of the history of our autochthones. Thus, all things lead us back to the larger human question: the shock of navies in the Chinese seas; annexations of territory consummated by this power or that, to the detriment of the Flower of the Midland; commercial and indus- trial societies, founded upon the Euro- pean model, in lands but lately closed to the barbarian, all those facts, in short, of contemporary life which in their rapid succession help to confront us with that supreme problem of bread and justice for all, which each one of us is bound to study for himself. Elis6e Reclus. PRINCE KROPOTKIN. THE recent visit of Prince Kropotkin to America has called attention anew to one of the most remarkable men of this generation. The career of perhaps no other man living has been so striking in its contrasts. An aristocrat by birth, he deliberately sacrificed great wealth and high position to become a revolutionist and a refugee, exchanging the favor of the Russian court for a prison cell and perpetual exile. He has won fame in two directions, as an explorer and a scientist, and as the foremost of the communist Anarchists. From whatever point of view, his personality and his work are an interesting study. Prince Peter Kropotkin was born in Moscow, December 9, 1842. His fami- ly, descended from the house of Rurik, belongs to the older or Moscow aristo- cracy, and is of a more ancient stock than the reigning dynasty of the Roma- noffs. It used to be said by his intimates that Kropotkin had a much better claim to the throne than Alexander II., who was only a German. Prince Kropot- kins father, General Alexander Kropot- kin, held a prominent position in the military service of the Tsar. He was essentially a soldier, with the strength and defects of the military temper. His ambition for his son was a career in the army; nothing else seemed to him worth while. For the life of the civil- ian he felt a sort of contempt, and the tastes and accomplishments of the schol- ar he could not understand. When the prince wished to take lessons in music, his father said roughly that all a man needed to know about music was how to turn the pages for a lady. Skill in horsemanship was better than any amount of knowledge. His mother, who died while he was very young, was of a different disposition. She was a highly educated woman, possessing remarkable intellectual powers and much personal beauty. Her character was so lovable that the serfs of the estate were devoted to her; her unselfishness, her delicate consideration for others, won all hearts. Prince Kropotkiu is his mothers son. According to the traditions of the family, he closely resembles his maternal grand- father and uncles. When his father mar- ried again, some of the household servants hinted to the newcomer that she should treat the children with special care. As may be imagined, this did not promote domestic peace. Kropotkin was at this time about five and a half years of age, his brother Alexander was a year older, and another brother, Nicholas, and a sis- ter, Helen, were older still. Prtnce Kropotkin. 339 At the age of eight the prince was enrolled in the school of the pages at St. Petersburg, and at the age of fifteen he became a pupil in the school, which was open only to the sons of nobility. He was a favorite among his comrades and in the court circle. An honorable career in the government service was expected for him by his friends, as a matter of course. His life would very likely resemble that of his first cousin, Prince Dmitri Kropotkin, who was an aide-de-camp to the Emperor, then gov- ernor - general of Korao at the age of thirty, and afterward governor - gener- al of Kharkoff. During the four years spent in the school of the pages young Kropotkin distinguished himself in his studies, and his distaste for a military life became pronounced; but he well knew that his father would not permit him to follow his natural bent and enter the university. At this time the early liberal tendencies of Alexander II. were in the ascendant, and the spirit of re- form was in the air. Kropotkin, in sym- pathy with this spirit, believed implicitly that the Tsar was determined to do away with administrative abuses, and give constitutional freedom to his sub- jects. The more remote parts of the empire offered a wide field to any one who cared to take part in the prosecu- tion of these reforms. When, therefore, the time came for him to decide upon his future, Prince Kropotkin, to the amaze- ment of his friends and the displeasure of his father, enrolled himself as a lieu- tenant in the Cossacks of the Amur, choosing a service far from brilliant or attractive. General Kropotkin was only partially reconciled to this action of his son when the words of the Emperor to the young prince were reported to him. Go, said Alexander. One can be useful anywhere. A congenial task awaited him. Gen- eral Kukel, governor - general of Trans- baikalia, a province of Eastern Siberia, received orders from St. Petersburg to prepare a report on the prisons of the province, and the duty was assigned to Kropotkin, who was an aide to the gov- ernor. The horrors that this investiga- tion revealed were appalling. The cruel- ty and corruption of the prison officials would have convinced him of the hope- lessness of reform, had he not had faith in the Tsar. He still thought that when the Emperor knew of these abuses they would cease forever. But this sanguine expectation was doomed to disappoint- ment. Alexander II. was now weary of a liberal policy. General Kukel was removed from office, his successor was opposed to any changes for the better, and the report on the prison system was pigeonholed, and never heard from thereafter. A scheme for local govern- ment which Kropotkin had helped to formulate was unceremoniously rejected. Utterly disheartened, he turned away for the time from further attempting to lessen the wretchedness about him. Ap- pointed attach6 for Cossacks affairs to the governor-general of Eastern Siberia, he undertook a series of explorations into the most remote regions of the em- pire, and even into China. He crossed North Manchuria from Transbaikalia to the Amur by way of Mergen, and in the same year was on board the first steamboat which made its way up the Sungari to Girin. On these and other expeditions he was sometimes shut off for months from communication with the civilized world; but he endured hardships with a cheerful courage which won for him the enthusiastic admiration and affection of his rot~gh companions. He devoted himself, with the trained powers of the man of science, to the painstaking study of the natural features of the regions that he visited. The ac- counts of these expeditions were pub- lished subsequently in the proceedings of the Russian and Siberian Geographi- cal Society. After five years in Siberia he returned to St. Petersburg, with an established reputation as an explorer and 340 Prince Kropotkin. a scientist, although he was but twenty- five years of age. He had given him- self unreservedly to the cause of admin- istrative reform, and had discovered that his best efforts had been in vain. He then turned to science for consolation and occupation. On his arrival at St. Petersburg Prince Kropotkin was warmly received. Although the favor of the Tsar toward him was already waning, he was popu- lar in the court circle. He was made a chamberlain to the Tsarina; decora- tions were bestowed upon him, and he was made the recipient of many atten- tions. His brilliant conversation and charming manners won friends for him everywhere. Interesting tales were cur- rent of his daring and chivalrous ex- ploits in Siberia. All sorts of romantic adventures were attributed to him. On account of his conspicuous services to science, he was elected a member of the Geographical Society, and later the sec- retary of the Physical Geography sec- tion of the society. He was a student for four years at the University of St. Petersburg, where he won distinction in the mathematical department. His f a- ther disapproved strongly of his course in entering the university, and empha- sized his disapproval by withholding from that time the least contribution to his support, but there was no formal rup- ture between father and son. He and his brother Alexander, who was also a student, supported themselves by writ- ing for the press and by teaching. After completing his university course, Prince Kropotkin was sent by the Geographical Society to Finland to investigate cer- tain geological phenomena. It was his ambition at this time to be appointed secretary of the Geographical Society, a position which would give him conge- nial occupation and assure him a liveli- hood. He was offered the coveted ap- pointment while in Finland, but the offer came too late; an inward change made its acceptance impossible. The condition of the Finnish peasantry was most pitiable. Abject poverty and hope- less suffering abounded everywhere. The sight of this misery made an irresistible appeal to the heart of the young prince. What could geology do for the relief of these poor people? Love for his fellow men was stronger in him than love for science, and the stronger love prevailed. At about this time news came of the death of General Kropotkin, and his son became the inheritor of a large fortune in his own right. He decided to accept this inheritance, but to use it only for the good of mankind. The inward command to devote himself to the cause of human liberty had grown, until now its sway over him was absolute and destined to be permanent. But what was to be done? He had made trial of administrative reform and found it impossible. He must have some positive programme, some definite scheme of social reconstruction. The Paris Commune of 1871 had an influ- ence on the revolutionary movement in Russia and in other countries. To Kropotkin, the Commune, despite its overthrow, seemed to demonstrate the ability of the people to cast off the yoke of oppression, and to assert their own sovereignty. In the spring of 1872 he visited Belgium and Switzerland, and came into contact with the International Workingmens Association. It will be recalled that there were two parties in this famous revolutionary organiza- tion, each of which was struggling for supremacy: the Socialist party, led by Karl Marx, and the Anarchist party, led by Bakunin. Kropotkin was at first inclined toward the Socialists, but soon found his faith and work with the An- archists. This was not a case of sudden conversion, an aristocrat and a scholar one day becoming the next day a demo- crat and a revolutionist. When Kropot- kin embraced the Anarchist doctrine, he simply took the final step in a process which began in his youth. It is not Prince Kropotkin. 341 difficult to understand why Anarchism should have attracted him rather than Socialism. The Russian government was the embodiment of the principle of cen- tralized authority; since under this gov- ernment the people were oppressed, and reform was impossible, the only effectual remedy was to sweep away government altogether. But the Socialists under Marx proposed to establish the Socialist r6gime and maintain it through a Social- ist state; they clung to the principle of centralization, and carried it to its fur- thest limit. That programme, as Kropot- kin regarded it, meant the breaking of old fetters only to substitute new ones. He could now devote himself to a de- finite propaganda. He returned to St. Petersburg, and was admitted to mem- bership in the revolutionary party known as the Tchaikovsky. He drew up the plan of organization and the programme of the party, but he was not at this time, nor ever in his life, connected with any conspiracy. Indeed, the revolutionists had not yet been driven to engage in the policy of terrorism sometimes called the propaganda of the deed. It was a campaign of education upon which Kropotkin entered. His gift of popular speech fitted him for effective work of this kind. Under the assumed name of Borodin, he began to lecture to working- men upon the history of the Interna- tional Association and the principles of the revolutionary movement. They lis- tened to him with the greatest interest, and spread the news of the agitation among their fellows in the Alexander- Nevsky district of the city. The only crime Kropotkin committed was to have radical convictions regarding the cause of and the cure for social injustice, and to utter his convictions freely. The des- potism, however, with perfect consisten- cy, recognized free speech as its most formidable foe. Borodin was, of course, ~ seditious character, and it was not long before he discovered that the police were on his track; but he was able to evade them until the lectures were fin- ished. He was then about to go into the country in the disguise of an itinerant artist, to continue the agitation among the peasants, when he was pointed out to a policeman on the street, one day, by a workingman who had been bribed to betray him. Borodin at first refused to disclose his real name, but his landlady was the innocent means of revealing to the authorities that their captive was Prince Kropotkin. His arrest occurred in March, 1874, when he was thirty-two years old. He was never tried, but was imprisoned in the bastile of St. Peters- burg, the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul, where he remained for more than two years. The news that one of the most eminent scientific men and best known noblemen in the empire was a political prisoner caused a great sensa- tion. The Tsar himself was profoundly moved. The most subtle and persistent persuasions were used by persons of the highest rank, who visited Kropotkin in his confinement, to induce him to aban- don his errors, but without effect. His cell, which was in a casemate, was badly lighted, imperfectly ventilated, andnever free from dampness. The food was al- most intolerable. Little wonder that he fell ill, and that his health became per- zuanently impaired. To the day of his death, he will never be free from the terrible effects of that imprisonment. In addition to his bodily suffering, Prince Kropotkin was racked with anx- iety concerning the fate of his brother Alexander, who was in Switzerland at the time of the arrest. On hearing what had happened, Alexander Kropotkin hastened home. Knowing that it was idle to work for the release of his bro- ther, he strove to secure some mitiga- tion of the hardships of his situation. His request that books and writing ma- terial be given to the prisoner was sec- onded by the Geographical Society, and was finally granted. Thus it came about that a large part of Kropotkins great- 342 Prince Kropotkin. est scientific work, a treatise on the Gla- cial Period, subsequently published in the proceedings of the Geographi- cal Society, was written within prison walls. Alexander Kropotkin was not sparing in his denunciation of the gov- ernment for its treatment of his brother. A letter which he wrote fell into the hands of the police. No other incrim- inating papers were found, and there was no other evidence against him. Yet he was arrested, tried, and sentenced to exile in Siberia. While in prison word was brought him that one of his children was dying. He asked permission to go to the child and bid it a last farewell: he would promise, as a man of honor, to come back; they might send with him as large a guard as they pleased. But his request was refused. After twelve years of exile, Alexander Kropotkin sought the only relief possible to him, and took his own life. The report of his brothers arrest reached Prince Kropotkin, but all inf or- mation as to his fate was denied him. After he had spent more than two years in the fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul, his illness became so serious that, most fortunately, he was transferred to the military hospital. Forthwith he began to devise plans for escape. He feigned the greatest weakness, so as to lessen the watchfulness of the officers, and he estab- lished communication by ingenious meth- ods with friends on the outside. Every day he was permitted to walk in the court-yard, and then, if at all, was his opportunity for escape. At this time of year the winters supply of wood was being taken in, and the gate was open. He worked out with thorough care the chances of being shot by the sentinel at the critical instant, and lie concluded that they were in favor of escape. He determined by a delicate calculation the point in the march of the sentinel most timely for his making the rush to the gate. Friends without were to have a carriage in waiting, and the signal was to be given by sending up a red air-ball. The appointed day came, but, when too late to make any change in details, it was ascertained that a red air-ball could not be obtained at any toy-shop in the city. The second attempt was success- ful. A room was hired in an upper story of a building overlooking the hos- pital, and a friend kept watch from the window. At the right moment he was to play upon a violin, ceasing when danger appeared. Once more the time agreed upon arrived. When circum- stances seemed most propitious, the pri- soner dashed for the gate; but he was so feeble that the sentinel almost overtook him, and barely missed thrusting him through with his bayonet. His friends hurried the fugitive into the carriage, and he was safe. When the alarm was sounded in the hospital, the officer in charge was panic-stricken, and did not recover self - possession until successful pursuit was hopeless. Kropotkin was smuggled out of the country, in the dis- guise of a military officer. He passed through Sweden and Norway, crossed over to Hull, and thence went to Edin- burgh. His property, of course, had been confiscated by the government, and he earned a precarious subsistence in Edin- burgh and London by writing for Nature and the Times. Expecting to return to Russia at some time in the near future, he concealed his identity, and this gave rise to an amusing circumstance. He was asked by the editor of the Times to write a review of his own book on the Orography of Eastern Siberia! This di- lemma forced him to tell his real name; but the editor promised to keep the se- cret, and thought it not improper that the author should review himself. One who had endured so much for his convictions could not easily forget them. After remaining a short time in Great Britain, Prince Kropotkin went to Switzerland, which was the centre of the revolutionary movement outside of Russia. There the Russian police began Prince Kropotkin. 343 a systematic espionage upon his move- ments, which has not ceased up to the present time, and this compelled him to abandon all thought of returning home. He has not visited his native land since 1876. As an escaped prisoner he is ex- cluded from the amnesty granted to some of the other political offenders, and there is probably no man whom the Russian government would more gladly get with- in its power. The following incident shows the eagerness of the secret police to seize him. A friend of his, in high official position in Russia, conveyed to him the particulars of a plot by which he was to be kidnapped. Police sent from Russia into Switzerland in disguise were to waylay him in some solitary place, and he was simply to disappear. The names of persons involved in the plot and all details were given. Kro. potkin, on the advice of a friend, placed in the hands of a prominent representa- tive of the London Times a full account of the affair, and then informed the plot- ters what he had done; stating that if any harm befell him the Times would publish the inner history of the matter, with the names of the persons concerned in it. That put an end to the plot. During the three or four years that he remained in Switzerland, Kropotkin carried on a vigorous propaganda of An- archist ideas by means of lectures, con- ferences, and writing for the press. He began at Geneva the publication of a journal called Le R6volt6, in which he set forth the evils of the present social system, and appealed with intense ear- nestness to all who cared for justice to abolish these evils by abolishing law and government. A series of papers enti- tled Les Paroles dun R6volt6 were pub- lished in this journal, and afterward collected and issued in book form. Kro- potkin was now recognized by Anarchists every where as their intellectual leader. March 13, 1881, Alexander II. was killed by a dynamite bomb. There was not only no evidence to implicate any of the Russian refugees in this affair, but it was impossible, in the nature of the case, that they should have had any connection with it. As Stepniak has shown, no persons outside of Russia could direct or even have previous knowledge of Nihilist undertakings. Such terrible secrets could not be communicated by post or telegraph; orders could not be given or received except in person and on the. ground. Kropotkin believed and said that the death of the Tsar was an inevitable result of his reactionary and oppressive policy, and that in this sense his fate was deserved. In the panic which followed this ~vent the Russian govern- ment remembered Kropotkin, always a prominent object of suspicion and hatred, and Switzerland was informed that it would be very acceptable to Russia if he were invited to leave the country. The Swiss authorities could not disregard such a request, and the prince was com- pelled to depart. After a brief visit to England, he returned to the Continent and took up his abode in France, at Thonon, near the Swiss border, continu- ing his propaganda among French work- ingmen. He advocated, as before, a so- cial revolution which should sweep away the organized state, and abolish the right of private property and all external au- thority. Do what you like, said Kro- potkin. Such was his confidence in hu- man nature that he believed that if the individual were freed from all restraint, peace and good will would prevail uni- versally among men; the Golden Rule would become the unconscious and natu- ral law of life. With unwearied energy he urged the adoption of these ideas, in public addresses and in print. The journal which was suppressed at Geneva was revived at Paris under the name La R6volte. Again suppressed, it was once more revived as Les Temps Nou- veaux, the publication of which is still continued at Paris. This paper is edit- ed with much ability, and is the leading organ of the Anarchists. It is issued 344 Prince Kropotkin weekly, with a literary supplement, and is comparatively moderate in tone. During the winter of 1882 labor dis- orders were rife in the vicinity of Lyons. Numerous strikes occurred, and the feel- ing of working people toward the cap- italist class became intensely bitter. Revolutionary utterances were freely indulged in at public meetings, and the government was unsparingly denounced. The crisis was reached when dynamite explosions took place at Montceau-les- Mines and in a eaf 6 at Lyons. These disorders, it was affirmed by the au- thorities, were to be traced to the in- cendiary teaching of Kropotkin, and in consequence lie and many others were arrested. Their trial began at Lyons, January 8, 1883, and lasted eleven days. The accused, fifty-two in number, among whom was Louise Michel, were charged with affiliation with the International Association, which aimed at the sus- pension of labor, the abolition of pro- perty, the family, country, and religion, and of being guilty of an attack upon the public peace. The International Association, to be sure, had ceased to ex- ist some years before, but the judgment declared that the law of 1872 against the International applied also to the Lyons Revolutionary Federation, of which it was really a branch or survival. It was proved that Prince Kropotkin was in London at the time of the dy- namite explosions, and that he had no connection with the persons responsible for these explosions. He was convicted, however, of the charge of reorganizing the International Association, in spite of the fact that the chief of the Lyons police admitted that he did not believe the International had been reorganized. The mere trial of the case before the Cour Correctionnehle was equivalent to conviction. The fact was, there were reasons of state, as afterward appeared, which made the imprisonment of Kro- potkin desirable, and this was practically decided upon before the trial. He was condemned to five years in prison, ten years of police supervision, five years deprivation of civil rights, and the pay- ment of a fine of two thousand francs. It was significant that all who took part in the prosecution received Russian de- corations. For the next three years Kropotkin was again a prisoner, this time in repub- lican France, at Clairvaux. The gov- ernor of the prison, perhaps because he feared that the Anarchists committed to his care might make reprisals upon him on their release if they were treated with severity, was inclined to be lenient to- ward them. Nevertheless, this second imprisonment had its peculiar trials. Princess Kropotkin took lodgings in the village, and every unusual sound within the prison inclosure filled her with ter- ror. When a guard fired at a prisoner who, in defiance of the regulations, ven- tured to stand too near the window of his cell, she was in an agony of appre- hension lest it was her husband who had been shot. He passed his time in writ- ing, reading, and making experiments in intensive agriculture on a patch of ground fifty feet square. The privilege of walking with his wife in the gover- nors garden was proposed to him, but he declined the favor because it could not be shared by his comrades in misfortune. Meantime, agitation for the release of Kropotkin never ceased in France and in England. A petition for his pardon was signed by every scientific man of eminence in Great Britain, and by learned associations almost without number, in- cluding the Council of the British Mu- seum. In the public prints his cause was pleaded earnestly and unceasingly by able men. Immediately after his imprisonment, M. Cl6menceau and his friends organized a movement in his be- half in the Chamber of Deputies, and every time the question was agitated many votes were gained for him. No rest was given to the government: Kro- potkin, Kropotkin, was the incessant Prince Kropotkin. 345 challenge of the opposition. Under all this pressure he would soon have been set free, but for the real cause of his condemnation, the influence of Russia. After three years, one day when the question of amnesty to prisoners was being debated in the Chamber, and the government was hard pushed, in an un- guarded moment M. de Freycinet said that Kropotkin could not be released on account of a question of diplomacy. This rash admission was a blunder which could be remedied only by the immedi- ate pardon of Kropotkin; for the gov- ernment could not permit itself to avow that it kept a man in prison solely to please Russia. He was therefore liber- ated by a decree of the President of the Republic, January 15, 1886. Immedi- ately the French ambassador at St. Pe- tersburg was treated with such marked discourtesy by the Tsar that he gave up his post and returned to Paris. For the past twelve years Prince Kro- potkin has lived quietly in England with his wife and child. Although an exile from his native land, and unable to enter with safety two, perhaps three other Eu- ropean countries, with impaired health, forced to rely upon his own exertions for the maintenance of his family, held accountable for deeds he did not com- mit and could not have prevented, he is neither an embittered nor an unhappy man. Even now the Russian govern- ment keeps watch upon his movements, and when he came to America followed him with watchfulness. He lives an al- most ideal existence in his vine-clad cot- tage in Kent, respected and loved by a multitude of friends in high places and among humble folk. Princess Kropot- kin is in hearty sympathy with her hus- bands beliefs, and is a sharer in his intellectual pursuits. The published work of Kropotkin is of a twofold character, relating in part to science and in part to social reform. His earlier scientific works were written in the Russian language, and published in the proceedings of the Russian and Siberian Geographical Society, and have not been translated into English. Among these are accounts of his various explora- tions in Siberia. His chief geographi- cal work is a Sketch of the Geography of Eastern Siberia; the most important of all his scientific writings is his Re- searches in the Glacial Period, the first volume of which was written when he was in prison, and published by the Gee- graphical Society. His articles on re- cent science have been for some years a feature of the Nineteenth Century Re- view. It is significant not only of his learning, but also of his character, that he should have been the first to study and to write concerning Mutual Aid among Animals. He has been a fre- quent contributor to Nature; his name appears often in the proceedings of the London Geographical Society; he is the author of important articles in the Ency- clopaxlia Britannica, Chamberss Ency- clop~edia, the Statesmans Year Book, and Chishoims Gazetteer. In the domain of science he considers himself primarily a geographer, like his intimate friend and fellow Anarchist, Professor Elis6e Re- clus. His studies in intensive agricul- ture are exceedingly suggestive and val- uable, and connect the man of science and the revolutionist. His contention is that the cultivation of the soil is in its infancy; that the earth has practically unlimited powers of production, which await development by science and in- dustry; and therefore, during the early stages of the social revolution as well as forever after, the problem of the food supply will present no difficulty. Up to the present time he has written and published but one book in the English language, and that has had a curious history. It is entitled In Russian and French Prisons, and it appeared in Lon- don in 1887, bearing the imprint of a well-known publishing house. But one edition, although a rather large one, was issued, and soon afterward the firm of 846 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. publishers ceased to exist. The book had been upon the market only a short time, when it vanished suddenly; not a single copy could be purchased. The author himself advertised in order to se- cure one, offering a considerable premi- um above the publishers price, but to no purpose. This book is iu the J3oston Public Library, but it is rarely found even in the best libraries, and probably a copy could not now be obtained at any price. What is the meaning of this mysterious disappearance? The only plausible explanation is that, as the book gave a truthful account of Russian pri- sons, it was bought up and destroyed by agents of the Russian government. Kropotkin has written extensively upon Anarchism, and is considered by Anarchists everywhere as the leading ex- positor of their ideas. His two books upon this subject, written in French and published in Paris, are Les Paroles dua R~volt~l and La Conqu~te du Pain. The first of these is directed against the pre- sent social order, and is an appeal to the people to throw off the fetters of government, and to inaugurate a new and better era. La Conqu~te da Pain, with a preface by Elis6e Reclus, has been called by Zola un vrai pobme. It has been translated into German, Dutch, Spanish, and Portuguese, and a Norwe- gian translation has recently appeared, which contains a preface by Georg Brandes. This book is constructive; it gives a picture of society under the An- archist r~gime,when everything is every- bodys, and brotherly consideration of each for all others prevails. In addition to these two books, he has written con- stantly for the Anarchist press, and many pamphlets and tracts, which sell at a low price and have a large circulation, have come from his hand. Of one of these pamphlets, An Appeal to theYoung, more than one hundred thousand copies have been distributed. It is characteristic of the man that he should find time to write without compensation for obscure Anarchist journals, when all that he can produce with his pen on scientific sub- jects finds a ready market, and he is fre- quently forced to decline remunerative offers for review articles. Kropotkins range of knowledge is very wide. He is more or less conversant with upwards of twenty languages, and in several of these is entirely at home; he is an accomplished mathematician; he draws and paints skillfully, and is something of a musician. His industry and versatility are amazing. Yet one does not wish to turn away from the con- sideration of such a man with reference merely to his attainments. Rather, one would like to dwell upon his unselfish- ness, his faith in humanity, his intuitive and unfaltering devotion to the most ex- alted moral ideals. Robert Ershine Ely. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A REVOLUTIONIST. I. Moscow is a city of slow historical growth, and down to the present time its different parts have wonderfully well retained the features which have been stamped upon them in the slow course of history. The Trans-Moskva River dis trict, with its broad, sleepy streets and its monotonous gray-painted, low-roofed houses, of which the entrance-gates re- main securely bolted day and night, has always been the secluded abode of the merchant class, and the stronghold of the outwardly austere, formalistic, and des- potic Nonconformists of the Old Faith.

846 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. publishers ceased to exist. The book had been upon the market only a short time, when it vanished suddenly; not a single copy could be purchased. The author himself advertised in order to se- cure one, offering a considerable premi- um above the publishers price, but to no purpose. This book is iu the J3oston Public Library, but it is rarely found even in the best libraries, and probably a copy could not now be obtained at any price. What is the meaning of this mysterious disappearance? The only plausible explanation is that, as the book gave a truthful account of Russian pri- sons, it was bought up and destroyed by agents of the Russian government. Kropotkin has written extensively upon Anarchism, and is considered by Anarchists everywhere as the leading ex- positor of their ideas. His two books upon this subject, written in French and published in Paris, are Les Paroles dua R~volt~l and La Conqu~te du Pain. The first of these is directed against the pre- sent social order, and is an appeal to the people to throw off the fetters of government, and to inaugurate a new and better era. La Conqu~te da Pain, with a preface by Elis6e Reclus, has been called by Zola un vrai pobme. It has been translated into German, Dutch, Spanish, and Portuguese, and a Norwe- gian translation has recently appeared, which contains a preface by Georg Brandes. This book is constructive; it gives a picture of society under the An- archist r~gime,when everything is every- bodys, and brotherly consideration of each for all others prevails. In addition to these two books, he has written con- stantly for the Anarchist press, and many pamphlets and tracts, which sell at a low price and have a large circulation, have come from his hand. Of one of these pamphlets, An Appeal to theYoung, more than one hundred thousand copies have been distributed. It is characteristic of the man that he should find time to write without compensation for obscure Anarchist journals, when all that he can produce with his pen on scientific sub- jects finds a ready market, and he is fre- quently forced to decline remunerative offers for review articles. Kropotkins range of knowledge is very wide. He is more or less conversant with upwards of twenty languages, and in several of these is entirely at home; he is an accomplished mathematician; he draws and paints skillfully, and is something of a musician. His industry and versatility are amazing. Yet one does not wish to turn away from the con- sideration of such a man with reference merely to his attainments. Rather, one would like to dwell upon his unselfish- ness, his faith in humanity, his intuitive and unfaltering devotion to the most ex- alted moral ideals. Robert Ershine Ely. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A REVOLUTIONIST. I. Moscow is a city of slow historical growth, and down to the present time its different parts have wonderfully well retained the features which have been stamped upon them in the slow course of history. The Trans-Moskva River dis trict, with its broad, sleepy streets and its monotonous gray-painted, low-roofed houses, of which the entrance-gates re- main securely bolted day and night, has always been the secluded abode of the merchant class, and the stronghold of the outwardly austere, formalistic, and des- potic Nonconformists of the Old Faith.

846 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. publishers ceased to exist. The book had been upon the market only a short time, when it vanished suddenly; not a single copy could be purchased. The author himself advertised in order to se- cure one, offering a considerable premi- um above the publishers price, but to no purpose. This book is iu the J3oston Public Library, but it is rarely found even in the best libraries, and probably a copy could not now be obtained at any price. What is the meaning of this mysterious disappearance? The only plausible explanation is that, as the book gave a truthful account of Russian pri- sons, it was bought up and destroyed by agents of the Russian government. Kropotkin has written extensively upon Anarchism, and is considered by Anarchists everywhere as the leading ex- positor of their ideas. His two books upon this subject, written in French and published in Paris, are Les Paroles dua R~volt~l and La Conqu~te du Pain. The first of these is directed against the pre- sent social order, and is an appeal to the people to throw off the fetters of government, and to inaugurate a new and better era. La Conqu~te da Pain, with a preface by Elis6e Reclus, has been called by Zola un vrai pobme. It has been translated into German, Dutch, Spanish, and Portuguese, and a Norwe- gian translation has recently appeared, which contains a preface by Georg Brandes. This book is constructive; it gives a picture of society under the An- archist r~gime,when everything is every- bodys, and brotherly consideration of each for all others prevails. In addition to these two books, he has written con- stantly for the Anarchist press, and many pamphlets and tracts, which sell at a low price and have a large circulation, have come from his hand. Of one of these pamphlets, An Appeal to theYoung, more than one hundred thousand copies have been distributed. It is characteristic of the man that he should find time to write without compensation for obscure Anarchist journals, when all that he can produce with his pen on scientific sub- jects finds a ready market, and he is fre- quently forced to decline remunerative offers for review articles. Kropotkins range of knowledge is very wide. He is more or less conversant with upwards of twenty languages, and in several of these is entirely at home; he is an accomplished mathematician; he draws and paints skillfully, and is something of a musician. His industry and versatility are amazing. Yet one does not wish to turn away from the con- sideration of such a man with reference merely to his attainments. Rather, one would like to dwell upon his unselfish- ness, his faith in humanity, his intuitive and unfaltering devotion to the most ex- alted moral ideals. Robert Ershine Ely. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A REVOLUTIONIST. I. Moscow is a city of slow historical growth, and down to the present time its different parts have wonderfully well retained the features which have been stamped upon them in the slow course of history. The Trans-Moskva River dis trict, with its broad, sleepy streets and its monotonous gray-painted, low-roofed houses, of which the entrance-gates re- main securely bolted day and night, has always been the secluded abode of the merchant class, and the stronghold of the outwardly austere, formalistic, and des- potic Nonconformists of the Old Faith. The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 347 The citadel, or Kreml, is still the strong- hold of church and state; and the im- mense space in front of it, covered with thousands of shops and warehouses, has been for centuries a crowded beehive of commerce, the heart of a great internal trade which spreads over the whole sur- face of the vast empire. The Tversk~lya and the Smiths Bridge have been for hundreds of years the chief centres for the fashionable shops; while the artisans quarters, the Pluschfkha and the Doro- goncifiovka, retain the very same features which characterized their uproarious pop- ulations in the times of the Moscow Tsars. Each quarter is a little world in itself; each has its own physiognomy, and lives its own separate life. Even the railways that have made an irruption into the old capital have grouped apart, in special centres on the outskirts of the old town, their stores and machine - works, their heavily loaded carts and engines. However, of all parts of Moscow, none, perhaps, is more typical than that laby- rinth of clean, quiet, winding streets and lanes which lies at the back of the Kreml, between two great radial streets, the Ar- b~it and the Prechistenka, and is still called the Old Equerries Quarter, the Shiraya Konyilishennaya. Some fifty years ago, there lived in this quarter, and slowly died out, the old Moscow nobility, whose names were so frequently men- ti2ned in the pages of Russian history before the times of Peter I., but who subsequently disappeared to make room for the newcomers, the men of all ranks who were called into service by the founder of the Russian state. Feeling themselves supplanted at the St. Petersburg court, these old nobles re- tired either to the Old Equerries Quar- ter in Moscow, or to their picturesque estates in the country round about the capital, and they looked with a sort of contempt and secret jealousy upon the motley crowd of families which came from no one knew where to take pos- session of the highest functions of the government, in the new capital on the banks of the Neva. In their younger days, of course, all of these old nobles had tried their for- tunes in the service of the state, chiefly in the army; but for one reason or an- other they had soon abandoned it, with- out having risen to high rank. The more successful ones obtained some quiet, al- most honorary position in their mother city, my father was one of these, while most of the others simply retired from active service. But wheresoever they might have been shifted, in the course of their careers, over the wide surface of Russia, they always somehow managed to spend their old age in a house of their own in the Old Equerries Quarter, under the shadow of the church where they had been baptized, and where the last prayers had been pronounced at the burial of their parents. New branches budded from the old stocks. Some of them achieved more or less distinction in different parts of Rus- sia; some owned more luxurious houses in the new style in other quarters of Moscow or at St. Petersburg; but the branch which continued to reside in the Old Equerries Quarter, somewhere near to the green, the yellow, the pink, or the brown church which was endeared through family associations, was consid- ered as the true representative of the family, irrespective of the position it oc- cupied in the familys genealogic tree. Its old-fashioned head was treated with the utmost respect, not devoid of a slight tinge of irony, even by those younger re- presentatives of the same stock who had left their mother city, and looked for a more brilliant career in the St. Peters- burg Guard or in the court circles. In these quiet streets, far away from the noise and bustle of the commercial Mos- cow, all the houses had much the same appearance. They were mostly built of wood, with bright green sheet - iron roofs, the exteriors stuccoed and decorat- ed with columns and porticoes; all were 348 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. painted in gay colors. In nearly every ease there was but one story, with seven or nine big, gay-looking windows facing the street. A second story was admit- ted only in the back part of the house, which looked upon a spacious yard, sur- rounded by numbers of small buildings, used as kitchens, stables, cellars, coach- houses, and as dwellings for the servants. A wide gate opened upon this yard, and a brass plate on it usually bore the in- scription, House of So and So, Lieu- tenant or Colonel, and Commander, very seldom Major - General or any similarly elevated civil rank. But if a more luxurious house, embellished by a gilded iron railing and an iron gate, stood in one of those streets, the brass plate on the gate was sure to bear the name of Commerce Counsel or Hon- orable Citizen So and So. These were the intruders, those who came unasked to settle in this quarter, and were there- fore ignored by their neighbors. No shops were allowed in these se- lect streets, except that in some small wooden house, belonging to the parish church, a tiny grocers or greengrocers shop might have been found; but then, the policemans lodge stood on the oppo- site corner, and in the daytime the po- liceman himself, armed with a halberd, would appear at the door to salute with his inoffensive weapon the officers pass- ing by, and would retire inside when dusk came, to employ himself either as a cob- bler, or in the manufacture of some spe- cial snuff patronized by the elder male servants of the neighborhood. Life went on quietly and peacefully at least for the outsider in this Mos- cow Faubourg Saint-Germain. In the morning nobody was seen in the streets. About midday the children made their appearance under the guidance of French tutors and German nurses, who took them out for a walk on the snow-covered bou- levards. Later on in the day the ladies might be seen in their two-horse sledges, with a valet standing behind on a small plank fastened to the back of the vehi- cle, or ensconced in an old-fashioned car- riage, immense and high, suspended on big curved springs and dragged by four horses, with a postilion in front and two valets standing behind. In the evening most of the houses were brightly illumi- nated, and, the blinds not being drawn down, the passers - by could admire the card-players or the waltzers in the sa- loons. Opinions were not in vogue in those days, and we were yet far from the years when in each one of these houses a struggle began between fathers and sons, a struggle that usually ended either in a family scene or in a noctur- nal visit of the state police. Fifty years ago nothing of the sort was thought of; all was quiet and smooth, at least on the surface. In this Old Equerries Quarter I was born in 1842, and here I passed the first fifteen years of my life. Even when our father had sold the house in which our mother died, and bought another, and when again he sold that house, and we spent several winters in hired houses, until he found a third one to his taste, within a stones - throw of the church where he had been baptized, we remained all the time in the Old Equerries Quar- ter, leaving it only during the summer to go to our country-seat. II. A high, spacious bedroom, the corner room of our house, with a wide bed upon which our mother is lying, our baby chairs and tables standing close by, and the neatly served tables covered with sweets and jellies in pretty glass jars, a room into which we children are ushered at a strange hour, this is the first half-dis. tinet reminiscence of my life. Our mother was dying of consump- tion; she was only thirty-five years old. Before parting with us forever, she had wished to have us by her side, to caress us, to feel happy for a moment in our joys, and she had arranged this little The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 349 treat by the side of her bed which she could leave no more. I remember her pale, thin face, her big, dark brown eyes. She looked at us with love, and invited us to eat, to climb upon her bed; then all of a sudden she burst into tears and began to cough, and we were told to go. Some time after, we children that is, my brother Alexander and myself were transferred from the big house to a small side house in the court-yard. The April sun filled the little rooms with its rays, but our German nurse Madame Biirman, and Ulidna our Russian nurse, told us to go to bed. Their faces wet with tears, they were sewing for us black shirts bordered with broad white tassels. We could not sleep: the unknown fright- ened us, and we listened to their subdued talk. They said something about our mother which we could not understand. We jumped out of our beds, asking, Where is mamma? Where is mam- ma? Both of them burst into subs, and be- gan to pat our curly heads, calling us poor orphans, until Ulhina could hold out no longer, and said, Your mother is gone there, to the sky, to the angels. How to the sky? Why? our in- fantile imagination in vain demanded. This was in 1846. I was only three and a half years old, and my brother S~lsha not yet five. Where our elder brother and sister, Nicholas and H6l~ne, had gone I do not know: perhaps they were already at school. Nicholas was twelve years old, H~lene was eleven; they kept together, and we knew them but lit- tle. So we remained, Alexander and I, in this little house, in the hands of Ma- dame B4rman and Uli~ina. The good old German lady, homeless and absolute- ly alone in the wide world, took toward us the place of our mother. She brought us up as well as she could, buying us from time to time some simple toys, and over- feeding us with ginger cakes whenever another old German, who used to sell such cakes, probably as homeless and solitary as herself, paid an occasional visit to our house. We seldom saw our father, and the next two years passed without leaving any impression on my memory. III. Our father was very proud of the ori- gin of his family, and would point with solemnity to a piece of parchment which hung on a wall of his study. It was de- corated with our arms, the arms of the principality of Smolensk covered with the ermine mantle and the crown of the Monomachs, and there was written on it, and certified by the Heraldry Depart- ment, that our family originated with a grandson of Rostisk~v Mstisldvich the Bold (a name familiar in Russian histo- ry as that of a Grand Prince of Kieff), and that our ancestors had been Grand Princes of Smolensk. It cost me three hundred rubles to obtain that parchment, our father used to say. Like most people of his genera- tion, he was not much versed in Russian history, and valued the parchment more for its cost than for its historical associa- tions. As a matter of fact, our family is of very ancient origin indeed; but, like most descendants of Rurik who may be regarded as representative of the feudal period of Russian history, it was driven into the background when that period ended, and the Romdnoffs, enthroned at Moscow, began the work of consolidat- ing the Russian state. In recent times, none of the Krop6tkins seem to have had any special liking for state functions. Our great-grandfather and grandfather both retired from the military service when quite young men, and hastened to return to their family estates. It must also be said that of these estates the main one, Ouro4sovo, situated in the govern- ment of Ryanln, on a high hill at the border of fertile prairies, might tempt any one by the beauty of its shadowy for- ests, its winding rivers, and its endless meadows. Our grandfather was only a 350 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. lieutenant when he left the service, and retired to Ouroilsovo, devoting himself to his estate, and to the purchase of other estates in the neighboring provinces. Probably our generation would have done the same; but our grandfather married a Princess Gagdrin, who be- longed to a quite different family. Her brother was well known as a passionate lover of the stage. He kept a private theatre of his own, and went so far in his passion as to marry, to the scandal of all his relations, a serf, the genial actress Semenova, who was one of the creators of dramatic art in Russia, and undoubtedly one of its most interesting figures. To the horror of all Moscow, she continued to appear on the stage. I do not know if our grandmother had the same artistic and literary tastes as her brother, I remember her when she was already paralyzed and could speak only in whispers; but it is certain that in the next generation a leaning toward literature became a characteristic of our family. One of the sons of the Princess Gagdrin was a minor Russian poet, and issued a book of poems, a fact which my father was ashamed of and always avoided mentioning; and in our own gen- eration several of our cousins, as well as my brother and myself, have contribut- ed more or less to the literature of our period. Our father was a typical officer of the time of Nicholas I. Not that he was imbued with a warlike spirit or much in love with camp life; I doubt whether be spent a single night of his life at a bivouac fire, or took part in one bat- tle. But under Nicholas I. that was of quite secondary importance. The true military man of those times was the offi- cer who was enamored of the military uni- form, and utterly despised all other sorts of attire; whose soldiers were trained to perform almost superhuman tricks with their legs and rifles (to break the wood of the rifle into pieces while presenting arms was one of those famous tricks); and who could show on parade a row of soldiers as perfectly aligned and as mo- tionless as a row of toy-soldiers. Very good, the Grand Duke Mikhael said once of a regiment, after having kept it for one hour presenting arms, only, they breathe! To respond to the then current conception of a military man was certainly our fathers ideal. True, he took part in the Turkish campaign of 1828; but he managed to remain all the time on the staff of the chief commander; and if we children, taking advantage of a moment when he was in a particularly good temper, asked him to tell us something about the war, he had nothing to tell but of a fierce at- tack of hundreds of Turkish dogs which one night assailed him and his faithful servant, Frol, as they were riding with dispatches through an abandoned Turk- ish village. They had to use swords to extricate themselves from the hungry beasts. Bands of Turks would assured- ly have better satisfied our imagination, but we accepted the dogs as a substi- tute. When, however, pressed by our questions, our father told us how he had won the cross of Saint Anne for gal- lantry, and the golden sword which he wore, I must confess we felt really dis- appointed. His story was decidedly too prosaic. The officers of the general staff were lodged in a Turkish village, when it took fire. In a moment the houses were enveloped in flames, and in one of them a child had been left behind. Its mother uttered despairing cries. There- upon, Frol, who always accompanied his master, rushed into the flames and saved the child. The chief commander, who saw the act, at once gave father the cross for gallantry. But, father, we exclaimed, it was Frol who saved the child! What of that? replied he, in the most naive way. Was he not my man? It is all the same. He also took some part in the cam- paign of 1831, during the Polish Revo The Autobiography of a 1?evolutionist. 351 lution, and in Warsaw he made the ac- quaintance of, and fell in love with, the youngest daughter of the commander of an army corps, General Sulima. The marriage was celebrated with great pomp, in the Lazienki palace; the lieutenant- governor, Count Paski6wich, acting as nuptial godfather on the bridegrooms side. But your mother, our father used to add, brought me no fortune whatever. Surely not. Her father, Nikolai Sc- menovich Sulima, was not versed in the art of making a career or a fortune. He must have had in him too much of the blood of those Cossacks of the Dnie- per, who knew how to fight the well- equipped, warlike Poles or armies of the Turks, three times more than themselves, but knew not how to avoid the snares of the Moscow diplomacy, and, after hav- ing fought against the Poles in the ter- rible insurrection of 1648, which was the beginning of the end for the Polish republic, lost all their liberties in fall- ing under the dominion of the Russian Tsars. One Sulima was captured by the Poles and tortured to death at Warsaw, but the other colonels of the same stock only fought the more fiercely on that account, and Poland lost Little Rus- sia. As to our grandfather, he knew how, with his regiment of cuirassiers during Napoleon I.s invasion, to cut his way into a French infantry square bris- tling with bayonets, and to recover, after having been left for dead on the battle- field, with a deep cut in his head; but he could not become a valet to the fa- vorite of Alexander I., the omnipotent Arakch6eff, and was consequently sent into a sort of honorary exile, first as a governor-general of West Siberia, and later of East Siberia. In thcsse times such a position was considered more lu- crative than a gold-mine, but our grand- father returned from Siberia as poor as he went, and left but modest fortunes to his three sons and three daughters. When I went to Siberia, in 1862, I often heard his name mentioned with respect. He was simply driven to despair by the wholesale stealing which went on in those provinces, and which he had no means to repress. Our mother was undoubtedly a re- markable woman for the times she lived in. Many years after her death, I dis- covered, in a corner of a storeroom of our country house, a mass of papers cov- ered with her firm but pretty handwrit- ing: diaries in which she wrote with ecstasy of the scenery of Germany, and spoke of her sorrows and her thirst for happiness; books which she had filled with Russian verses that no one was al- lowed to print then, among them the beautiful historical ballads of Ryl6eff, the poet, whom Nicholas I. hanged in 1826; other books containing music, French dramas, verses of Lamartine, and By- rons poems that she had copied; and a great number of water-color paintings. Tall, slim, adorned with a mass of dark chestnut hair, with dark brown eyes and a tiny mouth, she looks quite lifelike in a portrait in oils that was painted eon amore by a good artist. Always lively and often careless, she was fond of dan- cing, and the peasant women in our vil- lage would tell us how she would admire from a balcony their ring-dances, slow and full of grace as an old minuet, and how finally she would herself join in them. She had the nature of an artist. It was at a ball that she caught the cold that produced the inflammation of the lungs which brought her to the grave. All who knew her loved her. The servants simply worshiped her memory. It was in her name that Madame Biir- man took care of us, and in her name the Russian nurse bestowed upon us her love. While combing our hair, or sign- ing us with the cross in our beds, the lat- ter would often say, And your mamma must now look upon you from the skies, and shed tears on seeing you, poor or- phans. Her memory passed through our childhood and cheered it. How of- 352 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. ten, in some dark passage, the hand of a servant would touch Alexander or me with a caress; or a peasant woman, on meeting us in the fields, would ask, Will you be as good as your mother was? She took compassion on us. You will, sure- ly. Us meant, of course, the serfs. I do not know what would have become of us if we had not found in our house, amidst the serf servants, that atmosphere of love which children must have around them. We were her children, we bore likeness to her, and they lavished their care upon us, sometimes in a touching form, as will be seen later on. Men passionately desire to live after death, but they often pass away without noticing the fact that the memory of a really good person always lives. It is impressed upon the next generation, and is transmitted again to the children. Is not that an immortality worth striving for? V. Two years after the death of our mo- ther our father married again. He had already east his eyes upon a nice-looking young person, this time belonging to a wealthy family, when the fates decided another way. One morning, while he was still in his dressing-gown, the servants rushed madly into his room, announcing the arrival of General Timof6eff, the commander of the sixth army corps, to which our father belonged. This favor- ite of Nicholas I. was a terrible man. He would order a soldier to be flogged almost to death for a mistake made dur- ing a parade, or he would degrade an officer and send him as a private to Si- beria because he had met him in the street with the hooks of his high, stiff collar unfastened. With Nicholas Gen- eral Timof& ffs word was all-powerful. The general, who had never before been in our house, came to propose to our father to marry his wifes aiece, Mademoiselle Elisabeth Karandin6, one of several daughters of an admiral of the Black Sea fleet, a young lady with a classical Greek profile, said to have been very beautiful. Father accepted, and his second wedding, like the first, was solemnized with great pomp. You young people understand no- thing of this kind of thing, he said in conclusion, after having told me the story more than once, with a very fine humor which I will not attempt to re- produce. Bat do you know what it meant at that time, the commander of an army corps? Above all, that one- eyed devil, as we used to call him, com- ing himself to propose? Of course she had no dowry; only a big trunk filled with their ladies rags, and that Martha, her one serf, dark as a gypsy, sitting upon it. I have no recollection whatever of this event. I only remember a big drawing- room in a richly furnished house, and in that room a young lady, attractive, but with a rather too sharp southern look, gamboling with us, and saying, You see what a jolly mamma you will have; to which S~sha and I, sulkily looking at her, replied, Our mamma has flown away to the sky. We regarded so much liveliness with suspicion. Winter came, and a new life began for us. Our house was sold, and another was bought and furnished completely anew. All that could convey a reminiscence of our mother disappeared, her portraits, her paintings, her embroideries. In vain Madame Biirman implored to be retained in our house, and promised to devote her- self to the baby our stepmother was ex- pecting as to her own child: she was sent away. Nothing of the Sulfmas in my house, she was told. All connection with our uncles and aunts and our grand- mother were broken. Ulhfna was mar- ried to Frol, who became a major-domo, while she was made housekeeper; and for our education a richly paid French tutor, M. Poulain, and a miserably paid Russian student, N. P. Smirn6ff, were engaged. Many of the sons of the Moscow nobles The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 353 were educated at that time by French- men, who represented the d6bris of Na- poleons Grande Arm6e. M. Poulain was one of them. He had just finished the education of the youngest son of the novelist Zag6skin, and his pupil, Serge, enjoyed in the Old Equerries Quarter the reputation of being so well brought up that our father did not hesitate to engage M. Poulain for the considerable sum of six hundred rubles a year. MI. Poulain brought with him his set- ter Tr& or, his coffee-pot Napol6on, and his French textbooks, and he began to rule over us and the serf Matv~i who was attached to our service. His plan of education was very sim- ple. After having awakened us he at- tended to his coffee, which lie used to take in his room. While we were pre- paring the morning lessons he made his toilet with minute care: he shampooed his gray hair so as to conceal his growing baldness, put on his tail-coat, sprinkled and washed himself with ean-de-cologne, and then escorted us downstairs to say good-morning to our parents. We used to find our father and stepmother eating their breakfast, and on approaching them we recited in the most official way, Bon- jour, mon cher papa, and Bonjour, ma ch~re maman, and kissed their hands. M. Poulain made a most complicated and elegant obeisance in pronouncing the words, Bonjour, monsieur le prince, and Bonjour, madame la princesse, after which the procession immediately withdrew and retired upstairs. This cer- emony was repeated every morning. Then our work began. NI. Poulain changed his tail-coat for a dressing-gown, covered his head with a leather cap, and dropping into an easy-chair said, Recite the lesson. We recited it by heart, froni one mark which was made in the book with the nail to the next mark. NI. Poulain had brought with him the grammar of Nod and Chapsal, memorable to more than one generation of Russian boys and VOL. LXXXII. NO. 491. 23 girls; a book of French dialogues; a his- tory of the world, in one volume; and a universal geography, also in one volume. We had to commit to memory the gram- mar, the dialogues, the history, and the geography. The grammar, with its well-known sen- tences, What is grammar? The art of speaking and writing correctly, went all right. But the history book, unfortunately, had a preface, which con- tained an enumeration of all the advan- tages which can be derived from a know- ledge of history. Things went on smooth- ly enough with the first sentences. We recited: The prince finds in it mag- nanimous examples for governing his sub- jects; the military commander learns from it the noble art of warfare. But the moment we came to law all went wrong. The jurisconsult meets in it but what the learned lawyer meets in history we never came to know. That terrible word jurisconsult spoiled all the game. As soon as we reached it we stopped. On your knees, gros pouff! ex- claimed Poulain. (That was for me.) On your knees, grand dada! (That was for my brother.) And there we knelt, shedding tears and vainly endea- voring to learn all about the jurisconsult. It cost us many pains, that preface! We were already learning all about the Romans, and used to put our sticks in Ulidnas scales when she was weighing rice, just like Brennus; we jumped from our table and other precipices for the salvation of our country, in imitation of Curtius; but NI. Poulain would still from time to time return to the preface, and again put us on our knees for that very same jurisconsult. Was it not there- fore to be expected that later on both my brother and I should entertain an undis- guised contempt for jurisprudence? I do not know what would have hap- pened with geography if Poulains book had had a preface. But happily the first twenty pages of the book had been torn 354 The Autobiography away (Serge Zag6skin, I suppose, ren- dered us that notable service), and so our lessons commenced with the twenty- first page, which began, of the rivers which water France. It must be confessed that things did not always end with kneeling. There was in the class-room a birch rod, and Poulain resorted to it when there was no hope of progress with the preface or with some dialogue on virtue and pro- priety; but one day sister H~l~ne, who by this time had left the Catherine Insti- tut des Demoiselles, and now occupied a room underneath ours, hearing our cries, rushed, all in tears, into our fathers study, and bitterly reproached him with having handed us over to our stepmo- ther, who had abandoned us to a re- tired French drummer. Of course, she cried, there is no one to take their part, but I cannot see my brothers being treated in this way by a drummer! Taken thus unprepared, our father could not make a stand. He began to scold ll~lene, but ended by approving her devotion to her brothers. There- after the birch rod was reserved for teaching the rules of propriety to the setter Tr& or. No sooner had M. Poulain discharged himself of his heavy educational duties than he became quite another man, a lively comrade instead of a gruesome teacher. After lunch he took us out for a walk, and there was no end to his tales: we chattered like birds. Though we never went with him beyond the first pages of syntax, we soon learned, never- theless, to speak correctly; we used to think in French; and when he had dictated to us half through a book of mythology, correcting our faults by the book, without ever trying to explain to us why a word must be written in a par- ticular way, we had learned to write correctly. After dinner we had our lesson with the Russian teacher, a student of the faculty of law in the Moscow Univer of a Revolutionist. sity. He taught us all Russian sub- jects, grammar, arithmetic, history, and so on. But in those years serious teaching had not yet begun. In the mean- time he dictated to us every day a pag~ of history, and in that practical way we quickly learned to write Russian quite correctly. Our best time was on Sundays, when all the family, with the exception of us children, went to dinner at Madame la G6n~rale Timof~effs. It would also happen occasionally that both M. Poulain and N. P. Smirn6ff would be allowed to leave the house, and when this occurred we were placed under the care of Uli- dna. After a hurriedly eaten dinner we hastened to the great hall, to which the younger housemaids soon repaired. All sorts of games were started,blind man, vulture and chickens, and so on; and then, all of a sudden, Tikhon, the Jack- of-all-trades, would appear with a violin. Dancing began; not that measured and tiresome dancing, under the direction of a French dancing-master on india-rub- ber legs, which made part of our edu- cation, but free dancing which was not a lesson, and in which a score of cou- ples turned round any way; and this was only preparatory to the still more ani- mated and rather wild Cossack dance. Tikhon would then hand the violin to one of the older men, and would begin to perform with his legs such wonderful feats that the doors leading to the hall would soon be filled by the cooks and even the coachmen, who came to see the dance so dear to the Russian heart. About nine oclock the big carriage was sent to fetch the family home. Tikhon, brush in hand, crawled on the floor, to make it shine with its virgin glance, and perfect order was restored in the house. And if, next morning, we two had been submitted to the most severe cross - ex- amination, not a word would have been spoken of the previous evenings amuse- ments. We never would have betrayed any one of the servants, nor would they The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 355 have betrayed us. One Sunday, my bro- ther and I, playing alone in the wide hall, ran against a bracket which supported a costly lamp. The lamp was broken to pieces. Immediately a council was held by the servants. No one scolded us; but it was decided that early next morn- ing Tikhon should slip out of the house, at his risk and peril, and run to the Smiths Bridge in order to buy another lamp of the same pattern. It cost fifteen rubles, an enormous sum for them; but it was done, and we never heard a word of reproach about it. When I think of it now, and all these scenes revive in my memory, I notice that we never heard coarse language in any of the games, nor saw in the dances anything like the kind of dancing which children are now taken to admire in the theatres. In the servants house, among themselves, they assuredly used coarse expressions; but we were children, her children, and that protected us from anything of the sort. In those days children were not bewil- dered by a profusion of toys, as they are now. We had almost none, and were thus compelled to rely upon our own in- ventiveness. Besides, we both had early acquired a taste for the theatre. The in- ferior carnival theatres, with the thiev- ing and fighting shows, seem to have pro- duced no lasting impression upon us: we ourselves played enough at robbers and soldiers. But the great star of the ballet, Fanny Elssler, came to Moscow, and we saw her. When father took a box in the theatre, he always secured one of the best, and paid for it well; but then he insisted that all the members of the family should enjoy it to its full value. Small though I was at that time, Fanny Elssler left upon me the impression of a being so full of grace, so light, and so artistic in all her movements that ever since I have been unable to feel the slig~itest interest in a dance which belongs more to the domain of gymnastics than to the domain of art. Of course, the ballet that we saw Gitana, the Spanish Gypsy had to be repeated at home; its substance, not the dances. We had a ready-made stage, as the doorway which led from our bedroom into the class-room had a curtain instead of a door. A few chairs put in a half- circle in front of the curtain, with an easy-chair for M. Poulain, became the hall and the imperial lodge, an.d an au- dience could easily be mustered with the Russian teacher, Ulittna, and a couple of maids from the servants rooms. Two scenes of the ballet had to be re- presented by some means or other: the one where the little Gitana is brought by the gypsies into their camp in a wheel- barrow, and that in which Gitana makes her first appearance on the stage, descend- ing from a hill and crossing a bridge over a brook which reflects her image. The audience burst into frantic applause at this point, and the cheers were evi- dently called forth so we thought, at least by the reflection in the brook. We found our Gitana in one of the youngest girls in the maid servants room. Her rather shabby blue cotton dress was no obstacle to personifying Fanny Elss- 1cr. An overturned chair, pushed along by its legs, head downwards, was an ac- ceptable substitute for the wheelbarrow. But the brook! Two chairs and the long ironing-board of Andrei, the tailor, made the bridge, and a piece of blue cot- ton made the brook. The image in the brook, however, would not appear full size, do what we might with M. Poulains little shaving-glass. After many unsuc- cessful endeavors we had to give it up, but we bribed Ulidna to behave as if she saw the image, and to applaud loudly at this passage, so that finally we began to believe that perhaps something of it could be seen. Racines Phbdre, or at least the last act of it, also went off nicely; that is, Sdsha recited the melodious verses beau- tifully, A peine nous sortions des portes de Tr~z~ne ; 356 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. and I sat absolutely motionless and un- concerned during the whole length of the tragic monologue intended to apprise me of the death of my son, down to the place where, according to the book, I had to exclaim, 0, dieux! But whatsoever we might impersonate, all our performances invariably ended with hell. All candles save one were put out, and this one was placed behind a transparent paper to imitate flames, while my brother and I, concealed from view, howled in the most appalling way as the condemned. Uli~na, who did not like to have any allusion to the evil one made at bedtime, looked horrified; but I ask myself now whether this extreme- ly concrete representation of hell, with a candle and a sheet of paper, did not contribute to free us both at an early age from the fear of eternal fire as it is figured in Russian churches. Our con- ception of it was too realistic to resist skepticism. I must have been very much of a child when I saw the great Moscow actors, Sch6pkin, Sad6vskiy, and Shiimski, in Gogols Revisor and another comedy; still, I remember not only the salient scenes of the two plays, but even the figures and expressions of these great actors of the realistic school which is now so admirably represented by Duse. I re- membered them so well that when, at St. Petersburg, I saw the same plays given by actors belonging to the French de- clamatory school, I found no pleasure in their acting, always comparing theni with Scb6pkin and Sad6vskiy, by whom my taste in dramatic art was settled. This makes me think that parents who wish to develop artistic taste in their children ought to take them occasionally to really well-acted, good plays, instead of feeding them on a profusion of so- called childrens pantomimes.~~ -V. When I was in my eighth year, the next step in my career was taken, in a quite unforeseen way. I do not know exactly on what occasion it happened, but probably it was on the twenty-fifth anni- versary of Nicholas I. s reign, when great festivities were arranged for at Moscow. The imperial family were coming to the old capital, and the Moscow nobility in- tended to celebrate this event by a fan- cy-dress ball, in which children were to play an important part. It was agreed that the whole motley crowd of nation- alities of which the population of the Russian Empire is composed should be represented at this ball to greet the mon- arch. Great preparations went on in our house, as well as in all the houses of our neighborhood. Some sort of remarkable Russian costume was made for our step- mother. Our father, being a military man, had to appear, of course, in his uni- form; but those of our relatives who were not in the military service were as busy with their Russian, Greek, Caucasian, aiid Mongolian costumes as the ladies them- selves. When the Moscow nobility gives a ball to the imperial family, it must be something extraordinary. As for my brother Alexander and myself, we were considered too young to take part in so important a ceremonial. And yet, after all, I did take part in it. Our mother was a warm friend of Madame Nazimoff, the wife of the offi- cer who was governor-general of Wilno during the Polish insurrection of 1863. Madame Nazimoff, who was a very beau- tiful woman, was expected to assist at the ball with her child, about ten years old, and to wear some wonderfully beau- tiful costume of a Persian princess; a costume of a young Persian prince, ex- ceedingly rich, with a belt covered with jewels, was made ready for her son. But the boy fell ill just before the ball, and Madame Nazimoff thought that one of the children of her most intimate friend would be the best substitute for her own child. Alexander and I were taken to her house to try on the costume. It proved to be too short for Alexander, who p The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 357, was much taller than I, but it fitted me perfectly well, and therefore it was de- cided that I should impersonate the Per- sian prince. The immense hall of the house of the Moscow nobility was crowded. Each of the children received a standard bearing at its top the arms of one of the sixty provinces of the Russian Empire. I had an eagle floating over a blue sea, which represented, as I learned later on, the arms of the government of Astrakhan, on the Caspian Sea. We were then ranged at the back of the great hall, and slowly marched in two rows toward the raised platform upon which the Emperor and his family stood. As we reached it we marched right and left, and thus stood aligned in one row before the platform. At a given signal all standards were lowered before the Emperor. The apo- theosis of autocracy was made most im- pressive: Nicholas was enchanted. All provinces of the empire worshiped the supreme ruler. Then we children slowly retired to the rear of the hall. But here some confusion occurred. Chamberlains in their gold-embroidei~ed garments were running about, and I was taken out of the ranks; my uncle, Prince Gagdrin, dressed as a Tungus (I was dizzy with admiration of his fine leather coat, his bow, and his quiver full of ar- rows), lifted me up in his arms, and planted me on the imperial platform. Whether it was because I was the tiniest in the row of boys, or that my round face, framed in curls, looked fun- ny under the high Astrakhan fur bon- net I wore, I know not, but Nicholas wanted to have me on the platform; and there I stood amidst generals and ladies looking down upon me with curiosity. I was told later on that the Emperor, who was always fond of barrack jokes, took me by the arm, and, leading me to Marie Alexdndrovna (the wife of the heir to the throne), who was then expecting her third child, said in his military way, That is the sort of boy you must bring me, a joke which made her blush deeply. I well remember, at any rate, Nicholas asking me whether I would have sweets; but I replied that I should like to have some of those tiny biscuits which were served with tea (we were never over- fed at home), and he called a waiter and emptied a full tray into my tall bonnet. I will take them to Sdsha, I said to him. However, the soldier-like brother of Nicholas, Mlkhael, who had the reputa- tion of being a wit, managed to make rue cry. When you are a good boy, he said, they make you so, and he passed his big hand over my face down- wards; but when you are naughty, they make you so, and he passed the hand upwards, rubbing my nose, which already had a marked tendency toward grow- ing in that direction. Tears, which I vainly tried to stop, came into my eyes. The ladies at once took my part, and the good - hearted Marie Alexr~ndrovna placed me under her protection. She set me by her side, in a high velvet chair with a gilded back, and our people told me afterward that I very soon put my head in her lap and went to sleep. She did not leave her chair during the whole time the ball was going on. I remember also that, as we were wait- ing in the entrance-hall for our carriage, our relatives petted and kissed me, say- ing, P6tya, you have been made a page; but I answered, I am not a page. I will go home, and was very anxious about my bonnet which con- tained the pretty little biscuits that I was taking home for S~sha. I do not know whether Sdsha got many of those biscuits, but I recollect how warmly he embraced me when he was told about my anxiety concerning the bonnet. To be inscribed as a candidate for the corps of pages was then a great favor, which Nicholas seldom bestowed on the Moscow nobility. My father was delight- ed, and already dreamed of a brilliant 358 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. court career for his son; and my step- mother, every time she told the story, never failed to add, It is all because I gave him my blessing before he went to the ball. Madame Nazfmoff was delighted, too, and insisted upon having her portrait painted in the costume in which she looked so beautiful, with me standing at her side. My brother Alexande9s fate, also, was settled not long after this ball. The jubilee of the Izmiylovsk regiment, to which my father had belonged in his youth, was celebrated about this time at St. Petersburg. One night, while all the household was plunged in deep sleep, a three-horse carriage, ringing with the bells attached to the harnesses, stopped at our gate. A man jumped out of it, loudly shouting, Open! An ordinance from his Majesty the Emperor. One can easily imagine the terror which this nocturnal visit spread in our house. My father, trembling, went down to his study. Court-martial, degrada- tion as a soldier, were words which rang then in the ears of every military man; it was a terrible epoch. But Nicholas simply wanted to have the names of the sons of all the officers who had once be- longed to the regiment, in order to send the boys to military schools, if that had not yet been done. A special messenger had been dispatched for that purpose from St. Petersburg to Moscow, and now he called day and night at the houses of the ex-Izmf~ylovsk officers. With a shaking hand my father wrote that his eldest son, Nicholas, was already in the first corps of cadets at Moscow; that his youngest son, Peter, was a can- didate for the corps of pages; and that there remained only his second son, Alex- ander, who had not yet entered the mil- itary career. A few weeks later came a paper informing father of the mon- archs favor. Alexander was ordered to enter a corps of cadets in Orel, a small provincial town. It made my father a deal of trouble, and cost a large sum of money, to get Alexander sent to a corps of cadets at Moscow. This new fa- vor was obtained only in consideration of the fact that our elder brother was in that corps. And thus, owing to the will of Nicho- las I., we had both to receive a military education, though, before we were many years older, we simply hated the military career for its absurdity. But Nicholas was watchful that none of the sons of the nobility should embrace any other profes- sion than the military one, unless they were of infirm health; and so we had all three to be officers, to the great satisfaction of my father. V.. Wealth was measured in those times by the number of souls which a land- ed proprietor owned. So many souls meant so many male serfs: women did not count. My father, who owned near- ly twelve hundred souls, in three differ- ent provinces, and who had, in addition to his peasants holdings, large tracts of land which were cultivated by these pea- sants, was accounted a rich man. He lived up to his reputation, which meant that his house was open to any number of visitors, and that he kept a very large household. We were a family of eight, occasion- ally of ten or twelve; but fifty servants at Moscow, and half as many more in the country, were considered not one too many. Four coachmen to attend a dozen horses, three cooks for the mas- ters and two more for the servants, a dozen men to wait upon us at dinner- time (one man, plate in hand, standing behind each person seated at the table), and girls innumerable in the maid ser- vants room, how could any one do with less than this? Besides, the ambition of every landed proprietor was that everything required for his household should be made at home, by his own men. The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 359 How nicely your piano is always tuned! I suppose Herr Schimmel must be your tuner? perhaps a visitor would remark. To be able to answer, I have my own piano-tuner, was in those times the correct thing. What beautiful pastry! the guests would exclaim, when a work of art, com- posed of ices and pastry, appeared to- ward the end of the dinner. Confess, prince, that it comes from Treinbl6 (the fashionable pastry-cook). It is made by my own confectioner, a pupil of Trembh~, whom I have allowed to show what he can do, was the reply, which elicited general admiration. To have embroideries, harnesses, fur- niture, in fact, everything, made by ones own men was the ideal of the rich and respected landed proprietor. As soon as the children of the servants at- tained the age of ten, they were sent as apprentices to the fashionable shops, where they were obliged to spend five or seven years chiefly in sweeping, in re- ceiving an incredible number of thrash- ings, and in running about town on er- rands of all sorts. I must own that few of them became masters of their respec- tive arts. The tailors and the shoemak- ers were found only skillful enough to make clothes or shoes for the servants, and when a really good pastry was re- quired for a dinner-party it was ordered at Trembl6s, while our own confectioner was beating the drum in the music band. That band was another of my fathers ambitions, and almost every one of his male servants, in addition to other ac- complishments, was a bass-viol or a clari- net in the band. Makar, the piano-tuner, alias under - butler, was also a flutist; Andrei, the tailor, played the French horn; the confectioner was first put to beat the drum, but he misused his in- strument to such a deafening degree that a tremendous trumpet was bought for him, in the hope that his lungs would not have the power to make the same noise as his hands; wben, however, this last hope had to be abandoned, he was sent to be a soldier. As to spotted Tik- hon, in addition to his numerous func- tions in the household as lamp-cleaner, floor-polisher, and footman, he rendered himself useful in the band, to-day as a trombone, to-morrow as a bassoon, and occasionally as second violin. The two first violins were the only ex- ceptions to the rule: they were vio- lins, and nothing else. My father had bought them, with their large families, for a handsome sum of money, from his sisters (he never bought serfs from nor sold them to strangers). In the even- ings when he was not at his club, or when there was a dinner or an evening party at our house, the band of twelve to fif- teen musicians was summoned. They played very nicely, and were in great de- mand for dancing-parties in the neigh- borhood; still more when we were in the country. This was, of course, a constant source of gratification to my father, whose permission had to be asked to get the as- sistance of his band. Nothing, indeed, gave him more plea- sure than to be asked for help, either in the way mentioned or in any other: for instance, to obtain free education for a boy, or to save somebody from a pun- ishment inflicted upon him by a law court. Although he was liable to fall into fits of rage, he was undoubtedly possessed of a natural instinct toward leniency, and when his patronage was asked for he would write scores of letters in all possible directions, to all sorts of persons of high standing, in favor of his prot6g6. At such times, his mail, which was always heavy, would be swollen by half a dozen special letters, written in a most original, semi-official, and semi- humorous style; each of them sealed, of course, with his arms, in a big square envelope, which rattled like a baby-rattle on account of the quantity of sand it con- tained, the use of blotting-paper being then unknown. The more difficult the 360 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. case, the more energy he would display, until he secured the favor he asked for his prot~g~, whom in many cases he never saw. My father liked to have plenty of guests in his house. Our dinner-hour was four, and at seven the family ga- thered round the samovctr (tea-urn) for tea. Every one belonging to our circle could drop in at that hour, and from the time my sister H~li~ne was again with us there was no lack of visitors, old and young, who took advantage of the privi- lege. When the windows facing the street showed bright light inside, that was enough to let people know that the family was at home and friends would be welcome. Nearly every night we had visitors. The green tables were opened in the hail for the card-players, while the ladies and the young people stayed in the reception- room or around H~l~nes piano. When the ladies had gone, card - playing con- tinued sometimes till the small hours of the morning, and considerable sums of money changed hands among the play- ers. Father invariably lost. But the real danger for him was not at home: it was at the English Club, where the stakes were much higher than in private houses, and especially when he was induced to join a party of very respectable gen- tlemen, in one of the most respectable houses of the Old Equerries Quarter, where gambling went on all night. On an occasion of this kind his losses were sure to be heavy. Dancing-parties were not infrequent, to say nothing of a couple of obligatory balls every winter. Fathers way, in such cases, was to have everything done in a good style, whatever the expense. But at the same time such niggardliness was practiced in our house in daily life that if I were to recount it, I should be ac- cused of exaggeration. It is said of a family of pretenders to the throne of France, renowned for their truly regal hunting-parties, that in their every-day life even the tallow candles are minutely counted. The same sort of miserly eco- nomy ruled in our house with regard to everything; so much so that when we, the children of the house, grew up, we detested all saving and counting. How- ever, in the Old Equerries Quarter such a mode of life only raised my father in public esteem. The old prince, it was said, seems to be sharp over money at home; but he knows how a nobleman ought to live. In our quiet and clean lanes that was the kind of life which was most in re- spect. One of our neighbors, General D ,kept his house up in very grand style; and yet the most comical scenes took place every morning between him and his cook. Breakfast over, the old general, smoking his pipe, would himself order the dinner. Well, my boy, he would say to the cook, who appeared in snow-white attire, to-day we shall not be many; only a couple of guests. You will make us a soup, you know, with some spring deli- cacies, green peas, French beans, and so on. You have not given us any as yet, and madam, you know, likes a good French spring soup. Yes, sir. Then, anything you like as an en- tr6e. Yes, sir. Of course, asparagus is not yet in season, but I saw yesterday such nice bundles of it in the shops. Yes, sir; eight shillings the bundle. Quite right! Then, we are sick of your roasted chickens and turkeys; you ought to get something for a change. Some venison, sir? Yes, yes; anything for a change. And when the six courses of the din- ner had been decided on, the old gener- al would ask, Now, how much shall I give you for to - days expenses? Six shillings will do, I suppose? One pound, sir. What nonsense, my boy! Here are The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 361 six shillings; I assure you that s quite enough. Eight shillings for asparagus, five for the vegetables. Now, look here, my dear boy, be rea- sonable. I 11 go as high as seven-and- six, and you must be economical. And the bargaining would go on thus for half an hoar, until the two would agree upon fourteen shillings and six- pence, with the understanding that the morrows dinner should not cost more than three shillings. Whereupon the general, quite happy at having made such a good bargain, would take his sledge, make a round of the fashionable shops, and return quite radiant, bringing for his wife a bottle of exquisite perfume, for which he had paid a fancy price in a French shop, and announcing to his only daughter that a new velvet mantle something very simple and very costly would be sent for her to try on that afternoon. All our relatives, who were numer- ous on my. fathers side, lived exactly in the same way; and if a new spirit occasionally made its appearance, it usually took the form of some religious passion. Thus, a Prince Gagm~rin joined the Jesuit order, again to the scandal of all Moscow; another young prince entered a monastery, while several older ladies became fanatic devotees. There was a single exception. One of our nearest relatives, Prince let me call him Mfrski, had spent his youth at St. Petersburg as an officer of the guard. He took no interest in keeping his own tailors and cabinet-makers, for his house was furnished in a grand modern style, and his wearing apparel was all made in the best St. Petersburg shops. Gambling was not his propensity, he played cards only to keep company with ladies; but his weak point was his dinner-table, upon which he spent incredible sums of money. Lent and Easter were his chief epochs of extravagance. When the Great Lent came, and it would not have been proper to eat meat, cream, or butter, ho seized the opportunity to invent all sorts of delicacies in the way of fish. The best shops of the two capitals were ransacked for that purpose; special emissaries were dispatched from his estate to the mouth of the Y6lga, to bring back on post-horses (there was no railway at that time) a sturgeon of great size or some extraor- dinarily cured fish. And when Easter came, there was no end to his inventions. Easter, in Russia, is the most vener- ated and also the gayest of the yearly festivals. It is the festival of spring. The immense heaps of snow which have been lying during the winter along the streets of Moscow rapidly thaw, and roaring streams run down the streets; not like a thief who creeps in by in- sensible degrees, but frankly and openly spring comes, every day bringing with it a change in the state of the snow and the progress of the buds on the trees; the night frosts only keep the thaw within reasonable bounds. The last week of the Great Lent, Passion Week, was kept in Moscow, in my childhood, with ex- treme solemnity; it was a time of gen- eral mourning, and crowds of people went to the churches to listen to the un- pressive reading of those passages of the Gospels which relate the sufferings of the Christ. Not only were meat, eggs, and butter not eaten, but even fish was refused; some of the most rigorous taking no food at all on Good Friday. The more striking was the contrast when Easter came. On Saturday every one attended the night service, which began in a mourn- ful way. Then, suddenly, at midnight, the resurrection news was announced. All the churches were at once illuminat- ed, and gay peals of bells resounded from the hundreds of sacred edifices. Gen- eral rejoicing began. All the people kissed one another thrice on the cheeks, repeating the resurrection words, and the churches, now flooded with light, shone with the gay toilettes of the ladies. The 362 To Those who Know. poorest woman had a new dress; if she had only one new dress a year, she would get it for that night. At the same time, Easter was, and is still, the signal for a real debauch in eating. Special Easter cream cheeses (paskka) and Easter bread (koclich) are prepared; and every one, no matter how poor he or she may be, must have be it only a small paskha and a small koolich, with at least one egg painted red, to be consecrated in the church, and to be used afterward to break the Lent. With most old Russians, eating began at night, after a short Easter mass, immediate- ly after the consecrated food had been brought from church; but in the houses of the nobility the ceremony was post- poned till Sunday morning, when a ta- ble was covered with all sorts of viands, cheeses and pastry, and all the servants came to exchange with their masters three kisses and a red-painted egg. Through- out Easter week a table spread with Easter food stood in the great hall, and every visitor was invited to partake. On this occasion Prince Mirski sur- passed himself. Whether he was at St. Petersburg or at Moscow, messengers brought to his house, from his estate, a specially prepared cream cheese for the paskha, and his cook managed to make out of it a piece of artistic confectionery. Other messengers were dispatched to the province of Novgorod to get a bears ham, which was cured for the princes Easter table. And while the princess, with her twe daughters, visited the most austere monasteries, in which the night service would last three or four hours in succession, and spent all Passion Week in the most mournful condition of mind, eating only a piece of dry bread between the visits she paid to Russian, Roman, and Protestant preachers, her husband made every morning the tour of the well- known Milutin shops at St. Petersburg, where all possible delicacies are brought from the ends of the earth. There he used to select the most extravagant dain- ties for his Easter table. Hundreds of visitors came to his house, and were asked just to taste ~ this or that extraordinary thing. The end of it was that the prince man- aged literally to eat up a considerable fortune. His richly furnished house and beautiful estate were sold, and when he and his wife were old they had nothing left, not even a home, and were com- pelled to live with their children. No wonder that when the emancipa- tion of the serfs came, nearly all these families of the Old Equerries Quarter were ruined. But I must not anticipate events. P. Kropotkin. TO THOSE WHO KNOW. GREETING to those who know, Whose liberated eyes look backward here And see us as we are! We from below Need send no pity to those seers, but fear Lest, guarding not secure our trust, we show But alien faces to such vision clear, And see a distance growing in their eyes, Not born of parting, but of deaths surprise. Henrietta Christian Wri~jht.

362 To Those who Know. poorest woman had a new dress; if she had only one new dress a year, she would get it for that night. At the same time, Easter was, and is still, the signal for a real debauch in eating. Special Easter cream cheeses (paskka) and Easter bread (koclich) are prepared; and every one, no matter how poor he or she may be, must have be it only a small paskha and a small koolich, with at least one egg painted red, to be consecrated in the church, and to be used afterward to break the Lent. With most old Russians, eating began at night, after a short Easter mass, immediate- ly after the consecrated food had been brought from church; but in the houses of the nobility the ceremony was post- poned till Sunday morning, when a ta- ble was covered with all sorts of viands, cheeses and pastry, and all the servants came to exchange with their masters three kisses and a red-painted egg. Through- out Easter week a table spread with Easter food stood in the great hall, and every visitor was invited to partake. On this occasion Prince Mirski sur- passed himself. Whether he was at St. Petersburg or at Moscow, messengers brought to his house, from his estate, a specially prepared cream cheese for the paskha, and his cook managed to make out of it a piece of artistic confectionery. Other messengers were dispatched to the province of Novgorod to get a bears ham, which was cured for the princes Easter table. And while the princess, with her twe daughters, visited the most austere monasteries, in which the night service would last three or four hours in succession, and spent all Passion Week in the most mournful condition of mind, eating only a piece of dry bread between the visits she paid to Russian, Roman, and Protestant preachers, her husband made every morning the tour of the well- known Milutin shops at St. Petersburg, where all possible delicacies are brought from the ends of the earth. There he used to select the most extravagant dain- ties for his Easter table. Hundreds of visitors came to his house, and were asked just to taste ~ this or that extraordinary thing. The end of it was that the prince man- aged literally to eat up a considerable fortune. His richly furnished house and beautiful estate were sold, and when he and his wife were old they had nothing left, not even a home, and were com- pelled to live with their children. No wonder that when the emancipa- tion of the serfs came, nearly all these families of the Old Equerries Quarter were ruined. But I must not anticipate events. P. Kropotkin. TO THOSE WHO KNOW. GREETING to those who know, Whose liberated eyes look backward here And see us as we are! We from below Need send no pity to those seers, but fear Lest, guarding not secure our trust, we show But alien faces to such vision clear, And see a distance growing in their eyes, Not born of parting, but of deaths surprise. Henrietta Christian Wri~jht. A Lawyer with a Style. 363 A LAWYER WITH A STYLE. SIR HENRY MAINE was a lawyer with a style, and belongs, by method and genius, among men of letters. The lit- erary world looks askance upon a law- yer, and is slow to believe that the grim and formal matter of his studies can by any alchemy of style be transmuted into literature. Calfskin seems to it the most unlikely of all bindings to contain any- thing engaging to read. Lawyers, in their turn, are apt to associate the word literature almost exclusively with works of the imagination, and to think style a thing wholly misleading and unscientific. They demand plain busi- ness of their writers, and suspect a book that is pleasing of charlatanry. And yet a really great law writer will often make his way easily and at once into the ranks of men of letters. Blackstones Com- mentaries have been superseded and re- superseded, again and again, by all sorts of changes and restatements of the law of England, but they have lived serenely on through their century and more of assured vitality, and must still be read by every student of the law, in America no less than in England, because of their scope, their virility, their luminous meth- od, their easy combination of system with lucidity, their distinction of style, their quality as of the patriciate of let- ters. It does not seem to make any dif- ference whether they are correct or not, and we return to them, after reading Bentham and Austin, their arch-critics, a little shamefacedly, it may be, to find our zest and relish for them not a whit abated. It is noteworthy that, though the profession has so thumbed and subsisted upon them, they were not written for the profession, but for the young gentlemen of England, whom the learned Vinerian professor wished to in- struct in the institutions of their country. They are stripped as much as might be of technical phrase and detail, and are meant to stand in the general company of books, the servants and instructors of all comers. They are meant for the world, and seem instinctively to make themselves acceptable to it. Sir Henry Maine, whether he was conscious of it or not, won his way to a like standing among men of letters by a like disposition and object. Without ex- ception, I believe, his books were made up out of lectures delivered either to young law students, not yet masters of the technicalities of the law, or to lay audiences, to which professional erudi- tion would have been unintelligible. He never seemed to stand inside the law, while he wrote, but outside; not ex- plaining its interior mysteries, but set- ting its history round about it, show- ing whence it came, whence it took its notions, its forms, its stringent sanctions, what its youth had been, and its growth, and why its maturity showed it come to so hard a fibre of formal doctriac. He viewed it always as something that the general life of man had brought forth, as a natural product of society; and his thought went round about society to compass its explanation. He moves, therefore, in a large region, where it is refreshing to be of his company, where wide prospects open with every comment, and you seem, as he talks, to be upon a tour of the world. Of course this does not explain the style of the man, but that is in any case a mystery. His method of thinking car- ries with it that style; thinking in that way, he must write in that way. You shall not find a near-sighted man looking out for landscapes, nor a man without gift of speech sallying forth to explore the thoughts which he cannot express. I am not going to attempt the heart of the mystery; I do not know whether

A Lawyer with a Style. 363 A LAWYER WITH A STYLE. SIR HENRY MAINE was a lawyer with a style, and belongs, by method and genius, among men of letters. The lit- erary world looks askance upon a law- yer, and is slow to believe that the grim and formal matter of his studies can by any alchemy of style be transmuted into literature. Calfskin seems to it the most unlikely of all bindings to contain any- thing engaging to read. Lawyers, in their turn, are apt to associate the word literature almost exclusively with works of the imagination, and to think style a thing wholly misleading and unscientific. They demand plain busi- ness of their writers, and suspect a book that is pleasing of charlatanry. And yet a really great law writer will often make his way easily and at once into the ranks of men of letters. Blackstones Com- mentaries have been superseded and re- superseded, again and again, by all sorts of changes and restatements of the law of England, but they have lived serenely on through their century and more of assured vitality, and must still be read by every student of the law, in America no less than in England, because of their scope, their virility, their luminous meth- od, their easy combination of system with lucidity, their distinction of style, their quality as of the patriciate of let- ters. It does not seem to make any dif- ference whether they are correct or not, and we return to them, after reading Bentham and Austin, their arch-critics, a little shamefacedly, it may be, to find our zest and relish for them not a whit abated. It is noteworthy that, though the profession has so thumbed and subsisted upon them, they were not written for the profession, but for the young gentlemen of England, whom the learned Vinerian professor wished to in- struct in the institutions of their country. They are stripped as much as might be of technical phrase and detail, and are meant to stand in the general company of books, the servants and instructors of all comers. They are meant for the world, and seem instinctively to make themselves acceptable to it. Sir Henry Maine, whether he was conscious of it or not, won his way to a like standing among men of letters by a like disposition and object. Without ex- ception, I believe, his books were made up out of lectures delivered either to young law students, not yet masters of the technicalities of the law, or to lay audiences, to which professional erudi- tion would have been unintelligible. He never seemed to stand inside the law, while he wrote, but outside; not ex- plaining its interior mysteries, but set- ting its history round about it, show- ing whence it came, whence it took its notions, its forms, its stringent sanctions, what its youth had been, and its growth, and why its maturity showed it come to so hard a fibre of formal doctriac. He viewed it always as something that the general life of man had brought forth, as a natural product of society; and his thought went round about society to compass its explanation. He moves, therefore, in a large region, where it is refreshing to be of his company, where wide prospects open with every comment, and you seem, as he talks, to be upon a tour of the world. Of course this does not explain the style of the man, but that is in any case a mystery. His method of thinking car- ries with it that style; thinking in that way, he must write in that way. You shall not find a near-sighted man looking out for landscapes, nor a man without gift of speech sallying forth to explore the thoughts which he cannot express. I am not going to attempt the heart of the mystery; I do not know whether 364 A Lawyer with a Style. men can think without words or not. I only know that flight is a question of wings, and that you do not find minds without strong pinions poised very high in the spaces of the air. I do not think that Sir Henry Maine himself understood this matter; it was not necessary that he should. In an ad- dress which he delivered to the native students at Calcutta, he warned them, very sensibly, to beware, if they wished to write effective English, of too delib- erately striving to write well. What you should regard, he says, is, not the language, but the thought; and if the thought be clearly and vividly conceived, the proper diction, if the writer be an educated man, will be sure to follow. You have only to look to the greatest masters of English style to satisfy your- selves of the truth of what I have said, and yet his example is not very con- vincing. Look at any one page of Shakespeare. After you have penetrated beneath the poetry and beneath the wit, you will find that the page is perfectly loaded with thought. After you have penetrated beneath the poetry and beneath the wit! This is a dark saying; who shall receive it? After you have penetrated beneath the exquisite form of the features, have ceased to observe the curve of the cheek and the sweet bloom upon it, and the seductive light in the eye, no doubt you shall find flesh and blood; but there is everywhere flesh and blood to be found without line or color to give it dis- tinction. Weight of thought, no doubt, but books by the thousand have been foundered and sunk by mere weight of matter. Sir Henry Maine himself shall not survive by reason of the abundance and validity of his thought, but by rea- son of his form and art. Maine can no more become obsolete through the in- dustry and ingenuity of modern schol- ars, Sir Frederick Pollock declared, than Montesquieu could be made ob- solete by the legislation of Napoleon. Facts will be corrected, the order and proportion of ideas will vary, new diffi- culties will call for new ways of solution, useful knowledge will serve its turn and be forgotten; but in all true genius, per- haps, there is a touch of Art; Maines genius was not only touched with Art, but eminently artistic; and Art is im- mortal. Ay, art is immortal, not thought alone and of itself, but thought perfectly conceived, formed, and vivi- fied. Maine disliked what is called fine writing, as every man of taste must; and he was no coiner of striking phrases. The only sentence he ever wrote which his friends claim to have seen going abroad upon its own merits as a saying is this: Except the blind forces of Nature, nothing moves in this world which is not Greek in its origin, which is neither epigrammatic nor true. Epigrams were not in his way. If the cats question to the ugly duckling in the fairy tale had been put to him, and he had been asked, Can you emit sparks ? he would have been obliged to admit, with the duckling, that he could not; but, like the ugly duckling, he turned out to be a swan, sovereign in grace, if not in dexterity. His style does not play in points of light, but acts far and wide and with a fine suffusion, like the sun in the open. You will best understand the power and the art of the man if you study his life and work, what he did and the man- ner in which he did it. Not that you will know any better, after the story is told than before, how to analyze his power or explain his art; but you will know very clearly just what he was and stood for, of just what he was a mas- ter, and how his mastery displayed it- self. What a master in any art did is always inseparable, in the last analysis, from what he was. The life of a writer has in it little that can be told, and delicate health held Sir Henry Maine always to a very quiet level. He had no adventures as a boy, except that A Lawyer with a Style. 365 his mother and aunt came near kill- ing him with an overdose of opium; and his youth was without any irregu- larity except overstudy, which for a normal youth would be very irregular. His father was a Dr. James Maine, of whom we are told nothing except that he was born at Kelso, near the Scottish border, and that he lived for a short time after his son Henrys birth on the island of Jersey. The boys full name was Henry James Sumner Maine, his godfather being the excellent Dr. Sum- ner, Bishop of Chester, and afterward Archbishop of Canterbury. He was born near Leighton, August 15, 1822. His mother was Eliza Fell, who came of a family of good position living in the neighborhood of Reading. She is said to have been a clever and accom- plished woman, and it turned out that she was to be her gifted sons sole guard- ian. Family difficulties separated her from her husband, and she removed while the lad was in his second year to a re- sidence at Henley - on - Thames. There Henry Maine got his first schooling; thence he went, when he was but seven, to Christs Hospital, where Dr. Sumner had been able to place him; and from Christs Hospital he went, as Exhibi- tioner, to Pembroke College, Cambridge, in 1840, at the age of eighteen, a slender, clear-voiced, alert lad, as fragile, almost, as a tender girl, but full of a masculine energy, which showed in his lively eye, at once bright and deep, per- ceiving and thoughtful, and in his speech, which was very definite and sure of its mark, a lad whom one could have wished to see much in the sun, to put color in his cheeks, but who could not often be drawn away from his books, and showed pale, like the student. He went in for all the prizes, and got most of them; was elected Foundation Scholar of his college; won medals for English verse, Latin hexameters, Latin odes, Greek and Latin epigrams; became Craven University Scholar and Senior Classic; and finally won the Chancel- lors Senior Classical Medal, putting him- self through the unpalatable discipline of taking the honors in mathematics ne- cessary to qualify him for winning it. Pembroke had no vacant fellowship to offer him, but he was made tutor at Trinity Hall immediately upon his grad- uation, in 1844; and three years later, when he was but twenty-five, was ap- pointed Regius Professor of Civil Law. I was curious, said a gentleman who had had the good luck to be coached by Maine at Trinity Hall, I was cu- rious to see how this tutor of mine, so young as he was, about two years my junior, would get on at first. . - . The result removed all doubts and surpassed my most sanguine expectations. I could feel that I was being admirably jockeyed. He had the greatest dexterity in impress. ing his knowledge upon others, made explanations that came to the point at once and could not be misunderstood, corrected mistakes in a way one was not apt to forget, supplied you with endless variety of happy expressions for com- position and dodges in translation; in short, was just the man to make the pace for a pupil who wanted to study. Dodges in translation! Are we to understand that this young gentleman of twenty-two had already learned how to march straight across a subject; how to avoid details, and yet imply them within a general proposition? Here is certain- ly the Henry Maine we have read, with his explanations that come to the point at once and cannot be misunderstood, and his skill at inclusive statement. He was backward to speak before his eld- ers, the same witness tells us, and had the rare merit of being a talker or a lis- tener, as circumstances demanded, but when he did speak put in keen and rapid remarks that told like knock-down blows. This will not do for a descrip- tion of Maines written style. That is not keen and rapid, and there is nothing like the accent of a blow about it It is 366 A Lawye~ with a Style. deliberate, rather, and calm, and makes serene show of strength. But men who write thus, with a sort of restrained and chastened force, often speak in forms more direct and eager. It may well be, besides, that mere illumination has the effect of point, as a perfect illus- tration acts like a stroke of wit, and Maines conversational hits may have seemed keen simply because they shone with light. A crystal will often give out the same sharp line of light that will flash to you from the edge of a swords blade. But we are not con- cerned with that. There is enough in this picture of the young tutor to make it evident that the boy was, as always, father to the man. Those who were intimate with him during these years, says another who knew him then, will not easily forget his face and figure, marked with the delicacy of weak health, but full to overflowing with sensitive nervous energy, his discursive bril- liancy of imagination and intellect, his clear-cut style and precise accuracy of expression, and his absolute power of concentrating himself on the subject im- mediately before him. His mind was so graceful that strangers might have over- looked its strength, while the buoyancy of his enthusiasm was never beyond the controlof the most critical judgment. It was hard to drag bun away from his rooms and his books, even for the ordi- nary minimum of constitutional exercise, though his spirits and width of interest made him at all times a joyous compan- ion. Here was no dig, who loved a book because he liked to sit still and save himself the trouble of thinking, but a youth to whom books were quick; not stuffing him, but setting his faculties in the way to satisfy themselves. It was reported of him, many years afterward, that he could pluck all tbe heart out of a thick volume while another man was reading a hundred pages; and no doubt he liked it, not because it was a book and thick, but because it had a heart in it. It is in such a way and at such a time that a mind fit for mastery learns how to use books. Maine married in 1847, the year he was chosen Regius Professor of Civil Law, married his cousin, Miss Jane Maine. His marriage led him to look for wider fields of employment, and by 1850 he had qualified for and been called to the bar. He soon found practice of his profession go hard with his health, how- ever, and turned more and more away from it, to write for the more serious public prints and exercise his high gifts as a lecturer. Like Walter Bagehot, he had first tried his hand as a writer for the public upon an exposition of the character and purposes of Louis Napo- leon, condemning from the outset the un- constitutional aims which Bagehot was afterward to justify. Bagehot tried to look at the whole matter from a French point of view; Maine looked at it always as an English constitutionalist, and could find no tolerant word for the imperial charlatan, who was just then calling him- self president. So long, he said, as the French common weal moves steadi- ly forward, to strike it down or trip it up, at the cost of turning into gall the best and wholesomest blood in the whole of France, would be a great piece of fool- ishness no less than a great crime. He showed his political sympathies at home by hating Mr. Disraeli very heartily. Already you are manifesting consider- able aptitude for the policy which has conducted your lead~r to eminence, he says to Disraelis followers in 1849, with a biting sneer; already the Jacobin- ical coloring of your language and argu- ment shows that you are not indisposed to alternate conservative commonplace with revolutionary verse and radical prose. All you have to learn is the art of diverting attention while you shift your views, the unintelligible gabble of the thimblerigger as he changes his peas. When you have mastered this ac- complishment, the rest is quite simple. A Lawyer with a Style. 367 There is here good partisan vigor. The strokes are direct and palpable, and show the true zest of the political journalist. In 1852, two years after his call to the bar, Mr. Maine was appointed reader in Roman law and jurisprudence to the Inns of Court, and began courses of pub- lic lectures, in that beautiful hall of the Middle Temple in which Twelfth Night was first acted, which were to lead him to the chief work of his life. But the serious studies of his lectureship did not draw him away from his writing for the public journals. In 1855 the Saturday Review was established, with an extraor- dinary staff of writers, among them the accomplished gentleman who is now the Marquis of Salisbury, Sir William Harcourt, Sir James Stephen, Goldwin Smith, Walter Bagehot, Professor Owen, and Henry Maine. Maine did no less than the rest of this brilliant company to give immediate prestige to the Satur- day Review. Mr. Bagehot used to de- clare his nerves much too delicate to take the direct impact of the Spectator. Its contents were much too pungent and sanguine to be received without due pre- paration, and he always got his wife to break it to him at breakfast; and some of the rest of us have felt much the same way about the Saturday Re- view. Not that it kept the spanking pace given it by these men when they were young; it grew dense in substance, rather, as it grew old, and had finally to be taken in about the proportion of one part to ten parts of water. Maine turned his hand to almost every kind of writing to quicken its pages, and for six years made it his business to enrich it with every matter of thought he could con- tribute. At the very outset of his service as lecturer at the Inns of Court he had been stricken with an illness which near- ly cost him his life; but he came out of it with undaunted spirits and energies not a whit dulled, his thoughts burn- ing within him like flame within an ala- baster vessel. Those who heard him read his lectures were struck by the musical power of his voice, and by the unimpeded flow of his sentences, running clear as crystal; and those who con- versed with him marveled at the ease, the lucidity, the telling force of his talk. It was singularly bright, alert, and de- cided, one of these reports; you could not walk a couple of hundred yards with him without hearing something that in- terested you, and he had the enviable power of raising every subject that was started into a higher atmosphere. In later life he became much more silent, and did not seem to put his intelligence as quickly alongside that of the person to whom he was talking. But it was in this time of high tension and quick play of mind that he did the work which has since held the attention of the world; for in 1861, at the age of thirty-nine9 he published his now celebrated volume on Ancient Law, his first book, and un- questionably his greatest. It was the condensed and perfected substance of his lectures at the Inns ~f Court. It was in one sense not an original work: it was not founded on original research. Its author had broken no new ground and made no discoveries. He had sim- ply taken the best historians of Roman law, great German scholars chiefly, had united and vivified, extended and illustrated, their conclusions in his own comprehensive way; had drawn, with that singularly firm hand of his, the long lines that connected antique states of mind with unquestioned but otherwise inexplicable modern principles of law; had made obscure things luminous, and released a great body of cloistered learn- ing into the world, where common stn dents read and plod and seek to under. stand. What Bagehot says of Sydney Smith we may apply to Maine: he had no fangs for recondite research. No man of our time did so much for the re- vival of the study of Roman law, said a close friend and intimate of Maines, 868 A Lawyer with a Style. after his death; but it is greatly to be doubted whether he had any special fa- miliarity with the Pandects or the Code. He had a power of seeing the general in the particular, says the same friend, which we do not think has been equaled in literary history. His works are full of generalizations which are as remark- able for their clearness and sobriety as for their intrinsic probability, and which are reached, not by any very elaborate study of detailed evidence, but by a kind of intuition. Men who tear the heart out of a thick volume while a slow and careful man reads a hundred pages are not the men to pause over details with a nice scrutiny: they go eagerly on in search of the defining borders of the large land of detail. Persons who suppose that Maines Ancient Law is merely a textbook for lawyers will be very much and very de- lightfully surprised if they will but take it down from the shelf and read it, as much surprised as young law students are who plunge into Blackstone because they must, and find to their astonish- ment that those deep waters are not a little refreshing, and that the law, after all, is no dismal science. The book has that dignity, that spirit, that clear and freshened air, that untechnical dress and manner of the world which belong to the writing of cultured gentlemen who know the touch that makes literature. It is hard to explain, apart from a reading of the book itself, what it is that gives this quality of distinction and charm to An- cient Law. You cannot easily illustrate it by quotations from the book, unless you quote a whole chapter; for Maine was no coiner of phrases, as I have said, and one passage is much like another, no one page of the volume contains its method condensed, its art displayed in little. No doubt, the most typical and ad- mirable parts of the book are those which constitute the warp and woof of the sustained passages of reasoning which are the body of every chapter; but no part of them can easily or fairly be de- tached. In speaking of Maines great work, soon after his death, the London Times says: The style was so lucid, the reasoning was so clear and cogent, the il- lustrative matter was so aptly chosen, the analogies were so dexterously handled, the survey was so broad, the grasp of principles was so firm, the whole fabric of the argument was articulated in so masterly a fashion, that the reader was easily tempted to suppose that Ancient Law must have been as easy to write as it was fascinating to read. But Maine was not a rapid or an easy writer, we are told (and the article was evidently written by some friend who spoke from personal knowledge); it was a matter of infinite pains with him to rear the symmetrical structures he has left us in his published works. But when the work was done, he took the scaffolding away, gathered up his tools, cleared the ground, and left no trace of daily labor. There are no footnotes; there is no discussion of the books and materials out of which he took the finely fitted pieces of his structure; no seams or joints show, no traces of the tool: the work stands single, self-consistent, and com- plete, as if it were a fine, unassisted piece of creation. Everything he wrote reads like the utterance of a very superior person, who speaks always out of his own knowledge, observes from a high coign of vantage, and concludes the matter with an authoritative judgment. And so you get the feeling that he has had no prede- cessors, and fears no successors. I do not say this in disparagement of this great writer; it seems to me ne- cessary to say it simply by way of exe- gesis, the manner is there, and we shall not understand Maine unless we reckon with it. It is partly, perhaps chiefly, due to the absence of footnotes and references. He seems to have cov- ered all this wide field without assist- ance from other authors, and to feel the A Lawyer with a Style. 369 need of no support of extraneous author- ity in any statement. He seems to have found it all out himself. Starting with a little fact here and a venerable tradi- tion there, as one of his critics has said, he lays a foundation with these, and proceeds to build up an edifice from stags to stage, till those who do not watch the process very closely imagine a great deal proved which, in reality, is highly plau- sible conjecture, with the result that much that the author himself puts for- ward as only theory has been assumed to be settled doctrine. You get much the same impression in reading Momm- sen s History of Ronie. Here, too, you are without references, and a bold mas- ter of statement confidently builds up the great story of Rome before your eyes, age by age, the earliest times as definite- ly as the latest, with the air of one who remembers rather than with the caution of one who has heard and been led to in- fer, until at last you are fairly awed, and wonder whether the master will ever gra- ciously vouchsafe to you any hint of his sources of information. But it is more than the mere absence of footnotes: it is also the tone, the tone of perfect confidence. Maines books are one and all books of generalization, of the sort of generalization which sweeps together the details of centuries into a single statement and interpreta- tion. Maine is seldom, in fact, daring or beyond the evidence in his broad judg- ments: they were come at, you shall find, if you will take the pains to test them, by slow consideration and a care- ful elimination of the elements of error; they are sober, too, and without flavor of invention or of radical fancy. They spring always from the reason, never from the literary imagination. There is the air of a scientific calm and dispas- sionateness about them. But, for all that, they are so confidently spoken, they range over such spaces of time and in- ference, look so far abroad upon the for- tunes and policies of men and nations, VOL. LXXXII. NO. 491. 24 have such a spacious way of thought about them, and are set to so high a tune of stately diction that they quite overwhelm us with a sense of their im- portance not only, but of the importance of their author also. A man of the cali- bre of Montesquien and de Tocqueville, the Times calls him. He brought, it says, to the study of law, politics, and institutions an intelligence as pen- etrating as theirs, a grasp of mind as comprehensive, a judgment as sober and impartial, and a method incomparably more searching and fruitful, a style, it might have added, less personal, more cosmic, as if it were conceived by some general intelligence. And this, let it be said at once, is Maines greatness. It would be easy to show that he got prac- tically all of the material of Ancient Law at second hand; it would doubtless be possible to prove that he had no gift for investigation, and, though a man of the widest reading, possessed no real erudi- tion. His power lay in the art and mys- tery of divination. It has been said that he did nothing more than interpret for English lawyers and students of institu- tions the work of the great students of comparative jurisprudence in Germany; but this is not a judgment that can he held by those who are sensible of the ef- fects which lie beyond detail. Without interpretation detail is dead, and Maine was a master of interpretation. Inter- pretation does not merely give details sig- nificance; it adds something of its own, and shows that, at any rate in divination, the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. It is fact enhanced and vitalized by thought. It is the face of learning quickened and made eloquent by the suf- fused color, the swift play of light in the eye, the subtle change of line about the mouth that bring the spirit forth which dwells within. It is, to change the figure, a guide to the high places from which the details of the plain may be seen massed and in proportion not only, hut made more significant also in their relations 370 A Lawyer with a Style. than they are in themselves, added to by the touch of perspective. This is the highest function of learning. It is this, no doubt, which gives us the sense of exhilaration we get in read- ing Maine: we are moving in high spaces, and command always a broad outlook. And yet we are not in the air; there is no uneasy sense of having our feet off the ground. There is in every general- ization that Maine makes a reassuring implication of detail, just as there is in a towering mass of crag and moun- tain: we know somehow that the fine, aspiring lines are carried by granite and rooted in the centre of the solid globe. There is in such writing more than a sense of elevation, however: there is also a sense of movement, the steady drawing on of a great theme, a move- ment strong, regular, smooth, inevitable, like that of a great river, sweeping from view to view, but never turning upon its course, never doubting of its direction, unimpeded, noiseless, more powerful than swift. This large and general power was characteristic of Maine in all that he did. The year after the publication of Ancient Law, he was offered, and ac- cepted, the post of law member in the council of the governor-general of India. He removed to India, and the next seven years of his life were spent in a deep ab- sorption in the affairs of that great de- pendency, which has drawn to its admin- istration so much of the best genius of the English race. He showed in council the same gifts that made him a great writer, those singular gifts of gener- alization, which are, after all, in their last analysis, executive in kind. His method, his writings, and his speeches at the Indian council board, says Sir Alfred Lyall, have had a strong and lasting effect upon all subsequent ways of dealing with matters pertaining to India, whether in science or practical politics. He possessed an extraordinary power of appreciating unfamiliar facts and apparently irrational beliefs, of ex tracting their essence and the principle of their vitality, of separating what still has life and use from what is harmful or obsolete, and of stating the result of the whole operation in some clear and con- vincing sentence. The local expert, he adds, almost with a smile, the local expert, who, after years of labor in the field of observation, found himself with certain indefinite impressions of the meaning or outcome of his collected facts, often found the whole issue of the in- quiry exactly and conclusively stated in one of Maines lucid generalizations. It is odd to learn, after hearing of the mass of difficult work he crowded into those seven years in India, that Maine was sometimes privately charged with indolence and idleness by his colleagues: and yet the charge carries with it a cer- tain interesting significance. To those whose idea of labor is, to be forever poring upon a task, forever plodding from record to record, from memoran- dum to memorandum, he must of course have seemed idle. For all he loved read- ing and preferred his books to a walk abroad, his was not a mind for searching and sorting and annotating. It was a mind, rather, for brooding, and did its work with no outward show of being busy. No man hustles at thinking. The greater sorts of flight are made without noisy beat of wing. Maines appointment in 1862 to be law member of the governor-generals council in India determined the rest of his career: from that time till the end of his life, in 1888, his chief energies were given to the great and arduous busi- ness of governing India. A writer in the Spectator declares him to have been for seven years the avowed, and for twenty-six years the actual, English law- maker for that troublesome depend- ency, and ascribes to him nearly three hundred successful statutes. He left India in 1869, and upon his return to England accepted, in 1870, the position of Corpus Professor of Jurisprudence at A Lawyer with a Style. Oxford, a position specially created that he might occupy it; but in the autumn of the next year, 1871, he was appointed to a seat in the council of the secretary of state for India, and re- turned to the work for which he had so singularly fitted himself. He continued to lecture at Oxford for seven or eight years, speaking every year to an eager and steadily increasing company of seri- ous students in the quiet little hall of Corpus Christi College, and the fruits of his work appeared from time to time in that series of interesting volumes which we now always read along with Ancient Law, as expanded gloss and commen- tary: Village Communities, East and West, published in 1871 ; The Early His- tory of Institutions, published in 1875; and Early Law and Custom, published in 1883. These all grew out of his Ox- ford lectures, or out of articles which he had contributed to the reviews, and are rich with the knowledge he had taken from India and from the later students of institutions in the West. Every man, he says, in an interesting passage to be found in his Village Communities, every man is under a temptation to overrate the importance of the subjects which have more than others occupied his own mind; but it certainly seems to me that two kinds of knowledge are in- dispensable, if the study of historical and philosophical jurisprudence is to be car- ried very far in England, knowledge of India and knowledge of Roman law: of India, because it is the great repository of verifiable phenomena of ancient usage and ancient juridical thought; of Roman law, because, viewed in the whole course of its development, it connects these an- cient usages and this ancient juridical thought with the legal ideas of our own day. Ignorance of India he thought more discreditable to Englishmen than ignorance of Roman law, and at the same time more unintelligible in them. It is more discreditable, he said, be- cause it requires no very intimate ac quaintance with contemporary foreign opinion to recognize the abiding truth of de Tocquevilles remark, that the con- quest and government of India are real- ly the achievements in the history of a people which it is the fashion abroad to consider unromantic. The ignorance is, moreover, unintelligible, because know- ledge on the subject is extremely plenti- ful and extremely accessible, since Eng- lish society is full of men who have made it the study of a life pursued with an ardor of public spirit which would be exceptional even in the field of British domestic politics. It is evident from the strong pulse that beats in these sen- tences that a new spirit and a new and absorbing interest have come into the writers mind because of his actual con- tact with the life of the East. It colors henceforth every part of his thought. If there were an ideal Toryism, he writes, in the midst of the general elec- tion of 1885, I should probably be a Tory; but I should not find it easy to say which party I should wish. to win now. The truth is, India and the In- dia Office make one judge public men by standards which have little to do with political opinion. It was in 1885 that his volume on Popular Government showed us how far India and the India Office had formed his opinions. No doubt he was by con- stitution and temperament a Tory, most men of delicate health and cautious thought must be. Now and again some invalid touched with genius gets the air of the sea and the quick currents of the out- of-door world into his blood, as Robert Louis Stevenson did ; but men like Maine dull their blood while they are young by close, confining study, and no subsequent experience can take them out of the at- mosphere of rooms and books. Popular Government is the only book in which Maine leaves his accustomed fields of study to make practical test of his opin- ions in the field of politics, which is, after all, an out-of-door, and not an in- 371 372 A Lawyer with a Style. door world. The book abounds in good things. Its examination of the abstract doctrines which underlie democracy is in his best manner, every sentence of it tells. The style is pointed, too, and animated beyond his wont, hur- ried here and there into a quick pace by force of feeling, by ardor against an adversary. He finds, besides, with his unerring instinct for the heart of a ques- tion, just where the whole theory and practice of democracy show the elements that will make it last or fail. After making all due qualifications, he says, I do not deny to Democracies some portion of the advantage which so mas- culine a thinker as Bentham claimed for them. But, putting this advantage at the highest, it is more than compensated by one great disadvantage. Of all the forms of government, Democracy is by far the most difficult. Little as the governing multitude is conscious of this difficulty, prone as the masses are to aggravate it by their avidity for taking more and more powers into tkeir direct manage- ment, it is a fact which experience has placed beyond all dispute. It is the dif- ficulty of democratic government that mainly accounts for its ephemeral dura- tion. Unquestionably this is true, and is the central truth of the whole matter. He is right, too, beyond gainsaying, when he says that the fact that what is called the will of the people really consists in their adopting the opinion of one person or a few persons admits of a very con- vincing illustration from experience. The ruling multitude will only form an opinion by following the opinion of somebody: it may be, of a great party leader; it may be, of a small local pol- itician; it may be, of an organized as- sociation; it may be, of an impersonal newspaper. But he is wrong and the error is very radical in supposing that democracy really rests on a theory, and is nothing 6ut a form of govern- ment. It is a form of character, where it is successful, a form of national character; and is based, not upon a theo- ry, but upon the steady evolutions of ex- perience. Mr. Morley was not just in describing the book as a rattling politi- cal pamphlet, though he did say some fine things about it. His review of it brought forth, among other things, that fine remark of his, that any human in- stitution will look black if held up against the light that shines in Utopia. But Maine cannot in fairness be called a par- tisan. The real and very astonishing fault of the book is, that its criticism rings false to the standards he had so greatly set up in the works which gave him his high fame. He speaks of de- mocracy in the United States as if it were only one success amidst a host of failures, and had been nullified by the lamentable experiences of France and Spain and the republics of turbulent South America. The stability of the government of the United States is, he admits, a political fact of the first importance; but the inferences which might be drawn from it, he says, are much weakened, if not destroyed, by the remarkable spectacle furnished by the numerous republics set up from the Mexican border-line to the Straits of Magellan. The democracy of North America to be found in Canada no less than in the United States is as natural, as normal, as inevitable a pro- duct of steady, equable, unbroken his- tory as the Corpus Juris of Justinian; and the heady miscarriages of attempted democracy in Spanish countries are as easily and as satisfactorily explicable as the principles of contract or the history of inheritance by will. No champion of the comparative method of historical study ought to have discredited his own canons by comparing things incompara- ble. Maines style in Popular Government is, as I have said, much more spirited than his style elsewhere, and smacks sometimes with a very racy flavor. The short history of the United States, he A Lawyer with a Style. 373 says, has established one momentous negative conclusion. When a democra- cy governs, it is not safe to leave un- settled any important question concern- ing the exercise of public powers. I might give many instances of this, but the most conclusive is the war of seces- sion, which was entirely owing to the omission of the fathers to provide be- forehand for the solution of certain con- stitutional problems, lest they should stir the topic of negro slavery. It would seem that, by a wise Constitution, demo- cracy may be made nearly as calm as water in a great artificial reservoir; but if there is a weak point anywhere in the structure, the mighty force which it con- trols will burst through it and spread de- struction far and near. It was perhaps his style in this book that led the writer of his memoir in the Times to say that his conversation was less epigrammatic than his writings. He did not strive at epigram, and his presence and influence irradiated the society in which he moved rather with a diffused and steady efful- gence than with brilliant but evanescent flashes. This is probably spoken of the later days, in which he had fallen rather silent, the effervescence of youth being quieted and the meditative habit grown strong; but it is a very questionable choice of words to call anything he ever wrote epigrammatic. We are so accus- tomed to dull writers that when we find any vivid significance in what we read, we are apt to attribute it to some trick or turn in the way the thing is put. Maines sentences, in Popular Government, as well as elsewhere and upon less lively themes, break with no sudden light, but are radiant, rather, from end to end, burning steadily and without flash. We see the whole page irradiated, find point in every sentence, and say, out of habit, that it is epigrammatic. But no one sen- tence carries the meaning; it is spread upon the whole page. Honors came thick and fast upon Maine after his return from India. In the spring of 1871, the year in which he accepted a seat in the council at the India Office, he was gazetted Knight Commander of the Star of India, and was henceforth Sir Henry Maine. In 1877 he was chosen Master of Trinity Hall, Cambridge, the college in which, thirty years before, he had coached youngsters in the best dodges in trans- lation, and had delighted a select circle of friends with his luminous talk, and he of course gave up the Corpus Profes- sorship at Oxford to accept it. He still kept his seat and sedulously attended to his work at the council board of the India Office, and continued to reside in London; but he made himself felt at Cambridge none the less, and let no one feel that he was neglecting the duties or letting down the social traditions of the Mastership of Trinity Hall. He was offered the permanent under-secretary- ship of the Home Office in 1885, and in 1886 the chief clerkship of the House of Commons, to succeed Sir Thomas Erskine May. No doubt, as one of his friends has suggested, it was well under- stood that Sir Henry would himself know whether he was fitted for these offices, and could be relied upon to decline them if he was not. He accepted, in 1887, the Whewell Professorship of Inter- national Law at Cambridge, but just made vacant by the retirement of Sir William Harcourt, and in the same year delivered those lectures on disputed ques- tions of international obligation and practice now preserved in a thin volume which we should be very loath to miss from our shelves. It is said that before going to India, in 1862, he had pro- jected, and to a great extent prepared, a work on International Law, intended as a companion to his Ancient Law, and conceived in the same spirit, but that when he returned from India the manu- script of this work could not be found, and was never recovered. Like the true scholar lie was, he took the loss very cheerfully, assured that what he could 374 A Lawyer with a Style. write upon the subject now would be much more full-bodied and much more abreast of the best scholarship than what he had written then; but alas! he was not to do the work he had projected, af- ter all. He died suddenly, of apoplexy, February 3, 1888, at Cannes, whither he had gone, alone, expecting to recuperate, not looking for the end; and we have only his first lectures, unrevised. They are singularly finished in tone, manner, and substance, like everything he wrote, but they are only a fragment of what he meant to do. His friends thought, when he was gone, not of the great writer whom the world had lost, but of the genial, sweet- spirited, enlightened gentleman who would never again make their gatherings bright with his presence. The general world of society and of affairs had never known Sir Henry Maine. He gave the best energies of his life to public duty, to the administration of India; but he rendered his service at quiet council boards, whose debates were of business, not of questions of politics, and did not find their way into the public prints. He had no taste for publicity; preferred the secluded groups that gathered about him in the little hall of Corpus Christi to any assembly of the people. He did not have strong popular sympathies, in- deed, and disdained to attempt the gen- eral ear. He loved knowledge, and was indifferent to opinion. It perhaps went along with his delicate physique and sensitive temperament that he should shrink from crowds and distrust the populace. His quickness of apprehen- sion, power of expression, and luminous intuition, the writer in the Saturday Review tells us, would perhaps have led an uninformed observer to the conclu- sion that their possessor had the tem- perament of a poetical enthusiast. But no greater mistake, he declares, could have been made. They were as- sociated with a temperament which was liable to err on the side of caution, re- gard to actual circumstances, and a total absence of any sort of enthusiasm or illu- sion. And certainly no man who is with- out any sort of enthusiasm or illusion can easily be a democrat or a politician; for he will take democracy in the ab- stract, as Maine did, instead of taking it practically and in the bulk, and will lack that serviceable confidence in good aver- age sense and sober second thought on the part of the people, which leaders have and are justified in having among a self-possessed populace accustomed to the drill and orderly action of self-gov- ernment. But immediate leadership was not Maines function. It was his suit- able part in the world to clarify know- ledge, to show it in its large proportions and long significance to those who could see. His mind was an exquisitely tem- pered instrument of judgment and inter- pretation. It touched knowledge with a revealing, almost with a creative, pow- er, and as if the large relationships of fact and principle were to it the simple first elements of knowledge. He thought always so like a seer, moved always in so serene an air! His world seemed to be kept always clear of mists and clouds, as if it were blown through with steady trade-winds, which brought with them not only pure airs, but also the harmoni- ous sounds and the abiding fragrance of the great round world. Woodrow Wilson. Sir Edward Burne-Jones. 375 SIR EDWARD BURNE-JONES. IT is my intention to give some idea of the man himself, and of his early formative influences, rather than to at- tempt a critical estimate of his work. Of the man, I may say at once that he was a prince among his fellows. In no- bility of nature, in sweetness and charm of tempcrament, in distinction of sen- titnent, in his spiritual outlook, tender, strong, earnest, with an exquisite kindly humor, he won the love as well as the admiration of all who knew him. He had a life so uneventful in external vi- cissitudes that its main features may be told in a few words. What is there to say, he exclaimed once of a great man who had suddenly passed from among us, what is there to say beyond this, that between youth and old age he ever failed nobly, or nobly succeeded? No- thing else is called for. His work is his commentary on life, his biography, his record of spiritual adventure. As for the private individual, he and those dear to him are entitled to look upon the privacies of his intimate life as not only sacred, but as having absolutely no con- cern with the public curiosity. Of Edward Burne-Jones this is cer- tainly true, that his work is his spirit- ual biography; nor could any one who had the privilege of his friendly regard violate wishes so often and emphatically expressed. But, as a matter of fact, he need not have feared those rents in the privacy of his intimate life which death so often discloses. There were none to be revealed. I have been happy in my life, I have heard him say, happy in my friendships, happy in my art; and the only unhappiness I have known, apart from those sorrows which we all have in common, is the unhappiness of that spirit witbin one which is forever haunted by the discrepancy between the dream, the vision, and the possible, and therefore far less the ideal, accomplishment. There could be few greater contrasts than between the presumptive Barne- Jones, as he was fashioned after the pub- lic fancy, and the Burne-Jones of reality. Partly because of the dreamlike beauty and remoteness of most of his work, part- ly because he was seldom seen in public or at social gatherings, and partly because he was known to be a recluse who was never so happy as when in his studio in a quiet region of remoter Kensington, the idea had developed into a common belief that as a man he was a mere dreamer, wholly preoccupied with poetic and symbolical vision, and in his individ- ual outlook as remote from his fellows as in the imaginative expression of his spiritual ideas he was, remote from the sterile actualities of the commonplace. This popular view was as baseless as that which regarded William Morris, be- cause he was the author of The Earthly Paradise and Love is Enough, as the idle dreamer of an empty day. The two friends were in every sense of the word men of the hour as well as of their day, and of that larger day wherein the great and noble endure. A good deal has been said as to Sir Edward Burne - Jones having been a distinguished Welshman. There is too much license in this designation. He was born in England, of parents them- selves born and bred in England; and though it is fairly certain that his recent ancestors were of Cymric stock, there seems to be no absolute surety. What is of interest is his own convic- tion that in nature and temperament he was Celtic, and not English. He held, as some others hold, that the finest spir- itual influences at work in the moulding of contemporary British life, and pre- eminently in the ~sthetic expression of

Sir Edward Burne-Jones. 375 SIR EDWARD BURNE-JONES. IT is my intention to give some idea of the man himself, and of his early formative influences, rather than to at- tempt a critical estimate of his work. Of the man, I may say at once that he was a prince among his fellows. In no- bility of nature, in sweetness and charm of tempcrament, in distinction of sen- titnent, in his spiritual outlook, tender, strong, earnest, with an exquisite kindly humor, he won the love as well as the admiration of all who knew him. He had a life so uneventful in external vi- cissitudes that its main features may be told in a few words. What is there to say, he exclaimed once of a great man who had suddenly passed from among us, what is there to say beyond this, that between youth and old age he ever failed nobly, or nobly succeeded? No- thing else is called for. His work is his commentary on life, his biography, his record of spiritual adventure. As for the private individual, he and those dear to him are entitled to look upon the privacies of his intimate life as not only sacred, but as having absolutely no con- cern with the public curiosity. Of Edward Burne-Jones this is cer- tainly true, that his work is his spirit- ual biography; nor could any one who had the privilege of his friendly regard violate wishes so often and emphatically expressed. But, as a matter of fact, he need not have feared those rents in the privacy of his intimate life which death so often discloses. There were none to be revealed. I have been happy in my life, I have heard him say, happy in my friendships, happy in my art; and the only unhappiness I have known, apart from those sorrows which we all have in common, is the unhappiness of that spirit witbin one which is forever haunted by the discrepancy between the dream, the vision, and the possible, and therefore far less the ideal, accomplishment. There could be few greater contrasts than between the presumptive Barne- Jones, as he was fashioned after the pub- lic fancy, and the Burne-Jones of reality. Partly because of the dreamlike beauty and remoteness of most of his work, part- ly because he was seldom seen in public or at social gatherings, and partly because he was known to be a recluse who was never so happy as when in his studio in a quiet region of remoter Kensington, the idea had developed into a common belief that as a man he was a mere dreamer, wholly preoccupied with poetic and symbolical vision, and in his individ- ual outlook as remote from his fellows as in the imaginative expression of his spiritual ideas he was, remote from the sterile actualities of the commonplace. This popular view was as baseless as that which regarded William Morris, be- cause he was the author of The Earthly Paradise and Love is Enough, as the idle dreamer of an empty day. The two friends were in every sense of the word men of the hour as well as of their day, and of that larger day wherein the great and noble endure. A good deal has been said as to Sir Edward Burne - Jones having been a distinguished Welshman. There is too much license in this designation. He was born in England, of parents them- selves born and bred in England; and though it is fairly certain that his recent ancestors were of Cymric stock, there seems to be no absolute surety. What is of interest is his own convic- tion that in nature and temperament he was Celtic, and not English. He held, as some others hold, that the finest spir- itual influences at work in the moulding of contemporary British life, and pre- eminently in the ~sthetic expression of 376 Sir Edward Burne-Jones. that life, have been, and are, in no small degree, either Celtic or foreign to the Anglo-Saxon. He always maintained that William Morris and iRossetti had done far more to influence the develop- ment of the true spirit of art, howsoever expressed, than Tennyson or Browning. When a friend pointed out to him that Morris, though by birth and blood a Welshman, was English of the English, he would rebut the assertion with humorous emphasis, declaring that he was only one of the Welsh Morrises who had con- quered England; and that if he was nt that, he was certainly a Scandinavian vi- king who had unexpectedly cropped up among the much enduring Saxons. Mor- ris used to laugh, and exclaim, Paint s the thing, Ned, after all! Whereat his friend would suddenly desert the whole question in eager agreement, though be- fore parting he might shoot a Parthian shaft in the guise of But after all, Topsy, you are a viking, and you know it! In other words, he took the wider view. Nationality, I heard him say on one occasion, is an endless snare in art. It s all mere accident. The only inevitable thing, independent of race, time, or circumstance, though of course influenced by these, is genius. It may be as well to add that Celtic sympathies took practical expression in his keen understanding of and eager wish to be in line with Irish, Welsh, and Scottish nationalist aspirations. Charles Stuart Parnell had no stancher adherent in England, and Gladstone had no more eager follower in his dream of a late retribution to unfortunate Ireland, than this painter of other-worldism. It was on August 28, 1833, and in a Birmingham very different from the Birmingham of to - day, that Edward Coley Burne Jones was born. I do not know what authority there is for the statement which I have frequently heard, though I have never seen it in print, which I first heard, indeed, some seven- teen or eighteen years ago, from Rossetti, that the third baptismal name was not Burne, but Bryn. It may or may not be true, also, that it was Rossetti who urged him, at the outset of his career, to drop the Coley, and connect with a hyphen Burne and Jones. Jones is nobody, Rossetti would de- clare, only a particle of a vast mul- tiple! But Burne-Jones, that is un- mistakable! It was an amusing trait in iRossetti that lie was wont to de- signate the good work of this or that friend as the work of and lie would mention the most distinctive name or part name of the person concerned. Thus he would say, Yes, that is Burne- Jones, but this, this here, you know, is only Jones; or, That, now, is the real Holman Hunt, but this here is only Hunt; or, You can hear Tennyson in that, but Alfred wrote the other lines. I recall two amusing instances where Burne-Jones more or less unconscious- ly adopted the same method. He was asked once if he thought William Bell Scott more eminent as a poet or as an artist. I never thought very highly of Bell, he said; then, seeing a look of sur- prise, added, with a humorous twinkle, I liked old Bell Scott old Scotus, as we always called him immensely, and I think William Bell Scott wrote some very fine verse; but I always thought it was a pity that Bell took to painting! The other instance occurred when some one remarked to him that Parnell was only an agitator. Charles Stuart Par- nell, he replied, with emphasis, was one of the greatest public men of our day, and far and away the ablest Irish leader. But Parnehl, resumed the objector; to be again corrected by the other disputant, Charles Stuart Par- nell. On the other hand, Rossetti rarely, if ever, called his friend Burne Jones in intimate life or intimate correspondence. He was always Jones or Ned Jones. Perhaps Ned Jones was the man; Jones, the friend who painted; Burne Jones, Sir Edward Burne-Jones. the man of genius. And as with Ros- setti, so was it with other early friends of the artist. Burne Jones was oniy a dis- tinctive name for the benefit of outsiders. Although the name is now generally hyphened, I do not think that its owner ever wrote it so himself. In any case, long before he became Sir Edward he had ceased to call himself anything other than Burne Jones, as though that were his single surname. His father, Richard Edward Jones, who married Miss Elizabeth Coley, was in business in Birmingham; and it was a dull environment into which his only son was born, for the Birmingham of the early Victorian era was an un- lovely place; but the lads childhood and early boyhood were undisturbed by bitter dreams of the beautiful unattain- able, for the good reason that he was brought up in complete ignorance of such a factor in life as Art. As I have heard Sir Edward declare, his early boyhood was perturbed only on the in- tellectual side. He had a great desire for knowledge, for mental adventure and excitement, a desire continuously starved in his home circle, and for long thwarted by circumstances. My ideal, like that of thousands of other boys, he was wont to add, was to be a pi- rate; but at the back of that craving was, I think, the mere desire to raid the bookshops, and carry off all the sto- ries of adventure, and stirring histories of what boys who had become men had achieved, with, perhaps, as a tapestry background to that, again, a vision of an ideal world of romance, situate nowhere, perhaps, with certainty, but quite cer- tainly beyond the confines of Birming- ham. In childhood, his mental need was sustained, so far as lie could remember, by the Pilgrims Progress, the Book of Martyrs, and Sandford and Merton. No Robinson Crusoe, not even a Swiss Family Robinson, cheered his evenings. I think, he said once, with a twinkle in his eyes, I must have been a very healthy child; for when I was nt eating I was sleeping. Perhaps sometimes I pretended to be sleepy. If I had not become a painter, as- suredly I should have become a book- worm, he said, on an occasion when an eminent Oxford professor was express- ing gratified surprise at the discovery that the man whom he so much admired as a painter was also a scholar, and not only a classical scholar and an eager stu- dent of the literature of all ages, but a scholar in the difficult science of philolo- gy. It was, if I remember right, at the time when Sir Edward was painting the last of the Briar Rose series. Of the two visitors to his studio, one was Mr. Glad- stone. The great statesman quoted two lines in Greek, to the effect that he too was caught in the maze; when Sir Ed- ward at once responded with another Greek couplet, the drift of which was that, deep as the maze was, Theseus found his way therefrom the moment he found the clue. In this quotation occurred a very archaic word, which at once arrested the attention of the eminent Oxonian. Yes, returned the painter, that is a far-traveled word. It came to Greece from beyond the Himalayas; it so- journed in Carthage, and had a long residence in Rome; it may now be found at any moment in any of the Latin tongues; the Welsh and Irish Celts use it, and in all probability it is known to the Finn and the Basque. It may be of general interest to add that two fa..- mous critics have expressed themselves emphatically as to the intellectual pow- ers of the painter, apart from his art: Mr. Ruskin, who many years ago spoke of him as the most cultured artist whom he had ever known, and it must be re- membered that he was acquainted with Rossetti, G. F. Watts, and Holman Hunt; and James Russell Lowell, who declared that, apart from his eminence as a painter, Edward Burne-Jones was in every sense of the word a great man. 378 Sir Edward Burne-Jones. It is pleasant to think that what he lacked so much in his own childhood was given with royal largesse to his children. There could be few more for- tunate childhoods than those of Philip and Margaret Burne-Jones. They had not only beautiful things about them, with the far more important spirit of beauty permeating their lives, and books of the kind to fascinate and stimulate imaginative children, but a father who took keen delight in amusing them with fantastic and often charming drawings, mostly of a humorous nature. There are, probably, very few of those nur- sery drawings now remaining, but those which I have seen are delightful in their humor and gay insouciance. At all times, Burne - Jones found pleasure in amusing his friends with grotesque sketches, skits of friends, acquaintances, and others, and humorous commentaries on topical events. It has been said of him that he might have been a great caricaturist, and, again, a great black- and-white artist, if he had not chosen the better part, and been true to the best that was in him to do. In his own words, written when he was in the early twenties, our work, whatsoever it be, must be the best of its kind, the noblest we can offer. This absolute public severance from his work of all that was not on the same high level of aim has led many people to suppose that he lacked the sense of humor, and that he was, in a word, though so unconvention- al according to the academic standard, a slave to his own convention. This common accusation, however, generally comes, not from a keen sense of the value of humor, as might be supposed, but from a lack of the sense of art. When Edward was about ten years old, his father thought of ultimately ap- prenticing him to a trade, or of getting him into some mercantile house. Hap- pily for art, he decided, when his son was eleven, to send him to a good train- ing school, in order that eventually he might enter the Church. Fortunately, one of the best schools in the kingdom existed in Birmingham, King Edwards School, an ancient foundation established by King Edward in 1522. It was not a leap into the dark; it was a leap into the light. In these words the painter himself was wont to allude to that mo- mentous change in his life. Once he said to me: Broadly speaking, the three determining factors in my life were, first, my fathers decision to send me to King Edwards School and to Oxford; second, my early meeting and lifelong friendship with William Morris, and the influence upon me, both as man and artist, of Rossetti; and third, my relin- quishing the idea of entering the minis- try, and the definite adoption of art as my sole and inevitable vocation. From the first young Burne - Jones proved himself an eager pupil. The head of King Edwards School, at that time, was a very remarkable man, Dr. Prince Lee, afterward to become distin- guished as the Bishop of Manchester; and his intellectual enthusiasm and lofty ideals further enhanced the high quali- ties of those assistants whom he had ob- tained for the school. Any boy who showed eager aptitude was encouraged and helped to the utmost. Again and again the famous painter declared that he owed an almost incalculable debt to King Edwards. I might say, he re- marked to me once, I swam right into that deep, wonderful sea of Greek lit- erature and pagan mythology; and just as I have never forgotten my first visit to France, which gave me a sense of the poetry of background, or my first visit to Siena, where I found my spiritual ancestry in art, so I never can forget my introduction to the beautiful pagan mythology and lovely legends and lit- erature of Greece. In 1852, when he was in his nine- teenth year, he won an Exhibition at Exeter College, Oxford. The impres- sion made upon him by the ancient city Sir Edward Burne-Jones. 379 from the very beginning was inefface- able. But a stranger and more memo- rable event happened just at that time; for on the day that Edward Burne-Jones went up to Exeter College another young man entered it, and with the same intent of taking orders, a young man named William Morris. The two undergradu- ates became friends at once, a friend- ship of supreme value to both, and to Burne-Jones in particular of iucalculable importance. From that day till the death of William Morris the friendship grew in strength and beauty; and when, in 1896, Morris died, the surviving friend felt that he had sustained a loss which no lapse of time could ever set right for him. Sir Edward was never quite him- self afterward. Especially did he miss Morris on Sunday mornings, because for many years it had been their wont to breakfast together and to talk over inti- mately all that so dearly concerned both. It is more than possible that the color- gloom and sombre sentiment pervading the work of Sir Edward Burne-Jones for the last year or two was due more or less directly and paramountly to the loss of his lifelong friend and comrade. There was one personal subject on which William Morris, on his side, could always talk with enthusiasm, and that was his friend Ned Jones. I remem- ber that one day, when I was walking with him from Hyde Park Corner west- ward, near Sloane Street we met an ac- quaintance, who said he had just heard that Burne-Jones had died suddenly at Rottingdean.1 The report had arisen through the misapprehension of a local Brighton reporter, who had heard of the death of a Mr. Penrhyn Jones. But, at the announcement, I thought Morris had received some mortal hurt. His whole expression changed: he seemed ten years older, and his eyes had a look in them I shall never forget. I dont 1 Some years ago Sir Edward Burne-Jones made a change and rest home at Rotting- dean, on the Sussex coast, near Brighton. Of believe it, he blurted out at last. I 11 be damned if I believe it! It s out of the question, I tell you! Then, with an impatient gesture, he flung aside, with that strangely sea-captain-like turn he had, and crossed the road to a post-office, where he telegraphed to his friend. He soon had a reply which gave him infinite relief. If Morris never tired of talking of his friend as he was in the early days, Burne-Jones never tired of talking of these memorable undergraduate days with Morris. The friendship then formed was doubly welcome to each from the disappointment both felt, but Burne- Jones in particular, at the mental apathy and spiritual sluggardliness of those in authority, characteristics shared by the great majority of the undergradu- ates. It seems to have been Morris who first definitely relinquished the idea of taking orders. He thought of becoming an architect, a painter, and already he had begun to write verse. For a while his friend thought of the pursuit of letters. However, in a relatively brief time both fell under the same spell, and life sud- denly revealed definite vistas. Three names were already well known in the small art-loving world of Oxford: these were Millais, Holman Hunt, and Dante Gabriel Rossetti. One day Morris and I discovered that we were face to face with something new and wonderful. It was the opening of the first seal for each of us. It was Rossetti, the poet who was so new and strange a painter, and the painter who wrote poetry with so rare and strange a new note, who appealed to us most, who influenced us most; but we felt the charm, the originality, the novel crea- tive spirit, of each of these men; and, perhaps more than all, the spirit com- mon to them all, in them, but yet be- late years he had his nephew-in-law, Mr. Rud- yard Kipling, as his neighbor. 380 Sir Edward Burne-Jones. yond them, the wonderful, fresh, re- creative spirit of a new day. Thus I have heard Edward Burne-Jones speak, and, to the same effect, William Mor- ris. It is not generally known that the artist made his first public appearance as an author. In that exceedingly rare periodical, The Oxford and Cambridge Magazine of 1856 (twelve parts only were issued), there are two papers mainly on Thackeray, in the January and June numbers. These (and, as I was told by Rossetti, also the interesting article on Ruskins third volume of Modern Paint- ers) were written by Edward Burne- Jones. The few who know that he did write one literary essay have taken it for granted that the paper on The New- comes alone was his; but the second was only the leave-over from the first. In this magazine, each monthly part of which is now literally worth its weight in gold, appeared three of the lovely archaic stories of William Morris and several of his poems, and, of Rossettis, The Blessed Damozel (second lection), The Burden of Nineveh, and The Staff and Scrip. All the contributions were unsigned. For The Story of Chiaro, which Ros- setti entitled Hand and Soul, Burne- Jones had always the most profound admiration. A short time after Rosset- tis death he thought of painting one or more pictures illustrative of The Story of Chiaro, but, so far as I am aware, he never did so. I recollect that, not long subsequent to the death of Wil- liam Morris, Sir Edward spoke to me about the extraordinary impression Hand and Soul had made upon Morris and himself, when they first read it, which memorable event occurred one afternoon by Isis side, William Morris being the reader. We were both so overcome that we could not speak a word about it. It was on this occasion, too, that the painter told me he had never yet fulfilled an almost lifelong intention, namely, to paint a picture of the Death of Gertha. No other of William Morriss early writings had so great a fascination for him as the beautiful romantic tale Ger- thas Lovers, which his friend had writ- ten in his company, under the willows by the riverside. I asked him what particular scene or event he had wished to make the subject of his picture, and he replied: The opening and the clos- ing sentences always invited me in an indescribable way, but the motive par excellence was that of Gertha after death, in the chapter entitled What Edith the Handmaiden saw from the War-Saddle, where the beautiful queen lies on the battlefield with the blue speedwell about her pale face, while a soft wind rustles the sunset-lit aspens overhead. Here is the passage alluded to : So there lay down Gertha, and the blue speedwell kissed her white cheek; there her breath left her, and she lay very still, while the wind passed over her now and then, with hands laid across her breast. [And there Edith her hand- maiden found her] lying dead among the flowers, with her hands crossed over her breast, and a soft wind that caine from the place where the sun had set shook the aspen leaves. Yes, I must paint Gertha before I die, lie added, and the more so now that dear Morris is gone. It will be like living over my youth, our youth, again. The writings of Ruskin, the strange new poetry and the strange new roman- tic art of Rossetti, the pictorial intensity and symbolism of Holman Hunt, were perhaps the chief causes which brought about that vital change in the life of Burne - Jomics and of Wihliani Morris which resulted in their giving up the idea of entering the Church. But there were other personal influences of mo- mnent. There was, too, time spirit of change in the, air, the spirit of a new era, of a deep and potent renaissance. Rus- kin, Carlyle, Thackeray, these great Sir Edward Burne-Jones. 381 ones, each in his own way, had already exercised an extraordinary influence upon the keenest spirits of the new gen- eration. Charles Kingsley and others wrought to the same end. The world of art had awakened, and was full of rumors. A vast wave of resentment, almost of hostility, had begun to rise against this new, unexpected tide. It was a day of revolution. Long before the two friends left Ox- ford they had discovered that they too were of those who had the shaping and making powers. The discovery was an intoxication to them, and from that mo- ment their development was so rapid as to surprise both themselves and their friends. Morris was now almost cease- lessly preoccupied with both pen and pencil; for, like iRossetti, he had from the first a dual genius, as poet and painter. Burne-Jones hardly let pass a day in which, with swift if unregulated technical advance, he did not find some expression in romantic pen - and - ink designs of remarkable richness and quality, as Mr. William Rossetti has recorded. I am not sure whether it was before he left Oxford that Burne-Jones made another friendship, destined to be one of the three most noteworthy in his life, the friendship of Mr. Swinburne. This great poet won the love and admi- ration of all that brilliant band whose work was to bring about a revolution in the art and literature of their country, and among those whose genius he at once recognized was the young painter. He already knew Rossetti, Morris, and others of only less wonderful power and pro- mise; but it was to the still relatively unknown artist that, in 1866, he dedi- cated his Poems and Ballads affection- ately and admiringly. Mr. Swinburne made Rossettis ac- quaintance in 1857, while the painter was busy upon his fresco work in the Union at Oxford. In Rossettis own words, it was his first meeting with immediately convincing and unmistak- able genius. The meeting, in its after results, was a memorable one for the four greatest among these new ~ IRossetti, Swinburne, William Morris, and Burne-Jones. When, toward the end of 1855, Burne- Jones left Oxford for London, he had one great wish, to see Dante Gabriel Rossetti, already his accepted leader, the pioneer. Modest and distrustful of his own powers, he did not think of seeking an interview with the poet-paint- er, but hoped to be able to obtain at least a glimpse, to see the face and hear the voice of the man who had so pro- foundly influenced him. The meeting took place at one of the evening classes for drawing at the College for Working Men, in Great Titchfleld Street, where, the eager aspirant had heard, Rossetti gave instruction in design on certain evenings each week. The young artist not only won the friendship of Rossetti, but was encour- aged to devote himself wholly and en- thusiastically to art. An instance of his rapid development, and at the same time of Rossettis magnanimity, is afforded in an interesting anecdote, long familiar in the circle: that when Rossetti went to see how his young friend was getting on, and asked for the drawings of his own which he had lent him, he was so much impressed by the excellence of the work of his disciple that he tore up his sketches, remarking, You have no more to learn from these. It was Rossetti, too, who transformed Burne-Joness vague dream of an ulti- mate art career into actuality. He had already made up his mind not to enter the Church, but he had still his degree to take and another half-year to spend at Oxford; and then, too, there was the keen disappointment of his father to reckon with. Carlyle with his gospel of work, Ruskin with his gospel of spiritual duty, Rossetti with his gospel of beauty, were not his masters for nothing. He 882 Sir Edward Burne-Jones. did as they would have done, and the outcome was his splendid justification. Naturally, Rossetti being the generous and magnanimous man he was, he did everything he could to help the new- comer. It was he who was instrumental in procuring Burne-Joness first commis- sion in a branch of art that he after- ward made peculiarly his own; for on the advice of the elder man one Mr. Powell entrusted to the young artist a commission for stained-glass windows. His friend also introduced him to Mr. Ruskin, who in time became a helpful patron as well as an ardent admirer of his work. Burne-Jones painted mostly in water- colors till about 1868, when in the beau- tiful Chant dAmour he made a new departure. In 185859 he painted in tempera his first Arthurian subject, that of Merlin and Nimue. Some of his drawings of this period are wonderful for their beauty and originality, notably the Sidonia the Sorceress drawings. Be- tween 1858 and 1868 he painted some of his loveliest work in water-color: The Annunciation, Summer Snow, Cupids Forge, Blind Love, King Ren6s Honey- moon, Theseus and Ariadne, Laus Ye- neris (186178), Tristram and Yseult, The Enchantments of Nimue, Fatima, Morgan le Fay, The Merciful Knight, The Wine of Circe, Le Chant dAmour (1865, first version), Chaucers Dream, Cupid and Psyche, Astrologia, St. The- ophilus and the Angel, and others. In 1866 he painted a St. George and the Dragon in oils, in 1868 Green Summer, and in the same year, a few months ear- lier, began the (small) Mirror of Venus, which, however, was not finished till 1877. In this period, also, he achieved much lovely work in cartoons for stained- glass windows, beginning in 1857 with Adam and Eve, The Tower of Babel, and King Solomon and the Queen of Sheba, for St. Andrews College, Brad- field, Berks. In extent, in beauty, in endless imaginative fecundity, Burne- Joness work in this branch is something to marvel at. From 1857 till 1897 he never ceased to work at these cartoons, and in those forty years he added more beauty to the churches, colleges, and public buildings of Great Britain than any other English artist, of any time or period, has done. It was in 1868 that he began often- er to paint his pictures in oil, though he was always preeminently fond of water- color as a medium, and practiced it till the end. With the large oil picture of Le Chant dAmour (begun in 1868, and finished in 1877) what a superb series of masterpieces is inaugurated! Pyg- malion and the Image, The Hours, the first small Briar Rose series of three, Pan and Psyche, The Beguiling of Mer- lin, the noble Feast of Peleus, The Mir- ror of Venus, Laus Veneris (187378), Hero, Dana~, The Golden Stairs, For- tune, King Cophetna and the Beggar Maid, Perseus and the Grake, The Briar Wood (188490), The Depths of the Sea, Flamma Vestalis, The Garden of Pan, Dana~ and the Brazen Tower, The Heart of the Rose, and so forth. In water - color (mostly on a large scale) he achieved, in the last thirty years of his life, some of the most beau- tiful work ever painted in England: such, for instance, as The Hesperides, The Heart Desires (Pygmalion), Love among the Ruins, Fortune, Fame, Ob- livion, Love, Summer, The Sleeping Beauty, the Angels of Creation, Pyra- mus and Thisbe, The Bath of Venus, Dies Domini, The Star of Bethlehem. From the wonderful little drawing of 1856, The Waxen Image, to The Briar Rose and the work of the last few years, what a record! No man in our time has given himself more wholly, more whole-heartedly, to the quest of beauty. At the time of The Waxen Image drawing he shared rooms at 17 Red Lion Square with William Morris, and it was to this companionship he, owed Sir Edward Burne-Jones., 383 his lifelong devotion to Chaucer, so often the source of his finest inspiration. The next great influence in his life was a visit to Italy which he made in the autumn of 1859. He came back profoundly impressed by what he had seen in Pisa, Florence, and Siena; in- deed, for the noble and dignified art of the great Sienese he conceived then, and ever maintained, a supreme admira- tion. A second visit, in the company of Mr. iRuskin, was made in the summer of 1862, and this time he went to Venice. Here Burne-Jones discovered that his truest powers lay, not in the direction of Venetian splendor, but in that of the dignity, the austerity, the lofty spiritual aristocracy of the art of Siena. From Venice he wrote to Rossetti a letter with an interesting note in it: The other day I saw a letter of Titians. The handwriting was, absolutely, exactly like yours, as like as a forged letter of yours could be; the whole writing a lit- tle bit bigger, I think, but the shapes of the letters as exact as could be. On his first return from Italy, Burne- Jones settled in rooms near Fitzroy Square, at the corner of Howland Street; and in 1861 he went to Great Russell Street, where his first public honor came to him in 1863, with his election to an associateship of the Royal Society of Painters in Water Colours. In 1865 he moved again to a charming old house in Kensington Square, and in the au- tumn paid a long painting visit to Morris, who was then settled at The Red House, which he had built for him- self at Bexley Heath, in Kent. It was in 1867 that be moved finally to the quietly situated and fascinating old house and garden in West Kensington, The Grange, which was his home ever after, and where he died. At The Grange, and at his country or seaside home at Rottingdean, he spent the happiest years of his life. Not long after his friend Rossetti had married the beautiful Miss Siddal, and his comrade William Morris had mar- ried the still more beautiful Miss Bur- den, he was himself wedded to a lady of great distinction and charm, Miss Georgina Macdonald. One of this ladys sisters is now Lady Poynter, wife of the director of the National Gallery, and another is the mother of Mr. Rudyard Kipling. Of the two children of a very happy marriage, one, Margaret (whose lovely portrait is familiar to all admirers of her fathers art), is now Mrs. Mackail, the wife of a distinguished scholar and man of letters; and the other, Philip, now Sir Philip, is a painter who has won re- pute for himself, handicapped though he was by the great name of his father. From the time of his marriage Burne- Joness career is a record of unbroken success, though for many years against a public sentiment of hostility or ignorant amusement, a sentiment fed by igno- rant and bigoted critics. It was not till the establishment of the Grosvenor Gal- lery, in 1877, that he suddenly, though amid a still prevalent disparngement, be- came recognized as one of the great- est of English artists. The story of his work and triumphs is a stirring one. He won happiness, fame, and all the honors he could care for; he achieved an al- most unparalleled success; from first to last he never pandered to any low tastes or unworthy demands, but was ever true to his own ideals; he enjoyed the friend- ship and sympathy of the greatest men of his time; and he died suddenly, in the midst of his work, leaving behind him a great and unsullied name, and a fame which we may confidently trust the future to estimate aright. William Sharp. 384 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. REMINISCENCES OF AN ASTRONOMER. II. As I have already remarked, we were going from England to Gibraltar to ob- serve the total eclipse of the sun. A large party of English astronomers were going to Algeria for the same purpose. The government had fitted up a naval transport for their use, and as I was ar- ranging for a passage on a P. & 0. ship we received a cordial invitation to be- come the guests of the English party. Among those on board were Professor Tyndall; Mr. Huggins, the spectroscopist; Sir Erastus Oininaney, a retired English admiral, and a Fellow of the Royal So- ciety; Father Perry, a well-known as- tronomer; and Lieutenant Wharton, who afterward became hydrographer to the Admiralty. The sprightliest man on board was Pro- fessor Tyndall. He made up for the ab- sence of mountains by climbing to every part of the ship he could reach. One day he climbed the shrouds to the main- top, and stood surveying the scene as if he fancied himself on top of the Matter- horn. A sailor followed him, and drew a chalk-line around his feet. I assume the reader knows what this means; if he does not, he can learn by straying into the sailors quarters the first tune he is on board an ocean steamer. But the pro- fessor absolutely refused to take the hint. We had a rather rough passage, from which Father Perry was the greatest sufferer. One day he heard a laugh from the only lady on board, who was in the adjoining stateroom. Who can laugh at such a time as this! he exclaimed. He made a vow that he would never go on the ocean again, even if the sun and moon fought for a month. But the vows of a seasick passenger are forgotten sooner than any others I know of; and it was only four years later that Father Perry made a voyage to Kerguelen Island, in the stormiest ocean on the globe, to ob- serve a transit of Venus. Off the coast of Spain, the leading- chains of the rudder got loose, during a gale in the middle of the night, and the steering apparatus had to be disconnect- ed in order to tighten them. The ship veered round into the trough of the sea, and rolled so heavily that a table, twenty or thirty feet long, in the saloon, broke from its fastenings, and began to dance around the cabin with such a racket that some of the passengers feared for the safety of the ship. Just how much of a storm there was I cannot say, believing that it is never worth while for a pas- senger to leave his berth, if there is any danger of a ship foundering in a gale. But in Professor Tyndalls opinion we had a narrow escape. On arriving at Gibraltar, he wrote a glowing account of the storm to the London Times, in which he described the feelings of a philosopher while standing on the stern of a rolling ship in an ocean storm, without quite knowing whether she was going to sink or swim. The letter was anonymous, which gave Admiral Ommaney an ex- cellent opportunity to write as caustic a reply as he chose, under the signature of A Naval Officer. He said that sailor was fortunate who could arrange with the clerk of the weather never to have a worse storm in crossing the Bay of Biscay than the one we had experi- enced. We touched at Cadiz, and anchored for a few hours, but did not go ashore. The Brooklyn, an American man-of- war, was in the harbor, but there was no opportunity to communicate with her, though I knew a friend of mine was on board. Gibraltar is the greatest Babel in the world. I wrote home: The principal

384 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. REMINISCENCES OF AN ASTRONOMER. II. As I have already remarked, we were going from England to Gibraltar to ob- serve the total eclipse of the sun. A large party of English astronomers were going to Algeria for the same purpose. The government had fitted up a naval transport for their use, and as I was ar- ranging for a passage on a P. & 0. ship we received a cordial invitation to be- come the guests of the English party. Among those on board were Professor Tyndall; Mr. Huggins, the spectroscopist; Sir Erastus Oininaney, a retired English admiral, and a Fellow of the Royal So- ciety; Father Perry, a well-known as- tronomer; and Lieutenant Wharton, who afterward became hydrographer to the Admiralty. The sprightliest man on board was Pro- fessor Tyndall. He made up for the ab- sence of mountains by climbing to every part of the ship he could reach. One day he climbed the shrouds to the main- top, and stood surveying the scene as if he fancied himself on top of the Matter- horn. A sailor followed him, and drew a chalk-line around his feet. I assume the reader knows what this means; if he does not, he can learn by straying into the sailors quarters the first tune he is on board an ocean steamer. But the pro- fessor absolutely refused to take the hint. We had a rather rough passage, from which Father Perry was the greatest sufferer. One day he heard a laugh from the only lady on board, who was in the adjoining stateroom. Who can laugh at such a time as this! he exclaimed. He made a vow that he would never go on the ocean again, even if the sun and moon fought for a month. But the vows of a seasick passenger are forgotten sooner than any others I know of; and it was only four years later that Father Perry made a voyage to Kerguelen Island, in the stormiest ocean on the globe, to ob- serve a transit of Venus. Off the coast of Spain, the leading- chains of the rudder got loose, during a gale in the middle of the night, and the steering apparatus had to be disconnect- ed in order to tighten them. The ship veered round into the trough of the sea, and rolled so heavily that a table, twenty or thirty feet long, in the saloon, broke from its fastenings, and began to dance around the cabin with such a racket that some of the passengers feared for the safety of the ship. Just how much of a storm there was I cannot say, believing that it is never worth while for a pas- senger to leave his berth, if there is any danger of a ship foundering in a gale. But in Professor Tyndalls opinion we had a narrow escape. On arriving at Gibraltar, he wrote a glowing account of the storm to the London Times, in which he described the feelings of a philosopher while standing on the stern of a rolling ship in an ocean storm, without quite knowing whether she was going to sink or swim. The letter was anonymous, which gave Admiral Ommaney an ex- cellent opportunity to write as caustic a reply as he chose, under the signature of A Naval Officer. He said that sailor was fortunate who could arrange with the clerk of the weather never to have a worse storm in crossing the Bay of Biscay than the one we had experi- enced. We touched at Cadiz, and anchored for a few hours, but did not go ashore. The Brooklyn, an American man-of- war, was in the harbor, but there was no opportunity to communicate with her, though I knew a friend of mine was on board. Gibraltar is the greatest Babel in the world. I wrote home: The principal Beminiscences of an Astronomer. 385 languages spoken at this hotel are Eng- lish, Spanish, Moorish, French, Italian, German, and Danish. I do not know what languages they speak at the other hotels. Moorish and Spanish are the local tongues, and of course English is the official one; but the traders and com- mercial travelers speak nearly every lan- guage one ever heard. I hired a Moor who bore some title which indicated that he was a descend- ant of the Caliphs, and by which he had to be addressed to do chores and act as general assistant. One of the first things I did, the morning after my ar- rival, was to choose a convenient point on one of the stone parapets for taking the sun, in order to test the running of my chronometer. I had some sus- picion as to the result, but was willing to be amused. A sentinel speedily in- formed me that no sights were allowed to be taken on the fortification. I told him I was taking sights on the sun, not on the fortification. But be was inex- orable; the rule was that no sights of any sort could be taken without a per- mit. Isoon learned from Mr. Sprague, the American consul, who the proper officer was to issue the permit, which I was assured would be granted without the slightest difficulty. The consul presented me to the mili- tary governor of the place, General Sir Fenwick Williams of Kars. He was a man whom it was very interesting to meet. His heroic defense of the town whose name was added to his own as a part of his title was still fresh in mens minds. It had won him the order of the Bath in England, the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor and a sword from Napoleon III., and the usual num- ber of lesser distinctions. The mili- tary governor, the sole authority and viceroy of the Queen in the fortress, is treated with the deference due to an ex- alted personage; but this deference so strengthens the dignity of the position that the holder may be frank and hearty VOL. LXXXII. i~o. 491. 25 at his own pleasure, without danger of impairing it. Certainly, we found Sir Fenwick a most genial and charming gentleman. The Alabama claims were then in their acute stage, and he ex- pressed the earnest hope that the two nations would not proceed to cutting each others throats over theni. There was no need of troubling the governor with such a detail as that of a permit to take sights; but the consul ventured to relate my experience of the morning. He took the information in a way which showed that England, in making him a general, had lost a good diplomatist. Instead of treating the mat- ter seriously, which would have implied that we did not fully understand the sit- uation, he professed to be greatly amused, and said it reminded him of the case of an old lady in Punch who had to pass a surveyor in the street, behind a theodo- lite. Please, sir, dont shoot till I get past, she begged. Before leaving England, I had made very elaborate arrangements, both with the Astronomer Royal and with the tele- graph companies, to determine the longi- tude of Gibraltar by telegraphic signals. The most difficult part of the operation was the transfer of the signals from the end of the land line into the cable, which had to be done by hand, because the cable. companies were not willing to trust to an automatic action of any sort between the~ land line and the cable. It was there- fore necessary to show the operator at the point of junction how signals were to~ be transmitted. This required a jour- ney to Port Curno, at the very end of the Lands end, several miles beyond the terminus of the railway. It was the most old-time place I ever saw; one might have imagined himself thrown. back into the days of the Lancasters. The thatched inn had a hard stone floor, with a layer of loose sand scattered over it as a carpet in the bedroom. My linguistic qualities were put to a severe test in talking with the landlady. But ~386 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. The cable operators were pleasing and in- telligent young gentlemen, and I had no difficulty in making them understand how the work was to be done. I have not seen or heard of them since, but should any one of them chance to see these lines, I wish him to know how pleasantly I remember my visit to his little station. The manager of the cable was Sir James Anderson, who had formerly com- manded a Cunard steamship from Bos- ton, and was well known to the Harvard professors, with whom he was a favorite. I had met him, or at least seen him, at n meeting of the American Academy ten years before, where he was introduced by one of his Harvard friends. After commanding the ship that laid the first Atlantic cable, he was made manager of the cable line from England to Gibraltar. He gave me a letter to the bead opera- tor at Gibraltar, the celebrated de Sauty. I say the celebrated, but may it not be that this appellation can only sug- gest the vanity of all human greatness? It just occurs to me that many of the present generation may not even have heard of the Whispering Boanerges, son of silent thunder, Holding talk with nations, immortalized by Holmes in one of his hu- morously scientific poems. During the two short weeks that the first Atlantic cable transmitted its signals, his fame spread over the land, for the moment ob- scuring by its brilliancy that of Thom- son, Field, and all others who had taken part in designing and laying the cable. On the breaking down of the cable he lapsed into his former obscurity. Tasked him if he had ever seen Holmess produc- tion. He replied that he had received a copy of The Atlantic Monthly contain- hag it from the poet himself, accompanied by a note saying that he might find in it something of interest. He had been overwhelmed with invitations to continue his journey from Newfoundland to the United States and lecture on the cable, but was sensible enough to decline them. The rest of the story of the telegraphic longitude is short. The first news which de Sauty had to give me was that the cable was broken, just where, he did not know, and would not be able soon to discover. After the break was located, an unknown period would be required to raise the cable, find the place, and repair the breach. The weather, on the day of the eclipse, was more than half cloudy, so that I did not succeed in mak- ing observations of such value as would justify my waiting indefinitely for the repair of the cable, and the project of determining the longitude had to be abandoned. I had a mission which was vastly more important than any observation of the eclipse possibly could be. The question of the moons motion was then, as it is now, one of the unsettled ones in math- ematical astronomy. The British gov- ernment, in 1857, had published tables of the moon by Hansen, which were sup- posed to settle the question, at least for one or more centuries. But ten years had not elapsed after the publication be- fore something was found to be wrong, and I suspected that, if the facts could only be brought out, the tables would be found to have been very largely in error for times before the beginning of ac- curate observations in 1750. The most promising place to search for older obser- vations was the Paris observatory; but the Franco-Prussian war made a visit thither impossible at the moment. So we determined to pass the winter at Ber- lin, waiting for the war to close. We went by way of Italy. The Medi- terranean is a charming sea in summer, but in winter is a good deal like the At- lantic. The cause of the blueness of its water is not completely settled; but its sharing this color with Lake Geneva, which is tinged with detritus from the shore, might lead one to ascribe it to substances held in solution. The color Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 387 is noticeable even in the harbor of Malta, to which we had a pleasant though not very smooth passage of five days. Here was our first experience of an Italian town of a generation ago. I had no sooner started to take my first walk than a so-called guide, who spoke what he thought was English, got on my track, and insisted on showing me everything. If I started toward a shop, he ran in before me, invited me in, asked what I would like to buy, and told the shop- man to show the gentleman something. I could not get rid of him till Ireturned to the hotel, and then he had the au- dacity to want a fee for his services. I do not think he got it. Everything of interest was easily seen, and we only stopped to take the first Italian steamer to Messina. We touched at Syracuse and Catania, but did not land. A~tna, from the sea, is one of the grandest sights I ever saw. Its snow- covered cone seems to rise on all sides out of the sea or the plain, and to pene- trate the blue sky. In this it gives an im- pression like that of the Weisshorn seen from Randa, but gains by its isolation. At Messina, of course, our steamer was visited by a commissionnaire, who asked me in good English whether I wanted a hotel. I told him that I had already decided upon a hotel, and therefore did not need his services. But it turned out that he belonged to the very hotel I was going to, and was withal an American, a regular Yankee, in fact, and so obvi- ously honest that I placed myself un- reservedly in his hands, something which I never did, with one of his pro- fession, before or since. He said the first thing was to get our baggage through the custom - house, which he could do without any trouble, at the cost of a franc. He was as good as his word. The Italian custom - house was marked by primitive rigor, and baggage was subjected to a very thorough search. But my man was evidently well known and fully trusted. I was asked to raise the lid of one trunk, which I did; the official looked at it, with his hands inhis pockets, gave a nod, and the affair was over. My Yankee friend collected one franc for that part of the business. He told us all about the place, changed our money so as to take advantage of the premium on gold, and altogether looked out for our interests in a way to do honor to his tribe. I thought there might be some curious story of the way in which a New Englander of such qualities could have got into such a place, but it will have to be left to imagination. We reached the Bay of Naples in the morning twilight, after making an un- successful attempt to locate Scylla and Charybdis. If they ever existed, they must have disappeared. Vesuvius was now and then lighting up the clouds with its intermittent flame. But we had passed a most uncomfortable night, and the morning was wet and chilly. A view requires something more than the objec- tive to make it appreciated, and the effect of a rough voyage and bad weather was such as to deprive of all its beauty what is considered one of the finest views in the world. Moreover, the experience made me so ill natured that I was determined that the custom-house officer at the land- ing should have no fee from me. The only article that could have been subject to duty was on top of everything in the trunk, except a single covering of some loose garment, so that only a touch was necessary to find it. When it came to the examination, the officer threw the top till contemptuously aside, and de- voted himself to a thorough search of the bottom. The only unusual object he stumbled upon was a spyglass inclosed in a shield of morocco. Perhaps a ges- ture and a remark on my part roused his suspicions. He opened the glass, tried to take it to pieces, inspected it in- side and out, and was so disgusted with his failure to find anything contraband in it that he returned everything to the trunk, and let us off. 388 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. It is commonly and quite justly sup- posed that the more familiar the travel- er is with the language of the place he visits, the better he will get along. It is a common experience to find that even when you can pronounce the language, you cannot understand what is said. But there are exceptions to all rules, and cir- cumstances now and then occur in which one thus afflicted has the advantage over the native~ You can talk to him, while he cannot talk to you. There was an amusing case of this kind at Munich. The only train that would take us to Berlin before nightfall of the same day left at eight oclock in the morning, by a certain route. There was at Munich what we call a union station. I stopped at the first ticket-office where I saw the word Berlin on the glass, asked for a ticket good in the train that was going to leave at eight oclock the next morn- ing for Berlin, and took what the seller gave me. He was a stupid-looking fel- low, so when I got to my hotel I showed the ticket to a friend. That is not the ticket that you want at all, said he; it will take you by a circuitous route in a train that does not leave until after nine, and you will not reach Bcrlin un- til long after dark. I went directly back to the station and showed my ticket to the agent. I asked you for a ticket good in the train which leaves at eight o clock. This ticket is not good in that train. Sic haben mich betrilgen. I want you to take the ticket back and return me the money. What you say can I not understand. He expostulated, gesticulated, and fumed, but I kept up the bombardment until he had to surrender. He motioned to me to step round into the office, where he took the ticket and returned the money. I mention the matter be- cause taking back a ticket is said to be quite unusual on a German railway. At Berlin, the leading astronomers, then, as now, were Ftwster, director of the observatory, and Auwers, perma- nent secretary of the Academy of Sci- ences. I was especially interested in the latter, as we had started in life nearly at the same time, and had done much work on similar lines. It was several days before I made his acquaint- ance, as I did not know that the rule on the Continent is that the visitor must make the first call, or at least make it known by direct communication that he would be pleased to see the resident; otherwise it is presumed that lie does not wish to see callers. This is certain- ly the more logical system, but it is not so agreeable to the visiting stranger as ours is. The art of making the latter feel at home is not brought to such per- fection on the Continent as in England; perhaps the French understand it less than any other people. But none can be pleasanter than the Germans, when you once make their acquaintance; and we shall always remember with pleasure the winter we passed in Berlin. To-day, Auwers stands at the head of German astronomy. In him is seen the highest type of the scientific investigator of our time, one perhaps better developed in Germany than in any other country. The work of men of this type is marked by minute and careful research, untir- ing industry in the accumulation of facts, caution in propounding new theories or explanations, and, above all, the absence of effort to gain recognition by being the first to make a discovery. When men are ambitious to figure as New- tons of some great principle, there is a constant temptation to publish unveri- fied speculations which are likely rather to impede than to promote the advance of knowledge. The result of Auwers con- scientiousness is that, notwithstanding his eminence in his science, there are few astronomers of note whose works are less fitted for popular exposition than his. His specialty has been the treat- Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 389 inent of all questions concerning ~he po- sitions and motions of the stars. This work has required accurate observations of position, with elaborate and careful investigations of a kind that offer no feature to attract public attention, and only in exceptional cases lead to conclu- sions that would interest the general read- er. He considers no work as ready for publication until it is completed in every detail, showing in this a conscientious- ness which his fellow astronomers may sometimes have reason to regret, owing to the length of time they have to wait for his conclusions. The old astronomical observations of which I was in quest might well have been made by other astronomers than those of Paris, so while awaiting the end of the war I tried to make a thorough search of the writings of the medheval astronomers in the Royal Libraiy. If one knew exactly what books he wanted, and had plenty of time at his disposal, he would find no difficulty in consulting them in any of the great Continental libraries. But, at the time of my visit, notwithstanding the cordiality with which all the officials, from Professor Lepsius down, were disposed to second my efforts, the process of getting any required book was very elaborate. Although one could obtain a book on the same day he or- dered it, if he went in good time, it was advisable to leave the order the day be- fore, if possible. When, as in the pre- sent case, one book only suggests anoth- er, this a third, and so on, in an endless chain, the carrying on of an extended research is very tedious. One feature of the library strongly impressed me with the comparatively backward state of mathematical science in our own country. As is usual in the great European libraries, those books which are most consulted are placed in the general reading-room, where any one can have access to them, at any moment. It was surprising to see amongst these books a set of Crelles Journal of Mathe matics, and to find it well worn by con~ stant use. At that time, so far as I could learn, there were not more than two or three sets of the Journal in the United States; and these were almost unused. Even the Library of Congress did not contain a set. There has been a great change since that time, a change in which the Johns Hopkins University took the lead, by inviting Sylvester to this country, and starting a mathemati- cal school of the highest grade. Other universities followed its example to such an extent that, to-day, an American stu- dent need not leave his own country to hear a master in any branch of mathe- matics. I believe it was Dr. B. A. Gould who called the Pulkova observatory the astronomical capital of the world. This institution was founded in 1839 by the Emperor INicholas, on the initiative of his greatest astronomer. It is situated some twelve miles south of St. Peters- burg, not far from the railway between that city and Berlin, and gets its name from a peasant village in the neighbor- hood. From its foundation it has taken the lead in exact measurements relating to the motion of the earth and the posi- tions of the principal stars. An impor- tant part of its equipment is an astro- nomical library, which is perhaps the most complete in existence. This, added to all its other attractions, induced me to pay a visit to Pulkova. Otto Struve, the director, had been kind enough to send me a message, expressing the hope that I would pay him a visit, and giving directions about telegraphing in advance, so as to insure the delivery of the dis- patch. The time from Berlin to St. Pe- tersburg is about forty-eight hours, the only through train leaving and arrving in the evening. On the morning of the day that the train was due I sent the dispatch. Early in the afternoon, as the train was stopping at a way station, I saw an official running hastily from one car to another, looking into each with 390 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. some concern. When he came to my door, he asked if I had sent a telegram to Estafetta. I told him I had. He then informed me that Estafetta had not received it. But the train was already beginning to move, so there was no fur- ther chance to get information. The comical part of the matter was that Es- tafetta merely means a post or postman, and that the directions, as Struve had given them, were to have the dispatch sent by postman from the station to Pul- kova. It was late in the evening when the train reached Zarsko-Selo, the railway station for Pulkova, which is about five miles away. The station - master told me that no carriage from Pulkova was waiting for me, which tended to confirm the fear that the dispatch had not been received. After making known my plight, I took a seat in the station and awaited the course of events, in some doubt what to do. Only a few minutes had elapsed when a good-looking peasant, well wrapped in a fur overcoat, with a whip in his hand, looked in at the door, and pronounced very distinctly the words, Observatorio Pulkova. Ah! this is Struves driver at last, thought I, and I followed th~ man to the door. But when I looked at the conveyance, doubt once more supervened. It was scarcely more than a sledge, and was drawn by a sin- gle horse, evidently more familiar with hard work than good feeding. This did not seem exactly the vehicle that the great Russian observatory would send out to meet a visitor; yet it was a far country, and I was not acquainted with its customs. The way in which my doubt was dis- pelled shows that there is one subject besides love on which difference of lan- guage is no bar to the communication of ideas. This is the desire of the uncivi- lized man for a little coin of the realm. In South Africa, Zulu chiefs, who do not know one other word of English, can say shilling with unmistakable distinct- ness. My Russian driver did not know even this little English word, but he knew enough of the universal language. When we had made a good start on the snow-covered prairie, he stopped, looked round at me inquiringly, raised his hand, and stretched out two fingers so that I could see them against the starlit sky. I nodded assent. Then he drew his overcoat tightly around him with a gesture of shivering from the cold, beat his hands upon his breast as if to warm it, and looked at me inquiringly. I nodded again. The bargain was complete. He was to have two rubles for the drive, and a little something besides to comfort his shivering breast. So he could not be Struve s man. There is no welcome warmer than a Russian one, arid none in any country warmer than that which the visiting astronomer receives at an observatory. Great is the contrast between the winter sky of a clear, moonless night and the in- terior of a dining-room, forty feet square, with a big blazing fire at one end and a table in the middle. The fact that the visitor had never before met one of his hosts detracted nothing from the warmth of his reception. The organizer of the observatory, and its first director, was Wilhelm Struve, father of the one who received me, and equally great as man and astronomer. Like many other good Russians, he was the father of a large family. One of his sons was for ten years the Russian minister at Washington. The instru- ments which Struve designed sixty years ago still do the finest work of any in the world; but one may suspect this to be due more to the astronomers who handle them than to the instruments themselves. The air is remarkably clear; the en- trance to St. Petersburg, ten or twelve miles north, is distinctly visible; and Struve told me that during the Crimean war he could see, through the great tele Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 391 scope, the men on the decks of th~ Brit- ish ships besieging Kronstadt, thirty miles away. One drawback from which the astro- nomers suffer is the isolation of the place. The village at the foot of the little hill is inhabited only by peasants, and the astronomers and employees have nearly all to be housed in the observatory build- ings. There is no society but their own nearer than the capitaL At the time of my visit the scientific staff was almost entirely German or Swedish, by birth or language. In the state, two opposing parties are the Russian, which desires the ascendency of the native Muscovites, and the German, which appreciates the fact that the best and most valuable of the Tsars subjects are of German or other foreign descent. During the past twen- ty years the Russian party has gradually got the upper hand; and the result of this ascendency at Pulkova will be looked for with much solicitude by astronomers everywhere. Once a year the lonely life of the as- tronomers is enlivened by a grand feast, that of the Russian New Year. One object of the great dining-room which I have mentioned, the largest room, I be- lieve, in the whole establishment, was to make this feast possible. My visit took place early in March, so that I did not see the celebration; but from what I have heard, the little colony does what it can to make up for a year of ennui. Every twenty-five years it celebrates a jubilee; the second came off in 1889. There is much to interest the visitor in a Russian peasant village, and that of Pulkova has features some of which I have never seen described. Above the door of each log hut is the name of the occupant, and below the name is a rude picture of a bucket, hook, or some other piece of apparatus used in extinguishing fire. Inside, the furniture is certainly meagre enough, yet one could not see why the occupants should be otherwise than comfortable. I know of no good reason why ignorance should imply un- happiness; altogether, there is some good room for believing that the less civilized races can enjoy themselves, in their own way, about as well as we can. What im- pressed me as the one serious hardship of the peasantry was their hours of labor. Just how many hours of the twenty-four these beings find for sleep was not clear to the visitor; they seemed to be at work all day, and at midnight many of them had to start on their way to St. Petersburg with a cartload for the mar- ket. A church ornamented with tinsel is a feature of every Russian village; so also are the priests. The only two I saw were sitting on a fence, wearing gar- ments that did not give evidence of hav- ing known water since they were made~ One great drawback to the growth of manufactures in Russia is the number of feast days, on which the native operators must one and all abandon their work, re- gardless of consequences. The astronomical observations made at Pulkova are not published annually, as are those made at most of the other national observatories, but a volume re- lating to one subject is issued whenever the work is done. When I was there, the volumes containing the earlier me- ridian observations were in press. Struve and his chief assistant, Dr. Wagner,used to pore nightly over the proof sheets, be- stowing on every word and detail a mi- nute attention which less patient astro- nomers would have found extremely irk- some. Dr. Wagner was a son-in-law of Han- sen, the astronomer of the little ducal observatory at Gotha, as was also our Bayard Taylor. My first meeting with Hansen, which occurred after my re- turn to Berlin, was not devoid of inter- est. Modest as was the public position that he held, he may now fairly be con- sidered the greatest master of celestial mechanics since Laplace. In what or- der Leverrier, Delaunay, Adams, and Hill should follow him, it is not neces 892 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. sary to decide. To many readers, it will seem singular to place any name ahead of that of the master who pointed out the position of Neptune before a human eye had ever recognized it. But this achievement, great as it was, was more remarkable for its boldness and brilliancy than for its inherent difficulty. If the work had to be done over again to-day, there are a number of young men who would be as successful as Leverrier; but there are none who would attempt to re- invent the methods of Hansen, or even to improve radically upon them. Their main feature is the devising of new and refined methods of computing the vari- ations in the motions of a planet pro- duced by the attraction of all the other planets. As Laplace left this subject, the general character of these variations could be determined without difficulty, but the computations could not be made with mathematical exactness. Hansens methods led to results so precise that, if they were fully carried out, it is doubtful whether any deviation between the pre- dicted and the observed motions of a planet could be detected by the most re- fined observation. At the time of my visit Mrs. Wagner was suffering from a severe illness, of which the crisis passed while I was at Pulkova, and left her, as was supposed, on the road to recovery. I was, of course, very desirous of meeting so famous a man as Hansen. He was expected to preside at a session of the German com- mission on the transit of Venus, which was to be held in Berlin about the time of my return thither from Pulkova. The opportunity was therefore open of bring- ing a message of good news from his daughter. Apart from this, the prospect of the meeting might have been embar- rassing. The fact is that I was at odds with him on a scientific question, and he was a man who did not take a charitable view of those who differed from him in opinion. He was the author of a theory, current thirty or forty years ago, that the farther side of the moon is composed of denser materials than the side turned toward us. As a result of this, the centre of gravity of the moon was supposed to be farther from us than the actual centre of her globe. It followed that, although neither atmosphere nor water existed on our side of the moon, the other side might have both. Here was a very tempting field, into which astronomical speculators stepped, to clothe the invisi- ble hemisphere of the moon with a beau- tiful terrestrial landscape, and to people it as densely as they pleased with beings like ourselves. If these beings should ever attempt to explore the other half of their own globe, they would find them- selves ascending to a height completely above the limits of their atmosphere. Hansen himself never countenanced such speculations as these, but confined his claims to the simple facts he supposed proven. In 1868 I had published a little pa- per showing what I thought a fatal de- fect, a vicious circle in fact, in Hansens reasoning on this subject. Not long be- fore my visit, Delaunay had made this paper the basis of a communication to the French Academy of Sciences, in which he not only indorsed my views, but sought to show the extreme improbability of Hansens theory on other grounds. When I first reached Germany, on my way from Italy, I noticed copies of a blue pamphlet lying on the tables of the astronomers. Apparently, the paper had 1)een plentifully distributed; but it was not until I reached Berlin that I found it was Hansens defense against my stric- tures, a defense in which mathematics were not unmixed with scathing sarcasm at the expense of both Delannay and my- self. The case brought to mind a warm discussion between Hansen and Eneke, in the pages of a scientific journal, some fifteen years before. At the time it had seemed intensely comical to see two enraged combatants for so I amused Soil-Song. 893 myself by fancying them hurling al- gebraic formuhe, of frightful complexity, at each others heads. I did not then dream that I should live to be an object of the same sort of attack, and that from Hansen himself. To be revised, pulled to pieces, or su- perseded, as science advances, is the com- mon fate of most astronomical work, even the best. It does not follow that it has been done in vain; if good, it forms a foundation on which others will build. But not every great investigator can look on with philosophic calm when he sees his work thus treated, and Hansen was among the last who could. Under these circumstances, it was a serious question what sort of reception Hansen would accord to a reviser of his conclusions who should venture to ap- proach him. I determined to assume an attitude that would show no conscious- ness of offense. Our meeting was not attended by any explosion; I gave him the pleamnt message with which I was charged from his daughter, and, a few days later, sat by his side at a dinner of the German commission on the coming transit of Yenus. As Hansen was Germanys greatest master in mathematical astronomy, so was the venerable Argelander in the ob- servational side of the science. He was of the same age as the newly crowned Emperor, and the two were playmates at the time Germany was being overrun by the armies of Napoleon. He was held in love and respect by the entire generation of young astronomers, both Germans and foreigners, many of whom were proud to have had him as their preceptor. Among these was Dr. B. A. Gould, who frequently related a story of the astronomers wit. When with him as a student, Gould was beardless, but had a good head of hair. Returning some years later, he had become bald, but had made up for it by having a full, long beard. He entered Argelanders study unannounced. At first the astronomer did not recognize him. Do you not know me, Herr Profes- sor? The astronomer looked more closely. Mein Gott! It is Gould mit his hair struck through. Argelander was more than any one else the founder of that branch of his science which treats of variable stars. His methods have been followed by his successors to the present time. It was his policy to make the best use he could of the instruments at his disposal, rather than to invent new ones that might prove of doubtful utility. The results of his work seem to justify this policy. Simon Newcomb. SOIL-SONG. I GIVE what ne er was mine, To every seed the power Of stem and leaf and flower, Of fruit or fragrance fine; And take what others loathe, Of death the foulest forms, Wherewith to feed my worms, And thus the world reclothe. John B. Tablx

Soil-Song. 893 myself by fancying them hurling al- gebraic formuhe, of frightful complexity, at each others heads. I did not then dream that I should live to be an object of the same sort of attack, and that from Hansen himself. To be revised, pulled to pieces, or su- perseded, as science advances, is the com- mon fate of most astronomical work, even the best. It does not follow that it has been done in vain; if good, it forms a foundation on which others will build. But not every great investigator can look on with philosophic calm when he sees his work thus treated, and Hansen was among the last who could. Under these circumstances, it was a serious question what sort of reception Hansen would accord to a reviser of his conclusions who should venture to ap- proach him. I determined to assume an attitude that would show no conscious- ness of offense. Our meeting was not attended by any explosion; I gave him the pleamnt message with which I was charged from his daughter, and, a few days later, sat by his side at a dinner of the German commission on the coming transit of Yenus. As Hansen was Germanys greatest master in mathematical astronomy, so was the venerable Argelander in the ob- servational side of the science. He was of the same age as the newly crowned Emperor, and the two were playmates at the time Germany was being overrun by the armies of Napoleon. He was held in love and respect by the entire generation of young astronomers, both Germans and foreigners, many of whom were proud to have had him as their preceptor. Among these was Dr. B. A. Gould, who frequently related a story of the astronomers wit. When with him as a student, Gould was beardless, but had a good head of hair. Returning some years later, he had become bald, but had made up for it by having a full, long beard. He entered Argelanders study unannounced. At first the astronomer did not recognize him. Do you not know me, Herr Profes- sor? The astronomer looked more closely. Mein Gott! It is Gould mit his hair struck through. Argelander was more than any one else the founder of that branch of his science which treats of variable stars. His methods have been followed by his successors to the present time. It was his policy to make the best use he could of the instruments at his disposal, rather than to invent new ones that might prove of doubtful utility. The results of his work seem to justify this policy. Simon Newcomb. SOIL-SONG. I GIVE what ne er was mine, To every seed the power Of stem and leaf and flower, Of fruit or fragrance fine; And take what others loathe, Of death the foulest forms, Wherewith to feed my worms, And thus the world reclothe. John B. Tablx 394 The Battle of the Stron! THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. xxJx. THE Isle of Jersey has the shape of a tiger on the prowl. The fore-claws of this tiger are the lacerating pinnacles of the Corbil~re and the impaling rocks of Portelet Bay and Noirmont; the hind- claws are the devastating diorite reefs of La Motte and the Bane des Violets. The head and neck, terrible and beautiful, are stretched out toward the west, as it were to scan the wild waste and jungle of the Atlantic seas. The nose is LEtacq, the forehead is Grosnez, the ear is Plemont, the mouth is the dark cavern by LEtaeq, the teeth are the serried ledges of the For~t de la Brequette. In truth, the sleek beast, with its feet planted in fear- some rocks and tides, and its ravening head set to defy the onslaught of the main, might, but for its ensnaring beauty, seem some monstrous footpad of the deep. At a discreet distance from the head and the tail hover the jackals of La Manche, the Paternosters, the Dironilles, and the Ecr~hos; themselves destroying where they may, or filching the crumbs from the tigers feast of shipwreck and ruin. To this day the tigers head is the lonely part of Jersey; a hundred years ago, it was as distant from the Vier Marehi as is Penzance from Covent Gar- den. It would almost seem as if the people of Jersey, like the hangers-on of the king of the jungle, care not to ap- proach too near the devourers head. Even now there is but a dwelling here and there upon the lofty plateau, and none at all on the dark and menacing headland. But the ancient Royal Court, as if determined to prove its sovereignty even over the tigers head, had stretched out its arms from the Vier Marchi to the neck of the beast, putting upon it a belt of defensive war: at the nape, a martello tower and barracks; underneath, two other martello towers, to be the teeth of the buckle. Jersey was bristling with armament. Tall platforms were erected at almost speaking distance one from another, where sentinels kept watch for the de- scent of French frigates or privateers. Redoubts and towers were within musket- shot of one another, with watch-houses between, and at intervals every able-bod- ied man in the country had perforce to leave his trade and act as sentinel, or go into camp or barracks with the militia for months at a time. British cruisers sailed the Channel; now a squadron under Bar- rington, again under Bridport, hovered upon the coast, hopeful that a French fleet might venture near. But little of this was to be seen in the western limits of the parish of St. Ouens. Plemont, Grosnez, LEtacq, all that giant headland could well take care of itself. A watch-house here and there sufficed. No one lived at LEtacq, no one at Grosnez; they were too bleak, too distant and solitary. No houses, no huts, were there. If you had approached Plemont from Vinchelez-le-Haut, making for the sea, you would have said that there also was no habitation. But when at last you came to a hillock near the point of Ple- mont, expecting to find nothing but sky and sea and distant islands, suddenly at your feet you came upon a small stone dwelling. Its door faced the west, look- ing toward the isles of Guernsey and Sark. Fronting the north was a win- dow, like an eye, ever watching the tire- less Paternosters. To the east was an- other tiny window, like a deep loophole or embrasure, set toward the Dironilles and the Ecr6hos. The hut had but one room, of moder- ate size, with a vast hearth and chimney, the latter jutting out at the south end

394 The Battle of the Stron! THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. xxJx. THE Isle of Jersey has the shape of a tiger on the prowl. The fore-claws of this tiger are the lacerating pinnacles of the Corbil~re and the impaling rocks of Portelet Bay and Noirmont; the hind- claws are the devastating diorite reefs of La Motte and the Bane des Violets. The head and neck, terrible and beautiful, are stretched out toward the west, as it were to scan the wild waste and jungle of the Atlantic seas. The nose is LEtacq, the forehead is Grosnez, the ear is Plemont, the mouth is the dark cavern by LEtaeq, the teeth are the serried ledges of the For~t de la Brequette. In truth, the sleek beast, with its feet planted in fear- some rocks and tides, and its ravening head set to defy the onslaught of the main, might, but for its ensnaring beauty, seem some monstrous footpad of the deep. At a discreet distance from the head and the tail hover the jackals of La Manche, the Paternosters, the Dironilles, and the Ecr~hos; themselves destroying where they may, or filching the crumbs from the tigers feast of shipwreck and ruin. To this day the tigers head is the lonely part of Jersey; a hundred years ago, it was as distant from the Vier Marehi as is Penzance from Covent Gar- den. It would almost seem as if the people of Jersey, like the hangers-on of the king of the jungle, care not to ap- proach too near the devourers head. Even now there is but a dwelling here and there upon the lofty plateau, and none at all on the dark and menacing headland. But the ancient Royal Court, as if determined to prove its sovereignty even over the tigers head, had stretched out its arms from the Vier Marchi to the neck of the beast, putting upon it a belt of defensive war: at the nape, a martello tower and barracks; underneath, two other martello towers, to be the teeth of the buckle. Jersey was bristling with armament. Tall platforms were erected at almost speaking distance one from another, where sentinels kept watch for the de- scent of French frigates or privateers. Redoubts and towers were within musket- shot of one another, with watch-houses between, and at intervals every able-bod- ied man in the country had perforce to leave his trade and act as sentinel, or go into camp or barracks with the militia for months at a time. British cruisers sailed the Channel; now a squadron under Bar- rington, again under Bridport, hovered upon the coast, hopeful that a French fleet might venture near. But little of this was to be seen in the western limits of the parish of St. Ouens. Plemont, Grosnez, LEtacq, all that giant headland could well take care of itself. A watch-house here and there sufficed. No one lived at LEtacq, no one at Grosnez; they were too bleak, too distant and solitary. No houses, no huts, were there. If you had approached Plemont from Vinchelez-le-Haut, making for the sea, you would have said that there also was no habitation. But when at last you came to a hillock near the point of Ple- mont, expecting to find nothing but sky and sea and distant islands, suddenly at your feet you came upon a small stone dwelling. Its door faced the west, look- ing toward the isles of Guernsey and Sark. Fronting the north was a win- dow, like an eye, ever watching the tire- less Paternosters. To the east was an- other tiny window, like a deep loophole or embrasure, set toward the Dironilles and the Ecr6hos. The hut had but one room, of moder- ate size, with a vast hearth and chimney, the latter jutting out at the south end The Battle of the Strong. 395 like a buttress. At one side, between it and the western wall, was a veille hung with curtains, which was both lounge and bed. The eastern chimney-side was given over to a few well-polished kitchen utensils, a churn, and a bread-trough. The floor was of mother earth alone, but a strip of hand-made carpet was laid down before the fireplace, and there was another at the end opposite. There were also a table, a spinning-wheel, and a shelf of books. It was not the hut of a fisherman, though upon the wall opposite the books there hung fishing-tackle, nets, and cords, while outside, on staples driven into the chimney, were some lobster-pots. Upon two shelves were arranged a carpenters and a coopers tools, polished and in good order. And yet you would have said that neither a cooper nor a carpen- ter kept them in use. Everywhere there were signs of mans handicraft as well as of womans work, but over it all was the touch of a woman. Moreover, apart from the tools there was no sign of a mans presence in the hut. There was no coat hanging behind the door, no sa- bots for the fields and oilskins for the sands, no pipe laid upon a ledge, no shoemakers awl or fishermans needle fastening a calendar to the wall. The awl and the needle were there, but they were neatly put in their places upon the shelves. Whatever was the trade of the occupant, the tastes were above those of the ordinary dweller in the land. That was to be seen in a print of Raphaels Madonna and Child, taking the place of the usual sampler upon the walls of Jer- sey houses; in the old clock, nicely be- stowed between a narrow cupboard and the tool-shelves; in a few pieces of rare old china, and a gold - handled sword hanging above a huge well - carved oak chair. This chair relieved the room of anything like commonness, and somehow in its rough carving was in sympathy with the simple surroundings, making for dig- nity and sweet quiet. It was clear that only a woman could have so arranged the room and all therein. It was also clear that no man lived there. If you had looked in at the doorway of this but on a certain autumn day of the year 1796, the first thing to strike your attention would have been a dog lying asleep on the hearth; then a suit of childs clothes on a chair before the fire would have caught the eye. The only thing to distinguish this particular childs dress from that of a thousand others in the island was the fineness of the mate. rial. Every thread of it had been deli- cately and firmly knitted till it was like perfect cloth, gracious in texture and in color a soft blue, relieved by a little red silk ribbon attached to the collar. The hut contained as well a childs chair, just so high that when placed by the window commanding the Dirouilles or the Paternosters its occupant might see the waves, like panthers, beating white paws against the ragged pinnacles of granite; the currents writhing below at the foot of the cliffs, or at half-tide, roaring and resounding, rush up and cover the sands of the Gr~ve aux Lan- ~ons, and, like animals in pain, howl through the caverns in the cliffs; the great northwester of November come breaking up the deep to batter the im- perturbable cliffs of Grosnez and Ple- mont, to shriek to the witches who boiled their caldrons by the ruins of Grosnez Castle that the hunt of the seas was up. Just higb enough was the little chair that its owner might, of a certain day in the year, look out and see the mystic fires that burned round the Paternosters, lighting up all the sea with a strange and awful radiance. Scarce a rock to be seen from the hut but had such a legend: the burning ship at the Paternosters; the horse and its rider at Williams Rock in Boulay Bay; the fleet of boats with tall prows and long oars that drifted upon the Dirouilles, and went down to the cry of the Crusaders Dahin! dthin! the Roche des 396 The Battle of the Strong. Femmes at the Ecr6hos, where still you may hear the cries of the women and children in terror of the engulfing sea. On this particular day, if you had looked into the hut, or waited by the fire of vraic burning so softly in the chim- ney hour after hour, no one would have welcomed you, neither woman nor child; but had you tired of waiting, and tra- veled along the coast, following its in- dentations for two miles or more from the hut, in a deep bay under tall cliffs, you would have seen a woman and a child coming quickly up the sands. Slung upon the womans shoulders was a small fishermans basket. The child ran be- fore, eager to climb the hill and take the homeward path. A man above was watching them. He had ridden up the cliff, had seen the wo- man in her boat making for the shore, had tethered his horse in the quarries near by, and now waited for her to come up. He chuckled to himself as she am proached, for he had prepared a sur- prise for her. To make it more com- plete he hid himself behind some shrubs and boulders, and as she reached the top he sprang out before her with an ugly grin on his face. The woman looked at him calmly, and waited for him to speak. There was no fear on her face, not even surprise; no- thing but steady inquiry and a discon- certing self-possession. Presently, with an air of bluster, the man said, Aha, my lady, I m nearer than you thought me! The child drew in to his mothers side and clasped her hand. There was no terror in the little fellows eyes, however; rather, a shrinking from the mans brutal manner. He had something of the same self-possession as the woman, and his eyes were like hers, clear, unwavering, and with a frankness that consumed you; they were wells of sincerity. Open-eyed, you would have called the child, want- ing a more subtle description. I m not to be fooled me! Come, now, let s have the count, said the man, as he whipped a greasy leather-covered book from his pocket and opened it. Ah bah, I m waiting. Stay yourself! he added roughly as she moved on, and his grayish-yellow face had an evil joy at thought of the ambush he had laid for her. Who are you? she asked, but tak- ing her time to ask. Sacr~ matin! you know who I am. I know what you are, she answered quietly. He did not quite grasp her meaning, but the tone sounded contemptuous, and contempt sorted little with his ideas of his own importance. I m the seigneurs bailiff, that s who I am. Gadrabotin, dont you put on airs with me! I m for the tribute, so off with your bag and let s see your catch! I have never yet paid tribute to the seigneur of this manor. Well, you 11 begin now. I m the new bailiff, and if you dont pay your tale, up you 11 come to the court of the fief to-morrow. She looked him steadily in the eyes. If I were a man, I should not pay the tribute, and should go to the court of the fief to-morrow; but being a woman, she clasped the hand of the child tightly to her for an instant; then, with a sigh, she took the basket froum her shoulders, and, opening it, added, but being a woman, the fish I caught in the sea, which belongs to God and to all men, I will di- vide with the seigneur whose bailiff spies on poor fisherfolk. The man growled an oath, and made a motion as though he would catch her by the shoulder in anger, or maybe strike her, but the look in her eyes stopped him. Counting out the fish, and setting apart for him three out of the eight she had caught, she said, It matters not so much to me, but there are others poorer than I; they suffer. With a leer, the fellow stooped, and, The Battle of the Strong. 397 taking up the fish, put them in the pock- ets of his keminzolle, all slimy from the sea as they were. Bk sfl, you have nt got much to take care of, have you? It dont take much to feed two mouths, not so much as it does three, mamselle. Before he had finished speaking, the woman, without a word in reply to the gross insult, took the child by the hand and walked along her homeward path toward Plemont. A bit6t, good-by! the bailiff laughed brutally; then, standing with his legs apart and his hands thrust down till they fastened on the fish in the pockets of his kemiuzolle, he called after her in sneering comment, Ma fistre! your pride did nt fall bk sit! Eh ben, I ye got mackerel for sup- per, he added, as he mounted his horse. The woman was Guida Landresse, the child was her child, and they lived in the little house upon the cliff at Plemont. They were hastening thither now. xxx. A visitor was awaiting Gdida, a man, who, first knocking at the door, then look- ing in and seeing the room empty save for the dog lying asleep by the fire, had turned slowly away, and going to the cliff edge looked out over the sea. His movements were deliberate, his body moved slowly; his whole appearance was that of great strength and nervous power. The face was preoccupied; the eyes were watchful, dark, penetrating. They seemed not only to watch, but to weigh, to meditate, even to listen, as it were, to do the duty of all the senses at once. In them worked all the forces of his nature; they were crucibles in which every thought and emotion were consumed. The jaw was set and strong, yet it was not hard. The face contra- dicted itself. While not gloomy, it had lines like scars telling of past wounds. It was not despairing, it was not morbid, and it was not resentful; it had the look of one both credulous and indomitable. Belief was stamped upon it; not ex- pectation, or dreams, or ambition, but trust and fidelity. You would have said he was a man of one set idea, though the head had a breadth sorting little with narrowness of purpose. The body was too healthy to belong to a fanatic, too powerful to be that of a dreamer alone, too reposeful and firm for other than a man of action. Several times he turned to look to- ward the house and up the pathway leading from the hillock to the door. Though he waited long he did not seem impatient; patience was part of him, and not the least part. At last he sat down on a boulder between the house and the shore, and scarcely moved as minute af- ter minute passed, and then an hour, and more, and no one came. At last there was a soft footstep beside him, and be turned. A dogs nose thrust itself into his hand. Biribi, Biribi! he said, patting its head with his big band. Watching and waiting, eb, Biribi? The dog looked into his eyes as if it knew what was said and would speak, or indeed was speak- ing in its own language. That s the way of life, Biribi, watching and wait- ing, and watching, always watching. Suddenly the dog caught its head away from his hand, gave a short, joyful bark, and darted up the hillock. Guida and the child, the man said aloud, moving toward the house, Guida and the child. He saw her and the little one before they saw him. Presently the child said, See, maman! and pointed. Guida started. A swift flush passed over her face; then she smiled and made a step forward to meet her visitor. Maitre Ranulph Ranulph! she said, holding out her hand. It s a long time since we met. A year, he answered simply, just 398 The Battle of the Strong. a year. He looked down at the child; then stooped and caught him up in his arms, and said, He s grown. Es-tu gentiment? he added to the child, es-hi gentiment, msieu? The child did not quite understand this. Please? he said in true Jersey fashion, at which the mother was trou- bled. Oh, oh, Guilbert, is that what you should say? The child looked up quaintly at her, and, with the same whimsical smile which Guida had given to another so many years before, he looked at Ranuiph and said, Pardon, monsieur? Coum est quon ~tes, msieu? said Ranuiph in another patois greeting. Guida shook her head reprovingly. The child glanced swiftly at his mother, as though for permission to reply as he wished, then back at Ranulph, and was about to speak, when Guida said, I have not taught him the Jersey patois, Ranulph; only English and French. Her eyes met his clearly, meaningly. Her look said to him as plainly as words, The childs destiny is not here. But as if he knew that in this she was blind- ing herself, and that no one can escape the influences of surroundings, he held the child back from him, and with a smile said, Coum est-ce quon est, msieu? Now the child, with his own elfish sense of the situation, replied in English, Naicely, then kyou! You see, said Ranulph to Guida, there are things that are stronger than we are. There s a teaching deeper than anything we may show. The wind and earth and sea, and people we live with, they make us sing their song one way or another. It s in our bones. A look of pain passed over Guidas face; she turned almost abruptly to the doorway, and said, with just the slightest hesitation, You will come in? There was no hesitation on his part. Oui-gia! he returned, and stepped in- side. She hastily hung up the childs cap and her own; and as she gathered in the soft, waving hair, Ranuiph noticed how the years had only burnished it more deeply and strengthened the beauty of the head. She had made the gesture unconsciously, but catching the look in his eye a sudden thrill of anxiety ran through her. Recovering herself, how- ever, and with an air of bright friendli- ness and hospitality, she laid her hand upon the great armchair above which hung the ancient sword of her ancestor, the Comte Guilbert Mauprat de Chain- b~ry, and said, Sit here, Ranulph. Seating himself he gave a heavy sigh, one of those passing breaths of con- tent which come to the hardest lives now and then; as though the spirit of life itself, in ironical apology for human existence, gave the instant of respite from which hope is born again. Not for four long years had Ranuiph sat thus quietly in the presence of Guida. At first, when Maitresse Aimable had told him that Guida was leaving the Place du Vier Prison to live in this lonely place with her new-born child, he had gone to entreat her to remain; but Maitresse Aimable had been present then, and all that he could say all that he might speak out of his friend- ship, out of the old love, now deep piti- fulness dnd sorrow was of no avail. It had been borne in upon him then that she was not morbid, but that her mind had a sane, fixed purpose which she was intent to fulfill. It was as though she had made some strange covenant with a little helpless life, with a little face that was all her face; and that covenant she would keep. So he had left her, and so to do her service had been granted elsewhere. The Chevalier du Champsavoys, with a per- fect wisdom and nobility, insisted on be- ing to Guida what he had always been, speaking as naturally of her and the child as though there had always been a Guida and the child. Thus it was The Battle of the Strong. 399 that he counted himself her protector, though he sat far away in the upper room of Elie Mattingleys house in the Rue dEgypte, thinking his own thoughts, hiding the time when Guida should come back to the world, and mystery he over, and peace and happiness return; hoping only that he might live to see it. Under his directions, Jean Touzel had removed the few things that Guida took with her to Plemont; instructed by him, Elie Mattingley sold at auction the house and its furniture, and Guida invested the proceeds with the fishing company which already received the yearly income from her mothers small property. Thus Guida had settled at Plemont, and thei~e three years of her life had passed. Your father, how is he? asked Guida presently. Feebler, replied Ranulph; he goes abroad but little now. It was said that the Royal Court was to make him a gift in remembrance of the battle of Jersey. Ranulph turned his head away from her to the child, and beckoned him over. The little one came instantly. As iRa- nulph lifted him on his knee he answered Guida: My Lather did not accept. Then they said you were to be con- n~table, the grand monsieur! She smiled at him in a friendly way. I did not accept, replied Ranulph. Most people would be glad of it, rejoined Guida. My mother used to say you would be bailly one day. Who knows ? perhaps I might have been! She looked at him half sadly, half cu- riously. You you have nt any am- bition now, Maitre Ranuiph? It suddenly struck her that perhaps she was responsible for the maiming of this mans life; for clearly it was maimed. More than once she had thought of it, but it came home to her to-day with pe- culiar force. Years ago every one had spoken of Ranulph Delagarde as one who might do great things; for to the eyes of a Jerseyman to be bailly was to be great, with six jurats sitting on either side of him, and more importance than any judge in the kingdom. As she looked back now, that day on the Ecr6hos, when she had met Philip dAvranche and Ra- nulphs father had returned, seemed to mark the change in him. He had never been the same since then. A great bitterness welled up in her. Without intention, without blame or sin, she had brought suffering upon others. The untoward happenings of her life had killed her grandfather, had bowed and aged the old chevalier, had forced her to reject the friendship of Carterette Mat- tingley, for Carterettes own sake, had made the heart of one fat old wo- man heavy within her; and she felt now that it had taken hope and ambition from the life of this man before her. Love in itself is but a bitter pleasure: when it is given to the unworthy it be- comes a torture; and so far as Ranuiph and the world knew, she was wholly unworthy. Of late she had sometimes wondered if, after all, she had had the right to do as she had done: as though, indeed, she had asked herself whether any one person, in serene independence of conscience, may stand quite free to live regardless of all others in the world; whether to act for ones own heart, feel- ings, and life alone, no matter how per- fect the honesty, is not a sort of noble cruelty, or cruel nobility, an egotism which obeys but its own commandments, llnding its own straight and narrow path by first disbarring the feelings and lives of others. It had now and again oc- curred to her, had she done what was best for the child ? Any moment~ s mis- giving upon this point made her heart ache bitterly. Was life, then, a series of triste condonings at the best, of humili- ating compromises at the worst? She repeated her question to Ranulph: You have nt ambition any longer? I m busy building ships, he an- 400 The Battle of the Strong. swered evasively. I build good ships, they tell me, and I am strong and healthy. As for being conn~table, I should rather, I m afraid, help prisoners free than hale them before the Royal Court. For somehow, when you get at the bottom of most crimes, the small ones, leastways, you find that they were nt quite meant I expect I ex- pect that half the crimes ought never to be punished at all; for it s strange that those things which hurt most cant be punished by law. Perhaps it evens up in the long end, replied Guida, turning away from him to the fire, and feeling her heart beat faster as she saw how the child nestled in Ranuiphs arms, the child who had no father. You see, she added, if some are punished who ought nt to be, there are others who ought to be that are nt. And the worst of it is, we care so little for real justice that we would nt punish if we could, I have come to feel that. Sometimes, if you do exactly whats right, you hurt some one you dont wish to hurt; and if you dont do exactly what s right, perhaps that some one else hurts you. So, often, we would rather be hurt than hurt. With the last words she turned from the fire and involuntarily faced him. Their eyes met. In hers were only the pity of life, the sadness, the cruelty of misfortune, and friendliness for him. In his eyes was purpose, definite, strong. He went over and put the child in his high-chair. Then coming a little nearer to Guida, he said, There s only one thing in life that really hurts, playing false. Her heart suddenly stopped heating. What was Ranulph going to say? After all these years was he going to speak of Philip? But she did not reply accord- ing to her thought. Have people played false in your life, ever? she asked. H you 11 listen to me, I 11 tell you how, he answered. Wait, wait, she said, in trepidation. It it has nothing to do with me? He shook his head. It has only to do with my father and myself. When I ye told you, then you must say whether you will have anything to do with it or with me. . . . You remember, he con- tinued, without waiting for her to speak, you remember that day upon the Ecr& hos, four years ago? Well, that day I had made up my mind to tell you in so many words what I hoped you had al- ways known, Guida. I did nt. Why? Not because of another man, no, no, I dont mean to hurt you, but I must tell you the truth now, not because of another man, for I should have bided my chance with him. Ranulph, Ranulph, she broke in, you must not speak of this now Do you not see it hurts me? It is not like you it is not right of you A sudden emotion seized him, and his voice shook. Not right? You should know that I would never say one word to hurt you, or do one thing to wrong you. But I must speak to-day, I must tell you everything. I ye thought of it for four long years, and I know now that what I mean to do is right. She sat down in the great armchair. A weakness came upon her; she was being brought face to face with days of which she had never allowed herself to think, for she lived always in the future. Go on, she said helplessly. Tell me what you have to say, Ranulph. I will tell you why I did nt speak of my love to you, that day we went to the Ecr6hos. ~y father came back that day. Yes, yes, she returned; of course you had to think of him. Yes, I had to think of him, but not in the way you mean. Be patient a lit- tle while, he added. Then in a few words he told her the whole story of his fathers treachery and crime, from the night before the battle of The Battle of the Strong. 401 Jersey up to their meeting again upon the Ecr6hos. Guida was amazed and moved. Her heart filled with pity. Ranuiph poor iRanuiph! she cried, half rising in her seat. No, no, wait, he rejoined. Sit just where you are till I tell you all. Guida, you dont know what a life it has been for me these four years. I used to be able to look every man in the face without caring whether he liked me or hated me; for then I had never lied, I had never done a mean thing to any man; I had never deceived, nannin- gia, never! But when my father came back, then I had to play a false game. He had lied, and to save him I either had to hold my peace or tell his story. Speaking was lying, and being silent was lying. Mind you, I m not complaining. I m not saying it because I want any pity. No; I in saying it because it s the truth, and I want you to know the truth. You understand what it means to feel right in your own mind; feel- ing that way, the rest of life is easy. Eh ben, what a thing it is to get up in the morning, build your fire, make your breakfast, and sit down facing a man whose whole life is a lie, and that man your own father! Some morning per- haps you forget, and you go out into the sun, and it all seems good out there, and you take your tools and go to work, and the sea comes washing up the shingle, and you think that the shir-r-r-r of the water on the pebbles and the singing of the saw and the clanging of the ham- mer are the best music in the world. But all at once you remember ! and then you work harder, not because you love work now for its own sake, but be- cause it uses up your misery and makes you tired; and being tired you can sleep, and in sleep you can forget. Yet nearly all the time you re awake it fair- ly kills you, for you feel some one al- ways at your elbow, whispering, You 11 never be happy again, you 11 never be VOL. LXXXII. NO. 491. 26 happy again. And when you tell the truth about anything, that some one at your elbow laughs, and says, Nobody believes; your whole life s a lie. And if the worst man you know passes you by, that some one at your elbow says, You can wear a mask, but you re no better than he no better, no While Ranulph spoke, Guidas face showed a pity and a kindness as deep as the sorrow which had deepened her na- ture. She shook her head once or twice, as though to say, Surely, what suffer- ing! And now this seemed to strike Ranulph, to convict him of selfishness, for he suddenly stopped. His face pre- sently cleared, and, smiling with a little of his old-time unburdened cheerfulness, he said, Yet one gets used to it, and one works on because one knows that it will all come right some time. I m of the kind that waits. She looked up at him with her old wide - eyed steadfastness, and replied, You are a good man, Ranulph. He stood gazing at her a moment with- out remark; then he said, No, but it s like you to say I am. Then he added, I ye told you the whole truth about myself and about my father. He did a bad thing, and I ye shielded him. At first, nursing my troubles and my shame, I used to think that I could nt live it out, that I had no right to have any happi- ness. But I ye changed my mind about that, oui-gia! As I hammered away at my ships, month in, month out, year in, year out, the truth came home to me at last. What right had I to sit down and brood over my miseries? I did nt love my father, but I ye done wrong for him and I ye stood by him; well, I did love and I do love some one else, and I should only be doing right to tell her so, and to ask her to let me stand with her against the world. He was looking down at her with all his story in his face, and she put out her hand quickly as if in protest, and said, Ranulph ah no, Ranulph 402 The Battle of the Strong. But yes, Guida, he replied, with stubborn tenderness, it is you I mean, it is you I have always meant. You have always been a hundred times more to me than my father, but I let you fight your fight alone. I ye waked up now to my selfishness. But I tell you also that, though I love you better than any- thing in the world, if things had gone well with you, I d never have come to you. I never have come, because of my father, and I d never have come, because you are to.o far above me. I only come now because we re both apart from the world and lonely beyond telling, because we need each other. I come with just one thing to say, that we two should stand together. There are none that can be so near as those that have had hard trou- bles, that have had bitter wrongs. And when there s love, too, what can break the bond? You and I, Guida, are apart from the world, each in a black loneliness that no one understands. Let us be lonely no longer. Let us live our lives together. What shall we care for the rest of the world, if we know that we mean to do good, and not wrong? So I ye come to ask you to let me care for you and the child, to ask you to make my home your home. My father has nt long to live, and when he is gone we can leave this island ferever. Will you come, Guida? She had not taken her eyes from his, and as his story grew her face lighted with emotion, the glow of a moments content, of a fleeting joy. In spite of all, this man loved her, he wanted to marry her, in spite of all. Glad to know that such men lived, and with how som- bre memories contrasting with this bright experience, she said to him once again, You are a good man, IRanulph. Coming near to her, he murmured in a voice husky with feeling, You will be my wife, Guida? She stood up, one hand resting on the arm of the great chair, the other partly extended in pitying deprecation. No, Hanuiph, no; I can never, never be your wife, never in this world. For an instant he looked at her, dum- founded, overwhelmed; then he turned away to the fireplace slowly and heavily. I suppose it was too much to hope for, he said bitterly. He realized now how much she was above him, even in her sorrow and shame. You forget, she answered quietly, and her hand went out suddenly to the brown curls of the child, you forget what the world says about ~ There was a kind of fierceness in his look as he turned to her again. Me I have always forgotten everything, lie returned. Have you thought that for all these years I ye believed one word? Secours dla vie! of what use is faith, what use to trust, if you thought I believed! I do not know the truth, for you have not told me; but I do know, as I know I have a heart in me, I do know that there never was any wrong in you. It is you who forget, he added quickly, it is you who forget. I tried to tell you all this before, three years ago I tried to tell you. You stopped me, you would not listen. Perhaps you have thought I did not know what was hap- pening to you every week, almost every day of your life. A hundred times I have walked here, and you have not seen me: when you were asleep, when you were fishing, when you were working like a man in the fields and the garden, you who ought to be cared for by a man, working like a slave at mans work! But no, no, you have not thought well of me, or you would have known that every day I cared, every day I watched, and waited, and hoped, and believed! She came to him slowly where lie stood, his great frame trembling with his pas- sion and the hurt she had given him, and, laying her hand upon his arm, she said, Your faith was a blind one, Ro. I was either a girl who who deserved nothing of the world, or I was a wife. I had no husband, had I? Then I must have been The Battle of the Strong. 403 a girl who who deserved nothing of the world or of you. Your faith was blind, Ranuiph, you see it was blind. What I know is this, he replied, with dogged persistence, what I know is this: that whatever was wrong, there was no wrong in you. My life a hundred times on that! She smiled at him, the brightest smile that had been on ber face these years past, and she answered softly, I did not think there was so great faith; no, not in Israel! Then the happiness passed from her lips to her eyes. Your faith has made me happy, Ro; I am selfish, you see. Your love in itself could not make me happy, for I have no right to listen to words of love, because She paused. It seemed too hard to say; the door of her heart inclosing her secret opened so slowly, so slowly. A struggle was going on in her. Every fibre of her nature was alive. Once, twice, thrice, she tried to speak, and could not. At last, with bursting soul and eyes swim- ming with tears, she said solemnly, I can never marry you, Ranulph, and I have no right to listen to your words of love, because because I am a wife. Then she gave a great sigh of relief, like some penitent who has for a lifetime hidden a sin or a sorrow, and suddenly finds the joy of a confessional that re- lieves the sick heart, takes away the hand of loneliness that clamps it, and gives it freedom again; that lifts the poor slave from the rack of secrecy, the most cruel Inquisition of Life and Time. She said the words once more, a little louder, a little clearer. She had vindicated her- self to God; now she had vindicated her- self to man, though to but one man. I cair never marry you, because I am a wife, she repeated. There was a slight pause, and then the final word was said, I am the wife of Philip dAvranche. Ranuiph did not speak. He stood still and rigid, looking with eyes that scarce- ly saw her; for a mist of conflicting emo tions and numb impressions had clouded them. I had not intended to tell any one until the time should come, once more her hand reached out and trem- blingly stroked the head of the child, but your belief in me has forced it from me. I. could not now let you go from me ignorant of the truth, you whose faith is beyond telling. Ranulph, I want you to know that I am at least 110 worse than you thought me. The look in his face was one of tri- umph, mingled with despair, hatred, and purpose, hatred of Philip dAvranche, and purpose concerning him. He gloried now in knowing that Guida might take her place among the honest women of this world, as the world terms honesty, but he had received the death-blow to his every hope. So he had lost her altogether, he who had watched and waited; who had served and followed, in season and out of season; who had been the faithful friend, keeping his eye fixed only upon her happiness; who had given all; who had poured out his heart like water, and his life like wine, before her! At first all he thought of was that Philip dAvranche was the husband of the woman he loved, and that Philip had deserted her. Then a remembrance stunned him: Prince Philip dAvranche, Duc de Bercy, had another wife! He remembered it had been burned into his brain the day he saw it first in the Gazette de Jersey that he had mar- ried the Comtesse Chantavoine, niece of the Marquis Graudjon-Larisse, upon the very day, and but an hour before, the old Duc de Bercy suddenly died. It flashed across his mind now what he had felt then. He had always believed that Phil- ip had wronged Guida; and long ago he would have gone in search of him, gone to try the strength of his arm against this cowardly marauder, as he held him, but his fathers ill health had kept him where he was, and Philip, too, was 404 The Battle of the Strong. at sea upon the nations business. So the years had gone on until now. His brain soon cleared. All that he had ever thought .upon the matter now crystallized itself into the very truth of the affair. Philip had married Guida secretly; but his new future had opened up to him all at once, and he had mar- ried again, a crime, but a crime which in high places sometimes goes unpun- ished. Yet how monstrous it was that such vile wickedness should be delivered against this woman before him, in whom beauty, goodness, power, were commin- gled! She was the real Princess Philip dAvranche, and this child of hers Ah, now he understood why she allowed the child to speak no patois! They scarcely knew how long they stood silent: she with her hand stroking the childs golden hair; he white and dazed, looking looking at her and the child, as the thing resolved itself to him. At last, in a voice which neither he nor she could quite recognize as his own, he said, Of course you live now only for the child. How she thanked him in her heart for the things lie had left unsaid, those things which clear-minded and great- minded folk, high or humble, always un- derstand! There was no selfish lament- ing upon his part; there were no re- proaches, none of the futile banalities of the lover who fails to see that it is no crime for a woman not to love him. The thing he had said was the thing she most cared to hear. Only for that, Ranulph, she an- swered. When will you claim the childs rights? She shook her head sadly. I do not know, she replied, with hesitation. I will tell you all about it, she added hastily. Then she told him of the lost register of St. Michaels and of the Reverend Lorenzo Dow, but she said nothing as to why she had kept silence. She felt that, man though he was, he might divine something of the truth. In any ease he knew that Philip had deserted her. After a moment he said, I II find Mr. Dow if he is alive, and the register too. Then the boy shall have his rights at once.~~ No, Ranuiph, she answered firmly, it shall be in my own time. I must keep the child with me. I know not when I shall speak, I am biding the day. Once I thought I never should speak, but then I did not see all, did not wholly realize my duty toward Guil- bert. It is so hard to do what is wise and just. When the proofs are found, your child shall have his rights, he contin- ued, with grim insistence. I would never let him go from me, she said, and, leaning over, she impul- sively clasped the little Guilbert in her arms. Therell be no need for the child to go from you, he rejoined; for when your rights come to you, Philip dAvranche will not be living. Will not be living! she cried in amazement. She did not understand at first. I mean to kill him, he replied sternly. She started violently, and the light of anger leaped into her eyes. You mean to kill Philip dAvranche, you, Maitre Ranulph Delagarde! she said. Whom has he wronged? Myself and my child only, his wife and his child. Men have been killed for lesser wrongs, but the right to kill does not belong to you. You speak of killing Philip dAvranche, and yet you dare to say you are my friend ! In that moment Ranulph learned more than he had ever guessed of lifes subtle distinctions and the workings of a wo- mans mind; and he also knew that she was right. Her father, her grandfather, might have killed Philip dAvranche, any one but himself, he the man who The Battle of the Strong. 405 had but just declared his love for her. Clearly his selfishness had blinded him. Right was on his side, but not the formal codes by which men live. He could not avenge Guidas wrongs upon her hus- band, for all men knew that he had loved her for years. Forgive me, he said in a low tone; you are right. But you will let me help you in those other things, to have justice for your child? You see you can do that for me, Ranulph, she answered gently. A new thought came to him. Do you think your not speaking all these years was best for the child? he asked. Her lips trembled. Oh, that thought, she said, that thought has made me un- happy so often! It comes to me some- times at night, as I lie sleepless, and I wonder if my boy will grow up and turn against me one day. Yet I did what I thought was right, Ranulph, I did the only thing I could do. I would rather have died than She stopped short. No, not even to this man who knew all could she speak her whole mind, but sometimes the thought came to her with horrifying acuteness: was it possible that she ought to have sunk her own disillusions, misery, con- tempt, and hatred of Philip dAvranche, for the childs sake? She shuddered even now as the reflection of that possi- bility caine to her! Of late she had felt that a crisis was near. She had had premonitions that her fate, whatever it was, was closing in upon her; that these days in this lonely spot with Guilbert, with her love for him and his love for her, were num- bered; that dreams must soon give way to action, ~nd this devoted peace would be broken, she knew not how. Stooping, she kissed the little fellow upon the forehead and upon the eyes, and his hands came up and clasped her cheeks. Tu maimes, maman? he asked. She had taught him the pretty question. Comme la vie, comme la vie! she answered, with a half-sob, and drew him from his chair to her bosom. Now she looked toward the window. Ranulph followed the look, and saw that the shades of night were falling. I have far to walk, he said; I must be going. As he held out his hand to Guida the child leaned over and touched him on the shoulder. What is your name, man? he asked. Ranulph smiled, and, taking the warm little hand in his own, he said, My name is Ranulph, little gentleman, but you shall call me Ho. Good-night, Ho man, the child answered, with the same mischievous smile that had once belonged to Guida. The scene brought up another such scene in Guidas life, so many years ago. Instinctively she drew back, a look of pain crossing her face. But Ranulph did not see; he was going. At the door- way he turned, and said, You may trust me. Guida did not answer in words, but she nodded and smiled, saying more plainly than words could say, You are a good man, Ranulph. XXXI. When Ranulph returned to his little house at St. Aubins Bay night had fallen. Approaching it, he saw that there was no light in the windows, that the blinds were not drawn, that there was no glimmer of a fire in the chimney. He hesitated at the door, for he instinctive- ly felt that something must have hap- pened to his father. He was just about to enter, however, when some one came hurriedly round the corner of the house. Whist, boy! said a voice. I ye news for you. Ranulph recognized the voice as that of Dormy Jamais. Dormy plucked at his sleeve. Come with me, boy! 4043 The Battle of the Strong. No, no; come inside, if you want to tell me something, returned Ranuiph. Ah bah, not for me! Stone walls have ears. I 11 tell you and the wind that hears and runs away. I must speak to my father first, an- swered Ranulph. Then come with me. I ye got him safe! Dormy chuckled to himself. Ranulphs heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. What s that you re saying, my father with you? What s the matter? As though oblivious of Ranulphs hand iDormy went on chuckling. Whoever burns me for a fool will lose their ashes. Des monz k fous, I have a head! Come with me. Ranulph saw that he must humor the shrewd natural, so he said, Et ben, put your four shirts in five bundles and come along. He was a true Jerseyman at heart, and speaking to such as Dor- my Jamais he used the homely patois phrases. He knew there was no use hurrying the little man; he would take his own time. There s been the devil to pay! said Dormy, as he ran toward the shore, his sabots going elac - clac, clac . clac. There s been the devil to pay in St. Heliers, boy! He spoke scarcely above a whisper. Tch~che what s that? said Ra- nulph. But Dormy was not to uncover his pot of roses till bis own time. That conn~table s got no more wit than a square-bladed knife! he rattled on. But gache-l~-penn, I in hungry! And as he ran he began munching a lump of bread he took from his pocket. For the next five minutes they went on in silence. It was quite dark, and as they passed up Market Hill called Ghost Lane because of the Good Little People who made it their highway Dormy caught hold of Ranulphs coat and trotted along beside him. As they went up the hill, tokens of the life with- in came out to them through doorway and window. Now it was the voice of a laughing young mother: Si tu as faim Manges ta main lIt gardes lautre pour demain; Et ta tote Pour le jour de fete; Et ton gros ort~e Pour le Jour Saint Norb~. And again: Let us pluck the bill of the lark, The lark from head to tail. Ranulph knew the voice. It was that of a young wife of the parish of St. Sa- viour: married happily; living simply; given a frugal board, simple clothing af- ter the manner of her kind, and a com- radeship for life. For the moment he felt little but sorrow for himself. The world seemed to be conspiring against him: the chorus of Fate was singing be- hind the scenes, singing of the happi- ness of others in sardonic comment on his own final unhappiness; yet despite the pain of finality he felt something also of the apathy of despair. From another doorway came frag- ments of a song sung at a veille. The door was open, and he could see within the happy gathering of lads and lasses. There was the spacious kitchen, its beams and rafters dark with age, adorned with flitches of bacon, huge loaves rest- ing in the raclyi beneath the centre beam, the broad open hearth, the flam- ing fire of logs, and the great brass pan, shining like freshly coined gold, on its iron tripod over the logs. There were the lasses, in their short woolen petti- coats, close caps, and bedg6nes of blue and lilac; the lads stirring with all their might the contents of the vast bashin, many cabots of apples, together with sugar, lemon-peel, and cider; the old ladies, in mob-caps tied under the chin, measuring out the nutmeg and cinnamon by the light of the crasset, to complete the making of the black butter, a joc- und recreation for all, and at all times. The Battle of the Strong. 407 In a corner was a fiddler, and on the veille, flourished for the occasion with flowers and ferns, sat two centeniers and the pr~v6t, singing an old song of the veilles in the patois of three parishes. Ranulph looked at the scene linger- ingly. Here he was, with mystery and peril to hasten his steps, loitering at the spot where the light of home streamed out upon the roadway. But though he loitered, somehow he seemed withdrawn from all these things; they were to him now almost like a picture of a distant past. iDormy plucked at his coat. Come, come, lift your feet, lift your feet, said he; it s no time to walk in slippers. The old man will be getting scared, oul- gia! Ranulph roused himself. Yes, yes, he must hurry on. He had not forgotten his father, but something had held him here a moment, as though Fate had whispered in his ear, What does it matter now? While yet you may, feed on the sight of happiness. Just so, the prisoner going to execution seizes one of the few moments left to him for prayer, to look lingeringly upon what he leaves, as though to carry into thedark a clear remembrance of it all. Moving on quietly in a kind of dream, Ranulph was roused again by Dormys voice: On Sunday I saw three mag- pies, and there was a wedding that day. Tuesday I saw two, which is for joy, and that day fifty Jersey prisoners of the French comes back on Jersey. This morning one I saw. One magpie is for trouble, and trouble s here. One does nt have eyes for naught, no, bidemme! Ranulphs patience was exhausted. He would no longer ask for Dormys news; he would question if he had any. Bachouar! he exclaimed rough- ly, you make elephants out of fleas. You ye got no more news than a conch shell has music, and when I ye got to the end of this you shall have a backhander that 11 put you to sleep, Maitre Dormy! If he had been asked politely, Dormy would have been still more cunningly reticent. To abuse him in his own ar- got was to make him loose his bag of mice in a flash. Bachouar yourself, Maitre Ranulph! You 11 find out soon. No news no trouble eh! Par mad~, Mattingley s gone to the Vier Prison he! The baker s come back, and the conn~table s after Olivier Delagarde! No trouble, pardingue! If no trouble, Dormy Jar. mais 5 a bat dla goule, and no need for father of you to hide in a place that only Dormy Jamais knows my good! So at last the blow had fallen, after all these years of silence, sacrifice, and misery. The futility of all that he had done and suffered for his fathers sake came home to Ranulph. Yet his brain was instantly alive. He questioned Dor- my rapidly and adroitly, and got the story from him in patches. The baker, who, with Olivier Dela- garde, had betrayed the country into the hands of Rullecour, had been captured, with a French confederate of Matting- leys, in attempting to steal Jean Ton- zels boat, the Hardi Biaou. The con- federate had been mortally wounded at the capture. Before he died he impli- cated Mattingley in several robberies, and in one well-known case of piracy of three months before, committed within gunshot of the men-of-war lying in the tideway. The baker, seriously wound- ed, confessed to his crime, having been promised his life on condition that he disclosed the name of the ringleader in the treason which enabled Rullecour to land. He had straightway named Oh- vier Delagarde. After the capture, the prisoner bad been carried to the court- house and examined in private. Hidden behind the great chair of the lieutenant-bailly himself, Dormy Jamais had heard the whole business. This had brought him hot-foot to St. Aubins Bay, whence he had hurried Olivier Delagarde to a hiding-place in the hills above the 408 The Battle of the Strong. bay of St. Brelade. The fool had tra- veled more swiftly than Jersey justice, whose feet are heavy. Elie Matting- ley and the baker were now in the Vier Prison. There was the whole story. For fifteen years and more Ranulph Delagarde had been called a hero; his father, a hero and a patriot, a figure of ancient loyalty that more than all else recalled the time when Pierson defeated Rullecour. It was but yesterday, as it were, that they had offered to make Ra- nuiph conn& able of St. Heliers. The mask had fallen, the game was up. Well, at least there would be no more hiding, no more lying, no more inward shame greater than outward obloquy. All at once it appeared to him madness that he had not taken his father away from Jersey long ago, that he should have thus awaited here this inevitable hour. Little good, however, could come of re- pining or lamenting. Nothing now was left but action. He must save his father; it was his duty and his right. Some men had yielded up their Sons to the sword of justice, but what son could so yield up his father? as though it were that he who begot might destroy, but he who was begotten must only save! Walking fiercely on, thinking only of how he might save his father, he was conscious that the blizard beside him was munching bread and apples with idle en- joyment. There came to his mind sud- denly the scene of fifteen years before, when, locked and barred in the bakers shop, he had heard the clcw-clac, clac- ekw, of Dormys sabots go by the door- way. He must get his father clear of the island, and that soon. But how? and where should they go? He had a boat in St. Aubins Bay; getting there un- der cover of darkness, he might embark with his father and set sail whither? To Sark? There was no safety there. To Guernsey? That was no better. To England? He might join the English navy, of course, he had been three years a gunner at Elizabeth Castle. No, not that; for in the navy he should meet with Philip dAvranche, and if they two met he might forget the pro- mise he had made to Guida. To France? That was it, to the war of the Yen- d6e, to join D6tricand, Comte D~tri- cand de Tournay. No need to find the scrap of paper D6tricand had given him once in the Vier Marchi. Wherever he might be, his great fame would be the highway to him. All France knew of the companion of La Rochejaquelein, the fearless D6tricand de Tournay. Since in Jersey there was no longer a place for himself, shamed and dishonored, convict- ed of complicity in hiding his fathers crime, fighting now in that holy war he would find something to kill thought, to take him out of life without disgrace. France, his fate awaited him in France. But there was his father still! Well, he would take his father with him to France, and bide his fate. By the time his mind was thus made up, they had reached the rocky point dividing Portelet Bay from St. Bre- lades, a lonely headland, not unlike that of Plemont at the north. Dark things were said of this spot, and the folk of the island were wont to avoid it. It had its ghostly lights, its pirates caves, and all the mise-en-scbne of crim- inal privacy. That strange lights were seen was undoubted. Beneath the cliffs in the sea was a rocky islet called Jan- vrins Tomb. Here one Janvrin, ill of a fell disease, and with his fellows for- bidden by the Royal Court to land, had taken refuge, and here died, wholly neg- lected and without burial. Afterward his body had lain exposed till the ravens and vultures picked the bones, and at last a great storm swept them off into the sea. Strange lights were to be seen by this rock, and though wise men guessed them mortal glimmerings, easily explained, they sufficed to give the headland immu- nity from invasion. The Battle of the Strong. 409 Here it was that Dormy Jamais had brought the trembling Olivier Dela- garde, whimpering and senile, unrepent- ing and peevish, but with a craven fear of the Royal Court and a furious popu- lace quickening his footsteps. Ranulph reached the cave which was his fathers hiding-place5 through the seemingly im- possible entrance of another and larger cave. It was like a little vaulted cha- pel, floored with sand and shingle. A crevice through rock and earth to the world above let in the light, and let out the smoke. Only the highest tide in the year entered this retreat. Here Olivier Delagarde sat crouched over a tiny fire, with some bread and a jar of water at his hand, gesticulating and talking to himself. The long white hair and beard, with the benevolent f ore- head, gave him the look of some latter- day St. Helier grieving for the sins and praying for the sorrows of mankind; but from the hateful mouth came infamous profanity, fit only for the dreadful com- munion of a Witches Sabbath. When he heard Ranulph and Dormy entering the cave, he cowered and shiv- ered in terror; but Ranuiph, who knew too well his disgusting cowardice, called to him reassuringly. He quieted a lit- tle, but went on muttering to himself. As Ranulph approached, he stretched out his talon-like fingers in a gesture of en- treaty. You 11 not let them hang me, Ba- nuiph, you 11 save me? he said. Dont be afraid; they shall not hang you, Ranulph replied quietly, and be- gan warming his hands at the fire; for, though it was but early autumn, the cave was cold. You II you 11 swear it, Ra- nulph? I ye told you they shall not hang you. You ought to know by this time whether I mean what I say, his son an- swered, more sharply. Assuredly Ranulph meant that his f a- ther should not be hanged. Whatever the law was, whatever wrong the old man had done, it had been atoned for; the price had been paid by both. He himself had drunk the cup of shame to the dregs, but now he would not swallow the. dregs. An iron determination en- tered into him. He had endured all that he would endure from man. He had set out to defend Olivier Delagarde from the worst that might happen, and he was ready now to do so to the bitter end. His scheme of justice might not be that of the Royal Court, but he would defend it with his life. He had sudden- ly grown hard and dangerous. XXXII. The Royal Court was sitting late. Candles had been brought to light the long desk, or dais, where sat the lieu- tenant-bailly in his great chair, with six scarlet-robed jurats on either side of him. The attorneygeneral stood at his desk, mechanically scanning the indict- ment read against prisoners charged with capital crimes. His work was over, and, according to his lights, he had done it well. Not even the undertakers apprentice could have been less sensitive to the struggles of humanity under the heel of fate and death. A little plain- tive complacency joined to a righteous austerity and an agreeable expression of hunger made the attorney-general a figure in godly contrast to the prisoner awaiting~his doom in the iron cage op- posite. There was a singular stillness in this sombre Royal Court, where only a tal- low candle or two and a dim lanthorn near the door filled the room with flick- ering shadows, great heads upon the wall drawing close together, and vast lips murmuring awful secrets. Low whisperings came through the dusk, like mournful night-winds carrying tales of awe through a heavy forest. Once in the long silence a figure rose up, and, stealing 410 The Battle of the Strong. across the room to a door near the jury- box, tapped upon it with a pencil. A moments pause, and the door opened slightly, and another shadowy figure ap- peared, whispered, and vanished. Then the first figure closed the door again quietly, and came and spoke softly up to the lieutenant-bailly, who yawned in his hand, sat back in his chair, and drummed with his fingers upon the arm. Thereupon the other the greffier of the court settled down at his desk be- neath the jurats, and peered into an open book before him, his eyes close to the page, reading silently by the meagre light of a candle from the jurats desk behind him. Now a fat and ponderous avocat rose up and was about to speak; but the lieu- tenant - bailly, with a peevish gesture, waved him down, and he settled heavily into place again. At last the door at which the greffler had tapped opened, and a gaunt figure in a red robe came out, and, standing in the middle of the room, motioned to the great pew opposite the attorney-general. Slowly the twenty-five men of the grand jury following him filed into place, and sat themselves down in the shadows. Then the gaunt figure, bowing to the lieu- tenant - bailly and the jurats, went over and took his seat beside the attorney- general. Whereupon the bailly leaned forward and droned a question to the grand enqu~te in the shadow. Then one rose from among the twenty-five, and out of the dusk there came a piping voice in rcply to the judge We find the prisoner at the bar more guilty than innocent. A shudder ran through the court. But some one not in the room shuddered still more violently; for at the gable window of a house in the Rue des Tr~s Pigeons a girl had sat the livelong day, looking, looking into the court-room. She had watched the day decline, the evening come, and the lighting of the crasset, and had waited to hear the words that meant more to her than her own life. At last the great moment came, and she could hear the voice of the fore- man of the grand enqu~te whining the fateful words, 3fore guilty than inno- cent. It was Carterette Mattingley, and the prisoner at the bar was her father. Not far from Mattingley sat the chief witness against him, Carcaud, the baker, who, with Olivier Delagarde, had betrayed his country, and had now turned Kings evi- dence. Carterette did not wait to see the fig- ure issue from the barbarous iron cage grimly recalling the days of Bernal Diaz del Castillo, nor to see the twelve jurats put on their hats to hear the lieuten- ant - bailly pass sentence of death upon her father. She had other work to do. Even as Ranulph had declared that his father should not be hanged, in like man- ner she had made a vow. He had so far kept his word, and she would keep hers. She knew more concerning the Vier Prison than did the judges of the Royal Court and she had laid her plans. Gilbert Parker. (To be continued.) Bi~ rnarck, 411 BISMAROK. ONE by one the nations of the world come to their own, have free play for their faculties, express themselves, and eventually pass onward into silence. Our age has beheld the elevation of Prussia. Well may we ask, What has been her message? What the path by which she climbed into preeminence? That she would reach the summit, the work of Frederick the Great in the last century, and of Stein at the beginning of this, portended. It has been Bisinarcks mis- sion to amplify and complete their task. Through him Prussia has come to her own. What, then, does she express? The Prussians have excelled even the Romans in the art of turning men into machines. Set a Yankee down before a heap of coal and another of iron, and he will not rest until he has changed them into an implement to save the labor of many hands; the Prussian takes flesh and blood, and the will-power latent there- in, and converts them into a machine. Such soldiers, such government clerks, such administrators, have never been manufactured elsewhere. Methodical, punctilious, thorough, are those officers and officials. The government which makes them relies not on sudden spurts, but on the cumulative force of habit. It substitutes rule for whim; it sup- presses individual spontaneity, unless this can be transformed into energy for the great machine to use. That Prussian system takes a turnip-fed peasant, and in a few months makes of him a military weapon, the length of whose stride is prescribed in centimetres, a machine which presents arms to a passing lieuten- ant with as much gravity and precision as if the fate of Prussia hinged on that special act. It takes the average trades- man 5 son, puts him into the education- al mill, and brings him out a professor, equipped even to the spectacles, a nonpareil of knowledge, who fastens on some subject, great or small, timely or re- mote, with the dispassionate persistence of a leech; and who, after many years, revolutionizes our theory of Greek roots, or of microbes, or of religion. Patient and noiseless as the earthworm, this scholar accomplishes a similarly incal- culable work. A spirit of obedience, which on its upper side passes into deference not al- ways disting~iishable from servility, and on its lower side is not always free from arrogance, lies at the bottom of the Prus- sian nature. Except in India, caste has nowhere had more power. The Prus- sian does not chafe at social inequality, but he cannot endure social uncertainty; he must know where he stands, if it be only on the bootblacks level. The sat- isfaction he gets from requiring from those below him every scrape and nod of deference proper to his position more than compensates him for the deference he must pay to those above him Clas- sification is carried to the fraction of an inch. Everybody, be he privy councilor or chimney-sweep, is known by his office. On a hotel register you will see such en- tries as Frau X, widow of a school- inspector, or Fritulein Y, niece of an apothecary.~ This excessive particularization, which amuses foreigners, enables the Prussian to lift his hat at the height appropriate to the position occupied by each person whom he meets. It naturally develops acuteness in detecting social grades, and a solicitude to show the proper degree of respect to superiors and to expect as much from inferiors, a solicitude which a stranger might mistake for servility or arrogance, according as he looked up or down. Yet, amid a punctilio so strin- gent, fine-breeding the true politeness which we associate with the word gentle

Bi~ rnarck, 411 BISMAROK. ONE by one the nations of the world come to their own, have free play for their faculties, express themselves, and eventually pass onward into silence. Our age has beheld the elevation of Prussia. Well may we ask, What has been her message? What the path by which she climbed into preeminence? That she would reach the summit, the work of Frederick the Great in the last century, and of Stein at the beginning of this, portended. It has been Bisinarcks mis- sion to amplify and complete their task. Through him Prussia has come to her own. What, then, does she express? The Prussians have excelled even the Romans in the art of turning men into machines. Set a Yankee down before a heap of coal and another of iron, and he will not rest until he has changed them into an implement to save the labor of many hands; the Prussian takes flesh and blood, and the will-power latent there- in, and converts them into a machine. Such soldiers, such government clerks, such administrators, have never been manufactured elsewhere. Methodical, punctilious, thorough, are those officers and officials. The government which makes them relies not on sudden spurts, but on the cumulative force of habit. It substitutes rule for whim; it sup- presses individual spontaneity, unless this can be transformed into energy for the great machine to use. That Prussian system takes a turnip-fed peasant, and in a few months makes of him a military weapon, the length of whose stride is prescribed in centimetres, a machine which presents arms to a passing lieuten- ant with as much gravity and precision as if the fate of Prussia hinged on that special act. It takes the average trades- man 5 son, puts him into the education- al mill, and brings him out a professor, equipped even to the spectacles, a nonpareil of knowledge, who fastens on some subject, great or small, timely or re- mote, with the dispassionate persistence of a leech; and who, after many years, revolutionizes our theory of Greek roots, or of microbes, or of religion. Patient and noiseless as the earthworm, this scholar accomplishes a similarly incal- culable work. A spirit of obedience, which on its upper side passes into deference not al- ways disting~iishable from servility, and on its lower side is not always free from arrogance, lies at the bottom of the Prus- sian nature. Except in India, caste has nowhere had more power. The Prus- sian does not chafe at social inequality, but he cannot endure social uncertainty; he must know where he stands, if it be only on the bootblacks level. The sat- isfaction he gets from requiring from those below him every scrape and nod of deference proper to his position more than compensates him for the deference he must pay to those above him Clas- sification is carried to the fraction of an inch. Everybody, be he privy councilor or chimney-sweep, is known by his office. On a hotel register you will see such en- tries as Frau X, widow of a school- inspector, or Fritulein Y, niece of an apothecary.~ This excessive particularization, which amuses foreigners, enables the Prussian to lift his hat at the height appropriate to the position occupied by each person whom he meets. It naturally develops acuteness in detecting social grades, and a solicitude to show the proper degree of respect to superiors and to expect as much from inferiors, a solicitude which a stranger might mistake for servility or arrogance, according as he looked up or down. Yet, amid a punctilio so strin- gent, fine-breeding the true politeness which we associate with the word gentle 41~ Bismarck. man rarely exists; for a gentleman cannot be made by the rank he holds, which is external, but only by qualities within himself. Nevertheless, these Prussians so un- sympathetic and rude compared with their kinsmen in the south and along the Rhine, not to speak of races more amiable still kept down to our own time a strength and tenacity of charac- ter that intercourse with Western Euro- peans scarcely affected. Frederick the Great tried to graft on them the polished arts and the grace of the French: he might as well have decorated the granite faces of his fortresses with dainty Paris- ian wall-paper. But when he touched the dominant chord of his race, its aptitude for system, he had a large response. The genuine Prussian nature embodied itself in the army, in the bu- reaucracy, in state education, through all of which its astonishing talent for rules found congenial exercise. One dissipa- tion, indeed, the Prussians allowed them- selves, earlier in this century, they re- veled in Hegelianism. But even here they were true to their instinct; for the philosophy of Hegel commended itself to them because it assumed to reduce the universe to a system, and to pigeonhole God himself. We see, then, the elements out of which Prussia grew to be a strong state, not yet large in population, but compact and carefully organized. Let us look now at Germany, of which she formed a part. We are struck at once by the fact that until 1871 Germany had no politi- cal unity. During the centuries when France, England, and Spain were being welded into political units by their re- spective dynasties, the great Teutonic race in Central Europe escaped the uni- fying process. The Holy Roman Em- pire at best a reminiscence was too weak to prevent the rise of many petty princedoms and duchies and of a few large states, whose rulers were heredi tary, whereas the emperor was elective. Thus particularism what we might call states rights flourished, to the detriment of national union. At the end of the last century, Germany had four hundred independent sovereigns: the most powerful being the King of Prussia; the weakest, some knight whose realm embraced but a few hundred acres, or some free city whose jurisdiction was bounded by its walls. When Napoleon, the great simplifier, reduced the number of little German states, he had no idea of encouraging the formation of a strong, coherent German Empire. To guard against this, which might menace the supremacy of France, he created the kingdoms of Bavaria and Westphalia, and set up the Confederation of the Rhine. After his downfall the Ger- man Confederation was organized, a weak institution, consisting of thirty- nine members, whose common affairs were regulated by a Diet which sat at Frankfort. Representation in this Diet was so unequal that Austria and Prus- sia, with forty-two million inhabitants, had only one eighth of the votes, while the small states, with but twelve million inhabitants, had seven eighths. Four tiny principalities, with two hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants each, could exactly offset Prussia with eight mil- lions. By a similar anomaly, Nevada and New York have an equal represen- tation in the United States Senate. From 1816 to 1848 Austria ruled the Diet. Yet Austria was herself an inter- loper in any combination of German states, for her German subjects, through whom she gained admission to the Diet, numbered only four millions; but her prestige was augmented by the backing of her thirty million. non-German sub- jects besides. Prussia fretted at this Austrian supremacy, fretted, and could not counteract it. Beside the Confed- eration, which so loosely bound the Ger- man particularists together, there was a Customs Union, which, though simply Bismarck. commercial, fostered among the Ger~ mans the idea of common interests. The spirit of nationality, potent every- where, awakened also in the Germans a vision of political unity, but for the most part those who beheld the vision were unpractical; the men of action, the rulers, opposed a scheme which enfolded among its possibilities the curtailing of their autocracy through the adoption of constitutional government. INo state held more rigidly than Prussia the tenets of absolutism. Great, therefore, was the general sur- prise, and among Liberals the joy, at the announcement, in February, 1847, that the King of Prussia had consented to the creation of a Prussian Parlia- ixient. He granted to it hardly more power than would suffice for it to as- semble and adjourn; but even this, to the Liberals, thirsty for a constitution, was as the first premonitory raindrops after a long drought. Among the mem- bers of this Parliament, or Diet, was a tall, slim, blond-bearded, massive-head- ed Brandenburger, thirty-two years old, who sat as proxy for a country gentle- man. A few of his colleagues recognized him as Otto von Bismarck; the majority had never heard of him. Bismarek was born at Schtsnhausen, Prussia, April 1, 1815. His paternal ancestors had been soldiers back to the time when they helped to defend the Brandenburg March against the inroads of Slav barbarians. His mother was the daughter of an employee in Fred- erick the Greats War Office. Thus, on both sides his roots were struck in true Prussian soil. At the age of six he was placed in a Berlin boarding - school, of which he afterward ridiculed the spu- rious Spartanism; at twelve he en- tered a gymnasium, where for five years he pursued the usual course of studies, an average scholar, but al- ready noteworthy for his fine physique; at seventeen he went up to the Univer- sity at G~ittingen. In the life of a 413 Prussian, there is but one period be- tween the cradle and the grave during which he escapes the restraints of iron- grooved routine: that period comprises the years he spends at the university. There a strange license is accorded him. By day he swaggers through the streets, leering at the women and affronting the men; by night he carouses. And from time to time he varies the monotony of drinking-bouts by a duel. Such, at least; was the life of the university student in Bismareks time. At Gdttingen, and subsequently at Berlin, he had the repu- tation of being the greatest beer-drinker and the fiercest fighter; yet he must also have studied somewhat, for in due time he received his degree in law, and became official reporter in one of the Berlin courts. Then he served as refer- endary at Aix-la-Chapelle, and passed a year in military service. At twenty-four he set about recuper- ating the family fortunes, which had suffered through his fathers incompe- tence. He took charge of the estates, devoted himself to agriculture, and was known for many miles round as the mad squire. Tales of his revels at his coun- try house, of his wild pranks and prac- tical jokes, horrified the neighborhood. Yet here, again, his recklessness did not preclude good results. He made the lands pay, and he tamed into usefulness that restless animal, his body, which was to serve as mount for his mighty soul. Some biographers, referring to his bu- colic apprenticeship, have compared him to Cromwell; in his youthful roistering he reminds us of Mirabean. To the Diet of 1847 the mad squire came, and during several sittings he held his peace. At last, however, when a Lib- eral deputy declared that Prussia had risen in arms in 1813, in the hope of get- ting a constitution quite as much as of expelling the French, the blond Branden- burger got leave to speak. In a voice which seemed incongruously small for his stature, but which carried far and pro- 414 Bismarck. duced the effect of being the utterance of an inflexible will, he deprecated the assertions just made, and declared that the desire to shake off foreign tyranny was a sufficient motive for the uprising in 1813. These words set the House in confusion. Liberal deputies hissed and shouted so that Bismarck could not go on; but, nothing daunted, he took a newspaper out of his pocket and read it, there in the tribune, till order was re- stored. Then, having added that who- ever deemed that motive inadequate held Prussias honor cheap, he strode haugh- tily to his seat, amid renewed jeers and clamor. Such was Bismarcks parlia- inentary baptism of fire. Before the session adjourned, the depu- ties had come to know him well. They discovered that the mad squire, the blunt captain of the dykes, was doubly re- doubtable; he had strong opinions, and utter fearlessness in proclaiming them. His political creeds was short,it comprised but two clauses: I believe in the supremacy of Prussia, and in ab- solute monarchy. More royalist than the King, he opposed every concession which might diminish by a hairs breadth the royal prerogative. Constitutional government, popular representation, whatever Liberals had been struggling and dying for since 1789, he detested. Democracy, and especially German de- mocracy, he scoffed at. For sixty years reformers had been railing at the absurd- ities of the old r6gime; they had de- nounced the injustice of the privileged classes; they had made odious the tyr- anny of paternalism. Bismarck entered the lists as the champion of divine right, and first proved his strength by exposing the defects of democracy. Those who believe most firmly in de- mocracy acknowledge, nevertheless, that it has many objections, both in theory and in practice. Universal suffrage the abandoning of the state to the caprice of millions of voters, among whom the proportion of intelligence to ignorance is as one to ten seems a process worthy of Bedlam. The ballot - box is hardly more accurate than the dice - box, as a test of the fitness of candidates. Popu- lar government means party government, and parties are dogmatic, overbearing, insincere, and corrupt. The men who legislate and administer, chosen by this method, avowedly serve their party, and not the state; and though, by chance, they should be both skillful and honest, they may be overturned by a sudden re- vulsion of the popular will. Such a sys- tem breeds a class of professional poli- ticians, men who make a business of getting into office, and whose only re- commendation is their proficiency in the art of cajoling voters. A government should be managed as a great business cor- poration is managed: it has to deal with the weightiest problems of finance, and with delicate diplomatic questions, for which the trained efforts of judicious ex- perts are needed; but instead of being entrusted to them, it is given over to poli- ticians elected by multitudes who cannot even conduct their private business suc- cessfully, much less entertain large and patriotic views of the common welfare. To decide an election by a show of hands seems not a whit less absurd than to de- cide it by the aggregate weight or the color of the hair of the voters. We speak of the will of the majority as if it were infallibly right. The vast majority of men to-day would vote that the sun revolves round the earth: should this belief of a million ignoramuses counter- vail the knowledge of one astronomer? Shall knowledge be the test of fitness in all concerns except government, the most critical, the most far reaching and re- sponsible of all? Majority rule substi- tutes mere numbers, bulk, and quantity for quality. Putting a saddle on Intelli- gence, it bids Ignorance mount and ride whither it will, even to the devil. It is the dupe of its own folly; for the poli- ticians whom it chooses turn out to be, not the representatives of the people, Bismarck. 415 but the attorneys of some mill or mine or railway. These and similar objections to de- mocracy Bismarck urged with a sarcasm and directness hitherto unknown in German politics. When half the world was repeating the words Liberalism, Constitution, Equality, as if the words themselves possessed magic to re- generate society, he insisted that firm nations must be based upon facts, not phrases. He had the twofold advan- tage of invariably separating the actual from the apparent, and of being opposed by the most incompetent Liberals in Eu- rope. However noble the ideals of the German reformers, the men themselves were singularly incapable of dealing with realities. Nor should this surprise us; for they had but recently broken away from the machine we have described, and they had not yet a new machine to work in; so they whirled to and fro in v~he- ment confusion, the very rigidity of their previous restraint increasing their dog- matism and their discord. The revolution of 1848 soon put them to the ordeal. The German Liberals aimed at national unity under a constitu- tion. Like their brothers in Austria and Italy, they enjoyed a temporary triumph; but they could not construct. Their Par- liament became a cave of the winds. Their schemes clashed. By the begin. ning of 1850 the old order was restored. During this stormy crisis, Bismarck, as deputy in two successive Diets, had re- solutely withstood the popular tide. He regarded the revolutionists as men in whom the qualities of knave, fool, and maniac alternately ruled; the revolution itself, lie said, had no other motive than a lust of theft. One of its leaders he dismissed as a phrase-watering-pot. The right of assemblages he ridiculed as furnishing democracy with bellows; a free press he stigmatized as a blood-poi- soner. When the imperial crown was offered to the King of Prussia, Bismarck argued against accepting it; he would not see his King degraded to the level of a mere paper president. Such opposition would have made the speaker conspicuous, if only for its au- dacity. His enemies had learned, how- ever, that it required a strong character to support that audacity continuously. They tried to silence him with abuse; but their abuse, like tar, added fuel to his fire. They tried ridicule; but their ridicule had too much of the German dullness to wound him. They called him a bigoted Junker, or squire. Remem- ber, he retorted, that the names Whig and Tory were first used opprobriously, and be assured that we will yet bring the name Junker into respect and honor.~~ Many anecdotes are told illustrating his quick repulse of intended insult or his disregard of formality. He was not un- willing that his enemies should remem- ber that he held his superior physical strength in reserve, if his arguments failed. Yet on a hunting-party, or at a dinner, or in familiar conversation, he was the best of companions. Germany has not produced another, unless it were Goethe, so variedly entertaining; and Goethe had no trace of one of Bismarcks characteristics, humor. He possessed also tact and a sort of Homeric geniality which, coupled with unbending tenacity, fitted him to succeed as a diplomatist. In 1851 the King appointed him to represent Prussia at the German Diet, which sat at Frankfort. The outlook was gloomy. Prussia had quelled the revo- lution, but she had lost prestige. Unable to break asunder the German Confeder- ation or to dominate it, she had signed, at Olmiitz, in the previous autumn, a compact which acknowledged the supre- macy of her old rival, Austria. While the humiliation still rankled, Bismarck entered upon his career. Hitherto not unfriendly to Austria, because he had looked upon her as the extinguisher of the revolution, which he hated most of all, he began, now that the danger was over, to give a free rein to his jealousy 416 Bismarek. of his countrys hereditary competitor. In the Diet, the Austrian representa- tive presided, the rulings were always in Austrias favor, the majority of the smaller states allowed Austria to guide them. Bismarck at once showed his col- leagues that humility was not his r6le. Finding that the Austrian president alone smoked at the sittings, he took out his own cigar and lighted it, a trifle, but significant. He resisted every encroach- ment, and demanded the strictest obser- vance of the letter of the law. Grad- ually he extended Prussias influence among the confederates. He unmasked Austrias insincerity; he showed how honestly Prussia walked in the path of legality; until he slowly created the im- pression that wickedness was to be ex- pected from one, and virtue from the other. During seven years Bismarck held this outpost, winning no outward victo- ry, but storing a vast amount of know- ledge about all the states of the Con- federation, their rulers and public men, which was subsequently invaluable to him. His dispatches to the Prussian Sec- retary of State, his reports to the King, form a body of diplomatic correspondence unmatched in fullness, vigor, directness, and insight. With him, there was no ambiguity, no diplomatic circumlocu- tion, no German proli~city. lie sketched in indelible outlines the portraits, cor- poral or mental, of his colleagues. He criticised the policy of Prussia with a brusqueness which must have startled his superior. He reviewed at long~~r range the political tendencies of Europe. Of- ficially, he kept strictly within the limits of his instructions; but his own person- ality represented more than he could yet officially declare, Prussias ambition to become the leader of Germany. In all his dispatches, and in all places where caution did not prescribe silence, he re- iterated his Cato warning, Austria must be ousted from Germany. Do not suppose, however, that Bis mareks political greatness was then dis- cerned. Probably, had you inquired of Germans forty years ago, Who among you is the coming statesman? not one would have replied, Bismarck. At the opera, we cannot mistake the hero, because the moonlight obligingly follows him over the stage; in real life, the hero passes for the most part unrecog- nized, until his appointed hour; but the historians duty is to show how the he- roic qualities were indubitably latent in him long before the world perceived them. In 1859 Bismarek was appointed am- bassador at St. Petersburg, where he stayed three years, when he was trans- ferred to Paris. This completed his ap- prenticeship, for in September, 1862, he was recalled to Berlin to be minister- president. His promotion had long been mooted. Th~ new King William a practical, rigid monarch, with no Liberal visions, no desire to please everybody had been for eighteen months in conflict with his Parliament. He had determined to reorganize the Prussian army; the Lib- erals insisted that, as Parliament was expected to vote appropriations, it should know how they were spent. William at last turned to Bismarck to help him sub- jugate the unruly deputies, and Bis- marck, with a true vassals loyalty, de- clared his readiness to serve as lid to the saucepan. Very soon the Liberals began to compare him with Stafford, and the King with Charles I., but neither of them quailed. Death on the scaffold, under certain circumstances, is as honor- able, Bismarck said, as death on the battlefield. I can imagine worse modes of death than the axe. Hitherto he had strenuously maintained the first ar- ticle of his creed, I believe in the supremacy of Prussia; henceforth he upheld with equal vigor the second, I believe in the autocracy of the King. The narrow Constitution limited the Kings authority, making it coequal with B~smarck. 417 that of the Upper and Lower Chambers, but Bismarck quickly taught the depu- ties that he would not allow a sheet of paper to intervene between the royal will and its fulfillment. Year after year the Lower House refused to vote the army budget; year after year Bismarck and his master pushed forward the mili- tary organization, in spite of the depu- ties. Noah was not more unmoved by those who came and scoffed at his huge, expensive, apparently useless ark than were the Prussian minister and his King by their critics, who did not see the pur- pose of the ark the two were building. Bismarck merely insisted that the army, on which depended the integrity of the nation, could not be subjected to the caprice of parties; it was an institution above parties, above politics, he said, which the King alone must control. At the same time, the minister-presi- dent actively pursued his other project, the expulsion of Austria from Ger- many. When the King of Denmark died, in December, 1863, the succession to the duchies of Schleswig and Holstein was disputed. Bismarck seized the oc- casion for occupying the disputed terri- tory, in partnership with Austria. Eng- land protested, France muttered, but neither cared to risk a war with the al- lied robbers. When it came to dividing the spoils, Bismarck, who had recently gauged Austrias strength, struck for the lions share. Austria resisted. Bismarck then approved himself a master of diplo- macy. Never was he more clever or more unscrupulous, shifting from argu- ment to argument, delaying the open rupture till Prussia was quite ready, feigning willingness to submit the dis- pute to European arbitration while se- cretly stipulating conditions which fore- doomed arbitration to failure, and inva- riably giving the impression that Austria refused to be conciliated. As the jug- gler lets you see the card he wishes you to see, and no other, so Bismarck always kept in full view, amid whatever shuf- VOL. Lxxxii. NO. 491. 27 fling of the pack, the apparent legality of Prussia. In the end he drove Aus- tria to desperation. In June, 1866, war came, with fury. One Prussian army crushed with a sin- gle blow the German states which had promised to support Austria; another marched into Bohemia and, in seven days, confronted the imperial forces at Sadowa. There was fought a great bat- tle, in which the Prussian crown prince repeated the master stroke of Bl~cher at Waterloo, and then Austria, hopelessly beaten, sued for peace. Bismarck now showed himself astute in victory. Having ousted Austria from Germany, lie had no wish to wreak a vengeance that she could not forgive. Taking none of her provinces, he exacted only a small indemnity. With the Ger- man states he was equally discriminat- ing: those which had been inveterately hostile he annexed to Prussia; the- oth- ers he let off with a fine. He set up the North German Confederation, em- bracing all the states north of the river Main, in place of the old German Con- federation; and thus Prussia, which had now two thirds of the population of Ger- many, was undisputed master. The four South German states, Bavaria, WUrtem- berg, Hesse, and Baden, signed a secret treaty, by which they gave the Prussian King the command of their troops in case of war. Europe, which had witnessed with as- tonishment these swift proceedings, un- derstood now that a great reality had arisen, and that Bismarck was its heart. In France, surprise gave way to indigna- tion. Were not the French the arbiters of Europe? How had it happened that their Emperor had permitted a first-rate power to organize without their con- sent? Napoleon III., who knew that his sham empire could last only so long as he furnished his restless subjects food for their vanity, strove to convince them that he had not been outwitted; that he still could dictate terms. He demanded 418 Bismarek. a share of Rhineland to offset Prussia~ s aggrandizement; Bismarck refused to cede a single inch. Napoleon bullied; Bismarek published the secret compact with the South Germans. Napoleon forthwith decided that it was not worth while to go to war. We have all heard of the sportsman who boasted of always catching big strings of fish. But one day, after whip-. ping every pool and getting never a trout, he was fain, on his way home, to stop at the market and buy him a salt herring for supper. Not otherwise did Napoleon, who had been very forward in announcing that he would take land wherever he chose, now stoop to offer to buy enough to appease his greedy coun- trymen. He would pay ninety million francs for Luxemburg, and the King of Holland, to whom it belonged, was will. ing to sell at that price; but Bismarck would consent only to withdraw the Prus- sian garrison from the grand duchy, after destroying the fortifications, and to its conversion into a neutral state. That was the sum of the satisfaction Napoleon and his presumptuous French- men got from their first encounter. A few years before, Napoleon, who had had frequent interviews with Bismarck, and aiked his joviality, set him down as a not serious man; whence we infer that the Emperor was a dull reader of character. Although, by this arrangement, the Luxemburg affair blew over, neither France ~nor Prussia believed that their quarrel was settled. Deep in the heart of each, instinct whispered that a life- and-death struggle was inevitable. Bis- marck, amid vast labor on the internal organization of the kingdom, held Prus- sia ready for war. He would not be the aggressor, but he would decline no chal- lenge. In July~ 1870, France threw down the glove. When the Spaniards elected Prince Leopold of Hohenzollern to their vacant throne, France demanded that King William should compel Leopold to resign. William replied that, as he had not influenced his kinsmans acceptance, he should not interfere. The prince, who was not a Prussian, withdrew of his own accord. But the French Secre- tary of State, the Due de Gramont, had blustered too loudly to let the matter end without achieving his purpose of humbling the Prussian King. He there- fore telegraphed Benedetti, the French ambassador, to force King William to promise that at no future time should Leopold be a candidate for the Spanish crown. Benedetti delivered his message to William in the public garden at Ems; and William, naturally refusing to bind himself, announced that further negoti- ations on the subject would be referred to the foreign minister. The following morning Bismarek pub- lished a dispatch containing a brief re- port of the interview; adding, however, that the King declined to receive the French ambassador again, and had him told by the adjutant in attendance that his Majesty had nothing further to com- municate to the ambassador. This de- ceitful addition produced exactly the ef- fect which Bismarek intended: every German, whether Prussian or not, was incensed to learn that the representative German King had been hectored by the French emissary, and every Frenchman was enraged that the Prussian King had insulted the envoy of the grand na- tion. Bismarck, who had feared that another favorable moment for war was passing, now exulted, and Moltke, who had for years been carrying the future campaign in his head, and whose face grew sombre when peace seemed proba- ble, now smiled a grim, contented smile. In Paris, the ministers, the deputies, the newspapers, and the populace clamored for war. Apparently, Napoleon alone felt a slight hesitation; but he could hesitate no longer when the popular de- mand became overwhelming. On July 19 France made a formal declaration Bism arek. of war, and the Parisians laid bets that their victorious troops would celebrate the Fete Napoh~on August 15 in Berlin. Had not their war minister, Le- bceuf, assured them that everything was ready, down to the last hutton on the last gaiter of the last soldier? We cannot describe here the terrible campaign which followed. In numbers, in equipment, in discipline, in general- ship, in everything but bravery, the French were quickly outmatched. When Napoleon groped madly for some friend- ly hand to stay his fall, he found that Bismarck had cut off succor from him. The South Germans, whom the French had hoped to win over, fought loyally under the command of Prussia; Aus- tria, who might have been persuaded to strike back at her late conqueror, dared not move for fear of Russia, whose friendship Bismarck had secured; and Italy, instead of aiding France, lost no time in completing her own unification by entering Rome.when the French gar- rison was withdrawn. Forsaken and outwitted, the French Empire sank with- out even an expiring flash of that tinsel glory which had so long bedizened its corruption. And when the French peo- ple, lashed to desperation, continued the war which the empire had brought upon them, they but suffered a long agony of losses before accepting the inevitable de- feat. They paid the penalty of their former arrogance in every coin known to the vanquished, in military ruin, in an enormous indemnity, in the occupa- tion of their land by the victorious Prus- sians, and in the cession of two rich provinces. Nor was that enough: they had to submit to a humiliation which, to the imagination at least, seems the worst of all, the proclamation of the Prus- sian King William as German Emperor in their palace at Versailles, the shrine of French pomp, where two centuries before Louis XIV. had embodied the ambition, the glory, and the pride of France. The German cannon bombard- 419 ing beleaguered Paris paused, while the sovereigns of the German states hailed William as their Emperor. This consummation of German un.ity was the logical outcome of an interna- tional war, in which all the Germans had been impelled, by mutual interests quite as much as by kinship, to join forces against an alien foe. Twenty years be- fore, Bismarck had opposed German unity, because it would then have made Prussia the plaything of her confeder- ates; in this later scheme he was the chief agent, if not the originator, for he knew that the primacy of Prussia ran no more risk. Let us pause a moment and look ba~k. Only a decade earlier, in 1861, when Bismarck became minister, Prussia was but a second-rate power, Germany was a medley of miscellaneous states, Austria still held her traditional supremacy, the French Emperor seemed firmly estab- lished. Now, in 1871, Austria has been humbled, France crushed, Napoleon whiffed off into outer darkness, and Prussia stands unchallenged at the head of United Germany. Many men the narrow, patient King, the taciturn Moltke, the energetic von Roon have contributed to this result; but to Bis- marck rightly belongs the highest credit. Slow to prepare and swift to strike, he it was who measured the full capacity of that great machine, the Prussian army, and let it do its work the moment Fortune signaled; he it was who knew that needle guns and discipline would overcome in the end the long prestige of Austria and the wordy insolence of France. Looking back, we are amazed at his achievements, many a step seems audacious; but if we investigate, we find that Bismarck had never threat- ened, never dared, more than his strength at the time warranted. The gods love men of the positive degree, and reward them by converting their words into facts. Of the German Empire thus formed 420 Bismarek. Bismarek was Chancellor for twenty years. His foreign policy hinged on one necessity, the isolation of France. To that end he made a Triple Alliance, in which Russia and Austria were his partners first, and afterward Italy took Russias place. He prevented the Fran- co-Russian coalition, which would place Germany between the hammer and the anvil. From 1871 to 1890 he was not less the arbiter of Europe than the auto- crat of Germany. Nevertheless, although in the manage- ment of home affairs Bismarck usually prevailed, he prevailed to the detriment of Germanys progress in self-govern- ment. The Empire, like Prussia her- self, is based on constitutionalism: what hope is there for constitutionalism, when at any moment the vote of a majority of the peoples representatives can be nullified by an arbitrary prime minister? Bismarck carried his measures in one of two ways: he either formed a temporary combination with mutually discordant parliamentary groups, and thereby se- cured a majority vote, or, when unable to do this, by threatening to resign he gave the Emperor an excuse for vetoing an objectionable bill. Despising repre- sentative government, with its intermi- nable chatter, its red tape, its indiscreet meddling, and its whimsical revulsions, Bismarck never concealed his scorn. If he believed a measure to be needed, he went down into the parliamentary mar- ket-place, and by inducements, not of money, but of concessions, he won over votes. At one time or another, every group has voted against him and every group has voted for him. When he was fighting the Vatican, for instance, he conciliated the Jews; when Jew-baiting was his purpose, he promised the Cath- olics favor in return for their support. Being amenable to the Emperor alone, and not, like the British Premier, the head of a party, he dwelt above the ca- price of parties. Men thought, at first, to stagger him by charges of inconsist ency, and quoted his past utterances against his present policy. He laughed at them. Consistency, he held, is the clog of men who do not advance; for himself, he had no hesitation in altering his policy as fast as circumstances re- quired. With characteristic bluntness, he did not disguise his intentions. I need your support, he would say to a hostile group, and I will stand by your bill if you will vote for mine. DQ ut des was his motto; an honest broker his self-given nickname. Such a government cannot properly be called representative; it dangles be- tween the two incompatibles, constita- tionalism and autocracy. Doubtless Bis- marck knew better than the herd of deputies what would best serve at a given moment the interests of Germany; but his methods were demoralizing, and so personal that they made no provision for the future. His system could not be permanent unless in every generation an autocrat as powerful and disinterested as himself should arise to wield it; but nature does not repeat her Bismareks and her Cromwells. At the end of his career, Germany has still to undergo her apprenticeship in self-government. Two important struggles, in which he engaged with all his might, call for es- pecial mention. The first is the Culturkampf, or con- test with the Pope over the appointment of Catholic bishops and clergy in Prus- sia. Bismarck insisted that the Pope should submit his nominations to the approval of the King; Pius IX. main- tained that in spiritual matters he could be bound by no temporal lord. Bismarck passed stern laws; he withheld the sti- pend paid to the Catholic clergy; he imprisoned some of them; he broke up the parishes of others. It was the me- diawal war of investitures over again, and again the Pope won. Bismarck discovered that against the intangible resistance of Rome his Krupp guns were powerless. After fifteen years of inef Bismarek. 421 fectual battling, the Chancellor surren- dered. Similar discomfiture came to him from the Socialists. When he entered upon his ministerial career, they were but a gang of noisy fanatics; when he quitted it, they were a great political party, holding the balance of power in the Reicbstag, and infecting Germany with their doctrines. At first he thought to extirpate them by violence, but they throve under persecution; then he pro- pitiated them, and even strove to fore- stall them by adopting Socialistic mea- sures in advance of their demands. If the next epoch is to witness the triumph of Socialism, as some predict, then Bis- marck will surely merit a place in the Socialists Saints Calendar; but if, as some of us hope, society revolts from Socialism before experience teaches how much insanity underlies this seductive theory, then Bismarck will scarcely be praised for coquetting with it. For So- cialism is but despotism turned upside down; it would substitute the tyranny of an abstraction the state for the tyranny of a personal autocrat. It rests on the fallacy that though in every in- dividual citizen there is more or less im- perfection, one dishonest, another un- truthful, another unjust, another greedy, another licentious, another willing to grasp money or power at the expense of his neighbor, yet by adding up all these units, so imperfect, so selfish, and calling the sum the state, you get a perfect and unselfish organism, which will manage without flaw or favor the whole business, public, private, and mixed, of mankind. By what miracle a coil of links, separately weak, can be converted into an unbreakable chain is a secret which the prophets of this Uto- pia have never condescended to reveal. Not more state interference, but less, is the warning of history. The fact which is significant for us here is that Socialism has best thriven in Germany, where, through the innate tendency of the Germans to a rigid sys- tem, the machinery of despotism has been most carefully elaborated, and where the interference of the state in the most triv- ial affairs of life has bred in the masses the notion that the state can do every- thing, even make the poor rich, if they can only control the lever of the huge machine. Nevertheless, though ~3ismarck has been worsted in his contest with reli- gious and social ideas, his great achieve- ment remains. He has placed Germany at the head of Europe, and Prussia at the head of Germany. Will the Ger- man Empire created by him last? Who can say? The historian has no business with prophecy, but he may point out the existence in the German Empire to-day of conditions that have hitherto menaced the safety of nations. The common danger seems the strongest bond of union among the German states. De- feat by Russia on the east or by France on the west would mean disaster for the South Germans not less than for the Prussians; and this peril is formidable ervough to cause the Bavarians, for in- stance, to fight side by side with the Prussians. But there can be no homo- geneous internal government, no com- pact nation, so long as twenty or more dynasties, coequal in dignity though not in power, flourish simultaneously. His- torically speaking, Germany has never passed through that stage of develop- ment in which one dynasty swallows up its rivals, the experience of England, France, and Spain, and even of polyglot Austria. Again, Germany embraces three un- willing members, Alsace - Lorraine, Schleswig, and Prussian Poland, any of which may serve as a provocation for war, and must remain a constant source of racial antipathy. How griev- ous such political thorns may be, though small in bulk compared to the body they worry, England has learned from Ire- land. 422 Bismarcic. Finally, if popular government the ideal of our century is to prevail in Germany, the despotism extended and solidified by Bismarck will be swept away. Possibly, Germany could not have been united, could not have hum- bled Austria and crushed France, under a Liberal system; but will the Germans forever submit to the direction of an iron Chancellor, or glow with exultation at the truculence of a strutting autocrat who flourishes his sword and proclaims, My will is law ? No other modern despotism has been so patriotic, honest, and successful as that of Bismarck; but will the Gernians never awake to the truth that even the best despotism con- victs those who bow to it of a certain ignoble servility? Or will they, as we have suggested, transform the tyranny of an autocrat into the tyranny of Social- ism? We will not predict, but we can plainly see that Germany, whether in her national or in her constitutional condi- tion, has reached no stable plane of de- velopment. And now what shall we conclude as to Bismarck himself? The magnitude of his work no man can dispute. For cen- turies Europe awaited the unification of Germany, as a necessary step in the or- ganic growth of both. Feudalism was the principle which bound Christendom together during the Middle Age; after- ward, the dynastic principle operated to blend peoples into nations; finally, in our time, the principle of nationality has accomplished what neither feudalism nor dynasties could accomplish, the attain- ment of German unity. In type, Bis- marek belongs with the Charlemagnes, the Cromwells, the Napoleons; but, un- like them, he wrought to found no king- doin f~or himself; from first to last he was content to be the servant of the monarch whom he ruled. As a states- man, he possessed in equal mixture the qualities of lion and of fox, which Ma- chiavelli long ago declared indispensa- ble to a prince. He had no scruples. What benefited Prussia and his King was to him moral, lawful, desirable; to them he was inflexibly loyal; for them he would suffer popular odium or incur personal danger. But whoever opposed them was to him an enemy, to be over- come by persuasion, craft, or force. We discern in his conduct toward enemies no more regard for morality than in that of a Mohawk sachem toward his Huron foe. He might spare them, but from motives of policy; he might persecute them, not to gratify a thirst for cruelty, but because he deemed persecution the proper instrument in that case. ~iis jus- tification would be that it was right that Prussia and Germany should hold the first rank in Europe. The world, as he saw it, was a field in which nations main- tained a pitiless struggle for existence, and the strongest survived; to make his nation the strongest was, he conceived, his highest duty. An army of puny- bodied saints might be beautiful to a pious imagination, but they would fare ill in an actual conflict with Pomeranian grenadiers. Dynamic, therefore, and not moral, were Bismarcks ideals and methods. To make every citizen a soldier, and to make every soldier a most effective fighting machine by the scientific ap- plication of diet, drill, discipline, and leadership, was Prussias achievement, whereby she prepared for Bismarck an irresistible weapon. In this application of science to control with greater ex- actness than ever before the movements of large masses of men in war, and to regulate their actions in peace, consists Prussias contribution to government; in knowing how to use the engine thus constructed lies Bismareks fame. When Germans were building air-castles, and, conscious of their irresolution, were ask- ing themselves, Is Germany Hamlet? Bismarek saw both a definite goal and the road that led to it. The sentimen- talism which has characterized so much of the action of our time never diluted Bismarcic. 423 his tremendous will. He held that by blood and iron empires are welded, and that this stern means causes in the end less suffering than the indecisive com- promises of the sentimentalists. Better, he would say, for ninety-nine men to be directed by the hundredth man who knows than for them to be left a prey to their own chaotic, ignorant, and inter- necine passions. Thus he is the latest representative of a type which flourished in the age when the modern ideal of popular government had not yet risen. How much of his power was due to his unerring perception of the defects in popular government as it has thus far been exploited, we have already re- marked. The Germans have not yet perceived that one, perhaps the chief source of his success was his un-German characteris- tics. Hewould have all Germany bound by rigid laws, but he would not be bound by them himself. He encouraged his countrymens passion for conventionali- ty and tradition, but remained the most unconventional of men. Whatever might complete the conversion of Germany into a vast machine he fostered by every art; but he, the engineer who held the throttle, was no machine. In a land where everything was done by prescrip- tion, the spectacle of one man doing whatever his will prompted produced an effect not easily computed. Such characteristics are un - German, we re- peat, and Bismarck displayed them at all times and in all places. His smoking a cigar in the Frankfort Diet; his op- position to democracy, when democracy was the fashion; his resistance to the Prussian Landtag; his arbitrary meth- ods in the German Parliament, these are but instances, great or small, of his un-German nature. And his relations for thirty years with the King and Em- peror whom he seemed to serve show a similar masterfulness. A single anec- dote, told by himself, gives the key to that service. At the battle of Sadowa King William persisted in exposing himself at short range to the enemys fire. Bismarck urged him back, but William was ob- stinate. If not for yourself, at least for the sake of your minister, whom the nation will hold responsible, retire, pleaded Bismarck. Well, then, Bis- marck, let us ride on a little, the King at last replied. But he rode very slowly. Edging his horse alongside of the Kings mare, Bismarck gave her a stout kick in the haunch. She bounded forward, and the King looked round in astonishment. I think he saw what I had done, Bis- inarck added, in telling the story, but he said nothing. On Bismarcks private character I find no imputed stain. He did not en- rich himself by his office, that hideous vice of our time. He did not, like both Napoleons, convert his palace into a harem; neither did he tolerate nepo- tism, nor the putting of incompetent parasites into responsible positions as a reward for party service. That he re- morselessly crushed his rivals let his obliteration of Count von Arnim wit- ness. That he subsidized a reptile press, or employed spies, or hounded his assailants, came from his belief that a statesman too squeamish to fight fire with fire would deserve to be burnt. Many orators have excelled him in grace, few in effectiveness. Regarding public speaking as one of the chief perils of the modern state, because it enables demagogues to dupe the easily swayed masses, he despised rhetorical artifice. His own speech was un-German in its directness, un-German in its humor, and it clove to the heart of a question with the might of a battle-axe, as, indeed, he would have used a battle-axe itself to persuade his opponents, five hundred years ago. Since Napoleon, no other European statesman has coined so many political proverbs and apt phrases. His letters to his family are delightfully natu- ral, and reveal a man of keen observa 424 lb. Rileys Poetry. tion, capable of enjoying the wholesome pleasures of life, and brimful of com- mon sense, which a rich gift of humor keeps from the dullness of Philistines and the pedantry of doctrinaires. His intercourse with friends seems to have been in a high degree jovial. A great man we may surely pro- nounce him, long to be the wonder of a world in which greatness of any kind is rare. If you ask, How does he stand beside Washington and Lincoln? it must be admitted that his methods would have made them blush, but that his pa- triotism was not less enduring than theirs. With the materials at hand he fash- ioned an empire; it is futile to speculate whether another, by using different tools, could have achieved the same result. Bismarck knew that though his country- men might talk eloquently about liberty, they loved to be governed; he knew that their genius was mechanical; and he triumphed by directing them along the line of their genius. He would have failed had he appealed to the love of liberty, by appealing to which Cavour freed Italy; or to the love of glory, by appealing to which Napoleon was able to convert half of Europe into a French province. Bismarck knew that his Prus- sians must be roused in a different way. It may be that the empire he created will not last; it is certain that it can- not escape modifications which will change the aspect he stamped upon it; but we may be sure that, whatever hap- pens, the recollection of his Titanic per- sonality will remain. He belongs among the giants, among the few in whom has been stored for a lifetime a stupendous energy, kinsmen of the whirlwind and the volcano, whose purpose seems to be to amaze us that the limits of the human include such as they. At the thought of him, there rises the vision of mythic Thor with his hammer, and of Odin with his spear; the legend of Zeus, who at pleasure held or hurled the thun- derbolt, becomes credible. William Roseoe Thctyer. MR. RILEYS POETRY. Ev1~N if Mr. Rileys poetry which, along with his prose, now has the distinc- tion of abeautiful uniform edition (Scrib- ners) had no claim to distinction in itself, the fact of its unrivaled popular- ity would challenge consideration. But, fortunately, his work does not depend on so frail a tenure of fame as the vogue of a season or the life of a fad. The qualities which secure for it a wider reading and a heartier appreciation than are accorded to any other living Ameri- can poet are rooted deep in human na- ture; they are pret~minently qualities of wholesomeness and common sense, those qualities of steady and conservative cheerfulness which ennoble the average man, and in which the man of excep tional culture is too often lacking. Its lovers are the ingenuous home-keeping hearts, on whose sobriety and humor the national character is based. And yet, one has not said enough when one says it is poetry of the domestic affections, poetry of sentiment; for it is much more than that. Poetry which is free from the un- happy spirit of the age, free from de- jection, from doubt, from material cyni- cism, neither tainted by the mould of sensuality nor wasted by the maggot of reform, is no common product, in these days. So much of our art and literature is ruined by self-consciousness, running to the artificial and the tawdry. It is the slave either of commercialism, imita

424 lb. Rileys Poetry. tion, capable of enjoying the wholesome pleasures of life, and brimful of com- mon sense, which a rich gift of humor keeps from the dullness of Philistines and the pedantry of doctrinaires. His intercourse with friends seems to have been in a high degree jovial. A great man we may surely pro- nounce him, long to be the wonder of a world in which greatness of any kind is rare. If you ask, How does he stand beside Washington and Lincoln? it must be admitted that his methods would have made them blush, but that his pa- triotism was not less enduring than theirs. With the materials at hand he fash- ioned an empire; it is futile to speculate whether another, by using different tools, could have achieved the same result. Bismarck knew that though his country- men might talk eloquently about liberty, they loved to be governed; he knew that their genius was mechanical; and he triumphed by directing them along the line of their genius. He would have failed had he appealed to the love of liberty, by appealing to which Cavour freed Italy; or to the love of glory, by appealing to which Napoleon was able to convert half of Europe into a French province. Bismarck knew that his Prus- sians must be roused in a different way. It may be that the empire he created will not last; it is certain that it can- not escape modifications which will change the aspect he stamped upon it; but we may be sure that, whatever hap- pens, the recollection of his Titanic per- sonality will remain. He belongs among the giants, among the few in whom has been stored for a lifetime a stupendous energy, kinsmen of the whirlwind and the volcano, whose purpose seems to be to amaze us that the limits of the human include such as they. At the thought of him, there rises the vision of mythic Thor with his hammer, and of Odin with his spear; the legend of Zeus, who at pleasure held or hurled the thun- derbolt, becomes credible. William Roseoe Thctyer. MR. RILEYS POETRY. Ev1~N if Mr. Rileys poetry which, along with his prose, now has the distinc- tion of abeautiful uniform edition (Scrib- ners) had no claim to distinction in itself, the fact of its unrivaled popular- ity would challenge consideration. But, fortunately, his work does not depend on so frail a tenure of fame as the vogue of a season or the life of a fad. The qualities which secure for it a wider reading and a heartier appreciation than are accorded to any other living Ameri- can poet are rooted deep in human na- ture; they are pret~minently qualities of wholesomeness and common sense, those qualities of steady and conservative cheerfulness which ennoble the average man, and in which the man of excep tional culture is too often lacking. Its lovers are the ingenuous home-keeping hearts, on whose sobriety and humor the national character is based. And yet, one has not said enough when one says it is poetry of the domestic affections, poetry of sentiment; for it is much more than that. Poetry which is free from the un- happy spirit of the age, free from de- jection, from doubt, from material cyni- cism, neither tainted by the mould of sensuality nor wasted by the maggot of reform, is no common product, in these days. So much of our art and literature is ruined by self-consciousness, running to the artificial and the tawdry. It is the slave either of commercialism, imita IIIir. I?ileys Poetry. 425 tive, ornate, and insufferably tiresome, or of didacticism, irresponsible and dull. But Mr. Riley at his best is both original and sane. He seems to have accoin- plished that most difficult feat, the devo- tion of ones self to an art without any deterioration of health. He is full of the sweetest vitality, the soundest mer- riment. His verse is not strained with an overburden of philosophy, on the one hand, nor debauched with maudlin senti- mentalism, on the other. Its robust gay- ety has all the fascination of artlessness and youth. It neither argues, nor stimu- lates, nor denounces, nor exhorts; it only touches and entertains us. And after all, few things are more humanizing than innocent amusement. It is because of this quality of abun- dant good nature, familiar, serene, home- ly, that it seems to me no exaggeration to call Mr. Riley the typical American poet of the day. True, he does not represent the cultivated and academic classes; he reflects nothing of modern thought; but in his unruffled temper and dry humor, occasionally flippant on the surface, but never facetious at heart, he might stand very well for the normal American character in his view of life and his palpable enjoyment of it. Most foreign critics are on the lookout for the appearance of something novel and un- conventional from America, forgetting that the laws of art do not change with longitude. They seize now on this writer, now on that, as the eminent product of democracy. But there is nothing uncon- ventional about Mr. Riley. He is like folks, as an old New England farmer said of Whittier. And if the typical poet of democracy in America is to be the man who most nearly represents aver- age humanity throughout the length and breadth of this country, who most com- pletely expresses its humor, its sympa- thy, its intelligence, its culture, and its common sense, and yet is not without a touch of original genius sufficient to stamp his utterances, then Mr. James Whitcomb Riley has a just claim to that title. He is unique among American men of letters (or poets, one might better say; for strictly speaking he is not a man of letters at all) in that he has originality of style, and yet is entirelynative and home ly. Whitman was original, but he was entirely prophetic and remote, appealing only to the few; Longfellow had style, but his was the voice of our collegiate and cultivated classes. It is not a question of rank or comparison; it is merely a matter of definitions. It is the position rather than the magnitude of any partic- ular and contemporary star that one is interested in fixing. To determine its magnitude, a certain quality of endur- ance must be taken into account; and to observe this quality often requires con- siderable time. Quite apart, then, from Mr. Rileys relative merit in the great anthology of English poetry, he has a very definite and positive place in the history of American letters as the first widely representative poet of the Amer- ican people. He is professedly a home - keeping, home-loving poet, with the purpose of the imaginative realist, depending upon common sights and sounds for his in- spirations, and engrossed with the sig- nificance of facts. Like Mr. Kipling, whose idea of perpetual bliss is a heaven where every artist shall draw the thing as he sees it, for the God of things as they are, Mr. Riley exclaims: Tell of the things jest like they wuz They dont need no excuse! Dont tetch em up as the poets does, Till they re all too fine fer use! And again, in his lines on A Southern Singer: Sing us back home, from there to here: Grant your high grace and wit, but we Most honor your simplicity. In the proem to the volume Poems here at Home there occurs a similar invoca- tion, and a test of excellence is proposed Jib. Rileys Poetry. which may well be taken as the gist of his own artistic purpose: The Poems here at Home! Who 11 write em down, Jes as they air in Country and in Town ? Sowed thick as clods is crost the fields and lanes, Er these ere little hop-toads when it rains! Who 11 voiceem? as I heerd a feller say At speechified on Freedom, tother day, And soared the Eagle tel, it peared to me, She was nt bigger n a bumble-bee! What We want, as I sense it, in the line 0 poetry is somepin Yours and Mine Somepin with live-stock in it, and out-doors, And old crick-bottoms, snags, and sycamores! Putt weeds in pizenvines, and underbresh, As well as johnny-jump-ups, all so fresh And sassy-like and groun-sqnirls, yes, and We, As sayin is, We, Us and Company. In the lines Right here at Home the same strain recurs, like the very burden of the poets life-song: Right here at home, boys, is the place, I guess, Fer me and you and plain old happiness: We hear the World s lots grander likely so, We 11 take the Worlds word for it and not go. We know its ways aint our ways, so we 11 stay Right here at home, boys, where we know the way. Right bere at home, boys, where a well-to-do Man s plenty rich enough and knows it, too, And s got a extry dollar, any time, To boost a feller up at wants to climb, Ands got the git-up in him to go in And git there, like he purt nigh allus kin! It is in this spirit that by far the greater part of his work, the telling and significant part of it, is conceived. The whole tatterdemalion company of his Tugg Martins, Jap Millers, Armazindys, Bee Fesslers, and their comrades, as rollicking and magnetic as Shakespeares own wonderful populace, he finds right here at home; nothing human is alien to him; indeed, there is something truly Elizabethan, something spacious and ro bust, in his humanity, quite exceptional to our fashion-plate standards. In the same wholesome, glad frame of mind, too, he deals with nature, mingling the keenest, most loving observation with the most familiar modes of speech. An artist in his ever sensitive appreciation and impressionability, never missing a phase or mood of natural beauty, he has the added ability so necessary to the final touch of illusion, the power of ease, the power of making his most cas- ual word seem inevitable, and his most inevitable word seem casual. It is in this, I think, that he differs from all his rivals in the field of familiar and dialect poetry. Other writers are as familiar as he, and many as truly inspired; but none combines to such a degree the homespun phrase with the lyric feeling. His only compeer in this regard is Low- ell, in the brilliant Biglow Papers and several other less known but not less admirable Chaucerian sketches of New England country life. Indeed, in hu- mor, in native eloquence, in vivacity, Mr. Riley closely resembles Lowell, though differing from that bookman in his training and inclination, and natu- rally, as a consequence, in his range and treatment of subjects. But the tide of humanity, so strong in Lowell, is at flood, too, in the Hoosier poet. It is this humane character, preserving all the rugged sweetness in the elemental type of man, which can save us at last as a people from the ravaging taint of char- latanism, frivolity, and greed. But we must not leave our subject without discriminating more closely be- tween several sorts of Mr. Rileys poet- ry; for there is as much difference be- tween his dialect and his classic English (in point of poetic excellence, I mean) as there is between the Scotch and the English of Burns. Like Burns, he is a lover of the human and the simple, a lover of green fields and blowing flow- ers; and like Burns, he is far more at home, far more easy and felicitous, in 426 Aft. ]?ileys Poetry. 427 his native Doric than in the colder Attic speech of Milton and Keats. This is so, it seems to me, for two reasons. In the first place, the poet is dealing with the subject matter he knows best; and in the second place, he is using the medium of expression in which he has a lifelong facility. The art of po- etry is far too delicate and too difficult to be practiced successfully without the most consummate and almost uncon- scious mastery of the language em- ployed; so that a poet will hardly ever write with anything like distinction or convincing force in any but his mother tongue. An artists command of his me- dium must be so intimate and exquisite that his thought can find adequate expres- sion in it as easily as in the lifting of a finger or the moving of an eyelid. Other- wise he is self-conscious, unnatural, false; and, hide it as he may, we feel the awk- wardness and indecision in his work. He who treats of subjects which he knows only imperfectly cannot be true to nature; while he who employs some means of expression which he only im- perfectly controls cannot be true to him- self. The best art requires the fulfill- ment of both these severe demands; they are the cardinal virti~es of art. Disre- gard of the first produces the dilettante; disregard of the second produces the charlatan. That either of these epithets would seem entirely incongruous, if am plied to Mr. Riley, is a tribute to his thorough worth as a writer. His verse, then, divides itself sharply into two kinds, the dialect and the con- ventional. But we have so completely identified him with the former manner that it is hard to estimate his work in the latter. It may be doubted, however, whether he would have reached his pre- sent eminence, had he confined his ef- forts to the strictly regulated forms of standard English. In poems like A Life Term and One Afternoon, for instance, there is smoothness, even grace of move- ment, but hardly that distinction which we call style, and little of the lyric plan- gency the author commands at his best; while very often in his use of authorized English there is a strangely marked re- miniscence of older poets, as of Keats in A Water Color (not to speak of A Ditty of No Tone, written as a frankly imita- tive tribute of admiration for the author of the Ode to a Grecian Urn), or of Em- erson in The All-Kind Mother. In only one of the dialect poems, on the other hand, so far as I recall them, is there any imitative note. His Nothin to Say has macli of the atmosphere and feeling as well as the movement of Tennysons Northern Farmer. But for the most part, when Mr. Riley uses his own dia- lect, he is thoroughly original as well as effective. He has not only the lyrical impetus so needful to good poetry; lie has also the story - tellers gift. And when we add to these two qualities an abundant share of whimsical humor, we have the equipment which has so justly given him wide repute. All of these characteristics are brought into play in such poems as Fesslers Bees, one of the fairest examples of Mr. Rileys balladry at its best: Might call him a bee-expert, When it come to handlin bees, Roll the sleeves up of his shirt And wade in amongst the trees Where a swarm nd settle, and Blamedest man on top of dirt! Rake em with his naked hand Right back in the hive agin, Jes as easy as you p]ea.se! For Mr. Riley is a true balladist. He is really doing for the modern popular taste, here and now, what the old ballad- ists did in their time. He is an enter- tainer. He has the ear of his audience. He knows their likes and dislikes, and hu- mors them. His very considerable and very successful experience as a public reader of his own work has reinforced (one may guess) his natural modesty and love of people, and made him constantly regardful of their pleasure. So that we must look upon his verses as a most gen 428 ~. Rileys Poetry. uine and spontaneous expression of aver- age poetic feeling as well as personal po- etic inspiration. Every artists work must be, necessa- rily, a more or less successful compromise between these two opposing and difficult conditions of achievement. The great artists are they who succeed at last in im- posing upon others their own peculiar and novel conceptions of beauty. But these are only the few whom the gods favor beyond their fellows; while for the rank and file of those who deal in the perish- able wares of art a less ambitious stan- dard may well be allowed. We must have our balladists as well as our bards, it seems; and very fortunate is the day when we can have one with so much real spirit and humanity about him as Mr. Riley. At times the pathos of the theme quite outweighs its homeliness, and lifts the author above the region of self-conscious art; the use of dialect drops away, and a creation of pure poetry comes to light, as in that irresistible elegy Little Haly, for example Little Haly, little Haly, cheeps the robin in the tree; Little Haly, sighs the clover; Little Haly, moans the bee; Little Haly, little Haly, calls the km-dee at twilight; And the katydids and crickets hollers Haly all the night. In this powerful lyric there is a simple directness approaching the feeling of Greek poetry, and one cannot help re- gretting the few intrusions of bad gram- mar and distorted spelling. They are not necessary. The poem is so universal in its human appeal, it seems a pity to limit the range of its appreciation by hampering it with local peculiarities of speech. At times, too, in his interpretations of nature, Mr. Riley lays aside his drollery and his drawling accent in exchange for an incisive power of phrase. The wild goose trails his harrow is an example of the keenness of fancy I refer to. Another is found in the clos- ing phrase of one of the stanzas in A Country Pathway A puritanic quiet here reviles The almost whispered warble from the hedge, And takes a locusts rasping voice and ifies The silence to an edge. In The Flying Islands of the Night Mr. Riley has made his widest departure into the reign of whimsical imagination. Here he has retained that liberty of un- shackled speech, that freedom and ease of diction, which mark his more familiar themes, and at the same time has en- tered an entirely fresh field for him, a sort of grown-up fairyland. There are many strains of fine poetry in this min- iature play, which show Mr. Rileys lyrical faculty at its best. In one in- stance there is a peculiar treatment of the octosyllabic quatrain, where he has chosen (one cannot guess why) to print it in the guise of blank verse. It is im- possible, however, to conceal the true swing of the lines. I loved her. Why? I never knew. Perhaps Because her face was fair. Perhaps because Her eyes were blue and wore a weary air. Perhaps! Perhaps because her limpid face Was eddied with a restless tide, wherein The dimples found no place to anchor and Abide. Perhaps because her tresses beat A froth of gold about her throat, and poured In splendor to the feet that ever seemed Afloat. Perhaps because of that wild way Her sudden laughter overleapt propriety; Or who will say ? perhaps the way she wept. It almost seems as if Mr. Riley, with his bent for jesting and his habit of wear- ing the cap and bells, did not dare be as poetical as he could; and when a serious lyric oame to him, he must hide it under the least lyrical appearance, as he has done here. But that, surely, if it be so, is a great injustice to himself. He might well attempt the serious as well as the comic side of poetry, remembering that when the half-gods go, the gods arrive. Bliss Carmcsn. The Sermon of the Rose. 429 THE SERMON OF THE ROSE. WmLFU~ we are in our infirmity Of childish questioning and discontent. Whateer befalls us is divinely meant Thou Truth the clearer for thy mystery! Make us to meet what is or is to be With fervid welcome, knowing it is sent To serve us in some way full excellent, Though we discern it all belatedly. The rose buds, and the rose blooms, and the rose Bows in the dews, and in its fullness, lo, Is in the lovers hand, then on the breast Of her he loves, and there dies. And who knows Which fate of all a rose may undergo Is fairest, dearest, sweetest, loveliest? Nay, we are children: we will not mature. A blessed gift must seem a theft; and tears Must storm our eyes when but a joy appears In drear disguise of sorrow; and how poor We seem when we are richest, most secure Against all poverty the lifelong years We yet must waste in childish doubts and fears That, in despite of reason, still endure! Alas! the sermon of the rose we will Not wisely ponder; nor the sobs of grief Lulled into sighs of rapture; nor the cry Of fierce defiance that again is still. Be patient patient with our frail belief, And stay it yet a little crc we die. o opulent life of ours, though dispossessed Of treasure after treasure! Youth most fair Went first, but left its priceless coil of hair Moaned over sleepless nights, kissed and caressed Through drip and blur of tears the tenderest. And next went Love the ripe rose glowing there, Her very sister! . . . It is here; but where Is she, of all the world the first and best? And yet how sweet the sweet earth after rain How sweet the sunlight on the garden-wall Across the roses and how sweetly flows The limpid yodel of the brook again! And yet and yet how sweeter, after all, The smouldering sweetness of a dead red rose! Ja~mes Whitcomt Riley.

The Sermon of the Rose. 429 THE SERMON OF THE ROSE. WmLFU~ we are in our infirmity Of childish questioning and discontent. Whateer befalls us is divinely meant Thou Truth the clearer for thy mystery! Make us to meet what is or is to be With fervid welcome, knowing it is sent To serve us in some way full excellent, Though we discern it all belatedly. The rose buds, and the rose blooms, and the rose Bows in the dews, and in its fullness, lo, Is in the lovers hand, then on the breast Of her he loves, and there dies. And who knows Which fate of all a rose may undergo Is fairest, dearest, sweetest, loveliest? Nay, we are children: we will not mature. A blessed gift must seem a theft; and tears Must storm our eyes when but a joy appears In drear disguise of sorrow; and how poor We seem when we are richest, most secure Against all poverty the lifelong years We yet must waste in childish doubts and fears That, in despite of reason, still endure! Alas! the sermon of the rose we will Not wisely ponder; nor the sobs of grief Lulled into sighs of rapture; nor the cry Of fierce defiance that again is still. Be patient patient with our frail belief, And stay it yet a little crc we die. o opulent life of ours, though dispossessed Of treasure after treasure! Youth most fair Went first, but left its priceless coil of hair Moaned over sleepless nights, kissed and caressed Through drip and blur of tears the tenderest. And next went Love the ripe rose glowing there, Her very sister! . . . It is here; but where Is she, of all the world the first and best? And yet how sweet the sweet earth after rain How sweet the sunlight on the garden-wall Across the roses and how sweetly flows The limpid yodel of the brook again! And yet and yet how sweeter, after all, The smouldering sweetness of a dead red rose! Ja~mes Whitcomt Riley. 430 The End of the War, and After. THE END OF THE WAR, AND AFTER. IT is reason for universal congratula- tion that the war is ended (for it seems safe to assume that it is ended) so early and so happily, for us, for the Span- ish colonies, and, in spite of her present humiliation, for Spain herself; for the result makes for eivilization. There was never a doubt that it would end with an American victory; but that the vic- tory would be so easily and so cheaply won was not foreseen. Nor were the in- cidental benefits foreseen; for there are incidental benefits as great as the main result itself. Unforeseen, also, were the new obligations that have been imposed on us. The problem of governing countries not only separated from the United States, but populated by different races and ac- customed to different institutions from ours, is a new problem; but it is a pro- blem that our English kinsmen have so successfully solved that we shall be dull indeed if we do not succeed, with their experience to instruct us. The present popular mood regarding this new task, as regarding most other large undertak- ings in which a national spirit must play an important part, seems to be a deep- seated and safe mood. The people, there can hardly be doubt, prefer to retain the territory that has fallen to them by the fortune of war, and they do not share the foreboding of the intelligent minority, whose individualism estranges them from the national feeling, and who see grave danger to our institutions in such addi- tions to our political tasks. National feeling is a safer guide to national devel- opment than the mere reasoning process of critical minds. At any rate, it at last becomes the only guide. The danger to our successful manage- ment of Cuba and Porto Rico, or even of the Philippine Islands, consists, not in their distance from our shores, but in their difference of population and institutions from ours. They cannot be converted into American states by any statutes, and no laws can change their character. Nor is there any need that they should now or ever be converted intq American states. We are committed to two duties: we have by conquest taken upon ourselves a solemn obligation to the people of the conquered islands to insure stable gov- ernment, and the nature of our institu- tions forbids that we should set up any form of government except one that at the earliest possible moment shall become self-government. Even if we wished we could not shirk these responsibilities. We cannot leave the people of these islands either to their own fate, or to the mercy of the now defeated and disorgan- ized Spanish rule, or yet to the mercy of any predatory nation that might seize them. We are become responsible for their development. Precisely what form the government of these several islands ought to take can be determined only after careful study of their people and conservative experiment with them; but to predict that we shall make a failure in the effort to prepare them for self-government is a childish distrust of our capacity. We have never had a task just like this, but we have had tasks more difficult. Nor will our undertaking such a task involve us in entanglements with European na- tions if we succeed. The European nations, it so happens, will look with somewhat greater respect upon American efforts at the government even of Manila than they would have looked six months ago. But without too great regard to European opinion it becomes our duty solemnly and patriotically now to take our new duties and responsibilities in hand, and, as a great nation committed to one great policy of government, to work out

430 The End of the War, and After. THE END OF THE WAR, AND AFTER. IT is reason for universal congratula- tion that the war is ended (for it seems safe to assume that it is ended) so early and so happily, for us, for the Span- ish colonies, and, in spite of her present humiliation, for Spain herself; for the result makes for eivilization. There was never a doubt that it would end with an American victory; but that the vic- tory would be so easily and so cheaply won was not foreseen. Nor were the in- cidental benefits foreseen; for there are incidental benefits as great as the main result itself. Unforeseen, also, were the new obligations that have been imposed on us. The problem of governing countries not only separated from the United States, but populated by different races and ac- customed to different institutions from ours, is a new problem; but it is a pro- blem that our English kinsmen have so successfully solved that we shall be dull indeed if we do not succeed, with their experience to instruct us. The present popular mood regarding this new task, as regarding most other large undertak- ings in which a national spirit must play an important part, seems to be a deep- seated and safe mood. The people, there can hardly be doubt, prefer to retain the territory that has fallen to them by the fortune of war, and they do not share the foreboding of the intelligent minority, whose individualism estranges them from the national feeling, and who see grave danger to our institutions in such addi- tions to our political tasks. National feeling is a safer guide to national devel- opment than the mere reasoning process of critical minds. At any rate, it at last becomes the only guide. The danger to our successful manage- ment of Cuba and Porto Rico, or even of the Philippine Islands, consists, not in their distance from our shores, but in their difference of population and institutions from ours. They cannot be converted into American states by any statutes, and no laws can change their character. Nor is there any need that they should now or ever be converted intq American states. We are committed to two duties: we have by conquest taken upon ourselves a solemn obligation to the people of the conquered islands to insure stable gov- ernment, and the nature of our institu- tions forbids that we should set up any form of government except one that at the earliest possible moment shall become self-government. Even if we wished we could not shirk these responsibilities. We cannot leave the people of these islands either to their own fate, or to the mercy of the now defeated and disorgan- ized Spanish rule, or yet to the mercy of any predatory nation that might seize them. We are become responsible for their development. Precisely what form the government of these several islands ought to take can be determined only after careful study of their people and conservative experiment with them; but to predict that we shall make a failure in the effort to prepare them for self-government is a childish distrust of our capacity. We have never had a task just like this, but we have had tasks more difficult. Nor will our undertaking such a task involve us in entanglements with European na- tions if we succeed. The European nations, it so happens, will look with somewhat greater respect upon American efforts at the government even of Manila than they would have looked six months ago. But without too great regard to European opinion it becomes our duty solemnly and patriotically now to take our new duties and responsibilities in hand, and, as a great nation committed to one great policy of government, to work out The End of the War, and After. 431 these problems for the advancement of civilization. The great Republic can have no tribute-bearing colonies; but it can help weak people to self-government. And it will be found that the govern- ment of each island will present itself, not as it now presents itself to the timid, as a task involving revolutionary dan- gers to ourselves and complications with all the other governments of the world, and a denial of the doctrines of the fa- thers, but rather as a practical task that practical and patriotic men can success- fully accomplish. The main result of the war, the free- dom of Cuba from Spanish misrule, has been achieved, but the full fruits of it will ripen more slowly than most men at first supposed. Sympathy with the Cu- ban insurgents had led many persons to regard them as capable at once of self- government; but the conduct of a part of them during the war has confirmed the judgment of those men who knew them best, that the removal of Span- ish rule will not immediately nor easily lead to the self - government of Cuba. The complete conquest of the island by civilization will be accomplished through American industry and commerce, which will now follow American arms. Brig- ands are as certain where roads are lack- ing as rebellion where government is op- pressive. But the future of Cuba pre- sents no insuperable difficulties, though its subjection to civilization may require a considerable time. In his proclamation concerning the government of Santiago, the President indicated the proper course to pursue: local government to be per- mitted, to be required, in fact; the Unit- ed States to maintain military control so long as military control is necessary for the security of life and property, but to relax it, and at last to give it up, when a competent local government has been created and tested. The process will not be very different in principle from the process of the reconstruction of the local governments of the Southern States thirty years ago. If the Cubans do not at first show capacity for self-govern- ment, the certain increase of American influence and even of American popula- tion in the island will greatly hasten its coming. The engineer will follow the soldier. The harbor of Havana will be opened to the Gulf Stream, a neces- sary and easy piece of sanitary work that the Spaniards have been going to do for a century; the cities will be properly drained, and yellow fever will be elimi- nated from the scourges of our own shores. Cuba will present no very seri- ous difficulty till the time comes when it may wish to be admitted into the Amer- ican Union as a state. But such a wish is not a sufficient reason for its admission. And the same plan whereby local self- government will be built up in Cuba will apply, with modifications, to Porto Rico. One island will become an independent territory under our guardianship; the other will be directly ceded to us. But the essential elements of their govern- ment under our tutelage must be the same, for the moral obligations that we have assumed are the same, and there is but one great principle of government that we can adhere to. How much ter- ritory it may be wise to retain in the Philippine Islands it is impossible to foresee; but the principle that should govern our action is clear. We want no colonies, can indeed have no co1o~ nies, in the continental sense; but we must fulfill every obligation to Spain~ $ conquered subjects that our conduct of the war in Asiatic waters has put upon us, without regard to the colonizing am- bitions of the European nations; and we shall hardly fail, moreover, to keep what- ever strategic advantage our navy has won, in either ocean. The war, then, brings within the sphere of English - speaking civilization two of the most valuable of the Antilles; inci- dentally the Hawaiian Islands, and per- haps a part of the Philippine group: and these results can be only good. But in 432 The End of the War, and After. achieving them we have achieved other results quite as great, and no less great because they were unexpected. We have recovered our own national feeling. Four months ago, we were a great mass of people rather than a com- pact nation conscious of national strength and unity. By forgetting even for this brief time our local differences, we have welded ourselves into a conscious unity such as the Republic has not felt since its early days. Not only have the North and the South forgotten that they were ever at war, for time and industry had already wellnigh brought this result, but the Pacific states are nearer to the rest of the Union than they ever were before, and the great middle West is no longer estranged from the seaboard. We can work out our own problems and build our own future with a steadier purpose. This consciousness is the keener be- cause of the increased respect that other nations have for us. The United States was never before understood in official Europe, perhaps not even in official Eng- land. When the war was begun, most of the Continental nations failed to con- ceal their contempt of us: they now re- spect us as they never dreamed they should. Nor is it only our naval victo- ries that have given the world a some- what new conception of the United States. Quite as impressive has been the absence of the old-time barbarities of war and of warlike vindictiveness. To send home across the ocean a captured army, to parole the officers of a captured squad- ron, to feed not only the victims of Span- ish misrule, but the Spanish themselves, have laid emphasis on other reasons for war than the old reasons of the punish- ment of enemies and the conquest of tribute-bearing territory. In humanity to the enemy this war is without parallel. Both the power and the aims of the Re- public are more clearly understood in Europe than a half. century of peace could have revealed them, and (in no spirit of boastfulness) we might add the American character, also. It is to be hoped, too, that we have had some effect on the medimeval diplo- macy of Europe. We have often been called blunt and discourteous in our dip- lomacy, no doubt with truth; for Eu- ropean diplomacy is a dilatory art, that has always been as courteous as it has usually been mendacious. Ministers have seldom said what they or their masters meant. Now, if the dealings of civi- lized governments with one another are ever to advance beyond evasion and cun- ning, the old diplomacy must change to republican directness and frankness. It need not take on discourtesy in manner, but it must speak the truth and keep faith. If we have even in slight measure discredited the old mendacious and dila- tory methods, we have done something toward furthering political civilization. Nor will the impulse that asserted it- self in the war stop with the war. The spirit of the people once having looked outward, American enterprise will seek new fields of conquest, not by arms, but by trade and legitimate adventure. Our navy has revealed to ourselves not less than to the rest of the world our rightful place among the nations. Mod- ern transportation, which we have done most to develop, has changed all interna- tional political conditions. By reason of it we are already entangled with other peoples, in ways that the fathers could not foresee and that no policy can pre- vent. The great outward pressure that all nations feel is the pressure of com- merce for new markets; and statesmen, whether they know it or not, minister to trade, and through trade to civilization. With larger anti further-reaching polit- ical duties, too, which appeal to the im- agination rather than to the private greed of men, our public life will once more rise to the level of statesmanship.

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: a fila~aPne of ~Lit~rature, ~~ienLe, art, anti 1~ohtic~0. VOL. LXXXIL OCTOBER, 1898. No. UCCUXCIL THE ANGLO-AMERICAN FRIENDSHIP. ONE of the weightiest passages in Washingtons Farewell Address is that in which he warns the American peo- ple as to permanent inveterate antipa- thies against particular nations, and pas- sionate attachments for others. The loss of an unreasoning prejudice is al- ways a distinct gain, especially to a na- tion whose politics are governed by pub- lic opinion. We may therefore count the disappearance of the old blind An- glophobia, and the vanishing of the trade of the demagogue who would demon- strate his superior patriotism by merely twisting the British lions tail, as one of the decidedly good results of our Spanish war. The American people are now getting into a state of mind which will enable them to consider their rela- tions with Great Britain with candid dis- eernment, without doing injustice to the feelings they formerly entertained. There have always been many Amer- icans, indeed, who cherished a very warm sympathy for the mother country, partly owing to family sentiment, partly to the belief that England is among the na- tions of the Old World the most consis- tent representative of those principles of civil liberty of which this republic claims to be the completest embodiment; that, whatever criticism her conduct may in many respects have deserved, no nation has done more to carry light into the dark places of the world, and to sup- plant barbarism with order and pro- gress; and that if, in doing this, she served her own interests, sometimes with rough disregard of the feelings and claims of others, on the whole, she served also the general interest of man- kind. But the traditional education of the masses in America still kept most prominently before the popular mind the memories of the Revolutionary war and of the war of 1812, in which Great Brit- ain appeared mainly as the oppressor of the colonies and the ruthless tyrant of the seas, and as the only really male- v6lent and dangerous enemy the Ameri- cans had ever had to fight. These mem- ories were aggravated by the impression produced upon the American mind by the attitude of Great Britain during our civil conflict; and this impression was so strong that some of the men who until then had been among the warmest admir- ers and friends of England were much shaken in their attachment. It is not unnatural, therefore, that a large number of Americans should have continued to think of Great Britain as the hereditary enemy, who would still be capable of any mischief if opportu- nity offered, and that the politicimvn in quest of cheap popularity should have found in vociferous denunciation of that enemy a device sure to draw applause. But this was no excuse for the persons in important public position who, having ample facilities for information at their disposal, knew better, or at least should have known better, but who pretended to see perfidious Albion lurking behind every bush, dagger in hand, watching for a propitious moment to strike us to the 434 The Anglo-American Friendship. heart, or to rob us of our valuables, Senators who would insist that if we lost a moment in taking the Hawaiian Islands, Great Britain would surely snatch them from us; or that it was altogether owing to diabolical British intrigues if we did not get on with the Nicaragua canal; or that we must punish Great Britain with tariff discriminations for maliciously maintaining the single gold standard, and thus preventing the establishment of universal bimetallism which we needed so much; or that we must not have an arbitration treaty with Great Britain that amounted to anything, because Great Britain would surely de- rive the only advantage from it at our expense. Indeed, we may congratulate ourselves that the jingoes of that ex- treme school did not succeed in making a serious quarrel out of some slight mat- ter of difference, which they sometimes seemed morbidly anxious to do. Not to believe in British hostility constantly at work against us was to them a proof of a lack of American patriotism, and there was real danger that this sinister influence was it infatuation or dema- gogy ? would sometime get this re- public into grave trouble with a power which, whatever its disposition may have been at other periods, certainly did not now wish to quarrel with us. Then came the Spanish war and the demonstrative display of British sympa- thy with the United States. Even the most inveterate Anglophobist was bound to admit that if Great Britain had been watching for an opportunity to hurt this republic, her time to take advantage of its embarrassment had come, and that if, under such circumstances, she proved herself not only not hostile, but positive- ly friendly, the old cries could not be sustained. The employment of the old- style anti-British jingo is evidently gone; and the American people will do well to remember the untrustworthiness of those public men whose unsound judgment or lack of good faith so long insisted upon it that an offensive attitude toward Great Britain was a test of American states- manship. Such statesmen should hence- forth command no more confidence than in so important a matter they have shown themselves to deserve. As to the sincerity of the British friend- ship for us, Mr. James Bryce, whose wide knowledge of men and affairs, whose high character, and whose well - known friendly feeling for this country and its people are entitled to the highest re- spect, told us, in a recent article in The Atlantic Monthly, that even during our civil war, when the attitude of Great Britain was so much complained of, the masses of the people [in England] hoped for the victory of the North, be- cause they felt that the North stood for human rights and freedom; that, in- deed, the bulk of the wealthier classes of England, and the newspapers written for those classes, did in those days say many offensive things regarding the United States, and sometimes conveyed the impression erroneous though that impression was that England as a whole had ranged herself on the side of the Southern Confederacy; that those wealthier classes erred so grievously partly from ignorance, partly from their own political proclivities, which were not generally for freedom; that since 1863 Britain has passed through gre at political changes ; that parlia- mentary suffrage has been so extended as now to include the immense majority of the working classes; that now the masses which during our civil war were friendly to the Union, while their senti- ment told very little on the wealthy and the newspapers which the wealthy read, have become politically predominant, and public opinion has adapted itself to the new conditions; in other words, that Britain at large has become friendly to the United States because it has become more democratic. All this is undoubtedly true; but more is to be said. Before the period of our The Anglo-American Friendship. 435 civil war this republic was looked upon by many of the ruling class in England as an experiment of uncertain result. They had no confidence in the self-sus- taining power of democratic government, and they expected that some time, most likely owing to the troubles bred by the slavery question, the Union would be broken to pieces. They were not quite sure whether the interests of Great Brit- ain might not on the whole be best served by a disruption of the Union, for the reason that if the union remained un- broken it might in various ways become a dangerous rival and competitor of the mother country. In this state of mind, they were rather disposed to welcome the Southern Confederacy as the means for dividing the United States into several comparatively harmless fragments. But when the Union issued from that crisis stronger than ever, they promptly re- cognized the fact that this republic was bound to be a permanent institution and a very great power, apt to become ex- ceedingly useful as a friend, and ex- ceedingly uncomfortable as an enemy. From that time it came to be the first precept~of British statesmanship even with most of those who would have shed no tears had the Union been disrupted to remain on good terms with the United States at almost any cost. Witness the sacrifice of British pride in the Alabama arbitration as well as in the Venezuela case. Mr. Bryce himself approaches a recognition of this fact in the article above mentioned, when, after having spoken of the political isolation of Great Britain, he says: In this state of facts, England has been forced to look round and con- sider with which of the four other world powers she has most natural affinity, and with which of them there is the least like- lihood of any clash of interests. That one is unquestionably the United States. It does not detract from the claim to sin- cerity of the British friendship, or from its value, that there is this consideration of interest in it. On the contrary, if the interest is a mutual and a well - under- stood one, so much the better. It will make the friendship all the more natural and durable. Neither do I think that the exchange of complimentary phrases which has become customary, about kin- ship, common origin, common love of liberty, common language, common lit- erature, about blood being thicker than water and so on, is mere worthless stage claptrap and flumnmery. There is enough truth and sincerity in it to create and keep alive a real sentiment; and while those are mistaken who think interna- tional relations may be wholly governed by mere sentiment, those are equally mis- taken who think that sentiment is no force at all in international relations. As is everything that promotes peace and good will among nations, so this sentiment of kinship between the American nation and the British is well worth cultivating. It may do very good service in facilitating the cot~peration of the two nations where their interests or objects are in accord, as well as in preventing serious quarrels between them about differences which are not vital. The question is how the friendly rela- tions which came about in so natural a way can be made to endure, and to yield the best possible fruit to the parties con- cerned and to mankind at large. An English statesman of high standing, who may be regarded as a sincere friend of this republic, is credited with saying in effect that if the Anglo-American friend- ship were to result substantially in a co- operation of the American jingoes with the British jingoes, it would be a curse rather than a blessing. I accept this with- out reserve, and add that such a friend- ship would not endure. If the United States and Great Britain, believing their combined strength to be superior to that of any probable combination against them, were to set out to conquer and di- vide the earth, or at least the largest pos- sible part thereof, they would inevitably soon fall out among themselves about the 436 The Anglo-American Friendship. distribution of the spoil. No league of two such powers, formed in that spirit and for such purposes, could possibly last long. Nor would the common origin, and the common language and literature, and the common principles of civil liber- ty, and all the other elements of kinship serve to hold it together. It is a well- known fact that a family fend about property is apt to be more bitter and re- lentless than any other kind of quarrel, and that a friendship formed after long dissension, and then broken again, is among the most difficult to mend. I should say, therefore, that if the United States and Great Britain are to remain friends, they must carefully avoid coin- mon enterprises in which theirambitions are likely to clash. If they do not, they will be in danger of drifting into en- mities far more virulent and far more calamitous than any that have existed between them hitherto. For the same reason they should keep clear of any arrangements calculated to make them dependent upon each other as to the maintenance, respectively, of their interests or their position in the family of nations. A consciousness of such dependence would be apt to en- gender just that kind of suspicion, of misgiving, which is most dangerous to international friendship. I can best il- lustrate my meaning by inviting atten- tion to something that is now going on. Many Englishmen are assiduously en- couraging the Anmerican people to launch out on what is currently called an im- perial policy, and to this end to keep in their possession the territories con- quered from Spain, especially the Philip- pine Islands. It is quite evident that if this republic undertakes to hold such pos- sessions, it becomes at once entangled in the jealousies and quarrels of European powers, of which colonial acquisition in that part of the world is the principal object. It is equally evident that while, with our vast resources, we are capable of creating and maintaining military and naval armaments strong enough to enable this republic to hold its own in these complications, single-handed and alone, our present armaments are not at all sufficient for that purpose. Nor is it certain that a majority of the Amer- ican people, upon sober consideration of the matter, would wish to set and keep on foot armaments so extensive and cost ly. Now some of our British friends substantially tell us: Never mind that. You just start in the imperial business, and take and keep the Philippines and whatever else. We have plenty of ships, and if you get into trouble we will see you through. This sounds well. But Englishmen who sincerely desire a lasting friendship between the United States and Great Britain will not give us such seductive advice, if they are wise; and it should be observed that Mr. Bryce, who knows the American people, does not join in it. Neither should the American peo- ple obey such advice, if aside from other reasons against the imperial policy they have only the preservation of tIme friend- ship with Great Britain in view. While duly thankful for the kind offer, they should remember that, under any circum- stances, they should be careful not to put themselves into situations the require- ments of which would oblige them to de- pend upon foreign aid, especially when such dependence involves obligations in return the extent of which it would be difficult to measure in advance. True, the dependence and the obligations might be made mutual. An agreement between the two nations, binding Great Britain to protect the United States in the possession of the Philippines, and the United States to aid Great Britain in carrying certain points in Asia, might seem fair in the abstract, but prove otherwise in reality. Any occasion for comparing the value of the services due and the services ren- dered, respectively, is dangerous to the cordiality of international relations, es- pecially when one of the nations con- The Anglo-American Friendship. 487 cerned is a democracy, which will al- ways be disposed to measure much more closely services which are asked for as due, than services which it voluntarily renders. Ou the whole, if we wish to keep our friendship with Great Britain on a pro- per and durable basis, we should con- stantly remember that it is a very good thing to have, but that we ought not to be in a situation to need it. The more spontaneous and unconstrained our re- lations are, the more will the friendship be likely to last. It is equally desirable that those who have at heart the cultivation of the friend- ship between the two nations should be careful to abstain from exciting expec- tations as to its practical results which are not likely to be realized, and might therefore produce chilling disappoint~ ments. There are some things about which we are apt to delude ourselves, when in a state of sentimental emotion; and without the slightest desire to de- preciate or discourage the feelings en- tertained here as well as in England at the present moment, it may be said that we are in such a state of sentimental emotion now. An example of the outcome of that state of mind is furnished by the reso- lutions adopted by the Anglo-American League recently formed in London. The recital in those resolutions that the peo- ples of the United States and of England are akin in language, literature, and principles of government is very proper; but when the resolutions go on to say that the two nations are drawn together common interests in many parts of the world, and ought therefore con- stantly to co6perate, they touch doubt- ful ground. What are those common interests in many parts of the world, to protect and promote which the two nations should constantly coilperate? Any attempt to specify will meet with difficulty. It might be said in a general way that we have a common interest in furthering the progress of civilization wherever there is an opportunity for such furtherance. But this is so vague a proposition a proposition open to so great a variety of interpretations and in- cluding so many different subjects that no definite plan of codperation can be based upon it. Its active application would have to depend upon special agreement in each separate emergency. We are told that it is the common interest of the two nations to open the markets of the world to their commerce, and, by implication, to prevent, wherever possible, the entire or partial closing of any of them. This will be true as soon as both nations agree in regarding free trade as their common interest. But as things now stand, consistent co~5pera- tion between them would require, at the outset, that our own ports should be relieved of those high tariff duties which to a great extent have hurt the trade of Great Britain herself, and which, if we should get any colonial possessions while our protective policy lasts, would to the same extent shut in Great Britains face our colonial ports, too; for, whatever arrangements we may make at present by way of excep- tional war measures, there will hardly be a way in time of peace to get around the constitutional mandate that all duties, imposts, and excises shall be uniform throughout the United States; nor would the influences which now up- hold the protective system with us per- mit it. Thus it appears that in this re- spect identity of interests between the two nations depends upon identity of commercial policy. Without this iden- tity of commercial policy the relations between Great Britain and the United States, in this regard, will not differ materially from the relations between Great Britain and any other country, inasmuch as it is the interest of every country, whatever it may do with its own ports, that every foreign port should be wide open to its goods, and 438 The Anglo-American Friendship. therefore that Great Britain should hold open to the whole world all the ports which she controls. The American people will indeed con- sider it in their interest, and be much gratified, if Great Britain holds all her ports open, and also if Great Britain, rather than any less liberal power, gets the largest possible number of ports to hold open. But so long as our high pro- tective policy prevails, the United States will not be in a position to reciprocate in kind; and it is doubtful, to say the least, whether, if Great Britain were for some reason attacked in any of the vast and complicated territorial possessions in which some of those open ports are situ- ated, or if she should consider it proper to extend the policy of the open door by further conquests, the United States would find it in their interest to join her with their own armed forces. (I do not mean to say that they should or that they should not. In any event, they should not be in a situation obliging them to do so.) I mention these things to emphasize the point that, however ardently we may wish for a fruitful cot~peration between this republic and Great Britain as to the furtherance of the open door policy, as well as in other directions, those who value the preservation and development of the cordial feeling at present existing between the two nations should abstain from encouraging presumptions and hopes that may not be justified, and the disappointment of which may have an effect all the more chilling, the more confidently they have been entertained. It is much wiser frankly to recognize the fact that while the Americans and the English are of kin in many impor- tant respects, and while they can and should do much in harmonious concur- rence for the advancement of human civi- lization, their spheres of action are not the same. We are in the habit of speaking of the Americans and the English as of two branches of the Anglo-Saxon stock. Considering the mixtures of popular ele- ments that have occurred first in Eng- land, and then, on a much larger scale, in America, this view must be taken with a grain of allowance. However, for the sake of convenience, we may accept the term Anglo-Saxon as covering that mixed race iii which the Germanic blood is the prevailing strain, and apply it to all that the English and American peo- ples may have in common. But how- ever much they may have in common in origin, in temperament, in tradition, in language and literature, it does not follow that these two great branches of the Anglo-Saxon stock must, there- fore, necessarily be engaged in the same pursuits; that they have exactly the same kind of work to do in and for the world; that in order to fulfill her duty, the American republic must imitate the example of England as to the means to be employed and the immediate objects to be reached; and that, for instance, as England is a great sea power and the founder of many colonies, the United States must also be a great sea power and found or acquire colonies. The difference in their territorial conditions naturally determined the difference in their respective methods of achieving greatness. The English people, originally con- fined to a comparatively small island, had to be a great sea power in order to be a power at all. Even now, if they permitted any other power to command the waters around that island they would enable such a power to starve them in a short space of time. Their independence, their very existence, therefore, hangs upon the superiority of their fleets. To rule the waves is with them not a mere matter of policy or of pride, but of necessity. As the population of their island in- creased it began to press against its nar- row boundaries; and as those bounda- ries were formed by the sea, the English The Anglo-American Friendship. 439 people had to cross the sea in order to find elbow room for their energies. It was not alone the Anglo-Saxon tempera- ment, the spirit of adventurous enterprise, but also the exigencies of their situation that impelled them to wander across the waters and to spread over the globe. The founding of colonies and the estab- lishment of governments over subject populations was with them a perfectly natural evolution. The condition of the American people is essentially different. They are one of the resulting creations of that transplant- ing process. They were placed, not upon a small isle, but upon an immense wild continent, which they had to subjugate to civilized life. They had to explore the vast resources of the great country as- signed to them, and to begin and continue their development. They had to receive among themselves large numbers of peo- ple of different nationalities, who came to share with them the new opportunities for the pursuit of happiness. They had to assimilate those elements of popula- tion, and to undertake with them the solution of the problem of democracy on the largest scale. In the develop- ment of those resources and in the solu- tion of the great democratic experiment the American people are engaged to-day. Their population is still small in propor- tion to the vastness of their country. The resources of that country are still, to a very large extent, not only undeveloped, but even unexplored. They still offer, and for a long period of time will offer, ample and fruitful employment for the national energies. Neither is the great problem of democratic government, based upon equal rights and universal suffrage in the nation, in the states, and in the municipalities, so near a successful solu- tion that the American people may con- sider themselves discharged of this their greatest responsibility, and seek other missions to fulfill without regard to it The difference in the conditions of the peoples of England and of America, or to use the favorite phrase of the day of the two great branches of the Anglo - Saxon stock, is evident. The Americans need not become a great conquering sea power in order to be a power at all, for they are a great power in the vast population and the immense resources of their continental country, and they would be a great power even if they were not in any large measure a sea power. In fact, considering that in their continental situation they are essential- ly unassailable, the only weak points they have consist in such outlying pos- sessions as the Hawaiian Islands, which demand that the republic should be a great sea power. To such weak points, which it ought not to have, it is under no necessity of adding. The Americans do not, like the English, crowd against narrow boundaries, nor need they go abroad to gratify their ambition of ac- tivity or of missionary work, for that ambition finds an almost unlimited field at home. Indeed, within a computable period of time the United States may expect to have within their great conti- nental home a population as numerous as the British Empire has in England and all its colonial possessions together; a population, too, far more civilized and far happier than a majority of those that are ruled by the British sceptre, an expectation the fulfillment of which will depend upon the fidelity of the American people in maintaining the character and developing the blessings of democratic government in the magnificent domain which has fallen to their care. It may well be asked whether any effort they may make to plant their power outside of its boundaries will not be so much energy reprehensibly withdrawn from their most imperative task, and an in- crease of the difficulties standing in the way of the performance of their true mission. As to the furtherance of civilization and human happiness, therefore, the two branches of the Anglo-Saxon stock 440 The Anglo-American Friendship. may very effectively work for the same object without working on the same field of action. There are even many reasons for thinking it best for themselves as well as for mankind that they should, as little as possible, meet as active agents where their coi~peration might turn into rivalry and their ambitions might come into con- flict. Those of our English friends who are at present so extremely impatient to see this republic become a colonizing power, and thus put itself under the necessity of building up and maintaining great armaments on land and sea, would do well soberly to consider whether they are really rendering a service to the cause of that international friend- ship from which so much good may be expected if it be kept on a proper foot- ing. Aside from the fact that the ex- cessive urgency of their advice might produce the effect of impugning its dis- interestedness, which would be regret- table, they should most seriously ask themselves whether they are not trying to divert the minds of the American people from the problem the solution of which is most vital to them and, if successfully accomplished, will he most beneficial to mankind; and to lure this republic upon a ground which is foreign to its natural tendencies, and on which that very international friendship aimed at would be exposed to incalculable haz- ards. One point of exceedingly great value is already gained. The old distrust be- tween the United States and Great Brit- ain has disappeared as a power of mis- chief. Whatever either of the nations may do, the other will readily believe it to be prompted by good faith and friend- ly intention as to the relations between them. And whenever either gets into trouble, the presumption will be that the other, if disposed actively to interfere at all, will interfere on its side, or, if by its own interests compelled to remain neu- tral, will maintain a thoroughly sympa- thetic neutrality. This may eventually open the way to further understandings; but it is in itself a result of such impor tance that, I repeat, the mutual confidence necessary for its maintenance should not be jeoparded by precipitate attempts at arrangements by which either of the two nations would lose the mastery of its own destinies. As to the manner in which the friend- ly feeling now existing can be given a tangible expression, Mr. Bryce has made some valuable suggestions. The first thing to be accomplished is the conclu- sion of an arbitration treaty covering all kinds of differences, and thus recogniz- ing that no quarrels can possibly arise between the two nations which would not be capable of amicable composition, and that under no circumstances will any less pacific method of settlement be de- sired on either side. In fact, the amend- ments disfiguring beyond recognition the arbitration treaty which two years ago was before the Senate, and its final de- feat, were the last effective stroke of the old anti-British jingoism, for which amends should now be made by a prompt resumption of negotiations for the accom- plishment of that great object. In this way the Anglo-American friendship will signalize itself to the world by an act that will not only benefit the two coun- tries immediately concerned, but set an example to other nations which, if gen- erally followed, will do more for the peace and happiness of mankind and the progress of civilization than anything that can be effected by armies and navies. Carl Schurz. England and America. ENGLAND AND AMERICA. A YEAR has passed since I delivered a public lecture advocating the institution of a common citizenship for the whole English people. The proposal fell flat. It was inopportune. It excited no at- tention in England, though it brought me a few friendly letters from the United States. But the ton eofmycor- respondents was not encouraging. An eminent professor sent me a pamphlet in which he asked the question, Why do not Americans love England? and answered the inquiry truthfully enough, I dare say, but in a way not calculated to flatter the self-love or win the affec- tion of Englishmen. To-day everything is changed. All the world is talking of the close ties which bind together all divisions of the English people. Our Queens birthday, I am told, has been kept in many parts of the United States. English and Ameri- can officers meet to exchange courtesies. A short time ago I was present at a ban- quet where English and American guests drank first the health of the Queen, and then the health of the President; where they sang God Save the Queen, and tried to sing The Star - Spangled Ban- ner. All these things are trifles, but they are the straws which show the way the wind blows. They are merely signs of an entente cordiale between the United Kingdom and the United States which already exists, and has already produced its effect in the world of politics. Eng- land stands neutral in the war between Spain and America, but as regards the United States, her neutrality is of the most friendly character. It has made any coalition of the Continental powers in behalf of Spain an impossibility; and what is more, no one can doubt that the action of the British government com- mands the full support of the British peo- ple. The opposition has brought many charges, true or false, against Lord Salis- burys government, but there is not a sin- gle leading member of Parliament who has blamed his lordship for friendliness to the United States. The wish comes to me occasionally that I had deferred my proposal for a common citizenship till this year. It is still, in my judgment, a perfectly sound and reasonable sug- gestion, and in 1898 it would have com- manded an attention, and possibly an ap- plause, which did not fall to it in 1897. Meanwhile, the changed state of public opinion naturally sets one a-thinking. It raises at least two inquiries which are worth making and answering. What are the meaning and the worth of the friendship between England and the United States? The reply lies ready to hand that it is nothing more than a phase of popular caprice, and is as unmeaning, and there- fore as worthless, as the hostility and indifference of yesterday. As regards England at any rate, and for England alone do I venture to speak, this sug- gestion has much more plausibility than truth. There is nothing surprising or sudden in the current of popular feeling. For nearly thirty years every English statesman worthy of that name Glad- stone, Bright, Disraeli, Salisbury, Cham- berlain, not to mention many others has been studious to promote good will between Englishmen and Americans, and has been fully supported in this matter by the nation. In England, we long ago perceived that friendship between us and the United States would be a benefit to our own country, and, as we believe, an equal gain to America. The plain truth is that harmony between the two coun- tries doubles the force of each, and the history of this generation has made two things apparent to any one who looks in the face the most obvious facts of the day. 441

England and America. ENGLAND AND AMERICA. A YEAR has passed since I delivered a public lecture advocating the institution of a common citizenship for the whole English people. The proposal fell flat. It was inopportune. It excited no at- tention in England, though it brought me a few friendly letters from the United States. But the ton eofmycor- respondents was not encouraging. An eminent professor sent me a pamphlet in which he asked the question, Why do not Americans love England? and answered the inquiry truthfully enough, I dare say, but in a way not calculated to flatter the self-love or win the affec- tion of Englishmen. To-day everything is changed. All the world is talking of the close ties which bind together all divisions of the English people. Our Queens birthday, I am told, has been kept in many parts of the United States. English and Ameri- can officers meet to exchange courtesies. A short time ago I was present at a ban- quet where English and American guests drank first the health of the Queen, and then the health of the President; where they sang God Save the Queen, and tried to sing The Star - Spangled Ban- ner. All these things are trifles, but they are the straws which show the way the wind blows. They are merely signs of an entente cordiale between the United Kingdom and the United States which already exists, and has already produced its effect in the world of politics. Eng- land stands neutral in the war between Spain and America, but as regards the United States, her neutrality is of the most friendly character. It has made any coalition of the Continental powers in behalf of Spain an impossibility; and what is more, no one can doubt that the action of the British government com- mands the full support of the British peo- ple. The opposition has brought many charges, true or false, against Lord Salis- burys government, but there is not a sin- gle leading member of Parliament who has blamed his lordship for friendliness to the United States. The wish comes to me occasionally that I had deferred my proposal for a common citizenship till this year. It is still, in my judgment, a perfectly sound and reasonable sug- gestion, and in 1898 it would have com- manded an attention, and possibly an ap- plause, which did not fall to it in 1897. Meanwhile, the changed state of public opinion naturally sets one a-thinking. It raises at least two inquiries which are worth making and answering. What are the meaning and the worth of the friendship between England and the United States? The reply lies ready to hand that it is nothing more than a phase of popular caprice, and is as unmeaning, and there- fore as worthless, as the hostility and indifference of yesterday. As regards England at any rate, and for England alone do I venture to speak, this sug- gestion has much more plausibility than truth. There is nothing surprising or sudden in the current of popular feeling. For nearly thirty years every English statesman worthy of that name Glad- stone, Bright, Disraeli, Salisbury, Cham- berlain, not to mention many others has been studious to promote good will between Englishmen and Americans, and has been fully supported in this matter by the nation. In England, we long ago perceived that friendship between us and the United States would be a benefit to our own country, and, as we believe, an equal gain to America. The plain truth is that harmony between the two coun- tries doubles the force of each, and the history of this generation has made two things apparent to any one who looks in the face the most obvious facts of the day. 441 44~ England and America. The first fact is that community of race, of language, and of institutions has produced in England and America a com- munity of ideals. We have infinitely more in common with each other than either of us has with any other nation. We are both devoted to industrial pro- gress. We are both naval rather than military powers. We have both reason to look with hopefulness toward the future. We perceive that the English-speaking peoples are destined in a century or two to become the dominant power through- out the civilized world. Their future su- premacy is as nearly certain as any future event can be. The only risk to which it is exposed is the possibility of a quarrel between the two great branches of the Anglo - Saxon people. We are aware that at this moment England and Amer- ica, if allied, or even if on terms of equal friendship, without actual alliance, can control the course of the worlds history. Together we may be masters of the sea; and to have control of the sea means ab- solute security against foreign attack. It is the vision of this splendid future which has at last fired the imagination of Englishmen, and led them to resolve to maintain at all costs friendship be- tween the different branches of the An- glo-Saxon race, and thus safeguard the inheritance of the whole English people. This is a fact patent to every observer. The second fact, of equal importance, is the difficulty of maintaining a perma- nent alliance between England and any Continental power. Things have changed greatly since the beginning of the century. England is now little interested in Continental poli- tics. Unless one of the great military governments should threatea invasion, it is hardly conceivable that, as things now stand, England should equip an army to take part in a European war. But the very circumstances which with- draw England from Continental alliances may conceivably suggest combinations of Continental powers for the destruction of England. Her empire excites their envy; they believe (erroneously enough) that her commercial success is the result of a Machiavelian policy of selfish isola- tion, and they see that parts of the Brit- ish Empire are open to attack. English- men, on their side, know that a great em- pile can be guarded only at the price of maintaining large forces for its protec- tion. It is not for nothing that England every year increases the strength of her fleet. It is perfectly natural, therefore, that friendship with America should be suggested by the most obvious consider- ations of statesmanlike foresight. The point which needs to be pressed home upon American readers is that the atti- tude of England toward the United States is not the result of any sudden ebullition of sentiment. It represents a set purpose pursued by English statesmen of all par- ties for the whole of a generation. Of American sentiment I have said nothing. The true condition of opinion in the United States must be much bet- ter known to Americans than it can be to any Englishman. At the present mo- ment, however, it is reasonable to as- sume that friendliness toward England prevails throughout the United States. This sentiment, though its expression may appear to Englishmen a little sud- den, is clearly the result of definitely as- signable causes, some of which have long been in operation. There is every sign that the United States are entering on a policy which, whether for good or for bad, will involve a much closer connec- tion than has hitherto existed between their fortunes and the complications of European politics. If this be so, the United States will need allies for the first time since they became an indepen- dent nation, and no ally will be at once so valuable and so little dangerous as England. The hour is opportune for pro- moting friendliness between two coun- tries, neither of which can have any ade- quate ground for hostility, and each of which may need the others aid. England and America. 443 How can this opportunity be best turned to account? Whoever wishes to answer this ques- tion must be on his guard against one or two popular delusions. Let no one, for instance, suppose that far-reaching policies can be grounded upon the senti- mental emotion of the moment. Grati- tude, affection, and love are feelings pro- per to individuals. They have nothing to do with the relations between states. This assertion has in it no touch of cyn- icism. It is the simple statement of the plain fact that personal feelings belong to persons, not to nations. Half, at least, of the errors of popular politics arise from the fallacy of personification. We talk of England and America as if they were two women, each of whom could love or hate the other; and we forget that Eng- land and America, when not used as the names of geographical divisions, are sim~ ply terms for designating millions of men and women living on opposite sides of the Atlantic, and personally unknown to one another. Such millions cannot, if they would, be actuated by gratitude or love. The suggestions of reason are am- ply confirmed by the experience of his- tory. At the beginning of the century, English blood and English treasure were lavishly poured out to maintain the na- tional independence of Spain; yet even during the Peninsular war Spaniards had no fervent love for England, and the name of Great Britain is now as much detested at Madrid as is the name of the United States. Not forty years have passed since France delivered Lombardy from the Austrians; yet at this moment Italians dread, and therefore dislike, France far more than they fear or dislike Austria. Nations are not ruled by senti- mentality, and no man of common sense will dream of making sentiment the ba- sis of international policy. Let us again be well on our guard against the delusion that the interests of England and America will always obviously coincide. It is indeed true that, on the whole and in the long run, the real interests of both nations are identical. To maintain peace at sea, to subject naval warfare to the rules which best promote the development of com- merce, to foster trade, to avoid as far as possible the burden of standing armies, these are objects which the two great industrial states of the modern world can pursue in common. These are mat- ters in which no conflict of interests ought to arise. But to make this asser- tion is a very different thing from im- agining that at no given moment can there be an apparent opposition between the wishes and the interests of the two nations. If, indeed, England and Amer- ica are ever to be united by the bonds of what may be called a moral alliance, it is absolutely certain that when one ally requires the support of the other, there will need to be a certain immediate sac- rifice made by whichever party is called upon for help. It is vain to suppose that the permanent relations of two states can be based on the untenable assumption of an unvarying coincidence of interests. Let us also be watchful against the er- rors of hastiness. The idea prevails, for example, that it is possible at once to constitute some kind of formal alliance between Great Britain and the United States. It would be the greatest satis- faction to thousands of Englishmen to believe that this notion is well founded; but to any one who reflects upon the state of the world, it must appear ex- tremely doubtful whether, at this time, it would be possible for England and the ~United States to enter into a treaty for the purpose of mutual defense. What would be the precise terms of such an agreement? Is it conceivable that the republic would guarantee England against attack, say, by France, Germany, or Russia on any part of the British Empire? Would England undertake to make every dispute of the United States with any one of the great European pow- ers her own quarrel? No one who thinks 444 england and America. the matter over dare answer these or sim- ilar inquiries in the affirmative. Every tie is a bond; a contract limits the free- dom of the contracting parties. We may gravely doubt if either England or Amer- ica is prepared to curtail her own liberty of action. Then, again, there are tech- nical difficulties which, however, in case of urgent necessity might be overcome, in the way of constructing a defensive alliance. rrhe conventions of English po- litical life do not absolutely forbid enter- ing into elaborate and private compacts with a foreign state, but they certainly render it difficult. A writer in one of our reviews, who professes to be versed in the mysteries of diplomacy, hints that Great Britain and the United States have already established some sort of secret contract or understanding. It would be satisfactory to believe in the reality of such a transaction; but a lawyer would find it somewhat difficult to explain by what steps such a treaty can have been made in conformity with the Constitu- tion of the United States. The truth is, that neither the constitutional conven- tions of England nor the definite provi- sions of the American Constitution lend themselves easily to the exigencies of elaborate and private diplomatic ar- rangements. One may hope that lasting friendliness may ultimately produce an open and permanent alliance, and any statesman deserves applause who de- clares openly that the formation of such an alliance would be a blessing both to England and to America. But to be- lieve that a treaty for mutual defense has been entered into, or can at this mo- ment be entered into, by Great Britain and the United States, is to confound hopes with realities. There is, at any rate, some danger that the premature attempt to bring about a closer unity of action than is now possible may prevent our turning to account the advantages offered to us by the circumstances of the time. What, then, if we avoid all delusions, are the steps by which it is possible to promote active good will between Eng- lani and America? The first and most obvious step is to put an end to every existing grievance. On this matter, the government of Lord Salisbury, as indeed any ministry which could hold office in England, may be trusted to do its best. We may rea- sonably hope that before many months are past every cause of misunderstand- ing will have been removed. A second, and equally obvious mea- sure, is to carry through an arbitration treaty. Dissensions between nations cannot always be removed by arbitration, it is true; but for all this, it is most expedi- ent that England and the United States institute a method for determining dis- putes by reference to a court. The points of difference likely to arise are of the kind to which arbitration is applica- ble. Englishmen and Americans, more- over, are profoundly influenced by the spirit of legalism. They are better pre- pared than Frenchmen or Germans to acquiesce in the judgment of a properly constituted tribunal: this, indeed, is the main point on which the Anglo-Saxon race has reached a stage of civilization to which other nations have hardly attained. Add to all this that the very existence of an agreement to arbitrate fosters the con- viction that an armed conflict between kindred people is in itself an enormity, which partakes of the horror and the moral criminality attaching to civil war. But after all, thinkers who are firmly convinced that the prosperity not only of the whole English people, but also of the civilized world, depends on the maintenance of cordial friendship be- tween the two great divisions of tho Anglo-Saxon race, must feel on reflec- tion that more is to be achieved by statesmanship than by direct treaties of any kind whatever. The object which ought to be pursued by the leading men of each country is to produce a perma Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 445 nent entente cordiale. If it were once understood that war between Great Brit- am and the United States had become a moral impossibility, the power for good ef each country would be doubled. If it were seen that each nation habitually supported throughout the world the just claims of the other, few are the powers which would care to come into conflict with either state. If it were known that England would in no case abet or toler- ate any coalition between the Continental powers for interference with the United States throughout the American conti- nent; if, in short, the Monroe Doctrine were extended and accepted by English- men and Americans alike as protecting from the interference of the great mili- tary states every part of the American continent and the islands belonging there- to, the Continental powers would never dream of any interference with countries protected by the two greatest maritime powers. If, lastly, it were certain that any coalition for the invasion of the United Kingdom would sooner or later arouse the active hostility of the United States, Englishmen and foreigners alike would feel that the difficulties, great as they al- ready are, of striking a fatal blow at the prosperity of England, had become prac- tically insuperable Yet, be it added, Lhere is no reason why thoughtful patriots, whether French- men, Germans, or Russians, should look with jealousy on a moral alliance be- tween the two branches of the English people. Its great merit is that it must in substance be a union for defense, not for defiance. Neither Englishmen nor Americans are tempted to support one another in a purely aggressive war. If they act together, they must in the long run act in favor of the maintenance of peace, and also in favor of that system of free trade which has tended to facili- tate the expansion of the British Em- pire. In short, the power of America and of England for good would be in- definitely increased by maintaining a condition of mutual friendliness. The modes by which expression should be given to this good will must necessarily depend on the circumstances of the time. A formal alliance for purposes of de- fense cannot be hurried on. But it might well be the crowning result of a moral alliance. It is unlikely that the present genera- tion will ever witness the reunion of the whole English people, but it is impossible to forego the dream, or the hope, or, if we look to the distant future, the expec- tation that a growing sense of essential unity may ultimately give birth to some scheme of common citizenship. A. V. Dicey. UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF CARLYLE. II. AFTER several visits in Scotland during the summer of 1838, Carlyle went home again to Scotsbrig. On his return thence, he spent a few days in Manchester with Mrs. Hanning. He had been put to sleep in an old bed, which he remem- bered in his fathers house. I was just closing my senses in sweet oblivion, wrote he, when the ~vatchman, with a voice like the deepest groan of the Highland bagpipe, or what an ostrich corncraik might utter, groaned out Groo- o-o-o close under me, and set me all in a gallop again. Groo-o-o-o; for there was no articulate announcement at all in it, that I could gather. Groo-o-o-o, repeat- ?d again and again at various distances, dying out and then growing loud again,

Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 445 nent entente cordiale. If it were once understood that war between Great Brit- am and the United States had become a moral impossibility, the power for good ef each country would be doubled. If it were seen that each nation habitually supported throughout the world the just claims of the other, few are the powers which would care to come into conflict with either state. If it were known that England would in no case abet or toler- ate any coalition between the Continental powers for interference with the United States throughout the American conti- nent; if, in short, the Monroe Doctrine were extended and accepted by English- men and Americans alike as protecting from the interference of the great mili- tary states every part of the American continent and the islands belonging there- to, the Continental powers would never dream of any interference with countries protected by the two greatest maritime powers. If, lastly, it were certain that any coalition for the invasion of the United Kingdom would sooner or later arouse the active hostility of the United States, Englishmen and foreigners alike would feel that the difficulties, great as they al- ready are, of striking a fatal blow at the prosperity of England, had become prac- tically insuperable Yet, be it added, Lhere is no reason why thoughtful patriots, whether French- men, Germans, or Russians, should look with jealousy on a moral alliance be- tween the two branches of the English people. Its great merit is that it must in substance be a union for defense, not for defiance. Neither Englishmen nor Americans are tempted to support one another in a purely aggressive war. If they act together, they must in the long run act in favor of the maintenance of peace, and also in favor of that system of free trade which has tended to facili- tate the expansion of the British Em- pire. In short, the power of America and of England for good would be in- definitely increased by maintaining a condition of mutual friendliness. The modes by which expression should be given to this good will must necessarily depend on the circumstances of the time. A formal alliance for purposes of de- fense cannot be hurried on. But it might well be the crowning result of a moral alliance. It is unlikely that the present genera- tion will ever witness the reunion of the whole English people, but it is impossible to forego the dream, or the hope, or, if we look to the distant future, the expec- tation that a growing sense of essential unity may ultimately give birth to some scheme of common citizenship. A. V. Dicey. UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF CARLYLE. II. AFTER several visits in Scotland during the summer of 1838, Carlyle went home again to Scotsbrig. On his return thence, he spent a few days in Manchester with Mrs. Hanning. He had been put to sleep in an old bed, which he remem- bered in his fathers house. I was just closing my senses in sweet oblivion, wrote he, when the ~vatchman, with a voice like the deepest groan of the Highland bagpipe, or what an ostrich corncraik might utter, groaned out Groo- o-o-o close under me, and set me all in a gallop again. Groo-o-o-o; for there was no articulate announcement at all in it, that I could gather. Groo-o-o-o, repeat- ?d again and again at various distances, dying out and then growing loud again, 446 Unpublished Letters of Carl yie. for an hour or more. I grew impatient, bolted out of bed, flung up the window. Groo-o-o-o. There he was advancing, lantern in hand, a few yards off me. Cant you give up that noise? I hasti- ly addressed him. You are keeping a person awake. What good is it to go howling and groaning all night, and de- prive people of their sleep? He ceased from that time at least I heard no more of him. No watchman, I think, has been more astonished for some time back. At five in the morning all was as still as sleep and darkness. At half past five all went off like an enormous mill-race or ocean-tide. The Boom-in-in, far and wide. It was the mills that were all starting then, and creishy drudges by the million taking post there. I have heard few sounds more impressive to me in the mood I was in. The following letter belongs to the time between the Hannings departure from Manchester and Mr. Hannings sailing for America. Kirtlebridge, where they were now living, is a few miles southeast of Ecclefechan. The little trader, the bit creeture, was probably Mrs. Hannings first child, Margaret Aitken Carlyle, who was not yet two years old. The reference to the new penny post marks an era. XL CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, RIRTLEBRIDGE. 5 CHEYNE Row, CHELSEA, LONDON, 7 Feb. 1840. DEAR JENNY, Had I known defi- nitely how to address a word to you, I might surely have done so long before this. We have heard in general that you are stationed somewhere in the Vil- lage of Kirtlebridge or near it, and we fancy in general that your husband is struggling along with his old impetuosity. From yourself we have no tidings. Pray, now that the Postage is so cheap, send us a pennyworth some day. I address this through Alick, fancying such may be the best way. I enclose my last letter from the Doe- tor. I wrote to him the day before yes-. terday to his final destination. I calcu- late he may have got my letter to-day, that is two days after his arrival. By that note all seems to be going well with him; we are all well here, as well as our wont is, and fighting along with printers, proof sheets & c, & c. Jane can- not regularly get out; so horribly tem- pestuous, wet and uncertain is the wea- ther, which keeps her still sickly, but she never breaks actually down. How is the little trader, as Jean or some of theni call her? I remember the bit cree- ture very distinctly. This is the worst year or among the worst for working people ever seen in mans memory. Robert must not take this as a measure of his future success, but toil away steadfastly in sure hope of better times. It is well anyway that you are out of Manchester; nothing there but hunger, contention and despair added to the reek and dirt! Be diligent and fear nothing. Do you often run over to see our dear Mother in her Upper Room yonder? It will be a great comfort to her that she has you so near. Pray explain to me what part of the Village it is that yon live in. I thought I knew it all, but I do not know Firpark Nook. Give my best wishes to your Goodman. Accept my thanks for your written remem- brance, from one who always silently remembers you in his heart. On April 23 of this year Carlyle wrote in his journal, Miscellanies out, and Chartism second thousand. A mouth later he relieved his mothers anxiety about the last of his lectures on Heroes and Hero-Worship: I contrived to tell them something about poor Crom- well, and I think to convince them that he was a great and true man, the valiant soldier in England of what John Knox had preached in Scotland. In a word, the people seemed agreed that it was my best course of lectures, this. Certainly Unpublished Letters of Garlyle. 447 his last course of lectures, this. He never spoke from a platform again till twenty-six years later, when, as Lord Rector, he addressed the students of Edinburgh University. He detested the mixture of prophecy and play-acting. In the midst of his own work of making ready these final lectures for publication, Carlyle found time to push the London Library along. He thought England, as regarded its provision of books for the poor, in a condition worthier of Dahomey than of England. Yet, in spite of this good and success- ful work for the library, Carlyle was of a mind to write, on July 3: Alas! I get so dyspeptical, melancholic, half mad in the London summer: all cour- age to do anything but hold my peace fades away; I dwindle into the pusil- lanimity of the ninth part of a tailor, feel as if I had nothing I could do but die in my hole like a poisoned rat. He was apparently brought to the pitch of applying to himself this most terrible word of Swifts by the necessity of serv- ing on a special jury. Let us set over against it what he said never to be too often quoted about a friend whom he found sitting smoking in the garden one evening, with Mrs. Carlyle: A fine, large-featured, dim-eyed, bronze- coloured, shaggy-headed man is Alfred; dusty, smoky, free and easy, who swims outwardly and inwardly with great com- posure in an inarticulate element of tranquil chaos and tobacco smoke. Great now and then when he does emerge, a most restful, brotherly, solid-hearted man. Taken together with what Ten- nyson himself called the dirty monk portrait, this probably gives a better pic- ture of him than most of us could have made for ourselves with the eye of the flesh. Other, less welcome visitors came to Carlyle that summer, among them a young woman from Boston, whom he called a diseased rosebud. But America sent money as well as flowers, and the summer, according to Froude, brought the net result up to four hundred pounds. By August, the lecture-writing now two thirds done, Carlyle, having so far taken no holiday, made a weeks riding- tour in Sussex on the back of the gift- horse, Citoyenne. Mrs. Carlyle de- scribed to us, some years after, says the skilful biographer, in her hus- bands presence, his setting out on this expedition; she drew him in her finest style of mockery, his cloak, his knap- sack, his broad-brimmed hat, his prepara- tion of pipes, etc., comparing him to Dr. Syntax. He laughed as loud as any of us, it was impossible not to laugh; but it struck me, even then, that the wit, however brilliant, was rather untender. On the eve of riding forth, Carlyle wrote to his mother. The Bullers, men- tioned in the letter which follows, were the family of Charles Buller, to whom he had been tutor. Buller died eight years afterward, in the midst of a bril- liant parliamentary career. The cler- gyman was probably the Rev. Julius Hare. I find no record of a visit to Erskine until three years later. Carlyle had written to his brother John, in the winter of 1838: Did you ever see Thomas Erskine, the Scotch saint? I have seen him several times lately, and like him as one would do a draught of sweet rustic mead, served in cut glasses and a silver tray; one of the gentlest, kindliest, best bred of men. He talks greatly about Symbols, and other Teu- felsdriickhiana; seems not disinclined to let the Christian religion pass for a kind of mythus, provided men can retain the 5l)irit of it.. . . On the whole I take up with my old love for the Saints. And from that time Carlyle held much salu- tary communion with St. Thomas, as Mrs. Carlyle used playfully to call him. XII. cARLYLE TO HIS MOTHER, ScoTSBEIG. CHELSEA, Ist August, 1840. Mv DEAR MOTHER, Before setting out on my long-talked-of excursion I 448 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. must send you a word. I am to go to the Bullers place to-morrow, a place near Epsom (the great race course) some eighteen miles off. I am to ride out with a Macintosh before my saddle and a small round trunk the size of a quartern loaf fastened behind, and no clothes upon me that bad weather will spoil. I shall be one of the most original figures! I mean to stay a day or two about Bul- lers, riding to and fro to see the fine green country. I have written to a cler- gyman, an acquaintance of mine on the South coast some 40 miles farther off: if he repeat the invitation he once gave me, perhaps I shall ride to him and see the place where William the Conqueror fought & c. and have one dip in the sea. I mean to be out in all about a week. The weather has grown suddenly bright. I calculate the sight of the green earth spotted yellow with ripe corn will do me good. After that I am to part with my horse: the expense of it is a thing I can- not but continually grudge. I think it will suit better henceforth to get rolled out on a railway some 20 miles, clear of all bricks and reek, to walk then for half a day, now and then, and so come home at night again. The expense of a horse every day here is nearer four than three shillings, far too heavy for a little fellow like me, whom even it does not make al- together healthy. I have offered to give the beast to Mr. Marshall (son of the original donor), who kept her for me last winter. I hope he will accept on my return. It will be much the handsomest way of ending the concern. If he refuses I think I shall sell. I meditated long on riding all the way up to Carlisle and you! But in the humor I am in, I had not heart for it. These Southern coasts too are a still newer part of England for me. I give up the riding Northward, but not the coming Northward yet, as you shall hear. My Fourth Lecture was finished three days ago. On returning strong, as I hope to do a week hence, I will attack my two remaining lectures and dash them off speedily. The Town will be empty none to disturb me. About the end of August I may hope to have my hands quite free, and then! Thomas Erskine invites me to Dundee & c. There are steamers, steam coaches, I shall surely see you. Alicks good letter gave me welcome tidings of you. I had read your own dear little epistle before. Heaven be praised for your welfare. I am glad to hear of the peat-shed and figure to myself the cauldron singing under your windows. I have written to-day to Jack. There had come a letter from Miss El- liott for him from the Isle of Wight: he once talked of settling there. I know not whether that is still in the wind again. He will have to decide about the Pellipar affair in three weeks or less. To-day I enclose a little half sover- eign. You must accept it merely to buy gooseberries: they are really very wholesome. I am to go into the City to send off some money for the Bank at Dumfries. I am in great haste. I will write again directly on my return if not sooner. Alicks letter, tell him, was the plea- santest he has sent for many a day. I thank him much for it and will answer soon. I still owe Jamie a letter too: he is very patient, but shall be paid. Did you ever go near the sea again? This is beautiful weather for it now. It would do you and little Tom good, I think. Jane still likes the warmth and salutes you all. Wish me a good journey! It is like to be a very brief and smooth one. Adieu, dear Mother. Carlyle was disappointed in his hope of going home. He did not visit Scots- brig again for another year. So long before as January, 1839, Car- lyle had written to his brother: I have my face turned partly towards Oliver Cromwell and tbe Covenant time in England and Scotland. He continued Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 449 to read and think much on the subject; and in the autumn of 1840 he wrote to Mr. Erskine: I have got lately, not till very lately, to fancy that I see in Cromwell one of the greatest tragic souls we have ever had in this kindred of ours. But in this letter to his sister, as in so many another, there is no men- tion save of the close family kindred of the Carlyles XIII. cARLYLE TO MRS. RANKING, KIRTLE BRIDGE. 5 CHEYNE Row, CHELSEA, 7 October, 1840. IDEAR JENNY, Will you take a word from me to-day in place of many hundreds which I wish I had the means of sending you? My time is very lim- ited indeed, but the sight of my hand- writing may be a kind of enlivener to your kind thoughts about me. My dear Mother tells me you are afraid sometimes I may have forgotten you. Believe that never, my dear little sister, it will forever be an error if you do! The whirl I am kept in here is a thing you can form no notion of, nor how nat- ural or indeed inevitable it is for me to give up writing letters at all except when I am bound and obliged to do it. You have no lack of news from me; to my Mother at least I send abundant de- tails. Did I not answer your letter too? I surely meant and ought to have done it. If at any time you wanted the smallest thing that I could do for you, and wrote about, I should be busier than I have ever yet been, if I did not answer. In short, dear Jenny, whatever sins I may have, whatever more I may seem to have, try to think handsomely of them, to forgive them. And above all things, consider that whether I write many letters or few, my affection for you is a thing that will never leave me. My Mother tells me frequently how good you are to her; what a satisfac- tion it is that you are so near her. I thank you a hundred times for your VOL. LXXXII. NO. 492. 29 goodness to her; but I know you do not need my thanks or encouragement and to me it is a real comfort to reflect that you, with your true heart and help- ful hand, are always so near. Surely it is a duty for us all, and a blessing in the doing of it, to take care of our Mother, and promote her comfort by all means possible to us! I will love you better and better for this. Yoi~ would see by my Mothers last letter, where the Doctor is at present. I have heard nothing since I had a News- paper from Dumfries, the other day, no letters. I mentioned that the box for Scotsbrig was to be sent off; it went ac- cordingly and is now on the way to Liv- erpool, likely to be with you soon. There is a small parcel in it for you. We re- joice to hear that Robert prospers in his business: it is difficult to prosper in any business at present. A man of indus- try, sobriety, and steadiness of purpose; such a man has a chance if anybody have. Jane is certainly in better health this year than I have seen her for a good while. We wait to see what she will say to the cold weather! I myself am as well as usual; no great shakes of a welluess at any time. I expect to be busy, very busy this winter, which is the best con- solation for all things. How I should like to hear of Jamies harvest being all thatched! My love to my Mother, to Alick and all the rest. Jane unites with me in special remembrances to Robert and the gleg9v little lassie. Yours, dear Jenny, in great haste, in all truth, T. CARLYLE. Late in November, Carlyle, great- ly against wont, went out to dinner. Among the people he met were Pick- wick and old Rogers, still brisk, courteous, kindly affectionate a good old man, pathetic to look upon. Car- lyles acquaintances did not always grow in his favor, and six years later he said of Rogers: I do not remember any 450 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. old man (he is now eighty-three) whose manner of living gave me less satisfac- tion. In this winter of 184041, his dissatisfaction with things in general made him think at times of so desperate a move as retreating again to Craigenput- tock. Still he kept on with the reading of needful books. He has had it in his head for a good while, said Mrs. Carlyle to a correspondent, on the 8th of January, 1841, to write a life of Cromwell, and has been sitting for months back in a mess of great dingy folios, the very look of which is like to give me locked-jaw. Mrs. Hannings second child, Mary, was born December 24, 1840. xiv. cARLYLE TO MRS. IJANNING, KIRTLE- BRIDGE. CHELSEA, 15th January, 1841. DEAR JENNY, We have heard very frequently from Alick of late about you, for which punctuality we are greatly obliged to him. You have had a bad turn, poor little Jenny, and we were all anxious enough to hear from day to day, as you may believe, how it went with you. Alick reports of late, yesterday in particular, that you are now considered out of danger, steadily getting better. We will hope and believe it so, till we hear otherwise. You must take good care of yourself. This weather is good for no creature, and must be worst of all for one in your situation. Do not ven- ture from the fire at all, till the horrible slush of snow be off the ground. And what becomes of our good Mother all this time? She could not be at rest of course if she were not beside you, watching over you herself. Alick strug- gles to report favourably of her, but we have our own apprehensions. What can I do but again and again urge her to take all possible precautions about her- self (which however she will not do!) and trust that she may escape without serious mischief. If you were once up again I will fancy you taking care of her. It must be a great comfort to have you so near her within walking dis- tance in the good season. We have never had here so ugly a winter: first violent frost, snow & c., then still nastier times of the thawing sort: for a week past there has been nothing but sleet, rime and slobber, the streets half an inch deep with slush and yet a cake of slippery ice lying below that; so in spite of daily and hourly sweeping and scraping, they constantly continue. I, with some few others, go daily out, whatever wind blow. I am covered to the throat in warm wool of various tex- tures and can get into heat in spite of fate. Jane too holds out wonderfully, ventures forth when there is a bright blink once in a week; sits quiet as a mouse when the winds are piping abroad. We understand you are far deeper in snow than we. I believe there is now a good thick quilt of it lying over the en- tire surface of the Island. The Doctor was here till Tuesday morning. We saw him daily with much speech and satisfaction. A letter yes- terday announced that they were fairly settled in Wight again. He looked as well as need be. I have sent by Alick a bit half-sovereign to buy the poor new bairn a new pock. You must take it without grumbling. Tell my dear Mother that she must take care of herself, that I will write to her before many days go. Better health to us all. Our kind wishes to Robert. Good be with you every one. Your affectionate brother, T. CARLYLE. Here is another and a more highly elaborated bit of London weather from an undated fragment in Mrs. Hannings possession at the time of her death: Our weather is grown decidedly good for the last three days; very brisk, clear and dry. Before that it was as bad as weather at any time need be: long continued plunges of wet, then Unpublished Letters of Garlyle. 451 clammy, glarry days on days of half wet (a kind of weather peculiar to Lon- don, and fully uglier than whole wet) a world of black sunless pluister, very unpleasant to move about in! The in- cessant travel makes everything mud here, in spite of all that clats and besoms can do; a kind of mud, too, which is as fine as paint, and actually almost sticks like a kind of paint! I took, at last, into the country, with old clothes and trousers folded up; there the mud was natural mud, and far less of it, indeed, little of it in comparison with other country. We dry again in a single day of brisk wind. Early in 1841 Carlyle arranged with Fraser for the publication of Heroes and Hero - Worship. The Miscella- nies, Sartor, and the other books, says Froude, were selling well, and fresh editions were wanted. xv. CARLYLE TO HIS MOTHER, SCOTSBEIG. CHELSEA, Saturday [February, 1841]. M~ DEAR soon MOTHER, Take half a word from me to-day since I have no time for more. I had forgotten that it was Saturday till after breakfast I learnt it, and ever since there has been business on business! We received your good little letter one evening and sent it on to John. Thanks to you for it. I had a letter too from Grahame about his Miscellanies, for which he seems amazingly thankful, poor fellow. We will not tell him about the Ecclefechan Library let well be! John also sends word of himself all right enough, the probability that he will be here again before long. Jane and I are well, rejoicing in the improved weather, not the best of wea- ther yet, but immensely better than it was. Some days have been sunny and bright, a pleasant prophecy of spring. I have bargained with Fraser for my lectures. They are now at press, that kept me so very busy. He would give me only 75, the dog, but then he un dertakes a new edition of Sartor, too, (the former being sold) and gives me another 75 for that too. It is not so bad, 150 of ready money at least money without risk. I did not calcu- late on getting anything at present for Teufelsdroeckh. You see we are rather rising than falling, mall in shaft, at any rate. That is always a great point. Poor Teufelsdroeckh, it seems very cu- rious money should lie even in him. They trampled him into the gutters at his first appearance, but he rises up again, finds money bid for him. On the whole I expect not to be obliged to lecture this year, which will be an immense relief to me: I shall not be broken in pieces, I shall have strength for perhaps some better things than lecturing. You spoke of going to Dumfries: I am always afraid of your getting hurt on those expeditions, but I suppose you will not be able to rest without going. I wish Jean and you both were through it. By the bye, did I ever sufficiently tell Isabella that her butter continues excel- lent, none better. I owe Jamie a letter too. Alick ought to have been apprised how good his bacon was was, for alas, I myself eat the most part of it and it is done: some weeks ago his to- bacco ran out; I never told this either I forgot everything! Well, dear Mother, this is all I can say in my hurry. I will write again soon, but with two Books at the printers with & c., & c., what can a poor man do? Be good bairns, one and all of you. Your ever affectionate T. CARLYLE. When the proofs of Hero -Worship were finished, visits to Richard Mouck- ton Milnes (afterward Lord Houghton), and to the James Marshalls at Head- ingly, gave Carlyle what seem to have been his first glimpses of life in great country houses. On the 17th of April, 1841, he communicated his impressions 452 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. to his wife: I never lived before in such an element of much ado about almost Nothing; life occupied altogeth- er in getting itself lived; . . . and such champagning, claretting, and witty con- versationing. Ach Gott! I would sooner be a ditcher than spend all my days so. However, we got rather tolerably through it for these ten days. Visits to his mo- ther, Miss Martinean, the Speddings, and a month in lodgings at Newby where he probably did not think of Red- gauntlet disposed of most of the re- maining holiday, and brought Carlyle back to Cheyne Row in September. The book would not yet begin itself. Ought I to write now of Oliver Cromwell? Gott weiss; I cannot yet see clearly. Toward the close of this year, Carlyle was asked to let himself be nominated to the new History Chair in Edinburgh University. He declined, with noble thanks. Our brother, whom Carlyle writes of to Mrs. Hanning, was their half-bro- ther, already referred to, who had emi- grated to Canada in 1837, and died there in 1872. XVI. CARLYLE TO MRS. RANKING, DUMFEJES. CHELSEA, 24 Novr, 1841. DEAR JENNY, Here is the Amen- can letter you spoke of. It arrived yes- terday, and to-day, after showing it to John, I send it to you. I do not ex- actly know what part of Canada it is dated from, but the place lies some hun- dreds of miles north-west of where your husband is likely to be. Our brother seems to be going on in a very prosper- ous way there. On Sunday last the Doctor showed me a letter he had written for you. It appeared to be full of rational advice, in all of which I agree. You must pluck up a spirit, my good little Jenny, and see clearly how many things you your- self, independent of all other persons, can still do. You, then, can either act like a wise, courageous person or like a fool, between which two ways of it there lies still all the difference in the world for you. . . . I assert, and believe al- ways, that no person whatever can be ruined except by his own consent, by his own act, in this world. Your little bairn will get to walk, then you will have more time to sit to some kind of employment. This will be your first consolation. I know not whether our Mother is still with you, but suppose yes. I wrote to her a very hurried scrawl last week. Pray take good care of her from the damp and cold. I will write to her again before long. By Alicks letter of yesterday I learn that the Doctors Book for her is safely come to Ecclefe- chan. You can tell her farther that I have now settled finally about her Luther and it is hers. The cost was only some 26 shillings instead of 28. Jane has again over-hauled the drawers which you had such work with; the best plan was found to be to clip the leg off altogether and put in four new inches above the knee! Good be with you, dear Jenny, with you, and them all. It is evident from one letter and an- other that, after the removal to Dum- fries and Mr. Hannings departure for Canada, Mrs. Hanning Spent more time at the Gill than in Dumfries. Poor Helen was Helen Mitchell from Kirk- caldy, an entertaining as well as a faith- ful servant. She came to Cheyne Row toward the end of 1837, was reclaimed from drink by Mrs. Carlyle, but fell hopelessly into it again after eleven years of service. Her end was sad, and like a thing of fate. XVII. cARLYLE To HIS MOTHER, ScoTSBHIG. CHELSEA, 8th January, 1842. M~ DEAR MOTHER, You have been wandering so about of late times, and there has been such confused trouble going on, that I have not got you regu- larly written to. It seems to me a long Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 453 while since we had any right communi- cation together. To-day I will scribble you a word before going out. Aliek says you are for moving over to Gill again to bear Jenny company till the day lengthens. If you be already gone they will send this after you. The great trouble there has been at Scotsbrig must have been distressing to every person there, from the poor father and mother downwards. You, in partic- ular, could not escape. The weather also is sorely inclement and not wholesome for those that cannot take violent exer- cise; yet Alick assures me you are as well as usual. Nay, he adds that you mean soon to write to me. I pray you take care, dear Mother, in your shifting to the Gill and during your stay there in the stranger house; it is bitter weather and looks as if it would continue long frosty. Tell me especially how you are, what clothes you wear, whether you get good fires. A warm bottle is indispensa- ble in the bed at night. You have books to read, daily little bits of work to do; you must crouch quiet till the sun comes out again. A considerable noise has been going on about that little Review-Article of mine which I sent you. The last page of the Divine Right of Squires has been circulating widely through the News- papers with various commentary and so forth. This I by no means grudge: as the thing is true, it may circulate as widely as it likes. It can do nothing but good (whether pleasant or painful good) being true, let it circulate where it will. If a word of mine can help to relieve the world from an insupportable oppression, surely it shall be very wel- come to do so! The man has paid me for this article QL~24) but I think I shall not soon trouble the world again with reviewing. I mean something else than that if I could get at it. On the whole, what with Edinburgh Professor- ships, what with Covenanter Articles, we have had rather a noisy time of it in the newspapers for a while back. It is not unpleasant, but except for aiding the sale of ones books, perhaps it is apt to be unprofitable. Fame? Reputation? as old Tom White said of the whiskey, Keep your whiskey to your- sel! deevil o ever I se better than when there s no a drop ont i my wame? which is a literal truth, both as to fame and whiskey. My new book, I may tell you now, is to be something about that same Civil war in England which Baillie was in the midst of; I think mainly or almost exclusively about Oliver Cromwell. I am struggling sore to get some hold of it, but the business will be dreadfully difficult, far worse than any French Revolution, if I am to do it right: and if I do not do it right what is the use of doing it at all? For some time I tried actual writing at it lately, but found it was too soon yet. I must wrestle and tumble about with it, indeed at bottom I do not know yet whether ever I shall be able to make a Book out of it! All that I can do is to try, till I ascertain either Yes or No. For the rest I am grown too old and cunning now to plunge right on and attempt conquering the thing by sheer force. I lie back, canny, canny, and whenever I find my sleep beginning to suffer, I lay down the tools for a while. By Heavens great blessing I am not now urged on by direct need of money. We have arranged ourselves here in what to London people is an inconceivable state of thrift, and in our small way are not now tormented with any fear of want whatever, for the pre- sent. To myself my poverty is really quite a suitable, almost comfortable, ar- rangement. I often think what should I do if I were wealthy! I am perhaps among the freest men in the British Em- pire at this moment. No King or Pon- tiff has any power over me, gets any re- venne from me, except what he may de- serve at my hands. There is nothing but my Maker whom I call Master Un- 454 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. der this sky. What would I be at? George Fox was hardly freer in his suit of leather than I here: if to be sure not carrying it quite so far as the leather. Jane, too, is quite of my way of think- ing in this respect. Truly we have been mercifully dealt with, and much that looked like evil has turned to be good. One thing I must tell you as a small ad- venture which befell, the day before yes- terday. On going out for walking along one of these streets an elderly, innocent, intelligent - looking gentleman accosted me with Apologies for introducing him- self to Mr. Carlyle whose works & c, & c. He was the Parish clergyman, rector of the Parish of St. Lukes, Chelsea! I replied of course with all civility to the worthy man (though shocked to admit that after seven years of parishionership I did not know the face of him). We walked together as far as our roads would coincide, then parted with low bows. I mean to ask about the man (whose name I do not even know yet!) and, if the accounts be good, to invite a nearer approximation. Jack will be with us to-morrow even- ing, we expect; oftenest we see him only that once in the course of a week. He is healthy, cheery and as full of talk and activity as I ever saw him. His Patient and he walk daily, or drive, or ride sev- eral hours, which is a good encourager of health. He seems likelier than ever to stay a good while in this present sit- uation, to realize a good purse perhaps, and then retire as a half-pay. Jane sticks close in the house ever since the frost began, for near a week now; she is in very tolerable health. Poor Helen, our servant, heard the other night of the death of a poor sick (asthmatic) sister at Edinburgh, which grieved her to the ground for a while and still greatly afflicts her; we are sorry for the poor creature. Alicks long letter, you can tell him, shall be answered by and by. I had also a letter from Jean not many days ago. I have extremely little time for writing letters. You must all be patient with me. Commend me to poor Isabella, whose affliction we deeply sympathize with. Yours affectionately. On February 26th Mrs. Welsh died at Templand, in Nithsdale, where she had lived since her daughters marriage. Car- lyle had now to pass two months and more at Templand in the settlement of affairs. By the death of her mother Mrs. Carlyle regained possession of Craigenputtock, the rent of which, 200 a year, she had settled on Mrs. Welsh. Thus, from this date onward, notes Carlyle in the Reminiscences, we were a little richer, easier in circumstances; and the pinch of Poverty, which had been relaxing latterly, changed itself into a gentle pressure, or into a limit and little more. We did not change our habits in any point, but the grim collar round my neck was sensibly slackened. Slackened, not removed at all, for al- most twenty years yet. - . . I do not think my literary income was above 200 a year in those decades, in spite of my continual diligence day by day. The cheery little cousin was Miss Jeannie Welsh, daughter to John Welsh of Liverpool, before mentioned, and mentioned again in the last paragraph of the following letter. xviii. CARLYLE TO HI5 MOTHER, scOTsBiuG. CHELSEA, Friday, 4th June, 1842. M~ DEAR MOTHER, A letter from Jenny came in the beginning of the week; then last night another from her for Jack, which seemed to have been written at the same time, which also I opened as it passed, forwarding them both thereupon to Jack. Jacks address is 3 Chester Terrace, Regents Park. Tell Jenny to copy this, and then she will know it henceforth. You must also thank her very kindly for the word she sends me about you and about the rest. I find Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 455 your eyes are still sore, and I doubt this hot weather will do them no good. Per- haps keeping out of the light as much as possible might be useful. I would also recommend to abstain from~ rubbing as much as you can. If Jack know any likely eye water, I will make him send a receipt for it. This is a very trouble- some kind of thing but surely we ought to be thankful that it is not a worse thing too Jack was away in the country last week, but is come home again. He was down here on Wednesday night to tea, as fresh and hearty as ever. They are to be in London mainly, I believe, all summer. He will contrive plenty of jaunts & c., I suppose. It is, as for- merly, an idle trade, but a very well paid one. It was precisely on that Wednes- day that the Queen had been shot at. These are bad times for Kings and Queens. This young blackguard, it seems, is not mad at all; was in great want, and so forth; it is said they will hang him. Such facts indicate that evenamong the lowest classes of the people, Queen- ship and Kingship are fast growing out of date. My poor wife is still very disconso- late, silent, pale, broken-down, and very weak. I urge her out as much as pos- sible; her cheery little cousin, too, does what she can. Alas, it is a very sore affliction; we have but one mother to lose. I speak to her seriously sometimes, but speaking cannot heal grief; only Time and Heavens mercy can. As for me, I sleep tolerably well, and also have now begun to work a little, which is still better! I shall have a ter- rible heap of reading, of meditating, sort- ing, struggling of every kind. But why should I not do it, if it be a good work? I feel as if there did lie something in it. I will grudge no toil to bring it out. I go often all day to the Museum Library and search innumerable old pamphlets, & c. It is a nasty place, five miles off, and full of heat and bad air, but it con- tains great quantities of information. I refuse all dinners whatsoever, or very nearly all. I say, Well, if you do take offence at me, how can I help it? In the whole world there is only one true bless- ing for me, that of working an honest work. If you would give me the Bank of England, and all set to worship me with bended knees, alas, that would do nothing for me at all. It is not you that can help me or hinder me; it is I, even I. Pray that I persist in this good course. Poor Isabella does not seem to profit by the warm weather. I would recom- mend the shower bath to her. I take it daily here. Tell Jenny that there is no hurry about the shirts. She can go on with all leisure. Did Jamie ever learn from me that in the drawer of their washstand, if he will pull it out, there lies for him a little piece of new stuff for rubbing on his razor strop? I always forgot to mention it. Our weather here is excellent, threatening to be too hot by and by, which, however, I shall not grudge so much this year. Broiling weather to me will be the basis of a plen- teous year for all. There is much need of it! But I must end, dear Mother. I write hardly any letters except to you, so you will accept this as the best I can do at present. The subscription for Burnss sister is doing well, in Liverpool at least (under John Welsh). My af- fection to Alick and all of them. You will get this when you go to the Preach- ing. My blessings on you, dear Mother, and all love. Your son, TOM. XIX. cARLYLE TO RIS MOTHER, scOTsBRIG. CHELSEA, Monday Morning, 4th July, 1842. M~ DEAR MOTHER, Before setting to my work, let me expend a penny and a scrap of paper on you, merely to say that we are well, and to send a bit of 456 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. ugly and curious public news that you cannot yet have heard of. On Saturday night it was publicly made known that Francis, the man who last shot at the Queen, was not to be hanged, but to be sent to Botany Bay, or some such pun- ishment. Well, yesterday about noon, as the Queen went to St. James Chapel, a third individual presented his pistol at the Majesty of England, but was struck down and seized before he could fire it; he and another who seemed to be in con- cert with him are both laid up. There is no doubt of the fact. The two are both young men; we have yet heard nothing more of them than that. The person who struck down the pistol (and with it the man, so vehement was he) is said to be a gentlemans flunkey; but I do not know that for certain and have seen no newspaper yet. . . . Are not these strange times? The people are sick of their misgovernment, and the blackguards among them shoot at the poor Queen: as a man that wanted the steeple pulled down might at least fling a stone at the gilt weathercock. The poor little Queen has a horrid business of it, cannot take a drive in HER clatch without risk of being shot! Our clatch is much safer. All men are becoming alarmed at the state of the country, as I think they well may. Jane and her cousin have this morn- ing been got off to Windsor by the Ster- lings. The jaunt in the open air will do the poor Wifie good. John is very well. I parted with him last night near his own house rather af- ter 10 oclock. Adieu, dear Mother. Here is a fool- ish Yankee letter of adoration to me. Burn it! Your affectionate, T. CARLYLE. The picture of Sartor measuring him- self for shirts to be made at long range, as it were, is memorable even in the an- nals of Cheyne Row. XX. cAELvLE TO MRS. HANNING, THE GILL. CHELSEA, 21 July, 1842. M~ DEAR JENNY, I am glad to hear of your well being, and that you have got done with the shirts, which is a sign of your industry. They will be well off your hands, and I have no doubt will be found very suitable when they arrive here. In the meanwhile I do not want them sent off yet till there are some more things to go with them. I am in no want of them yet, and shall not, I think, be so till it will be about time for the meal to be sent from Scotsbrig. At all events, you may look to that (for the present) as the way of sending them, and therefore keep them beside you till some chance of delivering them safe to my Mother or another Scotsbrig party turn up. There is no haste about them; the meal cannot be ready, I suppose, till the end of September, if then. In the meanwhile I want you to make me some flannel things, too, three flan- nel shirts especially: you can get the flannel from Alick, if he have any that he can well recommend. You can read- ily have them made before the other shirts go off: I have taken the measure to-day, and now send you the dimensions, together with a measuring strap which I bought some weeks ago (at one penny) for the purpose! You are to be careful to scour the flannel first, after which pro- cess the dimensions are these. Width (when the shirt is laid on its back) 22A inches, extent from wrist button to wrist button 61 inches,1 length in the back 35 inches, length in the front 25~ inches. Do you understand all that? I dare say you will make it out, and this mea- suring band will enable you to be ex- act enough. Only you must observe that at the beginning of it. . . . Hoity- Toity! I find that it is I myself that have made a mistake there, and that you have only to measure fair with the line and all will be right; the dimensions as above, 22k, 61, 35, 25k. So that each sleeve is 19~ inches long. Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 457, If you could make me two pairs of flannel drawers, I should like very well too, but that I am afraid will be too hard for you. This is all the express work I have for you at present. Neither is there any news of much moment that I could send you. Jane continues still weak, but seems to gather strength, too. I keep very quiet and very busy, and stand the summer fully better than is usu- al with me here. John still continues in town, and does not speak of going yet. We meet every Sunday here at Dinner. Our good Mother, you perhaps know, has got over to Jean for some sea bath- ing about Arbigland. We hope they are all well about Gill, and that a good crop is on its feet for them. Give our kind regards and continual good wishes both to Mary and Jamie, and accept them for yourself. Next time you write you had better tell me how your money stands out; and if at any time, my dear little Sister, I can help you in anything, be sure do not neglect to write then. Our love and best wishes to you, dear Jenny. Your affectionate brother, T. CARLYLE. In May, on his way back from Temp- land, Carlyle had stopped to visit Dr. Arnold at Rugby, arid in August he went to Belgium with Mr. Stephen Spring Rice and his younger brother. Of this trip Carlyle wrote an extraordi- narily vivid account under the title of The Shortest Tour on Record. The pic- ture of the poor lace-maker and her habitation. at Ghent, makes one think, by a queer, austere contrary, of an earli- er traveler and his adventures. In August, also, Mrs. Carlyle had gone to the Bullers, in Suffolk. Twenty capital pages of Letters and Memorials make her visit live again. XXI. cARLYLE TO HIS MOTHER, scoTsBRIG. CAMBRIDGE, 7th Sep., 1842. DEAR MOTHER, I am sitting here in the Hoop Inn of Cambridge, in a spacious apartment, blazing with gaslight and nearly solitary. It strikes me I may as well employ the hour be- fore bedtime in writing a word for my good Mother, to explain to her how I am, and above all what in the world I am doing here! There is a magnificent thunderstorm just going on, or rather be- ginning to pass off in copious floods of rain, and there is no other sound audi- ble in this room; one single fellow-travel- ler lies reading the Times Newspaper on the sofa opposite, and the rain quenches even the sound of his breath. Well, dear Mother, you heard that Jane was gone into Suffolk to Mrs. Bul- lers, and perhaps you understand or guess that she continues still there; nay, perhaps Jack may have informed you that on Thursday last (a week ago all but a day) I, after long higgling, set out to bring her home. Home, however, she was not to go quite so fast. Mrs. Buller, rather lively up in that region, wanted her to stay a little longer, want- ed me also, I suppose, to go flaunting about, calling on Lady this and Sir Henry that, and lionizing and amusing myself as I best might in her neighbour- hood. She is very kind indeed, more hospitable and good than I have almost ever seen her to anybody. The place Norton is a quiet, sleek, green place, so intersected with green, wide lanes (loan- ings) all overgrown with trees that you can hardly find your way in it, like walking in some coal-mine in paths un- derground; it or any green country whatever, as you know, is likely to be welcome to me. One day I walked off to a place called Thetford in Norfolk, about 8 miles from us. It was the mor- row after my arrival, and I did not know the nature of the lanes then. I lost my way both going and coming, and made the distance 12 or 13 each way, but got home in time to dinner, and was all the better for my walk. Afterwards I never ventured out of sight of Norton Church- tower without first drawin~ for myself 458 Unpu6lished Letters of Cctrlyle. a little map of my route from a big map that hangs in the lobby. With my little map in my waistcoat pocket I feared nothing, and indeed in three days knew all the outs and ins of the country; for Mrs. Buller in that interval had contrived to borrow me a farmers horse to go about on. Was not that a friendly office to a man like me? But to hasten to the point! Mrs. Bullers, I knew beforehand, was but some 30 miles to the east of Cromwells country; his birthplace, the farm he had first, and the farm he had second, all lie adjoining on the Westward, either in the next County, which is this (Cambridge- shire), or in Huntingdonshire, the one Westward of this. Accordingly, having talked a long enough time about jaunts and pilgrimages, about it and about it, I decided at last (the women threat- ening to laugh at me if I did not go) on actually setting off, and accordingly here I am, with my face already home- wards, the main part of my little errand successfully accomplished; and a riding tour through the country parts of Eng- land, which I have been talking of these dozen years or more, has actually taken effect on the small scale, a very small scale indeed. I have ridden but two days, and on the morrow evening I shall be at Norton again, or near it. My con- veyance heing the farmers horse above mentioned, my fatigue has been great; for it is the roughest and dourest beast nearly that I ever rode, and to-day in the morning, to mend matters, it took to the trick they call scouring, in a sullen, windless ninny niawing. Many a time I thought of Alick and Jamie in these Cambridge Fens, and wished one or both of them had been near me. But I let the creature take time (for it would have it), and it gradually recruited again, though not brilliant at the best; and in- deed I shall be very willing to wish it good-bye tomorrow evening, were I at Norton again. Poor brute, it cannot help being supple and riding as with stilky-clogs at its feet! It has eaten four and a half feeds of corn to-day, or I think it would altogether have failed. But at any rate I have seem the Crom- well country, got an image of it in my mind for all time henceforth. I was last night at Ely, the Bishops City of this district. I walked in and about the Cathedral for two good hours. Thought vividly of Cromwell stepping up these floors, with his sword by his side, bid- ding the Priest (who would not obey his first order, but continued reading his liturgies), Cease your fooling and come out, Sir. One can fancy with what a gollie in the voice of him. I found the very house he had lived in. I sat and smoked a pipe about nine oclock under the stars on the very Horse- block (harping-on stone) which Oliver had often mounted from, two hundred years ago. It was all full of inter- est, and though I could get but very little sleep at night, I did not grudge that price. To.day I rode still farther Westward to a place called St. Ives, where Oliver first took to farming. The house they showed as his I did not be- lieve in, hut the fields that he tilled and reaped are veritably there. I sat down under the shade of one of his hedges and kindled a cigar, not without reflec- tions! I have also seen his native town Huntingdon, with many other things to- day, and am here now on my way home- ward, as I said, and will not trouble my dear good Mother with one other word of babblement on the subject at present. No country in itself can well be uglier; it is all a drained immensity of fen (or soft peat moss), and bears a considerable resemblance to the trench at Dumfries, if that were some 30 or 40 miles square, with Parish churches innumerable, all built on dry knolls of chalky earth that rise up like islands. You can tell Jamie that it bears heavy crops! oats, beans, wheat, which they are just concluding the leading in of at present; the rest of the country being done a week or two ago. Unpublished Letters of (angle. 459 Dear Mother, was there ever such a clatter of a letter written? And not one word of news, not one word even of the many hundred I could use in inquiring! We return to Chelsea, I expect, about Monday first. Saturday was to be pro- posed, but will not stand I believe. Jack is already gone, on Saturday last, to Cheltenham, and then for North Wales. Right glad am I for him and for you that he is to come into Annandale for a little while. Poor fellow, it is long since he has been there, and he too has his own feelings and straits which he does not speak about often. My dear Mo- ther, I will bid you all good-night. I send you my hearts best blessing oer all the hills and rivers that lie between us to-night. The thunder is gone, and the rain. I will send you a little word when we get to Chelsea; perhaps there is something from yourself for me al- ready forwarded to Norton. I doubt it. Good-night, my dear true Mother. Ever your affects T. CARLYLE. I know not whether Alick has now any communication with the Whitehaven Tobacconist? A quarter of a stone might be ventured upon along with the Harvest meal, or by the Doctor or some other conveyance. It keeps in the win- ter; it could not be worse than my Lon- don tobacco all this year. Tell Alick about it; he rejoices always to help me whenever he can. Carlyles pilgrimage to Huntingdon, St. Ives, and thereabouts is not to be confounded with his former Cromwell journey to Naseby undertaken a few months before, with Dr. Arnold. Froudes account of Carlyles investiga- tion of the battlefield was (necessarily) so incomplete that I venture to quote here two highly interesting letters from a long afterward published book, Letters of Edward Fitzgerald. Says Fitzgerald, in a memorandum on the subject: As I happened to know the Field well, the greater part of it then be- longing to my Family, I knew that Carlyle and Arnold had been mistaken misled in part by an Obelisk which my Father had set up as on the highest Ground of the Field, but which they mistook for the centre-ground of the Battle. This I told Carlyle, who was very reluctant to believe that he and Arnold could have been deceived that he could accept no hearsay Tradition or Theory against the Evidence of his own Eyes, etc. However, as I was just then going down to Naseby, I might enquire further into the matter. On arriving at Naseby, I had spade and mattock taken to a hill near half a mile across from the Blockhead Obe- lisk, and pitted with several hollows, overgrown with rank Vegetation, which Tradition had always pointed to as the Graves of the Slain. One of these I had opened; and there, sure enough, were the remains of skeletons closely packed together chiefly teeth but some remains of Shin-bone, and marks of Skull in the Clay. Some of these, together with some sketches of the Place, I sent to Carlyle. Fitzgerald, in a letter which has ap- parently not been preserved, sent the re- sults of this first investigation to Carlyle. He wrote also from Naseby the following letter to Bernard Barton : [NASEBY], Septr. 22, /42. M~ DEAR BARTON,. The pictures are left all ready packed up in Portland Place, and shall come down with me, whenever that desirable event takes place. In the meanwhile here I am as before; but having received a long and interesting letter from Carlyle asking information about this Battle field, I have trotted about rather more to ascer- tain names of places, positions, etc. After all, he will make a mad book. I have just seen some of the bones of a dragoon and his horse who were found 460 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. foundered in a morass in the field poor dragoon, much dismembered by time: his less worthy members, having been left in the owners summer-house for the last twenty years, have disap- peared one by one, but his skull is kept safe in the hall: not a bad skull neither; and in it some teeth yet holding, and a bit of the iron heel of his boot, put into the skull by way of convenience. This is what Sir Thomas Browne calls mak- ing a man act his Antipodes. 1 J have got a fellow to dig at one of the great general graves in the field; and he tells me to-night that he has come to bones; to-morrow I will select a neat specimen or two. In the meantime let the full harvest moon wonder at them as they lie turned up after lying hid 2400 revo- lutions of hers. Think of that warm 14th of June when the Battle was fought, and they fell pell-mell: and then the country people came and buried them so shallow that the stench was terrible, and the putrid matter oozed over the ground for several yards; so that the cattle were observed to eat those places very close for some years after. Every one to his taste, as one might well say to any woman who kissed the cow that pastured there. Friday, 23rd. We have dug at a place, as I said, and made such a trench as would hold a dozen fellows, whose remains positively make up the mould. The bones nearly all rotted away, ex- cept the teeth, which are quite good. At the bottom lay the form of a perfect skeleton: most of the bones gone, but the pressure distinct in the clay; the thigh and leg bones yet extant; the skull a little pushed forward, as if there were scanty room. We also tried some other reputed graves, but found nothing; indeed, it is not easy to distinguish what are graves from old marlpits, etc. I dont care for all this bone-rummaging 1 Referring to a passage in the Garden of Cyrus, near the end: To keep our eyes open longer, were but to act our antipodes. The myself; but the identification of the graves identifies also where the greatest heat of the battle was. Do you wish for a tooth? As I began this antiquarian account in a letter to you, so I have finished it, that you may mention it to my Papa, who perhaps will be amused at it. Two farmers insisted on going out exploring with me all day: one a very solid fel- low, who talks like the justices in Shake- speare, but who certainly was inspired in finding out this grave; the other a Scotchman, full of intelligence, who pro- posed the flesh-soil for manure for tur- nips. The old Vicar, whose age reaches halfway back to the day of the Bat- tle, stood tottering over the verge of the trench. Carlyle has shewn great saga- city in guessing at the localities from the vague descriptions of contemporaries; and his short pastiecio of the battle is the best I have seen. But he will spoil all by making a demigod of Cromwell, who certainly was so far from wise that he brought about the very thing he fought to prevent, the restoration of an unrestricted monarchy. The substance of this letter was of course communicated by Fitzgerald to Carlyle, who promptly and gratefully replied. CHELSEA, Saturday, 25 [241 Septr. 1842. M~ DEAR SIR, You will do me and the Genius of History a real favour, if you persist in these examinations and excavations to the utmost length pos- sible for you! It is long since I read a letter so interesting as yours of yester- day. Clearly enough you are upon the very battle-ground ; and I, it is also clear, have only looked up towards it from the slope of Mill Hill. Were not the weather so wet, were not, etc., etc., so many etceteras, I could almost think huntsmen are up in America, and they are already past their first sleep in Persia. Botching Shakespeare. of running up to join you still! But that is evidently unfeasible at present. The opening of that burial-heap blazes strangely in my thoughts: these are the very jawbones that were clenched to- gether in deadly rage, on this very ground, 197 years ago! It brings the matter home to one, with a strange vera- city, as if for the first time one saw it to be no fable and theory, but a dire fact. I will beg for a tooth and a bullet; au- thenticated by your own eyes and word of honour! Our Scotch friend, too, mak- ing turnip manure of it, he is part of the Picture. I understand almost all the Netherlands battlefields have already given up their bones to British hus- bandry; why not the old English next? Honour to thrift. If of 5000 wasted men you can make a few usable turnips, why, do it! The more sketches and details you can contrive to send me, the better. I want to know, for one thing, whether there is any house on Cloisterwell; what house that was that I saw from the slope of Naseby height (Mill-hill, I suppose), and fancied to be Dust Hill Farm? It must lie about North by West from Naseby Church, perhaps near a mile off. You say, one cannot see Dust Hill at all, much less any farm house of Dust Hill, from that Naseby Height? But why does the Obelisk stand there? It might as well stand at Charing Cross; the blockhead that it is! I again wish I had wings; alas, I wish many things; that the gods would but annihilate Time and Space, which would include all things! In great haste, Yours most truly, T. CARLYLE. Both Carlyles letter to Fitzgerald and that to his mother from Cambridge are notable illustrations of the insatiable hunger of the eye which went far to make him the great writer he was. The print of those teeth on his mind is shown in Cromwell, where we read: A friend of mine has in his cabinet two ancient grinder-teeth, dug lately from that ground, and waits for an oppor- tunity to rebury them there. Sound, ef- fectual grinders, one of them very large; which ate their breakfast on the f our- teenth morning of June, two hundred years ago, and, except to be clenched once in grim battle, had never work to do more in this world! Charles Townsend Copeland. BOTCHING SHAKESPEARE. They aim at it And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts. flanlet, IV. v. 9, 10. THE ascendency which much of our English literature holds over us is too largely one of opinion. There is a cer- tain range of the great books of it which we take on faith; if we do come to read them for ourselves, our enjoyment of them is derived too often from a con- sciousness that enjoyment is the right thing to feel under the circumstances. But our reading is perfunctory, task- work, a lesson in culture. We pass along the beaten way, with its fingerposts of annotation and criticism, like pilgrims going to a shrine. There comes a time, too, when we cease even to make these perfunctory pilgrimages, and content our- selves with the serene recollection of past achievement. There is thus a sense in which we do not possess a great part of our literature, though we dwell, as it were, in the midst of it, like people who live in show places which they themselves 461

Botching Shakespeare. of running up to join you still! But that is evidently unfeasible at present. The opening of that burial-heap blazes strangely in my thoughts: these are the very jawbones that were clenched to- gether in deadly rage, on this very ground, 197 years ago! It brings the matter home to one, with a strange vera- city, as if for the first time one saw it to be no fable and theory, but a dire fact. I will beg for a tooth and a bullet; au- thenticated by your own eyes and word of honour! Our Scotch friend, too, mak- ing turnip manure of it, he is part of the Picture. I understand almost all the Netherlands battlefields have already given up their bones to British hus- bandry; why not the old English next? Honour to thrift. If of 5000 wasted men you can make a few usable turnips, why, do it! The more sketches and details you can contrive to send me, the better. I want to know, for one thing, whether there is any house on Cloisterwell; what house that was that I saw from the slope of Naseby height (Mill-hill, I suppose), and fancied to be Dust Hill Farm? It must lie about North by West from Naseby Church, perhaps near a mile off. You say, one cannot see Dust Hill at all, much less any farm house of Dust Hill, from that Naseby Height? But why does the Obelisk stand there? It might as well stand at Charing Cross; the blockhead that it is! I again wish I had wings; alas, I wish many things; that the gods would but annihilate Time and Space, which would include all things! In great haste, Yours most truly, T. CARLYLE. Both Carlyles letter to Fitzgerald and that to his mother from Cambridge are notable illustrations of the insatiable hunger of the eye which went far to make him the great writer he was. The print of those teeth on his mind is shown in Cromwell, where we read: A friend of mine has in his cabinet two ancient grinder-teeth, dug lately from that ground, and waits for an oppor- tunity to rebury them there. Sound, ef- fectual grinders, one of them very large; which ate their breakfast on the f our- teenth morning of June, two hundred years ago, and, except to be clenched once in grim battle, had never work to do more in this world! Charles Townsend Copeland. BOTCHING SHAKESPEARE. They aim at it And botch the words up fit to their own thoughts. flanlet, IV. v. 9, 10. THE ascendency which much of our English literature holds over us is too largely one of opinion. There is a cer- tain range of the great books of it which we take on faith; if we do come to read them for ourselves, our enjoyment of them is derived too often from a con- sciousness that enjoyment is the right thing to feel under the circumstances. But our reading is perfunctory, task- work, a lesson in culture. We pass along the beaten way, with its fingerposts of annotation and criticism, like pilgrims going to a shrine. There comes a time, too, when we cease even to make these perfunctory pilgrimages, and content our- selves with the serene recollection of past achievement. There is thus a sense in which we do not possess a great part of our literature, though we dwell, as it were, in the midst of it, like people who live in show places which they themselves 461 462 Botching Shakespeare. never see with other eyes than those of villagers. Early in life we learn to style Chau- cer the Father of our English Poetry, and, conscious of our birthright, duti- fully set ourselves to work getting ac- quainted with the Prologue and at least one of the Canterbury Tales. These we painfully read into monstrous Eng- lish, sometimes catching a little of the beauty of Chaucers rhythm where time has not played havoc with it, and often faintly discerning the play of Chaucers humor through the veil of unfamiliar phraseology. But we do not really read Chaucer. We put that word in the vo- cabulary along with this word in the text, we fit that note in the back of the book to this difficult passage in the front, we ignore the sound of the lan- guage, we twist its inflection to suit ~i preconceived notion of its rhythm, and the net result is a jargon that Chaucer could not understand and a modern would not use. Our sole dependence for what little intelligence of Chaucers meaning we get is upon a particular set of notes and a special glossary. When we come to read Chaucer later in life, and all the words and notes are forgot- ten, how tedious it all is ! Is it Aprile or April-c? What does soote mean? (We pronounce it to rhyme with boot, but by calling the word at the end of the next line root matters are set right again.) How is a flower engendered of vir- tue? And so on. It does not take much of this sort of thing to tire out the best of resolves. We can find enough to justify all that has been said about Chau- cer; but as to reading his poetry, we will leave that to somebody who has more time and energy for it than we have. We fare little better with Spenser, though Spensers speech is nearer ours than Chaucer~ s is. Two books of the Faerie Queene are prescribed (one is al- most tempted to say proscribed ) for college reading in English literature; how many of us have read more than the academic stint of it? How many of us have gone on and learned to know the sonnets, the purity of their thought, the sweetness of their mellifluous word- ing? To how many persons is Spenser more than a name? Yet if called upon to give an account of our great poetry, we invariably start the list, in a burst of enthusiasm, with Chaucer and Spenser, although Chaucer and Spenser actually play a less part in the reading of most of us than Rudyard Kipling does. And what is true of Chaucer and Spenser is true of a deal of our literature: we read about it, listen to lectures about it, talk about it, without having read it for ourselves; nay, some- times lecture about it, like the professor of English literature whose lectures con- tained an account of a short dramatic poem by Browning called Pippa Pass-6s. Some of us do make a praiseworthy ef- fort to keep up with our best literature, and we flatter ourselves that our effort is successful. But the very making the effort smacks of the artificial, and the success of it too often sows the seeds of distinctions which soon grow up to choke with self-conceit and priggishness the lit- tle plants of culture we nurse so carefully. There is a certain cant about the criti- cism of literature, too, growing out of this artificial way of treating it, that exasper- ates the more sensible of us. We re- cognize certain recurring phrases in all criticism, if we read much of it. We see Shakespeare so often sitting, finger on brow and pen in hand, gazing into the abysses of human despair and evolving a Hamlet as to grow tired of the picture. When we are told that as a piece of psychological development Hamlet lacks the lucidity of classical art; that the heros soul has all the untranspicuous- ness and complexity of a real soul ; that one generation after another has deposited in Hamlets soul the sum of its experience, many of us cannot help feeling that such criticism is pretty close to nonsense. We recognize the cant Botching Shakespeare. 463 of a cultus, a cultus that grows fur- ther and further from the interests of our every-day life. Again, a great deal of criticism is far from being critical. Its judgments, uttered with impressive conviction, are too often the result of mere personal opinion. No evidence is given; frequently, indeed, in the very nature of the case, none is obtainable. We are asked to accept a self-constituted authority. Having to do with practical affairs, having to distrust emotional opinion, having to ask searching ques- tions of ourselves and others, it is hard to lull ourselves into a condition where we can take so much on trust. Rebel- lion is not worth the time and trouble; and we are not sure that rebellion would be successful. Controversy in these matters is so apt to become personal. We therefore take the easiest way out, and remove ourselves from the critics jurisdiction. Thus, as we grow older, we cease to be literary. The people who leave these things more and more to others are not Philistines, either, as Matthew Arnold called them. You find them in Oxford common-rooms as well as in American homes. Nor has the age grown careless of the things of culture. That is an easy charge to make, but as groundless as such charges usually are. If one will only take the trouble to look for it, more culture can be found in a Western inland town nowadays than many of our large cities could boast of when culture was spelled with a capital C, and had Mat- thew Arnold for its apostle. Why is it, then, that so many of us who have had the advantages of univer- sity training, who have passed, satisfac- torily at least, various courses of liter- ary instruction, who have been at times enthusiastic members of reading clubs, who can speak and write reasonably good English, who have some knowledge of life and affairs, why is it that we must read lamely and haltingly the su- preme poets of our race? The answer is simple, but one we shall be most of us loath to admit: we have not the necessary English education to read English literature easily. Our training has been Greek, not English. Logical- ly, as far as literature goes, we are citi- zens of Athens in the time of Pericles, not Americans and Englishmen of to- day. And it is not uncommon for us to boast of the fact. As a people we pos- sess only our contemporary literature; we include Chaucer and Spenser by courtesy, but we do not really possess them; indeed, we do not even possess Shakespeare in the full sense of posses- sion, though we call him our Prince of Poets. Let us put aside the question of Chau- cer and Spenser, and examine tLe mat- ter as it concerns Shakespeare. We do not possess Shakespeare to the full, be- cause we do not understand Shakespeare. And I do not only mean that there are isolated words or isolated lines in Shake- speare which we do not understand, but I would maintain that we do not read Shakespeare understandingly. In the first place, let me explain what I mean by understandingly. As we go through life and continuously add to our experience, we add at the same time words which are native to our thinking and fitting to our experience. Most of these words are generic, and have their place in other minds just as they have in ours. They represent pretty much the same objects of thought and pretty much the same relations for all who think in the language we use. Some of them we use often, others are as rare as the experiences they connote; but all are there, ready to rise at the proper call. It is the power of literature to call them forth and set them in what order the poet (for in this sense all literature is poetry) may choose. He weaves them together, and our lives are caught in the tissue whe- ther we wish it or no. He uses words that have been in our hearts at times when feeling was strong and deep; words 464 Botching Shakespeare. which bitter memories cling to; words which lovers use; words fast knit into childish prayer; words of homely com- fort when deaths hand was heavy; words bound up with duty, hope, love, faith, and the best things we have known or hope to know. As they pass through our minds they stir us again, revealing us to ourselves as they reveal the poets thought to us, and our hearts burn with- in us. They are English words worn by ages of English use, the oldest, sim- plest words of the language, and there- fore the richest in association. They are the words of Home, Sweet Home, Amer- ica, God Save the Queen, Pilgrims Pro- gress, the Bible (would that they were there given their modern English form, so that they might be more homely still !), our English birthright. Such words make our best literature, and always will, as long as human hearts beat in our breasts. We cannot escape them: they are part of ourselves, the ghosts of our good deeds and our bad deeds that must abide with us; we can- not get rid of them. For us they need no notes, no interpretation; they go straight to our understandings without need of introduction; when the poet uses them, they are intelligible, and im- mediately intelligible, conveying without risk of mistake exactly the thought of the poets mind, and no other. The process of apprehending them to the full is what might be called, with a lit- tle stretching of the term, reflex action. This is what I mean by understanding, and reading in this way is reading un- derstandingly. Now there is another mental process which we go through in reading that is simply one of judgment. We do not possess a word as part of our thinking vocabulary, and must make an infer- ence from the context, or from its simi- larity to some word we do know, in or- der to get at the idea probably embodied in it. This has nothing to do with lit- erature, and if there is very much of this sort of thing in our reading, what we read for us is not literature. We do not understand it; we simply guess as to the probable meaning. This process is entirely distinct from the one of understanding, yet we are con- stantly confusing the two; we make the mistake of confounding the natural im- plications which are or ought to be purely mechanical, and which are due to the fact that answering chords of our experi- ence vibrate with the string the poet has struck, we confound these with the in- ferences we are compelled to make on account of our imperfect understanding of language. That is, to apply this to our Shakespeare reading, certain words or arrangements of words in Shake- speare are not really part of our think- ing experience at all, and there is no- thing in our minds to respond to them; we recognize these blanks immediately, and fill them in with words and phrases which do provoke associations, and which seem to be those the poet might have used under the circumstances, had he spoken the language we think with. We generously set down the imperfection for we know it is an imperfection to the natural inequality of poetic genius and the natural faultiness of a human ma- chine, or we attribute it to the dullness of our literary apperceptions. But the fault lies neither with Shakespeare nor with our dullness of apperception: it lies simply and solely in our ignorance of English. Now, if you will take down your Shakespeare and read consecutively for a few pages anywhere, without resort to the usual helps and explanations, and will try at the same time to throw yourself out of a literary attitude far enough to discern surely what you understand immediately from what you do not understand, but infer, you will see that the mediate and secondary pro- cesses are more numerous than you had thought. Suppose the passage you turn to is Hamlet, I. iii. 58, if., in the middle Botching Shakespeare. 465 of Poloniuss long-winded good-by to his son. It runs : And these few precepts in thy memory Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue, Nor any unproportiond thought his act. (60) Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. Those friends thou hast, and their adoption tried, Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel, But do not dull thy palm with entertainment Of each new-hatchd unfledged comrade. Beware Of entrance to a quarrel; but being in, Bear t, that the opposed may beware of thee. Give every man thy ear, but few thy voice: Take each mans censure, but reserve thy judgment. Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, (70) But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy: For the apparel oft proclaims the man; And they in France of the best rank and station Are of a most select and generous chief in that. Recognizing the unfitness of the com- monest sense of character (59) you think of character in the sense of sign or letter, and by this inference arrive at the meaning of Shakespeares word. Character, however, in Elizabethan English (frequently accented char- as here), is a common synonym of write. The imperative Leo/c fol- lowed by the subjunctive is now strange syntax, but its likeness to such an idiom as See you do it well makes it intel- ligible. Proportioned (60) in the sense of made symmetrical is still in liter- ary use, though we usually put well in front of it, and will probably give you an inkling of Shakespeares mean- ing. His act, however, can scarcely fail to suggest a personification; even if you remember enough of your Shakespeare training to recognize the pronoun as the genitive of it, the form is as unusual to your thinking as its was to Shake- speares; act, too, in the sense of ex- ecution is as unfamiliar to you as thought in the sense of intention is. Poloniuss advice to his boy, to keep his own counsel and mature his plans well, VOL. LXXXII. No. 492. 30 thus becomes to your mind the liter- ary equivalent of Dont be talkative and dont act foolishly. Familiar and vulgar (61) carry an ignominious sense which the words did not have to the ears of Shakespeares audience: Polonius neither recommends familiarity to his son nor warns him against vulgarity. To try an adoption (62) leaves a gap in the thought that even literary interpreta- tion fails to fill. Grappling with hoops and dulling ones palm (64, 65) are idi- oms quite strange to modern thinking; our entertainment like entrance (66) suggests but does not convey Polonius s meaning. Comrade (65) with the ac- cent on the first syllable spoils the mea- sure. Bearing a quarrel (67) is again an impossible thought in Modern Eng- lish, and the only possible meaning of Modern English bear, namely, endure, which you can put with quarrel to patch out a literary sense is so obviously at variance with the rest of the verse that its absurdity is apparent even from a literary standpoint. You can perhaps still give an ear to a person (68), but you can- not give him a voice. Opposed (67), which we do not now call op-pos-ed, and should not use as a substantive, has an artificial sound that the word did not know in Shakespeares time, when op- pose still had its local meaning, to place opposite. Censure (69) will be- tray you into thinking that Laertes is to be silent under criticism; very good advice, but not that his father gave him. Expressed in fancy (71) does not now convey the idea displayed fantas- tically, though perhaps with the help of the context and generous inference such a meaning might be tortured out of the words. Proclaims (72), again, is not a figure of speech, which it seems to be in the modern readers mind. Are of a most sclect and generous chief in that (74) is sheer nonsense. Numerous attempts have been made to doctor the passage into something like intelligibil 466 Botching Shakespeare. ity. Taking it as it stands, it is likely that chief is a sophistication of shef (our sheaj). Spelling was not fixed in the sixteenth century as it is now, so that eh often represented the sound sh. For example, in Hamlet, I. ii. 82, shapes ap- pears in the Quarto of 1604 as chapes. The spelling of the Folio cheff proba- bly represents what is now sheaf (in Shakespeares time it was called shelf, rhyming nearly with our safe). That be- ing the case, sheaf should be the word in our texts, and Stauntons citation of Ben Jonsons It is found in noblemen and gentlemen of the best sheaf, and I am so haunted - - - with your refined spirits that it makes me clean of another garb, another sheaf, sufficiently ex- plains the passage. Shakespeares gen- erous, however, by no means corre- sponds to Modern English generous. So we might go on through Hamlet and through the rest of Shakespeares plays, showing that modern reading of Shakespeare is largely botching the words up to fit the readers thought. This is not a peculiarly difficult passage, and it is one of those oftenest read; it is perfectly fair, therefore, to assume its difficulties, both in number and in quali- ty, as being fairly representative of those that would he met anywhere. Yet with- in the compass of these seventeen lines there are nineteen forms of expression which an average educated man would fail partially or wholly to understand in the sense in which understanding has been defined. Is it putting the matter too strongly, then, to say we do not understand Shakespeare? Suppose the mistakes we made were half the number: ought we not to blush when we declaim about our knowledge of Shakespeare and what we have done for Shakespeare? And it is not Homer or Virgil or Dante, but it is the supreme poet of our own race and our own language, that we are so ignorant of. What wonder? We devote most of our educational energy to studying foreign tongues and foreign literature. We carry on the stupid pre- judice of our ancestors against our ver- nacular, and study the language and lit- erature of Greece and of Rome! When shall we shake ourselves free from the Renaissance, the ball and chain of culture? Have nt we nearly served out our sentence? When shall we cease to educate ourselves as citizens of Athens, and learn to be American? How long shall we have to wait before there is a home made in our educational system for the intelligent study of our own lan- guage and its literature? How long shall we condemn our children to igno- rance of that which they ought to know best of all? When shall we gain inde- pendence enough to point criticism to our own literature and say, Go nQt to Athens, go not to Rome, seek not Italy or France or Germany, but weigh and consider this, and see if there be not here enough pure gold to furnish you forth with standards of worth? Most readers of Shakespeare sooner or later come to the conclusion that this vagueness, which they name the liter- ary way of saying things, is one of the chief characteristics of Shakespeare. They call the same thing quaintness in Chaucer, where they are more often en- tirely out of their reckoning. It is really ignorance, ignorance of English and lack of English culture. The danger of absolute mistake can be somewhat minimized, it is true, by constant resort to notes and commentaries ; but the notes, many of which are historic ab- surdities, are written mostly by scholars who look upon Shakespeare as Modern English and are continually liable to misunderstandings just like those which beset the general reader; for too often, like him, they depend upon literary instinct rather than upon actual know- ledge to guide them. But suppose the notes are in every case just what they ought to be, reading Shakespeare by their help is an artificial process: the knowledge the reader gets by it does not Botching Shakespeare. 467 abide by him; it is discrete, unconnect- ed, so that every time he reads a new play of Shakespeares he has to wade through more notes. What wonder, then, that he should get tired of hobbling along on these crutches! What wonder that, as in the case of Chaucer, he should leave Shakespeare to be read by those who have more knowledge and more time for it than he has. Is not Shake- speare in this way losing his hold on us? As his language grows more dim to our sense, and we continue to be careless about learning it, will not the time come when Shakespeare will be little more than a great name iu our literature? Now I would not say that we have already lost Shakespeare, or that we shall lose Shakespeare within the space of a generation. What I would say is that we can in this way lose Shakespeare, and more easily, too, than we think. We English-speaking people have already been advised to abandon Chaucer, in a journal, it is true, whose advice is not usually worth the taking, but such straws show the way the current sets. Perhaps it will be some time before any one will boldly tell us to give up Shakespeare, and thus show that Shakespeare is already practically given up. But if it is true that we have lost Chaucer as popular litera- ture, that we have lost Spenser as popular literature, that we are losing Milton as popular literature, how shall we ulti- mately escape losing Shakespeare? Of course, we can selfishly say that Shake- speare will last our time, and the future can take care of itself; or we can fall back on a narrow ideal of culture, and say that there will always be enough scholars among English-speaking people to keep the light burning before Shake- speares shrine; or we can ignore the facts, and grandiloquently say that Shakespeare is for all time. But the day may come when Shakespeare will be added to Chaucer, and we shall have in literature a Rachel weeping for her chil- dren, and not to be comforted. For, in the first place, it is the general reader who makes a national literature. Now the chief characteristic of great lit- erature, and the one that gives it the strongest hold on experience, is the per- tinence of its appeal. The mind of him who reads recognizes something that concerns him, an experience which is identical with his, though the person who has it is widely separated from him in space and time; thus a bond of sym- pathy is created, and the molecule of hu~ man experience gets hold of itself as part of humanity. In its last analysis, the bond is that clear, terse expression, that graphic picture, which reveals this outside experience to him not as words, but as life. The sharpness and clearness of this expression, while it is life, de- pends upon words. The words must be so aptly the right ones that they are re- cognized and understood by the mind without effort, because they are part of its own thinking machinery. But the words must be generic, also; that is, they must convey the expression not to one man only, but to thousands. They must be the embodied thought of a race fixed in forms native to its thinking. In other words, they must be immediate- ly intelligible to the general reader. It follows as a corollary that while a foreign literature can be read and ap- preciated by a process through which native words rapidly and fittingly take the place of foreign ones, a nations best and most vital literature must always be that which is written in its vernacular. It might be added as a further corollary that a peoples strength is in direct pro- portion to the strength of their native literature, and that a nation which neg~ lects its literature to follow after a for- eign one is sowing the seeds of national decay. For purposes of literature, therefore, no thought is understood unless it is understood perfectly, with that sort of understanding which we have already spoken of, understanding that is im 4438 Botching Shakespeare. mediate perception. The shaft must go straight to the mark and stick in the gold. All great literature has this di- rectness and simplicity. It is this that makes it great. We may easily humbug ourselves into thinking that other writing which has not this quality is great, that Mr. Gigadibs is our modern Shakespeare. This humbug may even become general enough to make Mr. Gigadibss book oc- cupy for a while a place beside Shake- speare on our library shelves; but there comes a time, and it comes swiftly, too, when Mr. Gigadibss book goes to the lum- ber-room, with other discarded toys of his generation. It is one of the marvelous things of historyhow unerring, in the long run, the selection of time is. If we go back to the very beginning of our own litera- ture and examine what has survived, comparing it with contemporary Ger- manic literature, we discover that what we possess of it must have been of the best produced; or if we run over the ground of Middle-English literature, we find that Piers Plowmans Vision and the Canterbury Tales are the pieces which were oftenest copied, and so ran the least risk of destruction in coming down to us. Now the basis of this historical selection is universal pertinence, simpli- city, directness. In the long run people read what they can understand perfectly, and they make this literature. It is not the best of what has been thought and said in the world, but what has been thought and said the best. No other piece of English writing has taken such a hold on the English thinking race as Hamlets soliloquy on suicide. Its mat- ter is the veriest commonplace, the theme of the college sophomore for generations; parodied, hackneyed, de- claimed, misquoted, it still stands the most magnificent piece of writing in English. Why? Because this common thought of this common man is clothed in common words; because the words come straight from his own experience, without garnish or ornament other than that the thought itself wore; because they go straight to the core of the com- monest experience of humanity, without other help or assistance than that the understanding alone can furnish. Ham- let, and indeed all of Shakespeare, is an appeal to the general reader. In fact, not much of Shakespeare would have come down to us, had we had to depend on a purely literary public for its trans- mission to posterity. Not only does the general reader thus make a national literature, he also keeps it alive. It is but an artificial life which literature lives in school and university textbooks, and among special students and scholars. When the people who, by their previous education and present surroundings, are in a position to draw help and strength from the great books in their own language abandon those books to read something else in their moments of leisure, their literature is practically dead. Their children may study it in school; they themselves may talk about it, and glibly, too; but if they do not read it because they want to read it, preferring to read criticism of it, or to read contemporary fiction, or to peruse the newspapers, for them what they are pleased to call their literature is but a figment of the imagination, it has no reality. In short, a peoples lit- erature is what they read, not what they read about, or talk about, or would like to read. It makes no difference what the reason for the abandonment is; the result is the same. It may be for idle. ness, it might be because the books of it were unattainable; but anything which serves to keep a people away from their literature will eventually cause them to lose it. In the case of Shakespeare the obsta- cle might easily be the lack of a clear understandingof Shakespeareslanguage. Inferential interpretation has a certain attraction for the scholar, and his ap- parent success in it gives him continual ground for gratification; but it worries Botching Shakespeare. 469 and wearies the general reader, who is discouraged and humiliated by his obvi- ous failure in it. It becomes with him a question between spending an hour or more over fifty lines of Shakespeare in order to understand them thoroughly, and reading five times as many higgledy- piggledy to get the best sense he can. What wonder that in nine cases out of ten he chooses the easier course! His schoolboy days are over, and he does not like to think that he must take a schoolboys attitude to Shakespeare; it is not hard for him, therefore, to per- suade himself that he can read it well enough. It is so fatally easy for any one, scholar or general reader, to per- suade himself that he understands what he knows nothing about! But the kind of reading he does takes little hold on him; it is not Shakespeare, though there is some Shakespeare in it, in many cases enough to hold his attention and keep his enthusiasm for a time, and when all is said, enough to justify to him the place Shakespeare holds in our litera- ture. It goes in at one ear and out at the other. It is a thing apart from his life. His brain, active all day in schemes to educate his sons and daughters, re- fuses the extra burden such reading puts upon it. So as he grows older he reads Shakespeare less and less. This man is one of a class the most numerous and the strongest in our American life; when he ceases to read Shakespeare, literature is already among us a decadent art. Have we not some reason to fear, then, that we may lose Shakespeare out of our national literature? The loss would be one which for some time we might be quite unconscious of. We all know how easy it is for the individual to excuse his own neglect of duty by assuming that every one else is doing what he knows he ought to do, and that therefore his effort is unneces- sary. That it is thus possible for no- body to do what everybody ought to do has become fixed in the proverb, Every bodys business is nobodys~bnsiness, a proverb which might easily run, What everybody reads, nobody reads. We all know that yearly a certain number of books are made and sold to be put in every gentlemans library, but how many gentlemen read them? It is not necessary, then, to infer that good books are always read by the persons who buy them. We might lose Shakespeare from our national literature, and still go on talking about Shakespeare, and buying sumptuous editions of Shakespeare, and reading books of Shakespeare criticism; the danger is in forgetting to read Shakespeare. And we shall lose this our ricbest lit- erary possession if we do not take care. If we go on cajoling ourselves in the be- lief that, to read Shakespeare, all one needs is a knowledge of every-day Eng- lish and a copiously annotated edition of Shakespeares works; that it is not neces- sary to know the language of Shake- speares time; that we have got along fairly well hitherto without much study of English, and things are good enough the way they are; that we can go on in our neglect with impunity, we shall find one of these days that we have lost Shakespeare, that the kind of English literature Shakespeare represents really plays no more part in the lives of the mass of us than the Vedas do. If we are going to keep Shakespeare, we must understand Shakespeare. Now, to understand Shakespeare, we do not need more notes on Shakespeares text, more variorum editions of Shakespeare, more transcendental lectures on Shake- speares life and work. Most of us will agree that in these respects abridg- ment with better quality is the thing we need. What we do want is a wide- spread understanding of Shakespeares language, nay, of English, an un- derstanding wide and broad enough to reach into the public schools and touch the masses; that for every child who can decline a Latin noun, there will be two 470 Botching Shakespeare. who know the rudiments of English his- torical grammar; for every boy who is reading C~sars Gallic Wars, there will be five reading Chaucers Prologue; for every college student who can read Homers archaic Greek and be uncon- scious of its archaic form, there will be ten who can read Beowulf without hav- ing to translate it into broken-backed, cumbrous, impossible New English com- pounds; for every critic who grows en- thusiastic over the human and humanis- tic qualities of the Iliad, there will be a hundred who take these things and the knowledge of them for granted on every page of Shakespeares plays. Is such an end possible? Why should nt it be? Why should we be gaining a fresher knowledge and a deeper insight into the development of our political life, and remain ignorant of the development of our literature? Why should we be clever, shrewd, untiring, in the one field, and stand imbecile in the other? If we do not know these things, why cant we learn them? Is English such a perplex- ing subject that it can be understood only by the most scholarly professors in our best universities? The difficulty of at- taining such a knowledge, granting that it is great, ought rather to be an invitation to energy than a temptation to despair; and when once it is attained, the task of presenting it ought to he easy; for Eng- lish speech is the first thing we learn, and the last we forget. Let us grant for the nonce, though it is by no means true, that up to Shakespeare there is no literature in English, save a small part of Chaucer, that is worth the students study. Let us admit all the poverty which people who cannot read it allege against our ear- liest literary efforts. If the study of it is going to teach us to understand Shake- speare, it is surely worth the wading through. Let your student who yearns after literary form try to get it from Greek and Latin if he wants to, hut give your average student, who is going to turn into an American citizen before long, some rudimentary knowledge of what the speech he uses is, how it has grown to be what it is, and how he can use it to the best advantage. Then bring him to the best literature in it, opening, perchance, a door that will never he closed all his life through. Make him read the great books of it in- telligently, till they are instinct with life. Give him a knowledge of his language so that he can do this easily, uncon- sciously, so that the act of reading Shakespeare will he no guesswork, but a sure-footed progress to a distinct goal. For it is the knowledge of Shake- speares language as English, rich, vital English, that we want, not notes and emendations. It is the knowledge of his speech as a living speech, to his pur- pose more pregnant than our speech is to ours, a familiarity with its sound and form such that there seems nothing un- usual in it as we read, an acquaintance with its syntax so intimate that we could think Elizabethan syntax, if need were in short, we want a knowledge of English that will enable us to read Shakespeare without translating it, to read Chaucer, too, without resorting to translation. For our translations of Shakespeare and Chaucer are always worse than those we make for Virgil and Horace, because we hold on to all the forms and words which have any resemblance to those we use now, and thus produce a sort of bastard-English that never existed in any English mind. And this sort of stuff we put into the mouths of Chaucer and Shakespeare! And we are English-speaking people, thinking with the language Chaucer and Shakespeare wrote! We prefer to go on in this way, reading some of our best literature lamely, haltingly, because in our educational system, planned out to suit medheval conditions, no place is left for the proper study of our native language. We think we should be fly- ing in the face of educational providence if we moved the study of a foreign lit- Botching Shakespeare. erature far enough aside to make room for the intelligent study of our own. But no upheaval of our educational system is necessary: a few years of sound ele- nientary teaching of English is all we want just enough to let the student read Chaucer and Shakespeare (perhaps, too, Beowulf, though we do not nee~l to add that yet), in the original, with a feeling of sureness and ease. If we are too timorous to do all this at once, let us start with Shakespeare and Elizabethan English. That will be good enough for a beginning. Let us set ourselves to teach our children to read Shakespeare in the original (that is, not in Modern English transcriptions), without notes and glossary except where they are ne- cessary to explain passages that are ob- vious nonsense, or meaningless through ignorance of some contemporary condi- tions. Now it is possible, and easily possible, to get in a short time a knowledge of Shakespeares language such that the inferential process through which we arrive at an understanding of his words by substituting for them words of our own can largely be done away with for the average educated man who reads Shakespeare. Of course there will re- main a number of passages in which careless transmission of Shakespeares th6ught brings it to us in unintelligible form. But it is not too much to hope that common sense and a knowledge of English will do much to reduce the num- ber. The knowledge that the form and content of English words are constantly changing, and that the ways of putting them together are likewise changing constantly, will be a thing that the stu- dent can start with. A familiarity with the sound and form of Elizabethan Eng- lish presented in the light of its histor- ical development ought to be easily ob- tainable by any one understanding the rudiments of English, from a years study of a properly arranged textbook upon the subject, a textbook which could be used in elementary schools at a time wheii a student is usually initiated into the mysteries of Greek. For, like all grammatical study, this is elementary work, and ought to be finished before the student gets into the uiiiversity. With these two things to start with, American common sense and American teaching ability might be left to wrestle with the problem alone without much concern as to the result. We shall then be able to read Shake- speare without resorting to the subter- fuge through which we excuse our lack of understanding on the ground that Shakespeare wrote in a literary way. We shall get the magnificent range and sweep of his words with a sure sympathy born of positive knowledge, not of liter- ary affectation, and more of us will gain sureness and sweep in the use of our own. Is not the effort worth our while? Is not Shakespeares English worth more to us than Homers Greek? Is not a scientific knowledge of the language that we think in, talk in, read in, buy and sell in, save and lose our immortal souls in, of more consequence to us than a super- ficial familiarity with the academic in- tricacies of Greek and Latin grammar? Jn Shakespeare we have a poet who has put into this language, as sensitive and tremulous under his touch as the strings of a harp, the deepest experience that we have yet known or are capable of, in terms of the life we live every day, and in words our mothers use to us all our lives through, a poet who is rightly regarded, not as the supreme poet of our race and language only, but as the supreme poet of the whole world; and we devote a couple of years of dabbling, desultory, dilettante study to his work, and spend seven or eight on learning to read Virgil and Homer! If we have many and good courses in schools and colleges to teach us to understand Ho- mers Greek, ought we not to have more and better courses to teach us Shake- speares English? We are told that we 471 472 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. go through this routine of classical study in order that we may better understand literature. But what good is such an understanding of literature to give us, if we cannot read intelligently and easily the language that the best of our own literature has been written in? What study of our literature will be of any avail that does not take into account its development and its continual relation to the life of the people that produced it? How long are we to listen to histo- rians of our literature who cannot read it with perfect intelligence back of the eighteenth century? How long shall we remain deaf and blind to this our most vital interest ? Is not our duty, then, plain, to learn thoroughly this English we love, and to study deeply its literature in the light of our knowledge; to cease thinking of our- selves as a barbarian nation, and learn the language of the people? Is not our duty to our children equally plain, to hand on to them this language the better for our having used it, this literature the clearer for our having taught it to them? This will require effort, strong and per- sistent; it means work for our educa- tional system; it means courage in de- parting from ancient tradition and daring to make the, future our own. But the gain! A people rich in the conscious- ness of their greatness, and strong in the power of their thought! Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself like a strong man after sleep and shaking her invincible locks. Methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam, purging and unscaling her long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that love the twilight, flatter about, amazed at what she means, and in their envious gabble would prognosticate a period of darkness and barbarism. iJiark H. Liddell. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A REVOLUTIONIST. VT. To maintain such numbers of ser- vants as were kept in our house would have been simply ruinous, if it had been necessary to buy all our provisions at Moscow; but in those times of serfdom things were managed very simply. When winter came, father sat at his table and wrote the following To the manager of my estate, Nik6b skoye, situated in the government of Kaldga, district of Mesch6vsk, on the river Sirena, from the Prince Alex~i Petr6vich Krop6tkin, Colonel and Com- mander of various orders. On receipt of this, and as soon as winter communication is established, thou art ordered to send to my house, situ- ated in the city of Moscow, twentj-flve peasant - sledges, drawn by two horses each, one horse from each house, and one sledge and one man from each second house, and to load them with [so many] quarters of oats, [so many] of wheat, and [so many] of rye, as also with all the poultry and geese and ducks, well frozen, which have to be killed this winter, well packed and accompanied by a complete list, under the supervision of a well-chosen man; and so it went on for a couple of pages, till the next full stop was reached. After this there followed an enumeration of the penalties which would be inflicted in case the provision should not reach the house situated in such a street, num

472 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. go through this routine of classical study in order that we may better understand literature. But what good is such an understanding of literature to give us, if we cannot read intelligently and easily the language that the best of our own literature has been written in? What study of our literature will be of any avail that does not take into account its development and its continual relation to the life of the people that produced it? How long are we to listen to histo- rians of our literature who cannot read it with perfect intelligence back of the eighteenth century? How long shall we remain deaf and blind to this our most vital interest ? Is not our duty, then, plain, to learn thoroughly this English we love, and to study deeply its literature in the light of our knowledge; to cease thinking of our- selves as a barbarian nation, and learn the language of the people? Is not our duty to our children equally plain, to hand on to them this language the better for our having used it, this literature the clearer for our having taught it to them? This will require effort, strong and per- sistent; it means work for our educa- tional system; it means courage in de- parting from ancient tradition and daring to make the, future our own. But the gain! A people rich in the conscious- ness of their greatness, and strong in the power of their thought! Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation, rousing herself like a strong man after sleep and shaking her invincible locks. Methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam, purging and unscaling her long-abused sight at the fountain itself of heavenly radiance; while the whole noise of timorous and flocking birds, with those also that love the twilight, flatter about, amazed at what she means, and in their envious gabble would prognosticate a period of darkness and barbarism. iJiark H. Liddell. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A REVOLUTIONIST. VT. To maintain such numbers of ser- vants as were kept in our house would have been simply ruinous, if it had been necessary to buy all our provisions at Moscow; but in those times of serfdom things were managed very simply. When winter came, father sat at his table and wrote the following To the manager of my estate, Nik6b skoye, situated in the government of Kaldga, district of Mesch6vsk, on the river Sirena, from the Prince Alex~i Petr6vich Krop6tkin, Colonel and Com- mander of various orders. On receipt of this, and as soon as winter communication is established, thou art ordered to send to my house, situ- ated in the city of Moscow, twentj-flve peasant - sledges, drawn by two horses each, one horse from each house, and one sledge and one man from each second house, and to load them with [so many] quarters of oats, [so many] of wheat, and [so many] of rye, as also with all the poultry and geese and ducks, well frozen, which have to be killed this winter, well packed and accompanied by a complete list, under the supervision of a well-chosen man; and so it went on for a couple of pages, till the next full stop was reached. After this there followed an enumeration of the penalties which would be inflicted in case the provision should not reach the house situated in such a street, num The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 473 ber so and so, in due time and in good condition. Some time before Christmas the twenty-five peasant-sledges really en- tered our gates, and covered the surface of the wide yard. Frol! shouted my father, as soon as the report of this great event reached him. Kiry4shka! Yeg6rka! Where are they? Everything will be stolen! Frol, go and receive the oats! Ulitina, go and receive the poultry! Kiryfishka, call the princess! All the household was in commotion, the servants running wildly in every di- rection, from the hall to the yard, and from the yard to the hall, but chiefly to the maidservants room, to communi- cate there the Nik6lskoye news: P1- sha is going to marry after Christmas. Aunt Anna has surrendered her soul to God, and so on. Letters had also come from the country, and very soon one of the maids would steal upstairs into my room. Are you alone? The teacher is not in? No, he is at the university. Well, then, be so good as to read me this letter from mother. And I would read to her the naive let- ter, which always began with the words, Father and mother send you their bless- ings for ages not to be broken. After this came the news: Aunt Eupraxie lies ill, all her bones aching; and your cousin is not yet married, but hopes to be after Easter. Following the news came the greetings, two pages of them: Brother Paul sends you his greetings, and the sisters Mary and Dtiria send their greet- ings, and then uncle Dmftri sends his many greetings, and so on. However, notwithstanding the monotony of the enu- meration, each name awakened some re- marks: Then she is still alive, poor soul, if she sends her greetings; it is nine years since she has lain motionless. Or, Oh, he has not forgotten me; he must be back, then, for Christmas; such a nice boy. You will write me a letter, wont you? and I must not forget him then. I promised, of course, and when the time came I wrote a letter in exactly the same style. When the sledges had been unloaded, the hall filled with peasants. They had put on their best coats over their sheep- skins, and waited until father should call them into his room to have a talk about the snow and the prospects of the next crops. They hardly dared to walk in their heavy boots on the polished floor. A few ventured to sit down on the edge of an oak bench; they emphatically re- fused to make use of chairs. So they waited for hours, looking with alarm upon every one who entered fathers room or issued from it. Some time later on, usually next morn- ing, one of the servants would run slyly upstairs to the class-room. Are you alone? Yes. Then go quickly to the hall. The peasants want to see you; something from your nurse.~~ When I went down to the hall, one of the peasants would give me a little bun- dle containing perhaps a few rye cakes, half a dozen hard-boiled eggs, and some apples, tied in a motley colored cotton kerchief. Take that: it is your nurse, Vasilisa, who sends it to you. Look if the apples are not frozen. I hope not: I kept them all the journey on my breast. Such a fearful frost we had. And the broad, bearded face, covered with frost. bites, would smile radiantly, showing two rows of beautiful white teeth from be- neath quite a forest of hair. And this is for your brother, from his nurse Anna, another peasant would say, handing me a similar bundle. Poor boy, she says, he must never have enough at school. Blushing and not knowing what to say, I would murmur at last, Tell Vasilisa that I kiss her, and Anna too, for my brother. At which all faces would be- come still more radiant. 474 flike Autobiography of a Revolutionist. Yes, I will, to be sure. Then Kirfia, who kept watch at fa- thers door, would whisper suddenly, Run quickly upstairs; your father may come out in a moment. Dont forget the kerchief; they want to take it back. As I carefully folded the worn ker- chief, I most passionately desired to send Yasilisa something. But I had nothing to send, not even a toy, and we never had pocket-money. Our best time, of course, was in the country. As soon as Easter and Whit- suntide had passed, all our thoughts were directed toward Nik6lskoye. How- ever, time went on, the lilacs must be through blooming at iNik6lskoye, and father had still thousands of af- fairs to keep him in town. At last, five or six peasant-carts entered our yard: they came to take all sorts of things which had to be sent to the country house. The great old coach and the other coaches in which we were going to make the journey were taken out and inspected once more. The boxes began to be packed. Our lessons made slow pro- gress; at every moment we interrupted our teachers, asking whether this or that book should be taken with us, and long before all others we began packing our books, our slates, and our few toys. Everything was ready: the peasant- carts stood heavily loaded with furniture for the country house, boxes containing the kitchen utensils, and almost countless empty glass jars which were to be brought back in the autumn filled with all kinds of preserves. The peasants waited every morning for hours in the hall; but the order for leaving did not come. Father continued to write all the morning in his room, and disappeared at night. Final- ly, our stepmother interfered, her maid having ventured to report that the pea- sants were very anxious to return, as hay- making was near. Next afternoon, Frol, the major-domo, and Mikh~el Al~eff, the first violin, were called into fathers room. A sack con- taining the food money that is, a few coppers a day for each of the forty or fifty souls who were to accom- pany the household to Nik6lskoye, was handed to Frol, with a list. All were enumerated in that list: the band in full; then the cooks and the under-cooks, the laundresses, the under-laundress who was blessed with a family of six mites, Polka Squinting, Domna the Big One, Domna the Small One, and the rest of them. The first violin received an order of march. I knew it well, because father, seeing that he never would be ready, had called me to copy it into the book, in which he used to copy all outgoing papers: To my bouse servant, Mikhael A16- eff, from Prince Alexfi Petr6vich Kro- p6tkin, Colonel and Commander. Thou art ordered, on May 29th, at six A. ivi., to march out with my loads, from the city of Moscow, for my estate, situated in the government of Kahiga, district of Mesch6vsk, on the river Si- r6na, representing a distance of one hun- dred and sixty miles from this house; to look after the good conduct of the men entrusted to thee, and if any one of them proves to be guilty of misconduct or of drunkenness or of insubordination, to bring the said man before the com- mander of the garrison detachment of the separate corps of the interior gar- risons, with the inclosed circular letter, and to ask that he may be punished by flogging [the first violin knew who was meant], as an example to the others. Thou art ordered, moreover, to look especially after the integrity of the goods entrusted to thy care, and to march ac- cording to the following order: First day, stop at village So and So, to feed the horses; second day, spend the night at the town of Podolsk; and so on for all the seven or eight days that the jour- ney would last. Next day, at ten instead of at six, The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 475 punctuality is not a Russian virtue, the carts left the house. The servants had to make the journey on foot; only the children were accommodated with a seat in a bath-tub or basket, on the top of a loaded cart, and some of the wo- men might find an occasional resting- place on the rim of a cart. The others had to walk all the hundred and sixty miles. As long as they were marching through Moscow, discipline was main- tained: it was peremptorily forbidden to wear top-boots or to pass a belt over the coat. But when they were on the road, and we overtook them a couple of days later, and especially when it was known that father would stay a few days longer at Moscow, the men and the women dressed in all sorts of im- possible coats, belted with cotton hand- kerchiefs, burned by the sun or dripping under the rain, and helping themselves along with sticks cut in the woods certainly looked more like a wandering band of gypsies than the household of a wealthy landowner. Similar peregrina- tions were made by every household in those times, and when we saw a file of servants marching along one of our streets, we at once knew that the Apukhtins or the Pryanishnikoffs were migrating. The carts were gone, yet the family did not move. All of us were sick of waiting; but father still continued to write interminable orders to the man- agers of his estates, and I copied them diligently into the big outgoing book. At last the order to start was given. We were called downstairs. My father read aloud the order of march, addressed to the Princess Krop6tkin, wife of Prince Alex6i Petr6vich Krop6tkin, Colonel and Commander, in which the halting-places during the five days jour- ney were duly enumerated. True, the order was written for May 30, and the departure was fixed for nine A. ~i., though May was gone, and the departure took place in the afternoon: this upset all cal- culations. But, as is usual in military marching-orders, this circumstance had been foreseen, and was provided for in the following paragraph : If, however, contrary to expectation, the departure of your highness does not take place at the said day and hour, you are requested to act according to the best of your understanding, in order to bring the said journey to its best issue. Then, all present, the family and the servants, sat down for a moment, signed themselves with the cross, and bade my father good-by. I entreat you, Alexis, dont go to the club, our stepmother whispered to him. The great coach, drawn by four horses, with a postilion, stood at the door, with its little folding ladder to facilitate climbing in; the other coaches also were there. Our seats were enumerated in the marching - or- ders, but our stepmother had to exercise the best of her understanding even at that early stage of the proceedings, and we started to the great satisfaction of all. The journey was an inexhaustible source of enjoyment for us children. The stages were short, and we stopped twice a day to feed the horses. As the ladies screamed at the slightest declivity of the road, it was found more conven- ient to alight each time the road went np or down hill, which it did continu- ally, and we took advantage of this to have a peep into the woods by the road- side, or a run along some crystal brook. The beautifully kept highroad from Mos- cow to Warsaw, which we followed for some distance, was covered, moreover, with a variety of interesting objects: files of loaded carts, groups of pilgrims, and all sorts of people. Twice a day we stopped in big, animated villages, and after a good deal of bargaining about the prices to be charged for hay and oats, as well as for the samovars, we dismounted at the gates of an inn. Cook Andrei bought a chicken and made the soup, while we ran in the meantime to the 476 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. next wood, or examined the yard of the great inn. At M~iloyarosk~vetz, where a battle was fought in 1812, when the Russian army vainly attempted to stop Napoleon in his retreat from Moscow, we usually spent the night. M. Poulain, who had been wounded in the Spanish campaign, knew, or pretended to know, everything about the battle at Maloyaroslt~vetz. He took us to the battlefield, and explained how the Russians tried to check Napo- leons advance, and how the Grande Arm6e crushed them and made its way through the Russian lines. He explained it as well as if he himself had taken part in the battle. Here the Cossacks attempted un mouvement tournant, but Davoust, or some other marshal, routed them and pursued them just beyond these hills on the right. There the left wing of Napoleon crushed the Russian infan- try, and here Napoleon himself, at the head of the Old Guard, charged Kutii- zoffs centre, and covered himself and his Guard with undying glory. We once took the old Kahulga route, and stopped at Tarutino; but here Pou- lain was much less eloquent. For it was at this place that Napoleon, who intend- ed to retreat by a southern route, was compelled, after a bloody battle, to aban- don that plan, and was forced to follow the Smolensk route, which his army had laid waste during its march on Moscow. But still so it appeared in Poulains narrative Napoleon was deceived by his marshals; otherwise he would have marched straight upon Kieff and Odessa, and his eagles would have floated over the Black Sea. Beyond Kahiga we had to cross for a stretch of five miles a beautiful pine forest, which remains connected in my memory with some of the happiest re- miniscences of my childhood. The sand in that forest was as deep as in an Afri- can desert, and we went all the way on foot, while the horses, stopping every moment, slowly dragged the carriages in the sand. When I was in my teens, it was my delight to leave the family behind, and to walk the whole distance by myself. Immense red pines, centuries old, rose on every side, and not a sound reached the ear except the voices of these lofty trees. In a small ravine a fresh crystal spring murmured, and a passer- by had left by it, for the use of those who should come after him, a small fun- nel-shaped ladle, made of birch bark, with a split stick for a handle. Noiselessly a squirrel ran up a tree, and the under- wood was as full of mysteries as were the trees. In that forest my first love of nature and my first dim perception of its incessant life were born. Beyond the forest, and past the ferry which took us over the Ugra, we left the highroad and entered narrow country lanes, where green ears of rye bent to- ward the coach, and the horses managed to bite mouthfuls of grass on either side of the way, as they ran, closely pressed to one another in the narrow, trenchlike road. At last we caught sight of the three willows which marked the ap- proach to our own village, and all of a sudden we saw the beautiful yellow bell tower of the Nik6lskoye church. For the quiet life of the landlords of those times Nik6lskoye was admirably suited. There was nothing in it of the luxury which is seen in richer estates; but an artistic hand was visible in the planning of the buildings and gardens, and in the general arrangement of things. Besides the main house, which father had recently built, there were, round a spacious and well - kept yard, several smaller houses, which, while they gave a greater degree of independence to their inhabitants, did not destroy the close in- tercourse of the family life. An im- mense upper garden was devoted to fruit trees, and through it the church was reached; the southern slope of the land, which led to the river, was entirely given up to a pleasure garden, where flower-beds were intermingled with al f/ike Autobiography of a 1?evolutionist. 477 leys of lime trees, lilacs, and acacias. From the balcony of the main house there was a beautiful view of the river, with the ruins of an old earthen fortress where the Russians offered a stubborn resistance during the Mongol invasion, and further on a great area of yellow grain-fields bordered by woods. In the early years of my childhood we occupied with M. Poulain one of the sepa- rate houses entirely by ourselves; and after his method of education was soft- ened by the intervention of our sister H~lime, we were on the best possible terms with him. Father was invariably absent from home in the summer, which he spent in military inspections, and our stepmother did not pay much attention to us, especially after her own child was born. We were thus always with M. Poulain, who thoroughly enjoyed the stay in the country, and let us enjoy it. The woods; the walks along the river; the climbing over the hills to the old fortress, which Poulain made alive for us as he told how it was defended by the Rus- sians, and how it was captured by the Tartars; the little adventures, in one of which Poulain became our hero by saving Alexander from drowning, yielded no end of new and delightful impressions. Large parties were organized, also, in which all the family took part, some- times picking mushrooms in the woods, and afterward having tea in the midst of the forest, where a man a hundred years old lived alone with his little grandson, taking care of bees. At other times we went to one of fathers villages where a big pond had been dug, in which golden carp could be caught. My former nurse lived in that village. Her family was one of the poorest; besides her husband, she had only a small boy to help her, and a girl, my foster-sister, who became later on a preacher and a virgin in the Nonconformist sect to which they be- longed. There was no bound to her joy when I came to see her. Cream, eggs, apples, and honey were all that she could offer; but the way in which she offered them, in bright wooden plates, after hav- ing covered the table with a fine snow- white linen tablecloth of her own make (with the Russian Nonconformists abso- lute cleanliness is a matter of religion), and the fond words with which she ad- dressed me, treating me as her own son, left the warmest feelings in my heart. I must say the same of the nurses of my elder brothers, Nicholas and Alexander, who belonged to prominent families of two other Nonconformist sects in Nik6l- skoye. Few know what treasuries of goodness can be found in the hearts of Russian peasants, even after centuries of the most shameful oppression, which might well have embittered them. On stormy days M. Poulain had an abundance of tales to tell us, especially about the campaign in Spain. Over and over again we induced him to tell us how he was wounded in a battle, and every time he came to the point when he felt warm blood streaming into his boot, we jumped to kiss him and gave him all sorts of pet names. Everything seemed to prepare us for the military career: the predilection of our father (the only toys that I remem- ber his having bought for us were a rifle and a real sentry-box); the war tales of M. Poulain; nay, even the library which we had at our disposal. This library, which had once belonged to General Repninsky, our mothers grandfather, a learned military man of the eighteenth century, consisted exclusively of books on military warfare, adorned with rich plates and beautifully bound in leather. It was our chief recreation, on wet days, to look over the plates of these books, re- presenting the weapons of warfare since the times of the Hebrews, and giving plans of all the battles that had been fought since Alexander of Macedonia. These books also instructed us how to build strong fortresses which would stand for some time the blows of a battering- ram, as well as those from an Archime 478 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. dean catapult (which, however, persisted in sending stones into the windows, and was soon prohibited). Yet neither Al- exander nor I became a military man. The literature of the sixties wiped out the teachings of our childhood. M. Poulains opinions about revolu- tions were those of the Orleanist Illus- tration Fran~aise, of which he received back numbers, and of which we knew the woodcuts. For a long time I could not imagine a revolution otherwise than in the shape of Death riding on a horse, the red flag in one hand and a scythe in the other, mowing down men right and left. But I now think that M. Poulains dis- like was limited to the uprising of 1848, for one of his tales about the Revolution of 1789 deeply impressed my mind. The title of prince was used in our house with and without occasion. M. Poulain must have been shocked by it, for he began once to tell us what he knew of the great Revolution. I can- not now recall what he said, but one thing I remember, namely, that Count Mira- beau and other nobles one day renounced their titles, and that Count Mirabeau, to show his contempt for aristocratic pre- tensions, opened a shop decorated with a signboard which bore the inscription, Mirabeau, tailor. (I tell the story as I had it from M. Poulain.) For a long time after that I worried myself think- ing what trade I could recognize as mine, so as to write, Kropotkin, such a handi- craft man. Later on, my Russian teach- er, Nikoldi Pdvlovich Smirn6ff, and the general republican tone of Russian lit- erature influenced me in the same way; and when I began to write novels that is, in my twelfth year I adopted the signature P. Kropotkin, which I never have departed from, notwithstanding the remonstrances of my chiefs when I was in the military service. VITT. In the autumn of 1852 my brother Alexander was sent to the corps of ca dets, and from that time we saw each other only during the holidays and oc- casionally on Sundays. The corps of cadets was five miles from our house, and although we had a dozen horses, it always happened that when the time came to send a sledge to the corps there was no horse free for that purpose. My eldest brother, Nicholas, came home very seldom. The relative freedom which Al- exander found at school, and especially the influence of two of his teachers in literature, developed his intellect rapidly, and later on I shall have ample occasion to speak of the beneficial influence that he exercised upon my own development. It is a great privilege to have a loving, intelligent elder brother. In the meantime I remained at home. I had to wait till my turn to enter the corps of pages should come, and that did not happen until I was nearly fifteen years of age. M. Poulain was dismissed, and a German tutor was engaged instead. He was one of those idealistic men who are not uncommon among Germans, but I remember him chiefly on account of the enthusiastic way in which he used to recite Schillers poetry, accompanying it by a most naive kind of acting that delighted me. He stayed with us only one winter. The next winter I was sent to attend the classes at a Moscow gymnasium; and finally I remained with our Russian teacher, Smirn6ff. We soon became friends, especially after my father took both of us for a journey to his Ryazt~n estate. During this journey we indulged in all sorts of fun, and we used to invent humorous stories in connection with the men and the things that we saw; while the impression produced upon me by the hilly tracts we crossed added some new and fine touches to my growing love of nature. Under the impulse given me by Smirn6ff, my literary tastes also began to grow, and during the years from 1854 to 1857 I had full opportunity to de- velop them. My teacher, who had by The Autobiography this time finished his studies at the uni- versity, obtained a small clerkship in a law court, and spent his mornings there. I was thus left to myself till dinner-time, and after having prepared my lessons and taken a walk, I had plenty of time to read, and especially to write. In the autumn, when my teacher returned to his office at Moscow, while we remained in the country, I was left again to myself, and though in continual intercourse with the family, and spending a good deal of time in playing with my little sister Pauline, I could in fact dispose of my time as I liked for reading and writing. Serfdom was then in the last years of its existenqe. It is recent history, it seems to be only of yesterday; and yet, even in Russia, few realize what serfdom was in reality. There is a dim concep- tion that the conditions which it created were very bad; but those conditions, as they affected human beings bodily and mentally, are not generally understood. It is amazing, indeed, to see how quickly an institution and its social consequences are forgotten when the institution has ceased to exist, and with what rapidity men and things change. I will try to re- call the conditions of serfdom by telling, not what I heard, but what I saw. Uli~na, the housekeeper, stands in the passage leading to fathers room, and crosses herself; she dares neither to ad- vance nor to retreat. At last, after hav- ing recited a prayer, she enters the room, and reports, in a hardly audible voice, that the store of tea is nearly at an end, that there are only twenty pounds of sugar left, and that the other provisions will soon be exhausted. Thieves, robbers! shouts my fa- ther. And you, you are in league with them! His voice thunders throughout the house. Our stepmother leaves Uli- gina to face the storm. But father cries, Frol, call the princess! Where is she? And when she enters, he receives her with the same reproaches. of a Revolutionist. 479 You also are in league with this pro- geny of Ham; you are standing up for them; and so on, for half an hour or more. Then he commences to verify the ac- counts. At the same time, he thinks about the hay. Frol is sent to weigh what is left of that, and our stepmother is sent to be present during the weighing, while father calculates how much of it ought to be in the barn. A considerable quantity of hay appears to be missing, and Ulidna cannot account for several pounds of such and such provisions. Fathers voice becomes more and more menacing; Uli~na is trembling; but it is the coachman who now enters the room, and is stormed at by his master. He keeps repeating, Your highness must have made a mistake. Father repeats his calculations, and this time it appears that there is more hay in the barn than there ought to be. The shouting continues; he now re- proaches the coachman with not having given the horses their daily rations in full; but the coachman calls on all the saints to witness that he gave the animals their due, and Frol invokes the Virgin to confirm the coachmans appeal. But father will not be appeased. He calls in Mak~r, the piano-tuner and sub- butler, and reminds him of all his re- cent sins. He was drunk last week, and must have been drunk yesterday, for he broke half a dozen plates. In fact, the breaking of these plates was the real cause of all the disturbance: our stepmother had reported the fact to father in the morning, and that was why Ulidna was received with more scolding than was usually the case, why the verification of the hay was undertaken, and why father continued to shout that this progeny of Ham deserved all the punishments on earth. Of a sudden there is a lull in the storm. My father takes his seat at the table and writes a note. Take Makar with this note to the police station, and let a hun- The Autobiography of a Levolutionist. dred lashes with the birch rod be given to him. Terror and absolute muteness reign in the house. The clock strikes four, and we all go down to dinner; but no one has any appetite, and the soup remains in the plates untouched. We are ten at table, and behind each of us a violinist or a trombone - player stands, with a clean plate in his left hand; but Maklr is not among them. Where is Mak~r? our stepmother asks. Call him in. Mak~ir does not appear, and the or- der is repeated. He enters at last, pale, with a distorted face, ashamed, his eyes cast down. Father looks into his plate, while our stepmother, seeing that no one has touched the soup, tries to encourage us. Dont you find, children, she says, that the soup is delicious? Tears suffocate me, and immediately after dinner is over I run out, catch Mak~ir in a dark passage, and try to kiss his hand; but he tears it away, and says, either as a reproach or as a question, Let me alone; and you, too, when you are grown up, will be just the same? No, no, never! Yet father was not among the worst of landowners. On the contrary, the ser- vants and the peasants considered him one of the best. What we saw in our house was going on everywhere, often in much more cruel forms. The flogging of the serfs was a regular part of the duties of the police. A landowner once made the remark to another, Why is it, general, that the number of your souls increases so slowly? You probably do not look after their marriages. A few days later the general returned to his estate. He had a list of all the inhabitants of his village brought him, and picked out from it the names of the boys who had attained the age of cigh teen, and of the girls just past sixteen, these are the legal ages for marriage in Russia. Then he wrote, John to marry Anna, Paul to marry Pardshka, and so on with five couples, and gave orders that the five weddings should take place in ten days, the next Sunday but one. A general cry of despair rose from the village. Women, young and old, wept in every house. Anna had hoped to marry Gregory; Pauls parents had already had a talk with the Fed6toffs about their girl, who would soon be of age. Moreover, it was the season for ploughing, not for weddings; and what wedding can be prepared in ten days? Dozens of peasants came to see the landowner; peasant women stood in groups at the back entrance of the es- tate, with pieces of fine linen for the landowners spouse, to secure her inter- vention. All in vain. The master had said that the weddings should take place at such a date, and so it must be. At the appointed time, the nuptial processions, in this case more like burial processions, went to the church. The women cried with loud voices, as they are wont to cry during burials. One of the house valets was sent to the church, to report to the master as soon as the wedding ceremonies were over; but soon he came running back, cap in hand, pale and distressed. Partishka, he said, makes a stand; she refuses to be married to Paul. Fa- ther (that is, the priest) asked her, Do you agree? but she replied in a loud voice, No, I dont. The landowner was furious. Go and tell that long-maned drunkard (meaning the priest; the Russian clergy wear their hair long) that if Parashka is not married at once, I will report him as a drunkard to the archbishop. How dares he, clerical dirt, disobey me? Tell him he shall be sent to rot in a monas- tery, and I shall exile Par~shkas family to the steppes. The valet transmitted the message. 480 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 481 Panlshkas relatives and the priest sur- rounded the girl; her mother, weeping, fell on her knees before her, entreating her not to ruin the whole family. The girl continued to say I wont, but in a weaker and weaker voice, then in a whisper, until at last she stood silent. The nuptial crown was put on her head; she made n~ resistance, and the valet ran full speed to the mansion to announce, They are married. Half an hour later, the small bells of the nuptial processions resounded at the gate of the mansion. The five couples alighted from the cars and entered the hall. The landlord received them, of- fering them glasses of wine, while the parents, standing behind the crying daughters, ordered them to bow to the earth before their lord. Marriages by order were so common that amongst our servants, each time a young couple foresaw that they might be ordered to marry, although they had no mutual inclination for each other, they took the precaution of standing to- gether as godfather and godmother at the christening of a child in one of the peasant families. This rendered marriage impossible, according to Russian Church law. The stratagem was usually suc- cessful, but once it ended in a tragedy. Andrei, the tailor, fell in love with a girl belonging to one of our neighbors. He hoped that my father would permit him to go free, as a tailor, in exchange for a certain yearly payment, and that by working hard at his trade he could manage to lay aside some money and to buy freedom for the girl. Otherwise, in marrying one of my fathers serfs she would havc~ become the serf of her husbands master. However, as Andrei and one of the maids of our household foresaw~ that they might be ordered to marry, they agreed to unite as god- parents in the christening of a child. What they had feared happened: one day they were called to the master, and the dreaded order was given. VOL. LXXXII. No. 492. 31 We are always obedient to your will, they replied, but a few weeks ago we acted as godfather and god- mother at a christening. Andrei also explained his wishes and intentions. The result was that he was sent to the recruit- ing board to become a soldier. Under Nicholas I. there was no ob- ligatory military service for all, such as now exists. Nobles and merchants were exempt, and when a new levy of re- cruits was ordered, the landowners had to supply a certain number of men from their serfs. As a rule, the peasants, with- in their village communities, kept a roll amongst themselves; but the house ser- vants were entirely at the mercy of their lord, and if he was dissatisfied with one of them, he sent him to the recruiting board and took a recruit acquittance,. which bad a considerable money value,. as it could be sold to any one whose turn it was to become a soldier. Military service in those times was terrible. A man was required to serve twenty-five years under the colors, and the life of a soldier was hard in the ex- treme. To become a soldier meant to be torn away forever from ones native vil- lage and surroundings, and to be at the mercy of officers like Timof6eff, whom I have already mentioned. Blows from the officers, flogging with birch rods and with sticks, for the slightest fault, were normal affairs. The cruelty that was displayed surpasses all imagination. Even in the corps of cadets, where only noblemens sons were educated, a thou- sand blows with birch rods were some- times administered, in the presence of all the corps, for a cigarette, the doctor standing by the tortured boy, and order- ing the punishment to end only when he ascertained that the pulse was about to stop beating. The bleeding victim was carried away unconscious to the hospital. The Grand Duke Mikhael, commander of the military schools, would quickly have removed the director of a corps who had not had one or two such cases 48~ The Autolnography of a Revolutionist. every year. No discipline, he used to say. When one of the common soldiers ap- peared before a court-martial, the sen- tence was that a thousand men should be placed in two ranks facing each other, every soldier armed with a stick of the thickness of the little finger (these sticks were known under their German name of Spitzruthen) ,and that the condemned man should be dragged three, four, five, and seven times between these two rows, each soldier administering a blow. Ser- geants followed to see that full force was used. After one or two thousand blows had been given, the victim, spit- ting blood, was taken to the hospital and attended to, in order that the pun- ishment might be finished as soon as he had more or less recovered from the effects of the first part of it. If he died under the torture, the execution of the sentence was completed upon the corpse. Nicholas I. and his brother were pitiless; no remittance of the pun- ishment was ever possible. I will send you through the ranks; you shall be skinned under the sticks, were threats which made part of the current lan- guage. A gloomy terror used to spread through our house when it became known that one of the servants was to be sent to the recruiting board. The man was chained and pl~iced under guard in the office. A peasant-cart was brought to the office door, and the doomed man was taken out between two watchmen. All the servants surrounded him. He made a deep bow, asking every one to pardon him his willing or unwilling of- fenses. If his father and mother lived in our village, they came to see him off. He bowed to the ground before them, and his mother and his other female re- latives began loudly to give utterance to their lamentations, a sort of half-song and half-recitative: To whom do you abandon us? Who will take care of you in the strange lands? Who will protect you from cruel men? exact- ly in the same way in which they sang their lamentations at a burial, and with the same words. Thus Andrei had now to face for twenty-five years the terrible fate of a soldier: all his schemes of happiness had come to a violent end. The fate of one of the maids, Paul- ine, or P6lya, as she used to be called, was even more tragical. She had been apprenticed to make fine embroidery, and was an artist at the work. At Ni- k6lskoye her embroidery frame stood in sister H6l~nes room, and she often took part in the conversations that went on between our sister and a sister of our stepmother who stayed with H6li~ne. Altogether, by her behavior and talk P6lya was more like an educated young person than a housemaid. A misfortune befell her: she realized that she would soon be a mother. She told all to our stepmother, who burst into reproaches: I will not have that creature in my house any longer! I will not permit such a shame in my house! oh, the shameless creature! and so on. The tears of H6llme made no difference. P6lya had her hair cut short, and was ex- iled to the dairy; but as she was just em- broidering an extraordinary skirt, she had to finish it at the dairy, in a dirty cottage, at a microscopical window. She finished it, and made many more fine embroideries, all in the hope of obtain- ing her pardon. But pardon did not come. The father of her child, a servant of one of our neighbors, implored permis- sion to marry her; but as he had no money to offer, his request was refused. P6lyas too gentlewoman-like man- ners were taken as an offense, and a most bitter fate was kept in reserve for her. There was in our household a man employed as a postilion, on account of his small size; he went under the name of bandy-legged Filka. In his boyhood The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 483 a horse had kicked him terribly, and he did not grow. His legs were crooked, his feet were turned inward, his nose was broken and turned to one side, his jaw was deformed. To this monster it was decided to marry P6lya, and she was married by force. The couple were sent to become peasants at my fathers estate in Ryazan. Human feelings were not recognized, not even suspected, in serfs, and when Turgu6neff published his little story Mumu, and Grigor6vich began to issue his wonderful novels, in which he made his readers weep over the misfortunes of the serfs, a great number of persons received a startling revelation. They love just as we do; is it possible? ex- claimed the sentimental ladies who could not read a French novel without shed- ding tears over the troubles of the noble heroes and heroines. The education which the owners occa- sionally gave to some of their serfs was only another source of misfortune for the latter. My father once picked out in a peasant house a clever boy, and sent him to be educated as a doctors assis- tant. The boy was diligent, and after a few years apprenticeship made a de- cided success. When he returned home, my father bought all that was required for a well-equipped dispensary, which was arranged very nicely in one of the side houses of Nik6lskoye. In summer time, Siisha the Doctor that was the familiar name under which this young man went in the household was busy gathering and preparing all sorts of medical herbs, and in a short time he became most popular in the region round Nik6lskoye. The sick people among the peasants came from the neigh- boring villages, and my father was proud of the success of his dispensary. But this condition of things did not last. One winter, my father came to Nik6l- skoye, stayed there for a few days, and left. That night S~sha the Doctor shot himself, by accident, it was reported; but there was a love-story at the bottom of it. He was in love with a girl whom he could not marry, as she belonged to another landowner. The case of another young man, Ghe- rdsim Krugl6ff, whom my father educat- ed at the Moscow Agricultural Institute, was almost equally sad. He passed his examinations most brilliantly, getting a gold medal, and the director of the In- stitute made all possible endeavors to induce my father to give him freedom and to let him go to the university, serfs not being allowed to enter there. He is sure to become a remarkable man, the director said, perhaps one of th6 glories of Russia, and it will be an honor for you to have recognized his capacities and to have given such a man to Russian science. I need him for my own estate, my father always replied to the many appli- cations made on the young mans behalf. In reality, with the primitive methods of agriculture which were then in use, and from which my father would never have departed, Gheri~sim Krugl6ff was absolutely useless. He made a survey of the estate, but when that was done he was ordered to sit in the servants room and to stand with a plate at dinner-time. Of course Gher~sim resented it very much; his dreams carried him to the university, to scientific work. His looks betrayed his discontent, and my step- mother seemed to find an especial plea- sure in offending him at every oppor- tunity. One day in the autumn, a rush of wind having opened the entrance gate, she called out to him, Gari~ska, go and shut the gate. That was the last drop. He answered, You have a porter for that, and went his way. My stepmother ran into fathers room, crying, Your servants insult me in your house! Immediately Gberi~sim was put under arrest and chained, to be sent away as a 484 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. soldier. The parting of his old father and mother with him was one of the most heart-rending scenes I ever saw. This time, however, fate took its re- venge. Nicholas I. died, and military service became more tolerable. Gher~i- sims great ability was soon remarked, and in a few years he was one of the chief clerks, and the real working force in one of the departments of the min- istry of war. Meanwhile, my father, who was absolutely honest, and, at a time when almost every one was receiv- ing bribes and making fortunes, had never let himself be bribed to depart from the strict rules of the service, in order to oblige the commander of the corps to which he belonged, consented to allow an irregularity of some kind. It nearly cost him his promotion to the rank of general; the only object of his thirty-five years service in the army seemed on the point of being lost. My stepmother went to St. Petersburg to remove the difficulty, and one day after many applications, was told that the only way, to obtain what she wanted was to address herself to a particular clerk in a certain department of the ministry. Al- though he was a mere clerk, he was the real head of his superiors, and could do everything. This mans name was Ghe- rasim Ivanovich Krugl6ff! Imagine, our Garlska! she said to me afterward. I always knew that he had great capacity. I went to see him, and spoke to him about this affair, and he said, I have nothing against the oid prince, and I will do all I can for him. Gher~lsim kept his word: he made a favorable report, and my father got his promotion. At last he could put on the long-coveted red trousers and the red- lined overcoat, and could wear the plum- age on his helmet. These were things which I myself saw in my childhood. If, however, I were to relate what I heard of in those years it would be a much more gruesome nar rative: stories of men and women torn from their families and their villages, and sold, or lost in gambling, or ex- changed for a couple of hunting dogs, and then transported to some remote part of Russia for the sake of creating a new estate; of children taken from their parents and sold to cruel or dissolute masters; of flogging in the stables, which occurred every day with unheard- of cruelty; of a girl who found her only salvation in drowning herself; of an old man who had grown gray-haired in his masters service, and at last hanged himself under his masters win- dow; and of revolts of serfs, which were suppressed by Nicholas I.s generals by flogging to death each tenth or fifth man taken out of the ranks, and by laying waste the village, whose inhabitants, after a military execution, went begging for bread in the neighboring provinces. As to the poverty which I saw during our journeys in certain villages, especially in those which belonged to the imperial family, no words would be adequate to describe the misery to readers who have not seen it. To become free was the constant dream of the serfs, a dream not easily realized, for a heavy sum of money was required to induce a landowner to part with a serf. Do you know, my fa- ther said to me once, that your mother appeared to me after her death? You young people do not believe in these things, but it was so. I sat one night very late in this chair, at my writing-ta- ble, and slumbered, when I saw her en- ter from behind, all in white, quite pale, and with her eyes gleaming. When she was dying she begged me to promise that I would give liberty to her maid, M~isha, and I did promise; but then, what with one thing and another, nearly a whole year passed without my having fulfilled my intention. Then she appeared, and said. to me in a low voice, Alexis, you promised me to give liberty to M~isha; The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 485 have you forgotten it? I was quite ter- rified; I jumped out of my chair, but she had vanished. I called the servants, but no one had seen anything. Next morn- ing I went to her grave and had a litany sung, and immediately gave liberty to MLisha. When my father died, M~sha came to his burial, and I spoke to her. She was married, and quite happy in her family life. My brother Alexander, in his jocose way, told her what my father had said, and we asked her what she knew of it. These things, she replied, hap- pened a long time ago, so I may tell you the truth. I saw that your Tather had quite forgotten his promise, so I dressed up in white and spoke like your mother. I recalled the promise he had made to her,~ you wont bear a grudge against me, will you? Of course not! Ten or twelve years after the scenes described in the early part of this chap- ter, I sat one night in my fathers room, and we talked of things past. Serfdom had been abolished, and my father com- plained of the new conditions, though not very severely; he had accepted them without much grumbling. You must agree, father, I said, that you often punished your servants cruelly, and even without reason. With the people, he replied, it was impossible to do otherwise; and, leaning back in his easy-chair, he re- mained plunged in thought. But what I did was nothing worth speaking of, he said after a long pause. Take that same Sablin: he looks so soft, and talks in such a thin voice; but he was really terrible with his serfs. How many times they plotted to kill him! I, at least, never took advantage of my maids, whereas that old devil T went on in such a way that the peasant women were going to inflict a terrible punishment upon him. . . . Good-by, bonne nuit! Ix. I well remember the Crimean war. At Moscow it affected people but little. Of course, in every house lint and ban- dages for the wounded were made at evening parties: not much of it, how- ever, reached the Russian armies, im- mense quantities being stolen and sold abroad. My sister H61& ne and other young ladies sang patriotic songs, but the general tone of life in society was hardly influenced by the great struggle that was going on. In the country, on the contrary, the war caused terrible gloominess. The levies of recruits fol- lowed one another rapidly, and we con- tinually heard the peasant women sing- ing their funereal songs. The Russian people looked upon the war as a calam- ity which had been sent upon theni by Providence, and they accepted it with a solemnity that contrasted strangely with the levity I saw elsewhere under similar circumstances. Young though I was, I realized that feeling of solemn resigna- tion which pervaded our villages. My brother Nicholas was smitten like many others by the war fever, and be- fore he had ended his course at the corps he joined the army in the Caucasus. I never saw him again. In the autumn of 1854 our family was increased by the arrival of two sisters of our stepmother. They had had their own house and some vineyards at Sebas- topol, but now they were homeless, and came to stay with us. When the allies landed in the Crimea, the inhabitants of Sebastopol were told that they need not be afraid, and had only to stay where they were; but after the defeat at the Alma, they were ordered to leave with all haste, as the city would be invested within a few days. There were few con- veyances, and there was no way of mov- ing along the roads in face of the troops which were marching southward. To hire a cart was almost impossible, and the ladies, having abandoned all they had 486 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. on the road, had a very hard time of it before they reached Moscow. I soon made friends with the younger of the two sisters, a lady of about thir- ty, who used to smoke one cigarette af- ter another, and to tell me of all the horrors of their journey. She spoke with tears in her eyes of the beautiful battle-ships which had to be sunk at the entrance of the harbor of Sebastopol, and could not understand how the Rus- sians would manage to defend Sebasto- p01 from the land; there was even no wall worth speaking of. I was in my thirteenth year when Nicholas I. died. It was late in the af- ternoon, the 18th of February (2d of March), that the policemen distributed in all the houses of Moscow a bulletin announcing the illness of the Tsar, and inviting the inhabitants to pray in the churches for his recovery. At that time he was already dead, and the authorities knew it, as there was telegraphic com- munication between Moscow and St. Pe- tersburg; but not a word having been previously uttered about his illness, the people were in this way gradually pre- pared for the announcement of his death. We all went to church and prayed most piously. Next day, Saturday, the same thing was done, and even on Sunday morning bulletins about the Tsars health were distributed. The news of the death of Nicholas reached us only about midday, through some servants who had been to the market. A real terror reigned in our house and in the houses of our rela- tives, as the information spread. It was said that the people in the market be- haved in a strange way, showing no re- gret, but indulging in dangerous talk. Full-grown people spoke in whispers, and our stepmother kept repeating, Dont talk before the men; while the servants whispered among themselves, probably about the coming freedom. The no- bles expected at every moment a revolt of the serfs, a new uprising of Pugach6ff~ At St. Petersburg, in the meantime, men of the educated classes, as they communicated to one another the news, embraced in the streets. Every one felt that the end of the war and the end of the terrible conditions which prevailed under the iron despot were near at hand. Poisoning was talked about, the more so as the Tsars body decomposed very rapidly, but the true reason only gradually leaked out: a too strong dose of an invigorating medicine that Nicho- las had taken. In the country, during the summer of 1855, the heroic struggle which was go- ing on in Sebastopol for every yard of ground and every bit of its dismantled bastions was followed with a solemn in- terest. A messenger was sent regularly twice a week from our house to the dis- trict town to get the papers; and on his return, even before he had dismounted, the papers were taken from his hands and opened. H~lime or I read them aloud to the family, and the news was at once transmitted to the servants room, and thence to the kitchen, the of- fice, the priests house, and the houses of the peasants. The reports which came of the last days of Sebastopol, of the awful bombardment, and finally of the evacuation of the town by our troops were received with tears. In every country house round about, the loss of Sebastopol was mourned over with as much grief as the loss of a near relative would have been, although every one un- derstood that now the terrible war would soon come to an end. x. It was in August, 1857, when I was nearly fifteen, that my turn came to en- ter the corps of pages, and I was taken to St. Petersburg. When I left home I was still a child; but human character is usually settled in a definite way at an earlier age than is generally supposed, and it is evident to me that under my childish appearance I was then very !lhe Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 487 much what I was to be later on. My tastes, my inclinations, were already de- termined. The first impulse to my intellectual development was given, as I have said, by my Russian teacher. It is an excel- lent habit in Russian families a habit now, unhappily, on the decline to have such a teacher in the house; that is, a student who aids the boys and the girls with their lessons, even when they are at a gymnasium. For a better assimila~ tion of what they learn at school, and for a widening of their conceptions about what they learn, his aid is invaluable. Moreover, he introduces an intellectual element into the family, and becomes an elder brother to the young people, often something better than an elder brother, because the student has a cer- tain responsibility for the progress of his pupils; and as the methods of teaching change rapidly, from one generation to another, he can assist his pupils better than the best educated parents could. Smirn6ff had literary tastes. A.t that time, under the terrible censorship of Nicholas I., many quite inoffensive works by our best writers could not be pub- lished; others were so mutilated as to deprive some passages in. theni of any meaning. In the genial comedy by Gri- boy6doff, Misfortune from Intelligence, which ranks with the best comedies of Moli~re, Colonel Skaloziib had to be named Mr. Skaloziib, to the detriment of the sense and even of the verses; for the representation of a colonel in a com- ical light would have been considered an insult to the army. Of so innocent a book as G6gols Dead Souls the second part was not allowed to appear, nor the first part to be reprinted, although it had long been out of print. Numerous verses of Pdshkin, L6rmontoff, A. K. Tolst6i, Ryl& ff, and other poets were not per- mitted to see the light; to say nothing of such verses as had any political mean- ing or contained a criticism of the pre- vailing conditions. All these circulated in manuscript, and Smirn6ff used to copy whole books of G6gol and Piishkin for himself and his friends to use, a task in which I occasionally helped him. As a true child of Moscow he was also im- bued with the deepest veneration for those of our writers who lived in Mos- cow, some of them in the Old Equer- ries Quarter. He pointed out to me with respect the house of the Countess Salihs (Eug~nie Tour), who was our near neigh- bor, while the house of the noted exile Alexander H6rzen always was associated with a certain mysterious feeling. The house where G6gol lived was for us an object of deep respect, and though I was not nine when he died (in 1851), and had read none of his works, I remember well the sadness his death produced at Moscow. Turgu6neff well expressed that feeling in a note, for which Nicholas I. no one could say why ordered him to be put under arrest and sent into exile to his estate. Piishkins great poem, Evgh6niy On- y~ghin, made but little impression upon me, and I still admire the marvelous simplicity and beauty of his style in that poem more than its contents. But G6- gols works, which I read when I was eleven or twelve, had a powerful effect on my mind, and my first literary es- says were in imiUation of his humorous manner. An historical novel by Zag6- skin, Yuriy Milosh~vskiy, about the times of the great uprising of 1612, Pdsh- kins The Captains Daughter, dealing with the Pugach6ff uprising, and Dumas Queen Marguerite awakened in me a lasting interest in history. As to other French novels, I have only begun to read them since Daudet and Zola came to the front. Nekr~soffs poetry was my favor- ite from early years; I knew many of his verses by heart. NikolAi P~vlovich early began to make me write, and with his aid I wrote a long History of a Sixpence, for which we invented all sorts of characters, into whose possession the sixpence felL My 488 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. brother Alexander had at that time a much more poetical turn of mind. He wrote most romantic stories, and early made verses. The latter, which he com- posed with wonderful facility, were most musical and easy; and if his mind had not subsequently been taken up by nat- ural history and philosophical studies, he undoubtedly would have become a poet of mark. In those years his favorite re- sort for finding poetical inspiration was the gently sloping roof underneath our window. This aroused in me a constant desire of teasing him. There is the poet sitting under the chimney-pot, try- ing to write his verses, I used to say; and the teasing ended in a fierce scrim- mage, which brought our sister H6l~ne to a state of despair~ But Alexander was so devoid of revengefulness that peace was soon concluded, and we loved each other immensely. Among boys, scrim- mage and love seem to go hand in hand. I had even then taken to journalism. In my twelfth year I began to edit a daily. Paper was not to be had at will in our house, and my daily was in 32~ only. As the Crimean war had not yet broken out, and the only paper which my father used to receive was the Gazette of the Moscow Police, I had not a great choice of models. As a result my own Gazette consisted merely of short para- graphs announcing the news of the day: as, Went out to the woods. N. P. Smirn6ff shot two thrushes, and so on. This soon ceased to satisfy me, and in 1855 I started a monthly review in 160, which contained Alexanders verses, my novelettes, and some sort of varieties. The material existence of this review was fully guaranteed, for it had plenty of subscribers; that is, the editor himself and Smirn6ff, who regularly paid his subscription, of so many sheets of paper, even after he had left our house. In re- turh, I accurately wrote out for my faith- ful subscriber a second copy. When Smirn6ff left us, and a student of medicine, N. M. Ptivloff, took his place, the latter helped me in my edito- rial duties. He obtained for the review a poem by one of his friends, and still more important the introductory lec~ ture on physical geography by one of the Moscow professors. Of course this had not been printed before: a reproduction would never have found its way into the review. Alexander, I need not say, took a lively interest in the paper, and its fame soon reached the corps of cadets. Some young writers on the way to fame nn~ dertook the publication of a rival. The matter was serious: in poems and novels we could hold our own; but they had a critic, and a critic who writes, in connection with the characters of some new novel, all sorts of things about the conditions of life, and touches upon a thousand questions which could not be touched upon anywhere else, makes the soul of a Russian review. They had a critic, and we had none! He wrote an article for the first number; and his ar- ticle, rather pretentious and weak, was shown to my brother. Alexander at once wrote an anti-criticism, ridiculing and demolishing the critic in such a vio- lent manner that when he showed his ar- ticle to his comrades, saying that it would appear in our next number, there was great consternation in the rival camp. The result was that they gave up publish- ing their paper, their best writers joined our staff, and we triumphantly announced the future exclusive collaboration of so many distinguished writers. In August, 1857, the review had to be suspended, after nearly two years ex- istence. New surroundings and a quite new life were before me. I went away from home with regret, the more so be- cause the whole distance between Mos- cow and St. Petersburg would be between me and Alexander, and I already consid- ered it a misfortune that I had to enter a military school. P. KropotkTh~ Lirds, Flowers, and People. 489 BIRDS, FLOWERS, AND PEOPLE. I D rather do anything than to pack, said a North Carolina mountain man. His tone bespoke a fullness of experience; as if a farm-bred Yankee were to say, I d rather do anything than to pick stones in cold weather. He had found me talking with a third man by the wayside on a sultry forenoon. The third man carried a bag of corn on his back, and was on his way from Horse Cove to Highlands (valleys are coves in that part of the South), up the long steep mountain side down which, with frequent stops for admiration of the world below, I had been lazily tra- veling. He was sick, he told me; and as his appearance corroborated his words, I had been trying to persuade him to leave his load where it was, trust its safe- ty to Providence, and go home. Just then it happened that mountaineer num- ber two came along and delivered him- self as above quoted. He was going to Highlands, also. He had been putting in a week try- ing to buy a cow to replace one that had mired herself and broken her neck. I would rather have paid down twen- ty-five dollars in gold, he declared. (The air was full of political silver talk; but gold is the standard, after all, when men come to business.) He knew the invalid, it appeared; for presently he turned into a trail, a short cut through the woods, which till now had escaped my notice, and remarked, Well, John, I guess I 11 take the narrow way; and off he went up the slope, while the other man and I continued our dialogue, I still playing the part of Mr. Worldly Wiseman, and Christian still uncon- vinced, but not indisposed to parley. He wished to know where I had come from; and when I told him, he said, Massachusetts Well, I reckon it s right hot down there now. He held the common belief of the mountain peG. pie that the rest of the earths sur- face is mostly uninhabitable in summer- time. One morning, I remember, I said something to an idler on the village sidewalk about the cool night we had just passed. I meant my little speech as a kind of local compliment, but he took me up at once. It was pretty hot, he thought, about as hot a night as he ever knew. He did nt see how folks hoed down in Charleston; and I partly agreed with him. He had been borned right here, and had never been farther away than to Seneca; and from his manner of expressing himself I inferred that he hoped never to find himself so far from home again. This was in the midst of a heated term, when the mercury, at four oclock in the after- noon, registered 740 on the hotel piazza. However, it was many degrees warm- er than that in Horse Cove (at a con- siderably lower level) on the day of which I am writing, and a sick man with a bag of corn on his back had good rea- son to rest halfway up the climb. He had killed a pretty rattlesnake a lit- tle way back, he told me. Very dan- gerous they are, he added, with an evident kindly desire to put a stranger on his guard. As we separated, a man on horseback turned a corner in the road above us, and on looking round, a few minutes later, I was relieved to see that he had lent the pack-bearer his horse, and was pursuing his own way on foot. And now I thought, not of Bunyans par- able, but of an older and better one. Though the primary interest of my trip to the North Carolina mountains was rather with the fauna and flora than with the population (as we call it, in our lofty human way of speaking, having no doubt that we are the people), I found, first and last, no small pleasure in the

Lirds, Flowers, and People. 489 BIRDS, FLOWERS, AND PEOPLE. I D rather do anything than to pack, said a North Carolina mountain man. His tone bespoke a fullness of experience; as if a farm-bred Yankee were to say, I d rather do anything than to pick stones in cold weather. He had found me talking with a third man by the wayside on a sultry forenoon. The third man carried a bag of corn on his back, and was on his way from Horse Cove to Highlands (valleys are coves in that part of the South), up the long steep mountain side down which, with frequent stops for admiration of the world below, I had been lazily tra- veling. He was sick, he told me; and as his appearance corroborated his words, I had been trying to persuade him to leave his load where it was, trust its safe- ty to Providence, and go home. Just then it happened that mountaineer num- ber two came along and delivered him- self as above quoted. He was going to Highlands, also. He had been putting in a week try- ing to buy a cow to replace one that had mired herself and broken her neck. I would rather have paid down twen- ty-five dollars in gold, he declared. (The air was full of political silver talk; but gold is the standard, after all, when men come to business.) He knew the invalid, it appeared; for presently he turned into a trail, a short cut through the woods, which till now had escaped my notice, and remarked, Well, John, I guess I 11 take the narrow way; and off he went up the slope, while the other man and I continued our dialogue, I still playing the part of Mr. Worldly Wiseman, and Christian still uncon- vinced, but not indisposed to parley. He wished to know where I had come from; and when I told him, he said, Massachusetts Well, I reckon it s right hot down there now. He held the common belief of the mountain peG. pie that the rest of the earths sur- face is mostly uninhabitable in summer- time. One morning, I remember, I said something to an idler on the village sidewalk about the cool night we had just passed. I meant my little speech as a kind of local compliment, but he took me up at once. It was pretty hot, he thought, about as hot a night as he ever knew. He did nt see how folks hoed down in Charleston; and I partly agreed with him. He had been borned right here, and had never been farther away than to Seneca; and from his manner of expressing himself I inferred that he hoped never to find himself so far from home again. This was in the midst of a heated term, when the mercury, at four oclock in the after- noon, registered 740 on the hotel piazza. However, it was many degrees warm- er than that in Horse Cove (at a con- siderably lower level) on the day of which I am writing, and a sick man with a bag of corn on his back had good rea- son to rest halfway up the climb. He had killed a pretty rattlesnake a lit- tle way back, he told me. Very dan- gerous they are, he added, with an evident kindly desire to put a stranger on his guard. As we separated, a man on horseback turned a corner in the road above us, and on looking round, a few minutes later, I was relieved to see that he had lent the pack-bearer his horse, and was pursuing his own way on foot. And now I thought, not of Bunyans par- able, but of an older and better one. Though the primary interest of my trip to the North Carolina mountains was rather with the fauna and flora than with the population (as we call it, in our lofty human way of speaking, having no doubt that we are the people), I found, first and last, no small pleasure in the 490 Birds, Flowers, and People. men, women, and children, as I fell in with them out of doors here and there, in the course of my daily perambula- tions. Poverty-cursed as they looked (the universal packing by both sexes over those up-and-down roads, and the shiftless, comfortless appearance of the cabins, were proof enough of a pinched estate), they seemed to be laudably in- dustrious, and, as the world goes, enjoy- ers of life. If they said little, it was perhaps rather my fault than theirs (the key must fit the lock), and certainly they treated me with nothing but kindness. More than a fortnight after my inter- view with the invalid, just described, I was returning to the hotel from an ear- ly morning jaunt down the Walballa road, when I met a man driving a pair of dwarfish steers hitched to a pair of wheels, on the axle - tree of which was fastened a rude, widely ventilated, home- made box, with an odd - shaped, home- made basket hung on one side of it, the driver, literally, on the box. I greet- ed him, and he pulled up. Well, I see you are still here, he said, after a good-morning. You have seen me before? I replied. He was sallow and thin, the usual mountaineers condi- tion, but wore the pleasantest of smiles. Yes; I saw you down in the Cove with the sick man. He was the pilgrim who took the narrow way, and was hunt- ing for a cow, though I should not have remembered him. And now, peeping through one of the holes in the box, I saw that he had a calf inside. A Jer- sey ? asked I. Part Jersey, he an- swered. Mr. S (one of the villa- gers, whom by this time I counted as a friend, a white-haired, youngish veteran of the civil war, on the Union side, a neighbor I had taken to from the moment I saw him), Mr. 5 had given the calf to the mans father-in-law, and he, the son-in-law, had driven up to the village to fetch it home. He lived about six miles out, on a side road. I inquired about the two or three houses in sight in the valley clearing below us. It was the Webb settlement, he told me; so we always call it. I remarked that all hands seemed to have plenty of children. Yes, plenty of children, he responded, with a laugh; and away he drove. It was only a few minutes before an- other man appeared, a foot passenger this time, walking at a smart pace, with an umbrella on his shoulder, and a new pair of boots slung across it. You travel faster than I do, said I. Yes, sir, he answered, smiling (all men like the name of being active), I go pret- ty peart when I go. He, too, had six miles before him, and believed it would begin to rain after a bit. It would have been an imposition upon good na- ture to detain him. There was a bend in the road just below, and in another minute I heard him spanking round it at a lively trot. Five minutes more, and a second pe- destrian hove in sight. He, likewise, was in haste. You are all in a hurry to-day, I said to him. I was in pur- suit of acquaintance, and in such places it is the part of wisdom, and of good manners as well, to make the most of chance opportunities. Yes, sir, lie made answer, slackening his pace; I want to get my road done. I ye got till Saturday, and I want to get it done; and he put on steam again, and was gone. His countenance was familiar, but I could not tell where I had seen him, one of the fathers of the Webb set- tlement, perhaps. The mountaineers, all thin, all light-complexioned, and all wearing the same drab homespun, look confusingly alike to a newcomer. Who- ever the stranger was, he had evident- ly undertaken to build some part of the new road, and was returning from the village with supplies. In one hand he carried two heavy drills, and under the other arm a strip of pork, a piece of brown paper wrapped about the middle of it, and the long ends dangling. It Birds, Flowers, and People. 491 did my vacationers heart good to see men so cheerfully industrious; but I thought it a reproach to the order of the world that so much hard work should yield so little of comfort. But then, who knows which was the more comfort- able, the idle, criticising tourist or the sweating laborer? For the time being, at all events, the laborer had the air of a person inwardly well off. A moun- tain man with a contract was not likely to be envious even of a boarder at Mrs. Daviss, as the hotel is locally, and very properly, called. As I went on, passing the height of land and beginning my descent home- ward, I met two other foot passengers, two women: one old and fat, the only fat mountaineer of either sex seen in North Carolina, with a red face and a staff; the other young, slightly built and pale, carrying an old-fashioned shotgun (the ramrod projecting) over her right shoulder. Both wore sunbonnets, and the younger had a braid of hair hanging down her back. With her slender fig- ure, her colorless face, her serious look, and the long musket, she would have made a subject for a painter. This pair I could think of no excuse for ac- costing, much as I should have enjoyed hearing them talk. Shortly after they had gone, I stopped to speak with a small boy who was climbing the hill, with a mewing kitten hugged tightly to his breast. He was taking it home to his cat, he said. She brought in mice and things, and wanted something to give them to. The little fellow was still young enough to understand the mother instinct. That was a truly social walk. I had never before found one of those moun- tarn roads half so populous. Once, in- deed, I drove all day without seeing a passenger of any sort, until, near the end On a different road, and on a Sunday morning, I met a young colored woman, an unusual sight, colored people being personce non grata3 in the mountains. We bade each other good-morning, as Christians should. My of the afternoon and within a mile or two of the town, I met a solitary horseman. The new road, of which I have spoken, and concerning which I heard so much said on all hands, was really not quite that, but rather a new laying out with loops here and there to avoid the steeper pitches of the road from Walballa, over which I had driven on my entrance into the mountains. My friend Mr. S had made the surveys for the work, and the whole town was looking forward eagerly to its completion. Toward sun- set, on a Sunday afternoon, I had been out of the village in an opposite direc- tion, and was sitting by the wayside in the Stewart woods, full of flowers and music, where I loved often to linger, when three men approached on foot. How far have you come? I inquired. From Franklin, about twenty miles distant, they answered. They were going to work on the new road up at Stooly (Satulah Mountain), or so I un- derstood the oldest of the trio, who acted throughout as spokesman. (In my part of the country it is only the profession- ally idle who walk twenty miles at a stretch.) Well, said I, none too po- litely, being nothing but an outsider, I hope you 11 make it better than it was when I came up. He replied, quite good-humoredly, that they were making a good road of it this time. And so they were, comparatively speaking; for I went over the mountain one day on purpose to see it, after I krew who had laid it out, and had begun to feel a personal in- terest in its success. One of the, men carried a hoe, and one a small tin clock. They had no other baggage, I think. When a man works on the road, he needs a hoe to work with, and a timepiece to tell him when to begin and when to leave off. So I thought to myself; but notebook, I see, records her as dressed in her best clothes, a blue gown, I think, with a handsome light - colored silk parasol in one hand, and a tin pail in the other. 492 Birds, Flowers, and People. I am bound to add that these workmen seemed to be going to their task as if it were a privilege. It eases labor to feel that one is doing a good job. That makes the difference, so ~ve used to be told, by Carlyle or some one else, be- tween an artist and an artisan; and I see no reason why such encouraging dis- tinctions should not apply to road-mend- ers as well as to menders of philosophy. There is no such thing as drudgery, even for a man with a hoe, so long as quality is the end in view. Whatever else was to be said of the roads hereabout, and the question is of paramount importance in such a country, where mails and supplies must be trans- ported thirty miles (a two days jour- ney for loaded wagons), they were al- most ideally perfect from a walking naturalists point of view; neither sandy nor muddy, the two evils of Southern roads in general, and conducting the traveler at once into wild and shady places. The village is closely built, and no matter in which direction I turned, the houses were quickly behind me, and I was as truly in the woods as if I had made a days march from civilization. A straggling town, with miles of outly- ing farms and pasture lands, through the sunny stretches of which a man must make his way forenoon and afternoon, is a state of things at once so usual and so disheartening that the point may well be among the earliest to be considered in planning a Southern vacation. In a new country an ornithologist thinks first of all of the birds peculiar to it, if any such there are; and I was no sooner off the hotel piazza for my first ante-breakfast stroll at Highlands than I was on the watch for Carolina snow- birds and mountain solitary vireos, two varieties ( subspecies is the more mod- ern word) originally described a few years ago, by Mr. Brewster, from specimens ~ The Auk, vol. iii. pp. 108 and 111. 2 My first impression was correct. Mr. Brews- ter, as I now notice, says of the nest that it is taken at this very place. I had gone perhaps a quarter of a mile over the road by which I had driven into the town, after dark, on the evening before, when I was conscious that a bird had flown out from under the overhanging bank just behind me. I turned hastily, and on the instant put my eye npon the nest. My ear, as it happened, had marked the spot precisely. Here it is, I thought, and in a fraction of a minute more the anxious mother showed herself, a snowbird. The nest looked somewhat larger than those I had seen in New Hampshire, but that may have been a fault of memory.2 It contained young birds and a single egg. I was in great luck, I said to my- self; but in truth, as a longer experience showed, the birds were so numerous all about me that it would have been no very difficult undertaking to find a nest or two almost any day. Birds which had been isolated (se- parated from the parent stock) long enough to have taken on some constant physical peculiarity without which they could not be entitled to a distinc- tive name, though it were only a third one might be presumed to have ac- quired at the same time some slight but real idiosyncrasy of voice and language. But if this is true of the Carolina junco, I failed to satisfy myself of the fact. On the first day, indeed, I wrote with perfect confidence, The song is clear- ly distinguishable from that of the north- ern bird, less musical, more woodeny and chippery; more like the chipping sparrows, I meant to say. If I had come away then, with one birds trill to go upon, that would have been my ver- dict, to be printed, when the time came, without misgiving. But further obser- vation brought further light, or, if the reader will, further obscurity. Some in- dividuals were better singers than oth- ers, so much was to be expected; but larger and composed of coarser material than that of Junco kyemalis. taking them together, their music was that of ordinary snowbirds such as I had always listened to. For aught my ears told me, I might have been in Fran- conia. This is not to assert that the Alleghanian junco has not developed a voice in some measure its own; I believe it has; probability has more authority than personal experience with me in mat- ters of this kind; but the change is as yet too inconsiderable for my senses to appreciate on a short acquaintance, with no opportunity for a direct comparison. In such cases, it is perhaps true that one needs to trust the first lively impression, which has, undeniably, its own pecu- liar value, or to wait the result of ab- solute familiarity. My stay of three weeks gave me neither one thing nor another; it was long enough to dissipate my first feeling of certainty, but not long enough to yield a revised and set- tled judgment. The mountain vireo ( Vireo solitarius alticol~), like the Carolina snowbird, may properly be called a native of High- lands; and, like the snowbird, it proved to be common. My first sight of it was in the hotel yard, but I found it sin- gle pairs everywhere. A look at the feathers of the back through an opera- glass showed at once the principal dis- tinction apart from a superiority in size, not perceptible at a distance on which its subspecific identity is based; but though to its original describer its song sounded very much finer than the northern birds, I could not bring myself to the same conclusion. I should never have remarked in it anything out of the common. Once, to be sure, I heard notes which led me to say, There! that voice is more like a yellow-throats, fuller and rounder than a typical solitarys; but that might have happened anywhere, and at all other times, although I had the point continually in mind, I could only pronounce the song to be exactly what my ear was accustomed to, sweet and everything that was beautiful, but a soli I 493 tary vireos song, and nothing else. And this, to my thinking, is praise enough. There is no bird - song within my ac- quaintance that excels the solitarys in a certain intimate expressiveness, affection- ateness, home-felt happiness, and purity. Not that it has all imaginable excellen- cies, the unearthly, spiritual quality of the best of our woodland thrush music, for example; but such as it is, an utter- ance of love and loves felicity, it leaves nothing to ask for. What a contrast be- tween it and the red-eyes comparatively meaningless and feelingless music! And yet, so far as mere form is concerned, the two songs may be considered as built upon the same model, if not variations of the same theme. There must be a world-wide difference between the two species, one would say, in the matter of character and temperament. My arrival at Highlands seemed to have been coincident with that of an ex- traordinary throng of rose-breasted gros- beaks. For the first few days, especial- ly, the whole countryside was alive with them, till I felt as if I had never seen grosbeaks before. Their warbling was incessant; so incessant, and at the same time so exceedingly smooth and sweet, mellifluous is precisely the word, that I welcomed it almost as a relief when the greater part of the chorus moved on. After such a surfeit of honeyed fluency, I was prepared better than ever to ap- preciate certain of our humbler musi- cians, with a touch of roughness in the voice and something of brokenness in the tune; birds, for instance, like the black-throated green warbler, the yellow- throated vireo, and the scarlet tanager. But if I was glad the crowd had gone, I was glad also that a goodly sprinkling of the birds had remained; so that there was never a day when I did not see and hear them. The rose-breast is a lovely singer. In my criticism of him I am to be understood as meaning no more than this: that he, like every other artist, has the defects of his good qualities. Smooth- Birds, Flowers, and People. 494 Birds, Flowers, and People. ness is a virtue in music as in writing; but it is not the only virtue, nor the one that wears longest. After the grosbeaks, whose great abun- dance was but transitory, two of the most numerous birds were the Canadi- an flycatching warbler and the black- throated blue, two Northerners, as I had always thought of them. Every mountain stream was overhung, mile after mile, by a tangle of rhododendron and laurel, and out of every such tangle came the hoarse, drawling kree, kree, kree of the black-throated blue, and the sharp, vivacioLis, haif-wrennish song of the Canadian flycatcher. I had never seen either species in anything near such numbers; and I may include the Black- burnian warbler in the same statement. Concerning the black-throated blue, it is to be said that within a year or two the Alleghanian bird has been discriminated by Dr. Coues as a local race, with a desig- nation of its own, Dendroica ca~ru- lescens eairnsi, the points of distinc- tion being its smaller size and the color of the middle back, black instead of blue. I cannot recollect that I perceived any- thing peculiar about its notes, nor, so far as appears, did Mr. Brewster do so; yet it would not surprise me if such peculi- arities were found to exist. The best of ears (and there can be very few to sur- pass Mr. Brewsters, I am sure) cannot take heed of everything, especially in a strange piece of country, with a voice out of every bush calling for attention. A few birds, too familiar to have at- tracted any particular notice on their own account, became interesting because of the fact that they were not included among those found here by Mr. Brews- ter. One of these was the Maryland yellow-throat, of which Mr. Brewster saw no signs above a level of 2100 feet. (The elevation of Highlands, Ii may remind the reader, is 3800 feet.) At the time of my visit, the song, witehery, uitchery, witehery, or fidgety, fidgety, fidgety (every listener will transliterate the dactyls for himself), was to be heard daily from the hotel piazza, though so far away that, with Mr. Brewsters nega- tive experience in mind, I deferred list- ing the name till, after two or three days, I found leisure to go down to the swamp out of which the notes, whatever they were, evidently proceeded. Then it transpired that at least five males were in song, in four different places. Later (May 25) I happened upon one in still another and more distant spot. Prob- ably the species had come in since Mr. Brewsters day (eleven years before), with some change of local conditions, the cutting down of a piece of forest, perhaps, and the formation of a bushy swamp in its place. A villager closely observant of such things, and well ac- quainted with the bird, assured me from his own recollection of the matter (and he remembered Mr. Brewsters visit well) that such was pretty certainly the case. Another bird seen almost daily, though in limited numbers, was the red-winged blackbird, which Mr. Brewster noticed only in a few places in the lower val- leys. It seemed well within the range of probability that the same changes which had brought in one lover of sedgy tussocks and button-bushes should have attracted also another. I made no search for nests, but the fact that the birds were seen constantly from May 7 to May 27 may be taken as reasonably conclusive evidence that they were on their breed- ing-grounds. Two or more pairs of phc~bes had set- tled in the neighborhood, and two or more pairs of parula warblers. The former were not found by Mr. Brewster above a level of 3000 feet, and the lat- ter he missed at Highlands, although, as he says, the presence of trees hung with usnea lichens made their absence a sur- prise. Hardly less rememberable than these differences of experience was one strik- ing coincidence. On the 25th of May, when I had been at Highlands more than Birds, Flowers, and People. 495 a fortnight, I was sitting on the veranda waiting for the dinner-bell, and reading the praises of free silver in a Georgia newspaper, when I jumped to my feet at the whistle of a Baltimore oriole. I started at once in pursuit, and presently came up with the fellow, a resplendent old male, in a patch of shrubbery bor- dering the hotel grounds. I kept as near him as I could (in Massachusetts he would scarcely have drawn a second look), and even followed him across the street into a neighbors yard. He was the only one I had seen (he was piping again the next morning, the last of my stay), and on referring to Mr. Brews- ters paper I found that he too met with one bird here, and in exactly the same spot. The keeper of the hotel re- membered the circumstance, and the plea- sure of Mr. Brewster over it. In my case, at any rate, the lateness and un- expectedness of the birds appearance, together with what a certain scholarly friend of mine would have called his uniquity, made him the bringer of a most agreeable noonday excitement. Where he had come from, and whether he had brought a mate with him, were questions I had no means of answering. He reminded me of my one Georgia oriole, on the field of Chickamauga. The road to Horse Cove, of which I have already spoken, offered easy access to a lower and more summery level, the land at this point dropping almost per- pendicularly for about a thousand feet. In half an hour the pedestrian was in a new climate, with something like a new fauna about him. Here were such birds as the Kentucky warbler, the hooded warbler, the cardinal grosbeak, and the Acadian flycatcher, none of them to be discovered on the plateau above. Here, also, but this may have been nothing more than an accident, were the only bluebirds (a single family) that I saw ~ At Highlands I saw a single male, an unusually brilliant one, which I was told was the only bird of the kind in the vicinity. anywhere until, on my journey out of the mountains, I descended into the beauti- ful Cullowhee Valley. At Highlands the birds were a mixed lot, Southerners and Northerners de- lightfully jumbled: a few Carolina wrens (one was heard whistling from the sum- mit of Whiteside!) ; a single Bewick wren, singing and dodging along a fence in the heart of the village; tufted tit- mice; Carolina chickadees; Louisiana water thrushes and turkey buzzards: and on the other side of the account, brown creepers, red-bellied nuthatches, black- throated blues, Canada warblers, Black- burnians, snowbirds, and olive-sided fly- catchers. An unexpected thing was the coIn- monness of blue golden-winged warbiers, chats, and brown thrashers (the chats less common than the other two) at an elevation of 3800 feet. Still more numner- ous, in song continually, even on the sum- mit of Satulah, were the chestnut-sided warblers, although Mr. Brewster, in his tour through the region, rarely saw more than one or two in any single day: a third instance, as seemed likely, of a species that had taken advantage of new local conditions an increase of shrubby clearings, in the present cm~se within the last ten years. Here, as everywhere, the presence of some birds and the absence of others were provoca- tive of questions. Why should the Ken- tucky warbler sing from rhododendron thickets halfway up the slope at the head of Horse Cove, and never be tempt- ed into other thickets, in all respects like them, just over the brow of the cliff, 500 feet higher? Why should the sum- mer yellow-bird, which pushes its hardy spring flight beyond the Arctic circle, restrict itself here in the Carolinas to the low valley lands (I saw it at Walhalla and in the Cullowhee Valley), and never once choose a nesting-site in appropriate surroundings at a little higher level? Why should the chat and the blue golden. wing find life agreeable at Highlands, 496 Birds, Flowers, and People. and their regular neighbors, the prairie warbler and the white-eyed vireo, so per- sistently refuse to follow them? And why, in the first half of May, was there so strange a dearth of migrants in these attractive mountain woods ? a few blackpoll warbiers (last seen on the 18th), a single myrtle-bird (on the 7th), and a crowd of rose-breasted grosbeaks and Blackburnian warblers (on the 8th and 9th, especially) being almost the only ones to fall under my notice. After all, one of the best birds I saw, not for- getting the Wilsons phalarope, my ad- venture with which has been detailed in an earlier paper, was a song sparrow singing from a dense swampy thicket on the 25th of May. So far as I am aware, no bird of his kind has ever before been reported in summer from a point so far south. He looked natural, but not in the least commonplace, as, after a long wait on my part, for the sake of ab- s@lute certainty, he hopped out into sight. I was proud to have made one discovery! In such a place, so limited in the range of its physical conditions, a village surrounded by forest, the birds, how- ever numerous they might be, counted as individuals, were sure to be of com- paratively few species. Omitting such as were certainly, or almost certainly, migrants or strays, the blackpoll, the myrtle-bird, the barn swallow, the king- bird, the solitary sandpiper, and the phalarope, and such as were found only at a lower level, in Horse Cove and elsewhere; omitting, too, all birds of prey, few, and 1~or the most part but imperfectly identified; restricting my- self to birds fully made out and believed to be summering in the immediate neigh- borhood of Highlands; omitting the raven, of course, I counted but fifty- nine species. All things considered, I was not in- consolable at finding my ornithological activities in some measure abridged. I had the more time, though still much too little, for other pursuits. It would have been good to spend the whole of it upon the plants, or in admiring the beauties of the country itself. As it was, I plucked a blossom here and there, stored up a few of the more striking of them in the memory, and enjoyed many an hour in gazing upon the new wild world, where, no matter how far I climbed, there was nothing to be seen on all sides but a sea of hills, wave rising beyond wave to the horizons rim. The horizon was never far off. I was twice on Satulah and twice on White- side, from which latter point, by all accounts, I should have had one of the most extensive and beautiful pro- spects to be obtained in North Caroli- na; but I had fallen upon one of those spells of weather, common in moun- tainous places, which make a visitor feel as if nothing were so rare as a transpar- ent atmosphere. For ordinary lowland purposes the days were no doubt favor- able enough: a pleasing, wholesome al- ternation of rain and shine, wind and calm, with no lack of thunder and light- n.ing, and once, at least, a lively hail- storm. Weather like this I have never seen elsewhere. Such air! So I wrote iii my enthusiasm, thinking of physical comfort, a man who wished to walk and sit still by turns, and be nei- ther sunstruck nor chilled; but withal, there was never an hour of clear dis- tance till the morning I came away, when mountain ascents were no longer to be thought of. The world was all in a cover of mist, and the outlying hills, one beyond another, with the haze settling into the valleys between them, were, as I say, like the billows of the sea. Nothing could have been more beautiful, perhaps; but a curtain is a curtain, and I longed to see it rise. A change of wind, a puff from the north- west, and creation ~vould indeed have widened in mans view. That was not to be, and all those lofty North Car- olina peaks of which, to a New Eng Birds, Flowers, and People. 497 lander, there seem to be so many1 were seen by me only from railway trains and from the hotel veranda at Asheville, on my journey homeward. On Satulali and Whiteside I was forced to please myself with the glory of the foreground. What lay beyond the mist was matter for dreams. But even as things were, I was not so badly used. There was more beauty in sight than I could begin to see, and, not- withstanding the comparative narrowness of the outlook, partly because of it, one of my most enjoyable forenoons was spent on the broad, open, slightly round- ed summit of Satulah. Here and there more here than there, my pencil says) a solitary cabin was visible, or a bit of road, a ribbon of brown amidst the green of the forest, but no village, nor so much as a hamlet. The only other signs of human existence were a light smoke, barely distinguishable, risingfrom Horse Cove as I guessed, and, for a few minutes, a man whom my eye fell upon most unexpectedly, a motionless speck, though he was walking, far down the Walhalla road. I turned my glass that way, and behold, he had the usual bag of grain on his back. The date was May 12. I had been in Highlands less than a week, and my thoughts still ran upon ravens, the birds which, more even than the southern snowbird and the mountain vireo, I had come hither to seek. They were said often to fly over, and this surely should be a place to see them. They could not escape me, if they passed within a mile. But though I kept an eye out, as we say, and an ear open, it was a vigil thrown away. Buzzards, swifts, and a bunch of twittering goldflnches were all the birds that flew over. A chestnut-sided warbler sang so persistently from the mountain side just below that his sharp voice became almost a trouble. From 1 According to a publication of the State Board of Agriculture, North Carolina contains forty-three peaks more than 6000 feet high, VOL. LXXXII. NO. 492. 32 the same quarter rose the songs of an oven-bird, a rose-breasted grosbeak, and a scarlet tanager. On the summit itself were snowbirds and chewinks; and once, to my delight, a field sparrow gave out a measure or two. After all, go where you will, you will hear few voices that wear better than his, clear, smooth, most agreeably modulated, and temper- ately sweet. The only trees I remember at the very top of the mountain were a few dwarfed and distorted pines and white oaks, enough to remind a Yankee that he was not in New Hampshire. On the other hand, here grew our Massachusetts huc- kleberry (Gaylussacia resinoscs), which I had seen nowhere below, where a great abundance of the buckberry so I think I heard it called (G. ursina), . taller bushes, more comfortable to pick from, with larger blossoms seemed to have taken its place. I should have been glad to try the fruit, which was de- scribed as of excellent quality. On that point, with no thought of boasting, I could have spoken as an expert. With the huckleberry was chokeberry, another New England acquaintance, fair to look upon, but a hypocrite, by their fruits ye shall know them; and underneath, among the stones, were common yellow five-fingers, bird-foot violets, and leaves of trailing arbutus, three-toothed poten- tilla (a true mountain-lover), checker- berry, and galax. With them, but de- serving a sentence by themselves, were the exquisite vernal iris and the scarlet painted cup, otherwise known as the In- dians paint-brush and prairie fire, splen- did for color, and in these parts, to my astonishment, a frequenter of the forest. I should have looked for it only in grassy meadows. Here and there grew close patches of the pretty, alpine-look- ing sand myrtle (Lejophyllum bux~fo- hum), thickly covered with small white eighty-two others more than 6000 feet high, and an innumerable multitude the altitude of which is between 4000 and 5000 feet. 498 Birds, Flowers, and People. flowers, a plant which I had seen for the first time the day before on the sum- mit of Whiteside. Mountain heather I called it, finding no English name in Chapmans Flora. Stunted laurel bushes in small bud were scattered over the sum- mit. A little later they would make the place a flower garden. A single rose- acacia tree had already done its best in that direction, with a full crop of gor- geous rose-purple clusters. The winds had twisted it and kept it down, but could not hinder its fruitfulness. These things, and others like them, I noticed between times. For the most part, my eyes were upon the grand pano- rama, a wilderness of hazy, forest-cov- ered mountains, as far as the eye could go; nameless to me, all of them, with the exception of the two most conspicu- ous, Whiteside on the one hand, and Rabun Bald on the other. For my com- fort a delicious light breeze was stirring, and the sky, as it should be when one climbs for distant prospects, was sprin- kled with small cumulus clouds, which in turn dapph~d the hills with moving shadows. One thing brought home to me a truth which in our dullness we or- dinarily forget: that the earth itself is but a shadow, a something that appeareth, changeth, and passeth away. The rocks at my feet were full of pot-holes, such as I had seen a day or two before, the water still swirling in them, at Cullasa- jah Falls. As universal time is reck- oned, if it is reckoned, old Satulah and all that forest-covered world which I saw, or thought I saw, from it, were but of yesterday, a divine improvisa- tion, and would be gone to-morrow. More beautiful than the round pro- spect from Satulah, though perhaps less stimulating to the imagination, was the view from the edge of the moun- tain wall at the head of Horse Cove. Here, under a chestnut tree, I spent the greater part of a half day, the valley with its road and its four or five houses straight at my feet. A dark precipice of bare rock bounded it on the right, a green mountaia on the left, and in the distance southward were ridges and peaks without number. A few of the nearer hills I knew the names of by this time: Fodderstack, Bearpen, Hogback, Chimneytop, Terrapin, Shortoff, Scaly, and Whiteside. Satulah was the only fine name in the lot; and that, for a guess, is aboriginal. The North Amer- ican Indians had a genius for names, as the Greeks had for sculpture and poetry, and will be remembered for it. I had come to the brow of the cliffs, at a place called Lovers Leap, in search of a particular kind of rhododendron. It bore a small flower, my informant had said, and grew hereabout only in this one spot. It proved to be 1?. punctct- turn, new to me, and now (May 23) in early blossom. Four days afterward, in the Cullowhee and Tuckaseegee valleys, I saw riverbanks and roadsides lined with it; very pretty, of course, being a rhododendron, but not to be compared in that respect with the purple rhodo- dendron or mountain rose-bay (R. Ca- tawbiense). That, also, was to be found here, but very sparingly, as far as I could discover. I felicitated myself on having seen it in its glory on the mountains of southeastern Tennessee. The common large rhododendron (R. maximum) stood in thickets along all the brooks. I must have walked and driven past a hun- dred miles of it, on the present trip, it seemed to me; but I have never been at the South late enough to see it in flower. What I shall remember longest about the flora of Highlands and there is no part of eastern North America that is botanically richer, I suppose is the azaleas. When I drove up from Wal- hahla, on the 6th of May, the woods were bright, mile after mile, with the com- mon pink species (A. nudiftora); and at Highlands, in some of the dooryards, I found in full bloom a much lovelier kind, also pink, and also leafless, A. Vaseyi, as it turned out: a rare and Birds, Flowers, and People. 499 lately discovered plant, of which the village people are justly proud. I could not visit its wild habitat without a guide, they told me. Within a week or so after my arrival the real glory of the spring was upon us: the woods were lighted up everywhere with the flame- colored azalea; and before it was gone, while it was still at its height, indeed, the familiar sweet-scented white aza- lea (A. viscosa), the swamp pink of my boyhood, came forward to keep it company and lend it contrast. By that time I had seen all the rhododendrons and azaleas mentioned in Chapmans Flora, including A. arborescens, a tardy bloom- er, which a botanical collector, with whom I was favored to spend a day on the road, pointed out to me in the bud. The splendor of A. calendidacca, as displayed here, is never to be forgotten; nor is it to be in the least imagined by those who have seen a few stunted speci- mens of the plant in northern gardens. The color ranges from light straw-color to the brightest and deepest orange, and the bushes, thousands on thousands, no two of them alike, stand, not in rows or clusters, but broadly spaced, each by it- self, throughout the hillside woods. They were never out of sight, and I never could have enough of them. Wherever I went, I was always stop- ping short before one bush and another; admiring this one for the brilliancy or delicacy of its floral tints, and that one for its bold and pleasing habit. For as the plants do not grow in close ranks, so they do not put forth their flowers in a mass. They know a trick better than that. Thousands of shrubs, but every one in its own place, to be separately looked at; and on every shrub a few sprays of bloom, each well apart from all the oth- ers; one twig bearing nothing but leaves, another full of blossoms; a ~hort branch here, a longer one there; and again, a smooth straight stem shooting far aloft, holding at the tip a bunch of leaves and flowers; everything free, unstudied, and most irregularly graceful, as if the bushes had each an individuality as well as a tint of its own. One walk on Satulah not to the sum- mit, but by a roundabout course through the woods to a bold cliff on the southern side (all the mountains, as a rule, are rounded on the north, and break off sharply on the south) was literally a walk through an azalea show: first the flame-colored, bushes beyond count and variety beyond description; and then, a little higher, a plentiful display of the white viscosa, more familiar and less showy, but hardly less attractive. Better even than this wild Satulah garden was a smaller one nearer home: a triangular hillside, broad at the base and pointed at the top, as if it were one face of a pyramid; covered loosely with grand old trees, oaks, chestnuts, and maples; the ground densely matted with freshly grown ferns, largely the cinna- mon osmunda, clusters of lively green and warm brown intermixed; and every- where, under the trees and above the ferns, mountain laurel and flame-colored azalea, the laurel blooms pale pink, al- most white, and the azalea clusters yel- low of every conceivable degree of depth and brightness. A zigzag fence bound- ed the wood below, and the land rose at a steep angle, so that the whole was held aloft, as it were, for the beholders con- venience. It was a wonder of beauty, with nothing in the least to mar its per- fection, the fairest piece of earth my eye ever rested upon. The human own- er of it, Mr. Selleck (why should I not please myself by naming him, a land- owner who knew the worth of his pos- session !), had asked me to go and see it; and for his sake and its own, as well as for my own sake and the readers, I wish I could show it as it was. It rises before me at this moment, like the rho- dodendron cliffs on Waldens Ridge, and will do so, I hope, to my dying day. Bradford Torrey. 600 The Battle of the Strong. THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XXXIII. MATTINGLEYS dungeon was infested with rats and other vermin; he had only straw for his bed, and his food and drink were bread and water. The walls were damp with moisture from the Fauxbie which ran beneath, and little more than a glimmer of light came through a small barred window. Superstition had sur- rounded the Vier Prison with horrors. As carts passed under the great arch- way, its depth multiplied the sounds so powerfully, the echoes were so fantastic, that folk believed them the roarings of fiendish spirits. If a mounted guard hurried through, the reverberations of the drumbeats and the clatter of hoofs were so uncouth that children stopped their ears and fled in terror. To the ignorant populace, the Vier Prison was the home of noisome serpents, and the rendezvous of the devil and his witches of Rocbert. When, therefore, the seafaring mer- chant of the Vier Marchi, whose mas- sive, brass-studded bahue had been as a gay bazaar where the gentry of Jersey refreshed their wardrobes with one eye closed, when he was transferred to the Vier Prison, little wonder that he should be,come a dreadful being, round whom played the lightnings of dark fancy and sombre terror! Elie Mattingley the pop- ular sinner, with insolent gold rings in his ears, and unquestioned as to how he came by his merchandise, was one per- son; Elie Mattingley prepared as a torch for the burning, and housed amid the terrors of the Vier Prison, was another. Few persons in Jersey slept during the night before his execution. Here and there compassionate women or unimpor- tant men lay awake through pity, and a few through a vague sense of loss, for henceforth the Vier Marchi would lack a familiar interest; but mostly the people of Mattingleys world were kept awake through curiosity. Morbid ex- pectation of the coming event had for them a touch of gruesome diversion; it would relieve the monotony of existence, and provide hushed gossip for vraic- gatherings and veilles for a long time to come. Thus Elie Mattingleys death would not be in vain. Many things had come at once. Mat- tingley was one sensation, but there was still another. Olivier Delagarde had been unmasked as a traitor, and the whole island had gone tracking him down. No aged toothless tiger was ever sported through the jungle by an army of shikaris with hungrier malice than was the broken, helpless, and evil Olivier De- lagarde by the people he had betrayed. Ensued, therefore, a commingling of de- vout patriotism and lust of man-hunting with a comely content in the expected sacrifice of the morrow. Nothing of his neighbors excitement disturbed Mattingley. He did not sleep, but that was because he was still watch- ing and waiting for a means of escape. He felt his chances diminish, however, when, about midnight, an extra guard was put round the prison, not so much to prevent escape as further to confirm the dignity of the Royal Court. Some- thing had gone amiss in the matter of his rescue. Three things had been planned. First, Mattingley was to try escape by the small window of the dungeon. Secondly, Carterette was to bring Se- bastian Alixandre to the Vier Prison disguised as a sorrowing aunt of the con- demned man, known to live in Guernsey. Alixandre was suddenly to overpower the jailer; Mattingley was to make a rush for freedom, and a few bold spirits without would second his efforts and

600 The Battle of the Strong. THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XXXIII. MATTINGLEYS dungeon was infested with rats and other vermin; he had only straw for his bed, and his food and drink were bread and water. The walls were damp with moisture from the Fauxbie which ran beneath, and little more than a glimmer of light came through a small barred window. Superstition had sur- rounded the Vier Prison with horrors. As carts passed under the great arch- way, its depth multiplied the sounds so powerfully, the echoes were so fantastic, that folk believed them the roarings of fiendish spirits. If a mounted guard hurried through, the reverberations of the drumbeats and the clatter of hoofs were so uncouth that children stopped their ears and fled in terror. To the ignorant populace, the Vier Prison was the home of noisome serpents, and the rendezvous of the devil and his witches of Rocbert. When, therefore, the seafaring mer- chant of the Vier Marchi, whose mas- sive, brass-studded bahue had been as a gay bazaar where the gentry of Jersey refreshed their wardrobes with one eye closed, when he was transferred to the Vier Prison, little wonder that he should be,come a dreadful being, round whom played the lightnings of dark fancy and sombre terror! Elie Mattingley the pop- ular sinner, with insolent gold rings in his ears, and unquestioned as to how he came by his merchandise, was one per- son; Elie Mattingley prepared as a torch for the burning, and housed amid the terrors of the Vier Prison, was another. Few persons in Jersey slept during the night before his execution. Here and there compassionate women or unimpor- tant men lay awake through pity, and a few through a vague sense of loss, for henceforth the Vier Marchi would lack a familiar interest; but mostly the people of Mattingleys world were kept awake through curiosity. Morbid ex- pectation of the coming event had for them a touch of gruesome diversion; it would relieve the monotony of existence, and provide hushed gossip for vraic- gatherings and veilles for a long time to come. Thus Elie Mattingleys death would not be in vain. Many things had come at once. Mat- tingley was one sensation, but there was still another. Olivier Delagarde had been unmasked as a traitor, and the whole island had gone tracking him down. No aged toothless tiger was ever sported through the jungle by an army of shikaris with hungrier malice than was the broken, helpless, and evil Olivier De- lagarde by the people he had betrayed. Ensued, therefore, a commingling of de- vout patriotism and lust of man-hunting with a comely content in the expected sacrifice of the morrow. Nothing of his neighbors excitement disturbed Mattingley. He did not sleep, but that was because he was still watch- ing and waiting for a means of escape. He felt his chances diminish, however, when, about midnight, an extra guard was put round the prison, not so much to prevent escape as further to confirm the dignity of the Royal Court. Some- thing had gone amiss in the matter of his rescue. Three things had been planned. First, Mattingley was to try escape by the small window of the dungeon. Secondly, Carterette was to bring Se- bastian Alixandre to the Vier Prison disguised as a sorrowing aunt of the con- demned man, known to live in Guernsey. Alixandre was suddenly to overpower the jailer; Mattingley was to make a rush for freedom, and a few bold spirits without would second his efforts and The Battle of the Strong. 501 smuggle him to the sea. The directing mind and hand in the business were Ranuiph Delagardes. He was to have his boat waiting in the harbor of St. Heliers to respond to a signal from the shore, to pilot them clear of the harbor and make sail for France, where he and his father were to be landed. There he would give Mattingley, Alixandre, and Carterette his own boat, to fare across the seas to the great fishing-ground of Gasp~ in Canada. Lastly, if these projects failed, the ex- ecutioner was to be drugged with liquor, his besetting weakness, on the eve of the hanging. The first of these plans had been found impossible, the window being too small for even Mattingleys head to get through. The second failed because the Royal Court had forbidden Carterette further admittance to the prison, intent that she should no longer be contami~ nated by so vile a wretch. This Chris- tian solicitude had looked down from the windows of the Cobue Royale upon this same criminal in the Vier Marchi, with a blind eye for himself the sinner, and an open one for his merchandise; but now, restored to full sight by that oculist ca]led accident, it had straight- way righteously done what so long it had amiably left undone. As the night wore on, Mattingley could hear the hollow sound of the sentinels steps under the archway of the Vier Pri- son. He was stoical. If he had to die, then he had to die. Death could only be a little minute of agony; and for what came after well, he had not thought fearfully of that, and he had no wish to think of it at all. The clergyman who had visited him had talked, and he had not listened; he had his own ideas about life and death and the beyond, and they were not ungenerous. He had seemed to his visitor patient, but impossible; kindly, but unresponsive; sometimes even curious, but without remorse. You should repent with sorrow and a contrite heart, the clergyman had said. You have done many evil things in your life, Mattingley. Mattingley had replied, Ah bah, I cant rememl)er them! I know I never done them, for I never done anything but good all my life, so much for so much. He had argued it out with himself, and he believed he was a good man. He had been open-handed, fair in a bar- gain, had stood by his friends, and, up to a few days ago, had been outwardly counted a good citizen, for many had come to profit through him. His trades a little smuggling, a little piracy. Was not the former hallowed by distin- guished patronage, and had it not existed from time immemorial ? The latter was fair fight for gain, an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth. If he had not robbed others on the high seas, they would probably have robbed him, and sometimes they did. His spirit was that of the Elizabethan buccaneers who de- feated the invincible Armada; he be- longed to a century not his own. As for the crime for which he was to suffer death, it had been the work of a confed- erate; and very bad work it was, to try to steal Jean Touzels Hardi Biaou, and then bungle it! He had had nothing to do with it, for he and Jean Touzel were the best of friends, as was proved by the fact that while he lay in his dungeon awaiting death, Jean wandered the shore distracted and sorrowing for Matting- leys fate. Thinking now of the whole business and of his past life, Mattingley suddenly had a pang. Yes, remorse smote him at last. There was one thing on his con- science, only one. He had a profound reverence for the feelings of others, and where the Church was concerned this was mingled with a droll sort of pity, as of the greater for the lesser, the wise for the helpless. For clergymen he had a half-affectionate contempt. He remem- bered now that his confederate, who had 502 The Battle of the Strong. turned out so badly he had trusted him, too ! when, four years ago, he wickedly robbed the Church of St. Mi- chaels, and carried off the great chest with Communion plate, offertories, and rent, had piously left behind in Matting- leys house the vestry books and register, a nice definition in rogues etiquette and ethics. It smote Mattingleys soul now, that these stolen books had not been returned to St. Michaels. His sense of reverence was shocked. Next morning he must send word to Carterette to re- store these records. Then his conscience would be clear once more. With this intention quieting his mind, he turned over on his straw and went peacefully to sleep. Hours afterward he waked with a yawn. There was no start, no terror, but the appearance of the jailer with the devoted clergyman roused in him a sense of disgust for the approaching function at the Mont ~s Pendus, disgust was his chief feeling. This was no way for a man to die! With a choice of evils, he would have preferred walking the plank, or even dying quietly in his bed, to being stifled by a rope. To dangle from a crosstree like a half-filled bag offended every instinct of picturesque- ness; and always and above all he had been picturesque. He asked at once for pencil and pa- per. His wishes were instantly obeyed, and with deference. On the whole, he realized, by the attentions paid him, the brandy offered by the jailer, the fluttering grave tenderness of the cler- gyman, that in the life of a criminal there is one moment when he com- mands the situation. He refused the brandy, for he was strongly against spir- ituous liquors in the early morning; but he ordered coffee, for he was thirsty. Eating seemed superfluous; besides, he thought a man might die more gayly on an empty stomach. He assured the clergyman that he had come to terms with his conscience, and was now about to perform the last act of a well-inten- tioned life. There and then he wrote to Carterette, telling her about the vestry books of St. Michaels, and making his last request that she should restore them. There were no affecting messages between him and the girl, they understood each other. He knew that when it was pos- sible she would never fail to come to the mark where he was concerned, and she had equal faith in him. So the letter was sealed, addressed with flourishes, he was proud of his handwriting, and handed to the clergyman for Carterette. He had scarcely finished his coffee when there was a roll of drums outside. Mattingley knew that his hour was come, and yet, to his surprise, he had no ex- traordinary sensations. He had a shock presently, however; for on the jailers announcing the executioner, who should be standing there before him but the undertakers apprentice! In politeness to the clergyman Mattingley forbore profanity, a gracious self-denial. This was the one Jerseyman for whom he had a profound hatred, this youth with the slow, cold, watery blue eye, a face that never wrinkled with either mirth or mis- ery, the teeth set square in the jaw al- ways showing a little, making an invol- untary grimace of cruelty. Here was insult. Help of Heaven, so you re going to do it you! broke out Mattingley. The other man is drunk, said the undertakers apprentice; he s been full as a jug three days. He got drunk too soon. The grimace seemed to widen. Oh my good! said Mattingley, and he would say no more. To him words were like nails, of no use unless they were to be driven home by acts. To Mattingley the procession to the Mont ~s Pendus was stupidly slow. As it issued from the archway of the Vier Prison between mounted guards, and passed through the lane made by the flihe Battle of the Strong. 503 moving mass of spectators, he looked round coolly. One or two bold spirits cried out, Head up to the wind, Maitre Elie! Oui-gia, he replied; devil a top- sail in! and turned with a look of contempt on those who hooted him. He realized now that there was no chance of rescue. The island militia and the town guard were in ominous force; and although his respect for the militia was not devout, a bullet from the musket of a fool was as effective as one from Bona- pends, as Napoleon Bonaparte was disdainfully called in Jersey. Yet he could not but wonder why all the plans of Alixandre, Carterette, and Ranulph had gone for nothing, even the hangman had been got drunk too soon! He had a high opinion of Ranulph, and that he should fail him was a blow to his judg- ment of humanity. He was thoroughly disgusted. Also they had compelled him to put on a white shirt, he who had never worn linen in his life. He was ill at ease in it. It made him conspicuous; it looked as though he were aping the gentleman at the last. He tried to resign himself; but resignation was not to be learned so late in life. Somehow, he could not feel that this was really the day of his death. Yet how could it be otherwise? There was the vicomte in his red robe. There was the sinister undertakers apprentice, proud of his importance, ready to do his hangmans duty with no twinge of sen- timent. There, as they crossed the mielles, while the sea droned its sing- song on his left, was the parson droning his sing-song on the right, In the midst of life we are in death, etc. There were the red-coated militia, the unkempt mounted guard, the grumbling drums, and the crowd morbidly enjoying their Roman holiday. And there, loom- ing up before him, were the four stone pillars on the Mont ~s Pendus from which he was to swing. His disgust deepened. He was not dying like a seafarer who had fairly earned his repu- tation. His feelings found vent even as he came to the foot of the platform where he was to make his last stand, and the guards formed a square about the great pillars, glooming like Druidic altars awaiting their victim. He burst forth in one phrase expressive of his feelings. Sacr6 matin, so damned paltry! he said, in equal tribute to two races. The undertakers apprentice, mistak- ing his meaning, and thinking it a reflec- tion upon his arrangements, returned, with a wave of the hand to the rope, Chest tr~s ship-shape, maitre! But he was wrong. He had made everything ship-shape, as he thought; but two ob- scure, dishonored folk, one a wise man and the other a fool, had set a gin for him. The rope to be used at the hanging had been prepared, examined by the vi- comte, approved, and the undertakers apprentice had carried it to his room at the top of the Cohue Royale. In the dead of night, however, Dormy Jamais drew it from under the mattress, and sub- stituted one which was too long. This had been Ranulphs idea as a last resort; for he had a grim satisfaction in trying to foil the law even at the twelfth hour! The great moment had come. The shouts and hootings ceased. Out of the silence there rose only the champing of a horses bit or the hysterical giggle of a woman. The high, painful drone of the parsons voice was heard. Then came the fatal Aijaintenant! from the vicomte. The platform fell, and Elie Mattingley dropped the length of the rope. What was the consternation of the vicomte and the hangman, and the hor- ror of the crowd, to see that Matting- leys toes just touched the ground! The body shook and twisted. The man was being slowly strangled, not hanged. The undertakers apprentice was the only person who kept a cool head. The 504 The Battle of the Strong. solution of the problem of the rope for afterward; but he had been sent there to hang a man, and a man he would hang somehow. Without more ado, he jumped upon Mattingleys shoulders and began to drag him down. The next instant some one burst through the mounted guard and the mili- tia: it was Ranuiph Delagarde. Rushing to the vicomte, he exclaimed, Shame! The man was to be hung, not strangled! This is murder! Stop it, or I 11 cut the rope! He looked round on the crowd. Cowards! cowards! he cried, will you see him murdered? He started forward to drag away the executioner, but the vicomte, thoroughly terrified at Ranulphs onset, seized the undertakers apprentice, who drew off with unruffled malice, and with steely eyes watched what followed. Mattingleys feet were now firmly on the ground. While the excited crowd tried to break through the cordon of militia and mounted guards, Mattingley, by a twist and a jerk, freed his corded hands. Loosing the rope at his neck, he opened his eyes and looked around him, dazed and dumb. The apprentice came forward. I 11 shorten the rope oui-gia! Then you shall see him swing! he grumbled viciously to the vicomte. The gaunt vicomte was trembling with excitement. This was an unexpected situation. He looked helplessly around. The apprentice caught hold of the rope to tie knots in it and so shorten it; but Ranulph again appealed to the vi- comte, although in his voice there was more command than appeal. You ye hung the man, he said; you ye strangled him, and you ye not killed him. You ye got no right to put that rope round his neck again! Two jurats who had waited on the out- skirts of the crowd, furtively watching the carrying out of their sentence, burst in, as excited and nervous as the vicomte. Hang the man again, and the whole world will laugh at you, Ranulph said. If you re not worse than fools or Turks, you 11 let him go. He has suf- fered death already. Take him back to the prison, if you re afraid to free him! He turned round to the crowd fiercely. Have you nothing to say to this butch- ery? he cried. For the love of God, have nt you anything to say? Half the crowd shouted, Let him go free! and the other half, disappoint- ed in the working out of the gruesome melodrama, groaned and hooted. Meanwhile, Mattingley stood as still as ever he had stood by his bahue in the Vier Marchi, watching waiting. The vicomte conferred with the jurats nervously for a moment, and then turned to the guard and said, Escort the pri- soner to the Vier Prison. Mattingley had been slowly solving the problem of his salvation. His eye, like a gimlet, bad screwed its way through Ranulphs words into what lay behind, and at last be understood the whole beautiful scheme. It pleased him. Carterette had been worthy of herself and of him. Ranuiph had played his gam& well, too. Sebastian Alixandre, whom now he saw peering over the shoulders of a mihitiaman, he was en- tirely proud of him, also. He failed only to do justice to one, even to the poor b6ganne, Dormy Jamais. But then the virtue of fools is its own reward. As the procession started back, with the undertakers apprentice following Mattingley, not going before, Mattingley turned to him, and with a smile of mal- ice said, Chest trbs ship-shape, maitre eh? end he jerked his head back toward the inadequate rope. He was not greatly troubled about the rest of this grisly farce~ He was now ready for breakfast, and his appetite grew as he heard how the crowd hooted and snarled yahl at the apprentice. He was quite easy about the future. What had been so well done thus far could not fail in the end. The Battle of the Strong. 505 XXXIV. Events proved Mattingley right. It is more than probable that the fury of the Royal Court, when they heard he had broken prison, was not quite sincere; for it was notable that the night of his escape, suave and uncrestfallen, they dined in the Rue dcs Tres Pigeons, in the sanctuary provided for them by mine host Maitre Lys. The flight of Matting- ley gave them a happy issue from their quandary. No one in Jersey knew how it was that Mattingley broke jail, nor who connived at it, but the vicomte officially explained that he had escaped by the dungeon window. People came to see the window, and there, bk sO, the bars were gone! But that did not prove the case, and the mystery was deepened by the fact that Jean Touzel, whose head was too small for Elie Mattingleys hat, could not get that same head through the dungeon window. Having proved so much, Jean left the mystery there, and returned to the Hardi Biaou. This happened on the morning after the dark night when Mattingley, Carte- rette, and Alixandre hurried from the Vier Prison through the Rue des Sa- blons to the sea, and there boarded Ra- nulphs boat, wherein was Olivier Dela- garde, the traitor. Accompanying Carterette to the shore was a little figure that moved along be- side them like a shadow, a little gray figure that carried a gold-headed cane given to him by the late monarch of France. At the shore this same little gray figure bade Mattingley good-by with a quavering voice. Whereupon Carterette, her face all wet with tears, kissed him upon both cheeks, and sobbed so that she could scarcely speak. For now when it was all over all the hor- rible ordeal over the woman in her broke down before the little old gentle- man who had been so kind to her, who had been like a benediction in the house where the ten commandments were im- perfectly upheld. But she choked down her sobs, and, thinking of another woman more than of herself, said Dear chevalier, do not forget that book I gave you to-night. Read it read the last writing in it, and then you will know ah bidemme! but you will know that her we love ah, but you must read it, and tell nobody till till you see her. She has nt held her tongue for naught, and it s only fair to do as she s done all along. Pardingue, but my heart hurts me! she added, and she caught the hand that held the gold-headed cane and kissed it with im- pulsive ardor. You have been so good to me oui-gia! she said; and then she dropped the hand, and fled to the boat rocking in the surf. The little chevalier watched the boat glide out into the gloom of night, and waited till he knew that they must all be aboard Ranulphs schooner and mak- ing for the sea. Then he went slowly back to the empty house in the Rue dEgypte. Opening the book that Carterette had placed in his hands before they left the house, he turned up and scanned closely the last written page. A moment after he started violently; his eyes dilated, first with wonder, then with a bewil- dered joy; and then, Protestant though he was, with the instinct of his long- gone forefathers, he made the sacred sign, and said, Now I have not lived and loved in vain, thanks be to God! Even as joy opened the eyes of this wan old man who had been sorely smit- ten through the friends of his heart, out at sea night and death were closing the eyes of another wan old man who had been a traitor to his country. For indeed the boat of the fugitives had scarcely cleared reefs and rocks, and reached the open Channel, when Olivier 506 The Battle of the Strong. Delagarde, uttering the same cry as when Ranuiph and the soldiers had found him wounded in the Grouville Road, fifteen years before, suddenly started up from where he had lain mumbling, and whis- pering hoarsely, Ranulph they ye killed me! fell back dead. True to the instinct which had kept him faithful to one idea for fifteen years, and in spite of the protests of Matting- ley and Carterette, of the despairing Carterette, who felt the last thread of her hopes snap with his going, Ranuiph at once made ready to leave them, and bade them good-by. Placing his fathers body in the rowboat, he drew back to the shore of St. Aubins Bay with his pale freight, and carried it on his shoul- ders up to the little house where he had lived for years. There he kept the death-watch alone. xxxv- Guida knew nothing of the arrest and trial of Mattingley until he had been con- demned to death. Nor until then had she known anything of what had hap- pened to Olivier Delagarde; for the day after her interview with Ranulph she had gone a-marketing to the island of Sark, with the results of a quarter of a years knitting. Several times a year she made this journey, landing at the Eperqu6rie Rocks, as she had done one day long ago, and selling her beautiful wool caps and jackets to the farmers and fisherfolk, getting in kind for what she sold. This time she had remained at Sark beyond her intention, for ugly gales from the southeast came on, and then a slight accident happened to her child, the little Guilbert. Thus a month and over passed, and by the time she was ready to return to Plemont Mattingley had been condemned. When Guida made these excursions to Sark, Dormy Jamais always remained at the little house, milking her cow, feed- ing her fowls, and keeping all in order, as perfect a sentinel as Biribi, and as faithful. For the first time in his life, however, Dormy Jamais had been un- faithful. Not long after Carcaud, the baker, and Mattingley were arrested, he deserted the hut at Plemont to exploit the adventure which was at last to save Olivier Delagarde and Mattingley from death. But he had been unfaithful only in the letter of his bond. He had gone to the house of Jean Touzel, through whose Hardi Biaou the disaster had come, and had told Maitresse Aimable that she must go to Plemont in his stead; for a fool must keep his faith, whateer the worldly-wise may do. So the poor simpleton and the fat femme de ballast, puffing with every step, trudged across the island to Plemont. There the fool installed the cumbrous figure in her place as keeper of the house, and, tireless, sleepless, trudged back again in the dark night to his fugitives from justice. The next day Maitr& sse Aimables quiet had been invaded by two signalmen, who kept watch, not far from Guidas home, for all sail, friend or foe, hear- ing in sight. They were now awaiting the new admiral of the Jersey station and his fleet, and they brought Mal- tresse Aimable strange news. With churlish insolence, they had entered the hut before she could prevent it. Look- ing round, they laughed meaningly, and then told her that the commander pre- sently coming to lie with his fleet in Grouville Bay was none other than the sometime Jersey midshipman, now Ad- miral Prince Philip dAvranche, Duc de Bercy. Mialtresse Aimable then under- stood the meaning of their laughter, and the insult they implied concerning Gui- da; and again her voice came ravaging out of the silence where it lay hid so of- ten and so long, and the signalmen went their way. Maitresse Aimable could not make head or tail of her thoughts; they were The Battle of the Strong. 507 a mixture altogether. She could not see an inch before her nose; all she could feel was an aching heart for Guida. She had heard strange tales of how Philip had become Prince Philip dAvranche; how the old. duke had died on the very day that Philip had married the Coin- tesse Chantavoine; how the imbecile Prince Leopold John had succeeded; how he had died suddenly; how Prince Philip had become the Duc de Bercy; and how he had fought his ship against a French vessel off Ushant, and, though she had heavier armament than his own, had destroyed her. For this he had been made an admiral. Only the other day her Jean had brought the Gazette de Jersey, in which all these things were re- lated, and had spelled them out for her. And now this same Philip dAvranche, with his new name and fame, was on his way to defend the Isle of Jersey. Maitresse Aimables muddled mind could not get hold of this new Philip. For years she had thought him a mon- ster, and here he was, a great and val- iant gentleman to the world. He had done a thing that Jean would rather have cut off his hand both hands than do, and yet here he was, an ad- miral, a prince, and a sovereign duke, and men like Jean were as dust beneath his feet! The real Philip she had known, and he was the man who had spoiled the life of a woman; this other Philip, she could read about him, she could think about him, just as she could think about William and his Horse in Boulay Bay, or the Little Bad Folk of Rocbert, but she could not realize him as a thing of flesh and blood and actual being. The more she tried to realize him, the more mixed she became. As in her mental maze she sat pant- ing her way to enlightenment, she saw Guidas boat entering the little harbor. Now the truth must be told; but how? After her first exclamation of wel- come to mother and child, she struggled painfully for her voice. She tried to find words in which to tell Guida the truth, but stopping in despair, she began rocking the child back and forth, saying only, Prince Admiral he and now! Oh my good, oh my good! At this point of hesitation Guidas sharp intuition found the truth. Philip dAvranche! she said to herself. Then aloud, in a shaking voice, Philip dAvranche! Her heart suddenly leaped within her, not with emotion at thought of him or of anything that he had been to her, but because she felt a crisis near. She could not think clearly for a moment. It was as if her brain had received a blow, and all her head had a numb, singing sensa- tion which obscured eyesight, hearing, speech. When she had recovered a little, she took the child from Maitresse Aimable, and, pressing him to her bosom, placed him in the Sieur de Mauprats great arm- chair. Never before had the little Guil- bert sat there. The outward action, or- dinary as it was, seemed significant of what was in her mind. The child him- self realized something unusual, and he sat perfectly still, his small hands spread out on the big arms. You always believed in me, Tresse Aimable, Guida said at last, in a low voice. Oul-gia, what else? was the quick reply. The instant responsiveness of her own voice appeared to confound the femme de ballast, and her face suffused. Guida stooped quickly and kissed her on the cheek. You 11 never regret that. And you will have to go on believing still; but you 11 not be sorry at the end, Tresse Aimable, she said, and turned away to the fireplace. An hour afterward Maitresse Aimable was upon her way to St. Heliers, but now she carried her weight more easily and panted less. No doubt this was be- cause it was all downhill, added to the 508 The Battle of the Strong. remembrance that Guida had kissed her. Moreover, twice within a month Jean had given her ear a friendly pinch; sure- ly she had reason to carry her weight more lightly. That afternoon and evening Guida struggled with herself. At first all her thoughts were in conflict; the woman in her shrinking from the ordeal that soon must come, almost preferring the peace of this isolation from her own world, in the knowledge of her own uprightness. But the mother in her pleaded, asserted, commanded, ruled confused ideas and emotions to quiet and definite purpose. Finality of purpose once achieved, a kind of peace came over her sick spirit; for with finality there is quiescence, if not peace. When she looked at the little Guil- bert, refined and strong, curiously ob- servant and sensitive in temperament, so like herself, her courage suddenly leaped to a higher point than it bad ever known. This innocent had suffered enough. What belonged to him he had not had. He had been wronged in much by his father, and maybe (and this was the cruel part of it) had been unwitting- ly wronged alas, how unwittingly ! by her. If she gave her own life many times, it still could be no more than was the childs due. Gazing at him now, seated in the great armchair, his look carrying the con- sciousness of some new dignity to which he must conform, her heart swelled with pride of him. How well they under- stood each other, and how wise was the child! He seemed always to feel what was going on in his mothers mind. It was almost uncanny, his interpretation of her thoughts. Often she had glanced up from her work to find his eyes fixed upon her, just as her own mothers gaze had been wont to rest upon her, though the looks had been so different ; this later tie was so close, so vital, so inti- mate. An impulse seized her now, and, with a quick explosion of feeling, she dropped on her knees in front of the armchair. Looking into his eyes, as though hun- gering for the word she so often yearned to hear, she said, You love your mo- ther, Guilbert ? You love her, little son With a pretty smile and eyes brim- ming with affectionate fun, but without a word, the child put out a tiny hand and drew the fingers softly down his mothers face. Speak, little son: tell your mother that you love her. The little hand pressed itself over her eyes, and a gay laugh came from the sensitive lips; then both arms ran round her neck. The child drew her head to him impulsively, and kissing her, a little upon the hair and a little upon the forehead, so indefinite was the em- brace, he said, Si, maman, I loves you best of all I Then, preoccupied with his new dignity, he sat back, put his hands upon the chair-arms as before, and, as she looked at him entranced, added, Maman, cant I have the sword now?~ By what strange primitive instinct did he interpret meanings, and by his in- fant logic come into line with her own thoughts and purposes? You shall have the sword some day, she answered, her eyes flashing. But, maman, cant I touch it now? Without a word, she took down the sheathed gold-handled sword and laid it across the chair-arms in front of the child. I cant take the sword out, can I, maman? he asked. She could not help smiling. Not yet, my son, not yet. I has to be growed up, so the blade does nt hurt me, has nt I, maman? She nodded, and smiled again. Pre- sently she said to him, Guilbert, if I let you have the sword, will you stay here alone with Biribi till I come back? He nodded his head sagely. Ma The Battle of the Strong. 509 man! he called, as she was about to go. She turned to him; the little fig- ure was erect with a sweet importance. Maman, what am I now? he asked, with wide-open, amazed eyes. A strange look passed across her face. She went over to him, and, stooping, kissed his curly hair. You are my prince. He did not reply to that, but his eyes blinked as though he were trying to work it out in his own mind. A little later Guida was standing on that point of land called Grosnez, the brow of the Jersey tiger. Not far from her was the signal - staff which tele- graphed to another signal - staff inland. Upon the staff now was hoisted a red flag. She knew the signals well; the red flag meant men-of-war in sight. Then bags were hoisted that told the number of vessels: one, two, three, four, five, six; then one next the upright, meaning seven. Last of all came the signal for a flagship among them. This was a fleet in command of an admiral. There, far out, between Guern- sey and Jersey, was the squadron itself. She watched it for a little while, her heart hardening; then, turning, she went back to the hut, for she saw that the men by the signal-staff were watching her. But presently she came out again with the child, and, in a spot where she was shielded from any eyes on the land or on ships at sea, she watched the fleet draw nearer and nearer. The vessels passed almost within a stones throw of her. She could see the flag, the St. Georges cross, flying at the main of the largest ship. That was the admirals flag; that was the flag of Ad- miral Prince Philip dAvranche, Duc de Bercy! She felt her heart stand still, and with a tremor, as of fear, she gathered the child close to her. What is all those ships, maman? asked the boy. They are the ships to defend the island of Jersey, she replied, watching the Imperturbable and its flotilla range on. Will they affend us, maman? Perhaps, in the end, she said; but still the answer was not wholly in- tended for the child. XXXVI. Off Grouville Bay, between the Castle of Mont Orgueil and the beautiful, ma- lignant Banc des Violets, lay the squad- ron of the Jersey station. The St. Georges cross was flying at the main of the Imperturbable, and on every ship of the fleet the white ensign flapped in the morning wind. The wooden-walled three-decked Imperturbable, with her one 68-pounder, seventy-four 32-pound- ers, and six hundred men, was not less picturesque, and was much more impor- tant, than the Castle of Mont Orgucil, standing over two hundred feet above the level of the sea, and flying the flag of a vice-admiral. It had become the home of Admiral Prince Philip dAvranche, IDuc de Bercy, and the Comtesse Chanta- voine, now known to the world as the Duchesse de Bercy. The Comtesse Chantavoine had ar- rived in the islaiid almost simultaneously with Philip, although he had urged her to remain at the Chateau of Bercy. But the duchy of Bercy was in hard case. When the imbecile Duke Leopold John died, and Philip succeeded, the neutrali- ty of Bercy was proclaimed; but this neutrality had since been violated, and the duchy was in danger at once from the incursions of the Austrians and the ravages of the Republican troops. In Philips absence, the valiant governor- general of the duchy, aided by the in- fluence and courage of the Comtesse Chantavoine, had thus far saved it from dismemberment, in spite of attempted betrayals by the intendant, Comte Ca- 510 The Battle of the Strong. rignan Damour, who remained Philips implacable enemy. But when the Mar- quis Grandjon-Larisse, the uncle of the comtesse, died, her cousin, General Grandjon-Larisse, whose word with Dalbarade had secured Philips release, years before, for her own protection, first urged, and then commanded her temporary absence from the duchy. So far he had been able to protect it from the fury of the Republican government and the secret treachery of the Jaco- bins; but a time of real peril was now at hand. Under these anxieties and the lack of other inspiration than duty, her health had failed, and at last she obeyed her cousin, joining Philip at the Castle of Mont Orgueil. More than a year had passed since she had seen him, but there was no emo- tion, no ardor, in their present greeting. From the first there was nothing to link them together. She had married hop- ing that she might love thereafter; he had married in choler and bitterness, and in the stress of a desperate ambi- tion. He had avoided the marriage so long as he might, in the hope of prevent- ing it until the duke should die; but, with the irony of fate, the expected death had come an hour after the marriage. Then, within eighteen months, came~the death of the imbecile Leopold John, and Philip found himself the Duke of Bercy; and not a month later, by reason of a splendid victory for the Imperturbable, aa English admiral. In this battle he had fought for vic- tory for his ship, and a fall for himself. Death, with the burial of private dis- honor under the roses of public triumph, that had been his desire, all other ambitions being now achieved. Bnt he had found that Death is willful, and chooseth his own time; that he may be lured, but will not come with shouting. So he had stoically accepted his fate, and could even smile with a bitter cyn- icism when ordered to proceed to the coast of Jersey, where it was deemed certain collision with a French squadron would occur. From Mont Orgueil he could have communication by signals with the leaders of the Vend6e, among whose most famous chieftains was now Comte D6tricand de Tournay. The high place Philip had striven for, sold his honor for, had been granted him, and now, with sinister amusement, Fate threw him into alliance with the man he hated, the heir by blood and descent to the duchy he ruled. Thus, too, he was brought face to face with his past, with the memory of Guida Landresse de Landresse. Look- ing out from the windows of Mont Or- gueil Castle or from the deck of the Imperturbable, he could see and he could scarce choose but see the lone- ly Ecr6hos. There, with a wild elo- quence, he had made a girl believe he loved her, and had taken the first step in the path which should have led to true happiness and honor. From this good path he had violently swerved and now? From all that appeared, however, the world went very well with him. Almost any morning one might have seen a boat shoot out from below the castle wall, carrying a flag with the blue ball of a vice-admiral of the white in the canton; and as the admiral himself stepped upon the deck of the Imperturbable, the guard under arms offered the ceremony of re- spect, while across the water came a gay march played in his honor. Jersey was elate, eager to welcome one of her own sons risen to such high estate; and when, the day after his ar- rival, he passed through the Vier Marchi on his way to visit the lieutenant-gov- ernor, the jurats in their red robes im- pulsively turned out to greet him. They were ready to prove that memory is a matter of will and cultivation. There is no curtain so opaque as that which drops between the mind of man and the thing which it is to his disadvantage to remember. But how closely does the The Battle of the Strong. 511 ear of advantage listen for the footfall of a most distant memory, when to do so is to share even a reflected glory! A week had gone since Philip had landed on the island. There was scarce a:n hour of that time when memory had not pursued him, scarce a step he took but reminded him of Guida. If he came along the shore of St. Clements Bay, he saw the spot where he had stood with her the evening he married her, and she said to him, Philip, I wonder what we shall think of this day a year from now ~... To-day is everything to you; to-morrow is very much to me. He remembered Shoreham sitting upon the cromlech above, singing the legend of the gui-lann6e, and Shoreham was lying now a hundred fathoms deep! As he walked through the Vier Marchi with his officers, there flashed before his eyes the scene of fifteen years ago, when amid the grime and havoc of battle he had run to save Guida from the scimi- ter of the garish Turk. Crossing the Place du Vier Prison, he recalled the morning when, with his few sailors, he had rescued Ranulph from the hands of the mob, and Guidas face at the window had set his pulses beating faster. How many years ago was this, then? Only four, and yet it seemed twenty. He was a boy then; now his hair was streaked with gray. He had been light- hearted then, and he was still buoyant with his fellows, still alert and vigorous, quick of speech and keen of humor, but only before the world. In his own home he was fitful of temper, impatient of the still, meditative look of his wife, of her resolute tenacity of thought and purpose, of her unvarying evenness of mood through which no warmth played. If she had only defied him, given him petulance for petulance, impatience for impatience, it would have been easier to bear. If if he could only read behind those still, passionless eyes, that clear, unvarying, unwrinkled forehead! Bat he knew her no better now than he did the day he married her. Unwittingly she chilled him, and he knew that he had no right to complain. He knew that he had done her the greatest wrong which can be done a woman; for, what- ever chanced, Guida was still his wife. There was in him yet the strain of Cal- vinistic morality of the island race that bred him. He had shrunk from coming here, but it had proved far worse than he had looked for. One day, in a nervous, bitter moment, after an impatient hour with the com- tesse, he had said, Can you can you not speak? Can you not tell me what you think of this?~ And she had an- swered quietly, It would do no good; you would not understand. I know you in some ways better than you know your- self, but you do not know me at all. I cannot tell what it is, but there is some- thing wrong in your nature, something that has poisoned your life. And not I alone have felt that. I never told you, but you remember the day the old duke died, the day we were mar- ried? You had gone from the room an instant. The duke beckoned me to him, and whispered, Dont be afraid dont be afraid and then he died. That meant that he was afraid; that death had cleared his sight as to you, in some way. He was afraid, of what? And I have been afraid, of what? I do not know. Things have not gone well, somehow. You are strong, you are brave, and I come of a race that have been strong and brave; yet yet we are lonely and far apart, and we shall never be nearer or less lonely, that I know. To this he had made no reply. His anger had vanished. Something in her words had ruled him to her own calm- ness, and at that moment he had had the first flash of understanding of her nature and its relation to his own. He had simply said that time would proba- bly give them better knowledge, and with that he had left her. 512 The Battle of the Strong. Passing through the Rue dEgypte one day, in front of the house of Elie Mattingley, the smuggler, he met Dormy Jamais. Forgetful of everything save that this quaint, foolish figure had inter- ested him when a boy, he called him by name; but Dormy Jamais swerved away, eying him askance. Immediately afterward, chancing to look up at the windows of Mattingleys house, he suddenly felt a shiver run through him. There were the faces of the two men whom he least cared to see in this world, Ranulph Delagarde and the Chevalier du Champsavoys. Ranulph was looking down at him with an infinite scorn and loathing, yet with something of triumph, too; and there was a discon- certing look of triumph, also, in the che- valiers face. The triumph in both faces was due to the fact that, but a few min- utes before, the chevalier had shown to Ranulph a certain page in a certain book, long lost, which Carterette Mat- tingley had placed in his hands. From this page Ranulph knew that Guida would henceforth have stronger champions than himself; that he might now seek his own fate with one burden the less on his mind; that he was free to go forth and lose himself in the storm of war in the Vend6e. Something in Ranulphs eye quickened Philips footsteps, drove him on, angry and confused. He bitterly reflected that there was no one of these men but was happier than he. He would willingly have changed places with Mattingley, the fugitive, who had had the hangmans rope round his neck; with Ranulph De- lagarde, the son of a traitor, the poor shipwright with a broken life, whom the people of the island now held in such ill repute. A wave of remorse rushed over him. If he could only turn back, even now, and throw up all, go to Guida, beg her to come with him to a new life, and begin the world again. Every sen- tence of the letter she had written to him at Bercy, renouncing him, he knew only too well. The words would not be erased from his brain, but, like some deadly rust, ate away his pride, vain- glory, and hypocrisy. Where would it all end? Even at that moment he saw Jean Touzel standing in the doorway of his house. Since his return Philip had not dared to ask about Guida, and no one had said a word concerning her, whe- ther she was dead or living. He felt now that he must know, and Jean Tou- zel or Maitresse Aimable could tell him. He instantly bethought him of an excuse for the visit. His squadron needed an- other pilot; he would approach Jean Touzel in the matter. Bidding his flag lieutenant go on to Elizabeth Castle, whither they were bound, and await him there, he crossed over to Jean. By the time he reached the doorway, however, Jean had retreat- ed to the veille by the chimney, behind Maitresse Aimable, who sat in a great stave chair mending a net. Philip knocked and stepped inside. When Maitresse Aimable saw who it was, she was so startled that she dropped her work, and made vague clutches to recover it. Stooping, however, was a great effort for her. Philip stepped for- ward and picked up the net. Politely handing it to her, he said, Ah, Mal- tresse Aimable, it is as if you had never stirred all these years! Then turning to her husband, I have come looking for a good pilot, Jean. Maitresse Aimable had at first flushed to a purple, had afterward gone pale, then recovered herself, and now returned Philips look with a downright steadi- ness. Like Jean, she knew well enough he had not come for a pilot; that was not the business of a prince admiral, that could easily be a quartermasters work. Maitresse Aimable did not even rise. Philip might be whatever the world chose to call him, but her house was her own; he had come uninvited, and he was un- welcome. The Battle of the Strong. 513 She kept her seat, but her fat head inclined once in greeting, and she waited for him to speak again. She knew why he had come; and somehow, the steady look in these siow brown eyes and the blinking glance, behind Jeans brass- rimmed spectacles disconcerted Philip. Here were people who knew the truth about him, knew the sort of man lie really was. These poor folk, who had had nothing of the world but what they earned, they would never hang on any princes favors. He read the situation rightly. The penalties of his life had taught him a discernment which could never have come to him through place and good for- tune. Having at last discovered his real self a little, he was in the way of know- ing others. May I shut the door? he asked quietly. Jean nodded. Closing it, Philip turned to them ngain. Since my re- turn I have heard naught concerning Mademoiselle Landresse, he said. I want to ask you about her now. Does she still live in the Place du Vier Pri- son? Both Jean and Aimable shook their heads. They had spoken no word since his entrance. She she is not dead? he asked, and he paled. They shook their heads again. Her grandfather he paused is he living? Once more they shook their heads in negation. Where is mademoiselle? he queried, his heart sick. Jean looked at his wife; neither moved nor answered. Where does she live? urged Philip. Still there was no mo- tion, no reply. You might as well tell me, he added, in a tone half pleading, half angry, little like a sovereign duke, very like a man in trouble. You must know I shall find out from some one else, then, he continued. But it were bet- ter for you to tell me. I mean her no harm, and I should rather know about her from her friends. VOL. LXXXII. No. 492. 33 He took off his hat now. Something in the dignity of these honest folk re- buked the pride of place and spirit in him. As plainly as though heralds had proclaimed it, he understood that these two knew that upon the shield of his honor there were abatements, argent, a plain point tenne, due to him that tells lyes to his prince or general, and argent, a gore sinister tenne, due for fly- ing from his colors. Maitresse Aimable turned and looked toward Jean, but Jean turned away his head. Then she did not hesitate. The voice so often eluding her will responded readily now. Anger plain primitive rage possessed her. She had had no child, but, as the years had passed, all the love that might have been given to her own was bestowed upon Guida, and she spoke in that mind. Oh my grief, to think you have come here you! You steal the best heart in the world; there is none like her nannin-gia. You promise her, you break her life, you spoil her, and then you fly away, ah, coward, you! Man p~the b6nin, was there ever such a man like you! If my Jean, there, had done a thing as that, I would sink him in the sea. Ah bah! he would sink himself, je me crais. But you come back here, oh my Mother of God, you come back here with your sword, with your crown ugh, it is like a black cast in heaven you! She got to her feet more nimbly than she had ever done in her life, and the floor seemed to heave as she came to- ward Philip. You come to speak to me with soft words, she said harshly. You shall have the hard truth from me moi. You want to know now where she is. I ask where you have been these four years! Your voice, it grow soft and tremble when you speak of her now. Oh ho! it has been nice and quiet these four years. The grand- p~the of her drop dead in his chair when he know. The world turn against her, 514 The Battle of the Strong. make light of her, when they know. All alone, she is all alone, but for one fat old fool like me. She bear all the shame, all the pain, for the crime of you. All alone she take her child and go on to the rock of Plemont to live these three years. But you, you go and get a crown, and be amiral, and marry a grande comtesse, marry, oh, je crais ben! This is no world for such men like you. You come to my house, to the house of Jean Tou- zel; well, you have the truth of God, b~v sft! No good will come to you in the end nannin-gia. When you come to die, you will think and think and think of the beautiful Guida Landresse; you will think and think of the heart and life you kill; and you will call, and she will not come. You will call till your throat rattle, but she will not come, and the child of sorrow you gave her will not come, no, bidemme! Efin, the door you shut you can open now, and you can go from the house of Jean Touzel. It belong to the wife of an honest man, maintnant! In the moments silence that ensued Jean took a step forward. Ma femme, ma bonne femme! he said in a shak- ing voice. Then he pointed to the door. Humiliated, overwhelmed by the words of the woman, Philip turned mechanical- ly toward the door without a word, and his fingers fumbled for the latch, for a mist was before his eyes. With a great effort he recovered himself. The door opened now, and he passed slowly out into the Rue dEgypte. A child a child! he said aloud, brokenly. Guidas child my God I And I have never known. Ple- mont Plemont she is at Plemont! He shuddered. Guidas child and mine!~ he kept on saying to himself, as in a painful dream he passed on to the shore. In the little fishermans cottage he had left, a fat old woman sat sobbing in the great chair made of barrel-staves, and a man, stooping, kissed her twice on the cheek, the first time in fifteen years. And then she both laughed and cried. XXXVI. Guida sat by the fire, sewing, Biribi, the dog, at her feet. At a little distance away, to the right of the chimney, lay Guilbert asleep. Twice Guida lowered the work to her lap, and looked at the child on the bed, the reflected light of the fire playing on his face. Stretching out her hand, she touched him, and then she smiled. Hers was an all-devouring love; the child was everything in life to her; her own present or future was as nothing; she was but fuel for the fire of his existence. A storm was raging outside. The sea roared in upon Plemont and Grosnez, and battered the rocks in a futile agony. A hoarse northeaster ranged across the tigers head in helpless fury, a night of awe to inland folk, and of danger to seafarers. To Guida, who was both of the sea and of the land, fearless as to either, it was neither terrible nor deso- late to he alone with the storm. Storm was but power unshackled, and power she loved and understood. She had lived so long in close commerce with storm and sea that something of their wild force had entered into her, and she was kin with them. To her, each wind was intimate as a friend, each rock and cave familiar as her hearthstone; and the ungovernable ocean spoke in terms intel- ligible. So heavy was the surf that now and then the spray of some foiled wave broke on the roof; but she only nodded at that, as though the sea were calling her to come forth, were tapping upon her rooftree in joyous greeting. But suddenly she started and bent her head as though listening to other sounds. It seemed as if her whole body were hearkening. Now she rose quickly to her feet, dropped her work upon the ta- ble near by, and rested herself against it, The Battle of the Strong. 515 still listening. She was sure she heard a horses hoofs. Turning swiftly, she drew the curtain of the bed before her sleeping child, and then stood still, wait- ing, waiting. Her hand went to her heart once, as though its fierce throbbing hurt her. Plainly as though she could look through these stone walls into clear sunlight, she saw some one dismount, and she heard a voice. The door of the hut was unlocked and unbarred. If she feared, it was easy to shoot the bolt and lock the door, to drop the bar across the little window, and be safe and secure. But no bodily fear possessed her; only that terror of the spirit when its great trial comes and it shrinks back, though the brain be of faultless courage. She waited. There came a knocking at the door. She did not move from where she stood. Come in, she said in a clear voice. She was composed and resolute now. As the latch clicked the door opened, and a cloaked figure entered, the shriek of the storm behind. The door closed. The intruder took a step forward; his hat came off; the cloak was loosed and dropped upon the floor. Guidas pre. monition had been right: it was Philip. She did not speak. A stone could have been no colder, as she stood in the light of the fire and the crasset, her won- derful hair burnished by the flames, her face still and strong, the eyes darkling, luminous. There was on her the dig- nity of the fearless, the pure in heart. Guida! Philip said, took a step nearer, and paused. He was haggard; he had the look of one who had come upon a desperate er- rand. When she did not answer, he went on pleadingly, Guida, wont you speak to me? Prince Philip dAvranche chooses a strange hour for his visit, she returned quietly. But see, he said hurriedly, what I have to say to you. He paused, as though to choose the thing he should say first. You can say nothing I need hear, she answered, looking him steadily in the eyes. Ab, Guida, he cried, disconcerted by her cold composure, for Gods sake, listen to me! To-night we have to face our fate. To-night you have to say Fate was faced long ago. I have nothing to say.~~ Guida, I have repented of all. I have come now only to speak honestly of the wrong I did you. I have come to Scorn sharpened her words, though she spoke calmly: You have forced yourself upon a womans presence, and at this hour! I chose the only hour possible, he said quickly. Ah, Guida, the past cannot be changed, but we have the present and the future still. I have not come to justify myself, but to find a way to atone No atonement is possible. You cannot deny me the right to confess to you that To you denial should not seem hard usage, she answered slowly, and con- fession should have witnesses if She paused suggestively. The impu- tation that of all men he had the least right to resent denial; that his present course was dishonest; that he was will- ing to justify her privately, though not publicly; that repentance should have been open to the world, it all stung him. He threw out his hands in a gesture of protest and pleading. As many witnesses as you will, but not now, not this hour, after all these years. Will you not at least listen to me, and then judge and act? Will you not hear me, Guida? She had not yet even stirred. Now that it had come, this scene was all so different from what she had ever ima- gined. But she spoke out of a merci- less understanding, an unchangeable hon 516 The Battle of the Strong. esty. Her words came clear and piti- less: If you will speak to the point and without a useless emotion, I will try to listen. Common kindness should have prevented this intrusion by you! Every word she said was like a whip- lash across his face. A devilish light leaped into his eyes, but it faded as quick- ly as it came. After to-night, to the public what you will, he repeated, with dogged per- sistence, but it was right we should speak alone to each other at least this once, before the open end. I did you wrong, yet I did not mean to ruin your life, and you should know that. I ought not to have married you secretly, I acknowledge that. But I loved you! She shook her head, and, with a smile of pitying disdain, he could so little see the real truth, his real misdemeanor, she said, Oh no, never, never! You were not capable of love; you never knew what it means. From the first you were too untrue ever to love a woman. There was a great fire of emotion; you saw shadows on the wall, and you fell in love with them. That was all. I tell you that I loved you, he an- swered, with passionate energy. But as you will. Let it be that it was not real love: at least it was all there was in me to give. I never meant to desert you. Ii never meant to disavow our marriage. I denied you, you will say. I did. In the light of what came after, it was dishonorable, I grant that; but I did it at a crisis and for the fulfillment of a great ambition, and as much for you as for me. Oh, bow little you know what true people think or feel! she exclaimed, with a kind of pain in her voice, and as much scorn, for she felt that such a na- ture could never quite realize its own enormities. Well, since it had gone so far, she would speak openly, though it hurt her sense of self-respect. She had hoped never to speak with him upon the past. Do you think that I or any good woman would have had place or power, been princess or duchess, at the price? What sort of mind have you? She looked him straight in the eyes. Put it in the clear light of right and wrong, it was knavery. You you talk of not meaning to do me harm, Monsieur le Prince! You were never capable of doing me good. It was not in you. From first to last you are untrue. Were it otherwise, were you not from first to last unworthy, would you have made a mock marriage it is no more with the Comtesse Chantavoine? INo matter what I said or what I did in an- ger or contempt of you, had you been an honest man you would not have made this mock marriage, and ruined another life. Marriage, alas! You have wronged the comtesse more deeply than you have wronged me. One day I shall be right- ed, but what can you say or do to right her wrongs? Her voice had now a piercing indignation and force. Yes, Philip dAvranche, it is as I say. The world turned against me because of you; I have been shamed and disgraced. For years I have suffered in silence. But I have waited without fear for the end. God is ~vith me to justify and to set right. He is stronger than fate or fortune. He has brought you to Jersey once more, to right my wrongs, mine and my childs. She saw his eyes flash to the little curtained bed. They both stood silent and still. He could hear the child breathing. His blood quickened. An impulse seized him. He took a step to- ward the bed as though to draw the curtain, but she quickly moved between. Never! she said in a low, stern tone; no touch of yours for my Guil- bert, for my son! Every minute of his life has been mine. He is mine, all mine, and so he shall remain. It was as if the outward action of life was suspended in them for a moment, and then came the battle of two strong The Battle of the Strong. 517 spirits: the struggle of fretful and in- dulged egotism, the impulse of a vigor- ous temperament, against a deep moral force, a high purity of mind and con- science, and the invincible love of the mother for the child. Time, bitterness, and power had hardened Philips mind, and his long-restrained emotions, break- ing loose now, made him a passionate and willful figure. His force lay in the very unruliness of his spirit, hers in the perfect command of her moods and emotions. Well equipped by the thoughts and sufferings of four long years, her spirit was trained to meet this onset with wisdom and understanding. She under- stood him, his nature, if not his deeds. They were like two armies watching each other across a narrow stream, be- tween one conflict and another. The only sounds in the room were the whirring of the fire in the chimney and the childs breathing. At last Philips intemperate self-will gave way. There was no withstanding that cold, still face, that unwavering eye. Only brutality could go further. The nobility of her nature, her inflexible straightforward- ness, came upon him with such force that his mood changed. It appeared to him once again as if all his world lay here before him. Dressed in molleton, with no adornment save the glow of a perfect health, she seemed at this moment the one being on earth worth living and earing for. What had he got for all the wrong he had done her? Nothing. Come what might, there was one thing that he could yet do, and even as the thought possessed him he spoke. Guida, he said, with rushing emo- tion, it is not too late. Forgive the past, the wrong of it, the shame of it. You are my wife; nothing can undo that. The other woman, she is not my wife. If we part and never meet again, she will suffer no more than she suffers to go on with me. She has never loved me, nor I her. Ambition did it all, and of ambition God knows I have had enough! Let me proclaim our mar- riage; let me come back to you. Then, happen what will, for the rest of our lives I will try to atone for the wrong I did you. I want you; I want our child. I want to win your love again. I cant wipe out what I have done, but I can put you right before the world, I can prove to you that I set you above place and ambition. If you shrink from doing it for me, do it he glanced toward the bed do it for our child. To-morrow, to-morrow it shall be, if you will forgive. To - morrow let us start again. She did not answer at once; but at last, unmoved, she said, Giving up place and ambition would prove nothing now. It is easy to repent when our pleasures have palled. I told you in a letter, four years ago, that your protests came too late. They are always too late. ~With a nature like yours nothing is sure or lasting; everything changes with the mood. It is different with me: I only speak what I truly mean. Believe me, for I tell you the truth, you are a man whom a woman could forget, but could never forgive. As a prince you are much better than as a plain man, for prin~es may do what other men may not. It is their way to take all, and give nothing. You should have been born a prince; then all your actions would have seemed natural. Yet now you must re- main a prince, for what you got at such a price to others you must pay for. You say you would come down from your high place, you would give up your worldly honors, for me. What mad- ness! You are not the kind of man with whom a woman could trust herself in the troubles and changes of life. If I would have naught of your honors and your duchy long ago, do you think I would now share a disgrace from which you could never rise ? For in my heart I feel that this remorse is but caprice. It is to-day; it may not will not be to-morrow. 518 The Battle of the Strong. You are wrong, you are wrong. I am honest with you now, he broke in. No, Philip dAvranche, she an- swered coldly, it is not in you to be honest. Your words have no ring of truth in my ears, for the note is the same that I heard once upon the Ecr6hos. I was a young girl then, and I believed; I am a woman now, and I should still disbelieve though all the world were on your side to tell me I was wrong. I tell you, her voice rose again; it seemed to catch the note of freedom and strength of the storm without, I tell you, I will still live as my heart and conscience prompt me. The course I have set for myself I will follow; the life I entered upon when my child was born I will not leave. No word you have said has made my heart beat fast- er. You and I can never have anything to say to each other in this life, beyond her voice changed, she paused be- yond one thing. Going to the bed where the child lay, she drew the cur- tain softly, and pointing she said, There is my child. I have set my life to the one task, to keep him to my- self, and yet to win for him the heritage of the dukedom of Bercy. You shall yet pay to hini the price of your wrong- doing. She drew back slightly, so that he could see the child lying with his rosy face half buried in the pillow, the little hand lying like a flower upon the cov- erlet. Once more, with a passionate exclama- tion, he made a step nearer to the child. No farther! she said in a voice of command, stepping between. When she saw the wild impulse in his face to thrust her aside, she added, It is only the shameless coward who strikes the dead! You had a wife, Guida dAvranche; but Guida dAvranche is dead. There only lives the mother of this child, Guida Landresse de Landresse. She drew herself up, and looked at him with scorn, almost with hatred. Had he touched her but she would rather pity than loathe! Her words roused all the devilry in him. The face of the child had sent him mad. By Heaven, I will have the child, I will have the child! he said harshly. You shall not treat me like a dog. You know well I would have kept you as my wife, but your narrow pride, your unjust anger, threw me over. You have wronged me. I tell you, you have wronged me, for you kept the secret of the child from me all these years! The whole world knew! she cried indignantly. I will break your pride! he said, incensed and unable to command him- self. Mark you, I will break your pride. And I will have my child, too! Establish to the world your right to him, she answered keenly. You, shall have the right, but the possession shall be mine. He was the picture of impotent anger and despair. It was the irony of pen- alty that the one person in the world who could really sting him was this un- acknowledged, almost unknown woman. She was the only human being who had power over him, who could shatter his egotism and resolve him into the com- mon elements of a base manhood. Of little avail his eloquence now! He had cajoled a sovereign dukedom out of an aged and fatuous prince; he had cajoled a wife, who yet was no wife, from among the highest of a royal court; he had cajoled success from fate by a valor informed with vanity and ambition; years ago, with eloquent arts he had ca- joled a young girl into a secret marriage. But he could no longer cajole the wo- man who was his one true wife. She knew him through and through. He was so wild with rage that he could almost have killed her, as she stood there, one hand stretched out as though to pro- tect the child, the other pointing to the door. Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 519 He seized his hat and cloak, and laid his hand upon the latch; then sudden- ly turned to her. A dark project came to him. He himself could not prevail with her, but he would reach her yet through the child! If the child were his, Guida would come to him. Remember, I will have the child! he said, his face black with evil purpose. She did not deign reply, but stood fearless and still, as, throwing open the door, he rushed out into the night. She listened until she heard his horses hoofs upon the rocky road of the upland. Then she went to the door, locked it and barred it. Turning, she ran to the bed, with a cry as of hungry love. Crushing the child to her bosom, she buried her face in his brown curls. My son, my own darling son! Gilbert Parker. (To be continued.) REMINISCENCES OF AN ASTRONOMER. III. WE spent most of the winter of 1870 71 in Berlin, patiently waiting for the end of the Franco-Prussian war, in order that I might rummage among the old manuscripts of the Paris observatory. Delaunay was then director of that insti- tution, having succeeded Leverrier when the emperor removed the latter from his position. I had for some time kept up an occasional correspondence with De-. launay, and while in England, the au- tumn before, had forwarded a message to him, through the Prussian lines, by the good offices of the London Legation and Mr. Washburn. He was therefore quite prepared for our arrivaL We took the first train which was likely to go through to Paris. The evacuation of a country by a hostile army is rather a slow process, so that the German troops were met everywhere on the road, even in France. They had left Paris just be- fore we arrived; but the French nation- al army was not there, the Communists having taken possession of the city as fast as the Germans withdrew. As we passed out of the station, the first object to strike our eves was a flaming poster addressed to Citoyens, and containing one of the manifestoes which the Commu- nist government was continually issuing. Of course we made an early call on Mr. Washburn. His career in Paris was one of the triumphs of diplomacy; he had cared for the interests of German subjects in Paris in such a way as to earn the warm recognition both of the em- peror and of Bismarck, and at the same time had kept on such good terms with the French as to be not less esteemed by them. He was surprised that we had chosen such a time to visit Paris ; but I told him the situation, the necessity of my early return home, and my desire to make a careful search in the records of the Paris observatory for observations made two centuries ago. He advised us to take up our quarters as near to the observatory as convenient, in order that we might not have to pass through the portions of the city which were likely to be the scenes of disturbance. We were received at the observatory with a warmth of welcome that might be expected to accompany the greeting of the first foreign visitor, after a siege of six months. Yet a tinge of sadness in the meeting was unavoidable. De- launay immediately began lamenting the condition of his poor ruined country, de

Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 519 He seized his hat and cloak, and laid his hand upon the latch; then sudden- ly turned to her. A dark project came to him. He himself could not prevail with her, but he would reach her yet through the child! If the child were his, Guida would come to him. Remember, I will have the child! he said, his face black with evil purpose. She did not deign reply, but stood fearless and still, as, throwing open the door, he rushed out into the night. She listened until she heard his horses hoofs upon the rocky road of the upland. Then she went to the door, locked it and barred it. Turning, she ran to the bed, with a cry as of hungry love. Crushing the child to her bosom, she buried her face in his brown curls. My son, my own darling son! Gilbert Parker. (To be continued.) REMINISCENCES OF AN ASTRONOMER. III. WE spent most of the winter of 1870 71 in Berlin, patiently waiting for the end of the Franco-Prussian war, in order that I might rummage among the old manuscripts of the Paris observatory. Delaunay was then director of that insti- tution, having succeeded Leverrier when the emperor removed the latter from his position. I had for some time kept up an occasional correspondence with De-. launay, and while in England, the au- tumn before, had forwarded a message to him, through the Prussian lines, by the good offices of the London Legation and Mr. Washburn. He was therefore quite prepared for our arrivaL We took the first train which was likely to go through to Paris. The evacuation of a country by a hostile army is rather a slow process, so that the German troops were met everywhere on the road, even in France. They had left Paris just be- fore we arrived; but the French nation- al army was not there, the Communists having taken possession of the city as fast as the Germans withdrew. As we passed out of the station, the first object to strike our eves was a flaming poster addressed to Citoyens, and containing one of the manifestoes which the Commu- nist government was continually issuing. Of course we made an early call on Mr. Washburn. His career in Paris was one of the triumphs of diplomacy; he had cared for the interests of German subjects in Paris in such a way as to earn the warm recognition both of the em- peror and of Bismarck, and at the same time had kept on such good terms with the French as to be not less esteemed by them. He was surprised that we had chosen such a time to visit Paris ; but I told him the situation, the necessity of my early return home, and my desire to make a careful search in the records of the Paris observatory for observations made two centuries ago. He advised us to take up our quarters as near to the observatory as convenient, in order that we might not have to pass through the portions of the city which were likely to be the scenes of disturbance. We were received at the observatory with a warmth of welcome that might be expected to accompany the greeting of the first foreign visitor, after a siege of six months. Yet a tinge of sadness in the meeting was unavoidable. De- launay immediately began lamenting the condition of his poor ruined country, de 520 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. spoiled of two of its provinces by a or- eign foe, condemned to pay an enormous subsidy in addition, and now the scene of an internal conflict the end of which no one could foresee. The old records I wished to consult were placed at my disposal, with full lib- erty not only to copy, but to publish anything of value I could find in them. The mine proved rich beyond the most sanguine expectation. After a little pro- specting, I found that the very observa- tions I wanted had been made in great numbers by the Paris astronomers, both at the observatory and at other points in the city. Some explanation of the work I was engaged in may not be devoid of interest, but it necessitates talking a little astronomy. Millions of stars, visible with large tele- scopes, are scattered over the heavens; tens of thousands are bright enough to be seen with small instruments, and sev- eral thousand are visible to any ordina- ry eye. The moon performs a monthly course around the heavens, at a distance from us which is very small compared with that of the stars; consequently, she often passes over a star, and of course hides it from view during the time re- quired for the passage. The great ma- jority of stars are so small that their light is obscured by the effulgence of the moon as the latter approaches them. But quite frequently the star passed over is so bright that the exact moment when the moon reaches it can be observed with the utmost precision. The star then dis- appears from view in an instant, as if its light were suddenly and absolutely ex- tinguished. This is called an occulta- tion. If the moment at which the dis- appearance takes place is observed, we know that at that instant the apparent angle between the centre of the moon and the star is equal to the moons semi-dia- meter. By the aid of a number of such observations, the path of the moon in the heavens, and the time at which she ar- rives at each point of the path, can be determined. From the tables of the moons motion, assuming them to be cor- rect, the time of each occultation, as seen from any known station, can be predict- ed. If the predicted and the observed moments agree, the tables are correct. If they do not, the discrepancy will en- able us to determine the error in the moons predicted position. In order that the determination may be of sufficient scientific precision, the time of the occul- tation must be known within one or two seconds; otherwise, we shall be in doubt how much of the discrepancy may be due to the error of the observation, and how much to the error of the tables. Occultations of some bright stars, such as Aldebaran and Antares, can be ob- served by the naked eye; and yet more easily can those of the planets be seen. It is therefore a curious historic fact that there is no certain record of an actual observation of this sort having been made until after the commencement of the sev- enteenth century. Even then the obser- vations were of little or no use, because astronomers could not determine their time with sufficient precision. It was not till after the middle of the century, when the telescope had been made part of astronomical instruments for finding the altitude of a heavenly body, and after the pendulum clock had been invented by lluyghens, that the time of an occul- tation could be fixed with the required exactness. Thus it happens that from 1640 to 1670 somewhat coarse observa- tions of the kind are available, and af- ter the latter epoch those made by the French astronomers become quite com- parable with the modern ones in preci- sion. And how, the reader may ask, did it happen that these observations were not published by the astronomers who made them? Why should they have lain un- used and forgotten for two hundred years? The answer to these questions is made plain enough by an examination of the records. The astronomers had no Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 521 idea of the possible usefulness and value of what they were recording. So far as we can infei~ from their work, they made the observations merely because an oc- cultation was an interesting thing to see; and they were men of sufficient scientific experience and training to have acquired the excellent habit of noting the time at which a phenomenon was observed. But they were generally satisfied with simply putting down the clock time. How they could have expected their successors to make any use of such a record, or whe- ther they had any expectations on the sub- ject, we cannot say with confidence. It will be readily understood that no clocks of the present time (much less those of two hundred years ago) run with such precision that the moment read from the clock is exact within one or two seconds. The modern astronomer does not pretend to keep his clock correct within less than a minute; he determines by observation how far it is wrong, on each date of ob- servation, and adds so much to the time given by the clock, or subtracts it, as the case may be, in order to get the correct moment of true time. In the case of the French astronomers, the clock would frequently be fifteen minutes or more in error, for the reason that they used ap- parent time, instead of mean time as we do. Thus when, as was often the case, the only record found was that, at a certain hour, minute, and second, by a certain clock, une 6toile se cache par la lune, a number of very difficult pro- blems were presented to the astronomer who was to make use of the observations two centuries afterward. First of all, he must find out what the error of the clock was at the designated hour, minute, and second; and for this purpose he must reduce the observations made by the ob- server in order to determine the error. But it was very clear that the observer did not expect any successor to take this trouble, and therefore did not supply him with any facilities for so doing. He did not even describe the particular instru ment with which the observations were made, but only wrote down certain fig- ures and symbols, of a more or less hieroglyphic character. It needed much comparison and examination to find out what sort of an instrument was used, how the observations were made, and how they should be utilized for the re- quired purpose. Generally the star which the moon hid was mentioned, but not in all cases. If it was not, the identification of the star was a puzzling problem. The only way to proceed was to calculate the apparent position which the centre of the moon must have held to an observer at the Paris observatory, at the particular hour and minute of the observation. A star map was then taken; the points of a pair of dividers were separated by the length of the moons radius, as it would appear on the scale of the map; one point of the dividers was put into the position of the moons centre on the map, and with the other a circle was drawn. This circle represented the outline of the moon, as it appeared to the observer at the Paris observatory, at the hour and minute in question, on a certain day in the seven- teenth century. The star should be found very near the circumference of the circle, and in nearly all cases a star was there. Of course all this could not be done on the spot. What had to be done was to find the observations, study their rela- tions and the method of making them, and copy everything that seemed neces- sary for working them up. This took some six weeks, but the material I car- ried away proved the greatest find I ever made. Three or four years were spent in making all the calculations I have de- scribed. Then it was found that seven- ty-five years were added, at a single step, to the period during which the history of the moons motion could be written. Previously, this history was supposed to commence with the observations of Brad- ley, at Greenwich, about 1750; now it was extended back to 1675, and with a 5~2 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. less degree of accuracy thirty years far- ther still. Hansens tables were found to deviate from the truth, in 1675 and subsequent years, to a surprising extent; but the cause of the deviation is not en- tirely unraveled even now. During the time I was doing this work, Paris was under the reign of the Com- mune and besieged by the national forces. The studies had to be made within hear- ing of the besieging guns; and I could sometimes go to a window and see flashes of artillery from one of the fortifications to the south. Nearly every day I took a walk through the town, occasionally as far as the Arc de Triomphe. The story of the Commune has been so often written that I cannot hope to add any- thing to it, so far as the main course of events is concerned. Looking back on a sojourn at so interesting a period, one cannot but feel that a golden opportuni- ty to make observations of historic valun was lost. The fact is, however, that I was prevented from making such obser- vations not only by my complete absorp- tion in my work, but by the consideration that, being in what might be described as a semi-official capacity, I did not want to get into any difficulty that would have compromised the position of an official visitor. I should not deem what we saw worthy of special mention, were it not that it materially modifies the impres- sions commonly given by writers on the history of the Commune. What an his- torian says may be quite true, so far as it goes, and yet may be so far from the whole truth as to give the reader an in- correct impression of the actual course of events. The violence and disease which prevail in the most civilized country in the world may be described in such terms as to give the impression of a barbarous community. The murder of the Arch- bishop of Paris and of the hostages show how desperate were the men who had seized power, yet the acts of these men constitute but a small part of the history of Paris during that critical period. What one writes at the time is free from the suspicion that may attach to statements not recorded till many years after the events to which they relate. The following extract from a letter which I wrote to a friend, the day after my ar- rival, may therefore not be devoid of in- terest DEAR CHARLIE, Here we are, on this slumbering volcano. Perhaps you will hear of the burst-up long before you get this. We have seen historic objects which fall not to the lot of every genera- tion, the barricades of the Paris streets. As we were walking out this morning, the pavement along one side of the street was torn up for some distance, and used to build a temporary fort. Said fort would be quite strong against musketry or the bayonet; but with heavy shot against it, I should think it would be far worse than nothing, for the flying stones would kill more than the balls. The streets are placarded at every turn with all sorts of inflammatory ap- peals, and general orders of the Comit6 Central or of the Commune. One of the first things I saw last night was a large placard beginning Citoyens! Among the orders is one forbidding any one from placarding any orders of the Versailles government, under the severest penal- ties; and another threatening with in- stant dismissal any official who shall re- cognize any order issuing from the said government. I must do all hands the justice to say that they are all very well behaved. There is nothing like a mob anywhere, so far as I can find. I consulted my map this morning, right alongside the barri- cade and in full view of the builders, without being molested, and wife and I walked through the insurrectionary dis- tricts without being troubled or seeing the slightest symptoms of disturbance. The stores are all open, and every one seems to be buying and selling as usual. In all the caf6s I have seen, the habitu6s Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 523 seem to be drinking their wine just as coolly as if they had nothing unusual on their minds. From this date to that of our depart- ure I saw nothing suggestive of violence within the limited range of my daily walks, which were mostly within the re- gion including the Arc de Triomphe, the H6tel de Yule, and the observatory; the latter being about half a mile south of the Luxembourg. The nearest approach to a mob that I ever noticed was a drill of young recruits of the National Guard, or a crowd in the court of the Louvre being harangued by an orator. With due allowance for the excitability of the French nature, the crowd was compara- tively as peaceable as that which we may see surrounding a gospel wagon in one of oua own cities. A drill-ground for the recruits happened to be selected opposite our first lodgings, beside the gates of the Luxembourg. This was so disagreeable that we were glad to accept an invitation from Delaunay to be his guests at the observatory, during the remainder of our stay. We had not been there long be- fore the spacious yard of the observatory was also used as a drill-ground; and yet later, two or three men were given billets de logement upon the observatory; but I should not have known of the latter oc- currence, had not Delaunay told me. I believe he bought the men off, much as one pays an organ-grinder to move on. In one of our walks we entered the bar- ricade around the H6tel de Yule, and were beginning to make a close exami- nation of a mitrailleuse, when a soldier (beg his pardon, un citoyen membre do 1a Garde Nationale) warned us away from the weapon. The densest crowd of Communists was along the Rue de Ri- you and in the region of the Colonne Yend6me, where some of the principal barricades were being erected. But even here, not only were the stores open as usual, but the military were doing their work in the midst of piles of trinkets cx posed for sale on the pavement by the shopwomen. The order to destroy the Column was issued before we left, but not executed until later. I have no rea- son to suppose that the shopwomen were any more concerned while the Column was being undermined than they were before. To complete the picture, not a policeman did we see in Paris; in fact, I was told that one of the first acts of the Commune had been to drive the po- lice away, so that not one dared to show himself. An interesting feature of the sad spec- tacle was the stream of proclamations poured forth by the Communist author- ities. They comprised not only decrees, but sensational stories of victories over the Versailles troops, denunciations of the Versailles government, and even elab- orate legal arguments, including a not intemperate discussion of the ethical ques- tion whether citizens who wei~ not ad- herents of the Commune should be enti- tled to the right of suffrage. The con- clusion was that they should not. The lack of humor on the part of the author- ities was shown by their commencing one of a rapid succession of battle stories with the words, Citoyens! Vous avez soif de la v6rit6! The most amusing decree I noticed ran thus Article I. All conscription is abol- ished. Article II. No troops shall hereafter be allowed in Paris, except the National Guard. Article III. Every citizen is a mem- ber of the National Guard. We were in daily expectation and hope of the capture of the city, little knowing by what scenes it would be ac- companied. It did not seem to my un- military eye that two or three batteries of artillery coild have any trouble in de- mohishing all the defenses, since a wall of paving-stones, four om five feet high, could hardly resist solid shot, or prove anything but a source of destruction to 524 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. those behind it if attacked by artillery. But the capture was not so easy a mat- ter as I had supposed. We took leave of our friend and host on May 5, three weeks before the final catastrophe, of which he wrote me a graphic description. As the barricades were stormed by MacMahon, the Com- munist line of retreat was through the region of the observatory. The walls of the building and of the yard were so massive that the place was occupied as a fort by the retreating forces, so that the situation of the few non-combatants who remained was extremely critical. They were exposed to the fire of their friends, the national troops, from with- out, while enraged men were threaten- ing their lives within. So hot was the fusillade that, going into the great dome after the battle, the astronomer could imagine all the constellations of the sky depicted by the bullet-holes. When re- treat became inevitable, the Communists tried to set the building on fire, but did not succeed. Then, ia their desperation, arrangements were made for blowing it up; but the most violent man among them was killed by a providential bullet, as he was on the point of doing his work. The remainder fled, the place was speed- ily occupied by the national troops, and the observatory with its precious con- tents was saved. The Academy of Sciences had met regularly through the entire Prussian siege. The legal quorum being three, this did not imply a large attendance. At the time of my visit a score of mem- bers were in the city. Aniong them were Elie de Beaumont, the geologist; Milne- Edwards, the zo~slogist; and Chevreul, the chemist. I was surprised to learn that the latter was in his eighty - fifth year; he seemed a man of seventy or less, mentally and physically. Yet we little thought that he would be the long- est-lived man of equal eminence that our age has known. When he died, in 1889, he was nearly one hundred and three years old. Born in 1786, he had lived through the whole French Revolution, and was seven years old at the time of the Terror. His scientific activity, from beginning to end, extended over some eighty years. When I saw him, he was still very indignant at a bombardment of the Jardin des Plantes by the Ger- man besiegers. He had made a formal statement of this outrage to the Acade- my of Sciences, in order that posterity might know what kind of men were be- sieging Paris. I suggested that the shells might have fallen in the place by acci- dent; but he maintained that it was not the case, and that the bombardment was intentional. But, said I, the Germans are a scientific nation; what object could they have had in injuring an establishment so purely scientific as yours ? He replied that some explosives had been stored in one corner of the place, and he supposed that the Germans had found it out. I did not pursue the ques- tion further. The most execrated man in the sci- entific circle at this time was Leverrier. He had left Paris before the Prussian siege began, and had not returned. De- launay assured me that this was a wise precaution on his part; for had he ven- tured into the city he would have been mobbed, or the Communists would have killed him as soon as he was caught. Just why the mob should have been so incensed against one whose life was spent in the serenest fields of astronomical sci- ence was not fully explained. The fact that he had been a senator, and was po- litically obnoxious, was looked on as an all sufficient indictment. Even members of the Academy could not suppress their detestation of him. He was charged with the most despicable meanness, not to say turpitude; and altogether, one taking the statements with no grains of salt would have thought him a character that no self - respecting man could asso- ciate with. Reminiscences of an Astronomer. 525 Four years later I was again in Paris, and attended a meeting of the Academy of Sciences. In the course of the session a rustle of attention spread over the room, as all eyes were turned upon a member who was entering rather late. Looking toward the door, I saw a man of sixty, a decided blond, with light chestnut hair turning gray, a slender form, a shaven face, rather pale and thin, but very at- tractive, and extremely intelligent fea- tures. As he passed to his seat hands were stretched out on all sides to greet him, and not until he sat down did the bustle caused by his entrance subside. He was evidently a notable. Who is that? I said to my neighbor. Leverrier. Delaunay was one of the most kindly and attractive men I ever met. We spent our evenings walking in the grounds of the observatory, discussing French sci- ence in all its aspects. His investiga- tion of the moons motion is one of the most extraordinary pieces of mathemat- ical work ever turned out by a single person. It fills two quarto volumes, and the reader who attempts to go through any part of the calculations will wonder how one man could do the work in a life- time. His habit was to commence early in the morning, and work with but lit- tle interruption until noon. He never worked in the evening, and generally retired at nine. I felt some qualms of conscience at the frequency with which I kept him up till nearly ten. I found it hopeless to expect that he would ever visit America, because he assured me that he did not dare to venture on the ocean. The only voyage he had ever made was across the Channel, to receive the gold medal of the Royal Astronomi- cal Society for his work. Two of his relatives, his father, and, I believe, his brother, had been drowned, and this fact gave him a horror of the water. He seemed to feel somewhat like the clients of the astrologists, who, having been told how they were to die, took every precau tion to preven& it. I remember, as a boy, reading a history of astrology, in which a great many cases of this sort were described; the peculiarity being that the very measures which the victim took to avoid the decree of fate became the engines that executed it. The death of Delaunay was not exactly a case of this kind, yet it could not but bring it to mind. He was at Cherbourg in the an- tuinn of 1872. As lie was walking on the beach with a relative, a couple of boatmen invited them to take a sail. Through what inducement Delaunay was led to forget his fears will never be known. All we know is that he and his friend entered the boat, that it was struck by a sudden squall when at some distance from the land, and that the whole party were drowned. There was no opposition to the reap- pointment of Leverrier to his old place. In fact, at the time of my visit, Delan- nay said that President Thiers was on terms of intimate friendship with the former director, and he thought it not at all unlikely that the latter would succeed in being restored. He kept the position with general approval till his death in 1877. The only occasion on which I met Leverrier was after the incident I have mentioned, in the Academy of Sciences. I had been told that he was incensed against me on account of an unfortunate remark I had made in speaking of his work which led to the discovery of Nep- tune. I had heard this in Germany as well as in France, yet the matter was so insignificant that I could hardly con- ceive of a man of philosophic mind tak- ing any notice of it. I determined to meet him, as I had met Hansen, with entire unconsciousness of offense. So I called on him at the observatory, and was received with ~courtesy, but no particular warmth. I suggested to him that now, as he had nearly completed his work on the tables of the planets, the question of the moons motion would be the next ob 526 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. ject worthy of his attention. He replied that it was too large a subject for him to take up. To Leverrier belongs the credit of having been the real organizer of the Paris observatory. His work there was not dissimilar to that of Airy at Green- wich; but he had a much more difficult task before him, and was less fitted to grapple with it. When founded by Louis XIV. the establishment was simply a place where astronomers of the Acade- my of Sciences could go to make their observations. There was no titular di- rector, every man working on his own account and in his own way. Cassini, an Italian by birth, was the best known of the astronomers, and, in consequence, posterity has very generally supposed he was the director. That he failed to se- cure that honor was not from any want of astuteness. It is related that the mon- arch once visited the observatory to see a newly discovered cornet through the telescope. He inquired in what direc- tion the comet was going to move. This was a question it was impossible to an- swer at the moment, because both obser- vations and computations would be ne- cessary before the orbit could be worked out. But Cassini reflected that the king would not look at the comet again, and would very soon forget what was told him; so he described its future path in the heavens quite at random, with en- tire confidence that any deviation of the actual motion from his prediction would never be noted by his royal patron. One of the results of this lack of or- ganization has been that the Paris ob- servatory does not hold an historic rank correspondent to the magnificence of the establishment. The go-as-you-please sys- tem works no better in a national obser- vatory than it would in a business insti- tution. Up to the end of the last cen- tury, the observations made there were too irregular to be of any special impor tance. To remedy this state of things, Arago was appointed director early in the present century; but he was more eminent in experimental physics than in astronomy, and had no great astronomi- cal problem to solve. The result was that while he did much to promote the reputation of the observatory in the di- rection of physical investigation, he did not organize any well-planned system of regular astronomical work. When Leverrier succeeded Arago, in 1853, he had an extremely difficult pro- blem before him. By a custom extend- ing through two centuries, each astrono- mer was to a large extent the master of his own work. Leverrier undertook to change all this in a twinkling, and, if reports are true, without much regard to the feelings of the astronomers. Those who refused to fall into line either re- signed or were driven away, and their places were filled with men willing to work under the direction of their chief. Unfortunately, the new director was not an adept either in practical astronomy or in the use of instruments. His meth- ods were far from being up to the times, and the work of the Paris observatory, under his direction, so far as observations of precision go, falls markedly behind that of Greenwich and Pulkova. But in recent times the institution has been marked by an energy and a pro- gressiveness that go far to atone for its former deficiencies. The successors of Leverrier have known where to draw the line between routine, on the one side, and initiative on the part of the assistants, on the other. Probably no other observa- tory in the world has so many able and well-trained young men, who work partly on their own account, and partly in a regular routine. In the direction of phy- sical astronomy the observatory is espe- cially active, and it may be expected in the future to justify its historic reputa- tion. Simon Neweomb. A Wit and a Seer. 527 A WIT AND A SEER. WE are often very glib and confident in our generalizations about the charac- teristics of the English race, not not- ing, perhaps not caring to note when the mood for generalization is upon us, how many individuals of that race es- cape our classification and show what qualities they please. Under which characteristic of that sturdy and for the most part matter-of-fact people do we place its extraordinary fecundity in every kind of individual genius? Is Shakespeare a typical product, or is he not, or has the race changed since the sunny and open times of great Eliza- beth? Is Milton more natural and na- tive in his kind? It is not a gay nation, nor yet is it saturnine, nor always sober. If it sometimes laugh, it is always in earnest. But it has produced some nay, a great many-- most excellent wits. No doubt this might be made a mys- tery, if we chose. The great majority of Englishmen, it is safe to say, look upon a jest with uneasiness, and feel to- ward an habitual jester a deep distrust. They do not wish the things they think about whipped into a syllabub, and they prefer to take counsel with grave and serious men, as if life were all coun- sel, and all counsel matter of logic and calculation, with never a laugh in it any- where. One recalls Sydney Smiths jest to his brother. We have reversed the law of nature, he said: you have risen by your gravity, and I have sunk by my levity. It deeply shocked Eng- lishmen to find a clergyman given to jesting. And then there was Charles Lamb. How uncomfortable he made most sober men! How many good men thought him light-headed, besotted, a sort of whimsical, irreverent, unbal- anced child, and what pleasure he took in making them think so! He is delivered of their company now. He is read and loved in this day which is not his own only by the juster, clearer spirits, bred by nature to be like those who wel- comed and relished his comradeship while he lived. This is a large and goodly company, and is likely always to be, God be praised; but it is not a re- presentative company of Englishmen, any more than Lambs immediate com- rades were in his own generation. You must not demand of the ordinary man, even of the ordinary reading man, that he know his Lamb; and nobody is in the least likely to think of Lamb as of a typical English mind. You do not feel about him as you would feel about a French wit: ah, what a race for the fine turn of the phrase and for the poi- gnant thrusts of a nice wit! And so Congreve and Sheridan seem to belong, of right, across the Channel, and you look to see English comedy, in all ordi- nary seasons, produce its laugh by comic incident rather than by subtle jest or apt rejoinder. The subject is a most alluring one, and yet very dangerous. Every pru- dent writer must avoid it. It defies analysis. No one can explain why the English race has brought forth so much genius of the lighter as well as of the graver sort, and enough readers to keep a wit in countenance. One must sim- ply say that the fact is so, and dis- creetly pass on. The only excuse I can give for having ventured upon so elusive a topic is that Walter Bagehot was a wit as well as a seer, one of the most original and audacious wits that the Eng- lish race has produced, and I wish to make a proper introduction to speak- ing of him. Moreover, being a wit, he seems himself to have perceived the in- congruity of his being an Englishman. I need not say, he wrote in his youth, I need not say that in real sound sta

A Wit and a Seer. 527 A WIT AND A SEER. WE are often very glib and confident in our generalizations about the charac- teristics of the English race, not not- ing, perhaps not caring to note when the mood for generalization is upon us, how many individuals of that race es- cape our classification and show what qualities they please. Under which characteristic of that sturdy and for the most part matter-of-fact people do we place its extraordinary fecundity in every kind of individual genius? Is Shakespeare a typical product, or is he not, or has the race changed since the sunny and open times of great Eliza- beth? Is Milton more natural and na- tive in his kind? It is not a gay nation, nor yet is it saturnine, nor always sober. If it sometimes laugh, it is always in earnest. But it has produced some nay, a great many-- most excellent wits. No doubt this might be made a mys- tery, if we chose. The great majority of Englishmen, it is safe to say, look upon a jest with uneasiness, and feel to- ward an habitual jester a deep distrust. They do not wish the things they think about whipped into a syllabub, and they prefer to take counsel with grave and serious men, as if life were all coun- sel, and all counsel matter of logic and calculation, with never a laugh in it any- where. One recalls Sydney Smiths jest to his brother. We have reversed the law of nature, he said: you have risen by your gravity, and I have sunk by my levity. It deeply shocked Eng- lishmen to find a clergyman given to jesting. And then there was Charles Lamb. How uncomfortable he made most sober men! How many good men thought him light-headed, besotted, a sort of whimsical, irreverent, unbal- anced child, and what pleasure he took in making them think so! He is delivered of their company now. He is read and loved in this day which is not his own only by the juster, clearer spirits, bred by nature to be like those who wel- comed and relished his comradeship while he lived. This is a large and goodly company, and is likely always to be, God be praised; but it is not a re- presentative company of Englishmen, any more than Lambs immediate com- rades were in his own generation. You must not demand of the ordinary man, even of the ordinary reading man, that he know his Lamb; and nobody is in the least likely to think of Lamb as of a typical English mind. You do not feel about him as you would feel about a French wit: ah, what a race for the fine turn of the phrase and for the poi- gnant thrusts of a nice wit! And so Congreve and Sheridan seem to belong, of right, across the Channel, and you look to see English comedy, in all ordi- nary seasons, produce its laugh by comic incident rather than by subtle jest or apt rejoinder. The subject is a most alluring one, and yet very dangerous. Every pru- dent writer must avoid it. It defies analysis. No one can explain why the English race has brought forth so much genius of the lighter as well as of the graver sort, and enough readers to keep a wit in countenance. One must sim- ply say that the fact is so, and dis- creetly pass on. The only excuse I can give for having ventured upon so elusive a topic is that Walter Bagehot was a wit as well as a seer, one of the most original and audacious wits that the Eng- lish race has produced, and I wish to make a proper introduction to speak- ing of him. Moreover, being a wit, he seems himself to have perceived the in- congruity of his being an Englishman. I need not say, he wrote in his youth, I need not say that in real sound sta 528 A Wit and a Seer. pidity the English people are unrivaled: you 11 hear more wit and better wit in an Irish street row than would keep Westminster Hall in humor for five weeks. Bagehot had no literary lineage be- hind him, nor anything very unusual in his bringing forth that would lead the historian of letters to expect him to be what he so delightfully turned out to be. Upon a plain street in the quiet little town of Langport, in the midst of Som- ersetshire, there stands a plain but broad and homelike house, with its threshold upon the very footway of the street; and here, in an upper room, Walter Bagehot was born, on the 3d of February, 1826. The house is the residence of the man- ager of the Somersetshire bank whose offices are but a few rods away upon the same street, where it turns about toward Glastonbury and Wells. This was the business to which Bagehot was born. His father, Thomas Watson Bagehot, was vice-president of the private bank- ing company which Mr. Samuel Stuckey had established there in Langport in the last century, and which had so prospered that its branches were after a while to be found in every considerable place in the county, which was, indeed, destined to become in our own day the largest pri- vate bank of issue in England. The Stuckeys are still the magnates of the little town, the owners of ample green acres that stretch away northward and broaden from the hill which the parish church crowns and adorns. Thomas Bagehot married a niece of Samuel Stuckey; but not before she had seen a good deal of the large world outside the sequestered town in which her great son was to be born. She had first married a Mr. Estlin, of Bristol; and her life and companionships in Bris- tol, that old city which had so teemed through more than one great age with commerce of the mind as well as with trade in the stuffs of the Indies and the ends of the earth, had enriched her live- ly mind not a little in the days when she was most susceptible. She was older than Mr. Bagebot by a goodly number of years, perhaps it would be ungal- lant to say how many, but she was not of the kind to grow old or stagnate, even if she had lived all her life in that quiet house in Langport; and her son, Walter Bagehot, took a good measure of genius by inheritance from her. Somersetshire is a sunny county, and lies in the midst of that brightest part of England which is thrust with its ris- ing coasts southward toward the heart of the Atlantic; but many dull wits are born thereabouts. For all there is so much poetry in the soft air, with its sun- lit mists and its fine mysterious dis- tances, looking toward the sea, it has not bred many poets. Its levels of in- telligence have in all ordinary seasons been nearly as fiat and featureless as its own fat interior meadows, which used now and again to hold a flood of waters like the sea, with only here and there an island-hill, like that of Avalon, where monks built their abbey of Glastonbury. It is pleasant to see Langport also perched upon one of these infrequent hills, a landmark for the traveler, and to think that it was from this haven Walter Bagehot set out to make his bold voyage into the world of thought, that high-spirited, buoyant, subtle, specula- tive nature, in which the imaginative qualities were even more remarkable than the judgment, as one of his com- rades and fellow voyagers has said, a man of a gay and dashing humor which was the life of every conversation in which he joined, and of a vi- sionary nature to which the commonest things often seemed the most marvelous, and the marvelous things the most in- trinsically probable. This was the man who was to set the facts of English poli- tics in their true light, and not the facts of English politics only, but also many of the facts of the worlds political development as well; for it is in the vision A Wit and a Seer. 529 of such men that facts appear for what they are, are seen to consist not sim- ply of what is in them, but also, and even more, of what is behind them and about them, their setting and atmo- sphere, and are seen not to be intelli- gible without these. No doubt it was a signal advantage to have had a very bril- liant woman for his mother, as Bagehot had, a woman who had come to the ma- turity of her charming gifts; and to have had so sterling a man as Thomas Bagehot for his father, a man of cultivated power, and of great good sense and bal- ance of judgment. But brilliant women are not always generous in giving wit to their sons, and the best of men have be- got fools. Neither Somersetshire air nor any certain custom of mental inheritance can explain Walter Bagehot. We must simply accept him as part of the largess of Providence to a race singularly en- riched with genius. Nor is the breeding of the boy much to our purpose. He was not made by his breeding. His mind chose its own training, as such a mind always does, and made its own world of thought in the days of his formal schooling in Bris- tol and at University College, London, whither he went because his father would not have him stomach the reli- gious tests then imposed at Oxford and Cambridge. Schools and colleges are admirable for drill and discipline of the mind, and give many an ordinary man his indispensable equipment for success; but that is not their use for the excep- tional mind of genius. Such a niind does not accept their drill. It takes only their atmosphere, needs only the companionships they afford, uses them with a sort of sovereign selection of what it desires. Bagehot has given us his own statement of the habit of such min(ls, in an article on Oxford Reform which he published in the Prospective Review for August, 1852. In youth, he says, the real plastic energy is not in tutors or lectures or in books got up, vot~. Lxxxii. NO. 492. 34 but in Wordsworth and Shelley; in the books that all read because all like; in what all talk of because all are interest- ed; in the argumentative walk or dispu- tatious lounge; in the impact of young thought upon young thought, of fresh thought on fresh thought, of hot thought on hot thought; in mirth and refutation, in ridicule and laughter: for these are the free play of the natural mind, and these cannot be got without a college. These cannot be got without a college! Here is food for reflection for those who look to become men of thought by dili- gence in attending lectures and thorough- ness in getting up examinations! No doubt Bagehot was writing thus out of his own experience, as Mr. R. H. Hutton says. Such minds make their own laws and ways of life, and the rest of us, being duller, must take care not to use prescriptions which do not suit our case. Mr. Hutton, who was Bagehots college mate and lifelong friend, tells us that youth, buoyancy, vivacity, velo- city of thought, were of the essence of the impression he made. Such arro- gance as he seemed to have in early life was the arrogance as much of enjoy. ment as of detachment of mind; the in- souciance of the old Cavalier as much, at least, as the calm of a mind not acces- sible to the contagion of social feelings. He always talked, in youth, of his spir- its as inconveniently high; and once wrote to nie that he did not think they were quite as boysterous as they had been, and that his fellow creatures were not sorry for the abatement; neverthe- less, he added, I am quite fat, gross, and ruddy. He was indeed excessively fond of hunting, vaulting, and almost all muscular effort; so that his life would be wholly misconceived by any one who should picture his mind as a vigi- lantly observant, far-away intelligence, such as Hawthornes, for example. He liked to be in the thick of the m~l~e when talk grew warm, though he was never so absorbed in it as not t& keep 530 A Wit and a Seer. his mind cool. He liked to talk, in- deed, even when there was no one to talk to but himself; for there are elder- ly men still to be found at the bank in Langport who remember the overflow- ing vivacity of the banks one-time di- rector, and recall how he could oftentimes be overheard talking to himself in his characteristic eager fashion, as he paced all alone up and down the directors room, in the intervals of business. He was a sore puzzle to the sober citizens of his native town, who did not know any means of calculating what this tall, athletic, stirring gentleman would be at next, or what he would say in his whim- sical humor. He was asked once (and only once) to read a lecture to the liter- ary society of Langport. His subject was Reading, and he advised his amazed hearers, amongst other things, to read all of the Times newspaper every day, the advertisements included. They did not see the jest, and deemed the advice quite as incomprehensible as the man himself! He was as careless and as whimsical, it would seem, as Lamb him- self with regard to the impression he made on most sorts and conditions of men. London, it turned out, and not Som- ersetshire, was to be Bagehots chief place of residence. Somersetshire was always his home, but London was his place of work. As usual, the provinces were to enrich the capital. Though he first studied law for a little, Bagehot eventually turned to the practical busi- ness affairs which have for so many gen- erations seemed the chief and most ab- sorbing interest of all Englishmen. It was, of course, the intellectual side of business that really engaged him, how- ever. He was something more than a Somersetshire banker. He became ed- itor of the London Economist, and brought questions of finance to the light in editorials which clarified knowledge and steadied prediction in such fashion as made him the admiration of the Street. The City had never before seen its business set forth with such lucidity and mastery. London had taught Bage- hot a great deal in the days when he was an undergraduate in University Col- lege, and he had roamed its streets, haunted by all the memories of deeds and of letters of which the place was so full. Now he learned by a new sort of companionship, a companionship with the men who were the living forces of the time in business and in politics. It is not easy to overestimate the influ- ence of a great capital upon affairs, or the influence of affairs upon a great cap- ital. London, like Paris, is so much more than a political capital. No pub- lic man can remain long at the heart of that vast, abounding life, or mix even for a little in that various society, where men of every sort of thought and pow- er and experience and habit of reason throng and speak their minds, without in some way receiving a subtle and pro- found instruction in affairs. And the men of the city are themselves, in turn, instructed by their acquaintance at short range with the processes and the forces which control in the policy and business of the state. Such a capital as London is a huge intellectual clearing-house, and men get out of it, as it were, the net balances of the nations needs and thoughts. Bagehot both took and gave a great deal in such a place. His mind was sin- gularly fitted to understand London, and every complex group of men and inter- ests. He had the social imagination that Burke had, and Carlyle, that every successful student of affairs must have, if lie would scratch but a little beneath the surface or lift the mystery from any transaction whatever. For minds with this gift of sight there is a quick way opened to the henrt of things. Their acquaintance with any individual man is but a detail in their acquaintance with men; and it is noteworthy that, though they gain in mastery, they do not gain A Wit and a Seer. in insight by their contact with men and with the actual business of the world. Burke saw as clearly and with as certain a penetration when he was in his twenties as when he had lived his life out. The years enriched his knowledge with de- tails, and every added experience brought him some concrete matter to ground his thought upon; but the mastery of these things was in him from the first. Bagehot showed the same precocious power, and saw as clearly at twenty-five as at fifty, though he did not see as much or hold his judgment at so nice a balance. There is full evidence of this in the seven remarkable letters on the third Napoleons Coup dEtat, which he wrote from Paris while he was yet a law student. They are evidently the letters of a young man. Their style goes at a spanking, reckless gait that no older mind would have dared attempt or could have kept its breath at. Their satirical humor has a quick sting in it; their judgments are offhand and unconscion- ably confident; their crying heresies in matters of politics are calculated to shock English nerves very painfully. They are aggressive and a bit arrogant. But their extravagance is superficial. At heart they are sound, and even wise. The man s vision for affairs has come to him already. He sees that Frenchmen are not Englishmen, and are not to be judged, or very much aided either, by English standards in affairs. You shall not elsewhere learn so well what it was that happened in France in the early fifties, or why it happened, and could hardly have been staved off or avoided. You have asked me to tell you what I think of French affairs, he writes. I shall be pleased to do so; but I ought perhaps to begin by cautioning you against believing, or too much heed- ing, what I say. It is so he begins, with a shrewd suspicion, no doubt, that the warning is quite unnecessary. For he was writing to the editor of The In- quirer, a journal but just established for 531 the enlightenment of Unitarian dissenters, a people Bagehot had reason to know, and could not hope to win either to the matter or to the manner of his thought. They were sure to think the one radically misleading and erroneous, and the other unpardonably flippant. But it was the better sport on that account to write for their amazement. He undertook nothing less bold than a justification of what Louis Napoleon had done in fiat dero- gation and defiance of the constitutional liberties of France. He set himself to show an English audience, who he knew would decline to believe it, how desperate a crisis had been averted, how effectual the strong remedy had been, and how expedient at least a temporary dicta- torship had become. Whatever other deficiencies Louis Napoleon may have, he said, he has one excellent ad~van- tage over other French statesmen: he has never been a professor, nor a Jour- nalist, nor a promising barrister, nor by taste a litt~rateur. He has not confused himself with history; be does not think in leading articles, in long speeches, or in agreeable essays. He has very good heels to his boots, and the French just want treading down, and nothing else, calm, cruel, businesslike oppression, to take the dogmatic conceit out of their heads. The spirit of generalization which, John Mill tells us, honorably distin- guishes the French mind has come to this, that every Parisian wants his head tapped in order to get the formulmn and non- sense out of it. . . . So I am for any carnivorous government. Conscious of his audacity and of what will be said of such sentiments among the grave readers of The Inquirer, he hastens in his sec- ond letter to make his real position clear. For the sake of the women who may be led astray, he laughs, affecting to quote St. Athanasius, I will this very moment explain my sentiments. He is sober enough when it comes to serious explanation of the difficult mat- ter. Laughing satire and boyish gibe 532 A Wit and a Seer. are put aside, and a thoughtful phi- losophy of politics Burkes as well as his own comes at once to the surface, in sentences admirably calm and wise. In justifying Napoleon, he says plainly and at the outset, he is speaking only of France and of the critical circumstances of the year 1852. The first duty of society, he declares, is the preserva- tion of society. By the sound work of old-fashioned generations, by the singu- lar painstaking of the slumberers in churchyards, by dull care, by stupid in- dustry, a certain social fabric somehow exists; people contrive to go out to their work, and to find work to employ them actually until the evening; body and soul are kept together, and this is what mankind have to show for their six thou- sand years of toil and trouble. You can- not better the living by political change, he maintains, unless you can contrive to hold change to a slow and sober pace, quiet, almost insensible, like that of the evolutions of husbanding ~growth. If you cannot do that, perhaps it is better to hold steadily to the old present ways of life, under a strong, unshaken, unques- tioned government, capable of guidance and command. Burke first taught the world at large, he reminds us, that politics are made of time and place; that institutions are shifting things, to be tried by and adjusted to the shifting con- ditions of a mutable world; that in fact politics are but a piece of business, to be determined in every case by the exact exigencies of that case, in plain Eng- lish, by sense and circumstances. This was a great step in political philosophy, though it now seems the events of 1848 have taught thinking persons (I fancy) further: they have enabled us to see that of all these circumstances so affect- ing political problems, by far and out of all question the most important is na- tional character. I need not prove to you that the French have a national character, he goes on, nor need I try your patience with a likeness of it: I have only to examine whether it be a fit basis for national freedom. I fear you will laugh when I tell you what I conceive to be about the most essential mental quality for a free people whose liberty is to be progressive, permanent, and on a large scale: it is much stupid- ity. I see you are surprised; you are going to say to me, as Socrates did to Polus, My young friend, of course you are right; hut will you explain what you mean? As yet you are not intelligible. The explanation is easily made, and with convincing force. He means that only a race of steady, patient, unimaginative habits of thought can abide steadfast in the conservative and businesslike con- duct of government, and he sees the French to be what Tocqueville had called them, a nation apt to conceive a great design, but unable to persist in its pur- suit, impatient after a single effort, swayed by sensations, and not by prin- ciples, her instincts better than her morality. As people of large round- about common sense will as a rule some- how get on in life, says Bagehot, no matter what their circumstances or their fortune, so a nation which applies good judgment, forbearance, a rational and compromising habit, to the management of free institutions will certainly suc- ceed; while the more eminently gifted national character will be but a source and germ of endless and disastrous fail- ure, if, with whatever other eminent qualities, it be deficient in these plain, solid, and essential requisites. It is no doubt whimsical to call large round- about common sense, good judgment, and rational forbearance stupidity; but he means, of course, that those who possess these solid practical gifts usual- ly lack that quick, inventive originality and versatility in resource which we are apt to think characteristic of the crea- tive mind. The essence of the French character, he explains, is a certain mo- bility; that is, a certain excessive sen- sibility to present impressions, which is A Wit and a Seer. 533 sometimes levity, for it issues in a postponement of seemingly fixed prin- ciples to a momentary temptation or a transient whim; sometimes impatience, as leading to an exaggerated sense of existing evils; often excitement, a to- tal absorption in existing emotion; of- tener inconsistency, the sacrifice of old habits to present emergencies, and these are qualities which, however engaging upon occasion, he is certainly right in regarding as a very serious, if not fatal, impediment to success in self- government. A real Frenchman, he exclaims, cant be stupid: esprit is his essence; wit is to him as water, bons- mots as bonsbons. And yet stupidity, as he prefers to call it, is, he rightly thinks, natures favorite resource for preserving steadiness of conduct and consistency of opinion: it enforces con- centration ; people who learn slowly learn only what they must. This, which reads like the moral of an old man, is what Bagehot saw at twenty- six; and he was able, though a youth and in the midst of misleading Paris, to write quick sentences of political analy- sis which were fit to serve both as his- tory and as prophecy. If you have to deal with a mobile, a clever, a versatile, an intellectual, a dogmatic nation, he says, inevitably and by necessary con- sequence you will have conflicting sys- tems; every man speaking his own words, and giving his own suffrage to what seems good in his own eyes; many holding to-day what they will regret to- morrow; a crowd of crotchety notions and a heavy percentage of philosophical nonsense; a great opportunity for subtle stratagem and intriguing selfishness; a miserable division among the friends of tranquillity, and a great power thrown into the hands of those who, though of- ten with the very best intentions, are practically and in matter of fact opposed both to society and civilization. And moreover, beside minor inconveniences and lesser hardships, you will indisput ably have periodically say three or four times in fifty years a great crisis: the public mind much excited; the peo- ple in the streets swaying to and fro with the breath of every breeze; the dis- contented ouvriers meeting in a hundred knots, discussing their real sufferings and their imagined grievances with lean features and angry gesticulations; the parliament all the while in permanence very ably and eloquently expounding the whole subject, one man proposing this scheme, and another that; the Opposi- tion expecting to oust the ministers and ride in on the popular commotion, the ministers fearing to take the odium of severe or adequate repressive measures, lest they should lose their salary, their places, and their majority; finally a great crash, a disgusted people overwhelmed by revolutionary violence, or seeking a precarious, a pernicious, but after all a precious protection from the bayonets of military despotism. Could you wish a better analysis of the affairs of that clever, volatile people, and can you as- cribe it wholly to his youth that Bagehot should in 1852 have deliberately con- cluded that the first condition of good government in France was a really strong, a reputedly strong, a continually strong executive power? Henry Crabb Robinson, that amiable man of letters and staunch partisan of constitutional liberty, could never recall a name, especially in his old age, we are told; and in conversation with Mr. R. H. Hutton he used to refer to Bagehot by description as that friend of yours, you know whom I mean, you rascal! who wrote those abominable, those dis- graceful letters on the Coup dEtat I did not forgive him for years after! We must of course admit, with Mr. Hut- ton, that the letters were airy, and even flippant, on a very grave subject; but their airiness and flippancy were not of the substance: they were but a trick of youth, the playful exuberance of a lusty strength, the colt was feeling his 534 A Wit and a Seer. oats. What the critic must note is that there is here already the vivid and effectual style that runs like a light through everything that Bagehot ever wrote. Mr. Hutton tells us that Bage- hot used to declare that his early style affected him like the joggling of a cart without springs over a very rough road; and no doubt the writing of his maturer years does often go at a more even and placid pace. But you shall not find in him anywhere the measured phrases of the formal, periodic writer, or any studied grace or cadence. The style has always, like the thought, a quick stroke, an intermittent sparkle, a jetlike play, as if it were a bit of sus- tained talk, and recorded, not so much a course of reasoning, as the successive, spontaneous impressions of a mind alert and quick of sight. It is singular to find him preferring the dull English way of writing edito- rials to the sprightly, pointed paragraphs of the French journals, as he does in the extraordinary sixth letter on the Coup dEtat, in which he hits off the charac- teristics of the French press with a pcint and truth I do not know where to match elsewhere. We are apt, upon a super- ficial impression, to think of Bagehot as himself touched with a certain French quality, and to think of his own writing as we hear him exclaim of the French journalists, How well these fellows write! - - . How clear, how acute, how clever, how perspicuous! But he tells us with what relief and satisfaction, af- ter running for a little with these vol- uble and witty fellows, he opened the quiet columns of an English paper. As long walking in picture galleries makes you appreciate a mere wall, he says, so I felt that I understood for the first time that really dullness had its inter- est. There was no toil, no sharp theo- ry, no pointed expression, no fatiguing brilliancy. He quotes an English judge as having said, I like to hear a French- man talk: he strikes a light, but what light he will strike it is impossible to predict; I think he does nt know him- self; and he frankly confesses his own distaste for such irresponsible brightness. Suppose, if you only can, he cries, a House of Commons all Disraclis! It would be what M. Proudhon said of some French Assemblies, a box of matches. You cannot be with the man long without seeing that, for all he is so witty, and as quick as a Frenchman at making a point, there is really no Gallic blood in the matter. His processes of thought are as careful as his style is rapid and his wit reckless. In 1852, the very year in which the letters on the Coup dEtat were written, the period of Bagehots preparation in the law w~s completed, and he was in due course called to the bar. But he decided not to enter upon the practice. He had read law with a zest for its sys- tematic ways and its sharp and definite analytical processes, and with an unusu- al appreciation, no doubt, of the light of businesslike interpretation which it ap- plies to the various undertakings and re- lationships of society; but he dreaded the hot wigs, the unventilated courts, and the night drudgery which the active practitioner would have to endure, and betook himself instead to the less confin- ing occupations of business. His father was interested in large commercial un- dertakings, and was a ship-owner as well as a banker, and his son found, in asso- ciation with him, an active enough life, full of travel and of important er- rands here and there, upon which he could spend his energies with not a little satisfaction. We are not apt to think of commerce and banking as furnishing matter to satisfy such a mind as Bage- hots; but business is just as dull, and just as interesting, as you make it. Bagehot always maintained that busi- ness is much more amusing than plea- sure; and of course it is, if you have mind enough to appreciate it upon all its sides and in all its bearings upon the A Wit and a Seer. 535 life of society. Give a mind like Bage- hots such necessary stuff of life to work upon as is to be found in the commerce of a great nation, and it will at once in- vest it with the dignity and the charm of a great theme of speculation and study. Bagehots contact with business made him a great economist, an econ- omist sure of his premises, and big- minded and scrupulously careful and guarded in respect of his conclusions. Mr. Hutton tells us that Bagehot was always absent - minded about minutiie, and himself admitted that he never could add up. He was obliged to leave details to his assistants and sub- ordinates. But such has often been the singular failing of men who could never- theless reason upon details in the mass with an unexampled certainty and pow- er. Bagehot turned always, it would seem as if by instinct, to the larger as- pects of every matter he was called upon to handle; and had, no doubt, that sort of imagination for enterprise which has been characteristic of great business men (as of great soldiers and statesmen) in all generations. Such men can put together colossal fortunes; but Bag~ hots career did not lead him that way. The literary instinct was more deep- seated and radical in him thaa the money-making, and he found his right place as a man of business when he be- came editor of the London Economist. He did not long keep to Langport. His marriage, in 1858, brought him to the characteristic part of his career. His mother had urged him some time before to marry, but he had put her off with his customary banter. A mans mo- ther is his misfortune, he had said, but his wife is his fault. Whether delay brought wisdom or not (when a man of genius gets a wife to his mind and need it is apt to be mere largess of Providence), certain it is that his marriage endowed him with happiness for the rest of his life, and introduced him to a new and more fruitful use of his gifts. He married the eldest daughter of the Right Honorable James Wilson, who had founded the Economist, and whose death, two years later, in India, in the service of the government, left Bagehot, at thirty-four, to conduct alone the great weekly which his genius was to lift to a yet higher place of influence. Mr. Hutton believes that it was Bage- hots connection with the inner world of politics in London to which his marriage gave him entrance that enabled him to write his great works of political in- terpretation; for he was undoubtedly the first man to strip the English con- stitution of its literary theory, and show it to the world as men of affairs knew it and used it. Mr. Hutton was Mr. Bagehots lifelong intimate, and one hesitates to question his judgment in such a matter; but it may at least be said that it can in this case be established only by doubtful inference, even though uttered by a companion and friend. It is not necessary for such a mind as Bagehots to have direct experience of affairs, or personal intercourse with the men who conduct them, in order to com- prehend either the make-up of politics or the intimate forces of action. A hint is enough. Insight and inspiration do the rest. The gift of imaginative in- sight in respect of affairs carries always with it a subtle, unconscious power of construction which suffers not so much as the temptation to invent, and which is equally free from taint of abstract or fanciful inference. Somehow, no man can say by what curious secret process or exquisite delicacy and certainty of in- timation, it reconstructs life after the irregular patterns affected by nature herself, and will build you the reality out of mere inference. Bagehot may have been quickened and assured by an intimate and first-hand knowledge of men and methods, but it seems like mis- taking the character of his genius to say that he could not have done without this actual sight of concrete cases and 536 A Wit and a Seer. these personal instances of motive and action. The rest of his work justifies the belief that he could have seen with- out handling. The power and the character of his imagination are proved by the extraor- dinary range it took. Most of the liter- ary studies in which he has given us so memorable a taste of his quality as a critic and all-round man of letters were written before his marriage, between his twenty-sixth and his thirty-second years, the most extraordinary of them all, perhaps, the essay on Shakespeare the Man, in 1853, when he was but twen- ty-seven; and there is everywhere to be found in those studies a man whose in- sight into life was easy, universal, and almost unerring; and yet the centre of life for him was quiet Langport in far Somersetshire. His fame as a political thinker was made later, when he was more mature, and his imagination had been trained to its functions by his wide travels in the high company of the men of genius of whom he had written. Variety was his taste, and versatility his power, as he said of Brougham; and the variety of his taste and the ver- satility of his power showed in what he wrote of economy and of institutions no less than in what he wrote of individual men and books. In his English Constitu- tion, which he published in 1867, he gave an account of the actual workings of par- liamentary government, so lucid, so wit- ty, so complete, and for all so concise and without delay about details (which seemed in its clear air to reveal them- selves without comment), that it made itself instantly and once for all a part of every mans thinking in that matter. Everybody saw what he intended them to see: that the English government is a government shaped and conducted by a committee of the House of Commons, called her Majestys ministers; that the throne serves only to steady the ad- ministration of the government, to bold the veneration and imagination of the people; and that the House of Lords is only, at most, a revising and delaying chamber. The book is now a classic. Two years later (1869) he turned to a broader field of thought in his Physics and Politics, in which he sought to ap- ply the principles of heredity and natu- ral selection to the development of soci- ety, showing how political organization was first hardened by custom; then al- tered and even revolutionized by e.hanges of environment, and by the struggle for existence between banded groups of men; and finally given its nice adapta- tions to a growing civilization by the subtle, transmuting processes of an age of discussion. There are passages in this little volume which stimulate the thought more than whole treatises writ- ten by those who have no imagination whereby to revive the image of older ages of the world. Here, for example, is his striking comment upon the nations which, like the Chinese and the Per- sian, have stood still the long centuries through, caught and held fast, as he puts it, beneath a cake of antique custom: No one will ever comprehend the arrest- ed civilizations unless he sees the strict dilemma of early society. Either men had no law at all, and lived in confused tribes hardly hanging together, or they had to obtain a fixed law by processes of incredible difficulty; those who sur- mounted that difficulty soon destroyed all those that lay in their way who did not, and then they themselves were caught in their own yoke. The custom- ary discipline, which could only be im- posed on any early men by terrible sanc- tions, continued with those sanctions, and killed out of the whole society propen- sities to variation which are the princi- ple of progress. Experience shows how incredibly difficult it is to get men really to encourage the principle of original- ity. There is here the same thesis his letters on the Coup dEtat had advanced, with a sort of boyish audacity, several years before. This is the philosophy of A Wit and a Seer. 537 dullness. No nation, while it is form- ing, hardening its sinews, acquiring its habits of order, can afford to encourage originality. It must insist upon a rigid discipline and subordination. And even after it has formed its habits of order, it cannot afford to have too much origi- nality, or to relax its fibre by too rapid change, cannot afford to be as volatile as the French. Progress is devoutly to be wished, and discussion is its instru- ment, the opening of the mind; those nations are the great nations of the mod- ern world which have dominated the European stage, where there is move- inent, and the plot advances from ordered change to change. But conservatism and order must even yet be preferred to change, and the nations which do not think too fast are the nations which ad- vance most rapidly. Bagehot speaks somewhere of the settled calm by which the world is best administered. Bagehots thought is not often con- structive. Its business is generally ana- lysis, interpretation. But in Physics and Politics it is distinctly creative and arch- itectonic. It is always his habit to go at once to the concrete reality of a sub- ject, lingering scarcely a moment upon its conventionalities: he sees always with his own eyes, never with anothers; and even analysis takes from him a cer- tain creative touch. The object of his thought is so vividly displayed that you seem to see all of it, instead of only some of it. But here, in speaking of ages past and gone, his object is reconstruction, and that direct touch of his imagination makes what he says seem like the report of an eye-witness. You know, after read- ing this book, what an investigator the trained understanding is, a sort of ori- ginal authority in itself. Nor is his hu- mor gone or exiled from these solemn regions of thought. There is an inter- mittent touch of it even in what he says of the political force of religion. Those kinds of morals and that kind of religion which tend to make the firmest and most effectual character, he explains, are sure to prevail in every struggle for existence between organized groups or nations of men, all else being the same; the creeds or systems that conduce to a soft, limp mind tend to perish, except some hard extrinsic force keep them alive. Thus Epicureanism never pro- spered at Rome, but Stoicism did; the stiff, serious character of the great pre- vailing nation was attracted by what seemed a confirming creed, and deterred by what looked like a relaxing creed. The inspiriting doctrines fell upon the ardent character, and so confirmed its energy. Strong beliefs win strong men, and then make them stronger. Such is no doubt one cause why Monotheism tends to prevail over Polytheism; it produces a higher, steadier character, calmed and concentrated by a great sin- gle object; it is not confused by com- peting rites, or distracted by miscella- neous deities. Mr. Carlyle has taught the present generation many lessons, and one of these is that God-fearing ar- mies are the best armies. Before his time people laughed at Cromwells say- ing, Trust God, and keep your powder dry. But we now know that the trust was of as much use as the powder, if not of more. That high concentration of steady feeling makes men dare every- thing and do anything. Is it a misuse of the word to say that a quiet, serious sort of humor lurks amidst these sen- tences, and once and again peeps out at you with solemn eyes? And there are bold, unconventional sallies of wit in the man as there were in the boy. Take, for example, what he said of one of the qualities which seemed to him very no- ticeable in that extraordinary and very uncomfortable man, Lord Broughain. There is a last quality which is difficult to describe in the language of books, but which Lord Brougham excels in, and which has perhaps been of more value to him than all his other qualities put together. In the speech of ordinary men 538 A Wit and a Seer. it is called devil; persons instructed in the German language call it the D~nmonic element. . . . It is most easily explained by physiognomy. There is a glare in some mens eyes which seems to say, Beware! I am dangerous; noli me tangere. Lord Broughams face had this. A mischievous excitability is the most obvious expression of it. If he were a horse, nobody would buy him; with that eye no one could answer for his temper. With what apparent irreverence, too, he opens his chapter on the Monarchy, in his English Constitution! The use of the Queen in a dignified capacity, he begins, is incalculable. . . . Most people, when they read that the Queen walked on the slopes at Windsor, that the Prince of Wales went to the Derby, have imagined that too much thought and prominence were given to little things. But they have been in error; and it is nice to trace how the actions of a retired widow and an unemployed youth become of such importance. And yet he is not laughing. The best rea- son why monarchy is a strong govern- ment, he goes on, very seriously, is that it is an intelligible government. The mass of mankind understand it, and they hardly anywhere in the world under- stand any other. His thought turns back to the Coup dEtat which he had seen in France. The issue was put to the French people, he says; they were asked, Will you be governed by Louis Napoleon, or will you be governed by an assembly? The French people said, We will be governed by the one man we can imagine, and not by the many people we cannot imagine. The man is a conservative; it is only his wit that is a radical. His Lombard Street is the most out- wardly serious of his greater writings. It is his picture of the money market, whose public operations and hidden in- fluences he exhibits with his accustomed, apparently inevitable lucidity. He ex plains, as perhaps only he could explain, the parts played in the market by the Chancellors of the Exchequer, whose counselor he often was, by the Bank of England, and by the joint-stock banks, such as his own in Somersetshire; the influences, open and covert, that make for crisis or for stability, the whole machinery and the whole psychology of the subtle game and business of finance. There is everywhere the same close in- timacy between the fact and the thought. What he writes seems always a light playing through affairs, illuminating their substance, revealing their fibre. As an instrument for arriving at truth, one of Bagehots intimate friends once said, I never knew anything like a talk with Bagehot. It got at once to the heart of a subject. He instantly appre- ciated the whole force and significance of everything you yourself said; mak- ing talk with him, as Roscoe once re- marked, like riding a horse with a per- fect mouth. But most unique of all was his power of keeping up anima- tion without combat. I never knew a power of discussion, of cot~perative in- vestigation of truth, to approach to it. It was all stimulus, and yet no contest. The spontaneity with which he wrote put the same quality into his writings. They have all the freshness, the vivacity, the penetration of eager talk, and abound in those flashes of insight and discovery which make the speech of some gifted men seem like a series of inspirations. He does not always complete his subjects, either, in writing, and their partial in- completeness makes them read the more as if they were a body of pointed re- marks, and not a set treatise or essay. No doubt the best samples of his style are to be found in his literary and bio- graphical essays, where his adept words serve him so discerningly in the dis- closure of some very subtle things: the elements of individual genius, the mo- tives and constituents of intellectual pow- er, the diverse forces of differing men. A Wit and a Seer. 539 But you shall find the same qualities and felicities in his way of dealing with the grosser and more obvious matters of politics. Here, as everywhere, to quote his own language about Laurence Sterne, his style bears the indefinable traces which an exact study of words will al- ways leave upon the use of words. Here, too, there is the same illuminative play of sure insight and hroad sagacity. You may illustrate his method by taking passages almost at random. The brief description of the characteristic merit of the English constitution is, he says, that its dignified parts are very com- plicated and somewhat imposing, very old and rather venerable; while its effi- cient part, at least when in great and critical action, is decidedly simple and rathcr modern. We have made, or rather stumbled on, a constitution which though full of every species of incidental defect, though of the worst workman- ship in all out-of-the-way matters of any constitution in the world yet has two capital merits: it has a simple efficient part which, on occasion, and when want- ed, can work more simply and easily and better than any instrument of gov- ernment that has yet been tried; and it contains likewise historical, complex, august, theatrical parts, which it has in- herited from a long past which take the multitude which guide by an in- sensible but an omnipotent influence the associations of its subjects. Its essence is strong with the strength of modern simplicity; its exterior is august with the Gothic grandeur of a more imposing age. He is interested to bring out the contrast between English political ar- rangements and our own. When the American nation has chosen its Presi- dent, he explains, its virtue goes out of it, and out of the Transmissive Col- lege through which it chooses. But be- cause the House of Commons has the power of dismissal in addition to the power of election, its relation to the Premier is incessant. They guide him, and he leads them. He is to them what they are to the nation. He only goes where he believes they will go after him. But he has to take the lead; he must choose his direction, and begin the jour- ney. Nor must he flinch. A good horse likes to feel the riders bit; and a great deliberative assembly likes to feel that it is under worthy guidance. . . . The great leaders of Parliament have varied much, but they have all had a certain firmness. A great assembly is as soon spoiled by over-indulgence as alittle child. The whole life of English politics is the action and reaction between the Ministry and the Parliament. The appointees strive to guide, and the appointors surge under the guidance. The English constitution, in a word, is framed on the principle of choosing a single sovereign authority, and making it good; the American, upon the principle of having many sovereign authorities, and hoping that their multitude may atone for their inferiority. The Americans now extol their institutions, and so defraud them- selves of their due praise. But if they had not a genius for politics; if they had not a moderation in action singular- ly curious where superficial speech is so violent; if they had not a regard for law, such as no great people have yet evinced, and infinitely surpassing ours, the multiplicity of authorities in the American constitution would long ago have brought it to a bad end. Sensible shareholders, I have heard a shrewd at- torney say, can work any deed of settle- ment; and so the men of Massachusetts could, I believe, work any constitution. But political philosophy must analyze political history ; it must distinguish what is due to the excellence of the peo- ple, and what to the excellence of the laws; it must carefully calculate the ex- act effect of each part of the constitu- tion, though thus it may destroy many an idol of the multitude, and detect the secret of utility where but few imagined it to lie. 540 Glamour. These are eminently businesslike sen- tences. They are not consciously con- cerned with style; they do not seem to stop for the turning of a phrase; their only purpose seems to be plain elucida- tion, such as will bring the matter within the comprehension of everybody. And yet there is a stirring quality in them which operates upon the mind like wit. They are tonic and full of stimulus. No man could have spoken them without a lively eye. I suppose their secret of utility to be a very interesting one in- deed, and nothing less than the secret of all Bagehots power. Young writers should seek it out and ponder it studi- ously. It is this: he is never writing in the air. He is always looking point-blank and with steady eyes upon a definite object; he takes pains to see it, alive and natural, as it really is; lie uses a phrase, as the masters of painting use a color, not because it is beautiful, he is not thinking of that, but because it matches life, and is the veritable image of the thing of which he speaks. More- over, he is not writing merely to succeed at that: he is writing, not to describe, but to make alive. And so the secret comes to light. Style is an instrument, and is made imperishable only by em- bodiment in some great use. It is not of itself stuff to last; neither can it have real beauty except when working the substantial effects of thought or vi- sion. Its highest triumph is to hit the meaning; and the pleasure you get from it is not unlike that which you get from the perfect action of skill. The object is so well and so easily attained! A mans vocabulary and outfit of phrase should be his thoughts perfect habit and manner of pose. Bagehot saw the world of his day, saw the world of days antique, and showed us what he saw in phrases which interpret like the tones of a perfect voice, in words which serve us like eyes. Woodrow Wilson. GLAMOUR. O WONDER days when heart and I were young, And all the world was radiant and new; When every little common flower that grew Interpreted to me an unknown tongue, Or seemed a fairy bell that late had rung Its silver peal across the morning dew; When skies were tapestries of living blue, And stars a mesh of jewels overhung! Now is my happy youth fulfilled, and I Am come to mine inheritance of pain; Yet does the brightness of the days gone by Still cast a glory over hill and plain; Still can I go beneath the open sky And feel the old world young and strange again! Elizabeth Wilder.

540 Glamour. These are eminently businesslike sen- tences. They are not consciously con- cerned with style; they do not seem to stop for the turning of a phrase; their only purpose seems to be plain elucida- tion, such as will bring the matter within the comprehension of everybody. And yet there is a stirring quality in them which operates upon the mind like wit. They are tonic and full of stimulus. No man could have spoken them without a lively eye. I suppose their secret of utility to be a very interesting one in- deed, and nothing less than the secret of all Bagehots power. Young writers should seek it out and ponder it studi- ously. It is this: he is never writing in the air. He is always looking point-blank and with steady eyes upon a definite object; he takes pains to see it, alive and natural, as it really is; lie uses a phrase, as the masters of painting use a color, not because it is beautiful, he is not thinking of that, but because it matches life, and is the veritable image of the thing of which he speaks. More- over, he is not writing merely to succeed at that: he is writing, not to describe, but to make alive. And so the secret comes to light. Style is an instrument, and is made imperishable only by em- bodiment in some great use. It is not of itself stuff to last; neither can it have real beauty except when working the substantial effects of thought or vi- sion. Its highest triumph is to hit the meaning; and the pleasure you get from it is not unlike that which you get from the perfect action of skill. The object is so well and so easily attained! A mans vocabulary and outfit of phrase should be his thoughts perfect habit and manner of pose. Bagehot saw the world of his day, saw the world of days antique, and showed us what he saw in phrases which interpret like the tones of a perfect voice, in words which serve us like eyes. Woodrow Wilson. GLAMOUR. O WONDER days when heart and I were young, And all the world was radiant and new; When every little common flower that grew Interpreted to me an unknown tongue, Or seemed a fairy bell that late had rung Its silver peal across the morning dew; When skies were tapestries of living blue, And stars a mesh of jewels overhung! Now is my happy youth fulfilled, and I Am come to mine inheritance of pain; Yet does the brightness of the days gone by Still cast a glory over hill and plain; Still can I go beneath the open sky And feel the old world young and strange again! Elizabeth Wilder. At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. AT THE TWELFTH HOUR: A TALE OF A BATTLE. THERE was no pause in the clamor outside, which rose sometimes to a high- er key, and then sank back to its level, like the rush of a storm. Every log and plank in the little house would trem- ble as if it were so much human flesh and blood, when a crash louder than the rest betokened the sudden discharge of all the guns in some battery. The loose windows rattled in their wooden frames alike before the roar of the artillery and the shriller note of the rifles, which clat- tered and buzzed without ceasing, and seemed to boast a sting sharper and more deadly than that of their comrades the big guns. Whiffs of smoke, like the scud blown about by the winds at sea, would pass before the windows and float off into the forest. Sometimes a yellow light, that wavered like heat-lightning, would shine through the glass and quiver for a mo- ment or two across the wooden floor. In the east there was a haze, a mottled blur of red and yellow and blue, and whether the crash of the artillery rose or sank, whether the clatter of the rifles was louder or weaker, there came always the unbroken din of two hundred thousand men foot to foot in battle, a shuffling, moaning noise, a shriek, then a roar. The widow moved the table and its dim candle nearer the window, not that she might see better outside, but there she would have a stronger light on her sewing, which was important and must be finished. The blaze of the battle flared in at the window more than once, and flickered across her face, revealing the strong, harsh features, and the hun- dreds of fine wrinkles that crossed one another in countless mazes, and clustered under her eyes and around the corners of her mouth. She was not a handsome woman, nor had ever been, even on her bridal morning, but she was still tall and muscular, her figure clothed in a poor print dress, one who had endured much, and could endure more. As she bent over her humble sewing, the dim light of the candle was reflected in hope- less eyes. The battle rolled a little nearer from the east, and the flashes of its light grew more frequent. The trembling of the house never ceased. On the hearth- stone some tiny half-dead embers danced about under the incessant rocking, like popping grains of corn, and the windows in their frames droned out their steady rattle. But the widow paid no heed, going on with her sewing. The battle was nothing to her. She did not care who won; she would not go out of her house to see. If men were such barbarians and brutes as to murder one another for they knew not what, then let them. The more human flesh and blood the war devoured, the greater its appetite grew; for upon such food it fattened and prospered. Her three sons had gone to the man-eater, gulped down, one, two, three, in the order of their age: first the eldest, then the second, and then her youngest, her best beloved. She had thought that lie, at least, who would not be a man for years, might be left to her; but the news had come from Shiloh, in a meagre letter written by a comrade, that he had fallen there, mortally wounded, and the enemy who kept the field had buried him, per- haps. She had the letter yet, but she never looked at it. There was no need, when she knew every line, every word, every letter, and just how they looked and stood on the page. The two older sons, like so many of the men of those wild hill regions, had been worthless, drink- ers of whiskey, tellers of lies, squalid loafers blinking at the sun; but the third, the boy, had been different, and she had Mi

At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. AT THE TWELFTH HOUR: A TALE OF A BATTLE. THERE was no pause in the clamor outside, which rose sometimes to a high- er key, and then sank back to its level, like the rush of a storm. Every log and plank in the little house would trem- ble as if it were so much human flesh and blood, when a crash louder than the rest betokened the sudden discharge of all the guns in some battery. The loose windows rattled in their wooden frames alike before the roar of the artillery and the shriller note of the rifles, which clat- tered and buzzed without ceasing, and seemed to boast a sting sharper and more deadly than that of their comrades the big guns. Whiffs of smoke, like the scud blown about by the winds at sea, would pass before the windows and float off into the forest. Sometimes a yellow light, that wavered like heat-lightning, would shine through the glass and quiver for a mo- ment or two across the wooden floor. In the east there was a haze, a mottled blur of red and yellow and blue, and whether the crash of the artillery rose or sank, whether the clatter of the rifles was louder or weaker, there came always the unbroken din of two hundred thousand men foot to foot in battle, a shuffling, moaning noise, a shriek, then a roar. The widow moved the table and its dim candle nearer the window, not that she might see better outside, but there she would have a stronger light on her sewing, which was important and must be finished. The blaze of the battle flared in at the window more than once, and flickered across her face, revealing the strong, harsh features, and the hun- dreds of fine wrinkles that crossed one another in countless mazes, and clustered under her eyes and around the corners of her mouth. She was not a handsome woman, nor had ever been, even on her bridal morning, but she was still tall and muscular, her figure clothed in a poor print dress, one who had endured much, and could endure more. As she bent over her humble sewing, the dim light of the candle was reflected in hope- less eyes. The battle rolled a little nearer from the east, and the flashes of its light grew more frequent. The trembling of the house never ceased. On the hearth- stone some tiny half-dead embers danced about under the incessant rocking, like popping grains of corn, and the windows in their frames droned out their steady rattle. But the widow paid no heed, going on with her sewing. The battle was nothing to her. She did not care who won; she would not go out of her house to see. If men were such barbarians and brutes as to murder one another for they knew not what, then let them. The more human flesh and blood the war devoured, the greater its appetite grew; for upon such food it fattened and prospered. Her three sons had gone to the man-eater, gulped down, one, two, three, in the order of their age: first the eldest, then the second, and then her youngest, her best beloved. She had thought that lie, at least, who would not be a man for years, might be left to her; but the news had come from Shiloh, in a meagre letter written by a comrade, that he had fallen there, mortally wounded, and the enemy who kept the field had buried him, per- haps. She had the letter yet, but she never looked at it. There was no need, when she knew every line, every word, every letter, and just how they looked and stood on the page. The two older sons, like so many of the men of those wild hill regions, had been worthless, drink- ers of whiskey, tellers of lies, squalid loafers blinking at the sun; but the third, the boy, had been different, and she had Mi 542 At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. expected him to become a man such as a woman could admire, a man upon whom a woman could depend, that is, one stronger than herself, and as good. He had been both son and daughter to her, for in that way a mother looks upon the youngest or only son when he has no sister; but fair hair and blue eyes and a girl face had not prevented him from following the others, and now she knew not even where his bones lay, save that the mould of a wide and desolate battle- field inclosed them, and, in some place, hid them. This woman did not cry; no tears came from her eyes when the news of the boys death was brought to her, and none came now, when she still saw him, fair - haired and white - faced, lying out there under the sky. She had merely become harsher and harder, and, never much given to speech, she spoke less than before. The battle rolled yet a little nearer from the east, and the complaining win- dows rattled more loudly. Above tbe thud of the cannon and the unbroken crash of the rifles she could bear now the shouting of many men, a guttural tumult which brought to mind the roar and shriek of wild animals in combat. The coming of the twilight did not seem to diminish their ferocity, and, repeat- ing her old formula, she said, Let them fight on through the night, if it please them. The earth rumbled and rocked beneath a mighty discharge of artillery, the old house shook, and the heap of coals rolled down and scattered over the hearth. She walked from the window and put them carefully in place with an iron shovel. Thrown back together they sent up little spears of flame, which cast a flickering light over the desolate room, the bare wooden floor, the rough log walls spot- ted with a few old newspaper prints, the two pine tables, the cane - bottomed chairs, the home-made wooden stool, the iron kettle in one corner and the tin pans beside it, the low bed covered with a brown counterpane in another corner, a room that suited the mind and temper of the woman who owned it and lived in it. The battle crept still closer; 4he de- parted sun, the twilight deepening into night, had no effect on the fury of the combatants. Gun answered gun, and the rifles hurled opposing showers of lead. The difference in the two notes of the bat- tle, the sullen, bass thunder of the cannon with its curious trembling cadence, and the sharper, shriller crash of the small arms, like the wrath of little people, be- came clearer, more distinct. Over both, in irregular waves, swelled the shouting; the wild and piercing rebel yell~ and the hoarse Yankee cheer coiitending and mingling and rolling back and forth in a manner that would tell nothing to a lis- tener save that men were in mortal com- bat. She heard a shrieking noise, like the scream of a man, but far louder; a long trail of light appeared in the sky, curv- ing and arching like a rainbow until it touched the earth, when it disappeared in one grand explosion, throwing red, blue, green, and yellow lights into the air, as if a little volcano had burst. She al- most fancied she could hear pieces of the shell whizzing through the air, though it was only fancy; but she knew that the earth where it struck had been torn up, and the dead were scattered about like its own pieces. Up went another, and an- other, and the air was filled with them, shining and shrieking as if in delight be- cause they gave the finish and crowning touch to the battle. She watched them with a certain pleasure as they curved so beautifully, and gave herself praise when she timed to the second the moment of striking the earth. Soon the air was filled with a shower of the curving lights, and then they ceased for a while. Still the dim battle raged in the dark- ness. But presently a light flared up again and did not disappear. It burned At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. 543 with a steady red and blue flame that indicated something more than the flash- ing of cannon and rifles, and, looking through a window-pane, the widow saw the cause. The forest was on fire, the exploding gunpowder having served as a torch; the blaze ran high above the trees, adding a new rush and roar to the thunder and sweep of the battle. But she was calm; for the forest did not come near enough to place her house in danger of the fire, and there was no rea- son why she need disturb herself. She blew out the candle, carefully put away in the cupboard the piece remaining, economy being both a virtue and a ne- cessity with her, and returned to her seat by the window, now lighted only by the blaze of the battle and the burn- ing trees. The light from the flaming forest grew stronger, and flared through the window all the way across the room. When the flash of the guns joined it, the glare was so vivid that the widow was compelled to shield her eyes with her hand; she would have closed the shutter of the window and relighted the candle, had there been a shutter to close. Clouds of smoke some light, white, and innocent - looking, others heavy and black floated past the window. Such clouds were needed, she thought, to veil the horrors of the slaughter - yard out- side. She looked at the little tin clock on the mantel, ticking placidly away, and saw that it was a quarter to ten. She would have gone to bed, but one could not sleep with all that noise outside and so near. She thought it wise to take her old seat by the window and watch the flames from the forest, because sparks driven by the wind might fall on her house and set it on fire. There were two buckets filled with water in the little lean-to that served as a kitchen, and she set them in a place that would be handy in case the dangerous sparks came. But she did not think the water would be needed, since the wind, though light, was blowing the fire from her. This was indicated clearly by the streams of flame, red in the centre, blue and white at the edges, which leaned eastward. The fire had gathered full volume now, and gave her a gorgeous spectacle, the flames leaping far above the trees, where they united into cones and pyramids, flashing with many colors and sending forth mil- lions of sparks, which curved up, and then fell like showers of fireflies. Un- der this flaming cloud, the cannon spout- ed and the rifles flashed with as much steadiness and vigor as ever. It seemed to be a vast panoramic effect in fire planned for her alone, after the fashion of the Roman emperors, of whom she had never heard. By the light of the fire and the battle she saw, for the first time, some figures struggling in the chaos of flame and smoke. Human beings she knew them to be, though they looked but little like it, being mere writhing black lines in a whirl of red fire and blue smoke. It was a living picture, to her, of the in- fernal regions, in which she was a firm believer; those ghastly shapes straining and fighting among the eternal flames. She felt a little sympathy for the many mostly boys like her own boy who had fallen at Shiloh who were about to pass through the flames of this world into the flames of the next; for she had been taught that only one out of a hun- dred could be saved, and she never doubt- ed it. If she felt doubt at all, it was about the deserts of the hundredth man. The thunder of the cannon sank pre- sently to a mutter and a growl, the rifles ceased entirely, and the sudden drop in the noise of the battle caused the fires roar to be heard above it like a tempest. She could still see the black figures, so many jumping-jacks, through the veil of flame and smoke; but they were not now a confused and struggling heap, without plan or order; they had drawn apart in two lines, and for two or three minutes remained motionless, save for a few fig- ures which strutted up and down and At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. waved what looked through the fiery mist like little sticks, but which she knew to be long swords. She knew enough more to guess that one line was about to charge the other, or more likely, both would charge at the same time, and the sinking of the battle was but a pause to gather strength for a supreme effort. She was interested, and her interest increased when she saw the opposing lines swing forward a little, as if making ready for the shock. The sudden ebb of the firing had made all other noises curiously distinct. The ticking of the lit- tle clock on the mantel became a steady drumbeat. She even fancied that she could hear the commands given to the two lines of puny black figures, but she knew it was only fancy. This silence, so heavy that it oppressed her, after all she had heard, was broken by the discharge of hidden batteries, so many great guns at once that the widow sprang up from her chair; she thought at first that the house was falling about her, and she clapped her hands to her ears to shut out the penetrating crash, which was succeeded by the fierce, un- broken shrieking of the small arms. The cloud of smoke at once thickened and darkened, but she could see through it the two lines, now dim gray images of men, rushing upon each other. She watched with eager, intent eyes. The whirling smoke would hide parts of one line for a moment, leaving it a series of disconnected fragments ; then would drift away, revealing the unbroken ranks again. She could hear the ticking of the clock no longer, for the pounding of the guns was so terrific now that contin- uous thunder roared in her ears, inside her head, and seemed not to come from anything without. A window-pane broke under the impact of so much sound, and the fragments of glass rattled on the floor, but she did not take her eyes from the battle. Over the heads of the rushing lines the smoke formed in a cloud so thick, so black, so threatening, and so low that it inclosed them, like a roof. The old likeness came back to the widow. It is the roof of hell, she said to herself; these walls and pillars of flame are its sides, and the men who fight in there, hemmed in by fire, are the damned, condemned to fight so forever. On they rushed, some of the dim gray figures seeming to dance above the earth in the flames, like the imps they were, and the two lines met midway. She thought she could hear the smash of wave on wave above the red roar of the guns, and figures shot into the air as if hurled up by the meeting of tremendous and equal forces. A long cry, a yell, a shriek, and a wail, which could come only from hu- man throats, thousands of them together, swelled again above everything else, above the roar of the fire, above the crash of the rifles, above the thunder of the cannon. In spite of her stoicism the watcher quivered a little and turned her eyes away from the window, but she turned them back again. The cry sank to a quaver, then rose again to a scream; and thus it sank and rose, as the battle surged from side to side in the flam- ing pit. She thought she could hear the clash of arms, bayonet on bayonet, sword on sword, and all the sounds of war became confused and mingled, like the two lines of men which had rushed so fiercely together. There were no longer two lines, not even one line, but a medley; struggling heaps, red whirlpools which threw out their dead and whirled on, grinding up the living like grain in a hopper. The soldiers fought in the very centre of the pit, and the shifting red curtain of flame be- tween gave them strange shapes, en- larging some, belittling others, and then blending all into a blurred mass, a hud- dle of men without form or number. Fantastic and horrible, the scene ap- pealed strongly to the widows hard reli- gious sense. She could no longer doubt 544 At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. 545 that the red chaos upon which she was looking was a picture of life from the re- gions of eternal torture, reserved for the damned, reproduced on earth for the benefit of men. It was, then, with a feel- ing of increased interest that she watched the battle as it blazed and shrieked to and fro. The thunder of the cannon and the crash of the rifles were still as steady as the rush of a tempest, and the wild shouting of the men now rose above the din, then was crushed out by it, only to be heard again, fiercer and shriller than before. The great clouds which lowered over the pit grew blacker and bigger, and rolled away in sombre waves on every side. Their vanguard reached even to her house and passed over it. The loath- some smell of burnt gunpowder and raw and roasted human flesh came in at the broken window. She stuffed a quilt into the open space, until neither smoke nor smell could enter; but some of the drop- pings of the black cloud, little balls and curls of smoke, came down the chimney and floated about the room, to remind the woman that the whirlwind of the battle whirled widely enough to draw her in, too. Her throat felt hot and scaly, and she took a gourd of water from one of the buckets and drank it. It was cool to the throat, and as smooth as oil. How some of those men lying out there, helpless on the ground, longed for water, cold water! How her own boy, doubtless, had longed for it, as he lay on the field of Shiloh wait~ ing for the death that came! A feeling of pity, a strong feeling, swelled up in her soul. She walked again across the room and looked at the little tin clock on the mantel. Ten forty-five! It was time for the battle to close; it had been time long ago. Then she went back as usual to the window, and she noticed at once that the roar and blaze of the battle were sinking. The thunder of the guns was not continuous, and the intervals in- creased in number and became longer. vOL. LXXXII. No. 492. 85 The fire of the rifles was broken into crackling showers, and spots of gray or white, where the air was breaking through, appeared in the wall of flame. The black roof of smoke lifted a little, and seemed to be losing length and breadth as the wind swept off cloudy patches and carried them away. The fire in the forest was dying, and she ceased to hear the rush of the flames from tree to tree. Once the human shout or shriek she could not tell which came to her ear, but she heard it no more just then. The men, more distinct now as the veil of flame thinned away or rose in vapor, still struggled, but with less ferocity. The groups were breaking up, and the two lines shrank apart, each seeming to abandon the ground for which it had fought. It was nearly eleven oclock, and the moon, able for the first time to send its beams through the battle-smoke, was be- ginning to cast a silvery radiance over the field. The flames sank fast. The fire in the forest burnt out. The great cloud of smoke broke up into many lit- tle clouds which drifted away westward before the wind. The showers of sparks ceased, and the bits of charred wood no longer fell. A fine cloud of ashes blown through the air began to form a film over the window-panes. The battle died like the & ruption of a volcano, which shoots up with all its strength, and then sinks from exhaustion. The human figures melted away, and the last was gone, though the widow knew that many must be lying in the ravines and on the hillsides beyond her view. There were four cannon-shots at irreg- ular intervals, the fourth a long time after the third, a volley or two from the rifles, a pop-pop or two, and the firing was over. Some feeble flames from grass or bush still spurted up, but they fought in a lost cause, for the silver radiance of the moon grew, and they paled and sank before it. The ticking of the clock made the 546 At the Twe~fth Hour; A Tale of a Battle. cessation of noise outside more noticeable. She opened the window, and the air that came in was strong with a fleshy smell. But so much smoke had come down the chimney, and the room was so close, that she kept the window open and let the air seek every corner. Outside, the un- burnt trees were swaying in the west wind, but there was no other noise. The battlefield, unlighted by the fire of cannon and rifles, had become invisible; but she knew that many men were lying there, and the wind sobbing through the burnt and unburnt forest was their dead march. Fine ashes, borne by the wind from the burnt forest, still fell ; some came in at the open window, and fell in a faint whitish powder on the floor. The widow took her wisp broom and brushed the ashes carefully into the fire; but she did not close the window, for the fresh air which blew in had a tonic strength, though there was still about it some of that strange odor, the breath of slaugh- ter. She resolved to watch the field a little longer, and then she would go to bed; she had wasted enough time watching the struggles of lost souls. The light of the moon was beginning to wane, and the trees and hills were growing more shad- owy; their silver gray was changing to black, the sombre hue borrowed from the skies above them. Flecks of fire like smouldering coals gleamed through the darkness, showing where a tree-trunk or a bush still burned in the wake of the battle or the fire. The wind rose again, and these tiny patches of flame blazed before it more brightly for a time, and then went out. But the wind moaned more loudly as it blew among the burned tree - trunks and the dead branches. Some trees, eaten through by the fire, fell, and the night, so still otherwise, echoed with the sound. All the lights from the fire went out, but others took their place. She could see them far apart, but twinkling like little stars fallen to earth; probably the lanterns, she thought, of surgeons and soldiers come to look for those whose wounds were not mortal. Why not let them lie there and pay the price of their own folly? They had gone into the bat- tle knowing its risks, and they should not seek to shun them. She would go to bed, and she put up her hand to pull down the window. She heard a prolonged cry, a wail and a sob; distant, perhaps, and feeble, but telling of pain and fear. It came direct from the battlefield. She would have dismissed the sound, as she had disuiissed all other signs of the battle, but it came again and was more penetrating. She thought that she had no fancy, no imagination, and that the battle had passed leaving her mind un- touched, but the cry lingered. It rose for the third time, louder, fuller, more piercing than before, and the air ached with it. She was sure now that it was many voices in one, all groaning in their agony, and their groans uniting in a sin- gle lament, which rose above that of the wind and filled all the air with its wail- ing. She tried again to crush down her thoughts, and to hide the scenes that she saw with her mind, and not with her eyes; but her will refused to obey her, and yielded readily to imagination, which, held back so long, took possession of its kingdom with despotic power. Her face and hands became cold and wet at the sights and scenes that her fancy made her hear and see. It was easy to turn this field into the field of Shiloh, and her ready imagination, laughing at her will, did it for her. In that other battle her boy was lying at the foot of a hillock, his white face growing whiter, turned up to the stars; the dead lay around him, and there was no sound but his groans. She closed the window with a sudden and violent gesture, as if she would shut out the sight, and would shut out too those cries which had stirred her imagination into such life. She walked angrily to the hearth and banked the coals for the last time, firmly resolved to go to bed and At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. 54T sleep. The clock ticked away loudly and clearly, as if to show its triumph over the battle, which was now gone, while it ticked on. But the cry of anguish from the field reached her there; fainter, more muf- fled, but not to be mistaken. Whether it came through the glass or how else, she knew not, but she heard it, a cry to her, a cry that would reach her even in bed and would not let her sleep. It was as if her own son had been crying to her for help, for water. She threw up the window again, and looked toward the battlefield. The air was filled with the cries of the wounded like the chorus of the lost, but of the field itself she could see nothing. The night had darkened fast, and the ground on which the men had fought was clothed in a ghostly vapor. The burnt trees were but a faint tracery of black, and the wind had ceased, leaving the night hot, close, and breath- less. The fine ashes from the fire no longer fell, and the air was free from them, but it was thick and heavy, and the repellent smell of human flesh lin- gered. It was a terrible night for the wounded. They would lie on the ground in the close heat and gasp for air, which would be like fire to their lungs. The little clock struck midnight with a loud, emphatic tang, each stroke echo- ing and reminding her that it was time to go. The two buckets filled with water, which she had brought to save her house from fire, still stood by the window. She put the drinking-gourd into one of them, lifted both, and passed out of the house. She was a strong woman, and she did not stagger beneath the weight of the water. This, she knew, was what they would want most; for in all that she had ever heard of battlefields the cry for water was loudest. Yet all her pity in that moment was for one, not one of those who lay there, but her own boy on that other battlefield. She saw only him, only his face; like a girls it had always looked to her, with its youthful flush and the fair hair around it. It was he, not the others, who was taking her out on the field, and she walked on with straight, strong steps, because he led her. The mists and vapors seemed to drift away as she approached the battlefield, and the trees, holding out their burnt arms, rose distinct and clear from the darkness. The cries of the wounded increased, and were no longer a steady volume like the moaning of the wind; but she could distinguish in the tumult articulate sounds, even words, and they were always the same, the cry for water rising above all others, just as she had been told. She reached the ground over which the fire had swept. Some clusters of sparks, invisible from the win- dow, lingered yet in the clefts of roots and rocks, and glimmered like marsh lights. The strange repellent odor that re- minded her of the drippings of a slaugh- ter-house attacked her with renewed strength. She turned a little sick, but she conquered her faintness and went on. Wisps of smoke were still drifting about, and she stumbled on something and near- ly fell; but she saved the precious water, and saw that her foot had struck against a cannon - ball, which lay there, half buried in the earth, spent, after its mis- sion. To her eyes the earth upon it was the color of blood, and giving it a look of repulsion she passed on. She saw two or three rifles upon the ground, aban- doned by their owners; and here was a broken sword, and there a knapsack, still full, which some soldier had thrown away. Under the half-burned trunk of a tree was something dark and shape- less, and charred like the tree; but she knew what it was, and after the first glance kept her head turned away. She passed more like it, but all were motion- less, for the fire had spared nothing over which it had gone. The smell of roasted flesh was strong here, but the silence appalled her. All 548 At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. the cries came from the further part of the field, and around her no voice was raised. The figures, half hidden in the dark, did not stir. The trees waved their burnt arms, and gave forth a dry, parched sound when a whiff of wind struck them, like the rustle of a field of dead broom sedge. She crossed the strip over which the fire bad swept and burned out every- thing living, and entered the red battle- field beyond. It was lighter here, for there were fewer trees and the moon had cleared somewhat. She saw many figures of men: some motionless as they had been in the burnt woods; others twisting and distorting themselves like spiders on a pin; and still others half sit- ting or leaning against a stone or a stump, and trying to bind up their own wounds. The cries were a medley, chiefly groans and shrieks, but sometimes laughter, and twice a song. She had never seen ground so torn, for here the battle had trod to and fro in all its strength and ferocity. Three or four trees, cut down by cannon - balls, had fallen together, their boughs interlaced, and a hole in the earth showed where a huge shell bad burst. Some sharp pieces of the exploding iron had been driven into a neighboring tree, and a little further on a patch of bushes had been mowed down like grass in a hayfield. A man, shot in the legs, who had propped himself against a rock, saw the water that she carried, and cried to her to come to him with it. He damned her from a full vocabulary because she did not make enough haste, and when she came tried to snatch the gourd from her hand. But with her stronger hand she pushed his away, and made him drink while she held the gourd. He was young, but it did not seem strange to her to hear such volleys of profanity from one who had the splendor of youth, for her older sons had been of his kind. She left him cursing her because she did not give him more water, and went on; for the face of her boy was still leading her, and the one she left was not like his. The field extended further than she could see, but all around her was the lament of after-the-battle. Lights trem- bled or glimmered over the field; the surgeons and soldiers holding them were seeking the wounded, and she saw that some wore the blue and others the gray. Such a shambles as this was the only place in which they could meet like bre- thren, and here they passed each other without comment; nor did they notice her, save one, an old man with the shin- ing tools of a surgeon in his hand, who gave her an approving nod. She heard a moan which seemed to come from a little clump of bushes spared by the cannon-balls. A man, a boy, rather, with the animal instinct, had crawled in there that he might die unseen. He was in delirium with fever, and cried for his mother. The widows heart was touched more deeply than be- fore, for it was to such as he that her boys face was leading her. She took him from out the bushes, stanched his wounds, and gave him of the cold water to drink. The fever abated, and his de- lirious talk sank to a mere mutter, while she stood and watched until one of the wagons gathering up the wounded came by; then she helped put him in, and passed on with the water to the others. She was eager to help; it was true pity, not a mere sense of duty, for she was now among the boys, the slender lads of eighteen and seventeen and sixteen; and very many of them there were, too, and she knew that her own boy had called her to help these. They lay thick upon the ground, children they seemed to her; yet this war had such in scores of thousands, who went from the country schoolhouses to the battlefield. Most of them were dead: sometimes they lay in long rows, as if they had been made ready for the grave; sometimes they lay in a heap, their bodies crossing; and here and there lay one who had found At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. 549 death alone. But amid the dead were a few living, and the widows hands grew tenderer and more gentle as she raised their heads and let them drink. The water in her buckets was three fourths gone, and she was very careful of it now, for a little might mean a life. The vapors still hung over the field, and the thick, clammy air was often death to the wounded who could not breathe it. The widow wished more than once for a little of the water, her- self, but there were others who needed it far more, and she went on with her work among the boys. She thought often, as she looked at the white young faces around her, of that slaughter of the innocents of which the Bible told, and it seemed to her that this was as wicked and fruitless as that. The lights were growing fewer, and the carts with the wounded rumbled past her less often; the cries, a volume of sound before, became solitary moans. The darkness, cut here and there by the vapors, hid most of the field, and she was forced to search closely to tell the living from the dead. She was tired, weary in bone and sinew, but the face of her boy led her on, and, while any of the living remained there, she would seek. She stumbled once, in the darkness, on a dead body, and, springing back with a shudder when she felt the yielding flesh under her feet, walked oa into a little hollow. She heard a boy groan, very feebly, but still she could not mistake the sound for any of the fancied noises of the bat- tlefield; and then the same faint voice calling his mother. She had heard other boys, on that night, calling for their mothers, but there was a new tone in this cry. She trembled and stood quite still, listening for the groan, which came again, feebler than before. It was so faint that she could not tell from what point it came, and all the shadows seemed to have gathered in the hollow. If she had only a light! She saw one of the lanterns glimmering far off in the field, but even if she obtained it she might not be able to find the place again. She ad- vanced into the hollow, bending down low and searching the thick weeds and tangled bushes with her eyes. One of the buckets she had left behind; the other yet contained a gourdful of water, and she preserved it as if it were so much gold, now more jealously than ever. She saw nothing. The place was larger than she had thought, and was thick with vines and weeds and heaped-up stones. She stumbled twice and fell upoa her knees, but each time she held the water so well that not a drop was spilled. She stood erect again, listening, but hearing nothing. She called aloud, saying that help was there, but no answer came. Her heart was beating violently, but she neither wept nor cried aloud, for she was a woman of strength, and had always been of few words and less show. Where she stood was the lowest point of the battlefield, and was on its outer edge. It was likewise the darkest spot, and the remainder of it seemed to curve before and above her in a great dusky amphitheatre, broken faintly by a few points of light where the lanterns burned. She saw the formless bulk of a single cart moving slowly. In a little while the field would be abandoned to her and the dead. She turned and continued the search, feeling her way through the mass of ve- getation, and listening for the guiding groan. Again she stopped, and her heart was in the grip of fear lest she should not find him. She bent her ear close to the ground, and then she heard a cry so faint that it was but a sigh. She pushed her way through some bushes, and there he lay, his back against a rock, his white girlish face with its circle of fair hair turned up to the sky. The eyes were closed, and the chest seemed not to move. A great clot of blood hung upon his left shoulder and made a red gleam against the cloth of his coat. 550 At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. Let it be said again that she was not a woman who showed her emotions, though at that first glance her face per- haps turned as white as his. She set the bucket down, knelt at his side, and, putting her face close to his, found that he was not dead, for she felt his breath upon her lips. She raised the head a little, and a sigh of pain, scarcely to be heard, escaped him. She poured some of the water, every drop more precious now than ever, into the gourd, and moist- ened his lips, which burned with the fever. Then she raised his head higher and dropped a little into his mouth. He sighed again, and his eyelids quivered and were lifted until a faint trace of the blue beneath appeared; then they closed. But she poured water into his mouth and down his throat a second time, and she could feel that pulse and breathing were stronger. The blood was clotted and caked over his wound, but with wisdom she let it alone, knowing that there was no better bandage to stop the flow. She wet his hands and his face with water and gave him more to drink, and saw a trace of color appear in his cheeks. His eyes opened partly two or three times, and he talked, but not of anything she knew, speaking in confused words of other bat- tlefields and long marches; and before a sentence or its sense was finished an- other would be begun. She wanted no help; she looked around in jealousy lest another should come, and saw how small was the chance of it. The last cart. had disappeared from the field, so far as she could see; she could count but four lights, and they were far off. In that part of the field, she, the living, was alone with the dead and the boy who hung between life and death. Never had she felt herself more strong of body and mind, more full of re- source ; never had she felt herself more ready of head and hand. She gave him the last of the water, and saw the spot of color in his cheek, which was not of fever, grow. Then she lifted him in her arms, and began to walk with her bur- den across the battlefield. She looked at the wound, and seeing no fresh blood knew that she had not strained it open in lifting. With that she was satisfied, and she went on with careful step. She felt her way through the rough- ness of the hollow, where the bushes and the weeds clung to her dress and her feet and tried to trip her; but she thrust them all aside and went on toward the house. She passed out of the hollow, and into the space which had received the full sweep of the cannon-balls and bullets. The field was clothed in vapors which floated around her like little clouds. The white faces of the dead looked up at her, and she seemed to be going between rows of them on either side. She walked on with sure and steady step, not feeling the weight in her arms and against her shoulder, unmoved by the ghastly heaps and the dead faces. She reached the burnt ground, where the little patches of fire that she had seen as she passed the other way had ceased to burn, but the smoke was still rising and the ground was yet warm. She feared that the smoke would get into his throat and choke down the little life that was left. So she ran, and the burnt arms of the trees seemed to wave at her and to jeer her, as if they knew she would be too late. She stumbled a little, but re- covered herself. The boy stirred and groaned. She was in dread lest the rough jolt had started his wound, but her hand could not feel the warmth of fresh blood, and, reassured, she hastened through the burnt strip and toward home. The house was silent and dark; ap- parently, no one had noticed the log cab- in, its secluded position and the clump of woods perhaps hiding it from men whose attention had been devoted solely to the battle. She pushed open the door, and entered with her helpless burden. Some coals still glowed on the hearth, and threw out a warm light which bade At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle. 551 her welcome. She put the boy on the bed, and covered the coals with ashes, for it was hot and close in the house. Then she lighted the piece of candle, and set- ting it where it could serve her with its light, and yet not shine into his eyes, she proceeded with her work. Women who live such lives as hers mu~t learn a little of all things, and she knew the duties of a surgeon. Twice she had bound up the wounds of her hus- band, received in some mountain fray. She undressed the young soldier, and as she did so she noticed the scar of a year-old wound under the shoulder, a wound that might well have been mortal. The bullet of to-night had gone almost through, and she could feel it against the skin on the other side. She cut it out easily with the blade of a pocket- knife, and put it in the cupboard. Then she bound up the wound the late bullet had made when it entered, leaving the congealed blood upon it as help against a fresh flow, and sat down to wait. He was still talking, saying words that had no meaning, and threw his arms about a little; but he was stronger, and she hoped, though she knew, too, that he trembled on the edge. She sat for a long time watching every movement, even the slightest. The little clock ticked so loudly that she thought once of stopping it; but the sound was so steady and regular that it lulled them, the boy as well as herself, and she let it alone. He became quieter and grew stronger, too, as she could tell by his breathing, and slept. She spread a sheet over him, and opened the window that a little air might enter the close, warm room. She stood there for a while and looked toward the battlefield, but she could see nothing now to tell her of the combat. The va- pors that floated over it hid it and all its ruin. The wind rose, stirring the hot, close air and cooling the night. It whistled softly through the trees and among the hills, but it did not bring the smell of battle. That had vanished with the combat that had been so unreal itself, as she looked at it from her window. Now she could not see a human figure nor any sign of war. The cabin was just the same lone cabin among the hills that it had always been. She went outside and made the circuit of the house, but there was no- thing for eye or ear to note. The night was darkening again, the wind had blown up clouds which hid the face of the moon, and but a few stars twinkled in the sky. The air felt damp, and scattered drops of rain whirled before the wind which was whistling, far off, as it drove away through the hills. She went back into the house, for she could not leave the boy more than a minute or two, and found that he was sleeping well. She prepared some stim- ulants, and put them where they would be ready to her hand. Then she made over all her arrangements for the mor- row, for two instead of one, and placed everything about the house in order, that it might put on its best look in the day. light. She finished her task, and sat down by the bed. Presently the sufferer began to talk of battle and strive to move, thinking he was in action on the field again. When she felt of his wrist and forehead, she saw that the fever was rising, and she thought he was going to die. She did all that her experience told her, and waited. Her bitterness came back, and she called them fools and bar- barians once more; she was a fool her- self to have had pity upon them. The boys wild talk was all of war. She followed him through march and camp, skirmish and battle, charge and retreat, and saw how they had taken their hold npon him, and what courage and energy he had put into his part. In half an hour he became quieter, and the fever sank. A cannon-shot boomed among the hills, so far away that the sound was softened by the distance. But it echoed long; hill and valley took 552 The Development of our Foreign Policy. it up and passed it on to farther hill and valley; and she heard it again and again, until it died away in the far- thest hills like the last throb of a dis- tant drumbeat. It was as if it had been a minute gun for the dead, and she went in terror to the bed; but the boy was not dead. He had passed again from de- lirium to sleep, and, fearing everything now, she went outside to see if the cannon- shot, by any chance, foretold a renewal of the battle; but it must have been a stray shot, for, as before, nowhere could she see a light, nowhere a living figure, nor could she hear any sound of human beings. The air was cooler, and, shiver- ing, she went back into the house. Presently the drops changed to steady rain, which beat upon the windows; but it was peaceful and sheltered in the little house, and as she looked out at the rain, dashed past by the wind, there was a soft- ness in her heart. The rain ceased after a while, and the trees and bushes dripped silver drops. The boy stirred; but it was some thought in his sleep that made him stir, not fever. She looked at him close ly. His breathing was regular and easy, and she knew that he would live. Going once more to the window, and with eyes to the skies, she gave her word- less thanks to God. A broad bar of light appeared in the east. The day was coming. Joseph A. Altsheler. THE DEVELOPMENT OF OUR FOREIGN POLICY. B~ the results of the war with Spain we are brought face to face with the be- ginning of a new epoch not only of our national development, but possibly of the worlds progress; and, as in former great epochs of the worlds progress the chief actors have found themselves borne on- ward by an irresistible force far beyond their original intent, so does it seem that we are irresistibly borne onward to duties and responsibilities new to us and mo- mentous in character, by the course of events during the past six months. It is unquestionable that our original inten- tion was as honest as were the original intentions of Washington and Lincoln at the beginning of their great life-work; yet the result of their life-work in each case was the reverse of their original pnr- pose, without any intentional breach of their good faith. Of such may truly be repeated the profound remark of Crom- well, One never goes so far as when he planneth not. Whatever may be the theories of moralists, the worlds life and progress proceed npon facts. That the colonial empire of Spain is overthrown by this war is a fact as absolute as that the Rome of the C~esars has fallen. It is also a fact that, whatever may have been our original intent last April, we are the successors of Spain in the West Indies and, to an undefined extent, in the Pa- cific. We cannot escape the conse- quences of that fact, nor the duties and responsibilities that follow from it. If we destroy the military forces of the rulers of a province, we not only break the enemys prestige and power, but we must assume the responsibility of the ex- pelled government for the preservation of peace and order. As a corollary, it follows that if we should merely content ourselves with taking a coaling station, and should not provide for the orderly government of the conquered district, we should become accountable for the anarchy that would ensue. On the other hand, if, after taking a coaling station as a prize of war, we should sell or other- wise divide the rest of a conquered de

552 The Development of our Foreign Policy. it up and passed it on to farther hill and valley; and she heard it again and again, until it died away in the far- thest hills like the last throb of a dis- tant drumbeat. It was as if it had been a minute gun for the dead, and she went in terror to the bed; but the boy was not dead. He had passed again from de- lirium to sleep, and, fearing everything now, she went outside to see if the cannon- shot, by any chance, foretold a renewal of the battle; but it must have been a stray shot, for, as before, nowhere could she see a light, nowhere a living figure, nor could she hear any sound of human beings. The air was cooler, and, shiver- ing, she went back into the house. Presently the drops changed to steady rain, which beat upon the windows; but it was peaceful and sheltered in the little house, and as she looked out at the rain, dashed past by the wind, there was a soft- ness in her heart. The rain ceased after a while, and the trees and bushes dripped silver drops. The boy stirred; but it was some thought in his sleep that made him stir, not fever. She looked at him close ly. His breathing was regular and easy, and she knew that he would live. Going once more to the window, and with eyes to the skies, she gave her word- less thanks to God. A broad bar of light appeared in the east. The day was coming. Joseph A. Altsheler. THE DEVELOPMENT OF OUR FOREIGN POLICY. B~ the results of the war with Spain we are brought face to face with the be- ginning of a new epoch not only of our national development, but possibly of the worlds progress; and, as in former great epochs of the worlds progress the chief actors have found themselves borne on- ward by an irresistible force far beyond their original intent, so does it seem that we are irresistibly borne onward to duties and responsibilities new to us and mo- mentous in character, by the course of events during the past six months. It is unquestionable that our original inten- tion was as honest as were the original intentions of Washington and Lincoln at the beginning of their great life-work; yet the result of their life-work in each case was the reverse of their original pnr- pose, without any intentional breach of their good faith. Of such may truly be repeated the profound remark of Crom- well, One never goes so far as when he planneth not. Whatever may be the theories of moralists, the worlds life and progress proceed npon facts. That the colonial empire of Spain is overthrown by this war is a fact as absolute as that the Rome of the C~esars has fallen. It is also a fact that, whatever may have been our original intent last April, we are the successors of Spain in the West Indies and, to an undefined extent, in the Pa- cific. We cannot escape the conse- quences of that fact, nor the duties and responsibilities that follow from it. If we destroy the military forces of the rulers of a province, we not only break the enemys prestige and power, but we must assume the responsibility of the ex- pelled government for the preservation of peace and order. As a corollary, it follows that if we should merely content ourselves with taking a coaling station, and should not provide for the orderly government of the conquered district, we should become accountable for the anarchy that would ensue. On the other hand, if, after taking a coaling station as a prize of war, we should sell or other- wise divide the rest of a conquered de The Development of our Foreign Policy. 553 pendency, should we not be acting the part of a robber nation, dividing the spoils of war with other nations for our own profit, and to silence their demands and obtain their acquiescence? However bad may have been the Span- ish colonial government, it was a govern- ment; it did give a certain degree of peace and order both in the Philippines and in the West Indies; it was better than anarchy, probably better than any semi-barbaric government which it is in the power of the Philippine insurgents to establish without our protection and supervision for a period, at least; and in Cuba, perhaps better than the Cuban in- surgents can establish at the present time without our friendly assistance. It there- fore seems our duty, however undesired, to continue for the present in control of whatever territory may be taken from Spain as the fruit of our victories, and to administer the government for the benefit of the inhabitants until we are satisfied of their willingness and ability to maintain in a reasonable degree peace and order, law and justice. We, as trus- tees and guardians of several millions of people of different races from our own, have become the political arbiters of their destiny, and are bound to provide against civil war among them. Our responsibility for the administra- tion of this trust cannot be transferred by accepting the professions of native in- surgent leaders and their production of paper constitutions and forms of govern- ment. We cannot terminate our trust, even though unsought and onerous, until the conquered dependency is under a government which does give it a reason- able degree of peace, law, and equity, and whose permanence may be assumed from the general confidence and support of the inhabitants. Inde~d, war assumes a promise to abide by its consequences, for better and for worse; to accept the responsibilities of victory as well as its glory, with the same manly courage with which we face wounds and death in bat- tle, sickness and pestilence in hospital, and the public cost and private sorrow at home which may result from it. Let us not hesitate to perform our duty like men, and, like prudent men, let us exam- ine our position so as to measure the dif- ficulties of our task. The long-established foreign policy of the United States was originally for- mulated in Washingtons Farewell Ad- dress, and was more fully defined in the Monroe Doctrine message and in subse- quent expositions of its application by successive secretaries of state. In all these state papers the principles and doctrines were set forth as the dc- clarations of a sovereign nation. As in all declarations of intent, the nation necessarily reserved the right to change or modify these principles and doctrines when eases should arise for their practi- cal application in the promotion of great permanent interests of the nation. For, be it distinctly understood, such declara- tions are unilateral, and without cove- nant, direct or implied, to bind our hands to act against what may seem our public interests. To deny this principle of na- tional life would be to hang about the nations neck, like a constantly increasing weight, the accumulating errors of suc- cessive generations, and thus ultimately to destroy the nation, a doctrine di- rectly opposed to the paramount duty of self-preservation. Indeed, a declaration of intent, announced as an act of courtesy or warning to foreign nations, and not for valuable consideration, establishes no pre- scriptive rights, however long enjoyed, but may be resumed or reversed at the will of the nation without prejudice to its good faith. Nor can such change of policy be made a ground by other nations for demanding an explanation; a na- tions sovereignty and the exercise of its sovereign rights are not open to the ad- judication of other nations, its possible rivals or enemies. Therefore, whatever may be the for- 554 The Development of our Foreign Policy. eign policy which the United States may adopt in the West Indies or in the Pa- cific, no European power has a right to demand an explanation of our intentions, or even of particular acts, unless they threaten immediate hostilities. Much less can the right be claimed that such policy nullifies our general foreign policy or our local foreign policy in a distant part of the world. Such a claim could be looked upon only as an intolerable insolence on the part of the government making it, and should be sternly rejected. But assuming that the results of this war require the adoption by the United States of a colonial policy in the West Indies and the Philippines, it has been held doubtless with perfect sincerity by many that we should thereby defi- nitely abandon our traditional foreign policy as defined in Washingtons Fare- well Address, the Monroe Doctrine mes- sage, and official expositions of the same by our state department; and fear has been expressed that we should give a pro- vocation for European intervention in American affairs, to say nothing of the ruinous consequences to our republic in- evitable to the control of colonies, as shown by the corruption and failure of Spain herself because of these very colo- nies. To see whether there be such grave danger, let us briefly review the first ap- plications of the Farewell Address and the Monroe Doctrine, and determine to what extent they truly apply to the con- ditions that now face us. The doctrine of the balance of power in Europe furnishes the key to European political history for the past three cen- turies. It had been intended that the status quo established by the Peace of Westphalia (1648), when western Eu- rope was politically redistributed among the several rulers, should be permanent. It was held to be an outrage against the peace of Europe to attempt a material change of the territorial distribution then established; to avert this, standing ar- mies were maintained and endless di- plomatic negotiations kept up, requiring permanent legations at all important cap- itals. Richelieu is credited with devising this scheme for the purpose of assuring the superiority in Europe of France and the house of Bourbon over the Haps- burg dynasties in Austria and Germany and in Spain; his central idea was to keep Germany from unification, and to this end to reorganize the German Em- pire into groups of independent states according to their religion, preserving a nominal allegiance to elective emperors and state-rights to the princes, not only in local affairs, but in foreign relations. As thus organized there were two hun- dred and three sovereiguties, separated by religious differences and by local jealousies and interests, an ideal ar- rangement for foreign intrigues and com- binations, controversies and wars, as the normal political condition of Europe for centuries to come. Thus Richelieu won the name Father of European Diplo- macy. So effective was this arrange- ment that Germany was kept weak and divided until the Sadowa campaign ob- literated Austria from German politics in 1866, and the Franco - German war resulted in the complete unification of Germany under the Hoheuzollerns. Now the keystone of the doctrine of the balance of power was perpetuation of the political distribution of power in Europe established by the Peace of West- phalia, political stagnation fatalto na- tional development. The constant wars of the seventeenth and eighteenth cen- turies were manifestations of the impos- sibility that the world should stand still; the readjustments, at the close of such wars, were all based on throwing in makeweights to restore the balance of power in Europe; for all Europe had come to look upon the rest of the world her colonial dependencies in America, Asia, and Africa as created solely for her benefit. This balance of power in Europe, up to the close of the eighteenth The Development of our Foreign Policy. 555 century, was the struggle between France and Austria for supremacy in Europe, a dynastic question with which America had no direct intrinsic concern. Wash- ingtons Farewell Address happily de- scribes it as broils of European ambi- tion, rivalship, interest, humor, or ca- price. Our revolutionary statesmen personal- ly understood how fatal to peace in Amer- ica would be the continued extension of this European doctrine of balance of pow- er to America, to the United States as an ally, to the European colonies in America if they were to continue to be used as makeweights. Washingtons own military career opened in the Virginia forests because England and Prussia had become involved in war with France and Austria over dynastic questions growing out of this European balance of power; they knew how Louisburg had been be- sieged and taken by New England troops in 1745, and by the treaty of peace in 1748 had been given back to France in exchange for the French trading factory at Madras. Indeed, these American dependencies of Europe were sold and exchanged like West India negroes: some of the West India islands had changed owners ten times in less than two centuries; the Dutch province of New York was ob- tained by the Eng]ish in exchange for the English colony of Surinam in Guiana. After being held by Holland, England, and Spain in turn, the island of Santa Cruz was sold successively to the Knights of Malta, the French West India Com- pany, the king of France, and the gov- ernment of Denmark (by which it was recently offered for sale to the United States). In like manner, after similar transfers, the island of St. Bartholomew was given to the king of Sweden by France in exchange for the right of French merchants to trade at the Swe- dish port of Gottenburg. All these facts were notorious, and were acutely realized by our revolution- ary statesmen. Hamilton used them as arguments in favor of the adoption of the Constitution: we should thus concur in creating a great American system, su- perior to all transatlantic force and in- fluence, and able to dictate the terms of connection between the Old World and the New World. 1 John Adams noted in his Diary this remark of his to the British plenipotentiary in negotiating our treaty of peace with Great Britain in 1783: It is obvious that all the pow- ers of Europe will be continually ma- neuvring to work us into their real or imaginary balances of power; they will all seek to make of us a makeweight can- dle in weighing out their pounds. That this makeweight system would be a menace to our peace as a nation was fully understood; for what security should we have if European powers, owning West India islands commanding our coast and commerce, could sell them to our rivals or enemies? Thus we see that the two deside~ata set forth in Washingtons Farewell Ad- dress were no political entanglements of the United States in European political broils, and an American system apart and separate from that of Europe. These points were finally embodied in Monroes famous message of December 2, 1823. The scheme of the balance of power had its own development, and was fol- lowed by other plans to secure similar ends. The Napoleonic wars made a new readjustment of European bounda- ries necessary, but first of all Europe must overthrow the military domination of Napoleon. Hence the Holy Alliance of the five great Powers, arranged by Lord Castlereagh in the Treaty of Chau- mont, March 1, 1814. Lord Castle- reaghs circular of June 19, 1821, offi- cially states its purpose: It was a union for the reconquest and liberation of a great portion of the continent of Europe from the military despotism of France; and, having subdued the conqueror, it 1 Federalist, xi. 556 The Development of our Foreign Policy. took the state of possession, as established by the peace, under its protection. It never was, however, intended for the government of the world or for the su- perintendence of the internal affairs of other states. This is a most important exposition for us to bear in mind, be- cause it led to the announcement of our Monroe Doctrine. The formation of the Holy Alliance was essentially the overthrow of the doc- trine of political equality of sovereign states, which had been an important fac- tor in the scheme of balance of power. It set up the primacy of the great Pow- ers as trustees for settling European ques- tions; it made the settlement of questions of European interest depend upon the common consent of the great Powers; hence the later name concert of Eu- rope. The Holy Alliance, after reorganizing Europe, undertook to re~stablish Spain in her revolted American colonies. At this England protested, and withdrew from the Alliance. Isolated, she decided to invite the United States to join her in formal protest against the proposed interference of the Holy Alliance in Span- ish America. Mr. Canning suggested this joint action to United States minister Rush, who submitted the correspondence to President Monroe, and the latter sent the papers to ex-Presidents Jefferson and Madison, asking their views. The reply of Jefferson, dated October 24, 1823, shows how logically he deduced the Monroe Doctrine from the principles of Washingtons Farewell Address: The question presented by the letters you have sent me is the most momentous which has been offered to my contempla- tion since that of Independence. That made us a nation; this sets the compass and points the course which we are to steer through the ocean of time opening 1 The status of the Suez Canal, being an Egyptian and therefore a Turkish question, was recognized as of general European interest, and, after much fruitless negotiation, the canal to us. . . . Our first and fundamental maxim should be never to entangle our- selves in the broils of Europe; our sec- ond, never to suffer Europe to inter- meddle in cisatlantic affairs. America, North and South, has a set of interests distinct from those of Europe and pecu- liarly her own; she should have a system of her own, separate and apart from that of Europe. . . . We will oppose with all our means the forcible interposition of any other power (in American colo- nial questions) as auxiliary, stipendia- ry, or under any other form or pretext; and most especially their transfer to any other power by conquest, cession, or ac- quisition in any other way. This is a concrete statement of the principles of the Monroe Doctrine, if we add the claim, already then announced, that as all American territory belonged to some Christian power, none of it was subject to European colonization. Thus we have the Monroe Doctrine for the protection of America, North and South, from the European political schemes of balance of power, primacy of the great Powers, and European concert. Englands refusal to consent to the restoration of the Spanish Bourbons in Spanish America, largely because of her opposition to the Spanish system of co- lonial monopoly, led to the downfall of the Holy Alliance. But the idea of com- mon consent had become a fixed prin- ciple of European politics and was ex- tended to the Eastern Question, which has been the disturbing question of Eu- ropean politics for three quarters of a century. It was because the concert of Europe could not agree upon intervention in Tur- key that the recent Armenian massacres were allowed to go unpunished, although all the great Powers individually ab- horred the outrages. was neutralized by the convention of 1888 be- tween the six great Powers, to which Turkey, Spain, and the Netherlands subsequently be- came parties by accession. But let it be die- The Development of our Foreign Policy. 557 We see, then, that European political questions are as distinct and apart from American questions to-day as they have been at any time during the past cen- tury; and that an American system has grown out of the Monroe Doctrine through its acceptance as their own policy also by many if not all the other Amer- ican republics. We claim no right of in- tervention in the domestic or foreign concerns of any American state, except so far as to prevent European intermed- dling with its political destiny. We stood as defender of the Mexican people against the establishment of an empire under a European intruder backed by a Euro- pean army of invaders; we extended our friendly offices in the settlement of the Venezuela-Guiana boundary dispute, which after chronic controversies was finally referred to international ar- bitration; on several occasions we have consented to adjudicate boundary dis- agreements between American nations at their mutual request; and we engaged in a costly general war to put an end to an intolerable condition of barbarity in ~ European colony at our door, and as- sure its people due security of life and property, peace, law, and equity; nor could we allow any European power to redress these wrongs, any more than we could permit a European power to trans- fer its American dependencies to another European power. It has been said by a very eminent European writer on international law that the position of the United States tinctly noted that this neutralization was ac- connted a European question, and that every one of the signatory Powers (except Austria) had colonies in Asia or Africa, to which this canal was a necessary waterway, the shortest line of approach. On the other hand, the Eu- ropean Powers which had no colonies to be reached by the Suez Canal were not parties to the convention. The German canal from Kiel on the Baltic to the North Sea, the Caledonian canal across Scotland, the canal across the Isthmus of Corinth, and the projected French canal from the Bay of Biscay to the Mediterra on the American continent is in some respects like, and in others exceedingly unlike, that which is accorded in Europe to the six great Powers. . . . If it be true that there is a primacy in America comparable to that which exists in Eu- rope, it must be wielded by her, and by her alone. 1 It may be truly said that the United States does exercise a primacy in Ameri- ca, but it is confined to the protection of American states against the land-hunger of Europe. We have never intervened in the internal dissensions of any Ameri- can state, nor in controversies or wars between American states; we have nev- er pushed unsought our good offices or mediation upon them in their difficulties, nor have we objected to their choice of European Powers as a~rbitrators. We have strictly confined ourselves to the part of a good friend to each of them, whose friendly offices are always at their command for the honorable settlement of controversies among themselves or with European Powers. If this be primacy in America, most assuredly it is a kind of primacy radi- cally different from that which has ar- rayed armies of millions in Europe, and established a European concert to su- perintend the solution of the Eastern Question, in other words, to regulate the disintegration of Turkey, 2 without producing a general war in the scramble for desirable bits of the crumbling Turk- ish Empire. Whatever may be the the- ory of the concert of Europe, the fact nean all ship canals are considered local, and not of general European interest. For a similar reason, the construction of an American Isthmus canal, whether at Nicaragua or at Panama, cannot be claimed to he a Euro- pean question, or in any way under the control of the concert of Europe. On the contrary, it is purely an American question, for the same reason that the Suez Canal is purely a Euro- pean question. 1 Professor T. J. Lawrence, International Law, 136. 2 Professor T. E. Holland, European Concert. 558 f/ike Development of our Foreiyn Policy. is that the Crimean war was made to prevent Russia getting a larder share of Turkey than seemed fair to the other Powers; this same spirit of jealous rival- ry, perhaps of self-defense, compelled Russia to yield the fruits of victory ex- torted from Turkey by the Peace of S. Stefano two decades ago. The foreign policy of this country has been to have no political connection with foreign countries in the local Eu- ropean schemes of European balance of power, primacy in Europe, concert of Europe, Triple Alliance, or whatever other names may represent European politics. But our policy is settled in re- gard to the intervention of European Powers in America for controlling the political destiny of any American nation or for the control by transfer of any European dependency in America. Hence the escape of the weaker nations of Latin America from the toils of Eu- ropean intervention and land-hunger. Whatever may be our policy, more- over, in regard to purely American ques- tions, as belon,,ing to a system separate and apart from that of Europe, we are perfectly free to adopt whatever foreign policy we may deem proper in regard to other than American questions; nor can such policy be held in any way to mili. tate against or nullify our American policy. When we note the recent land scrab- ble in Africa, and the partition of that continent among the great Powers of western Europe, in some way based on the doctrine of equivalents, we behold a disposition to extend the European sys- tem of balance of power beyond Europe. And in the Far East to-day we see, in process of accomplishment, a partition of China remarkably resembling the re- cently accomplished partition of Africa. Whether in Africa or in the Far East, the fundamental cause is the same, a scramble for foreign markets, with po- litical dominion thrown in to assure their permanence. At this juncture the United States wins a notable naval victory at Manila, which presumably puts us in practical control at least of a part of a tropical archi- pelago about as large as Japan, inhabited by some ten million people. We know that the Philippines, despite Spanish mis- government and corruption, have an average foreign trade of fifty million dollars a year, as great as Japans twenty years ago, and one fifth that of China to-day. Though our knowledge of the natural resources of the Philippines is still vague, the general opinion is that in natural resources they will compare favorably with any part of the Far East. And we may believe that, under honest government, peace and order will reign, and within a score of years, under the protection of the United States, they may become a commercial rival of Japan. The opening of this group of islands as a foreign market of increasing purchas- ing power, as a goal for our commerce and navigation~ on the Pacific, comes when a large and increasing foreign mar- ket seems to this country, as it has seemed to European Powers, an absolute neces- sity not only for industrial prosperity, but for mitigating the conflict between labor and capital. With China already partly partitioned between Russia, Germany, and France, after their colonial system in the anti- quated interest of colonial monopoly; with Great Britain and Japan also. shar- ers of China, but on the principle of the open door, that is, all nations to trade on equal terms, we are brought face to face with two radically different policies for colonial dependencies. To the people not only of the Philippines, but of China, the question involved by these two divergent policies is momen- tous, involving the destiny of quite a fifth of the worlds inhabitants. That ques- tion is whether they shall be the slaves of commercial monopoly under Russian, German, and French task - masters, or whether they shall be open to modern life The Development of our Foreign Policy. 559 and thought on the open door system of Anglo-Saxon civilization. We can well understand how the par- tition of China has been arranged on the doctrine of equivalents, and how an equi- librium has thus been created. But, as- suming that Spain permanently loses the Philippines, who is to take control? It is evident that the apparent equilibrium between England, France, Germany, Russia, and Japan would be entirely de- stroyed by adding the Philippines to the holdings of either of those five Powers, and this would bring grave controversy, if not war, against the recipient, from the other four Powers. There seems but one thing that can avert this terrible result, namely, the advent of a new first-class Power in the Far East, which is on terms of perfect friendship with all five Powers. Whether we like it or not, of all the nations of the world to-day, the United States is the only Power which can take these islands and develop them without disturbing the politico-commercial equi- librium in the Far East. When we look back upon the bureau- cratic methods adopted by the continen- tal Powers in colonization, and see how little of genuine civilization has accrued to their colonies; when we compare this meagre exhibit with the steady and no- ble progress of every Anglo-Saxon state, territory, colony and dependency whether Caucasian or of lower race in all that makes man happy, prosperous, and progressive, the victory at Manila does seem as an awakening of the Phil- ippines, and such an awakening as may hasten the spread throughout eastern Asia of the blessings of modern civiliza- tion. What is the grand central Anglo-Saxon idea in the founding of states? It is first of all, and above all, that government is organized, according to the condition of the people to be governed, for a single practical purpose, and that purpose is to establish peace, law, and equity; so that, under it, all men shall be equal before the law and shall have equal justice; that all men shall be at peace with one another under the law, and shall enjoy equal protection in accumulating and using their property; that there shall be no military overlord or military caste to tyrannize over the plain men of the peo- ple; that there shall be no religious over- lord or religious caste to tyrannize over their souls; that the poor and unfortu- nate shall not become outcasts, and their children after them; that public educa- tion shall be freely dispensed as a means of uplifting mens souls and lives and making them good citizens, self-re- specting and intellig~nt, and able to take a constantly increasing part in the affairs of government. The Anglo-Saxon of to-day is the pro- duct of a thousand years of continuous effort to make brave and honest men. For centuries we have practiced the art of self-government, until to govern has be- come an instinct, and to be self-governed a habit. To us power means opportu- nity to help others; it also means re- sponsibility, not to man only, but to God, for the wise use of the power thus given us. And for this reason we are especial- ly fitted to act as trustees and guardians of inferior races, and peculiarly qualified to fit them eventually to govern them- selves. That this is very truth, compare India and Egypt to-day with what they were before the advent of their Anglo- Saxon rulers. Horace N. Fisher. 560 Bismarcic as a National Type. BISMARCK AS A NATIONAL TYPE. IT was a spring day in 1883. The crafts and trades of Berlin were cele- brating the anniversary of the founding of one of their guilds some four or five centuries ago. In good German fash- ion, there was an abundance of solemn and sonorous jollification throughout the day, but the climax of the exercises was reached in an historical pageant repre- senting the growth of Berlin commerce and manufactures from the Middle Ages down to the present time. It had been given out that this pageant was to be reviewed by the old Emperor from his familiar corner window; it was rumored that it would also pass by the imperial Chancellery, and that Prince Bismarck would probably be there to see it pass. In anticipation of this event, a dense multitude had taken possession of the square in front of Bismarcks official residence the Wilhelmsplatz hours before the procession had even begun to move. An eager, nervous expectation seemed to hover over the surging masses. Will the procession really come this way? If it does, will he appear, he who is so indifferent to pompous demonstrations, so averse to appeals to the crowd? As yet there was no sign of life in the Bismarck mansion: the windows were closed; most of the curtains were drawn. Perhaps the prince is not even at home, or is too engrossed in public business to have given any attention to this local hol- iday. In spite of such misgivings, the populace held out unfalteringly; every minute swelled its numbers. Now, not only the square, but the adjoining streets also were literally packed. Presently there was heard from the direction of Unter den Linden the low thunder of tu- multuous cheering, interspersed now and then with some distant strains of martial music; evidently the procession was pass- ing the Emperors palace. Nearer and nearer the sounds came, and higher and higher ran our feverish excitement. Presently in a wing of the Chancellery nearest to the Wilhelmstrasse a window was thrown open: the Princess Bismarck and Count Herbert leaned out, and far back in the darkness of the room there, loomed up a shadowy form, from which a mighty head seemed to be shining forth with something like electric energy. To attempt to describe the frenzy which seized the thousands in the street at this sight would be a futile task. It was as though we had had a vision, as though something superhuman had suddenly flashed down upon us and extinguished every other feeling except the impulse to worship. How long we had been cheer- ing before he came forward to the win- dow I cannot tell, but I venture to say that even an American football enthusi- ast would have been pleased with our efforts. At last, however, he did come for- ward, and, putting on a pair of immense spectacles which his wife handed to him, looked down upon us with an expression of grave satisfaction. Meanwhile, the procession of the guilds had swung into the Wilhelmstrasse, and now passed by the Chancellery in seemingly endless ar- ray, every band striking up The Watch on the Rhine just before it reached the princes window, every banner being dipped as long as his eye was upon it, and every man straightening himself up and feeling raised above his own narrow self while looking up to that stern and awe-inspiring face. What was it that moved the multi- tude so profoundly during those hours, that gave to that impromptu demonstra- tion the significance and dignity of a national event? Was it the conscious- ness of standing in the presence of the greatest diplomat of modern times, the

560 Bismarcic as a National Type. BISMARCK AS A NATIONAL TYPE. IT was a spring day in 1883. The crafts and trades of Berlin were cele- brating the anniversary of the founding of one of their guilds some four or five centuries ago. In good German fash- ion, there was an abundance of solemn and sonorous jollification throughout the day, but the climax of the exercises was reached in an historical pageant repre- senting the growth of Berlin commerce and manufactures from the Middle Ages down to the present time. It had been given out that this pageant was to be reviewed by the old Emperor from his familiar corner window; it was rumored that it would also pass by the imperial Chancellery, and that Prince Bismarck would probably be there to see it pass. In anticipation of this event, a dense multitude had taken possession of the square in front of Bismarcks official residence the Wilhelmsplatz hours before the procession had even begun to move. An eager, nervous expectation seemed to hover over the surging masses. Will the procession really come this way? If it does, will he appear, he who is so indifferent to pompous demonstrations, so averse to appeals to the crowd? As yet there was no sign of life in the Bismarck mansion: the windows were closed; most of the curtains were drawn. Perhaps the prince is not even at home, or is too engrossed in public business to have given any attention to this local hol- iday. In spite of such misgivings, the populace held out unfalteringly; every minute swelled its numbers. Now, not only the square, but the adjoining streets also were literally packed. Presently there was heard from the direction of Unter den Linden the low thunder of tu- multuous cheering, interspersed now and then with some distant strains of martial music; evidently the procession was pass- ing the Emperors palace. Nearer and nearer the sounds came, and higher and higher ran our feverish excitement. Presently in a wing of the Chancellery nearest to the Wilhelmstrasse a window was thrown open: the Princess Bismarck and Count Herbert leaned out, and far back in the darkness of the room there, loomed up a shadowy form, from which a mighty head seemed to be shining forth with something like electric energy. To attempt to describe the frenzy which seized the thousands in the street at this sight would be a futile task. It was as though we had had a vision, as though something superhuman had suddenly flashed down upon us and extinguished every other feeling except the impulse to worship. How long we had been cheer- ing before he came forward to the win- dow I cannot tell, but I venture to say that even an American football enthusi- ast would have been pleased with our efforts. At last, however, he did come for- ward, and, putting on a pair of immense spectacles which his wife handed to him, looked down upon us with an expression of grave satisfaction. Meanwhile, the procession of the guilds had swung into the Wilhelmstrasse, and now passed by the Chancellery in seemingly endless ar- ray, every band striking up The Watch on the Rhine just before it reached the princes window, every banner being dipped as long as his eye was upon it, and every man straightening himself up and feeling raised above his own narrow self while looking up to that stern and awe-inspiring face. What was it that moved the multi- tude so profoundly during those hours, that gave to that impromptu demonstra- tion the significance and dignity of a national event? Was it the conscious- ness of standing in the presence of the greatest diplomat of modern times, the Bismarcic as a National Type. 561 maker and unmaker of kings and em- perors, the founder of German unity, the arbiter of Europe ? Undoubtedly this was a large part of it. But politi- cal achievements alone are not sufficient to stir the peoples heart. What called forth this extraordinary outburst of en- thusiasm, what gave to every one in that crowd the sense of heightened existence, was, after all, the man, not his work; it was the instinctive feeling that in this one man yonder there were contained the lives of many millions of Germans, their dreams and struggles, their eccen- tricities and yearnings, their mistakes and triumphs, their prejudices, passions, ideals, their love, hate, humor, poetry, religion. Let us single out a few of these affin- ities between Bismarck and the German people, in order to understand, however imperfectly, why the news of his death that has burst so suddenly upon us means for the sons of the Fatherland, all over the globe, the severing of their own lives from what they feel to have been the most complete embodiment of German nation- ality since Luther. I. Perhaps the most obviously Teutonic trait in Bismarcks character is its mar- tial quality. It would be preposterous, of course, to claim warlike distinction as a prerogative of the German race. Rus- sians, Frenchmen, Englishmen, Ameri- cans, undoubtedly, make as good fighters as Germans. But it is not an exagger- ation to say that there is no other coun- try in the world where the army is as enlightened or as popular an institution as it is in Germany. I do not underrate the evils of militarism. I believe the struggle against these evils will be the foremost task of the next twenty - five years in German political life. Yet I fail to see how it can be denied that the introduction of universal military service, whichwe owe to the inner regeneration of Prussia after the downfall of 1806, has VOL. LXXXII. NO. 492. 36 been the very corner - stone of German greatness in this century. The German army is not composed of hirelings, of professional fighters whose business it is to pick up quarrels, no mat- ter with whom. It is, in the strictest sense of the word, the people in arms. Among its officers there is a large percentage of the intellectual ~lite of the country; its rank and file embrace every occupation and every class of society, from the scion of royal blood down to the son of the seamstress. Although it is based upon the unconditional acceptance of the monarchical creed, nothing is farther removed from it than the spirit of ser- vility. On the contrary, one of the very first teachings inculcated upon the Ger- man recruit is that in wearing the kings coat he is performing a public duty, and that by performing this duty he is honoring himself. Nor can it be said that it is the aim of German military drill to reduce the soldier to a mere ma- chine, at will to be set in motion or be brought to a standstill by his superior. The aim of this drill is rather to give each soldier increased self-control, men- tally no less than bodily; to develop his self-respect; to enlarge his sense of re- sponsibility, as well as to teach him the absolute necessity of the subordination of the individual to the needs of the whole. The German army, then, is by no means a lifeless tool that might be used by an unscrupulous and adventurous despot to gratify his own whims or to wreak his private vengeance. The Ger- man army is, in principle at least, a na- tional school of manly virtues, of disci- pline, of comradeship, of self-sacrifice, of promptness of action, of tenacity of pur- pose. Although the most powerful ar- mament which the world has ever seen, it makes for peace rather than for war. Although called upon to defend the stan- dard of the most imperious dynasty of western Europe, it contains more of the spirit of true democracy than many a city government on this side of the Atlantic. 562 Bismarck as a National Type. All this has to be borne in mind, if we wish to judge correctly of Bismarcks military propensities. He has never concealed the fact that he felt himself above all a soldier. One of his earliest public utterances was a defense of the Prussian army against the sympathizers with the Revolution of 1848. His first great political achievement was the car- rying through of King Williams army reform in the face of the most stubborn and virulent opposition of a parliament- ary majority. Never did his speech in the German Diet rise to a higher pathos than when he was asserting the mili- tary supremacy of the Emperor, or call- ing upon the parties to forget their dis- sensions in maintaining the defensive strength of the nation, or showering con- tempt upon Liberal deputies who seemed to think that questions of national ex- istence could be solved by effusions of academic oratory. Over and over, dur- ing the last decade of his official career, did he declare that the only thing which kept him from throwing aside the worry and vexation of governmental duties, and retiring to the much coveted leisure of home and hearth, was the oath of vassal loyalty constraining him to stand at his post until his imperial master released him of his own accord. At the very height of his political triumphs he wrote to his sovereign: I have always regret- ted that my parents did not allow me to testify my attachment to the royal house, and my enthusiasm for the greatness and glory of the Fatherland, in the front rank of a regiment rather than behind a writ- ing-desk. And even now, after having been raised by your Majesty to the high- est honors of a statesman, I cannot al- together repress a feeling of regret at not having been similarly able to carve out a career for myself as a soldier. Per- haps I should have made a poor general, but if I had been free to follow the bent of my own inclination I would rather have won battles for your Majesty than diplomatic campaigns. It seems clear to me that both the de- fects and the greatness of Bismarcks character are intimately associated with these military leanings of his. He cer- tainly was overbearing; he could toler- ate no opposition; he was revengeful and unforgiving; lie took pleasure in the ap- peal to violence; he easily resorted to measures of repression; he requited in- sults with counter-insults; he had some- thing of that blind furor Teutonious which was the terror of the Italian re- publics in the Middle Ages. These are defects of temper which will probably prevent his name from ever shining with that serene lustre of international ven- eration that has surrounded the memory of a Joseph II. or a Washington with a kind of impersonal immaculateness. But his countrymen, at least, have every reason to condone these defects; for they are concomitant results of the military bent of German character, and they are offset by such transcendent military vir- tues that we would almost welcome them as bringing this colossal figure within the reach of our own frailties and short- comings. Three of the military qualities that made Bismarek great seem to me to stand out with particular distinctness: his readiness to take the most tremen- dous responsibilities, if he could justify his action by the worth of the cause for which he made himself responsible; his moderation after success was assured; his unflinching submission to the dictates of monarchical discipline. Moritz Busch has recorded an occur- rence, belonging to the autumn of 1877, which most impressively brings before us the tragic grandeur and the porten- tous issues of Bismareks career. It was twilight at Varzin, and the Chancellor, as was his wont after dinner, was sitting by the stove in the large back drawing- room. After having sat silent for a while, gazing straight before him, and feeding the fire now and anon with fir cones, he suddenly began to complain Btsmarck as a National Type. 563 that his political activity had brought him but little satisfaction and few friends. Nobody loved him for what he had done. He had never made any- body happy thereby, he said, not him- self, nor his family, nor any one else. Some of those present would not admit this, and suggested that he had made a great nation happy. But, he con- tinued, how many have I made unhap- py! But for me three great wars would not have been fought; eighty thousand men would not have perished; parents, brothers, sisters, and wives would not have been bereaved and plunged into mourning. . . . That matter, however, I have settled with God. Settled with God! an amazing statement, a statement which would seem the height of blasphemy, if it were not an expres- sion of noblest manliness; if it did not reveal the soul of a warrior dauntlessly fighting for a great cause, risking for it the existence of a whole country as well as his own happiness, peace, and salva- tion, and being ready to submit the con- sequences, whatever they might be, to the tribunal of eternity. To say that a man who is willing to take such responsibili- ties as these makes himself thereby an offender against morality appears to me tantamount to condemning the Alps as obstructions to bicycling. At any rate, a people that glories in the achievements of Luther has no right to cast a slur upon the motives of Bismarck. Whatever one may think ofthe worth of the cause for which Bismarck battled all his life, the unity and greatness of Germany, it is impossible not to ad- mire the policy of moderation and self-re- straint pursued by him after every one of his most decisive victories. Here again we note in him the peculiarly German military temper. German war-songs do not glorify foreign conquest and brilliant adventure; they glorify dogged resist- ance, and bitter fight for house and home, for kith and kin. The German army, composed as it is of millions of peaceful citizens, is essentially a weapon of de- fense. And it can truly be said that Bis- marck, with all his natural aggressiveness and ferocity, was in the main a defender, not a conqueror. He defended Prussia against the intolerable arrogance and un- German policy of Austria; he defended Germany against French interference in the work of national consolidation; he defended the principle of state sovereign- ty against the encroachments of the pa- pacy; he defended the monarchy against the republicanism of the Liberals and Socialists; and his last public act was a defense of ministerial responsibility against the new - f angled absolutism of his young imperial master. The third predominant trait of Bis- mareks character that stamps him as a soldier his unquestioning obedience to monarchical discipline is so closely bound up with the peculiarly German conceptions of the functions and the pur- pose of the state, that it will be better to approach this part of his nature from the political instead of the military side. II. In no other of the leading countries of the world has the laissez faire doctrine had as little influence in political matters as in Germany. Luther, the fearless champion of religious individualism, was in questions of government the most pro- nounced advocate of paternalism. Kant, the cool dissector of the human intellect, was at the same time the most rigid up- holder of corporate morality. It was Fichte, the ecstatic proclaimer of the glory of the individual will, who wrote this dithyramb on the necessity of the constant surrender of private interests to the common welfare: Nothing can live by itself or for itself; everything lives in the whole; and the whole continually sacrifices itself to itself in order to live anew. This is the law of life. Whatever has come to the consciousness of existence must fall a victim to the progress of all existence. Only there is a difference 564 Bismarcic as a National Type. whether you are dragged to the shambles like a beast with bandaged eyes, or whether, in full and joyous presentiment of the life which will spring forth from your sacrifice, you offer yourself freely on the altar of eternity. Not even Plato and Aristotle went so far in the deification of the state as Hegel. And if Hegel declared that the real office of the state is not to further in- dividual interests, to protect private pro- perty, but to be an embodiment of the organic unity of public life; if he saw the highest task and the real freedom of the individual in making himself a part of this organic unity of public life, he voiced a sentiment which was fully shared by the leading classes of the Prus- sia of his time, and which has since be- come a part of the political creed of the Socialist masses all over Germany. Here we have the moral background of Bismarcks internal policy. His mon- archism rested not only on his personal allegiance to the hereditary dynasty, al- though no mediawal knight could have been more steadfast in his loyalty to his liege lord than Bismarck was in his un- swerving devotion to the Hohenzollern house. His monarchism rested above all on the conviction that, under the pre sent conditions of German political life, no other form of government would in- sure equally well the fulfillment of the moral obligations of the state. He was by no means blind to the value of parliamentary institutions. More than once has he described the English Con- stitution as the necessary outcome and the fit expression of the vital forces of English society. More than once has he eulogized the sterling political qualities of English landlordism, its respect for the law, its common sense, its noble de- votion to national interests. More than once has he deplored the absence in Ger- many of the class which in England is the main support of the state, the class of wealthy and therefore conserva- tive gentlemen, independent of material interests, whose whole education is di- rected with a view to their becoming statesmen, and whose only aim in life is to take part in public affairs; and the absence of a Parliament, like the Eng- lish, containing two sharply defined par- ties, whereof one forms a sure and un- swerving majority which subjects itself with iron discipline to its ministerial leaders. We may regret that Bismarck himself did not do more to develop par- liamentary discipline; that indeed he did everything in his power to arrest the healthy growth of German party life. But it is at least perfectly clear that his reasons for refusing to allow the German parties a controlling influence in shaping the policy of the government were not the result of mere despotic ca- price, but were founded upon thoroughly German traditions, and upon a thorough- ly sober, though one - sided view of the present state of German public affairs. To him party government appeared as much of an impossibility as it had ap- peared to Hegel. In his opinion the attempt to establish it would have led to nothing less than chaos. The Ger- man parties, as he viewed them, repre- sented, not the state, not the nation, but an infinite variety of private and class interests, the interests of landholders, traders, manufacturers, laborers, politi- idans, priests, and so on; each particular set of interests desiring the particular consideration of the public treasury, and refusing the same amount of considera- tion to every other. It seemed highly desirable to him, as it did to Hegel, that all these interests should be heard; that they should be represented in a Parlia- ment based upon as wide and liberal a suffrage as possible. But he thought that to entrust any one of these interests with the functions of government would have been treason to the state; it would have been class tyranny of the worst kind. The logical outcome of all this was his conviction of the absolute necessity, for B~smarck as a National Type. 565 Germany, of a strong non-partisan gov- eminent: a government which should hold all the conflicting class interests in check, which should force them into con- tinual compromises with one another; a government which should be unrestrict- ed by any class prejudices, pledges, or theories, which should have no other guiding star than the welfare of the whole nation. The only basis for such a government he found in the Prussian monarchy, with its glorious tradition of military discipline, of benevolent pater- nalism, and of self-sacrificing devotion to national greatness; with its patriotic gentry, its incorruptible courts, its re- ligious freedom, its enlightened educa- tional system, its eflicient and highly trained civil service. To bow before such a monarchy, to serve such a state, was indeed something different from submit- ting to the chance vote of a parliament- ary majority; in this bondage even a Bismarck could find his highest freedom. For nearly forty years he bore this bondage; for twenty-eight he stood in the place nearest to the monarch him- self; and not even his enemies have dared to assert that his political conduct was guided by other motives than the consideration of public welfare. Indeed, if there is any phrase for which he, the apparent cynic, the sworn despiser of phrases, seems to have had a certain weakness, it is scdus publica. To it he sacrificed his days and his nights; for it he more than once risked his life; for it he incurred more hatred and slander than perhaps any other man of his time; for it he alienated his best friends; for it he turned not once or twice, but one might almost say habitually, against his own cherished prejudices and convic- tions. The career of few men shows so many apparent inconsistencies and con- trasts. One of his earliest speeches in the Prussian Landtag was a fervent pro- test against the introduction of civil mar- riage; yet the civil marriage clause in the German constitution is his work. He was by birth and tradition a believer in the divine right of kings, yet the king of Hanover could tell something of the manner in which Bismarck dealt with the divine right of kings if it stood in the way of German unity. He took pride in belonging to the most feudal aristocracy of eastern Europe, the Prussian Jun- kerdom; yet he has done more to up- root feudal privileges than any other German statesman since 1848. He glo- ried in defying public opinion; he wns wont to say that he felt doubtful about himself whenever he met with popular applause; yet he is the founder of the German Parliament, and he founded it on direct and universal suffrage. He was the sworn enemy of the Socialist par- ty, he attempted to destroy it root and branch; yet through the nationalization of railways and the obligatory insurance of workmen lie infused more S6~ialism into German legislation than any other statesman before him. He began as a quixotic champion of royal autocracy; he died the advocate of the German nation against the capricious mysticism of imperial omnipotence. Truly, a man who could thus sacrifice his own wishes and instincts to the com- mon good; who could so completely sink his own personality in the cause of the nation; who with such matchless cour- age defended this cause against attacks from whatever quarter, against court intrigue no less than against demagogues, such a man had a right to stand above parties; and he spoke the truth when, some years before leaving office, in a moment of gloom and disappointment he wrote under his portrait, Patrhe in- serviendo consumor. III. There is a strange, but after all per- fectly natural antithesis in German na- tional character. The same people that instinctively believes in political pater- nalism, that willingly submits to restric- tions of personal liberty in matters of 566 Bismarek as a state such as no Englishman would ever tolerate, is more jealous of its independ- ence than perhaps any other nation in matters pertaining to the intellectual, so- cial, and religious life of the individual. It seems as if the very pressure from without had helped to strengthen and en- rich the life within. Not only all the great men of Ger- man thought, from Luther down to the Grimms and the Humboldts, have been conspicuous for their freedom from ar- tificial conventions, and for the original- ity and homeliness of their human inter- course, but even the average German official wedded as he may be to his rank or his title, anxious as he may be to preserve an outward decorum in exact keeping with the precise shade of his public status is often the most delight- fully unconventional, good-natured, un- sophisticated, and even erratic being in the world, as soon as he has left the cares of his office behind him. Germany is the classic land of queer people. It is the land of Quintus Fixlein, Onkel Brasig, Leberecht HUhnchen, and the host of Fliegende Blatter worthies; it is the land of the beer-garden and the Kaffekrdnzchen, of the Christmas-tree and the Whitsuntide merrymaking; it is the land of country inns and of student pranks. What more need be said to bring before ones mind the wealth of hearty joyfulness, jolly good fellowship, boister- ous frolic, sturdy humor, simple direct- ness, and genuinely democratic feeling that characterizes social life in Germany? Still less reason is there for dwelling on the intellectual and religious inde- pendence of German character. Absence of constraint in scientific inquiry and re- ligious conduct is indeed the very palla- dium of German freedom. Nowhere else is higher education so entirely removed from class distinction as in the country where the imperial princes are sent to the same school with the sons of trades- men and artisans. Nowhere else is there eo little religious formalism coupled with National Type. such deep religious feeling as in the coun- try where sermons are preached to empty benches, while Tannhauser and Lohen- grin, Wallenstein and Faust, are listened to with the hush of awe and bated breath by thousands upon thousands. In all these respects socially, intel- lectually, religiously Bismarck was the very incarnation of German character. Although an aristocrat by birth and bear- ing, and although, especially during the years of early manhood, passionately given over to the aristocratic habits of dueling, hunting, swaggering, and ca- rousing, he was essentially a man of the people. Nothing was more utterly for- eign to him than any form of libertinism; even his eccentricities were of the hardy homespun sort. He was absolutely free from social vanity; he detested court festivities; he set no store by orders or decorations; the only two among the innumerable ones conferred upon him which he is said to have highly valued were the Prussian order of the Iron Cross, bestowed for personal bravery on the battlefield, and the medal for res- cuing from danger which he received in 1842 for having saved his groom from drowning by plunging into the water after him. What he thought of mean- ingless titles may be gathered from his remark anent the bestowal upon him by the present Emperor of the ducal dig-. nity: If ever I wish to travel incognito, I shall call myself Duke of Lauenburg. All his instincts were bound up with the soil from which he had sprung. He passionately loved the North German plain, with its gloomy moorlands, its pur- ple heather, its endless wheat-fields, its kingly forests, its gentle lakes, and its superb sweep of sky and clouds. Writ- ing to his friends when abroad, he traveled very little abroad, he was in the habit of describing foreign scenery by comparing it to familiar views and places on his own estates. During sleep- less nights in the Chancellery at Ber- lin there would often rise before him ~ Bismarek as a sudden vision of Varzin, his Pomeranian country - seat, perfectly distinct in the minutest particulars, like a great picture with all its colors fresh, the green trees, the sunshine on the stems, the blue sky above. I saw every individual tree. Never was he more happy than when alone with nature. Saturday, he writes to his wife from Frankfort, I drove to Rudesheim. There I took a boat, rowed out on the Rhine, and swam in the moonlight, with nothing but nose and eyes out of water, as far as the Mausethurm near Bingen, where the bad bishop came to his end. It gives one a peculiar dreamy sensation to float thus on a quiet warm night in the water, gently carried down by the current, looking above on the heavens studded with moon and stars, and on each side the banks and wooded hill~ tops and the battlements of the old castles bathed in the moonlight, whilst nothing falls on ones ear but the gentle splashing of ones movements. I should like to swim like this every evening. And what poet has more deeply felt than he that vague musical longing which seizes one when far away from human sounds, by the brookside or the hillslope? I feel as if I were looking out on the mellowing foliage of a fine September day, he writes again to his wife, health and spirits good, but with a soft touch of melancholy, a little home- sickness, a longing for deep woods and lakes, for a desert, for yourself and the children, and all this mixed up with a sunset and Beethoven. His domestic affections were by no means limited to those united to him by ties of blood; he cherished strong, pa- triarchal feelings for every member of his household, past or present. He pos- sessed in a high degree the German tenderness for little things. He never forgot a service rendered to him, how- ever small. In the midst of the most engrossing public activity he kept him- self informed about the minutest details National Type. 567 of the management of his estates, so that his wife could once laughingly say that a turnip from his own fields interested him vastly more than all the problems of international politics. His humor, also, was entirely of the German stamp. It was boisterous, rol- licking, aggressive, unsparing, of him- self as well as of others, cynic, im- moderate, but never without a touch of good nature. His satire was often crush- ing, never venomous. His wit was racy and exuberant, never equivocal. Whe- ther he describes his vis-l~-vis at a hotel table, his Excellency So and So, as one of those figures which appear to one when he has the nightmare, a fat frog without legs, who opens his mouth as wide as his shoulders, like a carpet-bag, for each bit, so that I am obliged to hold tight on by the table from giddi- ness; whether he characterizes his col- leagues at the Frankfort Bundestag as mere caricatures of periwig diploma- tists, who at once put on their official visage if I merely beg of them a light to my cigar, and who study their words and looks with Regensburg care when they ask for the key of the lavatory whether he sums up his impression of the excited, emotional manner in which Jules Favre pleaded with him for the peace terms in the words, He evi- dently took me for a public meeting; whether he declines to look at the statue erected to him at Cologne, because he does nt care to see himself fossilized; whether he speaks of the unprecedented popular ovations given to him at his final departure from Berlin as a first- class funeral, there is always the same childlike directness, the same naive impulsiveness, the same bantering ear- nestness, the same sublime contempt for sham and hypocrisy. And what man has been more truth.. ful in intellectual and religious matters? He, the man of iron will, of ferocious temper, was at the same time the cool- est reasoner, the most unbiased thinker. 568 Bi.smarck as a He willingly submitted to the judgment of experts, he cheerfully acknowledged intellectual talent in others, he took a pride in having remained a learner all his life, but he hated arrogant amateur- ishness. He was not a churchgoer; he declined to be drawn into the circle of religious schemers and reactionary f a- natics; he would occasionally speak in contemptuous terms of the creed of court chaplains, but writing to his wife of that historic meeting with Napoleon in the lonely cottage near the battlefield of Sedan, he said: A powerful con- trast with our last meeting in the Tuile- ries in 67. Our conversation was a dif- ficult thing, if I wanted to avoid touch- ing on topics which could not but affect painfully the man whom Gods mighty hand had cast down. And more than once he gave vent to reflections like these: For him who does not believe as I do from the bottom of my heart that death is a transition from one existence to another, and that we are justified in holding out to the worst of criminals in his dying hour the comfort- ing assurance, morsjanua vital, I say that for bim who does not share that conviction, the joys of this life must possess so high a value that I could al- most envy him the sensations they must procure him. Or these: Twenty years hence, or at most thirty, we shall be past the troubles of this life, whilst our children will have reached our pre- sent standpoint, and will discover with astonishment that their existence (but now so brightly begun) has turned the corner and is going downhill. Were that to be the end of it all, life would not be worth the trouble of dressing and undressing every day. Iv. We have considered a few traits of Bismarcks mental and moral make-up which seem to be closely allied with German national character and tradi National Type. tions. But after all, the personality of a man like Bismarck is not exhausted by the qualities which lie has in com- mon with his people, however sublimated these qualities may be in him. His in- nermost life belongs to himself alone, or is shared, at most, by the few men of the worlds history who, like him, tower in splendid solitude above the waste of the ages. In the Middle High German Alexanderlied there is an episode which most impressively brings out the impel- ling motive of such Titanic lives. On one of his expeditions Alexander pene- trates into the land of Scythian barba- rians. These childlike people are so contented with their simple, primitive existence that they beseech Alexander to give them immortality. He answers that this is not in his power. Sur- prised, they ask why, then, if he is only a mortal, he is making such a stir in the world. Thereupon he answers: The Supreme Power has ordained us to car- ry out what is in us. The sea is given over to the whirlwind to plough it up. As long as life lasts and I am master of my senses, I must bring forth what is in me. What would life be if all men in the world were like you? These words might have been spoken by Bismarck. Every word, every act of his public ca- reer, gives us the impression of a man irresistibly driven on by some overwhelm- ing, mysterious power. He was not an ambitious schemer, like Beaconsfield or Napoleon; he was not a moral en- thusiast, like Gladstone or Cavour. If he had consulted his private tastes and inclinations, he would never have wield- ed the destinies of an empire. Indeed, he often rebelled against his task; again and again he tried to shake it off; and the only thing which again and again brought him back to it was the feeling, I must; I cannot do otherwise. If ever there was a man in whom Fate revealed its moral sovereignty, that man was Bis- marek. Kuno Fraucke. The Correspondence of George Sand. 369 THE CORRESPONDENCE OF GEORGE SAND. Tnn long-promised letters of George Sand to Alfred de Musset appeared re- cently in the Revue de Paris, and were followed by a second series addressed to Sainte-Beuve. Even before the publi- cation of these letters there were signs of a revival of interest in George Sand. Her reputation had suffered an eclipse during the triumph of naturalism. But now that naturalism has grown to a pleurisy and died in its own too much, the younger generation of French writers is making earnest, one is almost tempted to say desperate, efforts to arrive at some form of idealistic art; and this movement promises to result in an increase in the vogue of George Sand, as it has already resulted in a falling off in the vogue of Baizac. Tame says that there is in the whole history of literature no other writer whose career is as instructive as that of George Sand, no writer for the study of whose life there is such abundant material, and none to whom it is possi- ble to apply so perfectly the method of Sainte - Beuve. The world at present shows signs of growing weary of the method of Sainte-Beuve as it has grown weary of naturalism; we are coming to be less concerned with the natural ori- gins of a writers talent, and more con- cerned with getting at this talent in itself, with measuring its absolute eleva- tion, with finding out how far it is the product of the writers will as well as of his environment. The life of George Sand lends itself even more to the lat- ter method of treatment the method of the new criticism than to that of Sainte-Beuve. Tame himself, with the sympathy he showed toward the last for the points of view most different from his own, has remarked that an admirable 1 The two series have since been reissned in book form by Calmann L6vy. study might be made of the evolution of George Sands character as revealed in her works. Nothing she has written is richer in material for a study of this kind than her letters, and among the letters themselves the most interesting are those she exchanged with Flaubert. Her talent as an artist reached its maturity no doubt in the conntry idyls, but it is rather in these letters to Flanbert that we are to seek the clearest and fullest expression of her character and views of life. For the beginning of George Sands career we need to turn, not to the cor~- respondence, but to her autobiography, L Histoire de ma Vie,especially to the chapters devoted to the years spent in the Convent des Anglaises at Paris. It is well to remember that during her con- vent life she passed through a period of fervent Catholic mysticism. I feel, we read in one of her later letters, a foretaste of infinite ecstasies, and of ray- ishments like those of my childhood when I thought I saw the Virgin, like a white blur on a sun floating over my head. Her early letters contrast curi- ously in their simple and unaffected tone with those she wrote after coming under the influence of romanticism, toward the end of her unhappy married life with the Baron Dudevant. George Sand doubt- less had real grievances against her hus- band, but her main grievance seems to have been that he was not a man of genius. She finally decided on a separa- tion, and early in 1831 came to Paris, and embarked, as she expresses it, on the stormy sea of literature. The years immediately following have been appropriately termed by Matthew Ar- nold the period of agony and revolt. She strove to escape from every form of convention, and took delight in shock- ing all the ordinary notions of bourgeois propriety. She dressed in mens cloth-

The Correspondence of George Sand. 369 THE CORRESPONDENCE OF GEORGE SAND. Tnn long-promised letters of George Sand to Alfred de Musset appeared re- cently in the Revue de Paris, and were followed by a second series addressed to Sainte-Beuve. Even before the publi- cation of these letters there were signs of a revival of interest in George Sand. Her reputation had suffered an eclipse during the triumph of naturalism. But now that naturalism has grown to a pleurisy and died in its own too much, the younger generation of French writers is making earnest, one is almost tempted to say desperate, efforts to arrive at some form of idealistic art; and this movement promises to result in an increase in the vogue of George Sand, as it has already resulted in a falling off in the vogue of Baizac. Tame says that there is in the whole history of literature no other writer whose career is as instructive as that of George Sand, no writer for the study of whose life there is such abundant material, and none to whom it is possi- ble to apply so perfectly the method of Sainte - Beuve. The world at present shows signs of growing weary of the method of Sainte-Beuve as it has grown weary of naturalism; we are coming to be less concerned with the natural ori- gins of a writers talent, and more con- cerned with getting at this talent in itself, with measuring its absolute eleva- tion, with finding out how far it is the product of the writers will as well as of his environment. The life of George Sand lends itself even more to the lat- ter method of treatment the method of the new criticism than to that of Sainte-Beuve. Tame himself, with the sympathy he showed toward the last for the points of view most different from his own, has remarked that an admirable 1 The two series have since been reissned in book form by Calmann L6vy. study might be made of the evolution of George Sands character as revealed in her works. Nothing she has written is richer in material for a study of this kind than her letters, and among the letters themselves the most interesting are those she exchanged with Flaubert. Her talent as an artist reached its maturity no doubt in the conntry idyls, but it is rather in these letters to Flanbert that we are to seek the clearest and fullest expression of her character and views of life. For the beginning of George Sands career we need to turn, not to the cor~- respondence, but to her autobiography, L Histoire de ma Vie,especially to the chapters devoted to the years spent in the Convent des Anglaises at Paris. It is well to remember that during her con- vent life she passed through a period of fervent Catholic mysticism. I feel, we read in one of her later letters, a foretaste of infinite ecstasies, and of ray- ishments like those of my childhood when I thought I saw the Virgin, like a white blur on a sun floating over my head. Her early letters contrast curi- ously in their simple and unaffected tone with those she wrote after coming under the influence of romanticism, toward the end of her unhappy married life with the Baron Dudevant. George Sand doubt- less had real grievances against her hus- band, but her main grievance seems to have been that he was not a man of genius. She finally decided on a separa- tion, and early in 1831 came to Paris, and embarked, as she expresses it, on the stormy sea of literature. The years immediately following have been appropriately termed by Matthew Ar- nold the period of agony and revolt. She strove to escape from every form of convention, and took delight in shock- ing all the ordinary notions of bourgeois propriety. She dressed in mens cloth- The Correspondence of George Sand. ing and frequented Bohemian society. She informs one of her correspondents that her main item of expense is for tobacco. Like all the romantic writers, she professed the religion of passion, an ideal to which she has given expression in L6lia. For poetic souls, she says in this work, the sentiment of worship enters even into the love of the senses.~~ Of this mixture of idealism and sensual- ity there is only too much in the whole modern conception of love. We find in Petrarek one of the earliest instances of this epicurean use of the religious senti- ment, that would bring the ideal down from heaven and throw its celestial gla- mour over earthly passions. But the whole tendency has perhaps reached its culmination in the extraordinary product known as romantic love, that mortal chimera which, in the words of MI. Rend Doumic, has raged for a century in French literature, which has in- fected peoples minds, perverted their ideas, disturbed society, undermined mo- rality, and made thousands of victims, of whom George Sand and Alfred de Mus- set are only the most illustrious. Her affair with Alfred de Musset, we need hardly add, as well as one or two other like experiments in romantic love, ended for her only in disillusion, disillusion so complete that for a time she fell into utter despair, and contempt for herself and others~ If I should tell you, she confesses later to a friend, the point to which I pushed my abhorrence of every- thing, my horror of existence, I should seem to you to be relating an idle tale. She speaks of her anti-social spirit, of her hatred of all men, and says she would not stir to save her neighbors child from drowning. She was haunted by thoughts of suicide. Ten years ago, she wrote in 1845 to Mazzini, I was in Switzerland; I was still in the age of tempests; I made up my mind even then to meet you, if I should resist the temptation to suicide which pursued me upon the glaciers. She finally re tired to Nohant, where she was to pass the rest of her life. Her youth, to use her own expression, had come to an end in the midst of convulsions and groans. We can follow in her letters the process of reflection by which she arrived at a state of comparative calm. I have had a terrible duel with myself, a gigantic struggle with my ideal; I have been profoundly broken and wounded; now I am vegetating quietly enough. Her return to sanity and self-possession was made easier by her freedom from self- love; for, whatever misuse she had made of the ideal, she had not used it to ideal- ize herself. She was not infected, to borrow her own phrase, with that immense vanity which characterizes the men of the reign of Louis Philippe. She began to have doubts about the divine nature of romantic love. At present I am going to have the courage to say it, she writes in one of her recently pub- lished letters to Sainte-Beuve: the loves which make us suffer are not the loves that God intended for us; and we are deceived in thinking so. Let the reign of truth once come, and I believe in this reign of truth, though I know it will not be in my day, and what we suf- fered will no longer have a name in hu- man language. In the meanwhile, a new form of faith was beginning to rise in the mind of George Sand on the ruins of the religion of passion. As for me, she declares, the teachings of Leroux have resolved my doubts and founded my religious faith. I am plunged in the doctrines of socialism. I have found in them strength, faith, hope, and the patient and persevering love of humanity, trea- sures of my youth, which I had dreamed of in Catholicism. It is worth noting that almost at the same time that George Sand was thus arriving at the gospel of humanity, Renan, escaped from St. Sul- pice, was proclaiming the religion of science. It is curious to observe, in the case of both Renan and George Sand, The Correspondence of George Sand. 511 how much easier it is to throw off the old dogmas than to free the mind from the forms of thought and feeling in which a century-long inheritance of Catholicism has moulded it. Just as Renan in his earlier work arrives at the conception of a scientific infallibility, a scientific pope, a scientific heaven and hell, and even of a God created by scientists, so George Sand transfers to socialism the whole vo- cabulary of Christian mysticism. She speaks of the social rebirth to be brought about by France, that Christ of nations, of social saints, of social martyrs, and so on. At the news of the outbreak of the Revolution of 1848, she hurried to Paris in boundless exul- tation. And then, on the complete col- lapse of all the social dreams and social dreamers, she again fell into deep dis- couragement. She found that Leroux, such an admirable man in the ideal life, floundered hopelessly when brought into contact with reality. And Leroux, in this respect, was symbolical of the whole movement. She speaks of her utter depression after the days of June. She had made the painful discov- ery that there entered into the composi- tion of that humanity she had so ideal- ized a large number of knaves, a very large number of lunatics, and an im- mense number of fools. George Sand remained almost to the very end niore or less the dupe of those three great words, Nature, Progress, and Humanity, the in- discriminate use of which has worked such havoc in the thinking of the past two centuries. Yet if she did not give up her dreams of social rebirth, she at least saw that they would have to be adjourned to an indefinite future: And long the way appears which seemed so short To the less practiced eye of sanguine youth; And high the mountain-tops in cloudy air, The mountain-tops where is the throne of Truth. It cost her a heavy effort, she owned, to pass from vast illusions to complete disillusion. But she again mastered her despair, and in the very midst of the Second Empire, in the midst of the densest ma- terialism the world has seen since the Roman decadence, she founded anew her faith in the ideal, and this time on a larger and surer base. She gradually awoke to the perception that the sal- vation of France was not to be through politics, and that the indefinite future progress of humanity was not so impor- tant as the immediate definite progress of the individual. She saw that what was most needed was a new direction given to mens hearts and consciences.~~ They are the slaves of circumstance, she declares of the politicians of her day, because they are the born slaves of themselves. And again: Duty brings with it its own reward. Calm has been restored to my spirit, and faith has re- turned. Everything passes away, youth, passions, illusions, and the desire to live. One thing only remains, the integrity of the heart. The heart grows not old, but, on the contrary, is fresher and stronger at sixty than at thirty, if only it is allowed to have its own way. It was toward the beginning of the last period of her life, the period of ma- turity and insight, that George Sand be- came acquainted with Flaubert. They were drawn together by a certain native distinction of character, by a certain deli- cacy and disinterestedness they observed in each other, but especially by the fact that they were impenitent romanticists in the midst of a generation hostile to romanticism. You will always remain twenty-five, she wrote to him, in vir- tue of all kinds of ideas which have be- come antiquated, if we are to believe the senile young men of to-day. Apart from these points of contact, it would be hard to imagine two persons in more radical disagreement than George Sand and Flaubert. She herself avows to him that there surely never were two workmen as different as we are; and Flaubert, wondering at the large and 572 The Correspondence of George Sand. easy improvisation of George Sand, re- plies, You dont know what it is to spend a whole day with your head in your hands, racking your miserable brain in the search for an epithet. The letters they exchanged owe ninch of their in- terest to the way in which the traits of each writer are thus constantly thrown into relief by opposition and contrast. George Sand urges Flaubert to exercise his will, and Flaubert answers that he is as fatalistic as a Turk. You believe in life and love it, says Flaubert, and life fills me with distrust. It s strange how little faith I naturally have in hap- piness. I had in my very youth a com- plete presentiment of life. It was like a sickly kitchen smell escaping from a basement window. Yes, replies George Sand, life is a terrible mixture of pleasure and pain; yet we must suffer, weep, hope, be, in short, we must exercise our will in every direc- tion. You at the first leap mount to heaven, he says elsewhere, while I, poor devil, am glued to the earth as though by leaden soles. In spite of your great sphinx eyes, you have always seen the world as through a golden mist, whereas I am constantly dissecting; and when I have finally discovered the corruption in anything that is supposed to be pure, the gangrene in its fairest parts, then I raise my head and laugh. Flaubert talks of his need of extraor- dinary and factitious environments. You might leave me, says George Sand, whole hours under a tree, or be- fore two burning sticks, with the certain- ty that I should find something to interest me. I have learned so well how to live outside of myself. I was not so always. I too have been young and subject to in- digestions, but all that is ended. Finally Flaubert tells George Sand that the artist must no~ express his own feelings in what he writes. Not put ones feelings into what one writes! re- torts George Sand. I dont understand you at all, oh no, not in the least. As a matter of fact, Flaubert had ob- served that the greatest works of art are impersonal; and not being able to con- ceive of a region of impersonal human emotion, he decided to eliminate emotion altogether, and to arrive at least at the impersonality of the naturalist. We must treat men, he says, as though they were mastodons or crocodiles. And so he resolutely cut out from what he wrote the very thoughts and feelings he was most burning to utter. It is odd, writes George Sand, but there s a whole side of you which does nt appear in your books. It would be hard, in- deed, to imagine a more curious contrast than that between the published work of Flaubert and the medley of interjections, ejaculations, slang, profanity, and ob- scenity we find in his letters. Paradoxical as the statement is, Flau- bert and other French men of letters of the middle of the century who have been reproached with impassibility are in reality about the most subjective, the most completely self-centred, writers in literature. The whole psychology of the school of art for arts sake is revealed in these letters of one of its chief repre- sentatives. The men who profess this doctrine have, for the most part, carried over to art habits of thought, and espe- cially modes of sensibility, which derive from Catholicism. Just as we have found in George Sand the gospel of humanity, and in Renan the religion of science, so we fiuid in Flaubert the fanaticism of art. He preaches abstinence, renunciation, and mortification of the flesh in the name of art. He excommunicates those who de- part from artistic orthodoxy, and speaks of heretics and disbelievers in art with a ferocity worthy of a Spanish inquisitor. Unfortunately, Flaubert was unable to attain to that pure artistic ecstasy, that literary delirium, to which he aspired. If he was at variance with George Sand, he was hardly less at variance with him- self. He tells us that his intellectual origins are all in Don Quixote, which he TAe Correspondence of George Sand. had learned by heart before he knew how to read. There was going on with- in him, in fact, a warfare between me- dhuval reverie and modern positivism not unlike that which Cervantes has symbol- ized in his masterpiece. Born in the period of transition from an age of sen- timent to an age of scientific analysis, Flaubert hung suspended between two worlds, and was unable to enjoy the full benefit of either. I have contradic- tory ideals, he exclaimed, and the consequence is hesitation, halting, im- potence! If he burst into tears under the stress of lyric emotion, his first im- pulse was to observe himself in a look- ing-glass. He became the founder of naturalism, which he abhorred; on the other hand, if he tried to launch out into some vast poetical subject, he found that his lyric sense had been eaten away by analysis. Like many another writer of the present century, he tried to hide his lack of inner vitality under intellectual accumulation. He tells us that be had read and annotated three hundred vol- umes as a partial preparation for writing Bouvard et P6cuchet. What predomi- nated in him, however, was his catholic sensibility, and his consequent hatred of modern life. Indeed, we shall not un- derstand Flaubert and one whole school of nineteenth-century artists, especially the so-called decadents, unless we see in them men whose souls are still steeped in medheval reverie, and who are unable to acquiesce in our modern rectangular civi- lization founded on scientific analysis Tout est bien balay4 sur vos chemins de fer, Tont est grand, tout est beau, mais on meurt dans votre air. I am a Catholic! exclaims Flaubert. I have in my heart something of the green ooze of the Norman cathedrals. And speaking of Salammbo: Few per- sons will guess how melancholy a man must be to try to resuscitate ancient Car- thage. That is the Theban desert to which my horror of modern life has driven me. This horror of modern life grew upon Flaubert, until he came at last to live in a chronic state of indignation, in a white heat of fury at his contem- poraries. I have written it,~ he says of Bouvard et P6cuchet, in the hope of being able to spit into it some of the bile which is choking me. I should like to see you, writes George Sand, less indignant at other peoples stupidity. Flaubert, however, was unwilling to part with his indigna- tion. It was pride and the sense of personal distinction, he is careful to tell us, which sustained him in his life of solitary devotion to art; he needed his indignation to assure himself that he really was superior to the people about him. If it were not for my indig- nation, he confesses in one place, I should fall flat. Unfortunately, we come to resemble what we habitually contemplate. By dint of railing at idiots, writes Flaubert, one runs the risk of becoming idiotic ones self. And he says of his two bourgeois, Bouvard and P~cuchet, Their stupidity is my stupidity, and its killing me. George Sand takes Flaubert to task, with admirable tact, for thus tormenting himself with false theories of art. Tal- ent, she says, imposes duties; and art for arts sake is an empty word. Beauty is not in itself a cause, but a re- sult, the outcome of the harmony of all the parts either in the life of an individ- ual or in that of a people. Beauty, we may add, is, in itself, only the element of illusion. The man who pursues it as a thing apart is trying to divorce form from substance, and will spend his life, Ixion - like, embracing phantoms. 0 Art, Art, exclaims Flaubert, bitter deception, nameless phantom, which gleams and lures us to our ruin! He speaks elsewhere of the chimera of style which is wearing him out soul and body. George Sand tells us that as she grew older she came more and more to put truth above beauty, and good- ness before strength. I have reflected 574 The Correspondence of George Sand. a great deal on what is true, she writes, and in this search for truth the senti- ment of my ego has gradually disap- peared. Flaubert, on the contrary, in becoming a chercheur dexquis, in con- secrating his life to the quest for beauty, had succeeded only in intensifying the sentiment of his ego and in irritating his nerves. Attaching an almost reli- gious importance to ~esthetic sensation, he had been led to humor all the whims of a morbid sensibility. He had fallen into the state which the French describe by the untranslatable word nostalgie, the desire to jump out of ones skin, to be where one is not; he had become the victim of that artistic hyperiesthesia from which so many French writers since Rousseau have suffered. He com- plains in his old age: My sensibility is sharper than a razors edge; the creak- ing of a door, the face of a bourgeois, an absurd statement, set my heart to throbbing, and completely upset me. We are possibly justified in inferring from the life of Flaubert, and that of others of his school, the futility of art when not subordinated to some principle higher than itself. If any one prefer beauty to virtue, says Plato, what is this but the real and utter dishonor of the soul ? Hardly anywhere else in literature will one find such accents of bitterness, such melancholy welling up unbidden from the very depths of the heart, as in the devotees of art for arts sake, Flaubert, Leconte de Lisle, Th6ophile Gautier. George Sand ex- presses a natural surprise at the agitation in which Flaubert lives at Croisset, that delightful retreat where everything breathes comfort and tranquillity. We need not suppose that George Sand was entirely right, and Flaubert entirely wrong, in the theory and prac- tice of art. We can agree with Flaubert in thinking that composition with the great masters was accompanied by fewer throes and paroxysms, by less effort and anguish, than with him. On the other hand, composition with the great mas- ters was not a pure improvisation, as in the case of George Sand; they did not write, as we are to infer she did, in a half-somnambulistic condition. I am a mere wind-harp, she tells Flaubert. It is the other who plays upon my heart at will. . . . When I think of it I am filled with fright, and say to myself, I am no- thing, nothing at all. Genius, George Sand never tires of repeating, comes from the heart, a feminine theory of genius which offends less in the mouth of George Sand than when professed by men like Lamartine and Alfred de Mus- set. Yet it was a too unquestioning obe- dience to the promptings of the heart that kept George Sand from attaining perfec- tion. Life, she confesses, carries me off my feet. She is swept away by her feelings and sentiments, her affections and sympathies; so that Flaubert might well write of her: Madame Sand is too benign and angelical. It may be said, in justification of Flauberts view, that the New Testament in one passage pro- mises the kingdom of heaven to the vio- lent. It is the lack of power of concen- tration, of fiery intensity, and at the same time the lack of that infinite painstaking in detail possessed by Flaubert, which re- moves George Sand from the first rank of artists. I am not, she admits of herself, the ideal artist. I am too fond of sewing and scrubbing children; and then, besides, I am not a lover of perfection. I feel perfection, but I cannot make it manifest. The main event that came to disturb the tranquillity of George Sand in her old age was the Franco-Prussian war and the Commune. I am sick with the sick- ness of my country and my race! she exclaims, after the Commune. I wish that I had died without learning that bar- barism is still so alive and active in the world. And again: I judged of oth- ers by myself; I had done a great deal toward mending my own character; I had quenched useless and dangerous ebulhi The (Jorrespondence of George Sand. 575 tions; I had sown grass and flowers upon my volcanoes, and I fancied that every- body was capable of self-enlightenment and self-restraint. And now I have been all at once awakened from my dream to find a generation divided between idiocy and delirium tremens. Flaubert, who, whatever his faults, was not a dupe of humanitarianism, declared, as early as 1848, that Leroux and the other Socialists were not modern men, that they were still up to their necks in the Middle Ages; and he saw in the Commune a manifestation of medhevalism. George Sand, too, taught by experience, was rap- idly ridding herself, during the last years of her life, of what was still medheval in her ways of thinking. This fact appears in her increasing distrust of absolute a priori formuhe. She was gradually at- taining to the insight to which Emerson has given expression in his essay on Coni- pensation, the insight that no truth is true unless balanced by its counter-truth. Dont you see, she says to one of her political friends, that the Catholic priest is supremely intolerant because he rejects absolutely the opposite view? Down with the priests in power, whatever garb they may happen to wear. The Repub- lic will take care of itself, if it is not imposed as a dogma. The principles of 93, she says elsewhere, have been our ruin; the Reign of Terror and St. Bartholomews Day are an expression of the same spirit. With the disappearance of her last humanitarian hopes, the evolution of the character of George Sand may be said to be complete. I believe, she writes to Alexandre Dumas fils, henceforward without illusion, and that is the secret of all my little strength. This survival of faith is indeed the fact most worthy of note in a study of the inner life of George Sand. The great historical error of Christianity has been to confound faith with credulity; and for the vast majority of modern men, faith has per- ished along with the creeds with which it had been identified. It is the distinc- tion of George Sand to have rescued re- peatedly the precious principle of belief from the wreck of false ideals, and to have had a faith so robust as to outlive shock upon shock of disillusion. In her old age she arrived more and more at a faith free from illusion, faith founded on the simple feeling, as she expresses it, that the whole is greater and better than we are, and on the sentiment of the divine, entirely apart from any at- tempt to confine it in a formula. If man has drunk at the cup of eter- nal truth, she says, he no longer takes sides too passionately for or against rela- tive and ephemeral truth. Together with faith, there entered into the life of George Sand joy, certainty, tranquillity, the sense of conduct, and the belief in the freedom of the will, good and de- sirable things all, which seem to be dis- appearing from the world with the dis- appearance of faith. I wish to see man as he is, she writes to Flaubert. He is not good or bad: he is good and bad. But he is something else besides: being good and bad, he has an inner force which leads him to be very bad and a little good, or else very good and a little bad. I have often wondered, she adds, why your Education Sentimentale, in spite of its excellence of form, was so ill re- ceived by the public, and the reason, as it seems to me, is that its characters are passive, that they do not act upon themselves. It is this power to act upon himself, precisely what is most human in man, that Flaubert neglected when he proposed to study men as he would mas- todons or crocodiles. The power which George Sand showed to act on herself is what gives her life its peculiar interest. She might justly say of herself, I cannot forget that my personal victory over despair has been the work of my will, and of a new way of understanding life which is the exact opposite of the one I held formerly. 576 The Correspondence of George Sand. How different is the weary cry of Flau- bert: I am like a piece of clock-work. What I am doing to-day I shall be doing to-morrow; I did the same thing yes- terday; I was exactly the same man ten years ago. Or compare the life of George Sand with that of Victor Hugo, who, as the ripe fruit of his meditations, yields nothing better than the apotheosis of Robespierre and Marat. Tame remarks of Sainte-Beuve that he was the only French writer of the pre- sent century, besides George Sand, who showed this power of continuous devel- opment. George Sand, however, is supe- rior to Sainte-Beuve in that her growth is symmetrical, instead of being the ex- pansion of a single faculty. She grew toward her ideal as the plant grows to- ward the sun, and not like the modern specialist, mechanically in one direction. We find in Sainte-Beuve something of that undue confidence in intellectual ma- chinery, of that abuse of the brain, which has followed in the trail of the scientific spirit. Poor Sainte-Beuve, writes George Sand, his intelligence has per- haps developed; but the intelligence does not suffice for the purposes of life, and it does not teach us how to die. You have a better sense for total truth (in vrai total), she tells another correspond- ent, than Sainte-Beuve, Renan, and Littr~. They have fallen into the Ger- man rut: therein lies their weakness. And Flaubert writes to George Sand: What amazes and delights me is the strength of your whole personality, not that of the brain alone. Thus, toward the end of her career, George Sand became increasingly free from that nineteenth-century intellectual- ism which so marred the work of the closing years of George Eliot. I feel, she writes, that I am coming to be less and less a Christian, and I perceive daily another light dawning beyond that hori- zon of life toward which I am advancing with ever greater tranquillity. In spite of what George Sand says about not be- ing a Christian, it would be easy enough to show that many of her faults and nearly all her virtues are a direct in- heritance from Christianity, the Chris- tianity of St. Francis rather than that of St. Thomas Aquinas. A study of her character, indeed, derives its main inter- est from the fact that she was able to make what Tame calls the painful transition from an hereditary faith to a personal conviction. We are living in an age when the principle of choice, the sense of direc- tion, is more important than ever before, and at the same time more difficult of attainment. We are under special obli- gation to those who, like George Sand, have been successful in thus carrying over what was most vital in the old be- lief, and in combining it with what is most advanced in modern thought. In this respect, George Sand takes rank with Emerson among the pioneers of the idealism of the future; and like Emer- son, she remained true to the ideal with- out falling into morbid self-conscious- ness. She perceived no less plainly than Carlyle the degeneracy of the humanity of her day from loss of hold on the moral law, but she did not therefore have a vision of her contemporaries as a lot of apes chattering on the shores of the Dead Sea. For this reason finally George Sand will be remembered not merely as a great literary artist; she will also remain in memory as one of the few who, in an age of great enlighten- ment and little light, have persevered in the cult of the ideal, in the exercise of in sens conte~platif cit reside Ut foi invincible, the contemplative sense wherein resides invincible faith. And the passages that bear most striking wit- ness to her use of this well-nigh obso- lete sense are contained in her corre- spondence. Irving Babbitt.

THE ATLANTh MONTHLY: ~ I a~aPn~ of ILitcrature, ~ten~c, ~rt, an~ I~olitic~0, VOL. LXXXIL NO VE2JIBER, 1898. No. UCCUXCIII. COLONIAL LESSONS OF ALASKA. And there s never a law of God or man runs north of Fifty-Three. THE United States is about to enter on an experience which the London Speaker cleverly describes as compul- sory imperialism. Wisely or not, will- ingly or not, we have assumed duties to- ward alien races which can be honorably discharged only by methods foreign to our past experience. In the interests of humanity, our armies have entered the mismanaged territories of Spain. The interests of humanity demand that they should stay there, and the duties we have hastily assumed cannot be discharged within a single generation. It is an axiom of democracy that gov- ernment must derive its just powers from the consent of the governed. This has been the fundamental tenet of our polit- ical system. But government by the peo- ple is not necessarily good government. It can never be ideally good until indi- vidual intelligence and patriotism rise to a higher level than they have yet reached in any nation whatever. It is possible that government by the people may be intolerably bad. This is the case where individual indifference and greed make effective codperation impossible. Such a condition exists in several of the so- called republics of the New World, for whose independence our Monroe Doc- trine has been solicitous in the past. Such will be the case with the Spanish colonies of to-day, if we leave them to their own devices. For the civic ideas of these peo plc and of their self-constituted leaders rise to no higher plane than those of the KIPLING. vulgar despots from whom they have so long suffered. In such cases as these, a government, for the time at least, may derive just powers otherwise than from the con- sent of the governed. It may justify itself by being good government. This is, indeed, the justification of the excel- lent paternal despotism by which Diaz holds Mexico in the hollow of his hand. It is the foundation of the imperialism of Great Britain. Wherever the flag of England floats it teaches respect for law. There is but one political lesson more important, and that lesson is respect for the individual man. To teach the one has been the mission of England; to teach the other has been the glory of the United States. The essential function of British impe- rialism is to carry law and order, the Pax Britannica, to all parts of the globe. This function has been worked out in three ways, corresponding to Englands three classes of tributary districts or colo- nies. The first class consists of regions settled and civilized by Englishmen al- ready imbued with the spirit of law, and capable of taking care of themselves. In cur day such colonies are self-governing, and the bond of imperialism is little more than a treaty of perpetual friendship. Over the local affairs of Canada, for ex- ample, England exerts no authority, and claims none. The sovereignty of the home government rests on tradition, and 518 Golonial Lessons of Alaska. it is maintained through mutual consid- eration and mutual respect. A second class of colonies consists of military posts, strategic points of war or of commerce, wrested from some weaker nation at one time or another in the mili- tant past. In the control of these outposts the consent of the governed plays no part. The justifi~ation of Englands rule lies in the use she makes of it. The in- habitants of Gibraltar, for instance, count no more than so many camp follow- ers. They remain through military suf- ferance, and the forms of martial law suffice for all the government they need. The third class of colonies is made up of conquered or bankrupt nations, people whose own governmental forms were so intolerable that Englands pa- ternalism was forced to take them in hand. These countries still govern them- selves in one fashion or another, but each act of their rulers is subject to the veto of the British colonial office. Said England unto Pharaoh, I will make a man of you; and with Pha- raoh, as with other irresponsibles of the tropics, England has in some degree succeeded. But this success has been attained only through the strictest disci- pline of military methods; not by the method by which we have made a man of Brother Jonathan, not by the means through which republics make free citi- zens out of the masses of which they are constituted. England has thus become the guardian of the weak nations of the earth, the police force of the unruly, the assignee of the bankrupt. England, as Benjamin Franklin said a century and a half ago, is an island which, compared to America, is but a stepping-stone in a brook, with scarce enough of it above water to keep ones shoes dry. Yet, by the force of arms, the force of trade, and the force of law, she has become the ruler of the earth. It is English brain and English muscle which hold the world together, and have made it an Anglo-Sax- on planet. The final secret of Englands strength lies, as I have said, in her re- spect for law. Good government is the justification of British imperialism. If victories at sea, happy accident, the needs of humanity, manifest destiny, or any combination of events force foreign do- minion on the United States, American imperialism must have the same justifi- cation. It is a common saying of the day that the American flag, wherever once raised, must never be hauled down. This would have the ring of higher patriotism, were another resolve coupled with it: the stars and stripes shall never bring bad govern- ment, shall never wave over misrule, injustice, waste, or neglect. Whatever lands or people may come under our flag, they are entitled to good government, the best that we can give them. This should be better than we give ourselves, for it is not accompanied by the advantages of self-government. Imperialism can succeed only along lines such as England has already laid down. In the hands of all other nations except thrifty Holland the colony has been a source of corruption and de- cay. It will be so with us, if we follow the prevalent methods of waste and neg- lect. It is not for the colonies to make us wealthy through taxation and trade. That is the outworn conception which we have forced Spain to abandon. It is for us to enrich them through enterprise and law. There are duties as well as glories inherent in dominion, and the duties are by far the more insistent. For an object lesson illustrating meth- ods to be avoided in the rule of our fu- ture colonies we have not far to seek. Most forms of governmental pathology are exemplified in the history of Alaska. From this history it is my purpose to draw certain lessons which may be use- ful in our future colonial experience. Thirty years ago (1867) the United States purchased from Russia the vast territory of Alaska, rich in native re Colonial Lessons of Alaska. 5779 sources, furs, fish, lumber, and gold, thinly populated with half-civilized tribes from whose consent no government could de- rive just powers nor any other. In the nature of things, the region as a whole must be incapable of taking care of it- self, in the ordinary sense in which states, counties, and cities in the United States look after their own affairs. The town meeting idea on which our democracy is organized could have no application in Alaska, for Alaska is not a region of homes and householders. The widely separated villages and posts have few interests in common. The settlements are scattered along a wild coast, inacces- sible one to another; most of the natives are subject to an alien priesthood, the white men knowing no law of God or man. With these elements, a civic feel- ing akin to the civic life in the United States can in no way be built up. It is a common saying among Ameri- cans in the north that they are not in Alaska for their health. They are there for the money to be made, and for that only; caring no more for the country than a fisherman cares for a discarded oyster-shell. Of the few thousand who were employed there before the mining excitement began, probably more than half returned to San Francisco in the winter. Their relation to the territory was and is commercial only, and not civil. Alaska has an area nearly one fifth as large as the rest of the United States, and a coast line as long as all the rest. Outside the gold fields the permanent white population is practically confined to the coast, and only in two small vil- lages, Juneau and Sitka, can homes in the American sense be said to exist. Even these towns, relatively large and near together, are two days journey apart, with communication, as a rule. once a week. When Alaska came into our hands, we found there a native population of about 32,000. Of these, about 12,000 Thlinkits, Tinnehs, Hydas, etc. are more or less properly called Indians. Of the rest, about 18,000 Innuits, or Eski- mos, and some 2500 Aleuts are allied rather to the Mongolian races of Asia. There were about 2000 Russian Creoles and half-breeds living with the Aleuts and Innuits, and in general constituting a ruling class among them, besides a few Americans, mostly traders and miners. Then, as now, the natives in Alaska were gentle and childlike; some of them with a surface civilization, others living in squalid fashion in filthy sod houses. They all supported themselves mainly by hunting and fishing. Dried salt salmon, or ukl, was the chief article of diet, and the luxuries, which as time went on be- came necessities of civilization, flour, tea, sugar, and tobacco,were purchased by the sale of valuable furs, especially those of the sea otter and the blue fox. The Greek Church, in return for its min- istrations, received, as a rule, one skin in every nine taken by the hunters. The boats of the natives outside the timbered region of southeastern Alaska were made of the skin of the gray sea lion, which had its rookeries at intervals along the coast. With the advent of Americans the sea lion became rare in southern Alaska, great numbers being wantonly shot be- cause they were big game; and the na- tives in the Aleutian region were forced to secure sea lion skins by barter with the tribes living farther to the north. This process was facilitated by the Alas- ka Commercial Company, which main- tained its trading-posts along the coast, exchanging for furs, walrus tusks, and native baskets the articles needed or craved by the natives. Of all articles held by the latter for exchange, the fur of the sea otters was by far the most important. Since these animals were abundant throughout the Aleutian region thirty years ago, and the furs were valued at from $300 to $1000 each, their hunters became relatively wealthy, and the little Aleut villages be- 580 Colonial Lessons of Alaska. came abodes of comparative comfort. In the settlement of Belkofski, on the peninsula of Alaska, numbering 165 per- sons all told, I found in the Greek church a communion service of solid gold, and over the altar was a beautiful painting, small in size, but exquisitely finished, which had been bought in St. Petersburg for $250. When these articles were pur- chased, Belkofski was a centre for the sea otter chase. With wise government, this condition of prosperity might have continued indefinitely. But we have al- lowed the whole herd to be wasted. The people of Belkofski can now secure no- thing which the world cares to buy. As they have no means of buying, the com- pany has closed its trading-post, after a year or two of losses and charity. The people have become dependent on the dress and food of civilization. Suffering for want of sugar, flour, tobacco, and tea, which are now necessities, and having no way of securing material for boats, they are abjectly helpless. I was told in 1897 that the people of Wosnessenski Island were starving to death, and that Belkof- ski, the next to starve, had sent them a relief expedition. I have no information as to conditions in 1898, but certainly starvation is imminent in all the vari- ous settlements dependent on the coni- panys store and on the sea otter.1 Some time ago it was reported that at Port Etches the native population was already huddled together in the single cellar of an abandoned warehouse, and that other villages to the eastward were scarcely better housed. However this may be, starvation is inevitable along the whole line of the southwestern coast. From 1 In 1897, the trading-posts of Akutan, San- nok, Morjovi, Wosnesseoski, Belkofski, Cher- nofski, Kashega, Makushin, and Bjorka were abandoned by the Alaska Commercial Com- pany, while the stores at Atka and Attn were turned over to a former agent. 2 In Unga the Aleuts find work in the gold mines, at Unalaska in the lading of vessels. Very lately extensive shipyards have been es- tablished at Unalaska, and natives from the Prince Williams Sound to Attu, a dis- tance of nearly 1800 miles, there is not a village (except LTnalaska and Unga 2) where the people have any sure means of support. Reconcentrado between Arctic cold and San Francisco greed, these people, 1165 in number, have no outlook save extermination. For per- mitting them to face such a doom we have not even the excuse we have had for destroying the Indians. We want neither the land nor the property of the Aleuts. When their tribes shall have disappeared, their islands are likely to remain desolate forever. The case of the sea otter merits fur- ther examination. The animal itself is of the size of a large dog, with long full gray fur, highly valued especially in Rus- sia, where it was once an indispensable part of the uniform of the army officer. The sea otters wander in pairs, or some- times in herds of from twenty to thirty, spending most of their time in the sea. They are shy and swift, and when their haunts on land are once disturbed they rarely return to them. Any foreign odor as the smell of man, or of fire, or of smoke is very distasteful to them. Of late years the sea otters have seldom come on shore anywhere, as the whole coast of Alaska has been made offensive to them. Tile single young is born in the kelp, and the mother carries it around in her arms like a babe. In tile old days the Indians killed the otters with spears. When one was dis- covered in the open sea, the canoes closed upon it, and the hunters made wild noises and incantations. To the Indian who actually killed it the prize was awarded; various settlements in the Aleutian Islands, from Akutan to Attn, are temporarily em- ployed there. It has been found necessary to build vessels destined for the Yukon River at some port in Bering Sea, as none of those con- structed to the southward have survived the rough seas of the North Pacific. But this ship- building industry must be of very short dura- tion. Colonial Lessons of Alaska. 581 the others, who assisted in rounding up the animal, getting nothing. In case of several wounds, the hunter whose spear was nearest the snout was regarded as the killer. This was a device of the priests to lead the Indians to strike for the head, so as not to tear the skin of the body. Originally, the sea otter hunt was per- mitted to natives only. By their methods there were never enough taken seriously to check the increase of the species. The Aleut who had obtained one skin was generally satisfied for the year. If he found none after a short hunt, the sick tum-tum or squaw-heart would lead him to give up the chase. Next appeared the squaw-man as a factor in the sea otter chase. The squaw-man is a white man who marries into a tribe to secure the natives pri- vileges. These squaw-men were more persistent hunters than the natives, and they brought about the general use of rifles instead of spears. A larger quan- tity of skins was taken under these con- ditions, but the numbers of sea otters were not appreciably reduced. The success of squaw-men in this and other enterprises aroused the envy of white men less favorably placed. A law was passed by Congress depriving native tribes of all privileges not shared by white men. This opened the sea otter hunt to all men, and thus forced the commercial companies, against their will, to enter on a general campaign of de- struction. Schooners were now equipped for the sea otter hunt, each one carrying about twenty Indian canoes, either skin ca- noes or wooden dugouts, with the pro- per crew. Arrived at the Aleutian sea otter grounds, a schooner would scatter the canoes so as to cover about sixty square miles of sea. It would then come to anchor, and its canoes would patrol the water, thus securing every sea otter within the distance covered. Then a station further on would be taken and the work continued. In this way, in 1895, 1896, and 1897, every foot of probable sea otter ground was examined. At the end of the season of 1897 only a few hundred sea otters were left, most of them about the Sannak Islands, while a small number of wanderers were scat- tered along remote coasts. Of these, two were taken off Afto Nuevo Island, Cali- fornia, and two were seen at Point Sur. One, caught alive on land, was allowed to escape, its captor not knowing its value. One was taken in 1896 on St. Paul Island, in the Pribilof, and one in 1897 on St. George. The statistics of the sea otter catch have been carefully compiled by Cap- tain Calvin N. looper, commander of the Bering Sea Patrol Fleet, a man to whom the people of Alaska owe a last- ing debt of gratitude. These show that in the earliest years of American occupa- tion upwards of 2500 skins were taken annually by canoes going out from the shore, and this without apparent diminu- tion of the herd. Later, with the use of schooners, this number was increased, reaching a maximum of 4152 in 1885. Although the number of schooners con- tinued to increase, the total catch fell off in 1896 to 724, these being divided among more than 40 schooners, with nearly 800 canoes. Very many of the hunters thus obtained no skins at all. At the earnest solicitation of Captain looper, this wanton waste was finally checked in 1898. By an order of the Secretary of the Treasury, Mr. Gage, all sea otter hunting, whether by white men or by natives, was limited to the original Iimdian methods. In this chase, no one is now allowed the use of any boat or vessel other than the ordinary two hatch skin-covered bidarka or the open Yakut- at canoe. This simple regulation will prevent any further waste. Had it been adopt- ed two years ago, it would have saved $500,000 a year to the resources of Alaska, besides perhaps the lives of a 582 Colonial Lessons of Alaska. thousand people, who must now starve unless fed by the government, a tardy paternalism which is the first step toward extermination. The loss of self-depend- ence and of self-respect which govern- ment support entails is as surely destruc- tive to the race as starvation itself. Our courts have decided that the Aleuts are Americau citizens, their former nominal status under Russian law being retained after annexation by the United States. But citizenship can avail nothing unless their means of sup- port is guarded by the government. They have no power to protect them- selves. They can have no representa- tives in Congress. A delegate from Alaska, even if such an official existed, would represent interests wholly differ- ent from theirs. They cannot repel en- croachments by force of arms, nor in- deed have they any clear idea of the causes of their misery, for they have cheerfully taken part in their own un- doing. In such case, the only good gov- ernment possible is an enlightened pa- ternalism. This will be expensive, for otherwise it will be merely farcical. If we are not prepared to give such gov- ernment to our dependencies, we should cede them to some power that is ready to meet the demands. Nothing can be more demoralizing than the forms of de- mocracy, when actual self-government is impossible. In general, the waste and confusion in Alaska arise from four sources, lack of centralization of power and au- thority, lack of scientific knowledge, lack of personal and public interest, and the use of offices as political patronage. In the first place, no single person or bureau is responsible for Alaska. The Treasury Department looks after the charting and the patrol of its coasts, the care of its animal life, the prohibition of intoxicating liquors, and the control of the fishing industries. The investigation of its fisheries and marine animals is the duty of the United States Fish Commission. The army has certain ill-defined duties, which have been worked out mainly in a futile and needless relief expedition, with an opera bouffe accompaniment of de- horned reindeer. The legal proceedings within the territory are governed by the statutes of Oregon, unless otherwise or- dered. The Department of Justice has a few representatives scattered over the vast territory, whose duty it is to enforce these statutes, chiefly through the farce of jury trials. The land in general is under control of the Department of the Interior. The Bureau of Education has an agent in charge of certain schools, while the President of the United States finds his representative in his appointee, the governor of the territory. The of- fice of governor carries large duties and small powers. There are many interests under the governors supervision, but he can do little more than to serve as a means of communication between some of them and Washington. It is to be remembered that Alaska is a great do- main in itself, and, considering means of transportation, Sitka, the capital, is much further from Attu or Point Bar- row than it is from Washington. The virtual ruler of Alaska is the Secretary of the Treasury. But in his hands, however excellent his intentions, good government is in large degree un- attainable for lack of power. Important matters must await the decision of Con- gress. The wisest plans fail for want of force to carry them out. The right man to go on difficult errands is not at hand, or, if he is, there is no means to send him. In the division of labor which is necessary in great departments of gov- ernuient, the affairs of Alaska, with those of the customs service elsewhere, are assigned to one of the assistant sec- retaries. Of his duties Alaskan affairs form but a very small part, and this part is often assigned to one of the sub- ordinate clerks. One of the assistant secretaries, Mr. Charles Sumner Ham- lin, visited Alaska in 1894, in order to Colonial Lessons of Alaska. 583 secure a clear idea of his duties. This visit was a matter of great moment to the territory, for the knowledge thus ob- tained brought wisdom out of confusion, and gave promise of better management in the future. To this division of responsibility and confusion of authority, with the conse- quent paralysis of effort, must be added the lack of trustworthy information at Washington. Some most admirable sci- entific work has been done in Alaska under the auspices of the national gov- ernment, notably by the United States Coast Survey, the United States Fish Commission, and the United States Re- venue Service. But for years a profes- sional lobbyist has posed as the chief au- thority in Alaskan affairs. Other wit- nesses have been intent on personal or corporation interests, while still another class has drawn the longbow on general principles. Such testimony has tended to confuse the minds of officials, who have come to regard Alaska chiefly as a departmental bugbear. Important as the fur seal question has become, its subject matter received no adequate scientific investigation until 1896 and 1897. Vast as are the salm- on interests, such investigation on lines broad enough to yield useful results is yet to be made. The sole good work on the sea otter is that of a revenue officer whose time was fully occupied by affairs of a very different kind. Thus it has come to pass that Alaskan interests have suffered alike from official credulity and official skepticism. Mat- ters of real importance have been shelved, in the fear that in some way or other the great commercial companies would profit by them. At other times the word of these same corporations has been law, when the department might well have asserted its independence. The interest of these corporations is in general that of the government, because they cannot wish to destroy the basis of their own prosperity. To protect them in their rights is to prevent their encroachments. These facts have been often obscured by the attacks of lobbyists and blackmailers. On the other hand, in minor matters the interests of the government and the com- panies may be in opposition, and this fact has been often obscured by prejudiced testimony. Another source of difficulty is the lack of interest in distant affairs which have no relation to personal or partisan politics. The most vital legislation in regard to Alaska may fail of passage, because no Congressman concerns him- self in it. Alaska has no vote in any convention or election, no delegate to be placated, and can give no assistance in legislative log-rolling. In a large degree, our legislation at Washington is a scramble for the division of public funds among the different congressional districts. In this Alaska has no part. She is not a district filled with eager constituents who clamor for new post- offices, custom-offices, or improved chan- nels and harbors. She is only a colony, or rather a chain of little colonies; and a colony, to Americans as to Spaniards, has been in this case merely a means of revenue, a region to be exploited. Finally, the demands of the spoils~ system have often sent unfit men to Alaska. The duties of these officials are delicate and difficult, requiring spe- cial knowledge as well as physical en- durance. Considerable experience in the north, also, is necessary for success. When positions of this kind are given as rewards for partisan service, the men re- ceiving them feel themselves underpaid. The political war-horse, who has borne the brunt of the fray in some great convention, feels himself shelved if sent to the north to hunt for salmon- traps, or to look after the interests of half-civilized people, most of whom can- not speak a word of English. A few of these men have been utterly unworthy, intemperate and immoral; and occasion- ally one, in his stay in Alaska, earns 584 Colonial Lessons of Alaska. that perfect right to be hung which John Brown assigned to the border ruffian. On the other hand, a goodly number of these political appointees, in American fashion, have made the best of circumstances, and by dint of native sense and energy have made good their lack of special training. The extension of the classified civil service has raised the grade of these as of other govern- mental appointments. The principles of civil service reform are in the highest degree vital in the management of colo- nies. As an illustration of official ineffec- tiveness in Alaska, I may take the con- trol of the salmon rivers by means of a body of inspectors. In a joint letter to the Assistant Secretary of the Trea- sury, in 1897, Captain looper and I used the following language: At present this work is virtually in- effective for the following reasons: The appointees in general have been men who know little or nothing of the pro- blems involved, which demand expert knowledge of salmon, their kinds and habits, the methods of fishing, and the conditions and peculiarities of Alaska. Foi~ effective work, special knowledge is requisite, as well as general intelligence and integrity. These men are largely dependent upon the courtesy of the packing companies for their knowledge of the salmon, for their knowledge of fishing methods, for all transportation and sustenance (except in southeastern Alaska), and for all assistance in en- forcing the law. The inspectors cannot go from place to place at need, and so spend much of their time in enforced in- action. They have no authority to re- move obstructions or to enforce the law in case of its violation. For this rea- son, their recommendations largely pass unheeded. To remedy these conditions, provi- sion should be made for the appointment only of men of scientific or practical training, thoroughly familiar with fishes or fishery methods, or both, and capable of finding out the truth in any matter requiring investigation. For such pur- poses, expert service is as necessary as it would be in bank inspection or in any similar specialized work. The depart- ment should provide suitable transpor- tation facilities for its inspectors. It should be possible for them to visit at will any of the canneries or salmon rivers under their charge. They should be provided with means to pay for ex- penses of travel and sustenance, and should receive no financial courtesies from the packing companies, or be de- pendent upon them for assistance in carrying on their work. The inspectors should be instructed to remove and de- stroy all obstructions found in the riv- ers in violation of law. They should have large powers of action and discre- tion, and they should have at hand such means as is necessary to carry out their purposes.~~ Umider present conditions, the newly appointed inspector, knowing nothing of Alaska, and still less of the salmon in- dustry, is landed at some cannery by a revenue cutter. He becomes the guest of the superintendent of the cannery, who treats him with politeness, and meets his ignorance with ready informa- tion. All his movements are depend- ent upon the courtesy of the canners. He has no boat of his own, no force of assistants, no power to do anything. He cannot walk from place to place in the tall, wet rye-grass, and he cannot even cross the river without a borrowed boat. All his knowledge of the business comes from the superintendent. If he dis- covers infraction of law, it is because he is allowed to do so, and he receives a valid excuse for it. It is only by the consent of the law - breaker that the infraction can be punished. The law- breaker is usually courteous enough in this regard; for his own interests would be subserved by the general enforcement of reasonable laws. The most frequent Colonial Lessons of Alaska. 585 violation of law is the building of a dam across the salmon river just above the neutral tide water where the fish gather as if to play, before ascending the stream to spawn. Such a darn, if permanent, prevents any fish from running, and thus shuts off all future increase. Meanwhile, by means of nets, all the waiting fish can be captured. This is forbidden by law, which restricts the use of nets to the sea beaches. Yet dams exist to-day in al- most every salmon river in Alaska; even in those of that most rigidly law-abiding of communities, New Metlakalitla, on Annette Island. The lawlessness of the few forces lawlessness on all. All that the inspector can do in the name of the government is to order the destruction of an unlawful dam. He has no power to destroy it; and if he had, he must borrow a boat from the company and do it himself. Then, in the evening, as he sits at the dinner ta- ble, the guest of the offending superin- tendent, he can tell the tale of his ex- ploits. The general relation of the salmon interests to law deserves a moments notice. Most of the streams of south- ~rn and southwestern Alaska are short and broad, coming down from moun- tain lakes, swollen in summer by melt- ing snows. The common red salmon, which is the most abundant of the five species of Alaska, runs up the streams in thousands to spawn in the lakes in July and August. One of these rivers, the Karluk, on the island of Kadiak, is perhaps the finest salmon stream in the world, having been formerly almost solidly full of salmon in the breeding season. The conditions on Karluk River may serve as fairly typical. A few salmon are smoked or salted, but most of them are put up in one pound tins or cans, as usually seen in commerce. This work of preservation is carried on in large establishments called canneries. One of these factories was early built at Karluk, on a sand-spit at the mouth of the river. All Alaska is government land. The cannery companies are therefore squatters, practically without claim, without rights, and without re- sponsibilities. The seining-ground on this sand-spit of Karluk is doubtless the best fishing-ground in Alaska. The law provided that no fish should be taken on Saturday, that no dams or traps should be used, that no nets should be placed in the river, and no net set within one hundred feet of a net already placed. This last clause is the sole hold that any cannery has on the fishing-ground where it is situated. Soon other factories were opened on the beach at Karluk by other persons, and each newcomer claimed the right to use the seine along the spit. This made it necessary for the first company to run seines day and night, in order to hold the ground, keeping up the work constantly, whether the fish could be used or not. At times many fish so taken have been wasted; at other times the surplus has been shipped across to the cannery of Chig- nik, on the mainland. Should the nets be withdrawn for an hour, some rival would secure the fishing-ground, and the first company would be driven off, because they must not approach with- in a hundred feet of the outermost net. With over-fishery of this sort the pro- duct of Karluk River fell away rapidly. Some understanding was necessary. The stronger companies formed a trust, and bought out or froze out the lesser ones, and the canneries at Karluk fell into the hands of a single association. All but two of them were closed, that the others might have full work. Under pre- sent conditions, Alaska has more than twice as many canneries as can be oper- ated. Some of these were perhaps built only to be sold to competitors, but others have entailed losses both on their owners and on their rivals. Meanwhile, salmon became scarce in other rivers, and canners at a distance began to cast greedy eyes on Karluk. 586 Colonial Lessons of Alaska. In 1897 a steamer belonging to another great trust invaded Karluk, claiming equal legal right in its fisheries. This claim was resisted by the people in pos- session, legally by covering the beach with nets, illegally by threats and in- terference. More than once the heights above Karluk have been fortified; for to the north of Fifty-Three injunctions are laid with the rifle. On the other hand, Scar-Faced Charley of Prince Williams Sound and his reckless asso- ciates stood ready to do battle for their company. In one of the disputes, a small steamer sailed over a net, cast anchor within it, then steamed ahead, dragged the anchor, and tore the net to pieces. In another case, a large steamer anchored within the fishing-grounds. The rival company cast a net around her, and would have wrecked her on the beach. The claim for damages to the propeller from the nets brought this case into the United States courts. Fear of scandal, and consequent injury to the companys interests in the East, is doubtless the chief reason why these collisions do not lead to open warfare. The difficulty in general is not due to the lawlessness of the companies, nor to any desire to de- stroy the industry by which they live. Our government makes it impossible for them to be law-abiding. It grants them no rights and no protection, and exacts of them no duties. In short, it exercises toward them in adequate degree none of the normal functions of government. What should be done is plain enough. The rivers are government property, and should be leased on equitable terms to the canning companies, who should be held to these terms and at the same time protected in their rights. But Congress, which cannot attend to two things at once, is too busy with other affairs to pay at- tention to this. The utter ruin of the salmon industry in Alaska is therefore a matter of a short time. Fortunately, however, unlike the sea otter, the salmon cannot be exterminated, and a few years of salmon-hatching, or even of mere neg- lect, will bring it up again. Of the marine interests of Alaska, the catch of the fur seal is by far the most important, and its details are best known to the public. Whenever the fur seal question promises to lead to internation- al dispute, the public pricks up its ears; but this interest dies away when the blood ceases to boil against England. The history of this industry is more creditable to the United States than that of the sea otter and the salmon, but it is not one to be proud of. When the Pri- bilof Islands came into our possession, in 1867, we found the fur seal industry already admirably managed. A com- pany had leased the right to kill a cer- tain number of superfluous males every year, under conditions which thoroughly protected the herd. This arrangement was continued by us, and is still in opera- tion. If not the best conceivable dispo- sition of the herd, it was the best possible at the time; and to do the best possible is all that good government demands. We were, however, criminally slow in taking possession of the islands after their purchase from .Russia. In 1868, about 250,000 skins of young males (worth perhaps $2,000,000), the proper- ty of the government, were openly stolen by enterprising poachers from San Fran- cisco. As only superfluous males were taken, this onslaught caused no injury to the herd. It was simply the con- version to private uses of so much public property, or just plain stealing. After 1868 the Pribilof Islands yielded a regular annual quota of 100,000 skins for twenty years, when pelagic seal- ing, or the killing of females at sea, was begun, and rapidly cut down the herd. This suicidal industry origi- nated in the United States; but adverse public opinion and adverse statutes final- ly drove it from our ports, and it was centred at Victoria, where, as this is written, it awaits its coup de grdce from the Quebec commission of 1898. Colonial Lessons of Alaska. 587 During the continuance of this mon- strous business, the breeding herd of the Pribilof Islands was reduced from about 650,000 females (in 186884) to 130,000 (in 1897). It is not fair to charge the partial extinction of this most important of fur-bearing animals to our bad government of Alaska, in- asmuch as it was accomplished by for- eign hands against our constant protest. Yet in a large sense this was our own fault, for the lack of exact and unques- tioned knowledge has been our most not- able weakness in dealing with Great Britain in this matter. The failure to establish as facts the ordinary details of the life of the fur seal caused the loss of our case before the Paris Tribunal of Arbitration. Guesswork, however well intended, was met by the British with impudent assertion. British diplomacy is disdainful of mere opinion, though it has a certain respect for proved fact. Moreover, it was only after a long strug- gle that our own people were prevented (in 1898) from doing the very things which were the basis of our just com- plaint against Great Britain. The other interests of Alaska I need not discuss here in detail. The recent discovery of vast gold fields in this re- gion has brought new problems, which Congress has made little effort to meet. If we may trust the newspapers, our colonial postal system is absurdly inad- equate, and the administration of justice remains local or casual. The Klondike adventurers make their own law as they go along, with little responsibility to the central government. Lynch law may be fairly good law in a region whence criminals can escape only to starve or to freeze; but martial law is better, and the best available when the methods of the common law are out of the question. The real criminals of Alaska have been the wild-cat~ transportation com- Monstrous in an economic sense, because grossly and needlessly wasteful; monstrous in a moral sense, because grossly and needlessly panies which sprang up like mushrooms with the rush for the Klondike. There are three or four well-established com- panies running steamers to Alaska, well- built, well-manned, and destined to ports which really exist. But besides the le- gitimate business there has been a great amount of wicked fraud. A very large percentage of the Klondike adventurers know nothing of mining, nothi~ng of Alas-. ka, little of the sea, and little of hard- ship. These people have been gathered from all parts of the country, and sent through foggy, rock-bound channels and ferocious seas, in vessels unseaworthy and with incompetent pilots, their desti- nation often the foot of some impossible trail leading only to death. I notice in one circular that a graded railroad bed is shown on the map, through the tre- mendous ice-filled gorges of Copper Riv- er, a wild stream of the mountains, in which few have found gold, and from whose awful glaciers few have returned alive. In the height of the Klondike season of 1898, scarcely a day passed without a shipwreck somewhere along the coast, some vessel foundering on a rock of the Alaskan Archipelago or swamped in the open sea. Doubtless most of the sufferers in these calamities had no business in Alaska. Doubtless they should have known better thami to risk life and equipment in ships and with men so grossly unfit. But the public in civilized lands is accustomed to trust something to government inspec- tion. The common man has not learned how ships may be sent out to be wrecked for the insurance. In established com- munities good government would have checked this whole experience of fraud; but in this case no one seemed to have power or responsibility, and the affair was allowed to run its own course. The wild-cat~ lines have now mostly failed, for the extent of the Klondike traffic is cruel; withal perfectly legal, because not yet condemned by any international agreement in which Great Britain has taken part. 588 Colonial Lessons of Alaska. far less than was expected, and the Alaska promoter plies his trade of ob- taining money under false pretenses in some other quarter. The control of the childlike native tribes of Alaska offers many anomalies. As citizens of the United States, living in American territory, they are entitled to the protection of its laws; yet in most tarts of Alaska the natives rarely see an officer of the United States, and know nothing of our courts or procedures. In most villages the people choose their own chief, who has vaguely defined but not extensive authority. A Greek priest is furnished to them by the Established Church of Russia. He is possessed of power in spiritual matters, and such temporal authority as his own character and the turn of events may give him. The post trader, representing the Alaska Commercial Company, often a squaw- man of some superior intelligence, has also large powers of personal influence, which are in general wisely used. The fact that the natives are nearly always in debt to the company 1 tends to accen- tuate the companys authority. The con- trol of the Greek priest varies with the character of the man. Some of the priests are devoted Christians, whose sole pur- pose is the good of the flock. To oth- ers, the flock exists merely to be shorn for the benefit of the Church or the priest. But there are a few whom to call brutes, if we may believe common report, would be a needless slur on the bear and the sea lion. On the Pribilof Islands, an anomalous joint paternalism under the direction of the United States government and the lessee companies has existed since 1868. 1 The credit system has been almost wholly abandoned recently, as the future of the sea ot- ter leaves no hope of payment of debts. 2 For example, some ten or twelve years ago N. K. was fined fifty dollars by the government agent in charge of the Pribilof Islands, for distnrbance of the peace. His fault was a too vehement remonstrance against the viola- tion of his young wife by American scoundrels The lessees furnish houses, coal, physician, and teacher,besides caring for the widows and orphans. The government agent has oversight and control of all opera- tions on the islands, and is the official superior of the natives, having full pow- er in all matters of government. This arrangement is not ideal, and is in part a result of early accident. It has worked fairly in practice, however, and the na- tives of these islands are relatively pro- sperous and intelligent. The chief dan- ger has been in the direction of pamper- ing. With insurance against all accidents of life, there is little incentive to thrift. Outside of the seal-killing season (June and July) the people become insuffer- ably lazy. There are records of occasion- al abuses of power in the past,2 abuses of a kind to be prevented only by the sending of men of honor as agents. In general, self - interest leads the commer- cial companies to send only sober and decent men to look after their affairs; and the government cannot afford to do less, even for Alaska. Of this the ap- pointing power at Washington seems to have a growing appreciation. Among the irregular methods of gov- ernment in Alaska we must mention one of the most remarkable experiments in the civilization of wild tribes yet at- tempted anywhere in the world. I re- fer to the work of William Duncan, the pastor and director of a colony of Sim- sian Indians at New Metlakahtla. I can only mention Duncans work in pass- ing, but his methods and results deserve careful study, far more than they have yet received. The single will of this strong man has, in thirty years, convert- ed a band of cannibals into a sober, law- temporarily employed on the island. The case was a most flagrant one, but the weak-minded agent felt unable to cope with it. With the plea that boys will be boys he excused the culprits, visiting the punishment on the in- jured husband. The ill feeling resulting from this action is still a source of embarrassment on St. Paul Island. Colonial Lessons of Alaska. 589 abiding, industrious community, living in good houses, conducting a large salmon cannery, navigating a steamer built by their own hands, and in general proving competent to take care of themselves in civilized life. One of the least fortunate acts of the United States Congress in regard to Alaska has been the enactment of a most rigid prohibitory law as to alcoholic li- quors. This is an iron-clad statute for- bidding the importation, sale, or manu- facture of intoxicants of any sort in Alaska. The primary reason for this act is the desire to protect the Indians, Aleuts, and Eskimos from a vice to which they are excessively prone, and which soon ruins them. But a virtu- ous statute may be the worst kind of law, as was noted long ago by Confu- cius. ~ statute has not checked the flow of liquor in Alaska, while it has done more than any other influence to subvert the respect for law. Usually, men who are not in Alaska for their health are hard drinkers, and liquor they will have. It is shipped to Alaska as Florida water, Jamaica ginger, bay rum. Demijohns are placed in flour barrels, in sugar barrels, in any package which will contain them.1 With all this there is a vast amount of out- right sniuggling, which the Treasury De- partment tries in vain to check. All southeastern Alaska is one vast harbor, with thousands of densely wooded islands, mostly uninhabited. Cargoes of liquors citn be safely hidden almost anywhere, It is said that when the Umatilla foundered off Port Townsend, August, 1896, those who took away her cargo found in each of the sugar barrels consigned to Alaska only a demijohn of whiskey, the sea having dissolved the sugar. 2 The appeal of this case (Eudleman et al. vs. the United States) has proved a matter of the greatest importance in relation to the govern- ment of American colonies. It was contended (according to the New York Evening Post) that the law on which the prosecution was based was unconstitutional, because the gov- ernment of the United States can exercise only those specific powers conferred unon it by the to be removed piece by piece in small boats. Many such cargoes have been seized and destroyed; but the risk of capture merely serves to raise the price of liquor. Once on shore the liquor is safe enough. Upwards of seventy sa- loons are running openly in Juneau, and perhaps forty in Sitka. There are dives and groggeries wherever a demand ex- ists. Most of the tippling - houses are the lowest of their kind, because, as they are outlaws to begin with, the ordinary restraints of law and order have no ef- fect on them. In 1878, it is said, a schooner loaded with Florida water came to the island of St. Lawrence, in Bering Sea, and the people exchanged all their valuables for drink. The result was that in the win- ter fo]lowing the great majority died of drunkenness and starvation, and in certain villages not a person was left. Sometimes the stock in trade of whis- key smugglers is seized by the Treasury officials. But high prices serve as a sort of insurance against capture, and there are ways of securing a tip in ad- vance when raids are likely to occur. This traffic demoralizes all in any way connected with it. But one conviction for illegal sale of liquors has ever been obtained in Alaska, so far as I know; and it was understood that this was a test case for the purpose of determining the constitutionality of the law.2 A jury trial in any case means an acquittal, for every jury is made up of law-breakers, or of men in sympathy with the law-breaking. Constitution; that the Constitution guarantees to the citizen the right to own, hold, and ac- quire property, and makes no distinction as to the character of the property that intoxicat- ing liquors are property, and are subject to ex- change, barter, and traffic, like any other com- modity in which a right of property exists; that inasmuch as the power to regulate com- merce was committed to Congress to relieve it from all restrictions, Congress cannot itself im- pose restrictions upon commerce by prohibiting the sale of a particular commodity; and that if Congress has the power to regulate the sale of intoxicating liquors within the territories 590 Colonial Lessons of Alaska. This fact vitiates all other criminal pro- cedure in Alaska. It should secure the entire abblition of jury trials and other forms of procedure adapted only to a compact civilization.1 Whatever laws are made for the con- trol of the liquor traffic in Alaska should be capable of enforcement. They should be supported, if need be, with the full force of the United States. To im- pose upon a colony laws with which the people have no sympathy, and then to leave these people to punish infraction for themselves, is to invite anarchy and to turn all law into a farce. Whiskey is the greatest curse of the people of Alaska, American, Russian, and native. I have not a word to say in favor of its use, yet I am convinced that unrestricted traffic, that any condi- tion of things, would be better than the present law, with its failure in enforce- ment. The total absence of any law would not make matters much worse than they are. In fact, law would hardly be missed. In any case, Alaska gets along fairly well, much better than any trop- ical region would under like conditions. as a police regulation, it can only enact laws applicable to all the territories alike. Judge W. W. Morrow, of the United States Circuit Court of Appeals for California, de- claring the decision of the court upon these claims, said: The answer to these and other like objec- tions urged in the brief of counsel for the de- fendant is found in the now well-established doctrine that the territories of the United States are entirely subject to the legislative au- thority of Congress. They are not organized under the Constitution, nor subject to its com- plex distribution of the powers of government as the organic law, but are the creation exclu- sively of the legislative department, and sub- ject to its supervision and control. The United States, having rightfully acquired the territo- ries, and being tbe only government which can impose laws upon them, have the entire do- main and sovereignty, national and municipal, federal and state. Under this full nnd com- prehensive authority, Congress has unquestion- ably the power to exclude intoxicating liquors from any or all of its territories, or limit their sale under such regulations as it may prescribe. Cold disinfects in more ways than one, and Alaska gets the benefit of it. We cannot throw blame on the offi- cials at Washington. They do the best they can under the circumstances. The dishonest men at the capital are not many, and most of them the people elect to send there. The minor officials in general are conscientious and painstak- ing, making the best possible of condi- tions not of their choosing. The primary difficulty is neglect. We try to throw the burden of self-government on people so situated that self-government is im- possible. We impose on them statutes unfitted to their conditions, and then leave to them the enforcement. Above all, what is everybodys business is no- bodys, and what happens in Alaska is generally nobodys business. INo con- centration of power, no adequate legis- lation, no sufficient appropriation, on these forms of neglect our failure chiefly rests. If we have colonies, even one colony, there must be some sort of a colonial bureau, some concentrated power which shall have exact knowledge of its people, It may legislate in accordance with the special needs of each locality, and vary its regulations to meet the circumstances of the people. Whe- ther the subject elsewhere would be a matter of local police regulations or within the state control nuder some other power, it is immate- rial to consider; in a territory, all the func- tions of government are within the legislative jurisdiction of Congress, and may be exercised through a local government or directly by such legislation as we have now nuder considera- tion. In other words, the colonies are under the absolute control of Congress, subject to no re- strictions of any sort, and free from the oper- ation of any form of constitutional checks and balances. Only through such freedom is colo- nial government un~ler the United States pos- sible. 1 These facts were stated in detail a few years ago by a special agent of the United States Treasury. As a result, this truthful witness was indicted by the grand jury at Sitka for slander. a futile act, but one which was the source of much annoyance. Colonial Lessons of Alaska. its needs, and its resources. The peo- ple must be protected, their needs met, and their resources husbanded. This fact is well understood by the authorities of Canada. While practically no gov- ernment exists in the gold fields of Alas- ka, Canada has chosen for the Klondike within her borders a competent man, thoroughly familiar with the region and its needs, and has granted him full power of action. The dispatches say that Governor Ogilvie has entire charge through his appointees of the depart- ments of timber, land, justice, royalties, and finances. The federal govern- ment believes that one thoroughly re- liable, tried, and trusted representative of British laws and justice, and of Do- minion federal power, can better guide the destinies of this new country than a number of petty untried officials with limited powers, and Ogilvie thinks so himself. 1 Under the present conditions, when the sea otters are destroyed, the fur seal herd exterminated, the native tribes starved to death, the salmon rivers de- populated, the timber cut, and the pla- cer gold fields worked out, Alaska is to be thrown away like a sucked orange. There is no other possible end, if we con- tinue as we have begun. We are not in Alaska for our health, and when we can no longer exploit it we may as well abandon it. But it may be argued that it will be a very costly thing to foster all Alaskas widely separated resources, and to give good government to every one of her scattered villages and posts. Further- more, all this outlay is repaid only by the enrichment of private corporations,2 which, with the exception of the fur seal Sau Francisco Chronicle, August 15, 1898. 2 The interests of Alaska, outside of mining, are now largely in the hands of four great com- panies, the Alaska Commercial Company, lessees, pay no tribute to the govern- ment. Doubtless this is true. Government is a costly thing, and its benefits are un- equally distributed. But the cost would be less if we should treat other resources as we have treated the fur seal. To lease the salmon rivers and to protect the lessees in their rights would be to insure a steady and large income to the government, with greater profit to the salmon canneries than comes with the present confusion and industrial war. But admitting all this, we should count the cost before accepting colo- nies. It is too late to do so when they once have been annexed. If we cannot afford to watch them, to care for them, to give them paternal rule when no other is possible, we do wrong to hoist our flag over them. Govern- ment by the people is the ideal to be reached in all our possessions, but there are races of men now living under our flag as yet incapable of receiving the town meeting idea. A race of children must be treated as children, a race of brigands as brigands, and whatever au- thority controls either must have behind it the force of arms. Alaska has made individuals rich, though the government has yet to get its money back. But whether colonies pay or not, it is essential to the integrity of the United States itself that our control over them should not be a source of cor- ruption and waste. It may be that the final loss of her colonies, mismanaged for two centuries, will mark the civil and moral awakening of Spain. Let us hope that the same event will not mark a civil and moral lapse in the nation which re- ceives Spains bankrupt assets. Daiuid Starr Jordan. the North American Commercial Company, the Alaska Packers Association, and the Pacific Steamer Whaling Company. 591 592 The Intellectual Movement in the IVest. THE INTELLECTUAL MOVEMENT IN THE WEST. ONE of the chief services of education is to show us our position in the line of historical development, to make us aware of what has been done, and to give a true point of departure. The educated man avoids waste of time and strength in re- petition of work already done; he ac- cepts the race experience as a background for his own life, and continues the story of spiritual unfolding from the point where his predecessors left off. There are new points of departure in the history of the race, but there is no new beginning. His- tory opens fresh chapters from time to time; there has been but one introduc- tory chapter. The race goes on telling the marvelous story of its life, with addi- tions and elaborations, and the introduc- tion of new characters, and the shifting of the narrative to new places; but the modern effect still appears related to the aiicient cause, and he who listens atten- tively is constantly aware of the pay of forces as old as man, and of the influ- ence of actors who passed off the stage thousands of years ago. There is never any real break with the past, although there are at times abrupt changes of direction. That past, which survives in vital rather than in formal conditions, constantly reasserts itself; and the race can no more break away from it than a man can cut himself loose from what he has been. This spiritual continuity of race history makes real progression pos- sible, and contains both the promise and the potency of spiritual evolution. Some of the men who settled this con- tinent probably felt that they were begin- ning all things new, although we must beware of reading into their consciousness the somewhat rhetorical interpretations of our later enthusiasm for their courage and political sagacity. As a matter of fact, they concerned themselves very lit- tle with abstract statements or general conceptions of their various motives and enterprises; they were absorbed in the work in hand, which was of a peculiarly pressing character. There was, it is hardly necessary to remind ourselves, no general plan for the settlement of the continent; in fact, there was no thought of a continent. The successive groups of colonists established themselves at points along the coast by the accident of sight- ing land at those points, or for local rea- sons. There was not only no concert of action; there were suspicion, rivalry, and in many cases animosity between the set- tlements. Differences of race, religion, politics, and standards of life made the settlers distrustful of one another. These differences were brought from Europe, and the early history of the continent is mainly an expansion of European his- tory. The picturesque struggle which dramatically culminated in the fall of Montcalni and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham was an incident in the long trial of strength between England and France; and the debate which passed from stage to stage, until the war for independence was seen to be the only final solution, was the extension to the colonies of the radical discussion which was to modify the form of the English government. The colonists found a New World awaiting them, but they brought the Old World with them; and the his- tory of America has been a continuation of the story of that older world. So far below the surface are the deeper currents of racial interaction that it is probably no exaggeration to say that the struggle between the Anglo-Saxon and the Span- iard, begun by Drake, was ended by Sampson. All attempts to break this historical continuity, to sever the present from the past, are not only futile, but wonld be spiritually disastrous if they could be

592 The Intellectual Movement in the IVest. THE INTELLECTUAL MOVEMENT IN THE WEST. ONE of the chief services of education is to show us our position in the line of historical development, to make us aware of what has been done, and to give a true point of departure. The educated man avoids waste of time and strength in re- petition of work already done; he ac- cepts the race experience as a background for his own life, and continues the story of spiritual unfolding from the point where his predecessors left off. There are new points of departure in the history of the race, but there is no new beginning. His- tory opens fresh chapters from time to time; there has been but one introduc- tory chapter. The race goes on telling the marvelous story of its life, with addi- tions and elaborations, and the introduc- tion of new characters, and the shifting of the narrative to new places; but the modern effect still appears related to the aiicient cause, and he who listens atten- tively is constantly aware of the pay of forces as old as man, and of the influ- ence of actors who passed off the stage thousands of years ago. There is never any real break with the past, although there are at times abrupt changes of direction. That past, which survives in vital rather than in formal conditions, constantly reasserts itself; and the race can no more break away from it than a man can cut himself loose from what he has been. This spiritual continuity of race history makes real progression pos- sible, and contains both the promise and the potency of spiritual evolution. Some of the men who settled this con- tinent probably felt that they were begin- ning all things new, although we must beware of reading into their consciousness the somewhat rhetorical interpretations of our later enthusiasm for their courage and political sagacity. As a matter of fact, they concerned themselves very lit- tle with abstract statements or general conceptions of their various motives and enterprises; they were absorbed in the work in hand, which was of a peculiarly pressing character. There was, it is hardly necessary to remind ourselves, no general plan for the settlement of the continent; in fact, there was no thought of a continent. The successive groups of colonists established themselves at points along the coast by the accident of sight- ing land at those points, or for local rea- sons. There was not only no concert of action; there were suspicion, rivalry, and in many cases animosity between the set- tlements. Differences of race, religion, politics, and standards of life made the settlers distrustful of one another. These differences were brought from Europe, and the early history of the continent is mainly an expansion of European his- tory. The picturesque struggle which dramatically culminated in the fall of Montcalni and Wolfe on the Plains of Abraham was an incident in the long trial of strength between England and France; and the debate which passed from stage to stage, until the war for independence was seen to be the only final solution, was the extension to the colonies of the radical discussion which was to modify the form of the English government. The colonists found a New World awaiting them, but they brought the Old World with them; and the his- tory of America has been a continuation of the story of that older world. So far below the surface are the deeper currents of racial interaction that it is probably no exaggeration to say that the struggle between the Anglo-Saxon and the Span- iard, begun by Drake, was ended by Sampson. All attempts to break this historical continuity, to sever the present from the past, are not only futile, but wonld be spiritually disastrous if they could be The Intellectual Jifovement in the West. 593 successfully carried out. To discard the teachings of the past is even more dan- gerous than to imitate them slavishly; to set up for ourselves in the difficult busi- ness of life, as if we were the flrst-comers in the field and could frame the laws of trade to suit our convenience, would be to invite a failure which would be not only complete, but ridiculous. The race is greater than any community or individ- ual, and it is the part of wisdom to take it into partnership in all our undertakings. We moderns have our own duties, re- sponsibilities, rights, and work; we have fresh fields to conquer and new tools to work with. But the ancients were our forbears; we are blood of their blood, and bone of their bone. They survive in us in instinct, temperament, and char- acter; we have entered into the fruit of their labors; they did a large part of the work of life for us in the slow and painful making of that invisible home for the race which we call civilization. We may break with the traditions of the past, but we cannot escape from its vital influence; we may discard the teachings of our fathers,, but we can never get away from them until we can get away from ourselves. The hope of the world is in this unbroken continuity of human expe- rience and effort. Men in great masses act from instinct rather than from intelligence; and the early colonists on this continent, how- ever radical in religious or political con- viction, kept in close touch with the spir- itual life of the race, even while they endeavored with passionate earnestness to break with some of its traditions. No section of the new country and no group of settlers was long content with the hewing of wood and the drawing of water. There was work of the most ru- dimentary kind to be done, and it was done in many cases with consuming ener- gy; but the Atlantic, which then present- ed such serious obstacles to intercourse, was not broad enough to sever the men in the New World from the men in the Old. VOL. LXXXII. NO. 493. 38 The hands of the early colonists were set to pressing tasks; they were clearing wild land, fighting wild men, building homes and churches and blockhouses; but their minds were dealing with the old questions, and their spiritual fellowship with the world behind them was never broken. The schools, the universities, the literature, philosophy, and science of Europe had left their impress on many of these pioneers, planters and builders; and the tradition of. culture, the unbro- ken spiritual life of the race, was not suf- fered to fall into abeyance. The tools of the mind were brought over with the tools of the hand; there were small col- lections of books in many well - to - do homes in every colony. The Puritan had his scholarly traditions; Emmanuel College was one of the formative influ- ences in the making of the new nation. It would be interesting, if it were possi- ble, to trace the rivulets of knowledge which found their way from Cambridge University to this virgin continent, and contributed largely to its fertilization. The continuity of the essential life of men, behind all changes of condition and environment, was never more strik- ingly shown than in the reappearance in new institutions, on new soil, in a re- mote quarter of the globe, of the ideals and spirit of schools imbedded in an- cient tradition and already venerable with years. There was a wide differ- ence of external aspect between the plain, unadorned buildings in which tJ~e earliest American colleges began their york, and those ivy - clad walls and lovely gardens beside~ the Cam or on the Isis; but there was no break in the continuity of interest and work which the ripe old university and the crude young college were set to conserve and accomplish. The time-honored course of study, in its transference from the Old to the New World, suffered no seri- ous change. In the homes of the well- to-do colonists, the great textbooks, which many generations had already thumbed 594 The Intellectual ililiovernent in the West. and conned and learned by heart, were read with the zest of men whose minds were often forced to postpone their claims until a more convenient season. The older classics found places and times in those homes. Theological works were read with avidity, but the love of liter- ature for its own sake never died out. The seeds of the first important move- ment in American literature were plant- ed in those early days of hardship and arduous toil. Harvard College had its modest be- ginning in 1636, and Yale followed it sixty-four years later; both institutions not only fostering and aiding the strug- gling intellectual life of the young com- munities, but appearing because the time was ripe in the needs and demands of these communities. As soon as the col- onies could gain time from the necessi- ties of their physical work, they began building for the spirit as ardently as they had already built for the body. In New York the Dutch influence was soon blended with the English in- fluence, but, in spite of great\commercial opportunities, it was not devoid of in- tellectual quality. Kings College, which has grown into Columbia University, and become one of the most promising and progressive of the higher schools of thq country, was founded in 1754. Nassau Hall, now expanded to the large dimen- sions of Princeton University, dates back to 1746. The University of Pennsyl- vania was organized as a university in 1779. Virginia brought from the Old World an intellectual tradition which differed from that which was fostered in New England chiefly in its indiffer- ence to theological issues and its leaning toward belleslettres. In those fine old houses on the James, which registered the high water mark of social develop- ment in the New World, were to be found small collections of the best liter- ature in at least four languages. The library of Mr. Byrd, of Westover, con- tained six hundred and fifty volumes of classics. The best class of Virginians were bred, later, in the school of Addi- son, Pope, Steele, and Johnson. They were attracted by the elegance of style, the urbanity of manner, the social qual- ity, of the writers of the Queen Anne period and their immediate successors. The New Englander put the eniphasis on the intellectual quality of literature, its content of thought; the Virginian, on its form, atmosphere, polish. The New Englander, for instance, would have cared for Lucretius; the Virginian, for Horace. The New Englander would have been drawn to Aristotle by the closeness of his intellectual processes; the Virginian would have drifted to Plato under the attraction of the rich and varied social life in the atmosphere of which the Dialogues are steeped. Those who have grown up under the influence of New England education and of the New England writers have failed, as a rule, to understand and ap- preciate the culture which was shared by the best people of Virginia, and the depth and vital power of which are sug- gested by the fact that of the five chief makers of the nation four were Virgin- ians. That culture found its expression in statesmanship rather than in litera- ture, and it is owing to the inadequate and somewhat sectional idea of culture which once prevailed that its quality and extent were so long overlooked. In any true history of the spiritual life of the nation Virginia must always have its place beside New England. The two sections were not only the chief fac- tors in the shaping of affairs in the colo- nies, the direction of the Revolutionary movement, and the organization of the government; they were also original sources of intellectual influences which supplemented each other in a very un- usual fashion. If the intellectual qual- ity which Virginia gave to public life in the early days of the government had been sustained at the level which it reached in Madison, Jefferson, and Mar- [L7te intellectual Miovernent in the West. 595 shall, we should have furnished an exam- ple of the highest intellect dealing with public affairs which society has seen since the days of Pericles. The University of Virginia was opened for students in 1825. Kings and bish- ops have often laid the foundations of great schools, but that magnificent ser- vice to humanity has rarely come in the way of a statesman. It was Wolsey the ecclesiastic, rather than Wolsey the minister of state, who founded Christ Church. Jefferson was as far as possi- ble removed from the ecclesiastical tra- dition. He was a man of affairs, with a distinct philosophical bent of mind; a politician by instinct and in method, a statesman in temper and aim. For ab- stract education he had small sympathy; for culture as a mere refinement of the processes of mind he had no respect. His conception of education had a touch of antique breadth and vitality; it was, in his view, the occupation of the scholar and the privilege of the gentleman, but it was also the duty of the citizen. Its fruits were not to be ripened in studious seclusion; they were to be borne in the tumult of public affairs. Culture was to find expression in politics no less than in literature and the arts. He defined the purposes of the higher education in this fashion (1.) To form the statesmen, legisla- tors, and judges, on whom public pro- sperity and individual happiness are so much to depend. (2.) To expound the principles and structures of government, the laws which regulate the intercourse of nations, those formed municipally for our own government, and a sound spirit of legislation, which, banishing all un- necessary restraint on individual action, shall leave us free to do whatever does not violate the equal rights of another. (3.) To harmonize and promote the in- terests of agriculture, manufactures, and commerce, and by well-informed views of political economy to give a free scope to the public industry. (4.) To develop the reasoning faculties of our youth, en- large their minds, cultivate their morals, and instil into them the principles of virtue and order. (5.) To enlighten them with mathematical and physical sciences, which advance the arts, and ,administer to the health, the subsistence, and comforts of human life. (6.) And generally, to form them to habits of re- flection and correct action, rendering them examples of virtue to others, and of happiness within themselves. Here was an ideal of culture essen- tially different from that which New England shaped with such definiteness, and, later, illustrated with such beauty, and set forth with such persuasiveness, an ideal which took less account of spir- itual relations, and concerned itself more with the harmonizing of existing condi- tions with high aims and ultimate prin- ciples. These two ideals have so far dominated our civilization; neither of them has been realized, but both have been immensely influential. It is im- possible to say which has been the more important; the higher interests of the country would have suffered irreparably if either had been lost. When a na- tional ideal finally takes shape on this continent, it will be born of the fusion of these different ideals; which are, in reality, attenipts to realize in conscious- ness the relations of men to two great aspects of experience. In the endeavor to give reality to Jef- fersons ideal of education, rooted in pub- lic interests and duties, as cQntrasted with education for the advancement of know- ledge pure and simple, the University of Virginia instinctively took a long step in advance in assuming greater moral ma- turity in its students; aiming to train men of affairs in their social relations, it took for granted a certain preliminary moral as well as intellectual preparation. It based its discipline on the sense of hon- or in its studeiits, and prepared men for self-government by permitting them to govern themselves; it went a step beyond, 596 The Intellectual lJfovement in the West. in harmony with its ideal, and gave its stu- dents wide latitude in the choice of lines of study; and it took the further and final step, inevitable alike in the work- ing out of its system and in the impulse received from its founder, and planted itself on the basis of absolute religious liberty. Here, then, was a singularly coherent and consistent expression, along educational lines, of the ideal of life which silently formed itself in the mind of the Virginia community: an ideal es- sentially social, as the ideal of New England was essentially individual; an ideal secular and practical, as the New England ideal was religions and ethical; an ideal which involved the training of communities, as that of New England involved the training of persons. When the spiritual history of the continent is written, five hundred years hence, the University of Virginia will be given a much larger place in the making of the American community than has yet been set aside for her. The richness of the colonies in types of character, temper, and training is brought out very strikingly as one fol- lows the coast line from Boston to New Orleans. In those early times, New York was already a town of cosniopoli- tan interests and habits, speaking eigh- teen languages before the Revolution- Philadelphia was combining a certain quietism of spirit with charm of manner and sagacity in dealing with practical affairs. In Charleston there was as distinct a background of religious con- viction as in Boston, but it was less radical in its individualism, and it was speedily modified by social and economic conditions. The Huguenots brought into the new country not only religious con- victions as deep as those of the Puritan colonists, but also a large iiifusion of the best blood of France. Many of their children were educated in Europe, and society had the interest and charm of an intimate contact with the Old World. The community at New Orleans ap proached life from another side, and produced a type of character with a distinct touch of the Latin passion for intimacy of relationship in meeting the experiences and developing the resources of life. In this semi-tropical city, which has not lost its traditional charm of man- ner, nor that hospitality which adopts rather than simply includes and enter- tains, one finds individualism, which is so prominent in New England, entirely absorbed in the social ideal: the ideal which makes the family and the com- munity the units; which continually checks the tendency to self-assertion by insistence upon the superior authority of the family and the community; which brings individual opinion to the bar of general opinion; and which develops the common life of the community by drawing into it all that is best in per- sonal life. Types are thrown into strik- ing relief by their abnormal illustration in individuals. In New England, where the emphasis of nearly three centuries has been on individuality, the abnormal characters are distinctly anti-social; they take refuge in solitude, in isolation from society, in the extravagant assertion of their opinions, convictions, and purposes. They are the victims of a will which has become tyrannical and irrational. Many of Miss Wilkinss studies of the New England degenerate convey an im- pression of the helplessness of men and women in whom the will acts arbitrarily, and is no longer cotirdinated with the reason. These extreme illustrations of individualism are the inevitable results, upon certain classes of minds, of centu- ries of emphasis on the sovereignty of the individual conscience. In the South, on the other hand, the akiormal types show an excessive development of the social instinct. They do not hide them- selves in solitary houses or live like her- mits; they frequent the taverns, are found at the country stores, and seem to seek rather than shun companionship. The habit of living together is so deep- The Intellectual Illliovernent in the West. 597. seated that it acts automatically when the mind loses its balance. This habit of acting together in all the affairs of life bears its fruit in New Or- leans in a grace, ease, and freedom of hu- man intercourse which owes something, it must be confessed, to French influence. The social ideal, which dominates every kind of organization and every form of art in France, is modified in the fascinat- ing city, with its reminiscence of Spain in the architecture of the older quarters, its atmosphere of human intimacy in the presence of the Latin temperament, and the commercial energy which has its roots in the American character. The art of human intercourse, like other arts of the deepest charm, i~ not distinctively intellectual in its origin and its expression; and its significance as an expression or product of culture has been greatly undervalued in this country. The urbanity, tact, delicate subordination of self to the ease and comfort of others the sensitiveness which discerns and shares other moods and minds without formal approach; that nice harmonizing of divergent tempers, dispositions, and aims which is effected only in a highly civilized society for the purpose of making common stock of individual knowledge. experience, and charm, these things are understood in New Orleans, and are utilized perhaps with more effect than in any other city in the country. To the ideal of individual development in New England, and to that of commu- nity development in Virginia, New Or- leans adds an ideal of social development which could not be lost without losing one of those graces of living which are invaluable not only for the pleasure they give, but also for the refinement of spir- it which they constantly reveal. This is the distinctive contribution of New Orleans, and the communities it repre- sents, to American civilization. In so large a country, with such long distances between the centres of indus- try and intelligence, a certain develop- ment of provincialism was inevitable; for lack of contact involves lack of know.~ ledge, and lad: of knowledge is the pro- lific mother of that form of unabashed and unconscious ignorance which we call provincialism. Before the Revolution, the colonies were distrustful and jealous of one another, because they were in con- tact at so few points. After the Revo- lution, the states, into which the original colonies were divided and subdivided, looked askance at one another; and the misconceptions of spirit, aim, and relative strength which grew out of that soil bore fruit in the tragedy of the civil war. This failure to perceive the deeper drift of affairs, to discern the partial charac- ter of sectional ideals, and to recognize the necessity of harmonizing the national types did not end with the tremendous shock of two diverse conceptions of the national idea thirty-five years ago. It has continued to show itself in the blind- ness or indifference of the older com- munities to the spiritual development of the newer sections of the country; and this latest provincialism is shown in the assumption, not uncommon in some parts of the East, that while material progress has been phenomenal in the Mississippi Valley and the Far West, spiritual pro- gress has not kept pace with it. The chief difference between the older and the newer sections of the country in the matter of culture is a difference of time; or, in other words, of opportunity. The history of the country has been so far a history of colonization; the wave of human restlessness and energy which rolled over the seaboard in the seven- teenth century has moved across the con- tinent, and the successive communities which sprung up in its track have repro- duced, with certain inevitable modifica- tions, the stages through which the older communities passed. Virginia saw her history repeated in Kentucky, and New England read her story again in Ohio, Iowa, and Kansas; and for a genera- tion the old East and that West which 598 The Intellectual Aliovement in the West. was its first-born have been able, if they ~liave had insight, to discern the working out of their own destiny in the further West. There have been interruptions, but there has been no break in the his- torical process; new influences have made their appearance and novel condi- tions have bred strange types, but at bottom the historical movement has been continuous and consistent. The West has passed stage by stage through the experience of the East. It has had to create the physical conditions of life, but it has never been content with them; it has no sooner laid the material founda- tions of the state than it has proceeded to lay its spiritual foundations. It has not waited to get the rough work done before taking up the higher work. It has founded colleges with too lib- eral a hand, and the word university has come to mean, in some sections of the West, any school above the primary grade. That the university ideal has been temporarily cheapened by this reck- less and misleading use of the word uni- versity is beyond question. But, apart from what appears to be the natural ten- dency of new countries to exaggerate the rank and importance of undertak- ings still in the rudimentary stages, the instinct which prompted the founding of such a large number of colleges is iden- tical with that which early began the work of organizing the higher education on the seaboard. Many of these col- leges have not only rendered an imme- diate service of the highest importance to the growing communities in which they were placed, but have maintained a high level of teaching and scholarship. The University of Michigan has long been recognized as one of the centres of higher education in the country, a uni- versity in spirit and standards as well as in name. Rarely has the practical value of generous dealing with the edu- cational question been more significantly illustrated than in the history of Michi- gan, a state which has gained in public regard and in general reputation through the high standing and widespread fame of its university. Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Nebraska have shown a similar breadth of view in building up and sup- porting state universities,, which are re- paying the community an hundredfold every dollar appropriated to their use. The group of institutions represented by the Western Reserve University at Cleve- land, Miami University, Beloit, Kenyon, Marietta, Knox, and Iowa colleges have borne the fruit of personal sacrifice and unselfish love of knowledge. Often limit- ed in income, and working, during their earlier years at least, with very inad- equate educational apparatus, they have never lacked the generous service of men and women of noble character and of genuine culture, and they have con- tributed to the active scholarship of the country some of the most productive and thoroughly trained men in many de- partments. The University of Chicago is too re- cent a foundation, and has been too wide- ly discussed, to need extended comment. It is easy to point out the mistakes in the rapid development of an institution of such magnitude as the new university on the shore of Lake Michigan, and it is quite certain that some of the fruits of the higher culture cannot be plucked until time has ripened them; but those who attempt to minimize the work of this vigorous institution, because it has not yet completed its first decade, lay themselves open to the charge of a seri- ous lack of true vision. A young uni- versity cannot wholly escape the crudity which is the healthful characteristic of youth, because it is the necessary accom- paninient of all growth; but it is the very essence of provincialism to be blind to vitality, energy, and power, because the use of these great forces is not ideal- ly mastered at the start. No one who has spent any time in the atmosphere of the University of Chicago; has taken ac- count of the opportunities it offers; has The Intellectual Jliliovement in the West. 599 become aware of its invigorating influ- ence on the colleges of the West, and of the stimulus which it is giving the teach- ers of the South and West; and has recognized the far-seeing sagacity with which it is steadily organizing educa- tional forces, can question the reality of the intellectual impulse which it expresses on such a great scale, or the important place which it is to occupy in the educa- tional history of the country. It holds a strategical point in the development of the higher civilization, and it is to be one of the leaders in its spiritual un- folding. That a distinct type of academic life will be developed at the University of Chicago, which will reflect and define the characteristics and aims of the Cen- tral West, is highly probable. But it takes time to harmonize temperament and character, and to give them definite- ness and firmness of outline; and time is an element for which the most generous- ly endowed institution must wait with such patience as it can command. That type, when it appears, will present un- mistakable differences froni the types al- ready formed in New England, the Mid- dle States, and the South. It will, sooner or later, care as much for thoroughness; for the appreciation of the fundamental quality of genuine scholarship and of the intellectual life is only a matter of time, in a community so energetic, so sensi- tive to criticism, and so eager to lay hold of the best in life. It will care for thoroughness, but it is likely to care still more for vitality. The peculiar dry- ness of mind which once infected univer- sities, as certain fevers infect hospitals, has of late years almost disappeared, in the presence of intellectual and social forces which have stimulated into active co~iperation or equally energetic antag- onism the great majority of the most cultivated men and women; but the de- tachment from affairs, which always en- dangers the freshness of feeling and the sense of partnership with ones people and ones age among scholars, is not likely, for a long time to come, to affect the Western universities. The student and scholar in the West is likely to be not only energetic, but ag- gressively hopeful and ardently patriotic. He may not always disclose perfect bal- ance of intelligence and feeling; he may sometimes err on the side of optimistic confidence in the value of what he is do- ing and what his community is doing. But fortunate is the country in which scholars share those deep and vital im- pulses which keep races productive and masterful. In their greatest moments, progressive races are likely to have a touch of audacity in their temper and a touch of arrogance in their manners. This was true of the Greeks of the age of Pericles, of the Romans of the time of the Republic, of the Italians of the Renaissance, and of the English of the spacious days of great Elizabeth. A superabundance of life invariably finds escape in a fuller and more assured note of self-confldeiice; in an unquestioning faith that life is not only worth living, but worth the most intense living. In answer to the charge of excesses and violence brought against the Ameri- can colonists, Burke, with characteristic breadth of view, urged that something must be pardoned to the spirit of liberty. It is a fortunate hour when peoples are obliged to concede something to the spirit of life; when vitality is too deep and too vigorous to find adequate expression through critical forms, to conform wholly to accepted opinions, or to wear easily the conventional garb. Too much vital- ity is far better than too little vitality, and the crudest life is more promising than the most polished death. The note of boastful self-assertion so often sounded in the West is irritating because it mis- reports the real force of the section, and dreary because it is inflated out of all proportion to the thought or fact behind it. There is something touching in the patience with which Americans in the 600 The Intellectual ljfovement in the West. newer sections of the country will listen to wearisome repetitions of the same boastful platitudes decade after decade. The politician whom Mr. Lincoln once described as throwing back his head, in- flating his lungs, and leaving the rest to God is still heard in the West, and some- times in the East, with an attention which deserves a better reward. But this inflated note is, after all, the escape of a real force through an in- ferior personality; there is something genuine and true behind it, and that something is the confidence which is born of the sense of vitality. This sense the students and scholars of the West are certain to share; and they are likely to gain and to keep ultimate leadership in public life. It would not be easy to find a more characteristically American community than that which has grown to such large proportions around Oberlin College. In this academic village, which contains, during the college year, a population of not less than fifteen hundred students of both sexes, one finds himself in contact with a life which is shaped exclusively by American conditions and absorbed in American interests. Not long ago, an intelligent student of education in this country said that, in his judgment, a dol- lar went further in educational purchas- ing power at Oberlin than at any other college in the land. It is probable that economy of expenditure and lavishness of opportunity and of work are nowhere more fruitfully united. The sturdy, plain, God-fearing, hard-working people, who have the conscience of the country so largely in their keeping, have put behind Oberlin a background of ethical education which is one of the most im- portant endowments of the college. The moral life of the institution is insistent and bti enuous; one cannot breathe its atmosphere without becoming conscious of that moral energy which once found utterance in Dr. Finneys stirring preach- ing. but which has found more adequate expression in the closeness of touch be- tween the college and the moral agita- tions and reforms of the last fifty years. At Oberlin education instinctively shapes itself for immediate ends in the needs of the time and the community, and in the courses of study arid in the interests and tastes of the students one finds a keemi sense of the utility of studies for prac- tical uses. There is little of that sense of leisure which lingers in the older col- leges, and gives the undergraduate the feeling that the four years will never run their course; there is, in its place, an alert perception of the value of the time of preparation, and a great eager- ness to get to work. This does not prevent genuine enjoy- ment of student life; on time contrary, no academic life could be more simple and hearty. The kindlin~ss and frank sociability which, in certain ways, make the whole continent one great comnmn- nity find the freest possible expression in the village of young men and women, associating with one another on the most easy and un~onventional terms. A for- eign observer would probably find him- self as much perplexed by social condi- tions at Oberlin as at any other place in America; nowhere else would his tra- (litions and experience be more likely to mislead him. The contrast between the English or Continental university and Oberlin is so marked as to be violent to a scholar from beyond the sea; even to an American it is so broad as to be humor- ous. But if the scholar brought with him not only traditions, but freshness of feeling and keenness of insight, he would soon discern in the conditions at Ober- lin the most convincing evidence of the soundness of American character and the purity of the American home. Such a community would not be possible in the seaboard states, North or South; but it is the natural growth of social condi- tions in its own wide neighborhood, and it is one of the most distinctive and in- teresting places in America to all who The Intellectual 3lovement in the West. 601 wish to understand the spiritual life of the country. The view from Colorado College is perhaps as striking as that which can be commanded from any college win- dows. There are those who affirm that the outlook from Robert College, with the ceaseless movement of the commerce of the Bosphorus, is the most enchant- ing academic prospect in the world; the charm of the surroundings of Heidelberg has been felt by generations of travelers; Cambridge and Oxford have a spell that no sensitive mind escapes; Williams and Amherst hold the imagination of their students loyal to a beauty of hill and shaded street which exerts no small edu- cational influence; Wellesley has a no- ble setting, and Princeton looks across a charming country. On the campus of Colorado College one recalls these and other college outlooks, of exceptional grandeur or extent or loveliness, and is fain to confess that this young institution holds its own among the most fortunate- ly placed colleges of the world. The ab- sence of depth of foliage and the restful- ness of a rich and long cultivated coun- try finds compensation in the brilliancy of a mountain background, notable not only for mass and ruggedness, but also for color. In the stimulating air one shares the general faith that on this lofty plateau, where the continent reaches its highest habitable altitude, there must be bred a race of men and women of keen intelligence and quick imagination, who will render tbe country higher services than the opening of mines, the reclama- tion of great stretches of arid territory to the uses of agriculture, and the herding of cattle. The local witticism, that it is impossible to tell the truth about Colo- rado without lying, is only another way of saying that in any complete account of a country you must include the sky and the air as well as the soil. Colorado College may be taken as a type of the Far Western college, and as such it gives every lover of sound learn- ing the assurance that the light which has been handed down from generation to generation with such jealous care will not suffer any loss of purity or intensity on the slopes of the Rocky Mountains. It is not a rich college, for the wealth of the country is still largely prospec- tive; but it is well equipped, its endow- ment is steadily increasing, and the af- fection and interest of the community are quietly gathering about it. That which gives the college its deepest sig- nificance, however, is the spirit of its body of self-denying teachers. Bred in the best traditions of the older commu- nities, they are putting into their work not only trained intelligence, but a de- votion which found expression last year, when a large sum of money was urgent- ly needed in order to secure a condi- tional gift, in a cheerful surrender of a considerable proportion of salaries al- ready taxed to the utmost to meet the most moderate personal expenses. It is this missionary spirit in the hearts of men and women who have obtained thorough special training in their differ- ent fields, and who are giving themselves, body and soul, to the work of teaching in the new West, which furnishes ground for the belief that the foundations of the latest commonwealths are as genuinely ethical and spiritual as those which the Puritans laid. On the Pacific coast, such institutions as the University of California and the younger and more aggressive Leland Stanford University give expression to the spiritual aspiration of communities which are still dealing with material problems in their most pressing forms; while such noble beginnings of educa- tional foundations as Whitman College attest the persistence of that devout spirit in which so many American col- leges have had their inception. There are too many colleges in cer- tain sections of the West, especially of the Central West; and in many cases these institutions have no claim to the 602 The Intellectual Afovement in the TFest. use of the word college; but it remains true that the majority of higher institu- tions of learning in the West belong, by right of honorable descent and of pre- sent service, to the academic brotherhood. Their foundations are very much larger than were those of Harvard, Yale, Wil- liam and Mary, or Princeton at the same age; they are served by men as thorough- ly equipped as were the teachers in the oldest colleges. They are placed in a so- ciety more alert and energetic, with vig- orous impulses and a determination to know and to possess the best life has to offer; and wherever this vital ambition controls, time and experience will inevi- tably correct false ideas of the relative values of ends, and advance standards which are too low. The few and scattered centres and sources of intellectual influence which have been enumerated are representa- tive of a great group of organized en- deavors to convey and to advance learn- ing in the newer parts of the continent; the work of these institutions is supple- mented by a great volume of personal and private effort to the same end. Those who know the Central West well are persuaded that it has entered what may be called the culture stage of its de- velopment; the stage, that is, which in- volves a serious attempt to rationalize its life, to measure its spiritual success, to secure an accurate estimate of the value of its material production, to know the best the older communities have thought and spoken, to command the ultimate uses of life and its materials. Those who can recognize a spiritual develop- ment in the germ as well as in the com- plete unfolding are deeply impressed by the eagerness with which great num- bers of sincere people are reaching out after the things of the spirit, and are determined to possess them. If there is an immense amount of crudity in this country, there is also an immense force of aspiration working in it and through it. The head of an Oxford college, who happened to be at one of those summer assemblies which have become a feature of life in many parts of the country, confessed that all his traditions as a university man were shocked by some of the methods and a good deal of the teaching which he had been ob- serving; but added that he was filled with reverence for the hunger and thirst for knowledge which had become a pas- sion with a multitude of people whose work is severe and whose leisure is lim- ited: men and women of limited educa- tional opportunities, who were striving in middle life to gain the outlook on life which was denied them in youth; hard-worked mothers, who were patheti- cally endeavoring to keep within spirit- ual reach of their more fortunate chil- dren in college. It is easy to dismiss the movement which finds expression in summer schools and assemblies as shal- low in method and superficial in spirit. The methods are, it is true, sometimes inadequate and even cheap, but they are also, in many cases, intelligent and wisely planned; and the spirit behind the movement is quite as deep and gen- uine and uplifting as that which has from time to time set great educational forces at work in older societies. In the long run, it will be found that these assemblies and schools are the nurseries of the colleges and universities; and that the awkward and sometimes badly directed endeavor of the unprivileged classes intellectually to share the higher resources of civilization with the more fortunate is not only sound and real, but the clear prophecy of the approach of an era of culture in this country, an extended though often unconscious en- deavor to assimilate the culture of the race, and to realize in clear ideals the deepest impulses,- instincts, and aspira- tions of the New World. One of the significant signs of this movement is the enthusiasm with which Froebels educational ideas have been received during the last ten years. The The Intellectual Kovement in the West. 603 movement to establish kindergartens has become national in its scope; mothers classes have been organized in nearly all the large cities, as well as in smaller com- munities; the study of children, as well as their care, is engrossing the attention of many of the most intelligent women. It is a long time since any educational movement has swept so great a number of people into its current, and has in- spired so many sincere and cultivated women to active coilperation. The two enthusiastic women who, not long ago, drove through a considerable section of one of the Central Western States, and held out-of-door meetings for the pur- pose of extending the knowledge of the kindergarten, showed no exceptional de- votion to a movement which promises to become the most important feature of contemporary educational history. It is a great mistake to interpret this move- ment as a new expression of a more in- telligent conception of motherhood on the one hand, and of the importance, for educational purposes, of the years be- tween three and six on the other hand; it is deeper and more inclusive. The Froebelian philosophy is something more than a system of education; it is a spirit- ual conception and interpretation of life, and it has been eagerly received be- cause it gives rational form and expres- sion to a deep stirring of spiritual in- stinct in this country. It identifies education with the vital processes of experience; sets the individual in harmo- nious order with his kind; establishes science, art, and history on a basis of revelation; roots all activity and growth in religion; and interprets the life of the race in the light of spiritual progression. Such a conception, in the contention of diverse theories of religion, art, and edu- cation, has not only commanded the in- tellectual assent of a host of open-minded men and women, but has touched their imaginations and awakened their enthu- siasm. It is as a spiritual even more than as an intellectual movement that the remarkable spread of the kinder- garten idea must be interpreted; it is a significant phase of the movement for culture. One of its chief sources, on this conti- nent, must be sought in the remarkable group of men and women who gave the schools of St. Louis a new and vigorous impulse more than a quarter of a cen- tury ago. It is a notable fact that The Journal of Speculative Philosophy was issued beyond the Mississippi River, and that for years an interest in philosophy was sustained in St. Louis which has been more directly fruitful along educa- tional lines than any other movement of the kind in the history of the country. That interest did not exhaust itself in the study of Kant and Hegel; it carried the larger vision into the interpretation of art, literature, and teaching. Dr. Harris, who is now, as Commissioner of Education, the official representative of the educational system of the country, has made philosophical study constantly fruitful in the application of philosophi- cal ideas to educational questions. Miss Blow has made original and important contributions to the literature of educa- tion. Mr. Denton J. Snider has inter- preted literature in its greatest creations as revelations of the inner structure of the soul and of the laws of life, in a series of very suggestive commentaries on Homer, Dante, Goethe, and Shake- speare, and has spent many years of en- thusiastic work in the classroom and on the platform, expounding what he has called the four literary Bibles of the world. In his tireless zeal, the range of his knowledge, the vitality of his methods, Mr. Snider is a true descend- ant of the Humanists; whose wandering life he has also adopted, moving like a true missionary of scholarship through the Central West, and leaving behind him a new ardor for learning in schools and communities. There are other names associated with the St. Louis movement which deserve 4304 The Intellectual Afovernent in the TFest. an attention that is made impossible by the limits of this article. The influence of this group of scholars and thinkers has made itself felt through a large part of the Central West, and can be traced in the deepening of educational ideas and the freshening of educational methods. The Literary Schools which have been held under the auspices of the Chi- cago Kindergarten College, and under the direction of the friends of the kin- dergarten in St. Louis, have been not- able for breadth of view and insight. Concerned chiefly with the study and discussion of the most important works of literature, they have revealed an in- stinctive tendency to interpret art in terms of human experience, and to ar- rive at the fundamental unity which gives structure and significance to every manifestation of the human spirit. In the predominance of the interpretative over the purely critical or scholastic spirit, which has characterized the ses- sions of these schools, some observers h~ave found the evidence of genuine cul- ture, and the promise of a vigorous ar- tistic activity in the future; and to such observers these schools have seemed to bring to light a real arid widespread in- terest in the spiritual achievements of the race, and a passionate eagerness to share the spiritual experience of the race. To these observers there come all manner of confirmations of this convic- tion from all parts of the West: stories of eager young scholars who are mak- ing struggles for educational opportuni- ties as heroic as those which have touched the history of the German uni- versities with a noble idealism, of the Scotch universities with a courage akin to the spirit which inspires the Scotch ballads, and have introduced into the life of our own older institutions a strain of the highest moral energy; the inci- dent of the elaborate carving of the en- tire interior of a church, in a small com munity, by the loving skill of a congre- gation which gave up its leisure hours for many months in order that the art of wood-carving might be mastered suffi- ciently to be put to use in the service of religion. The product of this zeal may not remind one of the work of the Flem- ish carvers, but it was out of the depths of such a feeling for beauty that the skill of the Low Countries was born. One recalls also the countless organi- zations for the study of history, political economy, literature, art, and philosophy which cover the West with a network of intellectual influences ; the wide interest in serious lectures; the general habit of serious reading, the evidences of which, in remote localities, surprise the unin- formed visitor from the East; the large numbers of students from the West who are pursuing advanced courses of study in this country and in Europe. It would be impossible to present any inclusive survey of the signs and evi- dences of the intellectual activity of the Central and Far West, and it would be an impertinence to set these few typical facts in order, if a certain provincialism in some of the older sections of the coun- try did not call for enlightenment. That provincialism has its roots in an igno- rance which is easily explained by the great distances which separate commer- cial and social centres from one another, and constitute a serious obstacle to com- munity of feeling and unity of action in this country. This ignorance is, unf or- tunately, shared by many cultivated peo- ple who ought to be quick to recognize and sympathize with a spiritual move- ment of the very highest importance. That such a movement is the most sig- nificant fact in the contemporary history of the West is the conviction of many who have had the opportunity of becom- ing acquainted with their own country. The material progress of the section is reported with the utmost detail and in the most flamboyant style; but its real progress, revealed in its intellectual lio The Navy in the War with Spain. 605 eration and its realization of its own character and work, is very inadequate- ly presented. It is probable that no country has ever invested so much spiritual, moral, and monetary capital in education, tak- ing into account the brevity of its his- tory, as the West; it has done far more for its intellectual life than the East did in the same number of years. It is, in fact, repeating the history of the East; for it is eagerly assimilating the expe- rience of the race, expressed in its thought, its art, and its history. This is the impulse behind the passion for know- ledge, the instinctive desire to know what the race knows, and then to codp- erate in the race life and work. Ia the face of declamatory assertions of inde pendence of the past, this instinct stead- ily asserts itself and has its way. The struggle of the new community to break with the race, and start out for itself, is inspired by a mistaken idea of independ- ence. Real freedom comes from that mastery, through knowledge, of historic conditions and race character which makes possible a free and intelligent use of experience for the purposes of pro- gress. This is the process through which the West is now passing, and which gives its society a deep and ap- pealing interest. For out of this move- ment for the clear realization in its own consciousness of its race relationships and inheritance, modified by its own condi- tions and shaped by its own needs, are to come, at no distant date, its own ideals. Hamilton Wright 3fabie. THE NAVY IN THE WAR WITH SPAIN. THE success of our navy in the war now happily concluded is only what we had reason to expect, considering the dif- ference between the resources of the two countries and the qualities of the men engaged on the two sides. The ships did their work so quickly and with such precision that we are likely to be led into erroneous conclusions, if the condi- tions which made their victories possible are not very carefully studied. It will not be safe to draw too many lessons from the results. In the first place, we must not forget that our enemy was so weak and unprepared that it seems al- most pitiful to glory over him. Military prowess passed away from Spain many years ago, and her organization to man- age the modern ship, composed principal- ly of machinery, is wretchedly deficient. In the next place, our ships were never even severely tested, as they would have been against a stronger foe with greater staying power. We have only to imagine the situation if a Northern port had been attacked by a good-sized fleet, while our whole effective navy was off the coast of Cuba, to obtain some idea of what might have been our condition in a con- test with a maritime country. Let us hope that self-confidence over our vic- tories may not lead us to early disaster. The great triumph of the British navy under Nelson was achieved when the naval administration was utterly cor- rupt, and the whole system of promotion formed a bitter grievance. Success came only through the entire inadequacy of the other side. Yet the British acquired convictions of their invincibility which made them the easy prey of American seamen in the war of 1812. Not that our navy is at all corrupt or lacking in good judgment, but it may suffer from false notions instilled into the minds of our Congressmen by an easy success. The price of achievement is constant effort. To a certain extent, the lesson that we

The Navy in the War with Spain. 605 eration and its realization of its own character and work, is very inadequate- ly presented. It is probable that no country has ever invested so much spiritual, moral, and monetary capital in education, tak- ing into account the brevity of its his- tory, as the West; it has done far more for its intellectual life than the East did in the same number of years. It is, in fact, repeating the history of the East; for it is eagerly assimilating the expe- rience of the race, expressed in its thought, its art, and its history. This is the impulse behind the passion for know- ledge, the instinctive desire to know what the race knows, and then to codp- erate in the race life and work. Ia the face of declamatory assertions of inde pendence of the past, this instinct stead- ily asserts itself and has its way. The struggle of the new community to break with the race, and start out for itself, is inspired by a mistaken idea of independ- ence. Real freedom comes from that mastery, through knowledge, of historic conditions and race character which makes possible a free and intelligent use of experience for the purposes of pro- gress. This is the process through which the West is now passing, and which gives its society a deep and ap- pealing interest. For out of this move- ment for the clear realization in its own consciousness of its race relationships and inheritance, modified by its own condi- tions and shaped by its own needs, are to come, at no distant date, its own ideals. Hamilton Wright 3fabie. THE NAVY IN THE WAR WITH SPAIN. THE success of our navy in the war now happily concluded is only what we had reason to expect, considering the dif- ference between the resources of the two countries and the qualities of the men engaged on the two sides. The ships did their work so quickly and with such precision that we are likely to be led into erroneous conclusions, if the condi- tions which made their victories possible are not very carefully studied. It will not be safe to draw too many lessons from the results. In the first place, we must not forget that our enemy was so weak and unprepared that it seems al- most pitiful to glory over him. Military prowess passed away from Spain many years ago, and her organization to man- age the modern ship, composed principal- ly of machinery, is wretchedly deficient. In the next place, our ships were never even severely tested, as they would have been against a stronger foe with greater staying power. We have only to imagine the situation if a Northern port had been attacked by a good-sized fleet, while our whole effective navy was off the coast of Cuba, to obtain some idea of what might have been our condition in a con- test with a maritime country. Let us hope that self-confidence over our vic- tories may not lead us to early disaster. The great triumph of the British navy under Nelson was achieved when the naval administration was utterly cor- rupt, and the whole system of promotion formed a bitter grievance. Success came only through the entire inadequacy of the other side. Yet the British acquired convictions of their invincibility which made them the easy prey of American seamen in the war of 1812. Not that our navy is at all corrupt or lacking in good judgment, but it may suffer from false notions instilled into the minds of our Congressmen by an easy success. The price of achievement is constant effort. To a certain extent, the lesson that we 606 The Navy in the War with Spain. have learned is practically the same as that stated briefly by a French admiral writing of our victories in 1812 There is success only for those who know how to prepare it. Our chief glory, there- fore, is careful preparation and an accu- rate fitting of means to end. This re- mark applies mainly to the individual ships in service before the war broke out, and not to the general preparedness of the country for a severe struggle. There are many elements which go toward suc- cess in war, and the commonest of these is courage. Most nations, with proper training and good leadership, will pro- duce good soldiers; it is only a question of time. Thorough familiarity with the weapons and instruments placed in their hands is one of the requisites even of courage. The lack of mechanical in- stinct accounts for the failure of some nations to produce first-rate seamen, es- pecially in these days of machinery upon the sea. This quality is perhaps the vital difference between Americans and Spaniards. The latter seem incapable of grappling with the construction and management of guns and machinery. The war, therefore, sets clearly before our people the value of education and technical training to a specific end, and the lesson is applicable as well to the vo- cations of peace as to the preparations for war. But at no time have we been prepared for a prolonged conflict against a well- equipped navy, and our fortunate exodus from the affair should serve as a warn- ing. We had at the outset only a few well-selected types of ships manned by a first-rate personnel, or what has been called the nucleus of a good navy. The smaller craft for picket, patrol, and supply duty had to be obtained and equipped in a great hurry. In not a few cases the money placed at the dis- posal of the President was squandered, to the minimum benefit of the country. This is doubtless inevitable in stress of emergency, when all the safeguards of purchase and inspection do not obtain. On the eve of the recent war the supply of powder for the navy was at a very low ebb, through the neglect of Congress, and the Bureau of Ordnance deserves no small credit for making good the defi- ciency so quickly that not a ship lacked ammunition when the demand for it came. This speaks volumes for the ef- ficiency of the system prevailing in the Navy Department. While our ships were individually well prepared for the conflict, the fleets as a whole were at first composed of ill-as- sorted vessels. There had never been a settled policy in Congress looking to- ward the development of the navy. As a consequence, we find monitors of ten knots speed and torpedo boats of twenty knots associated in the blockade of Cuba. The squadron that went to Porto Rico was made up of battleships, torpedo boats, and monitors, with an average speed pulled down from fifteen to ten knots for the benefit of the last-named. It seems absurd to have expected vessels of little freeboard and of minimum coal capacity, designed especially for harbor defense, to cruise in squadron, and yet the department was forced into the se- lection of these ships for want of others. Then, again, we had no choice but to send two monitors on the long cruise across the Pacific. The torpedo boats suffered all kinds of ill usage, even tak- ing part in the bombardment of shore fortifications. They served as tenders, dispatch boats, scouts, and in fact as any- thing except torpedo boats. Some of them carried only a few hours supply of fresh water for their boilers, which would have been ruined by the free introduction of salt water; nevertheless, they were required to steam hundreds of miles. It seemed a pity, but the officers felt obliged to use what was at hand, rather than to delay the campaign for boats better adapted to the purpose. Later, the converted yachts and tugs, armed in great haste, arrived to take their places. like Navy in the War with Spain. 607 And it may be added that these little boats rendered effective service; two of them participated in the battle of Sant- iago. The history of the naval part of the war falls naturally into four chapters, the preparation, the blockade, and the total destruction of two fleets; but it is not the purpose of this article to give more than a passing glance at the two principal events. Our small fleet in the Pacific went from Hong Kong to Ma- nila, destroyed a Spanish fleet, and held the bay until an American army arrived to control the situation on land. A fleet in the Atlantic closed up the harbors of Cuba, and destroyed a second Spanish fleet off Santiago. Incidentally, there were many smaller conflicts in Cuban waters. The problems which confronted the commanders on the two oceans were es- sentially different, and time will show them to have been solved with equal ability and good sense. The situation at Manila was very simple. Upon the declaration of war, Admiral Dewey was turned out of Hong Kong by Great Brit- ain, and all other Asiatic ports were closed to him. He was seven thousand miles from home, a distance which none of his ships could make without recoal- ing, and his line of communication was liable to interruption at any time. Fur- thermore, the safety of our Pacific coast trade was in jeopardy so long as a hostile vessel remained in the Orient. The duty was a plain one, to obtain a base in the Philippines, and to capture or destroy every Spanish ship that could be found. With rare good judgment, Admiral Dewey made straight for Manila, and caught the whole fleet before they had time to scatter. He had already proven himself to be a man of foresight by load- ing up with provisions and coal before war was declared. When the English told him to go he was ready. His fleet passed through the fortified entrance of Manila bay by night, and attacked the ships and shore batteries simultane- ously. The victory over what must be conceded to have been a weak and dis- organized foe, although gun for gun there was not much difference between the two sides, was a great one, in the splendid management of the American ships, and in the results which must flow from our enforced entrance into Asiatic politics. There was not an armored ship on either side, and the battle sheds little light upon construction for the future. We know that the Spaniards suffered fearfully from fire, and that our ships escaped with little damage. No victory was ever purchased more cheaply ; not a man was killed on the American side. The task before Admiral Sampson was immensely more complicated. He had to maintain the blockade over a long coast line, to be on the lookout for tor- pedo boats and ships whose whereabouts he could not fix, and to convoy troop ships. The sustained readiness and vi- gilance of the fleet, during its long wait before Santiago, were enough in them- selves to make the reputation of an or- dinary commander-in-chief. Added to these duties he had to contend with cer- tain newspaper reporters and dispatch boats, striving to ascertain his plans for the benefit of their unscrupulous em- ployers. The last was not the least of his difficulties, and the attempt of the Associated Press to besmirch his reputa- tion and to deprive him of the credit of Santiago sprang, no doubt, from disap- pointment in obtaining authentic news as to his intentions. The first expedition against Porto Rico was practically ruined by the press, and the slightest movement of any ship was promptly cabled home by way of neutral lines over which the government could exercise no control. The Spaniards thus obtained regular in- formation of the location of our squad- rons, and profited by it in directing Ad- miral Cerveras fleet. The astonishing feature of the matter is that the Navy 608 The Navy in the War with ASjJain. Department should have prohibited com- munication of war news by officers, and then have forced newspaper reporters upon them to pick up and to color the bits of information they could glean. It was only natural that our people should want news of their fleet, and some of the newspapers served them well. The end would have been attained far better by placing an officer on the stiff of every commander of a squadron, with author- i~y to supply legitimate news which would not affect the conduct of the cam- paign. The element of the picturesque might have been lacking, but the de- scriptions would have been accurate. This, however, would not have elitninat- ed the dispatch boat. It was common talk in the fleet, after the return to New York, that an Associated Press boat had led the Oregon a chase of one hundred miles toward Jamaica, and when finally hauled up had displayed her flag, and treated the matter as a huge joke. The progress of the blockade, the nu- merous attacks upon Spanish fortifica- tions, and the search for Admiral Cerve- ras fleet will form an interesting story when all the threads can be gathered together in a connected whole. The work of the navy in the West Indies was virtually completed at Santiago, and our ships were set free for a movement against the coast of Spain. As the At- lantic was at the same time freed from all danger of fleet cruisers, the home coast no longer required protection. The naval battle at Santiago was very dif- ferent from that at Manila, in the char- acter of the ships engaged. The Span- iards had six of their best vessels: four armored cruisers, and two very fast tor- pedo destroyers, with an average speed of eighteen and a half knots. We had four battleships, two armored cruisers, and several smaller craft, with a mean speed of fifteen and a half knots. In both cases, the maximum speed of the slowest ship is taken as the average for the fleet. There were only two very fast ships on the American side, the New York and the Brooklyn, and the for- mer was hull down to eastward of the harbor. Admiral Cerveras plan was, therefore, to go out quickly, turn to the westward along the coast, and disable the Brooklyn before the slower ships could come to her rescue, thus carving out a road to the sea. The plan, though well conceived, could be carried out only in part. He did not succeed in disabling the Brooklyn, which was evidently ma- nwuvred with a view to chasing, and five of his ships were overwhelmed by the American fleet before they had time to gather full headway. The battle had resolved itself into but little more than an exciting target practice for our ships, when each Spanish vessel, in turn, head- ed toward the beach, and hauled down her flag. The Cristobal Colon, which had passed through the fire without in- jury, and had escaped to the westward, survived only two hours. The Brook- lyn, and, to the surprise of everybody, the Oregon, overtook her about fifty miles from the mouth of the harbor. Her burst of speed had lasted only a short time, and she had not averaged more than fourteen knots, just six knots less than she was capable of making. Her captain struck his flag and ran her ashore without a fight. Our ships did their work with the precision of ma- chines set up on shore, and nothing broke down in stress of action. The rapid and complete destruction of the whole Span- ish fleet, within three hours and a half after it had emerged under full head of steam, forms a victory big enough for all of us, as reported by Admiral Schley; and yet one cannot help sympathizing with the American commander who said, Dont cheer, boys; they are dying. We lost only one man. When the Spanish ships came out, the Oregon and the Gloucester appear to have been the only ships ready for them, and nothing but lack of engineering skill prevented two of theni from escaping. like Navy in the War with Spain. 609 Had the Colon really attained her speed, she could easily have outrun all the American ships. As it was, the Brook- lyn, which should have overhauled her rapidly, was distanced at the start. The unexpected had occurred, and she was not ready. Some of her boilers had no steam, and the forward propelling en- gines were not coupled up. Fifteen or twenty miles would have been lost in bringing her to full speed, if the Colon could have done her best. The Iowa and the Indiana were even worse off than the Brooklyn. The Oregon, on the other hand, was able to make even better than her maximum recorded speed in less than half an hour after the order was given. From a position of fourth place in the line, she passed the other ships and over- took even the Brooklyn, a faster ship by four knots. It is very comforting to know that Admiral Cerveras plan would not have succeeded, even if he had been able to overcome the Brooklyn. The Oregons performance, which offi- cers of other ships pronounce one of the most magnificent sights ever witnessed, will always remain the ideal toward which our navy must strive. She made a long voyage, at fair speed, from Cali- fornia to the coast of Florida, without accident or repairs, and joined Admiral Sampsons fleet in first-rate condition for immediate duty. After a number of weeks off Santiago, she was still ready to do her best, and even to excel any- thing else on the station. This splendid record was possible only with good work- manship and a very capable engineering staff. This combination is a necessary requisite to the highest success of a well- conducted battleship under steam. The readiness of the Oregon to do her best illustrates in a forcible manner the in- fluence of small things upon a ships career. Her steam joints were all tight. Consequently, there was so little waste of steam or of fresh water that no sea water had to be pumped into her boilers, and none of the boilers had to be laid VOL. LxXxii. NO. 493. 39 off for cleaning and repairs during the entire blockade. The other ships had greater or less difficulty in making up the fresh water supply, and their boilers suffered from the use of salt water. When Cervera appeared, the Oregon had good fires in every furnace. Another marked feature of the battle was, the part taken by the Gloucester, a converted yacht with a few rapid-fire guns placed on board. Her maximum speed was fully a knot below that of the slowest Spanish ship, and she had no protection to her machinery; yet her commander fearlessly turned her against the two dreaded torpedo boat destroyers, while they were still under the protec- tion of the shore batteries and of the enemys fleet. As he says in his report: It was the plain duty of the Gloucester to look after the destroyers, and she was held back gaining steam until they ap- peared at the entrance. In the cap- tains reports, several of the battleships claim to have struck one of them with a heavy shell. It is probable that they were both finished by the Gloucester. If Commander Wainwrights action savors of rashness, let one.stop to ask whether it was not better to risk a small yacht against torpedoes than to send in a bat- tleship. It was as deliberate a piece of self-renunciation as we have in our his- tory. There is a curious story connected with this incident. When the Gloucester turned to intercept the torpedo destroy- ers, she had to cross the line of fire from the Indiana, and her captain felt quite reassured by a signal on the latter ship which he read, Gunboats will close in. The commanding officer of the Indiana afterward stated that the signal he or- dered was, The torpedo boats are com- ing out. The Spaniards appear to have been frightened, and their officers to have taken advantage of the earliest possible excuse for running their ships ashore. As one ~f the Oregons officers re- marked: The Colon was weak. She 610 The Navy in the War with Spain. surrendered with a good two hours fight left in her. Beyond the fact that they came out to hazard an escape in the face of great odds, there are few acts of hero- ism recorded in their favor. Their men were slaughtered and their ships de- stroyed, with little damage to their foe. The deficiency of mechanical skill throughout the Spanish navy was count- ed upon to give our sailors a decided ad- vantage, but no one supposed the Span- iards would display what at this distance looks like cowardice. It may have been the untrained man in the presence of the machine. Courage springs from two sources, experience in the work which the meii have to do, and entire confi- dence in their leaders. Even a brave man may run from a cow, if he has not been brought up on a farm. Familiar- ity with guns and machinery is the es- sential element of success in a modern battleship. It was probably ignorance which robbed the Spaniard of his courage. Added to this, he found him- self so suddenly under a withering fire that he could do nothing with his own guns. The board ordered to examine the wrecks found many of the guns load- ed, thus indicating the haste with which their crews had deserted them. Some of the gunsights had evidently been set for thirty-nine hundred yards at the be- ginning of the action, and they had never been changed, although the ships had closed up to a thousand or fifteen hun- dred yards. The most significant aspect of this sad failure is that it sprang from deficiency in that kind of knowledge which probably cannot be supplied in many generations. For obvious reasons, the war has shed little light upon future developments in naval warfare. Many details of con- struction will be changed, no doubt; but there have been no startling revelations destined to render our battleships anti- quated, or even seriously to impair their efficiency. Hereafter the minimum of combustible materials will enter into the construction of fighting ships. The bat- tle of the Yalu in the Japanese-Chinese war, and the two great battles of this war, have demonstrated beyond perad- venture the danger from fire. In many cases the Spaniards were driven from their guns by burning woodwork, and their fire mains were cut by shell. This experience will relegate all water mains and steam pipes to the hold well below the water line, with branches rising to the necessary connections on the upper decks. The value of rapid-fire guns was so clearly shown at Santiago that improve- ment can hereafter follow only along the line of a more rapid fire. The smaller guns are already fitted with special mechanism to facilitate loading and fir- ing, and we shall be obliged to extend the system to the whole battery. Our chief lesson, however, in connection with battleships is that we need more of them. The cost is great, but these ships are well-nigh impregnable; and they must continue to hold their own as our main reliance for offense and defense. High- er speeds will undoubtedly be demand- ed. The coal problem has apparently solved itself. Our ships found no trou- ble in taking coal from colliers at sea, and it was habitually done at Santiago before Guantanamo bay was captured. It follows, therefore, that a coaling sta- tion is a convenience, and not an abso- lute necessity, in conducting a campaign far from home ports. Cruisers like the Columbia and the Minneapolis had no real test. As scouts they are too large, and as fighting ves- sels they are of no real value against an armored fleet. The country would profit by putting the money for such ships into a subsidy for merchant vessels of suffi- cient size to serve as transports or scouts in emergency. The smaller cruisers and gunboats did fine work at Manila and on the blockade, but we must not con- clude from their immunity against shore batteries in Cuba that they would be The Navy in the JFar with ~5~pain. 611 equally fortunate again. Some of the attacks seem almost foolhardy, and the use of torpedo boats in a fortified harbor, except as a desperate measure, should not be encouraged. We have learned next to nothing about torpedoes. They played no part in the war, except as a moral barrier at Sant- iago. It seems doubtful if they will ever prove dangerous to any but a care- less foe; on the other hand, they may become a source of real peril to the ship which is trying to use them. Two torpe- does exploded on the Almirante Oquen- do, and killed a great number of men. One was reported to have been struck by the fragments of a shell, and the oth- er to have been set off by the heat of the flames near it. A loaded torpedo may thus become a more serious menace to friend than to foe. The fast torpedo boat accomplished none of the terrific feats we expected. The duties per- formed by our own boats have already been described, and the principal busi- ness of the Spanish destroyers was evi- dently to keep out of the way. Their defeat by an ordinary yacht must have been very humiliating. One advantage possessed by our fleet around the entrance to Santiago harbor added materially to their harmlessness: the attack could come only from one quarter, and the skillful manipulation of search lights destroyed all hope of success. The contrast be- tween our early fears of the torpedo boat flotilla and its subsequent achievements is simply ludicrous. It would not be safe to draw sweeping conclusions as to the use of these craft in future wars. If the Pluton and the Furor had been handled by Englishmen, the Gloucester would probably be at the bottom of the sea, and some of the larger ships might possibly have suffered a like fate. The monitors seem to have been out of their element on the blockade. We had no need of them in the defense of coast or harbors, and, with none of the excitement of the chase, they served prin cipally as prisons for a few unhappy of- ficers and men. Our experimental craft, such as the dynamite cruiser, the sub- marine boat, and the ram, had no oppor- tunity to indicate their possible utility. The Vesuvius threw a few hundred pounds of dynamite upon the hills out- side of Santiago, and she may have ex- erted some moral pressure toward the surrender, but there is nothing to prove that she is of value to the country. Men are, after all, more important than types of ships, and we may well inquire what we have learned about them in stress of action. It has been asserted that the war has demonstrated the per- fection of our organization, and that it cannot be improved. This is like se- lecting a crew for a four mile race by a half mile spurt. The trade of the sea- man has been changing during the past generation. and while we know him in peace, we have not had time to study him in a war which would call out all his strength and resources. We could make no greater mistake than to rest satisfied with what we have, in the face of the additions and changes destined to come during the next ten years. Con- gress authorized almost a new navy dur- ing its late session, and we have that to consider in the new organization. So far as physical courage is concerned, we have seen that our sailors possess the same qualities in the presence of the ma- chine that their ancestors possessed in the old sailing frigate. Time has not changed their nature, however much it may have modified their occupation. The attempt of Somers, ninety-four years ago, to destroy the Tripolitan fleet with a fire ship is paralleled by Hobson on the Merrimac. The two cases have many points in common: both crews carried explosives for the destruction of their ships; both planned to escape in small boats after having applied the match; both entered boldly a well-forti- fied channel; both left friends waiting outside to pick them up; and both failed 612 The Navy in the to accomplish what they had set out to do. There the likeness ceases. One went in under steam, with directive power de- pendent upon himself, and all his men were saved; the other depended upon wind and sails, and all were lost. The deed of ilobson and his crew is only what we have a right to expect of our men and our race. Many officers of the fleet vol- unteered for duty as soon as they heard that the Merrimac was to go in. Few other opportunities for individual hero- isin presented themselves, and our list is brief only on that account. The jour- ney of Lieutenant Blue on a scouting expedition around Santiago, the coolness of Cadet Powell waiting close under the batteries in a steam launch to carry back the Merrimac s crew, and the rescue of many prisoners from their burning ships are all of a piece. The contrast between the two nations stands out very clearly in connection with the Yizcaya. The torpedo boat Ericsson ran close alongside of her, and sent a small boat to take off all that were alive of her crew. A few boats from the Iowa assisted. The Vizcaya was on fire fore and aft; the ammuni- tion on board was exploding, and the guns that had been left loaded were go- ing off one after another in the intense heat, to say nothing of the proximity of the shore. The position of the little craft has been described as perilous in the extreme. Our men risked their lives repeatedly to help their fallen enemy; but no sooner were the Spaniards trans- ferred to the deck of the Ericsson than they urged immediate withdrawal, with- out regard to their comrades who had been left behind. To the honor of our navy, Lieutenant Ushur remained until every living being had been rescued from the burning ship. A similar scene was enacted around the two torpedo boat de- stroyers. It was a case of mad panic on the one side, and of perfect coolness on the other. One officer of the Vizcaya afterward stated, on board the Iowa, that War with Spain. they were obliged to close the gun ports on the disengaged side of the ship, to prevent the men from jumping overboard rather than face the American gun fire. Even the cadets fresh from the Naval Academy caught the spirit of their coun- trymen, and entered into the contest with the greatest zeal and fearlessness. During the blockade, a number of picket launches were kept close around the en- trance every night, to guard against sur- prise. These small boats, in charge of cadets, sometimes approached within a hundred feet of the shore, and remained all night. They had orders to go out at the first streak of dawn, and they were almost invariably fired on. One boat got nine shots through her hull. The danger seemed to be an incentive to these boys, and there was considerable rivalry among them for the privilege of taking the night picket. The behavior of the seamen, firemen, and marines was beyond praise. Hap- pily few lost their lives, while all were prepared to risk them. The story of the men in the fire rooms of the Oregon has the true ring of the old navy. They had no share in the exciting, spectacular part of the fight. Their duty was sim- ply to push the ship ahead with all their might. Shut up below an armored deck in watertight compartments, they were in the presence of dangers which they could not see, and their safety depended upon the good judgment and courage of their comrades. Yet they thought only of getting their ship into action. In the long chase of the Colon the strain began to tell on them, and the chief en- gineer, walking up to the bridge, re- quested the captain to fire a gun just to cheer my men up. The roar of a thirteen-inch rifle acted like magic upon their flagging energies, and gave them a new incentive to shovel coal. Apart from the rapidity of movement intro- duced by steam, the whole scene resem- bles the old fleet actions of the English navy in its best days. We may safely The Navy in the War with Spain. 613 say that the blockade of Santiago, the carefully planned attack, and the total destruction of six good ships were car- ried out in a manner worthy of the finest traditions of our race. Few details of the battle of Manila have reached us, but we may be sure that officers and men were inspired by the example of Admiral Dewey. The great central fact of his entering a landlocked bay on the other side of the world, and without hesitation attacking a fleet under the guns of shore batteries, will forever give a character to this battle. As vic- tory has meant so much, defeat would have been fatal to him. Its profound significance cannot now be measured. The admirals signal to haul off for breakfast is not the least characteristic part of the battle. There is another question in relation to organization aside from the qualities of individual men. Every seaman must fulfill a special function in addition to being as generally useful as possible in making his ship a fighting machine. The war has confirmed some theories in this direction, and the tendency to edu- cate all combatants, especially officers, in machinery, or what is better, in en- gineering, will doubtless be acceler& ted. The fate of battle will always be gov- erned by men, whatever the changes in store for us may be, but their education must be adapted to the times. The man of wood and hemp must give way to his successor of iron and steel. Fears were expressed from time to time, before the war, that our engineer- ing force would prove insufficient, and that the machinery would therefore suffer from lack of intelligent care. The first of these fears was ftund to be jus- tified, and a large number of volunteer engineers, many of them young men of no experience in marine work, were add- ed to the list. Notwithstanding, on the whole they have done as well as could be expected. The anxiety over the performance of machinery has proved to be groundless, as engines and boilers have done re- markably well. No serious breakdown hampered the movement of any ship, and the fleets were able to go about their business without undue delay. It was to be expected that materials put into machinery and snbjected to wear would suffer, and the Navy Department very wisely made provisions for rapid repairs. The Vulcan, a ship specially fitted as a repair shop, and capable of dealing with all ordinary casualties, was sent to Santiago before the battle. This development is a new one, and we have reason to be well satisfied with it. The whole subject of the education and training of officers had been under serious discussion for a year before war was declared, and the opinion of the navy had gradually crystallized into a bill in Congress for the improvement of the personnel. This bill was drawn up by a board of officers, with Mr. Roose- velt as chairman, and the Secretary of the Navy presented it to Congress with his approval last winter. It was report- ed favorably to the House of Represent- atives by the committee, but the pressure of other business forced it into the sec- ond session. The measure provides for a combination of the deck officers and engineers into one corps; for such a flow of promotion that officers will reach command rank before they have passed middle life; and for pay substantially equal to that of the army, grade for grade. It remains to be seen how far the results of the war will modify the views of the service on this subject. At present, every clause of the bill seems to have been strengthened. The last two parts will be accepted without dissent by all persons interested in the improve- ment of the national service. The first part, which really looks toward the edu- cation of all officers in engineering, has already been accomplished to a certain extent in the duties of the men without change of title. As the captain of one 614 The Navy in the War with Spain. of our ships writes me: I am asked often to account for the little injury to lives or ships. One great reasoii is that many of us are seamen, and most of us engineers; we should all be both seamen and engineers. It was a curious phase of the war to find deck officers serving as engineers on torpedo boats, and an engineer serv- ing as deck officer on a converted yacht. The change from one duty to the other is not so violent as it seems, for the men received practically the same education at the Naval Academy. Our striking success is chargeable in a large mea- sure to familiarity with machines. There was little opportunity for the desperate courage which the Spanish might have displayed. It would appear, therefore, that any system which contemplates a more thorough training in engineering all through the navy is in the right di- rection. The proper promotion of officers in time of peace has always presented great difficulty, and the navy list is like a long line of men toiling gradually up- ward without regard to ability or zeal. We dare not adopt a system of selection for advancement, through fear of open- ing wide the door to political and social intrigue in Washington. The war has developed a method of promotion which might almost be called iniquitous. When the advancement of officers has been accomplished by pushing backward other deserving men, the result is bad enough; but when officers have been advanced simply for being present in an engage- ment, the whole service may well feel disheartened. All captains, first lieu- tenants, and chief engineers in the bat- tle of Santiago were promoted in num- bers at the expense of their seniors. Most of them contributed to the success of the battle~ and are no doubt worthy; but some of them have been carried on the shoulders of their juniors for so many years as to be incapable of responsible service. In justice to the navy, the whole list should be scrutinized in Congress with the greatest care. It would be bet- ter to promote none than to reward men whose careers have been a discredit to the navy. This war has called attention to prize money as a blot upon the civilization of the dawning century. Congress should abolish it in the same bill which ad- vances the pay of the navy to an equal- ity with that of the army. The better sentiment of the whole service would sustain such action. While so much is appearing in the newspapers about Ad- miral Sampson and his prize money, a remark of his, bearing indirectly on the subject, may prove illuminating. In a conversation last fall, I suggested a method of increasing the pay of officers as an inducement for continued good service and study, and the admiral said: No, that wont do. The word induce- ment is bad. You will get the best work out of officers from a high sense of duty, and not otherwise. The lessons for peace taught by this war should not pass without profit to the nation. We learn the value and efficien- cy of training to a specific end. Our consular service and our civil service can ~e vastly improved by requiring all applicants for office to give some evi- dence of special fitness for the positions which they seek to fill. On the other hand, the inefficiency and waste of a bad system are plainly exhibited in the unhappy experience of the War Depart- ment. The two services present a strik- ing contrast, although the officers of both have been educated at government schools. The army, unfortunately, is not looked upon as a profession, and any one who has sufficient political influence is regarded as competent for a commis- sion. Officers educated at West Point are set aside, and the service is so dilut- ed with inexperienced men that its es- prit is well-nigh destroyed, and its effi- ciency seriously impaired. The same scandal has always attended the forma The Navy in the War with ~Spain. 615 tion of an army in the United States, and our country has in every case been denied the full benefit of its expenditure for the education of army officers. There is no doubt of the quickness with which our enlisted force responds to training. By sheer good sense and native self-re- liance, they can sometimes offset the ig- norance of their officers, as an intelli- gent horse often knows the way home better than its master. Their principal difficulty springs from inability of the country to secure the proper men to train them. Through political aspirations or downright stupidity, even a Secretary of War may become an insurmountable obstacle to the effectiveness of his own department. The army may well take a lesson from the navy in this matter. During the late war many volunteer commis- sions were issued in the navy, but the recipients were invariably placed in sub- ordinate positions where they came un- der the directions of regular officers. Besides this precaution, every officer ap- pointed in the line and engineer corps had to pass an examination to establish his competency. The administration of the Navy Department has been wise in this respect, aided doubtless by the nature of the seamans calling. The chaos that might have been created by a political secretary can be more easily imagined than described. It is to be hoped that years of peace will never lead the country into a volunteer estab- lishment for the navy, like the state organizations for the arn~y. The naval reserves belonging to the different states have filled a gap for the time being, but their permanent usefulness has not been established. However courageous the individual members may be, they carry into the service local influences essential- ly disorganizing. The habit of reach- ing the President and the Navy Depart- ment through governors and senators cannot fail to undermine discipline. The idea that courage in the face of an en- emy makes up for other deficiencies is too prevalent. Obedience and attention to a carefully planned routine become at times far more important elements in holding a command to its work for any length of time. The difference in effec- tiveness between the marines at Guanta- namo and the soldiers at Santiago, after they had been three weeks in the ene- mys country, is sufficient proof of that. The naval reserve should be wholly un- der national control, and not in any way connected with a state. The rela- tion of the navy to the general govern- ment would seem to warrant more ef- fective organization than the army. It must always take the first blow in any foreign war, and its readiness to act may in some eases become the surest guaran- tee of peace. The spectacular side of the war has attracted the whole attention of the press, and we have read much about the nerve and coolness of individuals under fire. It is unquestionably a great thing for a man to risk his life for his country, but there is something to be said for the men who are behind him. Efficiency in supplying the needs of a fleet or an army, and in maintaining it in a condi- tion for effective work, is not so common that we can afford to pass it by in si- lence, while the combatant is earning distinction and promotion. The credit- able record of guns and machinery throughout the war does not spring from chance or solely from the skill of the ships officers and crews, and Congress should find some method of rewarding the administrative officers responsible for them. The head of the navy deserves the gratitude of the whole nation for a wise and sensible administration. There has been no interference with the duties be- longing properly to trained officers, and no selection of civilians for duties which they could not perform. The efficiency of a navy depends as much upon the strength and intelligence which control 616 3lessmates. it as it does upon the ships and person- nel. Suppose, for instance, that a weak secretary had directed Admiral Dewey to establish a pacific blockade of Ma- nila! The result would have been dis- astrous, and the war might have been indefinitely prolonged. The case is not an imaginary one, as worse errors have been committed in other wars ; in fact, even in this war they were committed by the Spanish naval administration. We have much to be thankful for in having found two true and loyal sons of America at the head of the Navy Depart- ment during the early days of prepara- tion for action, when Dewey was sup- plied with coal and ammunition, and the standard of accomplishment was set. Ira Nelson Hollis. MESSMATES. HE gave us all a good-by cheerily At the first dawn of day; We dropped him down the side full drearily When the light died away. It s a dead dark watch that be s a-keeping there, And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over him, And the great ships go by. He s there alone, with green seas rocking him For a thousand miles round; He s there alone, with dumb things mocking him, And we re homeward bound. It s a long, lone watch that he s a-keeping there, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, While the months and the years roll over him, And the great ships go by. I wonder if the tramps come near enough, As they thrash to and fro, And the battleships bells ring clear enough To be heard down below; If through all the lone watch that he s a-keeping there, And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him When the great ships go by. Henry Newbolt.

616 3lessmates. it as it does upon the ships and person- nel. Suppose, for instance, that a weak secretary had directed Admiral Dewey to establish a pacific blockade of Ma- nila! The result would have been dis- astrous, and the war might have been indefinitely prolonged. The case is not an imaginary one, as worse errors have been committed in other wars ; in fact, even in this war they were committed by the Spanish naval administration. We have much to be thankful for in having found two true and loyal sons of America at the head of the Navy Depart- ment during the early days of prepara- tion for action, when Dewey was sup- plied with coal and ammunition, and the standard of accomplishment was set. Ira Nelson Hollis. MESSMATES. HE gave us all a good-by cheerily At the first dawn of day; We dropped him down the side full drearily When the light died away. It s a dead dark watch that be s a-keeping there, And a long, long night that lags a-creeping there, Where the Trades and the tides roll over him, And the great ships go by. He s there alone, with green seas rocking him For a thousand miles round; He s there alone, with dumb things mocking him, And we re homeward bound. It s a long, lone watch that he s a-keeping there, And a dead cold night that lags a-creeping there, While the months and the years roll over him, And the great ships go by. I wonder if the tramps come near enough, As they thrash to and fro, And the battleships bells ring clear enough To be heard down below; If through all the lone watch that he s a-keeping there, And the long, cold night that lags a-creeping there, The voices of the sailor-men shall comfort him When the great ships go by. Henry Newbolt. Am~ny the Animals of the Yosemite. 617 AMONG THE ANIMALS OF THE YOSEMITE. THE Sierra bear, brawn or gray, the sequoia of the animals, tramps over all the park, though few travelers have the pleasure of seeing him. On he fares through the majestic forests and caiions, facing all sorts of weather, rejoicing in his strength, everywhere at home, har- monizing with the trees and rocks and shaggy chaparral. Happy fellow! his lines have fallen in pleasant places, lily gardens in silver-fir forests, miles of bushes in endless variety and exuberance of bloom over hill-waves and valleys and along the banks of streams, cailons full of music and waterfalls, parks fair as Eden, places in which one might ex- pect to meet angels rather than bears. In this happy land no famine comes nigh him. All the year round his bread is sure, for some of the thousand kinds that he likes are always in season and accessible, ranged on the shelves of the mountains like stores in a pantry. From one to another, from climate to climate, up and down he climbs, feasting on each in turn, enjoying as great variety as if he traveled to far-off countries north and south. To him almost everything is food except granite. Every tree helps to feed him, every bush and herb, with fruits and flowers, leaves and bark; and all the animals he can catch, bad- gers, gophers, ground squirrels, lizards, snakes, etc., and ants, bees, wasps, old and yonng, together with their eggs and larvie and nests. Crannched and hashed, down all go to his marvelous stomach, and vanish as if cast into a fire. What digestion! A sheep or a wounded deer or a pig he eats warm, about as quickly as a boy eats a buttered muffin; or should the meat be a month old, it still is wel- coined with tremendous relish. After so gross a meal as this, perhaps the next will be strawberries and clover, or raspberries with mushrooms and nuts, or puckery acorns and chokecherries. And as if fearing that anything eatable in all his dominions should escape being eaten, he breaks into cabins to look after sugar, dried apples, bacon, etc. Occasionally he eats the mountaineers bed; but when lie has had a full meal of more tempt- ing dainties he usually leaves it undis- turbed, though lie has been known to drag it up through a hole in the roof, carry it to the foot of a tree, and lie down on it to enjoy a siesta. Eating everything, never is he himself eaten except by man, and only man is an enemy to he feared. Bar meat, said a hunter from whom I was seeking in- formation, bar meat is the best meat in the mountains; their skins make the best beds, and their grease the best butter. Biscuit shortened with bar grease goes as far as beans; a man will walk all day on a couple of them biscuit. In my first interview with a Sierra bear we were frightened and embar- rassed, both of us, but the bears be- havior was better than mine. When I discovered him, he was standing in a narrow strip of meadow, and I was con- cealed behind a tree on the side of it. After studying his appearance as he stood at rest, I rushed toward him to frighten him, that I might study his gait in running. But, contrary to all I had heard about the shyness of bears, he did not run at all; and when I stopped short within a few steps of him, as he held his ground in a fighting attitude, my mistake was monstrously plain. I was then put on my good behavior, and never after- ward forgot the right manners of the wilderness. This happened on my first Sierra ex- cursion in the forest to the north of Yosemite Valley. I was eager to meet the animals, and many of them came to me as if willing to show themselves and

Am~ny the Animals of the Yosemite. 617 AMONG THE ANIMALS OF THE YOSEMITE. THE Sierra bear, brawn or gray, the sequoia of the animals, tramps over all the park, though few travelers have the pleasure of seeing him. On he fares through the majestic forests and caiions, facing all sorts of weather, rejoicing in his strength, everywhere at home, har- monizing with the trees and rocks and shaggy chaparral. Happy fellow! his lines have fallen in pleasant places, lily gardens in silver-fir forests, miles of bushes in endless variety and exuberance of bloom over hill-waves and valleys and along the banks of streams, cailons full of music and waterfalls, parks fair as Eden, places in which one might ex- pect to meet angels rather than bears. In this happy land no famine comes nigh him. All the year round his bread is sure, for some of the thousand kinds that he likes are always in season and accessible, ranged on the shelves of the mountains like stores in a pantry. From one to another, from climate to climate, up and down he climbs, feasting on each in turn, enjoying as great variety as if he traveled to far-off countries north and south. To him almost everything is food except granite. Every tree helps to feed him, every bush and herb, with fruits and flowers, leaves and bark; and all the animals he can catch, bad- gers, gophers, ground squirrels, lizards, snakes, etc., and ants, bees, wasps, old and yonng, together with their eggs and larvie and nests. Crannched and hashed, down all go to his marvelous stomach, and vanish as if cast into a fire. What digestion! A sheep or a wounded deer or a pig he eats warm, about as quickly as a boy eats a buttered muffin; or should the meat be a month old, it still is wel- coined with tremendous relish. After so gross a meal as this, perhaps the next will be strawberries and clover, or raspberries with mushrooms and nuts, or puckery acorns and chokecherries. And as if fearing that anything eatable in all his dominions should escape being eaten, he breaks into cabins to look after sugar, dried apples, bacon, etc. Occasionally he eats the mountaineers bed; but when lie has had a full meal of more tempt- ing dainties he usually leaves it undis- turbed, though lie has been known to drag it up through a hole in the roof, carry it to the foot of a tree, and lie down on it to enjoy a siesta. Eating everything, never is he himself eaten except by man, and only man is an enemy to he feared. Bar meat, said a hunter from whom I was seeking in- formation, bar meat is the best meat in the mountains; their skins make the best beds, and their grease the best butter. Biscuit shortened with bar grease goes as far as beans; a man will walk all day on a couple of them biscuit. In my first interview with a Sierra bear we were frightened and embar- rassed, both of us, but the bears be- havior was better than mine. When I discovered him, he was standing in a narrow strip of meadow, and I was con- cealed behind a tree on the side of it. After studying his appearance as he stood at rest, I rushed toward him to frighten him, that I might study his gait in running. But, contrary to all I had heard about the shyness of bears, he did not run at all; and when I stopped short within a few steps of him, as he held his ground in a fighting attitude, my mistake was monstrously plain. I was then put on my good behavior, and never after- ward forgot the right manners of the wilderness. This happened on my first Sierra ex- cursion in the forest to the north of Yosemite Valley. I was eager to meet the animals, and many of them came to me as if willing to show themselves and 618 Among the Animals of the Yosemite. make my acquaintance; but the bears kept out of my way. An old mountaineer, in reply to my questions, told me that bears were very shy, all save grim old grizzlies, and that I might travel the mountains for years without seeing one, unless I gave my mind to them and practiced the stealthy ways of hunters. Nevertheless, it was only a few weeks after I had received this information that I met the one men- tioned above, and obtained instruction at first-hand. I was encamped in the woods about a mile back of the rim of Yosemite, beside a stream that falls into the valley by the way of Indian Caiion. Nearly every day for weeks I went to the top of the North Dome to sketch; for it commands a general view of the valley, and I was anxious to draw every tree and rock and waterfall. Carlo, a St. Bernard dog, was my companion, a fine, intel- ligent fellow that belonged to a hunter who was compelled to remain all sum- mer on the hot plains, and who loaned him to me for the season for the sake of having him in the mountains, where he would be so much better off. Carlo knew bears through long experience, nnd he it was who led me to my first in- terview, though he seemed as much sur- prised as the bear at my unhunter-like behavior. One morning in June, just as the sunbeams began to stream through the trees, I set out for a days sketching on the dome; and before we had gone half a mile from camp Carlo snuffed the air and looked cautiously ahead, lowered his bushy tail, drooped his ears, and began to step softly like a cat, turn- ing every few yards and looking me in the face with a telling expression, saying plainly enough, There is a bear a little way ahead. I walked carefully in the indicated direction, until I approached a small flowery meadow that I was famil- iar with, then crawled to the foot of a tree on its margin, bearing in mind what I had been told about the shyness of bears. Looking out cautiously over the instep of the tree, I saw a big, burly cin- namon bear, about thirty yards off, half erect, his paws resting on the trunk of a fir that had fallen into the meadow, his hips almost buried in grass and flowers. He was listening attentively and trying to catch the scent, showing that in some way he was aware of our approach. I watched his gestures, and tried to make the most of my opportunity to learn what I could about him, fearing he would not stay long. He made a fine picture, standing alert in the sunny garden walled in by the most beautiful firs in the world. After examining him at leisure, noting the sharp muzzle thrust inquiringly for- ward, the long shaggy hair on his broad chest, the stiff ears nearly buried in hair, and the slow, heavy way in which he moved his head, I foolishly made a rush on him, throwing up my arms and shout- ing to frighten him, to see him run. He did not mind the demonstration much; only pushed his head farther forward, and looked at me sharply as if asking, What now? If you want to fight, I in ready. Then I began to fear that on me would fall the work of running. But I was afraid to run, lest he should be encouraged to pursue me; therefore I held my ground, staring him in the face within a dozen yards or so, putting on as bold a look as I could, and hoping the influence of the human eye would be as great as it is said to be. Under these strained relations the interview seemed to last a long time. Finally, the bear, seeing how still I was, calmly withdrew his huge paws from the log, gave me a piercing look as if warning me not to follow him, turned, and walked slowly up the middle of the meadow into the forest; stopping every few steps and looking back to make sure that I was not trying to take him at a disadvan- tage in a rear attack. I was glad to part with him, and greatly enjoyed the vanishing view as he waded through the lilies and columbines. Among the Animals of the Yosemite. 619 Thenceforth I always tried to give bears respectful notice of my approach, and they usually kept well out of my way. Though they often came around my camp in the night, only once after- ward, as far as I know, was I very near one of them in daylight. This time it was a grizzly I met; and as luck would have it, I was even nearer to him than I had been to the big cinnamon. Though not a large specimen, he seemed forini- dable enough at a distance of less than a dozen yards. His shaggy coat was well grizzled, his head almost white. When I first caught sight of him he was eat- ing acorns under a Kellogg oak, at a distance of perhaps seventy-five yards, and I tried to slip past without disturb- ing him. But he had either heard my steps on the gravel or caught my scent, for he caine straight toward me, stop- ping every rod or so to look and listen; and as I was afraid to be seen running, I crawled on my hands and knees a little way to one side and hid behind a libo- cedrus, hoping he would pass me unno- ticed. He soon came up opposite me, and stood looking ahead, while I looked at him, peering past the bulging trunk of the tree. At last, turning his head, he caught sight of mine, stared sharply a minute or two, and then, with fine dig- nity, disappeared in a mauzanita - cov- ered earthquake talus. Considering how heavy and broad- footed bears are, it is wonderful how little harm they do in the wilderness. Even in the well-watered gardens of the middle region, where the flowers grow tallest, and where during warm weather the bears wallow and roll, no evidence of destruction is visible. On the contra- ry, under natures direction, the massive beasts act as gardeners. On the forest floor, carpeted with needles and brush, and on the tough sod of glacier meadows, bears make no mark, but around the sandy margin of lakes their magnificent tracks form grand lines of embroidery. Their well-worn trails extend along the main caiions on either side, and though dusty in some places make no scar on the landscape. They bite and break off the branches of some of the pines and oaks to get the nuts, but this pinning is so light that few mountaineers ever no- tice it; and though they interfere with the orderly lichen-veiled decay of fallen trees, tearing them to pieces to reacb the colonies of ants that inhabit them, the scattered ruins are quickly pressed back into harmony by snow and rain and over- leaning vegetation. The number of bears that make the park their home may be guessed by the number that have been killed by the two best hunters, Duncan and old David Brown. Duncan began to be known as a bear-killer about the year 1865. He was then roaming the woods, hunting and prospecting on the south fork of the Merced. A friend told me that he killed his first bear near his cabin at Wawona; that after mustering courage to fire he fled, without waiting to learn the effect of his shot. Going back in a few hours he found poor Bruin dead, and gained courage to try again. Dun- can confessed to me, when we made an excursion together in 1875, that he was at first mortally afraid of bears, but after killing a half dozen be began to keep count of his victims, and be- came ambitious to be known as a great bear-hunter. In nine years lie had killed forty - nine, keeping count by notches cut on one of the timbers of his cabin on the shore of Crescent Lake, near the south boundary of the park. He said the more he knew about bears, the more he respected them and the less he feared them. But at the same time he grew more and more cautious, and never fired until he had every advantage, no matter how long he had to wait and how far he had to go before he got the bear just right as to the direction of the wind, the distance, and the way of escape in case of accident; making allowance also for the character of the animal, old or young, 620 Among the Animals of the Yosemite. cinnamon or grizzly. For old grizzlies, he said, he had no use whatever, and he was mighty careful to avoid their ac- quaintance. He wanted to kill an even hundred; then he was going to confine himself to safer game. There was not much money in bears, anyhow, and a round hundred was enough for glory. I have not seen or heard of him lately, and do not know how his bloody count stands. On my excursions, I occasion- ally passed his cabin. It was full of meat and skins hung in bundles from the rafters, and the ground about it was strewn with bones and hair, infinitely less tidy than a bears den. He went as hunter and guide with a geological survey party for a year or two, and was very proud of the scientific knowledge lie picked up. His admiring fellow mountaineers, he said, gave him credit for knowing not only the botanical names of all the trees and bushes, but also the botanical names of the bears. The most famous hunter of the region was David Brown, an old pioneer, wh~ early in the gold period established his main camp in a little forest glade on the north fork of the Merced, which is still called Browns Flat. No finer solitude for a hunter and prospector could be found; the climate is delight- ful all the year, and the scenery of both earth and sky is a perpetual feast. Though he was not much of a scenery fellow, his friends say that he knew a pretty place when he saw it as well as any one, and liked mightily to get on the top of a commanding ridge to look off. When out of provision, he would take down his old - fashioned long - barreled rifle from its deer-horn rest over the fire- place and set out in search of game. Seldom did he have to go far for veni- son, because the deer liked the wood- ed slopes of Pilot Peak ridge, with its open spots where they could rest and look about them, and enjoy the breeze from the sea in warm weather, free from troublesome flies, while they found hiding - places and fine aromatic food in the deer-brush chaparraL A small, wise dog was his only companion, and well the little mountaineer understood the object of every hunt, whether deer or bears, or only grouse hidden in the fir - tops. In deer - hunting Sandy had little to do, trotting behind his master as he walked noiselessly through the fragrant woods, careful not to step hea- vily on dry twigs, scanning open spots in the chaparral where the deer feed in the early morning and toward sunset, peer- ing over ridges and swells as new out- looks were reached, and along alder and willow fringed flats and streams, until he found a young buck, killed it, tied its legs together, threw it on his shoul- der, and so back to camp. But when bears were hunted, Sandy played an im- portant part as leader, and several times saved his masters life; and it was as a bear-hunter that David Brown became famous. His method, as I had it from a friend who had passed many an even- ing in his cabin listening to his long stories of adventure, was simply to take a few pounds of flour and his rifle, and go slowly and silently over hill and vah hey in the loneliest part of the wilderness, until little Sandy came upon the fresh track of a bear, then follow it to the death, paying no heed to time. Wher- ever the bear went he went, however rough the ground, led by Sandy, who looked back from time to time to see how his master was coming on, and reg- ulated his pace accordingly, never grow~ ing weary or allowing any other track to divert him. When high ground was reached a halt was made, to scan the openings in every direction, and per- chance Bruin would be discovered sitting upright on his haunches, eating manza~ nita berries; pulling down the fruit-la- den branches with his paws and pressing them together, so as to get substantial mouthfuhs, however mixed with leaves and twigs. The time of year enabled the hunter to determine approximately Among the Animals of the Yosemite. 621 where the game would be found: in spring and early summer, in lush grass and clover meadows and in berry tangles along the banks of streams, or on pea- vine and lupine clad slopes; in late sum mer and autumn, beneath the pines, eat- ing the cones cut off by the squirrels, and in oak groves at the bottom of cafions, munching acorns, mauzanita berries, and cherries; and after snow had fallen, in alluvial bottoms, feeding on ants and yellow-jacket wasps. These food places were always cautiously approached, so as to avoid the chance of sudden encoun- ters. Whenever, said the hunter, I saw a bear before he saw me, I had no trouble in killing him. I just took lots of time to learn what he was up to and how long he would be likely to stay, and to study the direction of the wind and the lay of the land. Then I worked round to lee- ward of him, no matter how far I had to go; crawled and dodged to within a hun- dred yards, near the foot of a tree that I could climb, but which was too small for a bear to climb. There I looked well to the priming of my rifle, took off my boots so as to climb quickly if necessary, and, with my rifle in rest and Sandy behind me, waited until my bear stood right, when I made a sure, or at least a good shot back of the fore leg. In case he showed fight, I got up the tree I had in mind, before he could reach me. But bears are slow and awkward with their eyes, and being to windward they could not scent me, and often I got in a second shot before they saw the smoke. Usual- ly, however, they tried to get away when they were hurt, and I let them go a good safe while before I ventured into the brush after them. Then Sandy was pretty sure to find them dead; if not, he barked bold as a lion to draw attention, or rushed in and nipped them behind, enabling me to get to a safe distance and watch a chance for a finishing shot. Oh yes, bear-hunting is a mighty in- teresting business, and safe enough if fol lowed just right, though, like every other business, especially the wild kind, it has its accidents, and Sandy and I have had close calls at times. Bears are nobodys fools, and they know enough to let men alone as a general thing, unless they are wounded, or cornered, or have cubs. In my opinion, a hungry old mother would catch and eat a man, if she could; which is only fair play, anyhow, for we eat them. But nobody, as far as I know, has been eaten up in these rich moun- tains. Why they never tackle a fellow when he is lying asleep I never could un- derstand. They could gobble us mighty handy, but I suppose it s nature to re- spect a sleeping man. Sheep-owners and their shepherds have killed a great many bears, mostly by poison and traps of various sorts. Bears are fond of mutton, and levy heavy toll on every flock driven into the mountains. They usually come to the corral at night, climb in, kill a sheep with a stroke of the paw, carry it off a little distance, eat about half of it, and return the next night for the other half; and so on all summer, or until they are themselves killed. It is not, however, by direct kill- ing, but by suffocation through crowd- ing against the corral wall in fright, that the greatest losses are incurred. From ten to fifteen sheep are found dead, smo- thered in the corral, after every attack; or the walls are broken, and the flock is scattered far and wide. A flock may escape the attention of these marauders for a week or two in the spring; but af- ter their first taste of the fine mountain- fed meat the visits are persistently kept up, in spite of all precautions~ Once I spent a night with two Portuguese shep- herds, who were greatly troubled with bears, from two to four or five visiting theni almost every night. Their camp was near the middle of the park, and the wicked bears, they said, were getting worse and worse. Not waiting now un- til dark, they came out of the brush in broad daylight, and boldly carried off as 622 Among the Animals of the Yosemite. many sheep as they liked. One even- ing, before sundown, a bear, followed by two cubs, came for an early supper, as the flock was being slowly driven toward camp. Joe, the elder of the shepherds, warned by many exciting experiences, promptly climbed a tall tamarack pine, and left the freebooters to help them- selves; while Antone, calling him a cow- ard, and declaring that he was not going to let bears eat up his sheep before his face, set the dogs on them, and rushed toward them with a great noise and a stick. The frightened cubs ran up a tree, and the mother ran to meet the shepherd and dogs. Antone stood as- tonished for a moment, eying the on- coming bear; then fled faster than Joe had, closely pursued. He scrambled to the roof of their little cabin, the only refuge quickly available; and fortunate- ly, the bear, anxious about her young, did not climb after him, only held him in mortal terror a few minutes, glaring and threatening, then hastened back to her cubs, called them down, went to the frightened, huddled flock, killed a sheep, and feasted in peace. Antone piteous- ly entreated cautious Joe to show him a good safe tree, up which he climbed like a sailor climbing a mast, and held on as long as he could with legs crossed, the slim pine recommended by Joe being nearly branchless. So you too are a bear coward, as well as Joe, I said, after hearing th~ story. Oh, I tell you, he replied, with grand solemnity, bear face close by look awful; she just as soon eat me as not. She do so as eef all my sheeps blong every one to her own self. I run to bear no more. I take tree every time. After this the shepherds corralled the flock about an hour before sundown, chopped large quantities of dry wood and made a circle of fires around the corral every night, and one with a gun kept watch on a stage built in a pine by the side of the cabin, while the other slept. But after tbe first night or two this fire fence did no good, for the robbers seemed to regard the light as an advantage, af- ter becoming used to it. On the night I spent at their camp the show made by the wall of fire when it was blazing in its prime was magni- ficent: the illumined trees round about relieved against solid darkness, arid the two thousand sheep lying down in one gray mass, sprinkled with gloriously bril- liant gems, the effect of the firelight in their eyes. It was nearly midnight when a pair of the freebooters arrived. They walked boldly through a gap in the fire circle, killed two sheep, carried them out, and vanished in the dark woods, leaving ten dead in a pile, trampled down and smothered against the corral fence; while the scared watcher in the tree did not fire a single shot,, saying he was afraid he would hit some of the sheep, as the bears got among them before he could get a good sight. In the morning I asked the shepherds why they did not move the flock to a new pasture. Oh, no use! cried Antone. Look my dead sheeps. We move three four time before, all the same bear come by the track. No use. To-morrow we go home below. Look my dead sheeps. Soon all dead. Thus were they driven out of the mountains more than a month before the usual time. After Uncle Sams sol- diers, bears are the most effective for- est police, but some of the shepherds are very successful in killing them. Al- together, by hunters, mountaineers, In- dians, and sheepmen, probably five or six hundred have been killed within the bounds of the park, during the last thirty years. But they are not in danger of extinction. Now that the park is guard- ed by soldiers, not only has the vegeta- tion in great part come back to the de- solate ground, but all the wild animals are increasing in numbers. No guns are allowed in the park except under certain restrictions, and after a permit has been obtained from the officer in Among the Animals of the Yosemite. 623 charge. This has stopped the barbarous slaughter of bears, and especially of deer, by shepherds, hunters, and hunting tour- ists, who, it would seem, can find no plea- sure without blood. The Sierra deer the blacktail spend the winters in the brushy and ex- ceedingly rough region just below the main timber-belt, and are less accessi- ble to hunters there than when they are passing through the comparatively open forests to and from their summer pas- tures. near the summits of the range. They go up the mountains early in the spring as the snow melts, not waiting for it all to disappear; reaching the High Sierra about the first of June, and the coolest recesses at the base of the peaks a month or so later. I have tracked them for miles over compacted snow from three to ten feet deep. Deer are capital mountaineers, making their way into the heart of the roughest mountains; seeking not only pasturage, but a cool climate, and safe hidden places in which to bring forth their young. They are not supreme as rock-climbing animals; they take second rank, yield- ing the first to the mountain sheep, which dwell above them on the highest crags and peaks. Still, the two meet frequent- ly; for the deer climbs all the peaks save the lofty summits above the glaciers, crossing piles of angular boulders, roaring swollen streams, and sheer-walled cafions by fords and passes that would try the nerves of the hardiest mountaineers, climbing with graceful ease and reserve of strength that cannot fail to arouse ad- miration. Everywhere some species of deer seems to be at home, on rough or smooth ground, lowlands or highlands, in swamps and barrens and the densest woods, in varying climates, hot or cold, over all the continent; maintaining glo- rious health, never making an awkward step. Standing, lying down, walking, feeding, running even for life, it is al- ways invincibly graceful, and adds beau- ty and animation to every landscape, a charming animal, and a great credit to nature. I never see one of the common black- tail deer, the only species in the park, without fresh admiration; and since I never carry a gumi I see them well: lying beneath a juniper or dwarf pine, among the brown needles on the brink of some cliff or the end of a ridge commanding a wide outlook; feeding in sunny open- ings among chaparral, daintily selecting aromatic leaves and twigs ; leading their fawns out of my way, or making them lie down and hide; bounding past through the forest, or curiously advancing and retreating again and again. One morning when I was eating break- fast in a little garden spot on the Kaweah, hedged around with chaparral, I noticed a deers head thrust through the bushes, the big beautiful eyes gazing at me. I kept still, and the deer ventured forward a step, then snorted and withdrew. In a few minutes she returned, and came into the open garden, stepping with infi- nite grace, followed by two others. Af- ter showing themselves for a moment, they bounded over the hedge with sharp, timid snorts and vanished. But curios- ity brought them back with still another, and all four came into my garden, and, satisfied that I meant them no ill, began to feed, actually eating breakfast with me, like tame, gentle sheep around a shepherd, rare company, and the most graceful in movements and attitudes. I eagerly watched them while they fed on ceanothus and wild cherry, daintily culling single leaves here and there from the side of the hedge, turning now and then to snip a few leaves of mint from the midst of the garden flowers. Grass they did not eat at all. No wonder the contents of the deers stomach are eaten by the Indians. While exploring the upper cafion of the north fork of the San Joaquin, one evening, the sky threatening rain, I searched for a dry bed, and made choice of a big juniper that had been pushed 624 Amon~i the Animals of the Yosemite. down by a snow avalanche, but was rest- ing stubbornly on its knees high enough to let me lie under its broad trunk. Just below my shelter there was another juni- per on the very brink of a precipice, and, examining it, I found a deer-bed beneath it, completely protected and concealed by drooping branches, a fine refuge and lookout as well as resting-place. About an hour before dark I heard the clear, sharp snorting of a deer, and looking down on the brushy, rocky ca?ion bottom discovered an anxious doe that no doubt had her fawns concealed near by. She bounded over the chaparral and up the farther slope of the wall, often stopping to look back and listen, a fine picture of vivid, eager alertness. I sat perfect- ly still, and as my shirt was colored like the juniper bark I was not easily seen. After a little she came cautiously toward me, sniffing the air and gazing, and her movements, as she descended the cafion side over boulder piles and brush and fallen timber, were admirably strong and beautiful; she never strained or made apparent efforts, although jumping high here and there. As she drew nigh she sniffed anxiously, trying the air in differ- ent directions until she caught my scent; then bounded off, and vanished behind a small grove of firs. Soon she came back with the same caution and insatiable cu- riosity, coming and going five or six times. While I sat admiring her, a Douglas squirrel, evidently excited by her noisy alarms, climbed a boulder be- neath me, and witnessed her perform- ances as attentively as I did, while a frisky chipmunk, too restless or hungry for such shows, busied himself about his supper in a thicket of shadbushes, the fruit of which was then ripe, glancing about on the slender twigs lightly as a sparrow. Toward the end of the Indian summer, when the young are strong, the deer be- gin to gather in little bands of from six to fifteen or twenty, and on the approach of the first snowstorm they set out on their march down the mountains to their winter quarters; lingering usually on warm hillsides and spurs eight or ten miles below the summits, as if loath to leave. About the end of November, a heavy, far - reaching storm drives them down in haste along the dividing ridges between the rivers, led by old experi- enced buc~ks whose knowledge of the to- pography is wonderful. It is when the deer are coming down that the Indians set out on their grand fall hunt. Too lazy to go into the re- cesses of the mountains away from trails, they wait for the deer to come out, and then waylay them. This plaii also has the advantage of finding them in bands. Great preparations are made. Old guns are mended, bullets moulded, and the hunters wash themselves and fast to some extent, to insure good luck, as they say. Men and women, old and young, set forth together. Central camps are made on the well-known highways of the deer, which are soon red with blood. Each hunter comes in laden, old crones as well as maidens smiling on the luckiest. All grow fat and merry. Boys, each armed with an antlered head, play at buck-fight- ing, and plague the industrious women, who are busily preparing the meat for transportation, by stealing up behind them and throwing fresh hides over them. But the Indians are passing away here as everywhere, and their red camps on the mountains are fewer every year. There are panthers, foxes, badgers, porcupines, and coyotes in the park, but not in large numbers. I have seen coy- otes well back in the range at the head of the Tuolumne Meadows as early as June 1st, before the snow was gone, feeding on marmots; but they are far more numerous on the inhabited low- lands around ranches, where they en- joy life on chickens, turkeys, quail eggs, ground squirrels, hares, etc., and all kinds of fruit. Few wild sheep, I fear, are left hereabouts; for, though safe on the high peaks, they are driven down the Among the Animals of the Yosemite. 625 eastern slope of the niountains when the deer are driven down the western, to ridges and outlying spurs where the snow does not fall to a great depth, and there they are within reach of the cat- tlemens rifles. The two squirrels of the park, the Douglas and the California gray, keep all the woods lively. The former is far more abundant and more widely distrib- uted, being found all the way up from the foothills to the dwarf pines on the summit peaks. He is the most influen- tial of the Sierra animals, though small, and the brightest of all the squirrels I know, a squirrel of squirrels, quick mountain vigor and valor condensed, purely wild, and as free from disease as a sunbeam. One cannot think of such an animal ever being weary or sick. He claims all the woods, and is inclined to drive away even men as intruders. How he scolds, and what faces he makes! If not so comically small, he would be a dreadful fellow. The gray, Sciurus fos- sor, is the handsomest, I think, of all the large American squirrels. He is some- thing like the Eastern gray, but is brighter and clearer in color, and more lithe and slender. He dwells in the oak and pine woods up to a height of about five thousand feet above the sea, is rather common in Yosemite Valley, Hetch- Hetchy, Kings River Caffon, and indeed in all the main cafions and Yosemites, but does not like the high fir-covered ridges. Compared with the Douglas, the gray is more than twice as large; nevertheless, he manages to make his way through the trees with less stir than his small, peppery neighbor, and is much less influential in every way. In the spring, before pine-nuts and hazel-nuts are ripe, he examines last years cones for the few seeds that may be left in them between the half-open scales, and gleans fallen nuts and seeds on the ground among the leaves, after making sure that no enemy is nigh. His fine tail floats, now behind, now above him, VOL. LXXXII. NO. 493. 40 level or gracefully curled, light and ra- diant as dry thistledown. His body seems hardly more substantial than his tail. The Douglas is a firm, emphatic bolt of life, fiery, pungent, full of brag and show and fight, and his movements have none of the elegant deliberation of the gray. They are so quick and keen they almost sting the onlooker, and the acrobatic harlequin gyrating show he makes of himself turns one giddy to see. The gray is shy and oftentimes stealthy, as if half expecting to find an enemy in every tree and bush and behind every log; he seems to wish to be let alone, and manifests no desire to be seen, or admired, or feared. He is hunted by the Indians, arid this of itself is cause enough for caution. The Douglas is less attrac- tive as game, and is probably increasing in numbers in spite of every enemy. He goes his ways bold as a lion, up and down and across, round and round, the happi- est, merriest, of all the hairy tribe, and at the same time tremendously earnest and solemn, sunshine incarnate, making every tree tingle with his electric toes. If you prick him, you cannot think he will bleed. He seems above the chance and change that beset common mortals, though in busily gathering burs and nuts he shows that he has to work for a living, like the rest of us. I never found a dead Douglas. He gets into the world and out of it without being noticed; only in prime is he seen, like some lit- tle plants that are visible only when in bloom. The Townsend tamias, a plump, slow, sober, well-dressed chipmunk, nearly as large as the Douglas squirrel, may occa- sionally be seen about the roots of the firs or fallen trunks, solemnly staring as if he never had anything to do. The little striped species, 1. quadrivittatus, is more interesting and a hundred times more numerous than the Townsend. A brighter, cheerier chipmunk does not ex- ist. He is smarter, more arboreal and squirrel-like, than the familiar Eastern 626 Among the Animals of the Yosemite. species, and is distributed as widely on the Sierra as the Douglas. Every for- est however dense or open, every hilltop and caflon however brushy or bare, is cheered and enlivened by this happy lit- tle animal. You are likely to notice him first on the lower edge of the coniferous belt, where the sabine and yellow pines meet; and thence upward, go where you may, you will find him every day, even in winter, unless the weather is stormy. He is an exceedingly interesting little fellow, full of odd, quaint ways, confid- ing, thinking no evil; and without be- ing a squirrel a true shadow - tail he lives the life of a squirrel, and has almost all squirrelish accomplishments without aggressive quarrelsomeness. I never weary of watching him as he frisks about in the bushes, gathering seeds and berries; poising on slender twigs of wild cherry, shad, chinquapin, buckthorn bramble; skimming along prostrate trunks or over the grassy, nee- dle - strewn forest floor; darting from boulder to boulder on glacial pavements and the tops of the great domes. When the seeds of the conifers are ripe, he climbs the trees and cuts off the cones for a winter store, working diligently, though not with the tremendous lightning energy of the Douglas, who frequently drives him out of the best trees. Then he lies in wait, and picks up a share of the burs cut off by his domineering cousin, and stores them beneath logs and in hollows. Few of the Sierra an- imals are so well liked as this little airy, fluffy half squirrel, half spermophile. So gentle, confiding, and busily cheery and happy, he takes ones heart and keeps his place among the best loved of the mountain darlings. A diligent col- lector of seeds, nuts, and berries, of course he is well fed, though never in the least dumpy with fat. On the con- trary, he looks like a mere fluff of fur, weighing but little more than a field mouse, and of his frisky, birdlike live- liness without haste there is no end. Douglas can bark with his mouth closed, but little quad always opens his when he talks or sings. He has a consider- able variety of notes which correspond with his movements, some of them sweet and liquid, like water dripping into a pool with tinkling sound. His eyes are black and animated, shining like dew. He seems dearly to like teasing a dog, venturing within a few feet of it, then frisking away with a lively chipping and low squirrelish churring; beating time to his music, such as it is, with his tail, which at each chip and churr describes a half circle. Not even Douglas is surer- footed or takes greater risks. I have seen him running about on sheer Yose- mite cliffs, holding on with as little ef- fort as a fly and as little thought of danger in places where, if he had made the least slip, he would have fallen thou- sands of feet. How fine it would be could mountaineers move about on pre- cipices with the same sure grip! Before the pine - nuts are ripe, grass seeds and those of the many species of ceanothus, with strawberries, raspber- ries, and the soft red thimbleberries of Rubn~s nutkanus, form the bulk of his food, and a neater eater is not to be found in the mountains. Bees powdered with pollen, poking their blunt noses into the bells of flowers, are comparatively clumsy and boorish. Frisking along some fallen pine or fir, when the grass seeds are ripe, he looks about him, con- sidering which of the tufts he sees is likely to have the best, runs out to it, se- lects what he thinks is sure to be a good head, cuts it off, carries it to the top of the log, sits upright and nibbles out the grain without getting awns in his mouth, turning the head round, holding it and fingering it as if playing on a flute; then skips for another and another, bringing them to the same dining-log. The woodchuck Arctomys monax dwells on high bleak ridges and boulder piles; and a very different sort of moun- taineer is he, bulky, fat, aldermanic. Among the Animals of the Yosemite. 627 and fairly bloated at times by hearty in- dulgence in the lush pastures of his airy home. And yet he is by no means a dull animal. In the midst of what we regard as storm-beaten desolation, high in the frosty air, beside the glaciers, he pipes and whistles right cheerily, and lives to a good old age. If you are as early a riser as he is, you may oftentimes see him come blinking out of his bur- row to meet the first beams of the morn- ing and take a sunbath on some favorite flat-topped boulder. Afterward, well warmed, he goes to breakfast in one of his garden hollows, eats heartily like a cow in clover until comfortably swollen, then goes a-visiting, and plays and loves and fights. In the spring of 1875, when I was exploring the peaks and glaciers about the head of the middle fork of the San Joaquin, I had crossed the range from the head of Owen River, and one morn- ing, passing around a frozen lake where the snow was perhaps ten feet deep, I was surprised to find the fresh track of a woodchuck plainly marked, the sun having softened the surface. What could the animal be thinking of, coming out so early while all the ground was snow-buried? The steady trend of his track showed he had a definite aim, and fortunately it was toward a mountain thirteen thousand feet high that I meant to climb. So I followed to see if I could find out what he was up to. From the base of the mountain the track pointed straight up, and I knew by the melting snow that I was not far behind him. I lost the track on a crumbling ridge, partly projecting through the snow, but soon discovered it again. Well toward the summit of the mountain, in an open spot on the south side, nearly inclosed by disintegrating pinnacles among which the sun heat reverberated, making an isolated patch of warm climate, I found a nice garden, full of rock cress, phlox, silene, draba, etc., and a few grasses; and in this garden I overtook the wan- derer, enjoying a fine fresh meal, per. haps the first of the season. How did he know the way to this one garden spot, so high and far off, and what told him that it was in bloom while yet the snow was ten feet deep over his den? For this it would seem he would need more botanical, topographical, and climatolo- gical knowledge than most mountaineers are possessed of. The shy, curious mountain beaver Haplodon lives on the heights, not far from the woodchuck. He digs canals and controls the flow of small streams under the sod, cuts large quantities of grass, lupines, and other plants, lays them out in neat piles with the stems all one way to dry, like hay, and stores them in underground chambers. These hayfields on the mountain tops, showing busy, thoughtful life where one deemed himself alone, are startling. And it is startling, too, when one is camped on the edge of a sloping meadow near the homes of these industrious mountaineers, to be awakened in the still night by the sound of water rushing and gurgling un- der ones head in a newly formed canal. Pouched gophers also have a way of awakening nervous campers that is quite as exciting as the haplodons plan; that is, by a series of firm upward pushes when they are driving tunnels and shov- ing up the dirt. One naturally cries out, Who s there? and then discover- ing the cause, All right. Go on. Good- night, and goes to sleep again. The wood rat Neotoma is one of the most interesting of the Sierra ani- mals. He is scarcely at all like the common rat, is nearly twice as large, has a delicate soft fur of a bluish slate color, white on the belly, large ears thin and translucent, eyes full and liquid and mild in expression, nose blunt and squir- relish, slender claws sharp as needles, and as his limbs are strong he can climb about as well as a squirrel; while no rat or squirrel has so innocent a look, is so easily approached, or in general ex 628 Among the Animals of the Yosemite. presses so much confidence iii one~ s good intentions. He seems too fine for the thorny thickets he inhabits, and his big, rough hut is as unlike himself as pos- sible. No other animal in these moun- tains makes nests so large and striking in appearance as his. They are built of all kinds of sticks (broken branches, and old rotten moss-grown chunks, and green twigs, smooth or thorny, cut from the nearest bushes), mixed with miscellane- ous rubbish and curious odds and ends, bits of cloddy earth, stones, bones, bits of deer-horn, etc.: the whole sun- ply piled in conical masses on the ground in chaparral thickets. Some of these cabins are five or six feet high, and oc- casionally a dozen or more are grouped together; less, perhaps, for societys sake than for advantages of food and shelter. Coming through deep, stiff chaparral in the heart of the wilderness, heated and weary in forcing a way, the solitary explorer, happening into one of these cu- rious neotoma villages, is startled at the strange sight, and may imagine he is in an Indian village, and feel anxious as to the reception he will get in a place so wild. At first, perhaps, not a single in- habitant will be seen, or at most only two or three seated on the tops of their huts as at the doors, observing the stranger with the mildest of mild eyes. The nest in the centre of the cabin is made of grass and films of bark chewed to tow, and lined with feathers and the down of vari- ous seeds. The thick, rough walls seem to be built for defense against enemies fox, coyote, etc. as well as for shel- ter, and the delicate creatures, in their big, rude homes, suggest tender flowers, like those of Salzia carduacea, defended by thorny involucres. Sometimes the home is built in the forks of an oak, twenty or thirty feet from the ground, and even in garrets. Among housekeepers who have these bushmen as neighbors or guests they are regarded as thieves, because they carry away and pile together everything trans portable (knives, forks, tin cups, spoons, spectacles, combs, nails, kindling-wood, etc., as well as eatables of all sorts), to strengthen their fortifications or to shine among rivals. Once, far back in the High Sierra, they stole my snow - gog- gles, the lid of my teapot, and my ane- roid barometer; and one stormy night, when encamped under a prostrate cedar, I was awakened by a gritting sound on the granite, and by the light of my fire I discovered a handsome neotoma beside me, dragging away my ice-hatchet, pull- ing with might and main by a buckskin string on the handle. I threw bits of bark at him and made a noise to frighten him, but he stood scolding and chattering back at me, his fine eyes shining with an air of injured innocence. A great variety of lizards enliven the warm portions of the park. Some of them are more than a foot in length, others but little larger than grasshop- per~. A few are snaky and repulsive at first sight, but most of the species are handsome and attractive, and bear ac- quaintance well; we like them better the farther we see into their charming lives. Small fellow mortals, gentle and guile- less, they are easily tamed, and have beautiful eyes, expressing the clearest in- nocence, so that, in spite of prejudices brought from cool, lizardless countries, one must soon learn to like them. Even the horned toad of the plains and foot- hills, called horrid, is mild and gentle, with charming eyes, and so are the snake- like species found in the underbrush of the lower forests. These glide in curves with all the ease and grace of snakes, while their small, undeveloped limbs drag for the most part as useless appendages. One specimen that I mea- sured was fourteen inches long, and as far as I saw it made no use whatever of its diminutive limbs. Most of them glint and dart on the sunny rocks and across open spaces from bush to bush, swift as dragonflies and humming-birds, and about as brilliantly Among the Animals of the Yosemite. 629 colored. They never make a long-sus- tained run, whatever their object, but dart direct as arrows for a distance of ten or twenty feet, then suddenly stop, and as suddenly start again. These stops are necessary as rests, for they are short-winded, and when pursued steadily are soon run out of breath, pant pitifully, and may easily be caught where no re- treat in bush or rock is quickly available. If you stay with them a week or two and behave well, these gentle saurians, descendants of an ancient race of giants, will soon know and trust you, come to your feet, play, and watch your every motion with cunning curiosity. You will surely learn to like them, not only the bright ones, gorgeous as the rainbow, but the little ones, gray as lichened gran- ite, and scarcely bigger than grasshop- pers; and they will teach you that scales may cover as fine a nature as hair or feathers or anything tailored. There are many snakes in the caftons and lower forests, but they are mostly handsome and harmless. Of all the tourists and travelers who have visited Yosemite and the adjacent mountains, not one has been bitten by a snake of any sort, while thousands have been charmed by them. Some of them vie with the lizards in beauty of color and dress patterns. Only the rattlesnake is venomous, and he carefully keeps his venom to himself as far as man is con- cerned, unless his life is threatened. Before I learned to respect rattlesnakes I killed two, the first on the San Joa- quin plain. He was coiled comfortably around a tuft of bunch-grass, and I dis- covered him when he was between my feet as I was stepping over him. He held his head down and did not attempt to strike, although in danger of being trampled. At that time, thirty years ago, I imagined that rattlesnakes should be killed wherever found. I had no weapon of any sort, and on the smooth plain there was not a stick or a stone within miles; so I crushed him by jump- ing on him, as the deer are said to do. Looking me in the face he saw I meant mischief, and quickly cast himself into a coil, ready to strike in defense. I knew he could not strike when traveling, there- fore I threw handfuls of dirt and grass sods at him, to tease him out of coil. He held his ground a few minutes, threat- ening and striking, and then started off to get rid of me. I ran forward and jumped on him; but he drew back his head so quickly my heel missed, and he also missed his stroke at me. Perse- cuted, tormented, again and again he tried to get away, bravely striking out to protect himself; but at last my heel came squarely down, sorely wounding him, and a few more brutal stampings crushed him. I felt degraded by the killing business, farther from heaven, and I made up my mind to try to be at least as fair and charitable as the snakes themselves, and to kill no more save in self-defense. The second killing might also, I think, have been avoided, and I have always felt somewhat sore and guilty about it. I had built a little cabin in Yosemite, and for convenience in getting water, and for the sake of music and society, I led a small stream from Yosemite Creek into it. Running along the side of the wall it was not in the way, and it had just fall enough to ripple and sing in low, sweet tones, making delightful company, especially at night when I was lying awake. Then a few frogs caine in and made merry with the stream, and one snake, I suppose to catch the frogs. Returning from my long walks, I usu- ally brought home a large handful of plants, partly for study, partly for orna- meat, and set them in a corner of the cabin, with their stems in the stream to keep them fresh. One day, when I picked up a handful that had begun to fade, I uncovered a large coiled rattler that had been hiding behind the flowers. Thus suddenly brought to light face to 630 Among the Animals of the Yosemite. face with the rightful owner of the place, the poor reptile was desperately embarrassed, evidently realizing that he had no right in the cabin. It was not only fear that he showed, but a good deal of downright bashfulness and em- barrassment, like that of a more than half honest person caught under suspi- cious circumstances behind a door. In- stead of striking or threatening to strike, though coiled and ready, he slowly drew his head down as far as he could, with awkward, confused kinks in his neck and a shamefaced expression, as if wishing the ground would open and hide him. I have looked into the eyes of so many wild animals that I feel sure I did not mistake the feelings of this unfortunate snake. I did not want to kill him, but I had many visitors, some of them chil- dren, and I oftentimes came in late at night; so I judged he must die. Since then I have seen perhaps a hun- dred or more in these mountains, but I have never intentionally disturbed them, nor have they disturbed me to any great extent, even by accident, though in dan- ger of being stepped on. Once, while I was on my knees kindling a fire, one glided under the arch made by my arm. He was only going away from the ground I had selected for a camp, and there was not the slightest danger, because I kept still and allowed him to go in peace. The only time I felt myself in serious danger was when I was coming out of the Tuolumne Cafion by a steep side caiion toward the head of Yosemite Creek. On an earthquake talus, a boulder in my way presented a front so high that I could just reach the upper edge of it while standing on the next below it. Drawing myself up, as soon as my head was above the flat top of it I caught sight of a coiled rattler. My hands had alarmed him, and he was rea(ly for me; but even with this provo- cation, and when my head came in sight within a foot of him, he did not strike. The last time I sauntered through the big cafion I saw about two a day. One was not coiled, but neatly folded in a narrow space between two cobblestones on the side of the river, his head below the level of them, ready to shoot up like a Jack-in-the-box for frogs or birds. My foot spanned the space above within an inch or two of his head, but he only held it lower. In making my way through a particularly tedious tangle of buckthorn, I parted the branches on the side of an open spot and threw my bun- dle of bread into it; and when, with my arms free, I was pushing through after it, I saw a small rattlesnake dragging his tail from beneath my bundle. When he caught sight of me he eyed me angrily, and with an air of righteous indignation seemed to be asking why I had thrown that stuff on him. He was so small that I was inclined to slight him, but he struck out so angrily that I drew back, and approached the opening from the other side. But he had been listening, and when I looked through the brush I found him confronting me, still with a come-in-if-you-dare expression. In vain I tried to explain that I only wanted my bread; he stoutly held the ground in front of it; so I went back a dozen rods and kept still for half an hour, and when I returned he had gone. One evening, near sundown, in a very rough, boulder-choked portion of the caiion, I searched long for a level spot for a bed, and at last was glad to find a patch of flood-sand on the river-bank, and a lot of driftwood close by for a camp-fire. But when I threw down my bundle, I found two snakes in possession of the ground. I might have passed the night even in this snake den without danger, for I never knew a single in- stance of their coming into camp in the night; but fearing that, in so small a space, some late comers, not aware of my presence, might get stepped on, when I was replenishing the fire, to avoid pos- sible crowding I encamped on one of the earthquake boulders. There are two species of Grotalus in Among the Animals qf the Yosemite. 631 the park, and when I was exploring the basin of Yosemite Creek I thought I had discovered a new one. I saw a snake with curious divided appendages on its head. Going nearer, I found that the strange headgear was only the feet of a frog. Cutting a switch I struck the snake lightly until he disgorged the poor frog, or rather allowed it to back out. On its return to the light from one of the very darkest of death valleys, it blinked a moment with a sort of dazed look, then plunged into a stream, apparently happy and well. Frogs abound in all the bogs, marshes, pools, and lakes, however cold and high and isolated. How did they manage to get up these high mountains? Sure- ly not by jumping. Long and dry ex- cursions through weary miles of boul- ders and brush would be trying to frogs. Most likely their stringy spawn is car- ried on the feet of ducks, cranes, and other waterbirds. Anyhow, they are most thoroughly distributed, and flour- ish famously. What a cheery, hearty set they are, and how bravely their krink and tronk concerts enliven the rocky wilderness! None of the high - lying mountain lakes or branches of the rivers above sheer falls had fish of any sort until stocked by the agency of man. In the High Sierra, the only river in which trout exist naturally is the middle fork of Kings River. There are no sheer falls on this stream; some of the rapids, however, are so swift and rough, even at the lowest stage of water, that it is surprising any fish can climb them. I found trout in abundance in this fork up to seventy-five hundred feet. They also run quite high on the Kern. On the Merced they get no higher than Yo- semite Valley, four thousand feet, all the forks of the river being barred there by sheer falls, and on the main Tuolumne they are stopped by a fall below Hetch- Hetchy, still lower than Yosemite. Though these upper waters are inacces- sible to the fish, one would suppose their eggs might have been planted there by some means. Nature has so many ways of doing such things. In this case she waited for the agency of man, and now many of these hitherto fishless lakes and streams are full of fine trout, stocked by individual enterprise, Walton clubs, etc., in great part under the auspices of the United States Fish Commission. A few trout carried into Hetch-Hetchy iii a common water-bucket have multi- plied wonderfully fast. Lake Tenaya, at an elevation of over eight thousand feet, was stocked eight years ago by Mr. Murphy, who carried a few trout from Yosemite. Many of the small streams of the eastern slope have also been stocked with trout transported over the passes in tin cans on the backs of mules. Soon, it would seem, all the streams of the range will be enriched by these lively fish, and will become the means of drawing thousands of visitors into the mountains. Catching trout with a bit of bent wire is a rather trivial business, but fortunately people fish better than they know. In most cases it is the man who is caught. Trout-fishing regarded as bait for catch- ing men, for the saving of both body and soul, is important, and deserves all the expense and care bestowed on it. John ]Iiliuir. 632 Psychology and Art. PSYCHOLOGY AND ART. COMMON sense, which is to-day, as it has been since eternity, merely the trivi- alized edition of the scientific results of the day before yesterday, is just now on the psychological track. The scientists felt some years ago that the psycholo- gical aspect of the products of civiliza- tion was too much neglected, and that the theoretical problem how to bring the creations of social life under the catego- ries of psychology might find some new and interesting answers in these days of biological, physiological, experimental, and pathological psychology. Thus the scientific study of the psychology of so- ciety and its functions has made admi- rable progress. Science, of course, took this only as a special phase of the mat- ter; it did not claim to express the re- ality of language and history, law and religion, economics and technics, in de- scribing and explaining them as psy- chological facts. Therefore science did not forget the more essential truth that civilization belongs to a world of pur- poses and duties and ideals; at present, indeed, science emphasizes decidedly this latter view, and has changed the di- rection of its advance. Common sense, as usual, has not perceived so far this change of the course. Ten years may pass before it finds it out. Above all, one - sided as ever, common sense has misunderstood the word of command, as if the psychological aspect must be taken as the only possible aspect, and as if psychology could reach the reality. Therefore common sense marches on, still waving the flag of psychology, and with it its regular drum corps, the phi- listines. This pseudo-philosophical movement, which takes the standpoint of the psy- chologist wrongly as a philosophical view-point of the whole inner world, has found perhaps nowhere else so little or- ganized resistance as in the realm of art; for the real artist does not care much about the right or the wrong the- ory. For the same reason, indeed, it may seem that just here the influence of a warped theory must be very indif- ferent and harmless. A one-sided the- ory of crime may mislead the judge, who necessarily works with abstract th~oret- ical conceptions; but a one - sided psy- chological theory of art cannot do such harm, as the artist relies in any case on the wings of his imagination, and mis- trusts the crutches of theories. This would certainly be the case if there did not exist three other channels through which the wise and the unwise wisdom can influence, strengthen, and inhibit the creative power of art. The market influence is one way; that is a sad story, but it is not the most important one, as the tragedy of the market depends much more upon practical vulgarity than upon theoreti- cal mistakes. }Esthetical criticism is another way; but even that is not the most dangerous, as it speaks to men who ought to be able to judge for themselves, although nobody doubts that they do not do so. The most important of the three, however, is art education in the schoolroom. Millions of children receive there the influence that is strongest in determining their ~sthetical attitude; millions of children have there the most immediate contact with the world of the visible arts, and mould there the sense of refinement, of beauty, of harmony. Surely the drawing-teacher can have an incomparable influence on the mesthetic spirit of the country, far greater than critics and millionaire purchasers, great- er even than the professional art schools. The future battles against this countrys greatest enemy, vulgarity, will be fought largely with the weapons which the draw-

632 Psychology and Art. PSYCHOLOGY AND ART. COMMON sense, which is to-day, as it has been since eternity, merely the trivi- alized edition of the scientific results of the day before yesterday, is just now on the psychological track. The scientists felt some years ago that the psycholo- gical aspect of the products of civiliza- tion was too much neglected, and that the theoretical problem how to bring the creations of social life under the catego- ries of psychology might find some new and interesting answers in these days of biological, physiological, experimental, and pathological psychology. Thus the scientific study of the psychology of so- ciety and its functions has made admi- rable progress. Science, of course, took this only as a special phase of the mat- ter; it did not claim to express the re- ality of language and history, law and religion, economics and technics, in de- scribing and explaining them as psy- chological facts. Therefore science did not forget the more essential truth that civilization belongs to a world of pur- poses and duties and ideals; at present, indeed, science emphasizes decidedly this latter view, and has changed the di- rection of its advance. Common sense, as usual, has not perceived so far this change of the course. Ten years may pass before it finds it out. Above all, one - sided as ever, common sense has misunderstood the word of command, as if the psychological aspect must be taken as the only possible aspect, and as if psychology could reach the reality. Therefore common sense marches on, still waving the flag of psychology, and with it its regular drum corps, the phi- listines. This pseudo-philosophical movement, which takes the standpoint of the psy- chologist wrongly as a philosophical view-point of the whole inner world, has found perhaps nowhere else so little or- ganized resistance as in the realm of art; for the real artist does not care much about the right or the wrong the- ory. For the same reason, indeed, it may seem that just here the influence of a warped theory must be very indif- ferent and harmless. A one-sided the- ory of crime may mislead the judge, who necessarily works with abstract th~oret- ical conceptions; but a one - sided psy- chological theory of art cannot do such harm, as the artist relies in any case on the wings of his imagination, and mis- trusts the crutches of theories. This would certainly be the case if there did not exist three other channels through which the wise and the unwise wisdom can influence, strengthen, and inhibit the creative power of art. The market influence is one way; that is a sad story, but it is not the most important one, as the tragedy of the market depends much more upon practical vulgarity than upon theoreti- cal mistakes. }Esthetical criticism is another way; but even that is not the most dangerous, as it speaks to men who ought to be able to judge for themselves, although nobody doubts that they do not do so. The most important of the three, however, is art education in the schoolroom. Millions of children receive there the influence that is strongest in determining their ~sthetical attitude; millions of children have there the most immediate contact with the world of the visible arts, and mould there the sense of refinement, of beauty, of harmony. Surely the drawing-teacher can have an incomparable influence on the mesthetic spirit of the country, far greater than critics and millionaire purchasers, great- er even than the professional art schools. The future battles against this countrys greatest enemy, vulgarity, will be fought largely with the weapons which the draw- Psychology and Art. 633 ing-teachers supply to the masses. Who- ever has attended their meetings or ex- amined the exhibitions of schoolroom work knows that they do not lack en- thusiasm and industry, and that their importance in the educational system grows rapidly. But they are primary teachers, and primary teachers are men who adore nothing more than recently patented theories which appeal to com- mon sense; to-day they really feast on psychology. The greater the influence, the more dangerous every wrolig step on the theoretical line, the more necessary a sober inquiry as to how far all this talk about psychology and art really covers the ground. We raise thus the question, what psy- chology and art have to do with each other, in its most general form, at first without any relation to the practical pro- blems. If we acknowledge the question in such an unlimited form, we cannot avoid asking, as a preamble to the discus- sion, whether the work of art cannot be itself a manual of psychology; whether, especially, the poet ought not to teach us psychology. We all have heard often that Shakespeare and Byron, Meredith and Kipling, are better psychologists than any scholar on the academic plat- form, or that Henry James has written even more volumes on psychology than his brother William. That is a misun- derstanding. The poet, so far as he works with poetic tools, is never a psycho- logist; if modern novelists of a special type sometimes introduce psychological analysis, they make use of means which do not belong to pure art; it is a mixed style which characterizes decadence. It is true that discussion would be meaningless if we were ready to call every utterance which has to do with mental life psychology. Psychology does not demand abstract scientific forms; it may be offered in literary forms, yet it means always a special kind of treatment of mental life. It tries to describe and to explain mental life as a combination of elements. The dissolution of the unity of consciousness into elementary processes characterizes psychology, just as natural science de- mands the dissection of physical objects; the appreciation of a physical object as a whole is never natural science, and the interpretation and suggestion of a men- tal state as a whole is never psychology. The poet, as well as the historian and the man of practical life, has this inter- pretation of the whole as his aim; the psychologist goes exactly the opposite way. They ask about the meaning, the psychologist about the constitution; and the psychological elements concern the poet as little as the microscopical cells of the tree interest the landscape paint- er. The tree in the painting ought, in- deed, to be botanically correct; it ought not to appear contradictory of the re- sults of the botanists observations, but these results themselves need not appear in the painting. In the same way, we demand that the poet create men who are psychologically correct, at least in those cases in which higher a~sthetical laws do not demand the psychological impossibilities of fairyland, which are allowed like the botanical impossibilities of conventionalized flowers or the ana- tomical impossibilities of human figures with wings. We detest the psychologi- cally absurd creations of the stage vil- lain and the stage hero in the third-class melodrama, the psychological mario- nettes of newspaper novels, and the fre- quent cases of insanity in poor fiction, for which the schooled psychologist would make at once the diagnosis that there must be simulation in them, as the insane never act so. We demand this psycho- logical correctness, and the great poet satisfies it instinctively so fully that the psychologist may acknowledge the crea- tions of poetry as substitutional material for the psychical study of the living man. The psychologist believes the poet, and studies jealousy from Othello, and love from Romeo, and neurasthenia from 634 Psychology and Art. Hamlet, and political emotions from Ci~sar; but the creation of such lifelike men is in itself in no way psychology. The poet creates mental life in sug- gesting it to the soul of the reader; only the man who decomposes it after- ward is a psychologist. The poet works as life works; the child who smiles and weeps causes us to think of pleasure and pain too, but it offers us no psychologi- cal understanding of pleasure and pain. Just so the poet smiles and weeps, and if he is a great artist, with strong sug- gestive power, he forces our minds to feel with hini, while we have only an in- tellectual interest if he merely analyzes the emotions and gives us a handful of elements determined by abstract psycho- logical conceptions. Popular language calls a poet a good psychologist if he creates men who offer a manifold mate- rial for the analysis of the psychologist; when the poet begins to make that ana- lysis himself, and to explain with the categories of physiological psychology why the hero became a dreamer, and the dreamer a hero, and the saint a sinner, he will hinder his scientific effort by the desire to be a poet, and will weaken his poetry by his instructive side show. Meredith and Bourget do it, Ibsen never. Poetry and psychology are different, not because they speak a different language, but because they take an absolutely dif- ferent attitude toward the mental life; the wisdom of the poet about the human soul does not belong in a handbook of psychology. For music and the visible arts the whole question does not exist, or at least ought not to exist. A side branch of it, nevertheless, continues to grow in the old discussion whether mu- sic ought to describe the human feel- ings. The confusion about the logical meaning of description lies here more on time surface; by principle the case is the same as in poetry. The composer describes the emotions as little as the poet does ; tones and verses suggest the feelings, while it is an unmusical, un poetical business to psychologize about them; but just that is our aim, if we consider the preamble as closed, and ask once more what art has to do with psy- chology. We have seen so far that art is not by itself psychology; the remain- ing question, in which all centres, is, then, how far art can become an object of psy- chology. The situation is simple. Psychology is the science which describes and ex- plains the mental processes. A physical thing or process, even a brain action, is never, therefore, an immediate object of psychology. Every work of art the pencil drawing and the written poem, the played melody and the sculptured statue exists as a physical thing; hence the work of art itself is never an object of psychology, and the description of it lies outside of the psychologists province. The physicist describes the tone waves of a melody; the geometrician describes the lines and curves and angles of a drawing. The physical object is in con- tact with the human mind at two points: at its start and its goal. Every work of art springs from the mind of the artist, and reaches the mind of the public; its origin and its effect are both psy- chical processes, and both are material for the description and explanation of the psychologist. Two groups of psy- chological problems are thus offered, two points of view for the psychological study of art; a third one cannot exist. The one asks, By what psychological pro- cesses does the mind create art? The other asks, By what psychological pro- cesses does the mind enjoy art? Modern psychology has attained to its rapid progress of late years through the wonderful development of its methods; it does not believe any more that one way alone brings us to the goal; we have to adapt the methods to the problem. It is quite clear that these two mesthetical psychological problems demand different methods. The question how the artist creates art lies beyond the self-observa Psychology and Art. 635 tion of the psychologist; he must go back to the past. The question how the work of art influences the enjoying spec- tator can be studied by an analysis of his own iesthetical emotions. In the in- terest of this self-observing analysis he may introduce experimental methods, but he cannot make experiments with the artistic production. On the other hand, the artistic creative functions may easily be followed up toward the art of the child, of the primitive races, even of the animals. And so the first group of in- vestigations makes use chiefly of the so- ciological, biological, and historical meth~ ods of psychology; the second group favors the experimental methods. The larger material is at the disposal of the first group; the more exact treatment, characterizes the second. We cannot sketch the results here even in the most superficial outlines; we can recall only the most general directions which these studies have taken. First, the psychology of the art-creat- ing process. The ~sthetical psychologist, in our days of Darwinism, goes back to the play of animals. Biologically this is easily understood; the frequent play- ful contests are a most valuable training for action, as necessary, therefore, for the organism in the struggle for existence as is any other function of the nervous system, and yet they contain the most important elements of iesthetic creation: they are actions which are useless for the present state of the organism, car- ried out for enjoyment only. Social psychology finds the more complicated forms of the same impulses in the life of savages. We see how the primitive races accompany their work by rhyth- mical songs, how their dances stir up lyrical poetry, how their tools and ves- sels and weapons and huts become de- corated, how art springs from the reli- gious and social and technical life. The psychologist links these first traces of art with the productions of civilized peo- ples. His interest is not that of the philological historian; he does not care for the single work of art as the unique occurrence; no, he looks for the psy- chological laws which under the varying circumstances produce just the given works of poetry and sculpture, of music and architecture and painting. We learn to understand how climate and political conditions, technical, material, and social institutions, models and surrounding na- ture, brought it about that Egypt and China and India, or Greece and Italy und Germany, had just their own devel- opment of artistic production. Art be- comes thus an element of the social consciousness, together with law and re- ligion, science and politics; but art is psychologically still more interesting than any other function of the national soul, because it is less necessary for the biolo- gical existence than any other production of man. Art is therefore freer, follows more easily every pressure and tension, every inner tendency and outer opportu- nity; it can fully disappear even in the strongest social organism, and can break out in fullest glory even in the weakest sociological body. It is in its incompa- rable manifoldness and easiness of adap- tation that art shows best how the mental products of man are dependent upon the totality of variable conditions. Wbile such a sociological view con- trasts different periods and nations, psy- chology does not overlook the differences among individuals. The general artistic level of the whole social mind is only one side of the problem; the variation of individuals above and below this level, from the anti-aesthetic philistine to the greatest genius, is the other side, and here also the dependence upon the most diverse conditions attracts interest. The psychologist consults biography, espe- cially the autobiographies of poets and painters, and follows up most carefully the subtle influences which fertilized the imagination and gave the abnormal di- rection to the personality. Studying thus the artistic production 636 Psychology and Art. in individuals at all times and at all places, psychology finally abstracts a gen- eral understanding of the creative pro- cess and its conditions. There appears nothing mysterious in it: by manifold threads it seems connected with the men- tal functions of simple attention, with in- hibition and suggestion; in other direc- tions with dreams and illusions, and also with the abnormal functions of hypno- tism and insanity. It is a most complex process, truly, in which the whole per- sonality is engaged, but it is connected by short steps with so much simpler events in mental life, and it can so easily be traced back to the artistic elements in the child, that the psychologist has no reason to despair; the artistic function of the brain is not beyond the causal un- derstanding. The niachinery of modern psychological conceptions, the atomistic sensations and their laws of association and inhibition, can by principle explain it in its entirety, from the schoolboys drawing of profiles on his blotting-paper up to Michael Angelos decoration of the dome of St. Peters with immortal re- ligious frescoes. Very different indeed are the methods by which we investigate our second group of ~esthetical problems, the psy- chological effect of the beautiful object. Experimental psychology enters here into its rights. When the students of mental life, twenty years ago, took up the exact method of natural science and worked out experimental schemes for the most refined analysis of psychical processes, it seemed at first a matter of course that only the intellectual pro- cesses, especially the functions of per- ception, and perhaps the elementary ac- tivities, would offer themselves to such inquiries. But slowly the new method has reached and conquered one field af- ter another, memory and imagination, association and apperception, feeling and emotion, undeveloped and abnormal men- tal states; and now, in different places, experimental work is dealing with the most delicate psychical fact, the a3stheti- cal feeling and its conditions. Fechner gave a strong impulse to such an experimental study of testhetic ele- ments a long time ago. He asked sys- tematically a large number of persons which one of a set of rectangles, for in- stance, each of them preferred; the ten forms varied from a square to a rectan- gle with a length of five and a breadth of two inches. He found a marked asthetical preference for those forms which are determined by the golden sec- tion; that is, in which the short side stands to the long side as the latter stands to the sum of both. To-day time work transcends in every direction such elementary beginnings. In the first place, it is not confined to a special art. Music and poetry share equally with the visible arts. The mesthetical harmony and discord of tones, their relation to beats and overtones, to the fusion and the discrimination of tones, to timbre and duration; in the same way, the mu- sical properties of rhythm, its relations to the attention and time sense, to th5 physiological processes of breathing and muscle tension, and to many other psy- cho-physical functions, all these have become the problems of the experimental psychologist. These studies of musi- cal rhythm naturally turn the attention toward the elements of poetry; the ex- perimental study of rhythm in the verse, and its relation to the position of the rhyme, to the length of the stanza, to the fluctuations of apperception, to the physiological functions, and so forth, is exceedingly promising, although still in its beginning. Much more developed is the attempt to reach experimentally the characteris- tics of the visible arts. Material and form, above all color and shape, offer themselves in an unlimited series of problems. The color spectrum has been always at home in the laboratory, but the psychologist has studied color as an element of perception or as a function of Psychology and Art. 63T the eye, not as the object of testhetical feeling. iNow his studies take this direc- tion. Which of two colors is preferred: how does this preference depend upon saturation, brightness, extension? What combination of colors is agreeable: how does this effect depend upon the relative extension of the colored surface; how upon the colored materials and the re- lation between their intensity or their whiteness? Which shapes and angles and sections are preferred: how does this preference depend upon associations, or upon our bodily positioi4 or upon eye movements? How is the plastic effect, perhaps in stereoscopic vision, influen- cing the intensity of ~sthetic feeling; how does movement influence it, or the combination of shape with color? In a series of rectangles or ellipses or bisected lines, is only one of them agreeable, or has the curve of onr ~esthetical pleasure several maximal points? The experimental investigation may come still much nearer to the problem of fine arts. I take as illustration a series of experiments which make up part of a recent thesis from the Harvard labo- ratory. The problem is the pleasing balance of two sides of an mesthetic ob- ject. That is, of coarse, realized in the simplest way by geometrical symmetry as many works of architecture show it; we have this pleasing feeling of equi- librium, also, when we see a well-com- posed building of which the two halves are far from identical, and every paint- ing shows this ideal symmetry of com- position without the monotony of geo- metrical uniformity; so it is even in the most irregular Japanese arrange- ment. The question arises under what conditions this demand for balance is fulfilled, if the objects in both halves are different. Translated into the methods of experimental psychology, the question would be, how far, for instance, a long vertical line must be from the centre of a framed field, if a line of half its length is at a given distance from the centre on the other side; how far if a point or a curve of special form or two lines are there. The variations are endless. In an absolutely dark room is a framed field of black cloth, which is so illumi- nated that no other object in the room is visible ; by a little device, bright lines, points, curves, also letters, pictures, ob- jects, can be made to move over this field without showing the moving apparatus, while the exact position of each is indi- cated on a scale. One line may be given on the left side, and the experimenter has to find the most pleasing position of a double line on the other, imitating thus the case when two figures are to be on one side of a painting, while one only is to balance them on the other side; where must it stand? Starting from such sim- ple lines, the investigation turns to more complicated questions: What is the in- fluence of the impression of depth ? for instance, a fiat picture on one side, a picture representing depth on the other. What is the influence of interest ? a meaningless paper on one side, a paper of equal size with interesting figures on the other side. What is the influence of apparent movement ? a picture of a resting object on one side, an equally large object which suggests movement in a special direction on the other. So the problem can easily be carried to a complication of conditions which does justice to the manifoldness of principles involved in the compositioti of paintings, sculptures, decorations, interiors, build- ings, and landscapes. If, finally, all these experiments are carried out under dif- ferent subjective conditions, in different states of bodily position, of eye move- inent, of distance, of attention, of fatigue, under different degrees of illumination, with different colors, with different asso- ciations, all with different subjects and in steady relation to the real objects of historical art, we learn slowly to under- stand our mesthetic pleasure in the balance of a composition, and its relation to the functions of our body. 4538 Psychology and Art. Some one may say: All these experi- ments are too simple; they may be quite interesting, but they never reach the complicateness of real art. What are those simple figures beside a Madonna, those primitive harmonies beside a sym- phony? Yet is it a reproach to the physicist that he studies the nature of the gigantic thunderstorm, not from an equally large electrical discharge, but from the small sparks of his little labora- tory machine ? And if the physicist is interested in the waves of the ocean, he studies the movements in a small tank of water in his working-room, and intro- duces simple artificial movements. It is just the elementary character of experi- mental methods which guarantees their power for explanation; and iesthetical effects can be psychologically under- stood only if we study their elements in the most schematic way possible. The necessary presupposition is, of course, that the iestbetical attitude itself can be maintained also in the laboratory rooms, and there is no reason for being skeptical about that. With regard to practical emotions such skepticism may be cor- rect: we cannot love and hate, nor ad- mire and detest, in the laboratory, and it may even be said that the joy in the laboratory is not agreeable, and the pain is not painful. But the iesthetical emo- tion remains intact precisely on account of the absence of every practical relation in it. The beautiful or the ugly thing lasts as such in every corner of our workshop. The experimental study of the psy- chological effect of art seems thus even more safely housed than the biological and historical study of the psychologi- cal production of art, and both together form already a psychological system of ~sthetics which certainly still has blanks, but which is surprisingly near complete- ness. Psychology will go on in this way till the most delicate cause and the most subtle effect of each artistic work are understood by the action of causal laws, like any other cause and effect in na- ture. Before us lies the question which is important for the teacher: how far the results of such studies can become pro- ductive, or at least suggestive, for in- struction in artistic drawing. Here again we must separate the two sides, the causes and the effects of the beautiful objects. The causes which produce the drawing are the activities of the pupil; the effects are the impressions on the spectator. The study of the causes will help us to uMerstand how to train the iesthetical activities of the pupil; the study of the effects will help us to ad- vise how the drawing or painting should be made up in order to please others. The study of the causes suggests to us methods of teaching; the study of the effects suggests rules and facts which are to be taught. The study of the causes interests only the teacher who handles the pupil; the study of the effects offers insight which the teacher may share with the pupil. Think first of the effects. Psycholo- gy has analyzed the impressions on our sense of beauty, and each fact must express a rule which can be learned. Blue and red are agreeable, blue and green are disagreeable: therefore com- bine red and blue, but not green and blue. The golden section of a line is the most agreeable of all divisions: there- fore try to divide all lines, if possible, according to this rule. Such psycholo- gical prescriptions hold, of course, for all arts: do not make verses with lines of ten feet; do not compose music in a scale of fifths. Step by step we come to the prescription for a tragedy, for a symphony, for a Renaissance palace; how much more for the details of a sim- ple drawing! Fill the space thus and thus; take care of good balance; if there is a long line on one side, make the short line on the other side nearer to the centre: these are m~sthetical prescriptions which can be learned and exercised like Psychology and Art. 639 the laws of perspective for architectural drawing. Whenever the pupil follows the rules, his drawing will avoid dis- agreeable shocks to the spectator. I am free, I trust, from the suspicion that I overestimate the value of experimental psychology for teachers; I have often attacked its misuses. Here the case is quite different. Such prescriptions do not prescribe the ways of teaching, but are material of instruction. There is no other school subject for which psy- chology supplies such material. Mathe- matics and natural sciences, languages and history, are not learned in school with reference to their psychological ef- fects. Art, however, has an absolutely exceptional position. My belief, there- fore, that methods of teaching cannot be learned to - day from the psychological laboratory is no contradiction of my ac- knowledgment that artistic prescriptions, worthy to be taught, can be deduced from psychology. I see with great plea- sure that the development in this direc- tion goes steadily on, and that children learn easily and joyfully the ways of avoiding ugly lines and arrangements. My objections of principle against teaching on the basis of psychological knowledge interfere much more with the pedagogical results which may per- haps be indicated by the study of the psychological causes of art. If we ap- ply here our theoretical insight at all, the result cannot have the form, Teach your pupils to make the drawing thus and so; but the form, Teach thus and so your pupils to make a drawing. If we understand the causes which produce a beautiful drawing, and if by our teach- ing we can influence the central system of the child so that the causes for such production are established, then it seems that the goal is reached. But we are not only far from a full understanding; we are endlessly further from such de- sired influences. To know the chemical constitution of an egg does not mean the power to produce an egg which can be hatched. We cannot make a genius, we cannot make a talent; and the psy- chological analysis alone indicates only slightly even how to evolve from a bad draughtsman a good one. We may make the general abstraction that constant training is a good thing; to reach such a triviality, however, we need psychology as little as we need scientific physiology to find out that eating is useful for our nourishment. Wherever psychological speculation goes further, it is finally de- pendent upon secondary factors which are determined by presuppositions of non-psychological character, and thus the results may be quite contradictory: the one recommends the study of nature, the other only imagination; the one pro- poses flowers for models, the other geo- metrical figures; the one lines, the oth- er colors. Psychology listens carefully to all, but is responsible for none of these propositions. An examination of the papers which drawing-superintend- ents and drawing-teachers usually read at their meetings shows, indeed, that they belong for the most part to a species well known in all our educational ga- therings. The first half of each paper is made up of familiar sentences taken from good textbooks of physiological psychology, the ganglion cells of the optical centres play the chief rOle in the drawing associations, and the second half of the paper contains a list of ex- cellent educational suggestions; only the chief thing, the proof that the sugges- tions are really consequences of the text- book abstracts, is forgotten. The two parts have often not the slightest con- nection. The second half alone would appear commonplace, and the first alone would appear out of place; together they make a scholarly impression, even if they have nothing to do with each other. Perhaps one other danger in these practical movements of to-day deserves mention. The fact that drawings, paint- ings, pictures, please us encourages the working out of technical prescriptions 640 Psychology and Art. from them for instruction in art; but the pleasure must be a pure and natural one, as little as possible dependent upon fugi- tive fashions and capricious tastes; and if our pleasure is a refined eccentricity, or even perversity, it is certain that we have no right to infect with it the taste of the younger generation. Seldom has this danger been so near as in our time, with its preraphaelitic and Japanese preferences, with its poster style and its stylistic restlessness. The healthy at- mosphere for the taste of the child is harmonious classical beauty~ The man who has passed his training in pure beauty may reach a point where a re- action against classicism is a sound and mature ~esthetical desire, but to begin with eccentric realism or with mysteri- ous symbolism in an immature age is a blunder. The educational mistake be- comes worse if that style is allowed in the schoolroom which is over - indulged in our time, and which is most antago- nistic to the childs mind: I mean the primitivistic style of our posters and bindings. The simple forms of primi- tivistic art are not a real returning to the beginnings of art, which would be quite adapted to children. No; this style means an ironical playing with the primitive forms on the basis of a most artful art. It is masquerading with the costumes of simplicity, not real desire for simple nature; and the spirit of irony alone makes it possible, and so dangerously attractive for our taste. If a school exhibition of drawings in the style of the Yellow Book appears to our eye pleasant and almost refreshing, af- ter the tiresome elaborations of our own school-time, it is our moral duty to ask, not what we like, but what children ought to learn to like. Irony toward the most mature products of civilization ought not to flourish in a childs mind; and if the ironical curves of the Beards- ley style become the trained methods of children, who finally believe that they really see nature in conventionalized poster style and use those hues thought- lessly as patterns, the result is decidedly a perverse one. Nevertheless, the future may be wiser; psychology will perhaps help pedagogics to find the way to de- velop the facility of pupils in producing fair drawings; and if we are willing to take the hope for the fact, we may say that psychology gives to the teacher prescriptions for training the child to draw better and better, and, above all, prescriptions which the child itself can learn, prescriptions for the composition and arrangement of a drawing which shall please others. Art can thus be fully described psychologically and ex- plained with regard both to its condi- tions and to its effects, and both groups of facts can become suggestive for the construction of rules for the teaching of drawing. The relations of psychology and art are then important and sugges- tive ones; and yet, is that our final word? Has philosophy nothing else to say? I know quite well that there are plenty of men who would say, Yes, that is the whole story. I think, however, the number is increasing of those who see that while half a truth is true as far as its half goes, half a truth is a lie if it pretends to be the whole. It seems to me, indeed, that this psychological scheme is one-sided, and that our time confronts dangers for its ideal life if triumphant psychology crushes under its feet every idealistic opposition. It is with art here exactly as with science and with morality. Psychology proclaims: We can describe and explain every thought of science and every decision of morality from an atomistic naturalistic point of view; we can understand it as the necessary result of the foregoing psy- cho-physical conditions. There is then no absolute truth in science, no absolute virtue in morality; duties are trained associations, and the value of our ac- tions, as of our thinking, lies in their agreeable effects. Art easily joins the others ; if there is no truth and no vir Psychology and Art. 641 tue which is more than the product of the circumstances, then there is no beauty which has absolute value; then beauty has no other meaning than that which psychology describes; it is the effect of some psychological processes, and the cause of some agreeable psychological results; and if we are careful to prepare those conditions and to insure that out- come, then we have done all that the ~nsthetical luxury of society can wish for its entertainment. I do not deny the right of psychology to consider the world of beautiful crea- tions from such a point of view, and as a psychologist I do my best to help in such investigations; but I cannot forget that this view-point is an artificial one for living, real art; that it is artificial both for the subject who creates art and for the subject who enjoys art; that it is artificial wherever art is felt in its full meaning. I say that psychology has its full right of way within its own limits; it has lim- its, however, and they are much nar- rower than the superficial impression may make us believe. Psychology has to describe and to explain mental life; but description and explanation are possible only for objects. Explanation always presupposes description, and the very idea of description presupposes the ex- istence of objects. Psychology consid- ers mental life, therefore, only in so far as it can be thought as a series of exist- ing objects, objects which exist in con- sciousness as physical objects exist in space. We have not to ask here why it is important for the purposes of life and thought to consider the mental world as if it were a world of objects. We are sure that in the primary reality our inner life does not mean to us such a world of objects only. Our perceptions and conceptions may reach us as objects, while our feelings, our emotions, our judgments, our volitions, do not come in question with us first as objects which VOL. Lxxxii. NO. 493. 41 we passively perceive, but as activities which we live out, as activitie~i the re- ality of which cannot be described and causally explained; it must be felt and understood and interpreted. In short, we are not merely passive subjects with a world of conscious objects; we are will- ing subjects, whose acts of will have not less reality in spite of the fact that they are no objects at all. To consider the mental world, including the feeling and will, psychologically means an artificial transformation and substitution which may have its value for special purposes, but which leads us away from reality. The reality of the will and feeling and judgment does not belong to the describ- able world, but to a world which has to be appreciated; it has to be linked, therefore, not by the categories of cause and effect, but by those of meaning and value. And in this world of will relations grows and blossoms and flowers Art. Let us examine the characteristics of this great network of will attitudes, in which the personality feels itself a will- ing subject, and acknowledges all other subjects as volitional also. One distinc- tion is of paramount importance: our will may be thought of as an individ- ual attitude, or it may arise with the meaning of an over-individual decision that demands acknowledgment by every subject, and that is willed, therefore, in- dependently of our merely personal de- sires. It is an act of will which is meant as necessary for every subject, which ought to be acted by everybody: we call it duty. From a purely psycho- logical standpoint, the will thought as object is determined in any case, the virtuous act as well as the crime, the nonsensical judgment as well as the wise one. From the critical standpoint of reality, the special will decision is neces- sary if it belongs to the very nature of will, binds every will, not by natural law, but by obligation; and it can be and is unnecessary if it is merely personal ar- bitrariness. 642 Psychology and Art. This doubleness of duty and arbitra- riness in our will repeats itself in every division of possible will activities, and there exist four such departments of re- lations of will to the world, four possi- bilities of reacting on the world. First, the subject may change the objects of the world by his actions; secondly, may decide for additional supplements to the given objects; thirdly, may trans- form the objects in his thought so that they form a connection; and fourthly, may transform the objects so that they stand each for itself. If these four possi- ble subjective acts are performed by the individual personal arbitrary will, they represent individual values. The ac- tions toward the world are then such changes of the objects as are useful and practical for our comfort; the supple- mentations are then the play of our fancy and imagination; the connections are then expressions of our hope or fear; the isolations, finally, are means to our personal enjoyment. These four functions may be carried out also as functions of the deeper, over-individual, necessary will; that is, as functions of duty. Those actions which alter and change the objective world are then moral actions; the ideas which supple- ment the world make up religion; those transformations which bring out a con- nection between the objects of the world compose scientific truth; and finally, those transformations which isolate the objects, so that they stand each for it- self, form the domain of beauty. Truth and beauty thus represent du- ties, logical and ~esthetical duties, just as morality represents ethical duties. We choose and form the physical axiom in science so, and not otherwise, because our will is bound by duty to do so; that is, only that particular decision of our affirming will can demand acknowledg- ment by every subject; and thus art chooses the forms and lines, the colors and curves, of the Sistine Madonna just so, and not otherwise, because only this decision of the creating will is as it ought to be, as duty prescribes, as it can de- mand that every willing subject ought to acknowledge it. Everything in this world is beautiful, and is a joy forever if it is so transformed that it does not suggest anything else than itself, that it contains all elements for the fulfillment of the whole in itself. We do not ask for the arms and legs of the person whose marble bust the artist gives us, and we do not ask for his complexion either. We do not ask how the field and forest look outside of the frame of the landscape painting, and we do not ask what the persons in the drama have done before and will do after the story. Our works of art are not in our space and not in our time; their frame is their own world, which they never tran- scend. Real art makes us forget that the pninting is only a piece of canvas, and that Hamlet is only an actor, and not the prince. We forget the connec- tions, we abstract from all relations, we think of the object in itself; and wher- ever we do so, we proceed Lesthetically. And if we enjoy the great works of art, the essential function is not the individ- ual enjoyment of our senses and feel- ings, like the enjoyment in eating and drinking; no, it is the volitional acknow- ledgment of the will of the artist. We will with him; and if we appreciate his work as beautiful, we acknowledge that it is as we feel that it ought to be; that our will of thinking that particle of the world is lifted to its duties; that we have transcended the sphere of merely personal arbitrariness and its desires and agreeable fulfillments; that we have reached the sphere of the over-individual values. Whoever understands art as will function believes in art and appreciates it as a world of duties; psychology has not to try to understand it as such, but to transform it into something else, into a set of objects which have causes and effects. Psychology must destroy the deepest meaning of art, just as it dis Psychology and Art. 643 regards the deepest meaning of truth and morality, if it tries to present its view as the last word about our inner activities. And if art is thus a realization of du- ties which have their real meaning in this acknowledgment of the will, in what light should we see all these tech- nical rules and prescriptions for facili- tating in the child the production of artistic works, and for preventing him from making disagreeable drawings? Those rules and prescriptions remain quite good and valid. They do for real beauty and art just what the police and the prisons on the one side, the training of habits and manners on the other side, do for real morality. Nobody will un- derestimate the value of the fact that our children learn through training a thousand habits which keep them as a matter of course out of conflict with the laws, and that police and jails remind them again and again, Do not leave the safe tracks. Whoever lives a noble life, however, means by morality and duty something else and something higher. Habits and jails do not insure that in an important conflict of life, where personal interests stand against duty, the bad ac- tion may not triumph. Only a conscience which is penetrated by morality stands safe in all storms, and such a conscience is not brought out by technical prescrip- tions, nor by punishments and jails; no, only by the obligatory power of will upon will, by the inspiring life of subjects we acknowledge, by the example of the he- roes of duty, that speaks directly from will to will, and for which we cannot sub- stitute psychological training and police officers. And thus the duty of art. Do not believe that the easier production of a not disagreeable drawing means a positive gain for real art and beauty: it raises the standard, it uplifts the level of a~sthetic production, just as the stan- dard of moral behavior is lifted by the existence of a watchful police, and it is extremely important. Do not forget, however, that ~esthetical life also needs not only the policemans function, but above all the ministers and helpers function; in other words, not technical rules, but duties; not easy production, but convictions; not knowledge of psy- chological effects, but belief in absolute values. This attitude becomes the more im- portant as this whole view shows that the world of art is in no way subordi- nate to or less true than the world of science. The reality is neither that which the scientist describes nor that which the artist sketches; both are trans- formations for a special purpose. The scientist, we have seen, transforms for the purpose of connection, and in that service he constructs atoms which exist nowhere but in his thought. The artist transforms in the interest of isolation, and in that service lie constructs his drawings. The mechanical process of drawing as such is, of course, not art in itself; it is the mental means of expres- sion which can communicate science as well as art. Just as words can serve Shakespeare as well as Darwin, so lines and curves can serve the mathematician and the physicist as well as the artist; the purpose alone separates the poet from the biologist, the scientist from the artist. And if art thus means a world which is exactly as true and valuable as the world of science, let us not forget that the school lesson in drawing means contact with this world of art, that is, with the special spirit of iesthetic du- ties; and that every drawing - teacher ought to be, not an ~esthetical policeman only, but an inspiring believer in these sacred ~sthetic duties. lingo ]Jfilnsterberg. 644 Confessions of Three School Superintendents. CONFESSIONS OF THREE SCHOOL SUPERINTENDENTS. I. I AM superintendent of schools in a New England city, and have been in my present position a number of years. I held a similar position in another city for a considerable time. These experi- ences, with my previous experiences as a principal, have made me acquainted with school boards and school management. No man can be superintendent of schools for a number of years without seeing mistakes that he hhnself and other su- perintendents make, nor without desir- ing various changes in the public school system. Some confessions concerning school committees, teachers, courses of study, and superintendents I wish to make, in the hope that thoughtful men may ponder these things, and use their influence to effect some much - needed changes. The majority of every school board consists of honorable, high-minded men, anxious for the good of the schools. Among more than two hundred men under whom I have served I have formed a large number of warm friendships, and to most of them I have been indebted for strong support; yet I have never had a school committee a majority of whose members could be relied upon to vote always for what they believed to be the interests of the schools, regardless of pulls. Pulls affect chiefly two matters, the selection of textbooks and the ap- pointment of teachers. As to textbooks a great many mnem- bers of my school committees have al- ways voted conscientiously. Of books whose sale is not large, high school books, reference books, supplementary reading, the selections have usually been made on the recommendation of myself and the teachers who are to use the books. The case is entirely different with books whose sale is large and pro- fitable, such as readers, arithmetics, geo- graphies, grammars, copy - books, and spelling - books. The rival publishers agents divide the committee into two or three hostile camps, and arouse an anx- iety on the part of many of tIme school committee for the success of their side only less intense than the agents them- selves feel. I have learned to keep out of book fights. I hasten to profess neutrality and to maintain a dignified reserve on the question, even to the extent of dis- pleasing my friends who really desire my advice as to which is the best book. Doubtless this confession will read to some like the words of a coward. But why should a superintendent ruin his chances of success in things more vital to the schools than the use of this or that arithmetic? I am on good terms with book agents. I find them always genial and well in- formed. It is a pleasure to chat with them, but it will not do to make them any promises. The larger book houses employ two kinds of agents: the skirmishers and the beaters-up of the bush, and the men who do the heavy work when the crisis comes. The latter usually keep away from me. If they meet me, they hasten to say that they respect my position, and will be careful not to involve me in the strug- gle. My school committee at the present time is of considerable size, and is man- aged by a very few men who have made an alliance offensive and defensive for all school purposes. Probably the citi- zens generally do not understand this, but it is known to all the school commit- tee, and acquiesced in by alL A few chafe under it, some because they do

644 Confessions of Three School Superintendents. CONFESSIONS OF THREE SCHOOL SUPERINTENDENTS. I. I AM superintendent of schools in a New England city, and have been in my present position a number of years. I held a similar position in another city for a considerable time. These experi- ences, with my previous experiences as a principal, have made me acquainted with school boards and school management. No man can be superintendent of schools for a number of years without seeing mistakes that he hhnself and other su- perintendents make, nor without desir- ing various changes in the public school system. Some confessions concerning school committees, teachers, courses of study, and superintendents I wish to make, in the hope that thoughtful men may ponder these things, and use their influence to effect some much - needed changes. The majority of every school board consists of honorable, high-minded men, anxious for the good of the schools. Among more than two hundred men under whom I have served I have formed a large number of warm friendships, and to most of them I have been indebted for strong support; yet I have never had a school committee a majority of whose members could be relied upon to vote always for what they believed to be the interests of the schools, regardless of pulls. Pulls affect chiefly two matters, the selection of textbooks and the ap- pointment of teachers. As to textbooks a great many mnem- bers of my school committees have al- ways voted conscientiously. Of books whose sale is not large, high school books, reference books, supplementary reading, the selections have usually been made on the recommendation of myself and the teachers who are to use the books. The case is entirely different with books whose sale is large and pro- fitable, such as readers, arithmetics, geo- graphies, grammars, copy - books, and spelling - books. The rival publishers agents divide the committee into two or three hostile camps, and arouse an anx- iety on the part of many of tIme school committee for the success of their side only less intense than the agents them- selves feel. I have learned to keep out of book fights. I hasten to profess neutrality and to maintain a dignified reserve on the question, even to the extent of dis- pleasing my friends who really desire my advice as to which is the best book. Doubtless this confession will read to some like the words of a coward. But why should a superintendent ruin his chances of success in things more vital to the schools than the use of this or that arithmetic? I am on good terms with book agents. I find them always genial and well in- formed. It is a pleasure to chat with them, but it will not do to make them any promises. The larger book houses employ two kinds of agents: the skirmishers and the beaters-up of the bush, and the men who do the heavy work when the crisis comes. The latter usually keep away from me. If they meet me, they hasten to say that they respect my position, and will be careful not to involve me in the strug- gle. My school committee at the present time is of considerable size, and is man- aged by a very few men who have made an alliance offensive and defensive for all school purposes. Probably the citi- zens generally do not understand this, but it is known to all the school commit- tee, and acquiesced in by alL A few chafe under it, some because they do Confessions of Three School Superintendents. 645 not belong to the ring, and others because they see the thorough selfishness of the management; but no one rebels. The managers mean to have good schools; they are far-seeing men, to whom a de- finite policy can be presented with the certainty that it will be comprehended, and the probability that it will be ap- proved unless it will affect unfavorably some of their friends. Working for ones friends, in it- self a praiseworthy thing and accounted by politicians the highest virtue, is the bane of the schools. The average com- mittee man looks at all questions from this point of view, How will it affect me and my friends? not, How will it affect the schools? The man who can get upon a school committee is the man who is most in earnest to help his friends. This man is usually a politi- cian or one who aspires to political in- fluence. The man next to him in evil influence is likely to be the pastor of a church, for whose members and their sons and daughters he must do what he can to find places or to maintain them in their places. The politician is look- ing for him, and quickly offers his aid. The good clergyman, in return for the aid of the politician in securing a place for A, who is a worthy case, agrees to vote for B, of whom he knows little, and as to whom he shuts his eyes if the revelations are likely to trouble his con- science. Then there is the doctor who feels under obligations to his patients, or to those for whom his patients request his favor. The best members of a school com- mittee are lawyers and business men who handle large enterprises. These men are more independent than others, and have broader views. A scheme of instruction or a plan of management will be considered by them on its mer- its, and not solely with reference to its effect on certain individuals. What use in talking to a man about some plan for improving the teaching force of a city, when the main query in his mind is, How will this affect my chances of getting teachers appointed, or how will it serve my other interests? This personal question and the combi- nations made to effect its satisfactory answer are what is meant by school politics. In twenty years of school teaching and superintending I have not known any school question to be decided by Democrats or Republicans as such. I have read and heard that such influences have affected other superintendents, but they have never affected me. So far as the appointment and reten- tion of teachers are concerned, the whole foundation of evil is broadly covered by this unblushing declaration of a San Francisco school director I was brought up in this town, and of course have a certain number of friends who want and expect positions. Each director appoints his own friends and relatives, and their names are never questioned by the elementary commit- tee, nor by the full board when it meets to elect candidates. That is a courtesy which is extended by every director to each of his fellow directors, the minor- ity, of course, excepted. My own experience is that school committee men act upon the same prin- ciple in New England as in California, though they are less outspoken about it. The appointment of teachers is as well managed as are other city appoint- ments. The poor get relief, the streets are laid out, the police are selected, not on the sole basis of the best service to the public, but, in many cases, on the plan of every man getting as much for his neighborhood or his friends as possi- ble. An alderman who cannot get work on the streets or in the parks for his constituents, who has small influence in securing places on the police force or in the fire department, will have small chance of re~lection, in many wards. A remedy for the evils connected with 646 Confessions of Three School Superintendents. appointments must be found in a change of public sentiment. Public office is a public trust, and not a private snap. A generation of schoolchildren must be trained to right views on such questions. The schools must share in the general moral nplift; yea, more, they must stand apart from ordinary municipal depart- ments as something to be managed on a higher moral plane. The evil influence of the appointment of teachers by means of pulls does not appear so much in the character of the persons appointed as it does in the demoralization of the body of teachers. It removes a strong incentive to personal improvement. If appointments depend on pulls, so may promotions and trans- fers. Each teacher feels secure in her position as long as she has a friend who has influence, or who is on friendly terms with some one who has it. It has sev- eral times happened to me that teachers who have been admonished of some neg- lect, mistake, or inefficiency have gone to their friends for protection, instead of avoiding danger by trying to do bet- ter. I would not, however, leave the false impression that dealing with teachers who fail in their work and depend upon influence to keep their positions is one of the chief troubles of a superintendent. His greatest difficulty with teachers is with those and their name is legion who are conscientious and painstak- ing, anxious to do well, always doing their best, and yet from lack of vigor and adaptation failing to become effi- cient. A superintendent, even if he have the heart to dismiss such teachers, will rarely find either his committee or the public supporting his action; for no one but himself realizes how schools suffer from such teachers. While making confessions, I must not neglect to confess that when myself a teacher, I always tried to get the poor- est third of each class to do all the work laid down in the course of study. This was a constant struggle, and always a partial failure. The very poorest were dropped to the grade below, or left be- hind at the class promotion; while many, with much sighing on their part and urging on my part, often by grace and not by right, obtained promotion. When I became a superintendent the same plan was continued for a time, as I then knew no better way. Such struggle and partial accomplish- ment are not the right processes for intellectual development, and through them the moral nature receives much harm. Perhaps the results to the most capable pupils are quite as damaging as to the poorest ones. Tied down to those inferior in speed, they have fretted at the slow progress, if they were ambitious; or they have grown indifferent, disposed to dillydallying, if they quietly accepted the conditions. Their loss includes not merely the failure to gain what might have been gained, but also the habit of half-hearted effort. More and more I sympathize with bright pupils, for our public schools often fail to meet their needs and give them inspiration. The remedy for these evils is not far to seek. Make the course of study for the slower, weaker pupils, and let the brighter ones go faster or take additional work. In the primary and lower gram- mar grades, the first of these alternatives is the correct one; in the higher gram- mar grades and in the high school, ad- ditional work in a heavier course is the proper remedy. The bright pupils ought to work as hard as the dull ones. The teacher of the bright division ought to work as hard as the teacher of the slow- er division, in the one case in laying out more work, in the other in seeking simpler explanations. The superintendent is less secure in his position than the humblest teacher. In all the large towns in New England, whatever their nominal term, teachers have practically life tenure of office. They need but to do their duty, and only Confessions of Three School Superintendents. 647 their duty, to hold their positions past the days of their most efficient service. Whatever may have happened outside my range of observation, within it I have never known a teacher to lose a position that he deserved to retain. The superintendent must stand the shocks. He is the victim of the political overturns. He must defend all the teachers unjustly assailed, making their cause his own. Protecting a teacher in her control of her school may bring him into collision with an irate and influen- tial citizen. All general failures and most special ones are laid at his door. If the superintendent amounts to much, he will be found in the way of the plans of unscrupulous persons and their selfish interests. If he amounts to little, he will be accused of inefficiency and lack of backbone. The superintendent who loses his place is often superior to him who retains his place. The fact of hold- ing or losing ones place is no proof of real merit. The superintendencics in the small towns are more difficult to fill than those in the large towns. The duties are more multifarious, tempests arise on smaller provocations, there is more gossip, and one or two citizens are more likely to control the fate of the superintendent. A man who remains several years at his post in a small town, and is respected by all citizens as a sincere and capable of- ficial who is making excellent schools, may with safety and profit be transferred to take the place of a superintendent in a large town who is never heard from as accomplishing anything either by ac- tion or by inhibition. The superintendent in a large town is less under watch and ward. He can differentiate his system and try experi- ments without incurring expense or dis- tracting the teachers. He has a better opportunity for intellectual and profes- sional growth. He can concentrate his efforts on the professional rather than on the business side of his work, and become an expert whose judgment car- ries weight in all educational matters. But in any place, small or large, that superintendent will in the long run be most secure who stands honestly, de- cidedly, and yet courteously, for right methods, good teachers, and fair deal- ing. II. As in most communities in the South and West, the prevailing sentiment re- garding schools and school-teaching here where I serve is that the schoolroom is a very proper place to pension indigent gentlewomen. Teaching is regarded as a dignified calling for anybody in indi- gent circumstances who is unable to do any other work. This is generally the kind of application one hears: I have a young friend who has been through the high school, whose father is dead, and who is obliged to support her mo- ther. She is a nice girl and a good girl, and I want you to help me get her a school. Has she any preparation for teach- ing? Has she ever attended a normal school, or studied with reference to teaching? Oh no, but I think she will make you a good teacher, and I want you to give her a trial. Such an argument does not convince the superintendent, but it is very per- suasive with kind-hearted members of the board of education. So they supple- ment the request that the young lady may have a fair trial at the examina- tion. Be easy on her for her fathers sake. Upon one occasion I made a report to the board of education, in which I took strong ground in favor of allowing only those to teach in our public schools who had a normal training or who were experienced teachers. The president of the board met me afterward and re- marked that the report was excellent in theory, but in these degenerate times it was impracticable. 648 Confessions of Three School Superintendents. Since then some of my theories in re- gard to teachers have changed. I have found very fine teaching power in some young women who never saw the inside of a normal school, and whose record for scholarship in our local high schools was not the best. They had that unexami- nable, indefinable power of controlling, interesting, and instructing children that seems to be an endowment. No nor- mal school can give this ability, and no lack of normal school training can take it away. The best that a normal school can do is to develop the teaching talent and direct the teaching power, so that the born teacher will not waste time in learning her own strength by practicing on her pupils. We must come to this proposition in our town and in other towns, namely, that a teacher can be discovered only by her teaching, and the best examination possible is a trial in the schoolroom. Giv- en a young woman who appears to have all the requisites, a good education, good health, and a fair knowledge of what the demands of the schoolroom are, and the only true way to proceed is to give her three months, or longer if advisable, as a trial. She will then show what she can do, and I do not believe that a satisfactory test can be made in any other way. I have two cases in point. Several years ago a young woman came to me for a school, and as I talked with her I made up my mind that she would not be a good teacher. She became a candi- date before the board for a position, however, and her friends were active. I could do nothing but consent to give her a trial, though I looked upon the trial as likely to be a failure, and I so expressed myself. To my utmost sur- prise, the young woman walked into the schoolroom, took up the reins of man- agement, showed pluck and ingenuity, read all the books she could get hold of, and at the end of three years was the leading teacher of her grade in the city. To-day her grade work is the model for younger teachers, who love to see how easily she manages.~~ On the other hand, I observed in a rural school a young woman who I thought was the very person I needed for a certain kind of work in the city schools. I made it my business to see the board of education, and guaranteed the excel- lence of her work. I staked my repu- tation as a superintendent on her abil- ity to teach. The board consented, and I sent for the young woman and told her of my recommendations. To my cha- grin, she seemed lost from the day she began. She never saw the difference between an ungraded rural school of thir- ty pupils and a graded school of fifty pu- pils. Her previous training had ruined her for other work, and she did not get control of the situation. She struggled on for three years, and then she left the profession for the better field of matri- mony. One of the most perplexing problems that ever confronted a superintendent is what to do with an old, poor, and thor- oughly inefficient teacher. I have such a problem before me now. On one side there are the pupils, who are poorly taught and badly disciplined. Their time is practically wasted, and the peo- ple say it is a shame to keep such a per- son upon the teaching corps. The tax- payers also complain that the board ought to have the courage to discharge the aged and incompetent teacher; but this complaint is made in a very quiet and confidential way. On the other side is the fact that the old lady has served the board thirty years, has been a faithful teacher, is now old and poor, and to discharge her means the poor- house for her and several dependents. There is absolutely nobody to take care of her. Should we discharge her, the very persons who say that she ought to be dismissed would rise up and declare it was an outrage to put an old servant out. The very parents who say their Confessions of Three Se/tool Superintendents. 649 children are learning nothing would sign a paper declaring they were perfectly satisfied, and the superintendent would be regarded as a heartless wretch, and the board of education as a soulless corpo- ration. The law says we cannot pension her, and so we are now quietly awaiting the time when, having served her day and several generations of children, she will be called to her deserved rest. Perhaps, after all, this is best. We are but human, and one case out of nearly two hundred will not seriously affect us. Sometimes, indeed many times, the people themselves are the source of our troubles. Theoretically, public opinion controls all public institutions. But this acts directly in some instances, and in- directly in other instances. In all the cases above mentioned the action was indirect, in that it had to exert itself first upon the members of the board. But now I come to speak of the direct contact of the public and the schools. Let me cite an illustration. The board decided to introduce physical culture in the schools, and for that purpose em- ployed a young lady from a distance who knew her business thoroughly. She prepared some blank forms of inquiry about the physical tendencies of the pu- pils, and gave each one a copy to be filled out at home. The director wanted a diagnosis of each child, in order to in- form herself and the grade teacher of any physical defect, such as heart dis- ease, tendency to headache, dizziness, and the like. This was a reasonable request, but it raised a storm in town. Not more than one parent in ten would send in a report, and from those who responded we had an amusing lot of answers. One man wrote across the blank, None of this for me. Give my boy more reading and arithmetic. Another one said his boys indigestion was very good. In response to the query, Are the shoul- ders even? one man said, The right shoulder is, but the left shoulder is a lit- tle off. The ancillary expansion of the children varied from nothing to one hun- dred inches. In short, the replies were worthless, and a good scheme was aban- doned because the public would not stand such nonsense. Some time ago tardiness had proved to be a great nuisance, and we resolved to stop it, if we could, by closing the doors to all tardy pupils. We resolved to send them back to their homes to get a written excuse stating the reason for their being late. We hoped in this way to reduce the tardiness from five per cent to one per cent of the attendance. We thought that an allowance of one per cent was reasonable. The order was pub- lished, announcements were duly made to the pupils, and the fun began. The very first day that notes were required a dozen pupils were sent home, and did not return thateday. The next day they came with insulting notes from their parents to the effect that our rules were tyrannical and illegal. One parent ~vrote, My son was tardy because he was late; the reason therefor is none of your business. Others were of like import. One man rent to the presi- dent of the board and gave the school system a sound rating for its rigidity; the same man had said, a few months before, that the laxity of discipline was a disgrace. The board, however, stood by its rules, and tardiness has almost disappeared. I have found, in my experience of fifteen years, that some people will abuse any school official who stands up for what is best, but that the public will always respect him for it. Everybody likes a strong government, and has a contempt for a weak one. If one wants to have an easy time and a poor school system, he need only let things go in any fashion, and he and his schools will sleepily drift into general contempt. If he wants to have a hard time and a good school system, let him bare his front to the storm of criticism and abuse, and he 650 Confessions of Three School Superintendents. and his schools will surely win their way to general respect. III. My experience as superintendent of schools has been chiefly in two cities, each having a population of more than fifty thousand. In character and gen- eral municipal life these cities may be said to be polar opposites. In one there is a high degree of general intelligence, a good public spirit, a pure city gov- ernment, and the schools are absolutely free from those various adverse influ- ences which are the bane of public schools in so many cities. The school board is composed of a high class of citizens, and the people are loyal to the schools. In the other city there was, a dozen years ago, when I knew it, an exceedingly low grade of intelligence, a low moral tone, an indifference to schools and to education in general, and the board was composed of men the majority of whom were ignorant, and some of them, it was well known, were corrupt. I believe that, during the two years and a half of my work there, I met with nearly all the most embarrassing conditions under which a school superintendent is ever called to work. In this city the board consisted of fifty-two members, four from each of thirteen wards. Since I left it, enough wards have been created to make the membership of the board sixty-four. The members were nominated and elect- ed by wards, each ward voting only for its own representatives. The meetings of the board suggested meetings of the state legislature, and there were the cau- cusing, the log-rolling, and the parti- sanship of a political convention when- ever questions of importance came up. There was a sprinkling of intelligent men, enough to constitute an efficient board; the rest of the members were men who could not speak grammatically, and some of them were known in the com- munity as men of low morals, who were not fit to come in contact either with women teachers or with children in the schools. I remember that one night at eleven oclock I saw the president of the board leaning against a tree at the curb- stone, so intoxicated that a fellow mem- ber of the board, who happened to be with him, had to lead him home. This was not an unusual occurrence; he was known as a very dissipated man at the time he was elected president. He had the support of a majority of the mem- bers until his conduct in the meetings of the board became a public scandal. The low moral tone of the board was felt throughout the schools. Teachers depended on favoritism and political pulls, instead of on merit, for promo- tion, and some were kept in their posi- tions who were not only incompetent, but also of objectionable character. The principal of one of the high schools was known to be untruthful, absolutely un- trustworthy in money matters, and an unprincipled man generally; yet he had the support of a majority of the board for a number of years. By a provision of the city charter the board consisted of an equal number of Republicans and Democrats; but instead of becoming non-partisan under this ar- rangement, it became bi-partisan. No teachers not residents of the city could be elected to positions in the schools be- low the high schools, and nearly all the teachers in the high schools were resi- dents. The appointments were almost entirely made through favoritism. Po- litical affiliations, church associations, and business relations between the friends of applicants and members of the board determined appointments to schools. The term politics as ap- plied to school affairs is not always clearly understood. No question is raised as to the political party to which a teacher belongs or with which he sym- pathizes; the only question is whether his appointment will procure the politi- cal influence of his friends at the next Confessions of Three School Superintendents. 651 election. It ought to be said that church influence is often more embarrassing to a superintendent than politics, and I have myself been hampered by deacons and pastors in my efforts to do the best thing for the schools. In the city above referred to there was a woman at the head of one of the high schools who was personally a very estimable woman, but who was entirely incompetent. The reason why she could not be removed was not political. The pastor of one of the leading churches and one of the judges of the superior court objected so strongly to her removal that the board were afraid to take the step. Ministers, through a mistaken sympathy, often al- low themselves to indorse incompetent teachers, and so help to block the way for better things in the schools. In fact, a recommendation of a teacher by her pastor seldom has any weight whatever. I usually throw such documents into the waste-paper basket when applicants send them to me, unless I am personally ac- quainted with the minister and know that he is competent to form a critical judgment of a teachers work. I have made confession of a professional secret which it may do no serious harm to divulge. In the same city, where houses were erected by the school board and all con- tracts pertaining to the schools were awarded by the board, there was a temp- tation for a certain class of men to seek election to the board who could not be tempted into the public service by any desire to advance the public inter- est. Some of them secured appoint- ments upon the building committee. It was well known that bids for con- tracts were opened before all bids were handed in, and pointers were given to late bidders. Some of these men were constantly found on the textbook committee, and agents of publishing houses had to meet them on ground suffi- ciently low to reach their official good will. In a certain book contest, one young, inexperienced agent told me he gave one member of the committee money to take a trip to the seashore. To gain the good will of another, he said he accompanied him not only to saloons, but to worse places. He lost the contest, and was afterward dis- charged by the publisher whom he re- presented. In this contest, another pub- lisher employed a special agent who was a politician, and was willing to resort to means which the regular agent could not be asked to employ. Much has been said about corruption in the relations between publishing houses and school boards. My observation has been that it all depends on the moral character of the board. Publishers will not resort to means lower than is absolutely neces- sary to obtain trade, and I have known some to refuse to have anything to do with book contests because of the dishonesty of the textbook committee. The agents of most of our publishing houses are college-bred men, high-mind- ed, and are willing to put their business on as high a plane as school boards will permit them. In short, where school boards are pure, the textbook business is honorably conducted. The first thing to do, therefore, to elevate and improve the public schools is to secure a higher grade of people to serve on school boards. The public schools of Chicago are a more impor- tant trust to administer than Chicago University; lkewise, the public schools of Philadelphia and of New York are more important trusts to administer than either the University of Pennsylvania or Columbia University; and yet who would be willing to say that even a majority of the members of any school board which these cities have ever had would be suitable persons to elect as members of the boards of trustees of these institutions? Fortunately, there are always a few men of eminent worth and good ability on these hoards, but they seldom constitute a majority. 652 Confessions of Three School Superintendents. A reform cannot be brought about by moral force alone. Legislation is ne- cessary. The school systems of most of our cities require a thorough recon- struction. In the first place, the size of school boards must be reduced. The number should rarely exceed one member for every ten thousand of population, ex- cept in very small cities. In the large cities the number should be made con- siderably less than this. Such reduction in numbers will be made possible, how- ever, only by reducing the work now done gratuitously by members, and giv- ing it into the hands of paid expert agents who are to work under the gener- al supervision of the board. At present, members of school boards are obliged to spend a very considerable portion of their time in attending to details which can be managed much more efficiently by paid experts. Business men of un- usual ability, and of large business inter- ests of their own to look after, cannot afford to accept positions on a school board under existing conditions. The only way to secure the services of such men is to relieve the boards of official details, and to require of them only the direction of the general policy and work of the schools. In the second place, all ward repre- sentations in school boards should be abolished. Every member should be a member at large and should repre- sent the whole city. When members are elected by wards, the local ward poli- tician dictates the election. A clean ward will send a good man; a ward in which the lower element is concen- trated almost invariably elects a man who is not suitable for such a position. The ward politicians, controlling the ward elections, control later the official acts of members thus elected. Hence this system of election is a source of political corruption of the school board, and through it of the schools. Nomi- nation from wards and election at large produce better results, for the whole city has a voice at the polls in determining who shall represeut each ward. But this method of election is also objection- able, because in the business wards of cities of even moderate size it is often impossible to find a single resident who is a suitable person to serve on a school board. There is no one method of selecting a school board that is best for all cities. In some cities the local conditions are such that appointment by the mayor is the best method; in others, like Phil- adelphia, appointment by the judges of the courts seems to be fairly satisfac- tory. In the majority of cities, how- ever, election by popular ballot is un- doubtedly the best method. In the third place, there should be an entire separation between the educa- tional part and the business part of the administration of the public school sys- tem in our large cities. There should be an agent for the business department and a superintendent of instruction for the educational department, each of whom should be directly responsible to the board. In the fourth place, the educational department should be intrusted more largely than it has been to the superin- tendent of instruction. I fail to see a good reason why there should be a com- mittee of the board called Committee on Course of Study. The making of a course of study is the work of an edu- cational expert. The more intelligent a school committee, the more the members shrink from such a responsibility. Yet in some of our larger cities the superintend- ent is barely consulted when the course of study is to be revised. I see little occasion, also, for a committee on text- books. Textbooks should be selected by the superintendent after free consulta- tion with the teachers who are to use them. There must be more concentration of responsibility, and consequently of an- Confessions of Three School Superintendents. 653 thority, in the administration of school affairs. There is probably no other public official, of equal ability, intelligence, and character, who has so little real legal authority as a superintendent of schools. The mayor of a city, as a rule, has no more ability, and usually has less educa- tion, than the superintendent of schools, and yet he has very much more author- ity. Likewise the judges of our courts, with a life tenure, have immensely more power than men who are their equals and are engaged in superintending pub- lic schools. One man power becomes dangerous only when it is not linked with one man responsibility. In the fifth place, where the school board is elected directly by the people, and is therefore directly responsible to the people, it ought to be financially in- dependent of the rest of the city gov- ernment. It ought to have charge not only of the schools and the teachers, but also of the schoolhouses and the janitors. The city council ought to have no au- thority to determine how much money is to be spent on schools and school build- ings. This is the only solution of the embarrassing problem of securing suffi- cient school room for the school popula- tion of our large cities. Cities like New York, Philadelphia, Buffalo, and Chica- go fail to build schoolhouses fast enough to keep pace with the growth of popu- lation, not because they cannot afford it or because the taxpayers are unwilling to be taxed more heavily for such a pur- pose, but because the politicians in the city government want the money for other purposes. In the sixth place, I wish there might be an ordinance in every city providing that any person who has been a member of the school board shall be ineligible to any other city office for two or three years after his term of office on the school board expires. In this way, po- litical favors done while on the school board could not at once be returned in some other form, and a position on the school board could not be made so di- rectly as at present a stepping-stone into some higher municipal office. There are no doubt legal, and in some states possibly constitutional difficulties in the way of enacting such an ordinance, but it would go far toward eliminating am- bitious politicians from school boards. Finally, I desire to say that I have the good fortune to live in a city in which the schools are absolutely free from political influence and from every other adverse influence; a city in which there has been no such thing as a COil- test over textbooks for at least ten years, in which it takes from five to ten minutes to vote out an inferior book and vote in a better one, when a change seems desirable; a city in which there is no demand for home talent that leads to a system of inbreeding which is the curse of many school systems, but in which teachers are employed who come from any part of the country, the only questions asked being such as re- late to their qualifications and efficiency. The superintendent has all the freedom and power which any one can desire, and is held, as he should be, strictly re- sponsible for results. 654 The Battle of the Strong. THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XXXVII. THE bell on the top of the Cohue Roy- ale clattered like the tongue of a scold- ing fishwife. For it was the opening day of the Assise dH6ritage, and the governor with his suite; the lieutenant- bailly with his dozen jurats, like so many parochial apostles; the avocats with their knowledge of lancien coil- tume de Normandie and the devious in- roads made upon it by the customs of Jersey; the seigneurs and the dames des fiefs, all were invited to assemble at the opening of this court, from which there was no appeal save to themselves, or by their own consent to the Kings Privy Council. This particular session of the Cour dH6ritage was to proceed with unusual spirit and importance; for after the Kings proclamation was read, the Royal Court and the states were to present the formal welcome of the island to Admiral Prince Philip dAvranche, Duc de Bercy; likewise to offer a bounty to every Jersey- man enlisting under him. The island was en fete. There had not been such a year of sensations since the battle of Jersey. The breaking out of the present war with France had been exciting, but the subsequent duties of guarding the coast, imposed upon every able-bodied citizen, proved so monotonous that the trial and interrupted hanging of Mattingley, the discovery of Olivier Delagardes crime and his escape, and the return of Philip dAvranche had thrilled the impressionable islanders into chattering demonstration. This 4th of October was to be still more notable, for a figure quite as re- markable in the history of Jersey as Philip dAvranche, and as distinguished elsewhere, was returning to the island upon business of importance. He was not a native; he was not Eng- lish. A dissipated stripling of the French court, he had come to Jersey with the filibuster Rullecour. He was returning now upon no business of invasion, but in pursuit of that justice for some one else which every Jerseyman is intent to secure for himself. He had come before in the night, to spoil and to conquer; he came now in the open morning, to main- tain that the things which were Gods be not given to Ciesar. It was Comte D6tricand de Tournay. A short time before, D6tricand had chanced to find in the prison of a cap- tured town in Brittany a clergyman of England bearing the name of Lorenzo Dow, who, after four years of confine- ment, was dying as apathetically as he had always lived. He had been taken captive at the breaking out of the war, had been thrown into prison, and lost sight of by the British government, as also by the ravenous French adminis- tration. When D6tricand discovered him on his bed of straw in a miserable dungeon, he was lying calmly asleep, with his fingers between the leaves of a book of meditations. He was forthwith taken to D& ricands own quarters, and there he died peacefully within a few days; remarking almost with his last breath that it was taking advantage of time to read the New Testament in translation. D6tricand had known Lorenzo Dow in Jersey, and in their brief conversations before the sick man died he discussed many things which troubled and con- founded him. He learned of the mar- riage of Guida and Philip, and there passed into his hands the little black leather-covered journal which was a re- cord of the life of Lorenzo Dow in Jer- sey and elsewhere. In this book were the details of the fateful marriage.

654 The Battle of the Strong. THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XXXVII. THE bell on the top of the Cohue Roy- ale clattered like the tongue of a scold- ing fishwife. For it was the opening day of the Assise dH6ritage, and the governor with his suite; the lieutenant- bailly with his dozen jurats, like so many parochial apostles; the avocats with their knowledge of lancien coil- tume de Normandie and the devious in- roads made upon it by the customs of Jersey; the seigneurs and the dames des fiefs, all were invited to assemble at the opening of this court, from which there was no appeal save to themselves, or by their own consent to the Kings Privy Council. This particular session of the Cour dH6ritage was to proceed with unusual spirit and importance; for after the Kings proclamation was read, the Royal Court and the states were to present the formal welcome of the island to Admiral Prince Philip dAvranche, Duc de Bercy; likewise to offer a bounty to every Jersey- man enlisting under him. The island was en fete. There had not been such a year of sensations since the battle of Jersey. The breaking out of the present war with France had been exciting, but the subsequent duties of guarding the coast, imposed upon every able-bodied citizen, proved so monotonous that the trial and interrupted hanging of Mattingley, the discovery of Olivier Delagardes crime and his escape, and the return of Philip dAvranche had thrilled the impressionable islanders into chattering demonstration. This 4th of October was to be still more notable, for a figure quite as re- markable in the history of Jersey as Philip dAvranche, and as distinguished elsewhere, was returning to the island upon business of importance. He was not a native; he was not Eng- lish. A dissipated stripling of the French court, he had come to Jersey with the filibuster Rullecour. He was returning now upon no business of invasion, but in pursuit of that justice for some one else which every Jerseyman is intent to secure for himself. He had come before in the night, to spoil and to conquer; he came now in the open morning, to main- tain that the things which were Gods be not given to Ciesar. It was Comte D6tricand de Tournay. A short time before, D6tricand had chanced to find in the prison of a cap- tured town in Brittany a clergyman of England bearing the name of Lorenzo Dow, who, after four years of confine- ment, was dying as apathetically as he had always lived. He had been taken captive at the breaking out of the war, had been thrown into prison, and lost sight of by the British government, as also by the ravenous French adminis- tration. When D6tricand discovered him on his bed of straw in a miserable dungeon, he was lying calmly asleep, with his fingers between the leaves of a book of meditations. He was forthwith taken to D& ricands own quarters, and there he died peacefully within a few days; remarking almost with his last breath that it was taking advantage of time to read the New Testament in translation. D6tricand had known Lorenzo Dow in Jersey, and in their brief conversations before the sick man died he discussed many things which troubled and con- founded him. He learned of the mar- riage of Guida and Philip, and there passed into his hands the little black leather-covered journal which was a re- cord of the life of Lorenzo Dow in Jer- sey and elsewhere. In this book were the details of the fateful marriage. The Battle of the Strong. 655 D6tricand had buried Lorenzo Dow, and then in a lull of warfare had set out in search of Philip dAvranche. Before he did so, however, he had had a se- cret meeting, under truce, with General Graudjon - Larisse, of the Republican army, to whom he told the story of Guida and Philip. From that moment Graudjon-Larisse and D6tricand had an office of honor to perform, but the former must first proceed to Paris on business pertaining to the army; and thus it hap- pened that D6tricand alone, after four years of famous service in a hopeless war, returned to Jersey to find Philip dAvranche. During every hour that passed be- tween his secretly leaving Grandjon- Larisse at Angers and his reaching Roque Platte, where he had landed, an invader, so many years before, his in- dignant strength of purpose grew. Im- mediately he set foot on Jersey, with an officer attached to his person and two soldiers of his legion he proceeded to the Church of St. Michaels, where the mar- riage of Philip and Guida had been per- formed. There, to his consternation, he learned that the register of births, mar- riages, and deaths had long since disap- peared. So far as he knew, the only record left was the little black journal got from the Reverend Lorenzo Dow. This was now in his own pocket. Returning to the town, and skirting it to avoid observation, D~tricand came up th~ Rue des Sablons, intending to seek Elie Mattingley and the Chevalier dii Champsavoys at the house in the Rue dEgypte; but as he passed, seeing the house of Jean Touzel, he dismounted, knocked, and, not waiting to be admit- ted, entered. Maitresse Aimable did not keep her seat, as she had done on Philips en- trance, a few days before. She rose slowly, a smile lighting her face that but now was clouded, and made essay to curtsy. Maitresse Aimable knew well whom she should honor herself in honor- ing, and the red cross and red heart of the Vend~e on the chieftains coat wiped out in her mind any doubtful memory of the idle, hard-drinking Savary dit D6tricand, and established this new D6- tricand in her favor. From Aimables mouthpiece, Jean, he learned all: what had chanced to Mat- tingley and Carterette, to Ranulph and his father, everything concerning Guida and her child, and of to-days proceed- ings at the Cour dH4ritage. The tale had scarce been told when the bell of the court-house began to ring. Long before chicane-chicane clanged out over the ~Tier Marchi the body of the court was filled. The lieutenant- governor, the lieutenant - bailly, the jurats, the military, arrived and took their places; the officers of the navy ar- rived, all save one, and he was to be the chief figure of this function. With each arrival the people cheered and the trumpets blared. The crowds in the Vier Marchi turned to the booths for refreshment, or to the printing-machine set up by La Pyramide, and bought half- penny chap-sheets telling of recent de- feats of the French, though mostly they told in ebullient words of the sea fight which had made Philip dAvranche an admiral, and of his elevation to a sovereign dukedom. Since the battle of Jersey the Vier Marchi had not been so full or so tumult- uous, yet the scene lacked some old ele- ments of picturesqueness. Long familiar things were absent. Men had been ac- customed to find a lounging-place near Carterettes booth, women near her fa- thers great oak chest; and the distorted figure of Dormy Jamais, winding in and out of the crowd with a fools wisdom on his lips, was missed in the general movement. It was as though La Pyra- mide itself had been suddenly spirited away during the night by some pitying genius of sculpture. and Norman feet 656 The Battle of the Strong. were as yet restless on the spot where it had stood. Inside the court there was more rest- lessness still. The Comtesse Chantavoine was in her place of honor beside the attorney-general, but Admiral the Duc de Bercy had not yet arrived. It was now many minutes beyond the hour fixed. The licutenant-bailly whispered to the governor, the governor to his aide, and the aide sought naval officers pre- sent; but these could give no explana- tion of the delay. Prince Philip and his flag-lieutenant came not. The greffler was indignant, the greffler was imperious, the greffler was disgusted; the greffler wrote down what would ap- pear to be sentences of imprisonment and fines, direful penalties against the princely delinquent. The greffler looked round him fiercely. In one of these fierce scoutings he encountered the still, impassive face of the Cointesse Chanta- voine, her eyes fixed calmly upon him; and, reduced to his natural stature again, he dropped back suddenly in his huge chair, a small swallow in a vast sum- mer. The Comtesse Chantavoine was the one person outwardly unmoved. What she thought who could tell? Hundreds of eyes scanned her face, and she seemed unconscious of them, indifferent to them. What would not the lieutenant-bailly have given for her calmness! What would not the greffler have given for her importance! She drew every eye by virtue of something which was more than the name of Duchesse de Bercy. The face of the Comtesse Chantavoine had an unconscious and indefinable dig- nity, a living command and composure, the heritage, perhaps, of a race who had ever been more fighters than courtiers, used to danger, more desiring good sleep after good warfare done than luxurious peace. She did not move her head, but her look seemed to be everywhere and yet nowhere; hers was the educated eye. She saw, as it were, the bailly at one end of the room, and the door by which Prince Philip should enter at the other. She saw the greffler, which disconcerted him; yet she did not see him, and she was not disconcerted. The silence, the tension, grew painful. A whole half hour had the court waited beyond the appointed time. At last, however, cheers arose outside, and all knew that the prince had come. Pre- sently the doors were thrown open, two halberdiers stepped inside, and an officer of the court announced Admiral his Se- rene Highness Prince Philip dAvranche, Duc de Bercy. Oni-gia, think of that! said a voice from somewhere in the hall. Prince Philip heard it, and he frowned, for he recognized the voice as that of Dormy Jarnais. Where it came from he knew not, nor could any one else see; for Dormy Jamais was snugly bestowed above a middle doorway in what was half balcony, half cornice. All present rose to their feet as Philip advanced, save the governor, the lieu- tenant-bailly, and the jurats. When he had taken his seat beside the Comtesse Chantavoine, there came the formal open- ing of the Cour dH6ritage. The comtesses eyes fixed themselves upon Philip. There was that in his manner which puzzled and evaded her clear, searching intuition. Some strange circumstance must have delayed him; for she saw that his flag-lieutenant was disturbed, and this, she felt sure, was not due to unpunctuality alone. She was hardly conscious that the lieutenant- bailly had been addressing Philip, until he had stopped and Philip had risen. He had scarcely begun speaking when the doors were thrown open again, and a woman came quickly forward. It was Guida. The instant she entered Philip saw her and stopped speaking. Every one turned. In the silence, Guida, looking neither to right nor to left, advanced almost to where the greffier sat, and dropping on her knee The Battle of the Strong. 657 and looking up to the lientenant-bailly and the jurats, stretched out her hands and cried that cry which is more to a Jerseyman than Allah to a Moham- medan Haro, haro! ~ laide, mon prince, on mefait tort! If one rose from the dead suddenly to command them to an awed obedience, Jerseymen could not be more at the mercy of the apparition than at the call of one who cried in their midst, Haro, haro! that ancient relic of the cus- tom of Normandy and Rollo the Dane. Whoso needed justice, whoso was tres- passed upon in mind, body, or estate, sought Rollo wherever he might be, in the highway, or at his prayers, or on the field of battle, or among the great of the land, and falling upon a knee cried to him, Haro, haro! ii laide, mon prince, on me fait tort! To this hour, whoso in Jersey is tres- passed on in estate maketh his cry unto Rollo, and the Royal Court whose right to respond to this cry was con- firmed by King John, and afterward by King Charles must listen, and every one must heed. That cry of Haro will make the workman drop his tools, the woman her knitting, the militiaman his musket, the fisherman his net, the school- master his birch, and the 4crivain his babble, to await the judgment of the Royal Court. Every jurat fixed his eyes upon Guida as though she had come to claim his life. The lieutenant-baillys lips opened twice as though to speak, but at first no words came. The governor sat with hands clenched upon his chair-arm. The breath of the crowd came in gasps of excitement. The Comtesse Chantavoine looked at Philip, looked at Guida, and knew that here was the opening of the scroll she had not been able to unfold. Now she should understand that some- thing which had made the old Duc de Bercy with his last breath say, Dont be afraid! VOL. LXXXII. NO. 493. 42 Philip stood moveless, his eyes steady, his face bitter, determined. Yet there was in his look, fixed upon Gaida, some strange mingling of pity and tenderness. It was as though two spirits were fight- ing in his face for mastery. The Coin- tesse Chantavoine touched him upon the arm, but he took no notice. Drawing back in her seat, she thenceforth looked at him and at Guida as one might watch the balances of justice in weighing life and death. She could not read this story, but one look at the faces of the crowd round her made her aware that here was a tale of the past which they all knew in little or in much. Haro, haro! i~ laide, mon prince, on me fait tort! What did she mean, this woman with the exquisite face, alive with power and feeling, and indignation and appeal? To what prince did she cry, for what aid? Who trespassed upon her? The hieutenant-bailly now stood up, a frown upon his face. He knew what scandal had said concerning Guida and Philip. He had never liked Guida, for in the first days of his importance as lieutenant-bailly, because of a rudeness upon his part, meant as a compliment, she had thrown his hat the hieuten- ant-baillys hat! into the Fauxbie by the Vier Prison. He thought her intru- sive thus to stay the proceedings of the Royal Court, with distinguished visitors present, by an appeal for he knew not what. But the law of Haro takes pre- cedence of all else. What is the trespass, and who is the trespasser? asked the bailly stern- ly, and forthwith took his seat. Guida rose to her feet now. Philip dAvranche has trespassed, she said. What Philip dAvranche, mademoi- selle? asked the bailly, in a rough, un- generous tone. She flashed upon him a look of con- tempt, and answered, Admiral Philip dAvranche, known as his Serene High- 658 The Battle of the Strong. ness the Due de Bercy, has trespassed on me. She did not look at Philip; her eyes were fixed upon the bailly and the ju- rats. The bailly whispered to one or two ~urats. Wherein is the trespass? he asked sharply. Tell your story. After an instants painful pause Guida told her tale. Last night, at Plernont, she said, in a voice trembling a little at first, but growing stronger as she went on, I left my child, my Guilbert, in his bed, with Dormy Jamais to watch beside him, while I went to my boat which lies a half mile from my hut. I left Dormy Jamais with the child because I was afraid be- cause I have been afraid these three days past that Philip dAvranche would steal him from me. I was gone but half an hour; it was dark when I returned. I found the door open. I found Dormy Jamais lying upon the floor unconscious, and my childs bed empty. He was gone, my child, my Guilbert! He was stolen from me by Philip dAvranche, Due de Bercy. What proof have you that it was the Due de Bercy? I have told your honor that Dormy Jamais was there. He struck Dormy Jamais to the ground, and rode off with my child. The bailly sniffed. Dormy Jamais is a simpleton, an idiot. Let Prince Philip dAvranche speak, she answered quickly. Half an hour ago I met him as I was on my way to his Castle of Mont Orgueil. He did not d9ny it then; he dare not deny it now. She turned and looked Philip in the eyes. He did not answer a word. He had not moved since she entered the court-room. He had kept his eyes fixed on her save for one or two swift glances toward the jurats. The crisis of his life had come. He was ready to meet it now: anything would be better than all he had gone through during the past ten days. In a moments mad impulse he had stolen the child, in the wild belief that through it he could reach Guida, could bring her to him. For now this woman who despised him, hated him, he desired more than all else in the world. Ambition has its own means of punish- ing. For its own gifts of place or for- tune it puts some impossible hunger in the soul of its victim which leads him at last to his own destruction. With all the world conquered there is still some mystic island of which it whispers, and to gain this its devotee risks all and loses all. The bailly saw by Philips look that Guida had spoken the truth. But he whispered to the jurats eagerly, and presently said with brusque decision, Our law of Haro may only apply to trespass upon property. Its intent is merely civil. Having said this, he opened and shut his mouth with gusto, and sat back as though expecting Guida to retire. Your law of Haro, Monsieur le Bailly! Guida answered, with a flash of her eyes and her voice ringing out fearlessly. Your law of Haro! The law of Haro comes from the custom of Normandy, which is the law of Jersey. You make its intent this, you make it that, but nothing can alter it and what has been done in its name for genera- tions. Is it so, then, that if Philip dAvranche trespasses upon my land or my hearth, I may cry Haro, haro! and you will take heed; but when it is blood of my blood, bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, that he has wickedly seized, when it is the head which I have pil- lowed on my breast for three years, a child who has known no father, a child who has been his mothers only compan- ion in her shame, the shame of an out- cast, then is it so that your law of Haro may not apply? No, no, mes- sieurs; it is the justice of Haro that I The Battle of the Strong. 659 ask, not your lax usage of it. From this Prince Philip I appeal to the spirit of that prince of Normandy who made this law, I appeal to the law of Jer- sey which comes from the law of Rollo. There are precedents enough, as you know well, messieurs. I demand of you my child, I demand! The bailly and the jurats were in a hopeless quandary. They glanced fur- tively at Philip. They were half afraid that she was right, and yet were timor- ous of deciding against the prince-ad- miral. She saw their hesitation. I ask you to fulfill the law. I have cried Haro, haro! and what I have cried men will hear outside this court, outside this Isle of Jersey; for I cry it against a sov- ereign duke of Europe. The bailly and the jurats were over- whelmed by the situation. Guidas brain was a thousand times clearer than theirs. Danger, peril to her child, had aroused in her every force of intelli- gence; she had the daring, the desper- ation, of the lioness fighting for her own. Philip himself solved the problem. Turning to the bench of jurats, he said quietly, She is quite right: the law of Haro is with her; it must apply. The court was in a greater maze than ever. Was he then about to restore to Guida her child? After an instants pause Philip con- tinued: But in this case there was no trespass for the child is my own. Every eye in the Cohue Royale fixed itself upon him, then upon Guida, then upon her who was known as the Du- chesse de Bercy. The face of the Coin- tesse Chantavoine was like marble, white and cold. As the words fell from Phil- ips lips a sigh hroke from her own, and there came to Philips mind that distant day in the council-chamber at Bercy, when for one moment he was upon his trial; but he did not turn and look at her now. It was all pitiable, horrible, but this open avowal, insult as it was to the Cointesse Chantavoine, could be no worse than the rumors which would surely have reached her one day. So let the game fare on. He had thrown down the glove now, and he could not see the end; he was playing for one thing only, for the woman he had lost, for his own child. If everything went by the board, why, it must go by the board. It all flashed through his brain: To-morrow he must send in his resigna- tion to the Admiralty, so much at once. Then France the dukedom of Bercy whatever happened, there was work for him to do at Bercy. He was a sov- ereign duke of Europe, as Guida had said. He would fight for the duchy for his sons sake. Standing there, he could feel again the warm cheek of the child upon his own as last night he felt it, rid- ing across the island from Plemont to Mont Orgueil. That very morning he had hurried down to a cottage at the foot of the cliff at Grouville Bay, and seen the boy lying still asleep in a little bed, well cared for by a woman of the village. He knew that to-morrow the scandal of the thing would belong to the world. He had tossed his fame as an admiral into the gutter, but Bercy was left. All the native force, the stub- born vigor, the obdurate spirit of the soil of Jersey of which he was, its arro- gant self-will, drove him straight into this last issue. But he stopped short in his thoughts, for there now at the court-room door stood D6tricand, Comte de Tournay! Philip drew his hand quickly across his eyes, it seemed so wild, so fantas- tic, that of all men D6tricand should be there. His gaze was so fixed that every one turned to see, every one save Guida. She was not aware of this new figure in the scene. In her heart there was tumult. Her hour had come at last, the hour in which she must declare that she was the wife of this man. She had no proofs, and no doubt he would deny 660 The Battle of the Strong. it now; for he knew how she loathed him. But she would tell her tale. She was about to address the bailly, but, as though a pang of pity shot through her heart, she turned instead and looked at the Comtesse Chantavoine. She could find it in her soul to pause in compassion for this poor lady, more wronged than herself. Their eyes met. One instants flash of intelligence be- tween the souls of two women, and Guida knew that the look of the Corn- tesse Charitavoine had said, Speak for your child. Thereupon she spoke. Messieurs, Prince Philip dAvranche is my husband, she said to the jurats. Every one in the court-room stirred with excitement. A weak-nerved wo- man in the crowd, with a child at her breast, began to cry, and the little one joined its feeble wail to hers. Four years ago, Guida continued, I was married to Philip dAvranche by the Reverend Lorenzo Dow in the Church of St. Michaels The bailly interrupted with a grunt. Hm! Lorenzo Dow is well out of the way. Have done. May I not then be heard in my own defense? Guida went on, with in- dignation. Four years I have suffered silently slander and shame. Now I speak for myself at last and you will not hear me. I come to this court of justice, and my word is doubted ere I can prove the truth! Is it for judges to assail one so? Four years ago I was married secretly in the chapel of St. Michaels, secretly, because Philip dAvranche urged it, pleaded for it. An open marriage, he said, would injure his promotion. We were wedded, and he left me. War broke out. I re- mained silent, according to my promise to him. Then came the time when, in the states of Bercy, he denied that be had a wife. From the hour I knew he had done so I denied him. My child was born in shame and sorrow. I my- self was an outcast from among you alL But my conscience was clear before Heaven. I took myself and my child out from among you to Plemont. I waited, believing that Gods justice is surer than mans. At last Philip dAvranche my husband returned here. He invaded my home,~and begged me to come to him as his wife with my child, he who had so evilly wronged me, and wronged another more than me. I refused. Then he stole my child from me. You ask for proofs of my mar- riage. Messieurs, I have no proofs. I know not where Lorenzo Dow may be found. The register of St. Michaels Church, as you all know, was stolen. Mr. Shoreham, who witnessed the marriage, was drowned. But you must believe me. There is one witness left, if he will but tell the truth, even the man who mar- ried me, the man who for one day called me his wife. I ask him now to tell the truth! Her clear eyes pierced Philip through and through. What was going on in Philips mind neither she nor any in that court might ever know; for in the pause the Coin- tesse Chantavoine rose up, and passing steadily by Philip came to Guida. Look- ing her in the eyes with an incredible sorrow, she took her hand, and turned toward Philip with infinite scorn. A strange, thrilling silence fell upon all the court. The jurats shifted in their seats with excitement. The bailly, in a hoarse, dry voice, said, We must have proof. There must be record as well as witness. From the body of the hall there came a voice, The witiiess and record are here! and D6tricand stepped forward, in his uniform of the army of the Yen- d6e. A hushed murmur ran round the room. The jurats whispered to one an- other. Who are you, monsieur? said the bailly. The Battle of the Strong. 661 I am DStricand, Prince of Vaufon- tame, he replied, for whom the Comtesse Chantavoine will vouch, he added in a pained voice, and bowed low to her and to Guida. He did not wait for the bailly to an- swer, but told of the death of Lorenzo Dow, and, taking from his pocket the little black journal, opened it and read aloud the record written there by the dead clergyman. Having read it, he passed the book to the greffier, who hand- ed it up to the bailly. A moments pause ensued. To the most ignorant and casual of the onlookers the strain of it was great; to those chiefly concerned it was supreme. rhe lieutenant-bailly and the jurats whispered together, and now at last a spirit of justice was roused in them. But the laws technicalities were still to rule. The bailly closed the book, and handed it back to the greffier with the words, This is not proof, though it is evi- dence. Guida felt her heart sink within her. The Comtesse Chantavoine, who still held her hand, pressed it, though she herself was cold as ice with sickness of spirit. At that instant, and from Heaven knows where, as a bird comes from a bush, a little gray man came quickly among them all, carrying spread open before him a book almost as big as him- self. Handing it up to the bailly, he said, Here is the proof, Monsieur le Bailly, here is the whole proof. The bailly leaned over and drew up the book. The jurats crowded near, and a dozen heads gathered about the open volume. At last the bailly looked up, and ad- dressed the court solemnly. It is the lost register of St. Mi- chaels. It contains a record of the mar- riage of Guida Landresse de Landresse and Lieutenant Philip dAvranche, both of the Isle of Jersey. Exactly so. exactly so. said the lit- tle gray figure, the Chevalier Orvillier du Champsavoys de Beaumanoir. Tears ran down his cheeks as he turned toward Guida, but he was smiling too. Guidas eyes were upon the bailly. And the child? she cried, with a broken voice, the child? The child goes with his mother, answered the bailly firmly. XXXIX. The day that saw Guidas restitution in the Cohue Royale brought but further trouble to Ranulph Delagarde. Intend- ing to join D~tricand at the headquarters of the army of the Vend~e, he landed at St. Malo, and was about to go on to Quiberon, where Sombreuil was making his last stand against the soldiers of Hoche, when he was seized by a press- gang and carried aboard a French f rig- ate commissioned to ravage the coasts of British North America. He had stubbornly resisted the press, but had been knocked on the head, and there was an end of it. In vaiii he protested that he was an Englishman. They laughed at him. His French was perfect, his accent was Norman, his was a Norman face, that was evidence enough. If he was not a citizen of France, lie should be, and he must be. Ranulph decided that it was needless to throw away his life, and ignominious to be hung from the yard-arm. It was better to make a show of submission, and so long as he had not to fight British ships he could afford to wait. Time enough then for him to take action. So he was carried away on the Victoire, which sailed the seas looking for ships to fight. His heart was heavy enough, in truth, an exile from his own land, banished from all early hopes, ambitions, and affec- tions. As the son of a traitor he had no longer heart to call himself a Jerseyman. His childhood had been embittered, his manhood poisoned. He had borne four 662 The Battle of the Strong. years of an incredible torture, face to face with his fathers presence and his fathers hidden crime. He had hoped to lose himself in the great struggle between the Royalists and the Red Gov- ernment, and to find a decent exit on the battlefield, or to deaden the ago- nies of his life by reviving his old ener- gies. But even that had been denied him, and here he was, forced into serv- ing a country he had been brought up to loathe. Yet there was one comfort in it all: his father had been saved the shame of an ignominious death at the hands of the law, and he himself now was free and alone. Just over thirty, he was not too old to begin the world again. In the land whither Mattingley and Car- terette had gone perhaps there was a field for work, and one might forget there as easily as in fighting with the peasants of the Vend~e. In any case, it was his duty to bear up against evil for- tune, to endure his present state, and, when the chance came, to escape from this bondage. So when lie was pressed he thought of his four years service with the artillery at Elizabeth Castle, and asked to be made a gunner. The impul- sive and choleric Richambean, captain of the Victoire, who loved strong men, and strong jokes, believing Ranulphs story, though professing to disbelieve it, thought it a noble jest to set an English- man fighting English ships. Thereupon he made a gunner of Ranulph, and kept an eye upon him. The Victoire sailed the seas, battle- hungry, and presently appeased her ap- petite among Dutch and Danish priva- teers. Such excellent work did Ranulph against the Dutchmen, whom he vaguely knew to be enemies of England, that Richambeau, delighted, gave him a gun for himself, and after they had fought the Danes made him a master gunner. Of the largest gun on the Victoire Ranulph grew inordinately fond. He had a genius for mechanism, and he begged from an English-speaking Datch prisoner a seamans vade-mecum and a book of defensive war at sea, and dili- gently studied the art of naval warfare. Meanwhile, the great gun, a 32-pound- er, won its way deeper into his affections, till at last he called it ma couzaine. The days and weeks passed, and then, after some actions against non-British privateers, wherein the Victoire was all- victorious and ma couzaine did her duty well, they neared the coast of America. One morning came the cry of Land! Land! and once again Ranulph saw British soil, the tall cliffs of the pe- ninsula of Gasp~. Gasp6, that name had been familiar to him since his child- hood. How many hundreds of Jersey- men had gone to and from Gasp6! It was like the other end of the world, to which all Jerseymen, if they would be called travelers, must go; it was the ultima thule to which Mattingley and Carterette had gone! The Victoire and her flotilla came nearer and nearer to the coast. There was no British ship in sight, no sign of fleet or defense; only the tall cliffs and infinite acreage of land beyond the mouth of the great St. Lawrence Gulf. Pre- sently he could see a bay and a great rock in the distance; and as they bore in now directly for the bay, the great rock seemed to stretch out like a vast wall into the gulf. As he stood watch- ing and leaning on ma couzaine, a sailor near him said that the bay was Perc6, and the rock was Perc6 Rock. Perc6 Rock! Since he was a child Ranulph had heard of Perc6 Rock. And Perc~ Bay, that was the exact point for which Ehie Mattingley and Carterette had sailed with Sebastian Alixandre. How strange it was! Not long ago he had bidden Carterette good-by forever, had put her aside with his old life, yet fate had now brought him to the very spot whither she had gone. After all, was it then so that mans fate is never in his own hands; that as it shall please The Battle of the Strong. 663 Heaven he must be tossed like a ball into the garden made with his own hands, or across the seas into the vast far coun- try? The Rock of Perc6 was a wall, and the wall was an island that had once been a long promontory like a battle- ment, jutting out hundreds of yards into the gulf. At one point it was pierced by an archway. Its sides were al- most sheer; its top was flat and level. Upon the sides there was no verdure; upon the top centuries had made a green field. The wild geese as they flew north- ward, myriad flocks of gulls, gannets, cormorants, and all manner of fowl of the sea, had builded upon the summit, until it was now rich with grass and shrubs. The nations of the air sent their legions here to bivouac. The discord of a hundred languages might be heard far out to sea, far in upon the land. Millions of the feathered races swarmed there; at times the air above was dark- ened by clouds of them. No fog-bell on a rock-bound coast might warn mari- ners more ominously than these battal- ions of adventurers on the Perc6 Rock. No human being had ever mounted to this eyrie or scaled the bulwarks of this feathered Eden. Three hundred feet below ship-builders might toil and fish- ermen hover, but the lofty home of the marauders of the air had not yet suf- fered the invasion of man. As the legend ran, this mighty palisade had once been a bridge of rock stretched across the gulf, builded by the gods of the land, who smote with granite arms and drove back ruined the appalling gods of the sea. Generations of fishermen had looked upon the yellowish-red limestone of the Perc~ Rock with valorous eyes, but it would seem that not even the tiny cling- ing hoof of a chamois or wild goat might find a foothold upon the straight sides of it. Three hundred feet was a long way to climb, hand over hand; so for centuries the Perc6 Rock in the wide St. Lawrence Gulf remained solitary and unconquered. On most men who had seen it Perc~ Rock made its own impression of mys- tery; upon Ranulph that impression was deeper than on most. He was roused out of the spell it cast upon him only by seeing suddenly the British flag upon a building by the shore of the bay they were now entering. His heart gave a great bound. He involuntarily looked up at the French tricolor flying over- head. It was curious that there should be such a difference in two pieces of bunting. (Or was it silk? No, it was bunting.) Just a little different arrange- ment in color, and yet the flag on the building by the shore roused his pulses to a heat. Yes, there was the English flag defiantly flying; and what was more, there were two old 12-pounders being trained on the French squadron. For the first time in years a laugh of rolling good humor burst from his lips. Oh my good! Oh mai grand doux! he said in the Jersey patois. Only one man in the world would do that, only Elie Mattingley! It was undoubtedly ridiculous, these two 12-pounders training on a whole fleet. Presently came more defiance, for there was run up beneath the Brit- ish flag an oblong piece of white linen with two diagonal red stripes. That was the flag of Jersey. Now beyond any doubt Elie Mattingley was in Perc~ Bay. As though to prove Ranulph right, Mattingley issued from a wooden fish- ing-shed with Sebastian Alixandre and three others armed with muskets, and passed to the little fort on which flew the British and Jersey flags. As Ranulph looked on, at once amazed and amused, he heard a guffaw behind him. Turning round, he suddenly straightened himself and stood at attention. Richambeau, the captain, had confronted him. That s a big splutter in a little pot, gunner, said he. He put his telescope 664 The Battle of the Strong. to his eye. The Lord protect us. he cried, they re going to fight my squad- ron! He laughed again till the tears came. Son of Peter, but it is droll, that, a farce au diable! They have humor, these fislierfolk, eh, gunner? Mattingley will fight, just the same, answered Ranuiph coolly. Oh, oh, you know these people, my gunner? asked Richambean. All my life, replied Ranulph, and, by your leave, I will tell you how. Not waiting for permission, after the manner of his country, he told Richam- beau again of his Jersey birth and bring- ing-up and of .his being pressed. Very good, remarked Richambeau. You Jersey folk were once French- men, and now that you re French again you shall do something for the flag. You see that 12-pounder yonder be- hind the wall? Very well, dismount it. Then we 11 send in a flag of truce, and parley with this iMiattingley; for his jests are worth our attention and politeness. There s a fellow at tIme gun no, lie has gone. Take good aim, and dismount the right-hand gun at one shot. Ready now, you have a good range. The whole matter went through Ra- nulphs mind as the captain spoke. If he refused to fire, lie would be strung up to the yard-arm. If he fired and missed, perhaps other gunners would fire; and once started they might raze the fishing-post. If he dismounted the gun, the matter would probably remain only a jest, for as such Richambean re- garded it as yet. There was no time to weigh the mat- ter further; Richambeau was frowning. So Ranulph smiled, as though the busi- ness was pleasing to him, and prepared to fire. He ordered the tackle and breechings cast away, had off the apron, pricked a cartridge, primed, bruised the priming, and covered the vent. Then he took his range, steadily, quietly. There was a brisk wind blowing from the sonth~ he must allow for that: but the wind was stopped somewhat in its course by the Perc6 Rock, he must al- low for that. He got what he thought was the right elevation; the distance was considerable, but he believed that he could do the business. He had a cool head, and his eye was quick and ac- curate. All was ready. Suddenly a girl ap- peared running round the corner of the building. It was Carterette! She was making for the right-hand gun, Sebastian Ahix- andre was going toward the other. Ra- nulph started; the hand that held the match trembled. Fire, you fool, or you 11 kill the girl! cried Richambeau. Ranulph laid a hand on himself, as it were. Every nerve in his body tingled, his legs trembled, but his eye was steady. He took the sight once more coolly, then blew on the match. Now the girl was within thirty feet of the gun. He quickly blew on the match again, and fired. When the smoke cleared away he saw that the gun was dismounted, and not ten feet from it stood Carterette looking (lazedly at it. He heard a laugh behind him: there was Richambeau walking away, telescope under arm. Presently Ranulph saw a boat lowered from the Victoire, even as the 12-pounder on shore replied impu- dently to the shot he had fired. The officers were laughing with Richambeau, and jerking their heads and fingers to- ward Ranulph. A good shot! he heard Richiam- beau say. Was it, then, said Ranulph to him- self, was it, indeed? Bk sfl, it was the last shot I will ever fire against aught English, here or elsewhere. Looking over the side, he saw a boat drawing away with the flag of truce in the hands of a sons - lieutenant. His mind was made up: he would escape to- night. His place was there beside his The Battle qf the Strong. 665 fellow countrymen. He turned to ma couzaine. It would be something of a wrench for him to leave her; for she had been a good friend to him at a bad time in his life. He motioned away the men of the gun. He would load ma couzaine for the last time. As he sponged the gun he made his plans. Swish-swash the sponge-staff ran in and out, he would try to steal away at dog-watch. He struck the sponge smartly on ma couzaines muzzle, cleansing it, he would have to slide into the water like a rat, and swim very softly to the shore. He took a fresh cartridge, and thrust it into the throat of ma couzaine as far as he could reach; and as he laid the seam downwards he said to himself that he could swim under water, if discovered as he left the Vic- toire. He lovingly placed the wad to the cartridge, and with three strokes of the hammer drove wad and cartridge home with the precision of a drill. It was a long swim to shore, but he thought if he got a fair start he could do it. As he unstopped the touch - hole and tried with the priming-wire whether the car- tridge was home, he pictured to himself being challenged, perhaps by Carterette, and his reply. Then he imagined how she would say, Oh my good! in true Jersey fashion, and then well, he had not yet thought beyond that point. By the time he had rammed home wad and shot, however, he had come upon a fresh thought, and it stunned him. Richambeau would send a squad of men to search for him, and if he was not found they would probably raze the post. As he put the apron carefully on ma couzaine, he determined that lie could not takc refuge with the Mattingleys. Neither would it do to make for the woods of the interior, for still Richam- beau might revenge himself on the fish- ing-post. This was not entirely to be wondered at, for ma couzaine would never behave so well with any one else. She had been used to playing ngly pranks when it was blowing fresh. She had once torn her tackle out of the ring-bolt in the deck, and had killed more than one sailor in her mad debauch of free- dom. Under his hand she had always behaved well, and it seemed to him that whenever he blew on the match her muzzle gaped in a grin of delight. De- cidedly, he must not go to the Matting- leys. No harm should come to them that lie could prevent. What was to be done? Leaning his arms on the gun, he turned his head and looked helplessly away from the land. All at once his look seemed to lose itself in a long aisle of ever widening, ever brightening arches, till a vast wilderness of splendor swallowed it. It was a hole in the wall, the archway piercing the great rock. He raised his eyes to the rock. Its myriad inhabitants shrieked and clat- tered and circled overhead. The shot from ma couzaine had roused them, and they had risen like a cloud, and were scolding like a million fishwives over this insult to their peace. As Ranulph looked, a new idea came to him. If only he could get to the top of that massive wall, not a hundred fleets could dislodge him. One musket could defeat the forlorn hope of any army. He would be the first man who ever gave battle to a fleet. Besides, if he took refuge on the rock, there could be no grudge against Perc~ village or the Mattingleys, and Richambean would not attack them. He had worked it out. It was now a question between himself and Richam- beau. There on the shore was the young sous-licutenant with his flag of truce. talking to Mattingley; they were all shaking hands. He must carry on the campaign independent of the Matting- leys. The one thing to do was to try to climb the rock. He eyed it closely. The blazing sunshine showed it up in a hard light, and lie studied every square yard of it with a telescope. At one 666 The Battle of the Strong. point the wall was not quite perpendicu- lar, and there were narrow ledges, lumps of stone, natural steps, and little pinna- cles, which the fingers could grip and where a man might rest. The weather had been scorching hot, too, the rocks were as dry as a bone, and there would be no danger of slipping. He would try it to-night. If he got to the top, he would riced twine for haul- ing up rope, the Mattingleys should provide that in good time. He would also need stone and flint, a knife, a hammer, and a quilt, all to be hauled up after he reached the top. For food he would take what was left of to-days ra- tions, of which he had eaten very little. About a half pound of biscuit, near half a pint of peas, a half pint of oatmeal, and two ounces of cheese were left. He could live on that for at least three days. He also had a horn of good arrack. When that was gone well, he was taking chances; if he died of thirst, it was no worse than the yard-arm. The most important thing was a few hundred feet of strong twine. Of that there was plenty in the storeroom, amongst the cordage, and he would get as much as he needed at once. But if he got up, how would the Mat- tingleys know who it was perched there on Perc6 Rock? He knew of no signal which they would understand. Well, if he got away safely from the Victoire, he would visit the Mattingleys first, and then go straight on to Perc6 Rock. Though it would be moonlight, his steep way of ascent was on the south side, out of view of the fleet. The rest of the day he did his duty as faithfully as though he were to be at his post the next morning. He gave the usual instructions to the gunsmith and armorer; he inspected the small arms; he chose a man, as was the custom, for gun-room watch; and he ate his supper phlegmatically in due course. It was the last quarter of the moon, and the neap tide was running low when he let himself softly down into the wa- ter. He had the blanket tied on his head; the food, stone and flint, and oth- er things were inside the blanket, and the twine was in his pocket. He was not seen, and he dropped away quietly astern. He got clear of the Victoire while the moon was partially obscured. Another ship lay in his path, and he must be careful in passing her. He was so near her that he could see the watch, could smell the hot tar and pitch from the lately caulked seams; he could even hear the laughter of the young foremast- men as they turned in. At last he was clear of the fleet. Now it was a question when his desertion would be discovered. All he asked was two hours. By that time the deed would be done, if he could climb Perc6 Rock at all. He touched bottom. He was on Perc6 sands. The blanket on his head was scarcely wetted. He wrung the water out of his clothes, and ran softly up the shore. Suddenly he was met by a cry of Qui va lh? and he stopped short at the point of Elie Mattingleys bayonet. Hush! was Ranulphs reply, and he gave his name. Mattingley nearly dropped his musket in surprise. He soon knew the tale of Ranulphs mis- fortunes, but he had not yet been told of his present plans when there came a quick footstep on the sands, and Carte- rette was at her fathers side. Unlike Mattingley, she did drop her musket at sight of Ranulph, and impulsively throw- ing her arms round his neck, she kissed him on the cheek, so had this meet- ing in a new land disarmed her old timidity. she exclaimed, that s for the Jersey sailor who s come in here through a fleet of Frenchmen! She thought he had stolen into the harbor under the very nose of Richam- beau and his squadron. But presently she was trembling with excitement at the The Battle of the Strong. 667 story of how ~Ranulph had been pressed at St. Malo, and all that came after un- til this very day when he had dismount- ed the gun not ten feet from where she stood. Go along with Carterette, said Mat- tingley. Alixandre is at the house; he 11 help you away into the woods. That was not Ranulphs plan, but he did not mean it for Mattingleys ears; so he hurried away with Carterette, tell- ing her his design as they went. Ranulph Delagarde, she said vehe- mently, you cant climb Perc~ Rock. No one has ever done it, and you must not try. Oh, I know you are a great man, but you must not try this. You will be safe where we shall hide you. You shall not climb the rock, ah no, bhsfli He pointed toward the post. They would nt leave a stick standing there, if you hid me. No, I m going to the top of Perc6 Rock. Mon doux terrible! she cried, in sheer bewilderment; and then his inten- tion inspired her with a purpose. At last her time had come; she felt it. Pardingue, she went on, clutching his arm, if you go to the top of Perc6 Rock, so will I! In spite of his anxiety he almost laughed. But see, but see, he said, and his voice dropped; you could nt stay up there with me all alone, gar~on Car- terette; and besides, Richambeau would be firing on you too! She was very angry now, but she made no reply, and he continued quickly: I 11 go straight to the rock. When they miss me there 11 be a pot boiling, you may believe, gar~on Carterette. If I get up, he added, I 11 let a string down for a rope you must get for me. Once on top they cant hurt me. Eh ben, h bit6t, gar~on Carterette! Oh my good! Oh my good! said the girl, with a quick change of mood. To think you have come like this, and perhaps But she dashed the tears from her eyes, and bade him go on. The tide was well out, the moon shin- ing brightly. Ranulph reached the point where, if the rock was to be scaled at all, the ascent must be made. For a distance there was shelving where foot- hold might be had by a fearless man with a steady head and sure balance. After that came about a hundred feet where he would have to draw himself up by juttings and crevices hand over hand, where was no natural pathway. Woe be to him if head grew dizzy, foot slipped, or strength gave out; his body would be broken to pieces on the hard sand below. That second stage once passed, the ascent thence to the top would be easier; for though nearly as steep, it had more ledges, and offered fair vantage to a man with a foot like a mountain goat. Ranulph had been aloft all weathers in his time, and his toes were as strong as another mans foot, and surer. He started. These toes of his caught in crevices, held on to ledges, glued themselves on to smooth surfaces; the knees clung like a rough-riders to a saddle; the big bands, when once they got a purchase, fastened like air-cups. Slowly, slowly up, foot by foot, yard by yard, until one third of the distance was climbed. The suspense and strain were immea- surable. To Ranulph it was like bring- ing a brig alone through a gale with a windward tide, while she yaws and qui- vers over twice the length of her bilge; like watching a lower-deck gun strain- ing under a heavy sea, with the lanyards and port tackle flying, and no knowing when the great machine would fly from her carriage and make fearful havoc. But he struggled on and on, and at last reached a sort of flying pinnacle of rock, like a hook for the shields of the gods. Here he ventured to look below, ex- pecting to see Carterette; but there was 668 The Battle of the Strong. only the white sand, and no sound save the long wash of the gulf. He drew the horn of arrack from his pockei and drank. He had two hundred feet more to climb; and the next hundred, that would test him, that would be the or- deal. There was no time to lose. While he hung here a musket-shot could pick him off from below, and there was no telling how soon his desertion might be discov- ered, though he hoped it would not be till morning. He started again. This was travail indeed. His rough fingers, his toes, hard as horn almost, began to bleed. Once or twice he swung quite clear of the wall, hanging by his fingers to catch a surer foothold to right or left, and just getting it sometimes by an inch or less. The strain and tension were terrible. His head appeared to swell and fill with blood: on the top it hurt him so that it seemed ready to burst. His neck was aching horribly with con- stant looking up; the skin of his knees was gone; his ankles were bruised. But he must keep on till he got to the top, or until he fell. He was fighting on now in a kind of dream, quite apart from all usual feel- ings of this world. The earth itself appeared far away, and he was toiling among vastnesses, himself a giant with colossal frame and huge sprawling limbs. It was like the gruesome visions of the night, when the body is an elusive, stu- pendous mass that falls into space after a confused struggle with immensities. It was all mechanical, vague, almost numb, this effort to overcome a moun- tain. Yet it was precise and hugely ex- pert, too; for though there was a strange mist on the brain, the body felt its way with a singular certainty, as might some molluscan dweller of the sea, sensitive like a plant, with intuition like an ani- mal. Yet at times it seemed that this vast body overcoming the mountain must let go its hold and slide away into the darkness of the depths. Now there was a strange convulsive shiver in every nerve God have mercy, the time was come! . . . No, not yet. At the very instant when it seemed the panting flesh and blood would be shaken off by the granite force repelling it, the fingers, like long antennie, touched horns of rock jutting out from ledges on the third escarpment of the wall. Here was the last point of the worst stage of the journey. Slowly, heavily, the body drew up to the shelf of limestone and crouched in an inert bundle. There it lay for a time. While the long minutes went by a voice kept calling up from below, call- ing, calling, at first eagerly, then anx- lously, then with terror. By and by the bundle of life stirred, took shape, raised itself, and was changed into a man again, a thinking, conscious being, who now understood the meaning of this sound coming up from the earth below, or was it the sea? A human voice had at last pierced the awful exhaustion of the deadly labor, the peril and strife, which had numbed the brain, while the body, in its instinct for existence, still clung to the rocky ledges. It had called the man back to earth: he was no longer a great animal, and the rock a monster with skin and scales of stone. Ranulph! Maitre Ranulph! Ah, Ranulph! Now he knew, and he answered down, All right! All right, gar~on Carte- rette! Are you at the top ? No, but the rest is easy. Hurry, hurry, Ranulph! If they should come before you reach the top! I 11 soon be there. Are you hurt, Ranulph? No, but my fingers are in rags. I am going now, ~ bitOt, gar~on Car- terette ! Ranulph! Sh, sh! do not speak. I am start- ing. There was silence for what seemed fIiIte Battle of the ~Strony. 669 hours to the girl below. Foot by foot the man climbed on, no less cautious be- cause the ascent was easier, for he was weaker. But he was on the monsters neck now, and soon he should set his heel on it; he was not to be shaken off. At last the victorious moment came. Over a jutting ledge he drew himself up by sheer strength and the rubber-like grip of his lacerated fingers, body, legs, knees, and now he lay fiat and breathless upon the ground. How soft and cool it was! rhis was long sweet grass touching his face, mak- ing a couch like down for the battered, wearied body. Surely this travail had been more than mortal. And what was this vast fluttering over his head, this million-voiced discord round him, like the buffetings and cries of spirits who welcome another to their torment? He raised his head and laughed in triumph. These were the cormorants, gulls, and gannets on the Perc6 Rock. Ranulph Delagarde had done what man had never done before him: he had done it in the night, with only the moon to lighten the monstrous labor of his in- credible adventure; he had accomplished it without help of any mortal sort. Legions of birds circled over him with wild cries, so shrill and scolding that at first he did not hear Carterettes voice calling up to him. At last, however, re- membering, he leaned over the cliff and saw her standing in the moonlight far below. Her voice came up to him indistinct- ly because of the clatter of the birds, Maitre iRanulph! Ranulph! She could not see him, for this part of the rock was in shadow. Ah bah, all right! he said, and taking hold of one end of the twine he had brought, he let the roll fall. It dropped almost at Carterettes feet. She tied to the end of it the rope she had brought from the post. He drew it up quickly. She had found no rope long enough, so she had tied three together; Ranuiph must splice them perfectly. Once more he let down the twine, and she fastened it to his blanket. It was a heavy strain on the twine, but the blan- ket and the food inclosed were got up safely. He lowered again, and this time he hauled up tobacco, tea, matches, nee- dles, cotton, a knife, and a horn of rum. Now she called for him to splice the ropes. There was no time to do that, but he tied them firmly together, and let the great coil down. This time he drew up a musket and some ammunition and another blanket. Again it was let down, and there were drawn up a crowbar, a handspike, and some tin dishes, which rattled derisively against the side of the great rock. Again the rope went down, and two bundles of sticks and fagots were attached, also a small roll of coarse cotton and a bearskin. Ranulph! Ranuiph! came Car- terettes clear voice again from far be- low. Gar~on Carterette, he replied. You must help Sebastian Alixandre up, she said. Sebastian Alixandre! Ranulph re- plied, dumfounded. Is he there? Why does he want to come? That is no matter, she said. He is coming. He has the rope round his waist. Pull away! It was better, Ranulph thought to himself, that he should be on Perc6 Rock alone, but the terrible strain had bewil- dered him, and he could make no pro- test now. Dont start yet! he called down. I 11 pull when all s ready! He fell back from the edge to a place in the grass where, tying the rope round his body, he could seat himself and brace his feet against a ledge of rock. Then he pulled on the rope and it was round Carterettes waist! Carterette had told her falsehood with- out shame, for she was of those to whom the end is more than the means. She 6TO The Battle of the Strong. began climbing, and Ranuiph pulled steadily. Twice he felt the rope sud- denly jerk when she lost her footing, but it came in evenly still, and he used a nose of rock as a sort of winch. He knew when the climber was more than one third of the way up by the greater weight upon the rope, by the more fre- quent slippings. Yet this was no such monstrous struggle as had been Ranulphs climbing; this was the scaling of a con- quered wall by the following of the vic- torious. The climber was nearly two thirds of the way up when a cannon-shot boomed out over the water, frightening again the vast covey of birds, which shrieked and honked till the air was a maelstrom of cries. Then came another cannon-shot. Ranulphs desertion was discovered. Upon the other side of the rock boats were putting out toward the shore. Ranulph knew each movement as well as if he were watching them. The fight was begun between a single Jersey ship- wright and a fleet of French warships. His strength, however, could not last much longer. Every muscle of his body had been strained and tortured, and even this easier task tried him beyond endurance. His legs stiffened against the ledge of rock, the tension on his arms made them numb; he wondered how near Alixandre was to the top. Sud- denly there was a pause, then a heavy jerk. Love of God! the rope was shoot- ing through his fingers, his legs were giving way! He gathered himself to- gether, and then, with teeth, hands, and body rigid with enormous effort, he pulled and pulled. Now he could not see. A mist swam before his eyes. Everything grew black, but he pulled on and on. He never knew just when the climber reached the top. But when the mist cleared away from his eyes Carterette was bending over him, putting rum to his lips, as he sat where he had stiffened with his last great effort. Carterette! Gar~on Carterette ! he murmured, amazed. And then, as the truth burst upon him, he shook his head in a troubled sort of way. What a cat I was! said Carterette. What a wild-cat I was to make you haul me up! It was bad for me with the rope round me; it must have been awful for you, my poor ~smanus, my poor scarecrow Ranulph. Scarecrow indeed he looked. His clothes were nearly gone, his hair was tossed and matted, his eyes were blood- shot, his big hands were like pieces of raw meat, his feet were covered with blood. My poor scarecrow! she repeated, and she tenderly wiped the blood from his face where his hands had touched it. Now bugle-calls and cries of command came up to them, and in the first light of morning they could see French offi- cers and sailors, Mattingley, Alixandre, and others hurrying to and fro. When day came clear and bright, it was known that Carterette as well as Ranuiph had vanished. Mattingley shook his head stoically, but Richam- beau on the Victoire was as keen to hunt down one Jersey Englishman as he had ever been to attack an English fleet, more so, perhaps. Meanwhile the birds kept up a wild turmoil and shrieking. Never before had any one heard them so clamorous. More than once Mattingley had looked at Perc6 Rock curiously; but whenever the thought of it as a refuge came to him, he put it away. No, it was impos- sible. Yet what was that? Mattingleys heart thumped under his coat. There were two persons on the lofty island wall, a man and a woman. He caught the arm of a French officer near him. Look, look! he exclaimed. The officer raised his glass. It s the gunner! he cried, and handed the glass to the old man. It s Carterette! said Mattingley The Battle of the Strong. 671 in a hoarse voice. But it s not possi- ble, its not possible, he added help- lessly. Nobody was ever there. My God, look at it, look at it! It was a picture indeed. A man and a woman were outlined against the clear air, putting up a tent as calmly as though on a lawn, thousands of birds wheeling over their heads, with querulous cries. A few moments later Elie Mattingley was being rowed swiftly to the Victoire, where Richambeau himself was swear- ing viciously as he looked through his telescope. He also had recognized the gunner. He was prepared to wipe out the fish- ing-post if Mattingley did not produce Ranulph. Well, here was Ranulph duly produced, and insultingly setting up a tent on this sheer rock, with some snip- pet of the devil, said Richambeau, and defying a whole French fleet. He would set his gunners to work. If he only had as good a marksman as Ranulph himself, the deserter should drop at the first shot, Death and the devil take his impudent face! He was just about to give the order when Mattingley was brought to him. The old mans story amazed him beyond measure. It is no man, then! said Richam- beau, when Mattingley had done. He must be a damned fly to do it! And the girl, sacr~ moi! he drew her up after him. I 11 have him down out of that, though, or throw up my flag, he added, and turning fiercely gave his or- ders. For hours the French ships bombard- ed the lonely rock from the north. The white tent was carried away, but the cannon-balls flew over or merely bat- tered the solid rock, the shells were thrown beyond, and no harm was done. But now and again the figure of Ra- nulph appeared, and a half dozen times be took aim with his musket at the French soldiers on the shore. Twice his shots took effect: one man was wounded, and one killed. Then whole companies of marines returned a musketry fire at him, to no purpose. At his ease he hid himself in the long grass at the edge of the cliff, and picked off two more men. Here was a ridiculous thing: one man and a slip of a girl fighting and defying a whole squadron. The smoke of battle covered miles of the great gulf. Even the sea birds shrieked in ridicule. This went on for three days at inter- vals. With a fine chagrin, Richambeau and his fleet saw a bright camp-firelight- ed on the rock, and knew that Ranuiph and the girl were cooking their meals in peace. A flagstaff, too, was set up, and a red cloth waved defiantly in the breeze. At last, Richambeau, who had watched the whole business from the deck of the Victoire, burst out laughing at the ab- surd humor of the situation, and sent for Elie Mattingley. I ye had enough, said he. How long can he last up there? He 11 have birds eggs in plenty, and there s wild berries too, besides ground rats and all of them. And if I know my girl, there s rations gone aloft, replied Mattingley, with a grim smile. Chest tr~s ship - shap? up there ! Come, I ye had enough, said Hi- chambeau, and he gave orders to stop firing. When the roar of cannon had ceased he said to Mattingley again, There never was a wilder jest, and I 11 not spoil the joke. He has us on his toast- ing-fork. I shall give him the honor of a flag of truce, and he must come down. His lower lip shook with laughter. And so it was that a French fleet sent a flag of truce to the foot of Perc6 Rock, and a French officer, calling up, gave the word of honor of his captain that Ranuiph should suffer nothing at the hands of a court-martial, and that he should be treated as a prisoner of war. 672 The Battle of the Strona. As a prisoner of war! thought Ra- nuiph. Then he was to be treated like an English belligerent, and not like a French deserter. He accepted Richam- beaus offer, and, with Carterette, made ready to descend. It was easier going down than coming up. There was no court-martial. After Ranulph,at Richambeau s command, had told the tale of the ascent, the French- man said, No one but an Englishman could be fool enough to try such a thing, and none but a fool could have had the luck to succeed. You have proved, gun. ner, that you are no Frenchman. Then I am no deserter, monsieur? asked Ranuiph. You are a fool, gunner; but even a fool can get a woman to follow him, and so this flyaway followed you arid Carterette flew at Richambeau as though to scratch his eyes out, but Ra- nulph held her back. And you are condemned, gunner, continued Richambeau dryly, to marry the said maid before sundown, or be carried out to sea a prisoiier of war. So saying, he laughed and bade them begone to the wedding. Rr~nulph left Richambeaus ship be. wildered and perturbed. For hours he paced the shore, and at last his thoughts began to clear. The new life he had led during the last few months had brought many revelations. He had come to realize that there are several kinds of happiness, but that all may be divided into two classes, the happiness of doing good to ourselves, and that of doing good to others. It all opened out clear- ly to him, as he thought of Carterette in the light of Richambeans coarse jest. For years he had known in a sort of way that Carterette preferred him to any other man. He knew now that she had remained single because of him. For him her impatience had been pa- tience; her fiery heart had spilt itself in tenderness for his misfortunes. She who had lightly tossed lovers aside, her coquetry appeased, had to himself shown sincerity without coquetry, loyalty with- out selfishness. He knew well that she had been his champion in dark days; that he had received far more from her than he had ever given, even of friend- ship. In his own absorbing love for Guida Landresse, during long years, he had been unconsciously blind to a devo- tion which had lived on without hope, without repining, with untiring cheerful- ness. In those three days spent on the top of the Perc6 Rock how blithe gar~on Carterette had been! Danger had seemed nothing to her. She had the temper of a man in her real enjoyment of the desperate chances of life. He had never seen her so buoyant; her an- imal spirits had never leaped so high. And yet withal, despite the boldness which had sent her to the top of Perc6 Rock with him, there had been in all her demeanor a modesty at once frank and free from self-consciousness. She could think for herself, she was sure of herself, and she would go to the ends of the earth for him. Surely he had not earned such friendship, such affection. He recalled how, the night before, as they sat by their little camp-fire, perched there between heaven and earth, the fleet beneath on one hand and the fish- ing-post on the other, the tall masts flick- ering in the moonlight, the flagstaff lift- ed above the fort like a white finger, he recalled how, after a long silence, she had risen to her feet, had come over and touched him on the shoulder, and look- ing down at him had said, I feel as if I was beginning my life all over again; dont yon, Maitre Ranulph? Her black eyes had been fixed on his, and the fire in them was as bright and full of health and truth as the fire at his feet. He had answered her, I think I feel that, too, gar~on Carterette. Then she replied, It is nt hard to forget here, not so very hard, is it? Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. 673 She did not mean Guida, nor what he had felt for Guida, but rather the mis- ery of the past. He had nodded his head in reply, but had not spoken; and she, with a quick A bit6t, had taken her blanket and gone to that part of Perc6 Rock which was set apart for her own. Then he had sat by the fire think- ing through the long hours of the night; and by the time the sun rose and the sailors were stirring in the sloops below he realized that a new life had been born in him. That day Richambeau had sent his flag of truce, and the end of their stay on Perc6 Rock had come. Now he would marry Carterette. Yet he was not disloyal, even in mem- ory. What had belonged to Guida be- longed to her forever, belonged to a past life with which henceforth he should have naught to do. What had sprung up in his heart for Carterette be- longed to this new life. It had the dig- nity of affection, and it had the power of unselfishness. In this new land there was work to do, what might he not accomplish here? He realized that within one life a man may still live sev- eral lives, each after its kind, and yet not be dishonest or disloyal. A fate stronger than himself had brought him here, and here he would stay with fate. It had brought him to Carterette, and who could tell what good and content- ment might not yet come to him, and how much to her! That evening he went to Carterette and asked her to be his wife. She turned pale, and, looking up into his eyes with a kind of fear, she said bro- kenly, It s not because you feel you must? It s not because you know I love you, Ranulph, is it? It is not for that alone? It is because I want you, gar~on Carterette, he answered tenderly, because life will be nothing without you.~~ I am so happy, par mad6, I am so happy! she said, and she hid her face on his breast. (To be continued.) Gilbert Parker. UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF CARLYLE. III. THE old mother was not ungrateful for her sons mindfulness. Nothing in their relations is more touching than the brevity and stiffness of her letters, with every now and then some burst of nat- ural affection which even the artificial medium cannot check. Margaret Car- lyle had learned to write in adult life for the sake of replying to her sons let- ters, but the pen never became an obe- dient instrument in her hand. She could always have sympathized with Joe Gar- gery. VOL. LXXXII. No. 493. 43 XXII. TO CARLYLE FROM HIS MOTHER. ScoTsinelG, Sept. 13, 1842. M~ DEAR SON, It is a long time since you had a word from me, though I have had many kind letters from you, for which if I am not thankful enough, I am glad. I am full as well as I was when you saw me last. I am reading the poem on Luther and I am much pleased with it. I wish the author God- speed. It is a good subject and well handled, is my opinion of it. I had a letter from John yesterday, he thinks he will see us in the Course of a month or so. We will be glad to see him again

Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. 673 She did not mean Guida, nor what he had felt for Guida, but rather the mis- ery of the past. He had nodded his head in reply, but had not spoken; and she, with a quick A bit6t, had taken her blanket and gone to that part of Perc6 Rock which was set apart for her own. Then he had sat by the fire think- ing through the long hours of the night; and by the time the sun rose and the sailors were stirring in the sloops below he realized that a new life had been born in him. That day Richambeau had sent his flag of truce, and the end of their stay on Perc6 Rock had come. Now he would marry Carterette. Yet he was not disloyal, even in mem- ory. What had belonged to Guida be- longed to her forever, belonged to a past life with which henceforth he should have naught to do. What had sprung up in his heart for Carterette be- longed to this new life. It had the dig- nity of affection, and it had the power of unselfishness. In this new land there was work to do, what might he not accomplish here? He realized that within one life a man may still live sev- eral lives, each after its kind, and yet not be dishonest or disloyal. A fate stronger than himself had brought him here, and here he would stay with fate. It had brought him to Carterette, and who could tell what good and content- ment might not yet come to him, and how much to her! That evening he went to Carterette and asked her to be his wife. She turned pale, and, looking up into his eyes with a kind of fear, she said bro- kenly, It s not because you feel you must? It s not because you know I love you, Ranulph, is it? It is not for that alone? It is because I want you, gar~on Carterette, he answered tenderly, because life will be nothing without you.~~ I am so happy, par mad6, I am so happy! she said, and she hid her face on his breast. (To be continued.) Gilbert Parker. UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF CARLYLE. III. THE old mother was not ungrateful for her sons mindfulness. Nothing in their relations is more touching than the brevity and stiffness of her letters, with every now and then some burst of nat- ural affection which even the artificial medium cannot check. Margaret Car- lyle had learned to write in adult life for the sake of replying to her sons let- ters, but the pen never became an obe- dient instrument in her hand. She could always have sympathized with Joe Gar- gery. VOL. LXXXII. No. 493. 43 XXII. TO CARLYLE FROM HIS MOTHER. ScoTsinelG, Sept. 13, 1842. M~ DEAR SON, It is a long time since you had a word from me, though I have had many kind letters from you, for which if I am not thankful enough, I am glad. I am full as well as I was when you saw me last. I am reading the poem on Luther and I am much pleased with it. I wish the author God- speed. It is a good subject and well handled, is my opinion of it. I had a letter from John yesterday, he thinks he will see us in the Course of a month or so. We will be glad to see him again 674 Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. if it please God. We have excellent weather here. I do not remember such a summer and harvest. Jamie had a good crop and very near all in and well got up. Isabel is still poorly. She is rather better than she was at one time. How are you after your wanderings? Write as soon as you can and tell us all your news. Ever your affectionate Mother, M.A.C. XXIII. TO MRS. HAHEING, AT THE GILL, FROM HER MOTHER. ScOTsBRIG, Monday [184018b1]. Mv DEAR JENNY, I have been long- ing for you to come here for a long time. I want to send two hams on to London. Could you get a box which would hold the shirts and both could be sent at the same time. If you have not sent them any, bring them over as soon as you can, and come soon. At any rate bring the winter things that Jean sent. We are all in our frail way of health. Give my kindest love to young and old. Ever your old mother, M. A. C. Much as Carlyle had been thinking about Cromwell, another book was to come first, a book for which his very trip to Cromwells country was fruitful in suggestion. At St. Ives he bad seen not only Cromwells farm, but also St. Ives poorhouse with its inhabitants, in the sun, to be sure, but neither spinsters nor knitters, nor workers after any fashion, for the simple reason that they had no work to do. The Chartist riots of 1842 remained in Carlyles mind with this symbolic picture, and by Octo- ber of the same year he was deeply pon- dering the condition of the English nation all sitting enchanted, the poor enchanted so that they cannot work, the rich enchanted so that they cannot en- joy. Over against this contemporary view Carlyle set the life of the monks of Bury St. Edmunds, as told by their chronicler, Jocelyn de Brakelonde; and the result was Past and Present, writ- ten, apparently with less struggle than any of the authors other books, in the first seven weeks of 1843. Although Car- lyle went too far in this work, as in- deed he so seldom failed to do, Past and Present proved the germ of more than one sadly needed reform; and the splendid, sonorous passage beginning, All true work is sacred, will remain, one must believe, an inalienable posses- sion of English literature and English morals. Publication followed in April, and soon afterward Carlyle wrote in his Journal: That book always stood be- tween me and Cromwell, and now that has fledged itself and flown off. Face to face with Oliver again, Carlyle went ln the summer of 1843 to see famous battlefields of the civil war. He so planned his itinerary as to reach Dunbar on the 3d of September, the day of the fight there, the day of Worcester fight, and the day of Cromwells death. This professional journey was pre- ceded by a peaceful month at Scotsbrig, and followed by a visit to Erskine which fixes the date of the next letter. XXIv. CARLYLE TO 111$ MOTHER, 5COT5BRIG. [LINLATHEN, early September, 1843.] Yesterday by appointment, the good Thomas Erskine took me up at Kirk- caldy, carried me off hither on the top of the coach, bag and baggage. The day was damp and dim, not exactly wet, yet in danger of becoming very. There had been rain in the night time (Sab- bath night or early on Monday morn- ing) but there fell no more. This day again is oppressively hot, dry yet with- out sun or wind a baddish day for a stook. But they prophesy fair wea- ther now which I shall be glad of, and the whole country will be glad, for all is white here, in sheaves and stooks, and little got into ricks. We got here abont 5 in the evening, a great Unpublished Letters qf Garlyle. 675 party of people in the house (a big Lairds house with fiankeys & c., & c.). I was heartily tired before I got to bed. I do not think I shall be rightly at rest till I get on ship board, then I will lie down and let all men have a care of stirring me, they had better let the sleeping dog lie! The Dundee steam- ers are allowed to be the best on these waters, large swift ships and very few passengers in them at present. I spoke for my place yesterday and am to have the best. The kind people here will re- lieve me down (it is four miles off) and then about 4 oclock in the afternoon I shall light a pipe in peace and think of you all, speaking not a word. I ex- pect to sleep well there too, and then on Friday, perhaps about 3 oclock, I may be at London Bridge and home by the most convenient conveyance to Chelsea for dinner. This, if all go well, this ends for the present my pilgrirnings up and down the world. Dear Mother, I wish I had gone di- rect home when I left you, for it is not pleasant somehow to be still in Scotland and fay from you. I speak not the thoughts I send towards you, for speech will not express them. If I arrive home on Friday you may perhaps find a news- paper at Ecclefechan on Sabbath morn- ing, Monday much likelier. God bless you all. tising on her accursed piano - forte. There had then to be another upheaval: down went a partition in one room, up went a new chimney in another; and still another library, farther from the piano, was thus contrived. Finally, the young lady, charmed by a seductive letter from Carlyle, agreed never to play until two in the afternoon. The dinner hour was changed to the middle of the day, because Carlyle thought it would be better for his (ligestion. Although these changes, which in Mrs. Carlyles account seem planet-shaking, were in the interest of Cromwell, Crom- well re~~ained persistently unwritable. On the 4th of December the historian wrote to Sterling: Confound it! I have lost four years of good labour in the business; and still the more I expend on it, it is like throwing good labor after bad. Two days later he put a better face on it to his mother. xxv. cARLYLE TO HIS MOTHER, ScOTsBRIG. CHELSEA, Monday, 6th Dec. 1843. M~ DEAR MoTHER,We have a letter from Jean this week, who reports a visit to you and gives us a description of what you were about. We were very glad to look in upon you in that way. Jean describes you as very well when they came, but since then (though she tells us of your prohibition to mention it T. CARLYLE. at all) there has been some ill turn of health which we long greatly to hear of the removal of! I study, dear Mother, not to afflict myself with useless anxie- ties, but on the whole it is much better that one knows exactly how matters do stand, the very fact, no better and no worse than it is. To-day there was a little iNote from James Aitken apprising us that the Books are come, that Jenny is with him. He has evidently heard nothing farther from Scotsbrig, so we will hope things may have got into their usual course again there. But Jamie or somebody may write us a scrap of intel- ligence, surely? Carlyle returned from his travels very bilious, so his wife wrote to Mrs. Aitken in October, 1843, and contin- ues very bilious up to this hour. He could not refuse a certain admiration at the state of the house, which had been painted and papered in his absence. Mrs. Carlyle, with her own hands, had put down carpets, newly covered chairs and sofas, and arranged a library ac- cor(iing to his (expressed) mind. His satisfaction lasted only three days, for on the morning of the fourth day the young lady next door took a fit of prac 676 Unpublished Letters of Garlyle. This is said to be a very unhealthy season here; for the past two months about two hundred more deaths in the week have occurred than is usual at this season, but J rather conjecture it is the result of the long continued hardship the Poor have been suffering, which now, after wearing out the constitution by hunger and distress of mind, begins to tell more visibly Our weather is very mild, soft without any great quan- tity of rain and not at all disagreeable. Janes cold is gone again and we are in our common way. My Book goes on badly, yet I do think it goes on, in fact it must go: Bore away at it with con- tinuous boring day and night and it will be obliged to go! I study however not to split my gall with it, but to hasten slowly as the old iRomans said. When writing will not brother with me at all, I fling it entirely by and go and walk many a mile in the coun- try. I have big thick shoes, my jacket is waterproof against slight rain, I take a stick in my hand and walk with long strides. The farther ill walk, the abler I grow; in fact I am rather in better health, I think, than usual, if all things are considered. Jack and I had a long walk after Tailors for some three hours in the moonlight streets last night. To- day it is damp, but I am for a sally again. Alas, it is but a very poor morn~ ing task I have done, but we cannot help it. Adieu, dear good Mother, for our sakes take care of yourself. My love to all. Yours affections T. CARLYLE. Carlyle never liked any portrait of him- self. The one mentioned in the follow- ing letter had made him look like a flayed horses head. XXVI. cARLYLE TO HIS MOTHER, scOTSBRIG. CHELSEA, 10th March, 1844. MY DEAR MOTHER, It is a shame for me if I do not write a bit of a letter to you. There is nothing else I can do for you at present. I will scribble you a few words of news on this paper, let other employments fare as they can for the present. I sent your good little note to the Doctor. Jamies letter for Alick came duly to hand and was duly forwarded; I also wrote a letter to Alick myself. Poor fell2w, I suppose he has had a very sol- itary, meditative winter of it over in America, and has no doubt had a great many reflections in his head, looking back and looking forward, with perhaps sad- ness enough, but it will do him good, I really believe. Perhaps this winter, seem- ingly one of the idlest he has had, may turn out to be one of the most profitably occupied. My own hope and persuasion is that he will now do well, that he is prob- ably about to begin a new course of ac- tivity on better terms than before, better terms both inward and outward, and that in fine, poor fellow, he may begin to see the fruit of his labor round him and go on with much more peace and prosperity than heretofore. . . . I also like the tone of his letters, which is much quieter than it used to be. He does not know, I suppose, in what direction he is to go when April arrives. I urged, as Jamie did, that a healthy quality of situation should outweigh all other considerations whatever, that for the rest all places seemed to me much alike; if the land were cheap, it would be unfavourably situated & c. I also hinted my notion that a small piece of good handy soil might be preferable to a large lot of un- towardly, outlying ground. We can only hope and pray he may be guided well. We cannot assist him with any real guidance. Difficulties beset a man every- where under this sun. There if he have patience, insight. energy and justness of mind he will daily conquer farther, not otherwise, either in America or here. But, as I said, I have never lost hope with Alick, and I have now better hope than ever. We will commit him to the Unpublished Letters of Garlyle. 677 all-wise Governor with many a prayer from the bottom of all our hearts that it may be well with him. To hear and know that he does see good under the sun, fighting his way like a true man in that new country! what a comfort to you and to every one of us. My dear Mother, I know your heart is many a time sad about Alick. He is far away and there are others of us gone still farther, beyond the shores of this earth, whither our poor thoughts vainly strive to follow them, our hearts love fol- lowing them still: but we know this one thing, that God is there also, in America, in the dark Grave itself and the unseen Eternity even He is there too, and will not He do all things well? We have no other Anchor of the soul in any of the tempests, great or little, of this world. By this let us hold fast and piously hope in all scenes and seasons whatsoever. Amen. You bid me call on Patience in this Book of mine. Dear Mother, it is the best and only good advice that can be given. I do endeavour to call on patience and sometimes she comes, and if I keep my shoulder stiffly at the wheel withal, we shall certainly get under way by and bye. The thing goes indeed, or now promises to go, a little better with me. I stand to it as I can. But it will be a terribly difficult job and take a long time, I think. However, that it is a useful one, worthy to be done by me I am resolved, and so I will do it if permitted the return and earthy reward of it may be either great or small, or even nothing and abuse into the bargain, just as it likes. Thank Heaven I can do either or any way as to that, for this time, and indeed, often when I look at it, the prizes people get in this world and the kind of people that get them seem but a ridiculous business. If there Were not something more seri- ous behind all that, I think it would hardly be worth while to live in such a place as this world at all. In short I hold on the best I can and my good Mothers picture looking down on me here, seems to bid me call on Pa- tience and persevere like a man. Jane has not been very well in these cold stormy weeks, but I think is now getting better again. It is the spring weather, which this year has been the real winter; all manner of people are unwell here at present. You in the North have it still worse, far worse than we. Many a time have I asked myself what is becoming of my good old Mo- ther in these wild blasts. Surely you keep good fires at Scotsbrio? Surely you wear the new Hawick sloughs? Jane finds hers very warm and nice; but the thing you might improve greatly and never do is your diet. I think you should live chiefly on fowl. A hen is always fair food, divide her into four pieces she makes you an excellent dinner of soup and meat for four days. This you know very well for others, but never learn it for yourself. I am very serious. You should actually set about this reform. Do now you will find it more important on your health than any medicine or other appliance you can think of. Jenny, I suppose, is still at the Gill. When you feel tired of soli- tude again she will come back to you. The bairns as they grow will be quieter and give less trouble. Poor Jenny, no doubt of it, she has many cares of her own: we should all be gentle with her, pity her and help her what we can. But now I suppose you are very im- patient to know what is in that paste board roll tied with string. Open the string with your scissors and you will see one of the ugliest pictures ever drawn of man. A certain person here has been publishing some book called Spirit of the Age, pretending to give people account of all the remarkable men of the age; he has put me into it better luck to him. He wrote several months ago requesting that I should furnish him with some life of myself 678 Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. forsooth! This I altogether begged leave respectfully to decline, but he got hold of a picture that a certain painter has of me, and of this he has made an en- graving, like me in nothing, or in very little, I should flatter myself. Let Isa- bella roll the paper of it the contrary way and then it will lie flat, if indeed the post office bags do not squeeze it all to pieces, which I think is fully as like- ly and will be no great matter. I sent it to you as to the one that had a right to it. Much good may it do you! Jamie said he would write. Let him do so or else you yourself ought to write, or both will be best. Jack and I were at Dinner together among a set of notables the night before last, came home together smoking two cigars, all right. Adieu, dear Mother, my big sheet is done. My regards to Isabella, to Jamie and them all. My blessings with you, dear Mother. Yours affect. T. CARLYLE. In 1844 there was no Scotland for Carlyle, but early in September he went to Mr. and Lady Harriet Baring at the Grange. The Baring friendship had begun to rise into his life. not yet in the form of a cloud. All the rest of the year Carlyle stayed closely at home, working on Cromwell, and seeing fewer people than usual. The following quaint fragment belongs to this period, from which Froude has preserved none of Carlyles letters or journal record. Exvii. CARLYLE TO MRS. MANNING. CHELSEA, 16th Dec. 1844. DEAR JENNY, I dare say you can knit Wristikins. It has struck me in these cold days I might as well apply to you to have a pair. The best pair I yet have is a very old pair now, which either you, or I think Jean, knit for me at Hoddam Hill when you were little bairns many years ago. They have beau- tiful stripes of red yet, as fresh as ever. In fact I sometimes wear them in pre- ference to the pair Jane has bought for me out of the shops here. Being al- ready provided as you see I will not in the least hurry you as to the matter wait till you have leisure, till you can get right your colors & c. & c. only I will tell you what kind of thing will suit me and how you can do it when con- venient. The great defect of all my present wristikins is that they are too slight, too thin, and do not fill up the cuff of the coat, which is rather wide with me. They should be at least double the common thickness of those in the shops. If you had fine, boozy yarn and took it two ply it will make a pretty ar- ticle. Then as to color, it should be deep for our reeky atmosphere here; red is beautiful, a stripe of good red, and holds out well, but perhaps the basis had better be some sort of brown. Please your own eye. There never was a good horse had an ill color. As to breadth I think they should be at least three inches. The horse which Carlyle describes to his mother as a very darling article was a new one, called Black Duncan. Of Addiscombe Froude writes: The Barings had a villa at Addiscombe, and during the London season frequently es- caped into the Surrey sunshine.~~ xxviii. CARLYLE TO HIS MOTHER, SCOTSBRIG. CHELSEA, 12th July, 1845. M~ DEAR MOTHER, My hurry is indeed great, but it ought to be greater than it is before I neglect writing you a little word this week as I did last. I am whipt about from post to pillar at a strange rate in these weeks. Jacks visit to you was a welcome piece of news here. The good account he gave of you was munch wanted. We are very sorry indeed to hear of poor Isabella. It seems as if nothing could be done for her, and her own weakness and Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 679 suffering must be very great. Jamie is kind and patient, you may assure him of our sympathies. A sudden turn for the better may take place, I understand, as of its own accord all at once. Let us keep hoping the best. The back of this sorrowful Book is now broken. I think another month of stiff labour will see it well through. They are printing away at the second volume about half done. I have to go along amid endless confusions, the way one has to do in all work whatso- ever. The Book will, on the whole, be better than I hoped, and I have had some honest thoughts in the writing of it which make me the more careless what kind of reception the world gives it. The world had better try to understand it, I think, and to like it as well as it can! Here is another leaf of a proof sheet to be a token to you of our pro- gress. So soon as ever it is over I am off for Annandale. The heat has never been very oppressive to me, never vio- lent beyond a day or two at a time, then rain comes and cools it again. I get considerable benefit of my horse, which is a very darling article, black, high, very good natured, very swift and takes me out into the green country for a taste of that almost every day. I sometimes think of riding it up into Annandale, but that will be too lengthy an operation. Jane is going to Liverpool to her Uncles in a fortnight. She will stay with them a week, then another week with some country friends in that quar- ter. I wished her to go to Scotland and see old friends there at Haddington and elsewhere, but she is rather reluc- tant to that. She is not very strong and has many sorrows of her own, poor little thing, being very solitary in the world now. In summer however she is always better. I have heard nothing from Jack of late days. I suppose him to be still at Mr. Raines. Perhaps uncertain whither- ward he will go next. At any rate country is better than town at present, free quarter than board-wages. I ex- pect he will come back to you again be- fore the season end. We were out at a place called Addis- combe last week among great people, very kind to us, but poor Jane could sleep only about an hour each night three hours in all. I stayed but one night, came home on my black horse again. Some peace and rest among green things would be very welcome to me and it is coining soon, I hope. Adieu, dear Mother my kind love to you and to all of them. I am in great haste and can speak but a few words to mean much by them. My blessings with you. Dr. Carlyles Dante, which he was very eager upon, was the prose trans- lation of the Inferno, so well done that many readers have regretted that the translator did not proceed. XXIX. CARLYLE TO HIS MOTHER, scoTSBEIG. CHELSEA, 31 Octr, 1845. Mv DEAR MOTHER, You will take a short word from me rather than none at all, to tell you that we are all strug- gling along here without disaster; which indeed is all that is to be told. I write also to see if I can induce you to make use of one of those Letter-covers which I left, and to send me a small line about yourself and how you are. Except one short line from Jamie to the Doctor, I have heard nothing at all since I left you. There has been no rain, or almost none whatever since I left Scotsbrig; so that, I hope, tho your weather can hardly have been so favourable, Jamie is now over with his harvest, and fast getting all secured under thatch-and- rope. The Potatoe business, as I learn from the Newspapers, proves very seri- ous everywhere, in Ireland as much as anywhere; and over all Europe there is 680 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. a rather deficient crop; besides which, the present distracted railway specula- tion and general fever of trade is near- ly certain to break down soon into deep confusion, so that one may fear a bad winter for the poor, a sad thing to look forward to. They are best off, I think, who have least to do with that brutal Chase for money which afflicts me wher- ever I go in this country. Give me neither poverty nor riches, feed me with food convenient for me. Our freedom from rain has not hin- dered the November fogs from coming in somewhat before their time. The weather is not wholesome, many people have got cold in these late days. I ad- vise you, dear Mother, to put on your winter clothing and be cautious of going out except when the sun is shining. In the morning and evening do not venture at all. This is the most critical time of all, I believe, these weeks while the change to winter is just in progress. Ii thought myself extremely well here for a week after my return, and indeed was so and hope again to be so much im- proved by my journey, but last Sab- bath, paying no heed to these frost fogs, I caught a little tickling in my nose which rapidly grew into a sniftering, and by the time next day came I had a regular ugly face-ache and fair founda- tion for cold in all its forms, which re- quired to be energetically dealt with and resisted on the threshold. Next day, accordingly, I kept the house strict- ly and appealed to medicine and their diet, and so on Wednesday morning I had got the victory again and have been getting round and growing nearer the old point ever since in fact reckon my- self quite well again, except that I take a little care of going out at night & c. Jane has had a little whiff of cold too, but it is abating again. We are taught by these visitations to be upon our guard. The Doctor is quite well, tho I think he sits too much in the house, being very eager upon his Dante at present. They are not to publish the Cromwell till the middle of next month about a fortnight. They are not to publish the Crom- well till the middle of next month, wrote Carlyle in the preceding letter. As a matter of fact the book did not get out until December. Carlyle and his wife did go to the Barings in the middle of November, and the date of the following undated f rag- ment thus swings between the 1st and the 15th of November. Carlyle says here that they were invited to the Grange; Froude, that Mr. Baring and Lady Harriet were at Bay House, in Hampshire. Grange is probably a slip of the pen. XXX. (JARLYLE TO HIS MOTHER, SCOT5BHIG. CHELSEA [1/15 November, 1845]. It lies perfectly ready, but the Town is still very empty; besides they are getting ready a Portrait, the rudi- ments of which John and I went to see the other day, but did not very much like. I fear it will not turn out much of an ornament to the Book or a true like- ness of Oliver; but we cannot help that. Nor does it very much matter. For the rest, I am and have been nearly as idle as possible; merely reading Books, and doing other small etceteras. There is an invitation to go down to the Grange (where I was the other year), for Jane and me both, for a few days (perhaps three); but I think it is not certain whether we can accept in such a state of the weather, etc. It will be within the next ten days if at all. We are very quiet here at home; hard- ly anybody yet coming about us: and indeed in general it is, the fewer the better, with us. I cannot yet learn with the least dis- tinctness whether John is for Scotsbrig or not; but I continue to think he will after all come down and plant himself there with his Dante for a while. I Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. 681 have fully expressed your wishes to him in regard to that; and certainly if he do not come it will not be for want of wish to be there. Jenny, I suppose, is home again: all is grown quiet in the upstairs rooms! My dear good Mother, let us not be sad, let us rather be thankful, and still hope in the Bounty which has long been so benignant to us. I will ]ong re- member your goodness to me at Scots- brig on this occasion, and the sadness that is in it I will take as inevitable, every joy has its sorrow here. If I think of any Carlisle Tobacco I will send word about it in good time; if I send no word, do not in the least delay about it. In February, 1846, a new edition was needed of the Cromwell. Fresh letters of Oliver had been sent which required to be inserted according to date; a process, Carlyle said, requiring ones most excellent talent, as of shoe- cobbling, really that kind of talent car- ried to a high pitch. He had to unhoop his tub, which already held water, as he sorrowfully put his case to Mr. Erskine, and insert new staves. Other editors of letters, before and since, have had such cobbling and coop- ering to do. XXXI. CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, DUMFRIES. CHELSEA, Monday, 29th June, 1846. DEAR JENNY, I heard of your ar- rival in your new place at Dumfries a day or two ago, and on Saturday I sent you a newspaper which I suppose you will receive this morning. You will understand it as a hasty token that we are in our usual way and still mindful of you, although there has been little express writing of late. No doubt you will feel a little lonely, unaccustomed, and now and then dispir- ited and anxious in your new situation. Yet I do consider it a very fit change for you to have made, and believe con- fidently you will find yourself much more comfortable than you have been in your old place, if once you are fairly hefted to the new one. Do not be dis- couraged, my little Jenny, I know you will behave always in a douce, prudent, industrious and wise way, and there is no fear of you, if so. You will be mis- tress of your own little heart at any rate, free to follow your own wisest pur- poses. I think you will gradually find work, too, which may be useful to you. In short this is a fact always, in Max- well-town and in all towns and situa- tions, a person that does act wisely will find wise and good results following him in this world and in all worlds; which really is the comfort of poor struggling creatures here below. And I hope you understand firmly always that you have friends who will never forsake you, whom all considerations bind to help you what they can, in the honest fight you are making. So do not fear, my poor little sister; be wise and true and diligent and do the best you can, and it shall all be well yet, and better than we hope. Getting into a new house, it strikes me, you must find various things defec- tive and not yet in order, so you must take this bit of paper from me which James Aitken, on Wednesday first, will change into three sovereigns for you and you must lay them out in furnitures and bits of equipments such as you see needfullest. I know nobody that could lay them out better and make more ad- vantage of them than you will do, only you want to consider that this is a supernu- merary thing, a clear gift, and that your regular income (which John said was to be enlarged whatever he may have settled it) will arrive at the usual time independently of this. And so, my blessing with you, dear little Jenny, and right good days to you in this new dwell- ing, right wise days, which are the only good ones. 682 Unpu6lished Letters of Garlyle. I have owed Jean a letter this long time. Tell her a box of supplements to Cromwell (one for each of you and two new copies of the whole book one for my mother, the other for Jack) will reach her in a day or two, which she will know how to dispose of. For the rest, I am fast getting through my book, it is mere tatters of work now, and ex- pect to be off northward before long. Northward we do mean; Jane some- times talks of being off this week and I to follow in a week or two. To Sea- forth, Liverpool, is Janes first place. I, of course, will soon be across if once there. Good be with you, dear sister. Yours always, T. C. Do you address the next newspaper to us if this come all right. That will be a sufficient sign to us. xxxii. CARLYLE TO MRS. AITREN, DUMFRIES. CHELSEA, Saturday, 17th October, 1846. DEAR SISTER, That letter for the Doctor reached me last night with in- structions, as you see, to forward it to you. There is another little one from poor little Jane, which I like still bet- ter, but I am ordered to return it to my mother. Alick is going on very tol- erably and seems to do as well as one could expect in his new settlement, somewhat bitter of temper yet, but dili- gent and favoured to see the fruits of his diligence. We are extremely quiet here, not writing, or expressly meditating to write, resting in fact, for I find Chelsea great- ly the quietest place I could meet with. This long while I read a great many books of very little value, see almost nobody except with the eye merely, find silence better than speech sleep bet- ter than waking! My thoughts are very serious, I will not call them sor- rowful or miserable; I am getting fairly old and do not want to be younger I know not whether Jeffrey would call that happy or not. Our maid Helen is leaving us, invited to be some Housekeeper to a brother she has in Dublin, at present a rich trader there, all upon float as I some- times fear. Jane is busy negotiating abont a successor, hopes to get a suitable one from Edinburgh or almost to have got such. You have not written to me. Tell Jenny I will send her some word soon. My kind regards to James. Good be with you and your house, dear Jean. Jane is out, and therefore silent. Ever yours, T. C. Between 1846 and the spring of 1849 Carlyle had made the acquaintance of Louis Blanc, John and Jacob Bright, and Sir Robert Peel. On the 30th of June, 1849, Carlyle started on a journey through Ireland, the notes of which were printed after his death, and returned on the 7th of August. He went directly to Scotsbrig, where, owing to cocks and other blessed fellow-inhabitants of this planet, he was a good deal disquieted. In Scotsbrig he remained, however, till the end of Au- gust. XXXIII. CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, DUM- FRIES. SCOTSBRIG, 18 August, 1849. DEAR SISTER JENNY, Here is a Draft for your money, which you will get by presenting that Paper at the Bank, when the Martinmas Term comes; I wish you much health and good industrious days till the 22nd comes round again; and have done nothing more gladly, I may say, in the payment line than write this little paper for you, ever since the last was written, I think. It gave me very great pleasure to see your neat little Lodging and thrifty, modest, and wise way of life, when we were in Dumfries the other day. The reports of all friends agree in testifying to the same effect. Continue so, my good little sister, and fear nothing that can befall. Our outward fortune, lucky or what is called unlucky, we cannot command; but we can com Unpublished Letters of Garlyle. 683 inand our own beh~viour under it, and we do either wisely or else not wisely; and that, in real truth, makes all the difference, and does in reality stamp us as either lucky or else unlucky. For there is nobody but he that acts foolishly and wrong that can, in the end, be called unlucky; he that acts wisely and right is, before all mortals, to be accounted lucky; he and no other than he. So toil honestly along, my dear little Jenny, even as heretofore; and keep up your heart. An elder brothers duty to you, I trust I may promise, you shall never stand in want of while I live in this world. Take the next Courier (which Jean will give you for the purpose) and ad- dress it in your own hand to me: Care of John Fergus, M. P. etc., Kirkcaldy, or in fact if James Aitken write that, it will be all the same, and I shall need no other sign that you have received this Note and Inclosure safe. You can tell James to send only one Courier that way; but to direct the other to Scots- brig till further notice. Our Mother and I got well home on Thursday; the thunder - showers hung and fell heavy on all hands of us; but we escaped with little damage from theni, got no rain at all till we were on the top of Dodbeck (or rather Dane- by) Banks; which rain was never vio- lent upon us, and had as good as ended altogether by the time we reached the old Gildha Road. Our Mothers new bonnet, or any of her clothes, suffered nothing whatever. There had been great rains here and all the way; the fields all running brooks, and the road- conduits hardly able to contain the loads they had. It was a good deal clearer yesterday; yet, in the evening, we had again a touch of rain, which I saw was very heavy over in Cumberland. To- day is a degree brisker still, tho with remnants of thunder-clouds still hang- ing, so we fancy the Flood is about terminating~ and the broken weather go- ing to heal itself again. Jamie has some cattle rather suffering by the epidemic, which, in the last year, has destroyed several; his bog-hay, too, is of course much wetted; but he is otherwise get- ting briskly enough along. You are to tell James Aitken that there is an ex- cellent spigot here already for the water-barrel, so that he need take no farther heed of that, at least, till he hear again. I could not quite handily get packed (owing to Garthwaites tailoring) for this day; so I put it off till Monday; and am fixed for that morning (10 A. M.) to be in Edinburgh about one oclock and over in Kirkcaldy in good time, where Jane, as I conclude, is arrived since yesterday and expects me against the given time. Give my kindest re- membrances in Assembly Street; what our further movements from Kirkcaldy are to be, Jean or some of you will hear in due time. No more at present, dear Sister, with many blessings to you all. Ever your Affectionate Brother, T. CARLYLE. In 1850 the Latter-Day Pamphlets were published. In spite of the outcry against them, Carlyles regular pub- lic was not disturbed. Froude esti- mates that about three thousand persons were then buying whatever he wrote. Carlyle said in his Journal for Oc- tober of the same year: Four weeks (September) at Scotsbrig: my dear old Mother, much broken since I had last seen her, was a perpetual source of sad and, as it were, sacred emotion to me. Sorrowful mostly and disgusting, and even degrading, were my other emo- tions. God help me! The next letter concerns the depar- ture of Mrs. Hanning to join her hus- band in Canada. It is the only one in this collection from Mrs. Thomas Car- lyle. Jane is Carlyles sister, Jean Aitken, Jane only by courtesy, he somewhere says. 684 Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. XXXIV. MRS. THOMAS CARLYLE TO MRS. HAN- NING, DUMFRIES. 5 CHEYNE Row, Tuesday [spring of 1851]. Mv DEAR JENNY, I sent off yester- day by railway to Janes care a bundle of things which I hope may be of some use to you in your preparation for de- parture. They are not much worth as they are, but you have a great talent at least you had when I knew you for making silk purses out of sows ears, a very valuable talent in this world. For the rest what can I say to you but that I wish you good speed in your great ad- venture, and that it may turn out even better for you than you hope. Decided- ly it is an adventure in which you ought to be let please yourself, to be let fol- low the guidance of your own heart without remonstrance or criticism of others. It is my fixed opinion that be- tween man and wife no third person can judge, and that all any of us could reasonably require of you is that you should consider well what you are about to do and that you should do nothing from secondary motives. If it be affec- tion for your husband and the idea of doing your duty by him that takes you from your family and friends so far away, then go in Gods name, and may your husband prove himself worthy of so much constancy. In any case you will have no cause for self reproach. But if it be impatience of your position here which. is driving you away from your kind old Mother and all the rest who love you so well, then God help you, my poor Jenny, for you are fling- ing away all the real blessings of your lot for an imagination of independence. I hope, however, you are quite justified by your feelings towards your husband in leaving all to follow him. You have always seemed to me to cherish a most loyal affection for your husband, and I will never believe, however appearances may be against him, that a man can in- spire such an affection in the wife he has lived years beside and yet be wholly unworthy of it. So farewell, dear Jenny, and God go with you. Affectionately yours, JANE CARLYLE. By 1851 Carlyle had begun to think seriously of Frederick the Great as his next subject, and it soon became evident that he must walk in whatever footsteps of his hero were still visible. Carlyle reached Rotterdam September 1, 1852, at noon, and was there met by Mr. Neuberg, a German admirer, says Froude, a gentleman of good private fortune, resident in London, who had volunteered his services to conduct Car- lyle over the Fatherland, and afterwards to be his faithful assistant in the Fred- erick biography. Carlyle returned to England in October, but many distrac- tions among them repairs in Cheyne Row and the funeral of the Duke of Wellington kept him from starting with Frederick. During the winter he wrote something, and threw it aside. On the 13th of April, 1853, he wrote in his Journal, Still struggling and hag- gling about Frederick. There is neither struggling nor hag- gling, however, in the letter which fol- lows. The Talbottypes mentioned here were, like Daguerreotypes, glim- mering prophecies of the merciless pho- tograph. xxxv. CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, CANADA. 5 CHEYNE Row, CHELSEA, LONDON, 22 Api. 1853. Mv DEAR JENNY, Though it is a long time since I have written to you, no mistake can be greater than that I have forgotten you. No, no, there is no danger of that. My memory at least is active enough! But I live in such a confused whirlpool of hurries here as you can have no conception of, and always in poor weak health, too, and in corresponding spirits, and for most part when my poor stroke of work for the day is done (if alas, I be lucky Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. 685 enough to get any work done one day in ten, as days now go!) I have in gen- eral nothing for it but to shut up my ugly cellar of confusions and address myself to the task of being silent writing no letter whatever but those I absolutely cannot help. That is the real truth and you must not measure my re- gard for you by the quantity I write, but by quite other standard. We regularly see your letters here and are very glad indeed to observe that you get on so well. The fits of ague-fever you had at first were a se- vere introduction and began to be alarming to us, but I can hope now it was only the hanselling of you in your new climate, and that henceforth you will go on with at least your old degree of health. One thing I have understood to be of great moment (in- deed I am sure of it), in the Canada climate; it is to take good care that your house be in an airy situation, quite free from the neighbourhood of damp ground, especially of stagnant water, arid with a free exposure to the wind. That undoubtedly is of great impor- tance. You are accustomed from sound old Annandale to take no thought at all about such things, but you may depend upon it they are necessary and indis- pensable considerations in your new country. I beg you very much to keep them earnestly in view with reference to the house you live in. Plenty of dry wind, all marshes & c. at a distance, arid there is no more danger of ague in Canada than in Scotland; that you shove up your windows in season and keep your house clean as a new pin these are advices I need not give, for you follow these, of course, of nature or inveterate habit, being from of old one of the neat- est little bodies to be found in five Parishes! In all remaining respects I find you have chosen clearly for the bet- ter, and I doubt not are far happier in your re-united household than you ever were or could have been in Dum fries. It was a wise and courageous adventure of you to take the Ocean by the face in search of these objects, and all your friends rejoice to learn that it has succeeded. Long and richly may you reap the rewards of your quiet, stout and wise behaviour then and all along, under circumstances that were far froni easy to manage; and Gods blessing be on you always, my poor little Jenny! I hope, too, poor Robert has learned many a thing and forgotten many a thing in the course of his hard fortune and wide wanderings. Give him my best wishes, teThporal and spiritual. Help him faith- fully what you can, and he (for he has a kind enough heart) will do the like by you and so we hope all will be better with you both than it is with many, and continue to grow better and better to the end. I recommend myself to the nice gleg little lasses whom I shall not forget, but always think of as little, however big they grow. My blessing on you all. No doubt you know by eyesight whom these two Talbottypes represent; mine is very like Janes (done by a differ- ent process) is not quite so like, but it will serve for remembrance. I begged two pairs of them awhile ago and had one sent to Alick (Jane slightly differ- ent in his set), the other pair I now send to you and wish only it were some use- fuller gift. However, they will eat no bread and so you may give them dry lodging, that is all they want. I heard from the Dr. at Moffat the day before yesterday. He reports our good old Mother being in her usual way and now with the better prospect of sum- mer ahead. Poor Mother, she is now very feeble, but her mind is still all there and we should be thankful. The rest are well. John is to quit Moffat in July. Jane sends her kind regards. The White mat on Janes lap is her wretched little messin-dog Nero ; a very unsuccessful part of the drawing, that! 686 Unpublished Letters of Garlyle. XXXVI. CARLYLE TO MRS. EARNING, CANADA. 800T5BRIG, EUCLEFECHAN, 28 Dec. 1853. Mv DEAR SISTER, This letter brings very sorrowful news to you, probably the sorrowfullest I may ever have to send from Scotsbrig. Our dear and good old Mother is no more: she went from us, gently and calmly at last, on the Sunday just gone (Christmas Day the 25th) at four or ten minutes past four in the afternoon: The Dr., Jean, Isabella, Jamie, and I standing in sor- rowfur reverence at her bed-side; our poor suffering Mother had lain in a heavy kind of sleep for about 16 hours befoie; and died at last, rather unexpectedly to the watchers, so sudden was it, without struggle or seeming pain of any kind. We had to think Her sufferings are over; and she has fought her fight well and nobly; and as for us, we are left here alone; and the soul that never ceased to love us since we came into the world, is gone to God, her Maker and ours. This is the heavy news I have to send you, dear Sister; and nobody cau spare you the sorrow and tears it will occasion. For above a year-and-a- half past, our dear Mother had been visibly falling fast away; when I saw her in August gone a year, her weakness and sufferings were quite painful to me; and it seemed uncertain whether we should ever meet again in this scene of things. She had no disease at that time nor afterwards, but the springs ef life were worn out, there was no strength left. Within the last six months the decay proceeded faster and was con- stant: she could not much rise from bed; she needed Mary and Jean alter- nately to watch always over her, lat- terly it was Jean alone (Mary not being strong enough); and surely Jean has earned the gratitude of us all, and done a work that was blessed and beautiful, in so standing by her sacred task, and so perf6rming it as she did. There has been no regular sleep to her for months past, often of late weeks and days not much sleep of any kind: but her affec- tionate patience, I think, never failed. I hope, though she is much worn out, she will not permanently suffer: and surely she will not want her reward. Our noble Mother too behaved like her- self in all stages of her illness; never quaiied into terror, lamentation or any weak temper of mind; had a wonder- ful clearness of intellect, clearness of heart, affection, piety and simple cour- age and beauty about her to the very end. She passed much of her time in the last weeks iii a kind of sleep; used to awaken with a smiles (as John de- scribed it to me), and has left a sacred remembrance with all of us consolatory in our natural grief. I have written to Alick this day, a good many other details, and have bid- den him send you the letter (which is larger and fuller than this), as you probably in asking for it will send this to him. I am in great haste, to-mor- row (Thursday 29th Dec.) being the funeral day, and many things occupy- ing us still. I will therefore say no more here; your little pieces of worldly business will, I hope, be satisfactorily and easily adjusted before I return to Chelsea, and then it will be somebodys task (Johns or mine) to write to you again. For the present I will only bid, God bless you, dear sister, you and yours; and teach you to bear this great sorrow and bereavement (which is one chiefly to your heart, but to her a blessed relief) in the way that is fit, and worthy of the brave and noble Mother we have had, but have not any longer. Your affectionate Brother, T. CARLYLE. With a few days excepted, the Car- lyles spent the whole of the year 1854 in London. There was little but the Cri- mean war to distract Carhyles attention from his long struggle with Frederick. charles Townsend Copeland. (Jarlyle as a Letter - Writer. 687 CARLYLE AS A LETTER-WRITER. MOST persons perhaps because, con- sciously or unconsciously, they hold the opinion of George Eliot, that serious subjects should not be discussed iu let- ters try to entertain their correspond- ents, when they sit down to write a friendly letter. Famous writers are no exception to this rule. Horace Walpole adapts his materials with the nicest art; Gray is seldom elegiac iu prose; and Chesterfield, not content with urging his son to sacrifice to the Graces, makes his own epistles an oblation on the altar of those ladies. It is evident that the younger Pliny chooses his best stylus, whether a rfuscan villa, or the eruption of Vesuvius, or a Corinthian statuette form his theme; and the fact that all is composed in fear of Cicero and to the glory of the Latin language cannot have made the composition less acceptable to his contemporaries. The letters of Charles Lamb, the argument of whose life was suited to a Greek tra- gedy, must often have carried sunshine quaintly filtered through Lambs per- sonality to people who, had they but known it, were far better off than their correspondent. Cowper, the best of Eng- lish letter-writers, was also one of the most cheerful, and in some of the last communications with his friends, before the darkness had quite settled over him, showed himself touchingly conscious of the social bond. It was nearly always dark with Cowper when he was ad- dressing the Reverend John Newton, the evil genius who tried to be his good genius; but let it be remembered that Cowper wrote to Newton the escape of the hares, a miniature ~ilpin in prose. Most of what came from Olney and Weston, indeed, gave and repeated an impression of sprightly serenity that except in the letters to Newton seldom allowed itself to be clouded with the fear which so often kept Cowper trembling. When Madame de S6vign6 smiles through her tears, her face turned always toward her daughter, we love her most. We do not feel that she is not making the best of things, but mere- ly that the gayety of her century, thus dashed, is brought nearer the key of our own. Looked at from this point of view of good spirits, whether real or benevo- lently feigned, Carlyle is in blackest contrast to the genial tradition of let- ter-writing. As early as when he was with the Bullers at Kinnaird, he had frightened his family with an eloquent diagnosis of the torments of dyspepsia, and afterward often practiced a becom- ing caution in complaining too loudly of anything to them. Toward the world in general, however, and toward his bro- ther John who alone of the family lived in the world he seldom observed such care. What he felt, he thought; and what he thought, he wrote. The denunciatory mood was frequent with Carlyle, and it would be easy to collect enough of his secular anathemas for a droll sort of commination service. Men, women, and children, if they disturbed him, came in for his curse. All an- noyances spoke to Carlyle and his wife through a megaphone, and were pro- claimed by them through a still larger variety of the same instrument. Every cock that crowed near their house was a clarion out of tune, and the demon- fowls were equaled by dogs, of which each had to their ears the barking pow- er of Cerberus. When Carlyle traveled, fierce imprecations upon everything vi- atic were wafted back from every stage to the poor Goody in Cheyne Row, often while she was facing alone the pro- blem of fresh paint and paper. On the only occasion I can now recall of Car-

(Jarlyle as a Letter - Writer. 687 CARLYLE AS A LETTER-WRITER. MOST persons perhaps because, con- sciously or unconsciously, they hold the opinion of George Eliot, that serious subjects should not be discussed iu let- ters try to entertain their correspond- ents, when they sit down to write a friendly letter. Famous writers are no exception to this rule. Horace Walpole adapts his materials with the nicest art; Gray is seldom elegiac iu prose; and Chesterfield, not content with urging his son to sacrifice to the Graces, makes his own epistles an oblation on the altar of those ladies. It is evident that the younger Pliny chooses his best stylus, whether a rfuscan villa, or the eruption of Vesuvius, or a Corinthian statuette form his theme; and the fact that all is composed in fear of Cicero and to the glory of the Latin language cannot have made the composition less acceptable to his contemporaries. The letters of Charles Lamb, the argument of whose life was suited to a Greek tra- gedy, must often have carried sunshine quaintly filtered through Lambs per- sonality to people who, had they but known it, were far better off than their correspondent. Cowper, the best of Eng- lish letter-writers, was also one of the most cheerful, and in some of the last communications with his friends, before the darkness had quite settled over him, showed himself touchingly conscious of the social bond. It was nearly always dark with Cowper when he was ad- dressing the Reverend John Newton, the evil genius who tried to be his good genius; but let it be remembered that Cowper wrote to Newton the escape of the hares, a miniature ~ilpin in prose. Most of what came from Olney and Weston, indeed, gave and repeated an impression of sprightly serenity that except in the letters to Newton seldom allowed itself to be clouded with the fear which so often kept Cowper trembling. When Madame de S6vign6 smiles through her tears, her face turned always toward her daughter, we love her most. We do not feel that she is not making the best of things, but mere- ly that the gayety of her century, thus dashed, is brought nearer the key of our own. Looked at from this point of view of good spirits, whether real or benevo- lently feigned, Carlyle is in blackest contrast to the genial tradition of let- ter-writing. As early as when he was with the Bullers at Kinnaird, he had frightened his family with an eloquent diagnosis of the torments of dyspepsia, and afterward often practiced a becom- ing caution in complaining too loudly of anything to them. Toward the world in general, however, and toward his bro- ther John who alone of the family lived in the world he seldom observed such care. What he felt, he thought; and what he thought, he wrote. The denunciatory mood was frequent with Carlyle, and it would be easy to collect enough of his secular anathemas for a droll sort of commination service. Men, women, and children, if they disturbed him, came in for his curse. All an- noyances spoke to Carlyle and his wife through a megaphone, and were pro- claimed by them through a still larger variety of the same instrument. Every cock that crowed near their house was a clarion out of tune, and the demon- fowls were equaled by dogs, of which each had to their ears the barking pow- er of Cerberus. When Carlyle traveled, fierce imprecations upon everything vi- atic were wafted back from every stage to the poor Goody in Cheyne Row, often while she was facing alone the pro- blem of fresh paint and paper. On the only occasion I can now recall of Car- 4388 Carlyle as a Letter - Writer. lyle himself being at home during re- pairs, they were to him what a convul- sion of nature would be to most of us, and his outcries were of cosmic vehe- mence and shrillness. In these wild splutterings of genius, a maid servant was a puddle, a scandalous randy, or even a sluttish harlot; a man ser- vant was a flunkey, and if he waked Carlyle too early in the morning he was a flunkey of the devil. Rank, wealth, and worldly respectability were, it need not at this day be said, no defense against these grotesque indictments. The clergy and lovers of the clergy unless, in- deed, they happened to be arnemic and Socinian were always accused of shovel-hattedness. Persons who, from Plato to Scott, waged no visible warfare with their own souls, and lived their lives without stated conversion from the everlasting No, were rarely acceptable to Carlyle. Any man of his acquaintance who, besides being thus at ease in Zion, had also gathered worldly gear, was apt, according to Carlyle, to have lost his humanity in gigmanity. London, in the word he gladly borrowed from Cob- bett, was a monstrous wen; Europe, a huge suppuration; mankind, most- ly fools; and the world at large, a dusty, fuliginous chaos. If, in moods which give forth such words, Carlyle seems to write with a quill plucked from the fretful porpentine, a new book of Lamentations might be ga- thered from his other frequent and fa- miliar condition. This was the state of body and soul which moved him to sor- row and repining over himself, England, and the world. If he had never made his great success in literature, these wail- ing cries might plausibly be assigned to the disappointed ambitions of a man whose lot was even more embittered by dyspepsia. But in this respect the tone of the apprentice, throughout a wean- fully long apprenticeship, was strangely like that of the past master in literature, who for the last twenty years of his life was the most eminent of English writers. There is doubtless a habit of mourning as of rejoicing, and habit counted for much with Carlyle. Yet what I am dis- posed to contend is that though Alad- dins lamp had lighted him to a success even earlier than Sheridans or Kip- lings, his books and letters would still from time to time have sounded the whole gamut of Jeremiah. It was in his Scotch blood that thus they should, in his Puritan spirit and his Puritan- ical digestion. In short, Carlyles mel- ancholy was from temperament far more than from circumstance, a spiritual habitude to which he was destined and born. See the sparks fly upward in March, 1822: Art is long and life is short; and of the three score and ten years allotted to the liver, how small a por- tion is spent in anything bnt vanity and vice, if not in wretchedness, and worse than unprofitable struggling with the adamantine laws of fate! I am wae when I think of all this, but it cannot be helped. More than forty years after, the sad-eyed victor in his chosen field reminds us that he, more than most men, is born to trouble. In 1865 he writes to Emerson from Annandale: I live in total solitude, sauntering moodily in thin checkered woods, gal- loping about, once daily, by old lanes and roads, oftenest latterly on the wide expanses of Solway shore (when the tide is out!) where I see bright busy Cottages far off, houses over even in Cumberland, and the beautifulest am- phitheatre of eternal Hills, but meet no living creature; and have endless thoughts as loving and as sad and som- bre as I like. This is none the less (perhaps, rather, the more) sad, for all the wide ~nd shining landscape. A few lines later Carlyle says: You perceive me sufficiently at this point of my Pil- grimage, as withdrawn to Hades for the time being; intending a months walk there, till the muddy semi-solutions set- C1arlyle as a Letter - IYriter. 689 tie into sediment according to what laws they have, and there be perhaps a par- tial restoration of clearness. The voice of 1865, though early in the interim it gained its individual accent, is still the voice of 1822. Malice was operant in this choice of a passage from one of Carlyles letters to Emerson, to show the frequent hue of his spirit. For not only is the mere thought of Emerson a cause of cheer to most men, to Carlyle himself it usual- ly brought comfort, but Carlyle had adopted Emerson, or more nearly adopt- ed him than any one else except Ster- ling, into the close communion of his own family, toward whom he generally showed compunction in the niatter of invective and lament. Yet in writing to Emerson and to them he would some- times forget his restraint, and, while eat- ing his heart, would invite them to the same repast. It has been said that Froude made an exceptionally gloomy selection from Carlyles correspondence, and that Mr. Nortons volumes give a fairer view of the habitual tone of his spirits. So far as they are concerned with Emerson and with Carlyles kin- dred, an explanation of the higher aver- age of cheerfulness has already been offered. But even in these letters, and still more in the rest of Mr. Nortons se- lections, one is tempted to inquire whether he did not intend (and very properly) to redress the balance which Froude had unduly weighted on the other side. For the essence and gist of Carlyles published writings books, letters, and journals is that it is not a merry place, this world; it is a stern and aw- ful place. Much that is meat to other men was poison, or tinctured with poi- son, to him. My letter, you will see (he wrote to his brother John in 1828), ends in sable, like the life of man. My own thoughts grow graver every day I live. He could, and did, suck melancholy from his own successful lec- tures, from his own hooks and the VOL LXXXII. No. 493. 44 books 9f others, from the state of the nation and the state of his own health, from society, from solitude. Craigen- puttock, high on the moors between Dumfriesshire and Galloway, and six- teen miles from the town of Dumfries, has always seemed to me the right scenic background for Carlyle. The stone farm- house, surrounded by a few acres of land reclaimed from peat bog, stands in the midst of bleak hills, seven hundred feet above the level of the sea. This is the right scenery for Carlyle, and many of his most characteristic letters, from what- ever places written, carry with them a feeling of the north, November, and the moors. Had Froude left any gaps in his biography, they might be bridged with sighs. Persons who talked with Carlyle, or who heard him talk, often received a dif- ferent impression. This was, no doubt, partly because his pentecostal gift excit- ed him to a variety and fire of speech for which he afterward paid the penalty of a natural enough reaction; partly, also, be. cause the sense of humor never deserted him at those moments, and rich gusts of laughter swept away boding prophecy, fierce invective, and the whole symbol- ic apparatus of Carlylean denunciation. Humor, indeed, is always to be reckoned with in Carlyle; and his letters, like his books, abound in a range of it seldom genial that extends from the grim to the farcical. But you cannot hear a man laugh in print; and where in a Carlyle conversation the stage direction would be, Exit laughing, in a Carlyle letter it appears, Exit groaning or Exit swearing. The writer laughs off, as Macbeth and Macduff fight off; and the reader hears but the ghost of a laugh, a faint, imagined reverberation. Hence, loath~d Melancholy, and a truce to sable. I have, perhaps, made too much of a striking characteristic, however indubitable, of a great writer. The famous rat was not always gnawing at the pit of his stomach; and when 690 Carlyle as a Letter- Writer. neither the mood of vituperation nor the mood of lament was upon him, he was of too vigorous and too honest a mind not to discuss with comparative calm- ness many subjects that interested him. What did interest him and what did nt, what appears in his letters and what is never seen there, would make a cata- logue fairly descriptive of Carlyles in- tellectual and moral constitution. Food and raiment he seldom writes of, save as necessities of life. No Christmas gas- tronomy in his letters, no rule for cook- ing a chub, no incipient essay on roast pig. As Carlyles pen is never occupied with cards, one concludes that old wo- men to play whist with of an evening, so much desired by a certain delightful let- ter-writer, were not a desideratum with him. Women, in fact, play no domi. nantly feminine part in his life. Love, as a passion, he apparently does not un- derstand. He gave no more sensitive response to the fine arts than Emerson, in whose books there are many blind places, so says Mr. Chapman in hi~ original and important essay on Emer- son, like the notes which will not strike on a sick piano. To name the theatre is, with Carlyle, to scorn it. Goethe himself could not make him care for plays or play-acting. Goethes Wil- helm Meister he learned to admire, al- though, had any other written it, the book would have had from him the treatment it got from Wordsworth. If we may believe Froude, Carlyle called some of the most noteworthy French novels a new Phallus worship, with Sue, Baizac, and Co. for prophets, and Madame Sand for a virgin. Poetry, art allied to his own, interests Carlyle only through its thought or its lesson. In the actual af- fairs of life, he desires neither money, rank, nor political power. He gives no adherence to any religious creed, politi- cal faith, or party leader. He often feels himself in a minority of one, but on a certain occasion doubles the number, to include Emerson. Here may end, without special reason for ending, the catalogue of negatives by which people learn to know Carlyle in his letters. Shorter, not less impres- sive or informing, is the list of positives. Words Carlyle must have had at least a sneaking fondness for. He does not ad- mit it, but he uses words and phrases in a way that tells its own story to those upon whose ears his noblest strains fall like music. Very often, as he intended, the words stand for facts, which he loved, and for which he was proud to tell his love. Purity, honor, and truth are dear to Carlyle, and he celebrates them in his letters. Pauvre et triste hu2nanit6, al. though it often moves him to scorn, never quite loses its hold upon him: his letters are a crowded thoroughfare of human beings, who live again at his touch. Good sayings pious, shrewd, sage, or humorous, as the case may be this eloquent talker rolls under his tongue, especially when they are in the speech of the Scottish people. His taste for hu- mor is catholic enough to relish jokes; and he himself, unclannish chiefly in that, jokes without difficulty. Strength of any kind bulks so large in Carlyles esteem that the historian of Cromwell and Friedrich has often been accused of making might his right. After years of what he felt to be misrepresentation, he endeavored to set things straight by de- claring that right, in the long run, was pretty sure to be mighty. However this may be, the strength of contemporary leaders was likely, by his thinking, to be founded on unrighteousness; and it was easier for him to worship his heroes through the long nave of the past. There was an altar for Cromwell, but alas that it should have been so there was none for Lincoln. Although these positives are lengthen- ing themselves out, there must be men- tion here of the mother, wife, family, and friends, who figure so engrossingly in Carlyles correspondence. I think we gather from the grand total of docu carlyle as a Letter - Writer. 691 ments in the case that he loved his mother more deeply and singly than he loved any other person. Yet for his wife he had a strong, often disquieted affection. The expression of this in his letters to her, which are as remarkable for erno- tion as for a very high order of writing, is of course less checkered than it could have been in the faring together of two such yoke - fellows. In the action of temperament upon temperament, similia~ similibus nort curantur. During the long episode of Gloriana, it is often pos- sible to read between the lines of Car- lyles letters to his wife. After the death of the first Lady Ashburton, however, occurs the most striking passage of self- accusation to be found in any letter be. fore the death of Mrs. Carlyle. Carlyle writes to her on the 11th of July, 1858: All yesterday I remarked, in speak- ing to , if any tragic topic came in sight, I had a difficulty to keep from breaking down in my speech, and be- coming inarticulate with emotion over it. It is as if the scales were falling from my eyes, and I were beginning to see in this, my solitude, things that touch me to the very quick. Oh, my little wo- man! what a suffering thou hast had, and how nobly borne! with a simplicity, a silence, courage, and patient heroism which are only now too evident to me. Three waer days I can hardly remember in my life; but they were not without worth either; very blessed some of the feelings, though many so sore and mis- erable. It is very good to be left alone with the truth sometimes, to hear with all its sternness what it will say to one. It is often to be noted that no great moment finds Carlyle without a great word. Moving as is the utterance just quoted, it is dumb in comparison with this, written after the death of Mrs. Carlyle: Not for above two days could I estimate the immeasurable depths of it, or the infinite sorrow which had peeled my life all bare, and in a moment shat- tered my poor world to universal ruin. Mother, wife, family, and one or two friends, then, were very dear to Car- lyle. Love me a little, he writes once to Emerson. Next to these few per- sons, nature had perhaps the strongest sway over him; and the strange, beau- tiful landscapes that shine out from some of his darkest letters would be enough to found a reputation on. The phrases live in ones memory as if they had line and color. Two main facts detach themselves, I think, from these imperfect suggestions of what Carlyles letters contain and what they are vacant of. In the first place, no one can doubt that although except in writing to the Annandale kin Carlyle seldom attempts to con- trol himself, is seldom interesting or en- tertaining of set purpose, he is yet, for interest and entertainment, a letter-wri- ter among a thousand. Single-minded and single - hearted, true as the very truth, in the words of his mouth he ut- ters the meditations of his heart. Gifted with eloquence, with humor, with pathos, with eyes that see everything and a memory that loses nothing, with an en- ergy of speech which (compared with that given to the majority of his fellow creatures) is clearly superhuman, Carlyle uses his amazing literary vehicle as an Arabian magic carpet to transport him to his correspondent. The letter is the writer; the word is the man. So much for one fact. The other, not now stated for the first time, is that Carlyle, in his familiar letters as in his published works, presents the curious combination of mystic and realist. The world that can be tested by the senses is, in Carlyles belief, only the vesture, sometimes muddy, sometimes clear, of the divine principle. For many readers, the expression of this ruling idea of Car- lyle and his work is confused not only by apparently contradictory phrasings, but by the shifting of his conception of God between theism and pantheism. When, however, Carlyle utters himself 692 Carlyle as a Letter - Writer. most earnestly and most characteristical- ly on this cardinal point of his belief, no manner of man can misunderstand him. Matter, exclaims he, exists only spiritually, and to represent some idea and body it forth. Heaven and Earth are but the time-vesture of the Eternal. The Universe is but one vast symbol of God; nay, if thou wilt have it, what is man himself but a symbol of God? Is not all that he does symbolical, a revelation to sense of the mystic God- given force that is in him ? a gospel of Freedom, which he, the Messias of Nature, preaches as he can by act and word. It was only to be expected that the favorite quotation of a man whose high belief can be stated thus, of a man who regarded time as an illusion, should be the lines from Shakespeares Tem~ pest : We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. Now, although it is proverbially diffi- cult to prove a negative, the ease with which a negative can be stated should be equally matter of proverb. According-. ly, we find that Carlyle, in his letters, a hundred times denounces the world as he sees it for once that he describes, or even suggests, the world as he would see it. Silent heroes should be the rulers of England. Silent heroes are rare birds, even among the dead. Instead of them, talking parliamentarians are at the head of things; and Carlyle has to say what he thinks of Gladstone and Disraeli, the alternately ruling talkers. When, in 1874, Disraeli proposed to grant him a pension and bestow on him also the Grand Cross of the Bath, he wrote to John Carlyle: I do, however, truly admire the magnanimity of Dizzy in regard to me. He is the only man ill almost never spoke of except with contempt. Men of letters fare no better than men of action. They should be priests, in white, unspotted robes. What does Car- lyle find them? In 1824, after pinning Coleridge, De Quincey, Hazlitt, and Leigh Hunt fiercely to the page, he writes to Miss Welsh: Good heavens! I often inwardly exclaim, and is this the literary world ? This rascal rout, this dirty rabble, destitute not only of high feeling and knowledge or intellect, but even of common honesty! The very best of them are ill-natured weaklings. They are not red-blooded men at all. Such is the literary world of Lon- don; indisputably the poorest part of its population at present. So Carlyle wrote of writers when he was putting on his literary armor, and not very differently when he was putting it off. His Hero as Man of Letters was almost invariably seen at a distance, either of time or space. He spitted Coleridge on his sharp- est spear, and two blasting, withering descriptions of Charles Lamb with forty years between them for reflection remain to the everlasting hurt of Carlyles own reputation. Vitriol blesseth neither him that gives nor him that takes, yet Carlyle stayed to the end of his many days essentially high-minded. Honorable, simple, help- ful, charitable in deed though not in word, he was seen at the limit of his course to have a better heart, a charac- ter less deteriorated, than many a man no less good at the start who has indulged himself with omitting the negative proposition. The habit of scorn would in the long run have been more harmful to character than the habit of tolerance and facile praise, except that Carlyle had an extraordinarily high standard of principle and performance, and held to it not only in his judgment of others, but also in what he exacted of himself. The fact that Carlyle never tried to reconcile the inconsistency (as it may have seemed to some persons) between the Deity of his worship and the sym- bolic manifestations of that Deity in a world so little to Carlyles liking no doubt helped him to keep his spiritual integrity. Garlyle as a Letter - Writer. 693 In company and contrast with the mys- ticism of Carlyles thought idealism is the better word, if it be strictly in- terpreted is the eager realism of his literary methods. As a result of this piquant union, Carlyle means one thing to one man, and another, quite different thing to another man. The Carlyle of X, the strait idealist, is a moonish phi- losopher, to be shunned by A, the strait realist, who rejoices in the closely packed narrative, the wild action, and the por- traits of men and women, that make but a trivial appeal to X. This union of na- tures is plain enough in Shakespeare, in whom nothing surprises. The hand which gave us the Tempest gave us also Juli- ets nurse and Hotspurs description of a certain Lord. Too often, however, the idealists grasp of the concrete is wa- vering and intermittent; too often the soul of the realist needs little feeding. Carlyle vibrated between these two elements of his nature, and fortified one with the other. When, after burrowing in the dust-heap of the past or fishing into the general Mother of Dead Dogs, he had brought to light some pearl (or, it might be, only some oyster-shell) of fact, he often improved the opportunity to show the larger significance of the lit- tle gleam or glint of reality. It was the defect of a fine quality that, in his later work, and especially in Frederick, he spent himself on irrelevant facts which helped to make Carlyles longest book a splendid failure, with episodes of indu- bitable success. The looser form of the letter more properly admits the isolated concrete. Shrewd, welcome bits of fact are every- where in Carlyles letters; everywhere, too, are those other expressions of a great realist, vividly composed ele- ments of landscape, and portraits that give every token of life except breath. As with every artist, whatever he de- picts takes color from him, and is seen through his temperament. In the sum- mer of 1837 Carlyle writes to Sterling from Scotsbrig: One night, late, I rode through the village where I was born. The old kirkyard tree, a huge old gnarled ash, was nestling itself softly against the great twilight in the north. A star or two looked out, and the old graves were all there, and my father and my sister; and God was above us all. Here be worn, familiar things. Gray has been to the village churchyard at the hour of parting day, and a procession has fol- lowed in his footsteps. But this kirk- yard, where Carlyle has since laid him- self down with his kindred, is Carlyles. The reappearance (usually heightened or elaborated) of bits of prospect or to- pography first recorded in Carlyles let- ters is an interesting characteristic of his writing. His first visit to Paris was of much service to him in fixing the places and scenes of The French Revolution; the trip into the country of Cromwells birth and the examination of Naseby field come into sight again in the book, witness especially the Cease your fooling, and the troopers teeth that bit into Carlyles memory; and a number of rough drafts for details of Frederick appear in letters from the Continent. A brief note, during a visit to Mr. Redwood in 1843, of the Glamorganshire green network of intricate lanes, mouldering ruins, vigorous vegetation good and bad, was afterward dilated (in the Life of Sterling) into the spacious and beauti- ful landscape beginning: Llanblethian hangs pleasantly, with its white cottages, and orchard and other trees, on the western slope of a green hill; looking far and wide over green meadows and little or bigger hills, in the pleasant plain of Glamorgan. Distinguished as are Carlyles por- traits of places, it is probably his por- traits of persons that abide longest and most completely in the memories of most readers. Robespierre, Mirabeau and Mi- rabeau pare, Frederick and Frederick William, it is one sign of Carlyles power that he can make subordinate 694 Carlyle as a Letter- Writer. characters salient and still bring out his hero, Voltaire, Cromwell, and the Ab- bot Samson, are a few of the pictures that line his galleries. Wonderful as are these renderings of men he never saw, his sketches of men he had known are almost literally speaking ~ Coleridge, Leigh Hunt, Dickens, Thack- eray, Tennyson, Mazzini, Louis iNapo- leon, are among the many who are painted to a miracle in Carlyles letters. Behold a great American, in a letter to Emerson Not many days ago I saw at break- fast the notablest of all your Notabili- ties, Daniel Webster. He is a magni- ficent specimen; you might say to all the world, This is your Yankee English- man, such Limbs we make in Yankee- land! As a Logic-fencer, Advocate, or Parliamentary Hercules, one would in- cline to back him at first sight against all the extant world. The tanned com- plexion, that amorphous craglike face; the dull black eyes under their precipice of brows, like dull anthracite furnaces, needing only to be blown; the mastiff- mouth, accurately closed I have not traced as much of silent Berserker-rage, that I remember of, in any other man. I guess I should not like to be your nigger! At the risk of numbering this paper with the books of Chrysippus, we must look again at the portrait of De Quincey, which is, perhaps, the artists chief tri- umph. Although it is to be found in the Reminiscences, it yet belongs here well enough, for that book is not so much a book as a long, rambling letter, partly of remorse, partly of pity, from Car- lyle to himself. He was a pretty little creature, says this terrible, sad old man, remembering after forty years, full of wire-drawn ingenuities; bankrupt enthu- siasms, bankrupt pride; with the finest silver-toned low voice, and most elaborate gently-winding courtesies and ingenuities of conversation: What would nt one give to have him in a Box, and take him out to talk! (That was Her criticism of him; and it was right good.) A bright, ready and melodious talker; but in the end an inconclusive and long - winded. One of the smallest man-figures I ever saw; shaped like a pair of tongs; and hardly above five feet in all: when he sat, you would have taken him, by candle- light, for the beautifullest little Child; blue-eyed, blonde-haired, sparkling face, had there not been a something too, which said, Eccovi, this Child has been in Hell! One would be sure, without other evidence than Her criticism in thi~ description, which is also a charac- ter, to use the old word, that She, too, had been terrible. The broken or- der, the curious punctuation, the capitals and italics, the leave of absence granted to the verb, the quick interjections, all taken together make the passage a con- centrated example of Carlyles vox hu- mana style, of his writing when it is most like speech, sublimated. In his use of persons, as of places, there are pregnant comparisons to be made between Carlyles first study and the final portrait. Sterling and old Ster- ling are cases in point; Coleridge, per- haps, the best instance of all. The main lines and the personal atmosphere, al- ways visible, I think, in the sketch, are reproduced by Carlyle in the finished work. But in the heightening of lights, in the deepening of shade, in composi- tion, above all, he makes many changes, which almost invariably result in greater intensity of effect. From such comparisons, if patiently conducted, might come luminous com- ment on the question of Carlyles style, a question more vexed than the Ber- moothes. So far and so much for Carlyles gen- eral aspect as a letter-writer. I have tried to show that, in addressing himself to a very few friends, and especially to his own family, he displays a different set of qualities. The difference between his vehemence toward the world at large Carlyle as a Letter - Writer. 695 and his gentleness toward his mother sometimes seems as marked as that be- tween the two visions of the prophet Jeremiah: the one a seething ealdron, the face thereof from the north; the other, a rod of an almond tree. The world, in truth, for this peasant of genius, was, to the considerable degree in which he remained a peasant, an as- semblage of persons and things to be approached with many reserves and a deal of more or less violent disapproval. Annandale, contrariwise, was an honest, strength - giving corner of the world, which did for him through life the of- fice of the earth to Anticus. He went back to it so often that he never lost his native accent, and, in certain respects, the point of view to which he was born. So long as Carlyles mother lived, there was rarely a year in which he did not make a pilgrimage to Scotsbrig; ai~id, after she died, he went oftener to her grave than most sons, dwelling at a dis- tance from their mothers, visit them in life. Scotsbrig also came to him in the shape of letters, as well as in the un- sentimental (though, rightly beheld, not unpathetic) guise of oatmeal, bacon, clothes, and what not. The Carlyles held that good meal could not be bought in London; so, when the barrel wasted, it was filled again from home. One far-. brought fowl we all remember as the epic subject of a letter from Mrs. Car- lyle in Chelsea to her sister-in-law in Scotland. Carlyle had his clothes made in Annan, partly from thrift, partly from distrust of London tailors. However much he depended on the people and the kindly fruits of his native soil, however much the exclusiveness of the Carlyles may have been only that common to all Scotch peasant families, it is still hard to credit though on the excellent authority of Mrs. Oliphant that their mutual love was not by ordinar, even among Scotch peasants. Especially is it difficult of credence that the attachment of Carlyle and his mo ther was not as rare as it was beauti- ful. In 1832, after the death of his father, he writes to his brother Alick, at Scotsbrig: 0 let us all be gentle, obedient, loving to our Mother, now that she is left wholly to our charge! Honour thy Father and thy Mother: doubly honour thy Mother when she alone remains. For twenty years this double honor was more than trebly paid. The son writes once to his mother: Since I wrote last I have been in Scotsbrig more than in London. And so it often is to the end, and after. Dreaming and waking, he looks far up across Eng- land and the Solway. In the spring, the plough and the sower pass between his eyes and the page of Cromwell or The French Revolution; in the autumn, he has a vision of the yellow fields, of Jamies peat-stack, and the caul- dron~ singing under his mothers s win- dow. The mothers trembling thought of her children answers their love for her. She told me the other day (writes one of Carlyles sisters), the first gaet she gaed every morning was to London, then to Italy, then to Cmi- genputtock, and then to Marys, and finally began to think them at hame were, maybe, no safer than the rest. When I asked her what she wished me to say to you, she said she had a thou- sand things to say if she had you here; and thou may tell them, I m very little fra them. As from his first clear earnings Carlyle sent his father a pair of spectacles, and his mother a little sovereign to keep the fiend out of her hussif, so through- out he never forgot her in the least or the greatest particular. From year to year he sent her money and tobacco, which they often smoked together in the farmhouse, books and comforts and letters. The letters, of course, were far the best of all to her. Often as they came, they could not come often enough. In 1824 Margaret Carlyle wrote to her son: Pray do not let me want food; 696 Carlyle as a Letter - Writer. as your father says, I look as if I would eat your letters. Write everything and soon. Everything and soon it always was; and in these many letters Carlyle strove to bring near to the untraveled ones at home all that he was seeing and doing. One means of doing this was to describe interesting places in terms of Annandale. Thus, in telling his sister Jean about Naseby, he wrote Next day they drove me over some fifteen miles off to see the field of Naseby fight Oliver Cromwells chief battle, or one of his chief. It was a grand scene for me Naseby, a venerable hamlet, larger than Middlebie, all built of mud, but trim with high peaked roofs, and two feet thick of smooth thatch on them, and plenty of trees scattered round and among. It is built as on the brow of the Hagheads at Ec- clefechan; Cromwell lay with his back to that, and King Charles was drawn up as at Wull Welshs only the Sinclair burn must be mostly dried, and the hol- low much wider and deeper.~~ Carlyle knew that his mother would be eager to hear of Luther and Luther- land. In September of the last year but one of her life, he writes to her from Weimar that Eisenach is about as big as Dumfries; that a hill near by is somewhat as Locherbie hill is in height and position. The donjon tower of the Wartburg (which he translates for her, Watch Castle) stands like the old Tower of Repentance on Hoddam Hill, where his mother had visited him during his russet-coated idylb there, many years before. They open a door, you enter a little apartment, less than your best room at Scotsbrig, I almost think less than your smallest, a very poor low room with an old leaded lattice window; to me the most venerable of all rooms I ever entered. That afternoon they drive to Gotha in a kind of clatch. Carlyle helps out his English for his mother with bits of their common Doric, and falls unconsciously into Scotch locu tions, such as you would be going or you would be doing, when he means you are likely to go or likely to do. In larger matters it is the same. Carlyle may have been chanting the Miserere to some correspondent, but if he writes to his mother on the same day the note changes to Sursum corda, even though it must visibly struggle up from the depths. Nor do the Immensities and the Eternities appear in his letters to her. In these the Lord her God is also his God. The belief in personal immortality came to Carlyle, so far as I can discover, but dimly and infrequently. This chill lack of faith, so common in our day, sharpened the dread of his mothers death. So early as 1844 he writes in his Journal: My dear old mother has, I doubt, been often poorly this winter. They report her well at present: but, alas! there is nothing in all the earth so stern to me as that constantly advancing inevitability, which indeed has terrified me all my days. Yet, in Carlyles letters after her death, a dovelike peace seems to brood over his deep sorrow. With Roman piety he records the death-trance, sixteen hours long, in which his mother, her face as that of a statue, lay wait- ing for the end. It was another Dulcis et alta quies, p1acida~que simillima morti; and all Carlyles words about that holy parting are grave and sweet. Whatever of loveliness there may have been in the life together of Car- lyle and his wife, and there was much, in spite of all that has been said to the contrary, in death they were far divided. She lies with her gentle forbears in the abbey kirk at Hadding- ton; he, in Ecclefechan kirkyard with his peasant forbears. When Carlyle was dying, the Lord remembered for him the k?ndness of his youth, his mother might have believed, and his mind seemed to turn altogether to the old Ec- clefechan days. Said his niece, Mrs. The Alcaldes Visit. 697 Alexander Carlyle, in a letter soon to be published: He often took Alick for his father (uncle Sandy), and he would put his arms round my neck and say to me, My dear mother. Great writer as Carlyle is, many critics feel that he can never become classical. The word classic, as Sainte - Beuve has pointed out, is a stretchable term; but very possibly the Soudanese lexi- cographer, descended from a native of New Zealand, will label many of Car- lyles phrases post-classical, and place him with Browning and Ruskin, who felt his influence, in the Silver Age of English. Certainly, the Soudanese Quin- tilian will do well to tell his pupils the story of Erasmuss ape, and warn them against the danger of imitating Carlyle. Classical or post-classical, Carlyles name is as closely linked with the French Revolution and the Life of Oliver Crom- well as is the name of Thucydides with the Peloponnesian War, that of Tacitus with the Emperors of the Julian line, or that ~of Gibbon with the Decline and Fall of their Empire. Yet even if Car- lyles historical titles were torn from his grant of immortality, he would survive as onc of the most remarkable of Eng- lish letter-writers. Charles Townsend Copeland. THE ALCALD-ES VISIT. MISSER WILLIAMS had just returned from the North. He had come down in the fruit steamer. He had taken Tete to the North with him to wait upon the seflora, having borrowed him from the Sefiorita Carlota. Of the two ladies, Tete did not know which he adored the more. Misser Williams had lost several val- uable articles. This he had not discov- ered until after he had left the steamer, so that now he was sending Tete back at once with letters to the American cap- tain and the Alcalde at Saltona, to see if they could aid him in finding out the whereabouts of his belongings. Tete had tried to catch a ride on the fruit train, but Garcia was inexorable. His orders were that the peons, natives, workingmen, and boys should not be al- lowed to travel thus through the planta- tions, and Tete must perforce walk all the way to the companys wharf under the rays of the scorching sun. As usual, he was grumbling one moment and smil- ing the next. The train rumbled down from a side plantation and ran round the curve. Tete shook his head. No, he said. They will not allow that I ride. And what difference, I that have the good legs! He ran up the little path that here arose and skirted the track. The breeze began to blow upon his face, the strong, sweet breeze from the bay. Tete stopped under a great tree, himself as straight as a young palm. He stretched out his arms; his fine, straight hair blew about his eyes. I love to live! he shouted to the parrots overhead. I love, I love to live! Their North is fine! Their casas are grand! But give to me my island, my breezes, my palms, my bananas, and my people! A listener would have thought little Tete a real-estate owner, a planter, a sovereign. When Tete reached the wharf it was midday. The cars had arrived long be- fore him with their load of green fruit. The inspector, a large, red-faced Scotch- man, was busy counting the bunches as they were handed over the side. We feel that the sun shine, but we

The Alcaldes Visit. 697 Alexander Carlyle, in a letter soon to be published: He often took Alick for his father (uncle Sandy), and he would put his arms round my neck and say to me, My dear mother. Great writer as Carlyle is, many critics feel that he can never become classical. The word classic, as Sainte - Beuve has pointed out, is a stretchable term; but very possibly the Soudanese lexi- cographer, descended from a native of New Zealand, will label many of Car- lyles phrases post-classical, and place him with Browning and Ruskin, who felt his influence, in the Silver Age of English. Certainly, the Soudanese Quin- tilian will do well to tell his pupils the story of Erasmuss ape, and warn them against the danger of imitating Carlyle. Classical or post-classical, Carlyles name is as closely linked with the French Revolution and the Life of Oliver Crom- well as is the name of Thucydides with the Peloponnesian War, that of Tacitus with the Emperors of the Julian line, or that ~of Gibbon with the Decline and Fall of their Empire. Yet even if Car- lyles historical titles were torn from his grant of immortality, he would survive as onc of the most remarkable of Eng- lish letter-writers. Charles Townsend Copeland. THE ALCALD-ES VISIT. MISSER WILLIAMS had just returned from the North. He had come down in the fruit steamer. He had taken Tete to the North with him to wait upon the seflora, having borrowed him from the Sefiorita Carlota. Of the two ladies, Tete did not know which he adored the more. Misser Williams had lost several val- uable articles. This he had not discov- ered until after he had left the steamer, so that now he was sending Tete back at once with letters to the American cap- tain and the Alcalde at Saltona, to see if they could aid him in finding out the whereabouts of his belongings. Tete had tried to catch a ride on the fruit train, but Garcia was inexorable. His orders were that the peons, natives, workingmen, and boys should not be al- lowed to travel thus through the planta- tions, and Tete must perforce walk all the way to the companys wharf under the rays of the scorching sun. As usual, he was grumbling one moment and smil- ing the next. The train rumbled down from a side plantation and ran round the curve. Tete shook his head. No, he said. They will not allow that I ride. And what difference, I that have the good legs! He ran up the little path that here arose and skirted the track. The breeze began to blow upon his face, the strong, sweet breeze from the bay. Tete stopped under a great tree, himself as straight as a young palm. He stretched out his arms; his fine, straight hair blew about his eyes. I love to live! he shouted to the parrots overhead. I love, I love to live! Their North is fine! Their casas are grand! But give to me my island, my breezes, my palms, my bananas, and my people! A listener would have thought little Tete a real-estate owner, a planter, a sovereign. When Tete reached the wharf it was midday. The cars had arrived long be- fore him with their load of green fruit. The inspector, a large, red-faced Scotch- man, was busy counting the bunches as they were handed over the side. We feel that the sun shine, but we 698 The Alcaldes Visit. have not the red skin to show, said Tete. That Seflo Inspecto will soon be wash away. He maike several river every minute. Tete had joined the peons near, and stood with them watching the disposition of their favorite fruit. They gazed with longing eyes at the bunches which were thrown overboard, and floated on the waters of the bay. One might have been tempted to jump into the water to save some of the finest five-hand bunches, but for that scavenger the shark. The fin which he poked above the surface, now and then, showed that he was ready for his next meal at any time. And what will you be doing here, Tete? asked the inspector. It is Misser Williams who send me to Saltona on some messages, seilo. Messages? Si, sefio. Tetes pouting lip closed downward like the lid of a trap, at the suggestion of curiosity in the inspectors tone. And how will you be getting there? The Esperauza will carry me, Sefio Inspecto. The inspector went on counting, Nine, eight, ten, ten, eight. Suppose I refuse to let ye go, me lad? Ten, nine, ten. The inspector almost lost count of the numbers of bands on the different bunches. The messages of the Misser Williams must be carry, Sefio Inspecto. That will be a poor six-hand bunch, Petrozo. Throw it overboard. Suppose I refuse ye, lad seven, eight, ten, seven. They will be gctting smaller, Petrozo. Those message must go there, Seflo Inspecto. Try it, me lad. I will do as the seflo advise. Captain, this youngster says he will be going to Saltona with ye. Cant go Tete pouted. He did not express his feeling at once in words. Like others of the human race, he took it out on somebody else. He turned and rushed along the stringpiece of the wharf. He came to where Antonio Tallaza was sit- ting. Antonio Tallaza was fishing. Tete seated himself on the other side of the piles, his legs hanging down toward the water. The pile against which he leaned swayed with his slight weight. Those toredos! They will leave them no wharf at all, the next thing! Antonio Tallaza scowled at Tetes muttering. He scowled more fiercely at the shark which came nosing round the hook and carried away his bait. He was experimenting with the oysters that grow on trees. Of that in sequel. Tete laughed. Antonio Tallaza turned upon him with rage. He raised a piece of the filling of the wharf. Tete jumped to his feet. He seized the stone from Antonio Tallaza, and threw it with a great splash at the shark. Thou fish of the devil! said he, beating the American captain over the shoulders of the shark, thou swimmer from hell! stealing the morsel which is dangling to tempt thy Christian bro- ther! You will hand to me that branch of oysters, Tete. Tete lifted the branch which was hang- ing full with shells. At that moment the steamers whistle sounded. He dropped the mass of bait into the water. The shark opened his jaws. The dainty dis- appeared. Ah! that thou wert there, also! ejaculated Antonio Tallaza, as he saw the great jaws close. So the loading was over. The steam- er would be starting in a moment. No one had ever got ahead of the American captain. No, no, not even in this land where getting ahead was meat and drink. Tete stood stolid, deaf even to the revil- ings of Antonio Tallaza. What was it to him that Antonio Tallaza must walk up the long, hot wharf; that he must plunge into the mud left by the falling tide, to pluck from the roots of the man- The Alecddes Visit. 699 grove the bivalve - ridden stems? He, Tete, had other worlds to conquer. Thou wilt lose thy boat! That please me very well, growled Antonio Tallaza, as he plodded up the track. I know my business best, Antonio Tallaza; you may employ yourself in at- tending to your shark. The fruit steamer had been warped round from the end of the wharf to avoid Palm Tree Island. Let go your lines! shouted the American captain from his station on the upper deck. The gangplank was removed. The propeller turned over once, twice. Tete ran lightly along the stringpiece. The steamer was well away from the wharf, and getting farther away every second. Could he do it? If he did not, there was no small boat to save him, and there were the sharks. Ones heart stood still. It was a phenomenal leap. The slight body flew swift and straight as a die. It landed on the lower deck, just escaping the rail. The American captain saw it with the tails of the eyes which were avoiding Palm Tree Island on the one side, and the coral reef on the other. This was no time for discipline. Later he would see to that. But later he remembered nothing save the pluck and the courage. I have a great mind to put back to the wharf, you young devil, smiled the American captain. I would be glad to save you that trouble, Sefio Capitan, said Tete very politely. The sefiora had tried to teach Tete that polite words are never wasted. For- tunately, he sometimes remembered this. Arrived at Saltona, twelve miles across the great bay as the crow flies, Tete skir- mished. Juan Ruiz, who kept the cock- pit outside the town, wondered what lit- tle Tete Dessange was doing so far from home. And has the little Tete brought his cock to fight at my Gallera to-night? he asked. I have not brought my cock, Juan Ruiz. It is the truth, no doubt, that my fine young cock could tear the brains from every cock in Saltona. Then I should take thy dollars back to the Cattle Farm with me, Juan Ruiz. But I am here on much more important businesses than that fighting of the cock. Juan shrugged his shoulders and turned on his horny heel. He knew only too well the reputation of Tetes black one- eyed cock. Then Tete addressed a gentleman who was lounging slowly down the baking, uneven street. The stranger was a fine- looking man, though his skin was darker than Tetes own. His starched white suit, fresh pink shirt, and fine Panama hat proclaimed him a personage of some importance. He raised his cigarette to his lips and puffed lazily. Probably, if Tete could have read his thoughts, he would have found that the gentleman was saying to himself over and over, The English company must be squeezed a little more, just a little more! They can stand it. They could not leave now! It would be fatal to them. They have invested so much in You wish to speak to me, mucha- cho? for Tete had touched his crown- less hat. As he did so, he noticed the large seal ring on the slim dark hand that held the cigarette. Will the seiio be so good direct me to the Seiio Alcalde? What should you want with the Al- calde, boy? The tone was pleasant enough. I have some messages for the Seilo Alcalde, seilo. The stranger held out his hand. Then Tete formed his plans, and soliloquized thus: Betta retain those messages in my bosom. That will serve Misser Wil- liams the best. The man that is on the spot know the most than the other man which is not there. A letter? You can give it to me. I am the Alc~lde 700 The Alcaldes Visit. Tete pulled the straw brim from off the wisps of black hair which stuck up like burned branches. He bowed po- litely, and looked about to left, to right, assuming an air of great secrecy and im- portance. I convey a message to the Seiio Alcalde, it is true, but no written mes- sage. How limp and wet the man- agers letter to the Alcalde felt against his warm little body! The message is from the Don Felipe Rodriguez, the father of my Seiioit Carlota. The Don Felipe ask the Seflo Alcalde to pre- sent himself at the Cattle Farm on Thurs- day and dine. The Alcaldes cunning eyes shot forth a gleam of joy. He raised his slim fin- gers and stroked his drooping mustache to hide an exultant smile. Then it might not be true about the Don Hilariol Else the Don Felipe would never send for him. On what day, muchacho? Thurs- day? Si, Seiio Alcalde. Tete watched every movement of the Alcalde. He noted the well - starched cuffs and the gleam of the handsome sleeve-links. The Alcalde pondered for a moment. He desired to accept, above all things. What was in the way to prevent? Only that he might meet some one whom he did not care just now to see. Where is the American managero, muchacho? At Las Lilas? No, Sego Alcalde. Misser Wil- liams has return to the es-States. He go in steamer Esperanza, who sail to- day. Ah! North again! He must be fond of that North. For me, I like not that North. Here I am great man, gen- tleman. There I am Well, well! say to the sefiorita ahem! the Sefior Don Felipe that I will come with great pleasure. Thursday, why, that is the day after to-morrow, boy! And to bring a small hair trunk, and remain days without number, seilo. Tetes experience had been with visitors from the States. The Alcalde raised his hand to his mouth again. His joy was as broad as his smile. She must have rejected Don Hilario, then! Where is the Seilora Sagas Wil- liams, muchacho? The Alcalde was a wise man; he wished to be sure of his ground. She accompany the Misser Williams. Also the old seiiora, the Seiiora Cordeza; also the peons, John Francios and Car- rate; also the maid Fanache; also Tete had lost his wits in the mazes of invention. I care not about the plans of the Seiior Managero. How shall I get from the wharf to the Cattle Farm? ~y horse is afraid of the fin-keel. No steamer for some days yet. The seiioit I would say, then, the Seflo Don Felipe will have a horse at the wharf, the companys wharf. And now I return, Sefto Alcalde. The Alcalde mused, smiling. The boys slips are certainly reassuring. She has undoubtedly sent for me. Of that I am certain. And then aloud, You shall take my boat, muchacho. They were walking toward the quay. There is a fine fresh breeze. Here, Garcia, take the muchacho across to the companys wharf. Return at once. I shall need the boat on Thursday. She must be paint- ed. Fine visions flew through the brain of the Alcalde of a magic name on the stern, and a moonlight sail on the waters of the bay with one And to bring a little hair trunk, Seiio Alcalde. I shall arrive on the Thursday, mu- chacho. And I will myself meet the Seiio Alcalde when he shall arrive. Tetes airs of importance rivaled those of an ambassador who had come on a mission for the arrangement of a royal wedding. As Tete started on his return trip his The Alcaldes Visit. 701 pout was gone. A smile illumined his lips. His eye had grown soft and gen- tle as a fawns. Tete stood at the mast, his arm clasp- ing it, to insure safety, his straight black hair blowing in the wild, sweet breeze. And why should I not do those for my Misser Williams, who make a travel person of me? And if in the es-States I carry the seiiora shawl, can I do less for those who are kind in their hearts to me? And if I do use my Seiioit Car- lota name, will she not laugh and show her white teeth when I reveal to her all this fine plan which I make? Tete felt in the bosom of his shirt, and drew therefrom a letter addressed in Misser Williamss round, straightfor- ward hand. The outer covering was stained by the fine red string which was tied round the packet, but Tete knew that the inner paper was intact. To be sure it is soak of my sweat, said Tete, but it dry in the trade wind. If I deliver this letter, would not those sleeve-link get hid? And am I wrong in supposing that the round, fiat thing on some one s es-stomack, I have seen, oh! many times before? I should like to put my ear to that es-stomack. It is the firs time a es-stomack shall tick! I shall return the letter to iMlisser Wil- liams when the time come, and I must inform Misser Williams that my way better than hees way. One must put salt on the tails of such a bird. On the following Thursday the Al- calde of Saltona set sail for Caijo San- dros in his fine fin-keel boat. He had changed its name from La Paloma to La Carlota. The paint was scarce- ly dry. The waves lap-lapping at the stern washed it away little by little. It was as well that the Alcalde did not know this; he was, in a measure, super- stitious. The boat had a holiday ap- pearance, and the Alcalde, in his green- striped suit, and his lilac shirt with pink dots, set off with an orange-colored tie, looked the embodiment of happy hopes. True to his promise, Tete was in wait- ing at the companys wharf. He be- strode a large brown bull, and held the rein of a fine gray stallion. That horse looks very much like the one that belonged to old Sagasta, the one that the American managero rides now, thought the Alcalde. There was no train at the wharf. The fruit ready for the market had all been cut for the week and sent North. The hair trunk, which had been brought by the Alcalde at Tetes suggestion, was hoisted out of the boat and dumped upon the wharf. The fine hair trunk of the Sefio Alcalde will be sent for by train, said Tete. The agent has give the order. Tetes imagination had no limit. It was boundless as the ocean upon which he gazed. The strangely assorted pair struck back into the interior. The Alcalde led upon the gray, which he thought had been sent for him by the order of Don Felipe, the gray which had in real- ity belonged to the Seiior Sagasta, and which Misser Williams, ignorant and trusting, believed to be resting in the stall as cure for a slight sprain. Tete followed the Alcalde, upon the big brown bull, which Misser Williams, grown a little lazier now, and less in- quisitive, thought far away over the hills, carrying suckers to the newly cleared land. The Alcalde rode with the ease and assurance of the accomplished horse- man. Tete rode with the same ease and assurance, though with less grace. His short legs stood Qut straight from the sides of the aparejo upon which he sat. Sometimes he varied the monotony of his journey by standing upright on his fiat pack saddle, and with the crooked stick that he carried he goaded the bull into a run. This annoyed the gray, who jumped and caracoled unpleasantly, at which Tete chuekled silently. When the Alcalde remonstrated in rather vio 702 The Alcaides Visit. lent language, Tete, ever polite where interest demanded, answered, It is this devil of a bull that run, seilo. He wish to gore the horse. I should not be sur- prise if he gore the horse before we ar- rive at the Cattle Farm. On account of such remarks the Alcalde did not ride with his accustomed pleasure. As the pair neared the outskirts of the home inclosure of Las Lilas, a horse- man came riding swiftly down toward them. It was Misser Williams astride the little roan. When the Alcalde saw that it was the America:i manager, he made as if to turn the gray short in his tracks. The path was narrow, and Tete, who had also caught sight of the mana- ger, strange to say, had placed the bull across it. He was standing up on the saddle to pick some lilies that drooped from an overhanging vine. The rage that consumed the Alcalde turned his face to a dull ash color. He saw at once that the boy had duped him; for what cause he could not determine. That the American manager was here at Las Lilas instead of steaming North- ward in the Esperanza made him feel anything but comfortable. A quick back- ward glance over his shoulder showed him a narrow path, with a steep precipice on one side, on the other a high wall of ragged rock, and across the path the heavy body of the big brown bull. There was nothing for it but to go on. The Alcalde gave the spur to the gray and faced Misser Williams. Ah, sefior, a pleasant surprise! said Misser Williams. The Alcalde raised his fine large Pana- ma and made the American a sweeping bow. Seiior, he said, this imp of the devil has had the assurance to tell me that you and the sefiora had gone again into the North. I am pleased to find that the Sefior Superintendente is still among ~ The gray! gasped the manager, as he eyed the stallion. You are wel- come to all that I have, Sefior Alcalde: my house is yours, my servants are yours.~~ The Alcalde interrupted the manager: Pardon, Sefior Managero, but I should like to own that devils spawn he pointed backward at Tete for the space of a half hour. Tete belongs at the Cattle Farm, said the manager, smiling, though he is as much here as there. But the gray, sefior I cannot understand he has been laid up with a sprain. Misser Williams looked searchingly at Tete, who stood on his saddle pluck- ing great yellow tubes. Then the Al- calde wheeled the stallion, and together they regarded the boy. Apparently, both gentlemen were beginning to real- ize that some one had been taking lib- erties. As the gaze of two pairs of eyes brought no response from Tete, the American signed to the Alcalde to pre- cede him. After you, Alcalde. The Alcalde, seeing that there was no possibility of passing by Tete and the bull, resigned himself to the inevitable. Why did you tell the Sefior Alcalde that I had gone, Tete? called back Misser Williams. Because I wished the Alcalde to be- lieve it, seflo. Misser Williams raised his shoulders with a careless shrug. You see, Sefior Alcalde. They never have a reason for what they do; they are hopeless liars. Suddenly the Alcaldes saddle slipped. He put his slim hand quickly behind him and clutched the crupper to right it. This action shortened his coat-sleeve. There was a flash from his wrist. Misser Williams started. This is the path to Las Lilas, Sefior Alcalde. You will go home with me and dine. The tone sounded more like a command than the manager intended that it should. I should be most happy, sefior, but I am promised at the Cattle Farm of the Sefior Felipe. !Iike Alcaldes Visit. 703 Not to-night, surely, seflor. They are all away at Haldez. They have gone on some very particular business. I am going to join them this evening. Come home and dine with me, and we can ride over together when the sun goes down. They will be delighted to welcome you. The Alcalde bad no intention of spend- ing more time in the managers compa- ny than was necessary. He was con- sumed with rage, but he was also con- sumed with hunger. The fame of the cook at Las Lilas had reached even far- ther than Saltona. He leaned out of his saddle and glowered back at the toes of Tete, who was seated sidewise. His bull plodded with wide strides slowly after the horses. The Alcalde thought, What excuse can I give for wanting to turn and rush down to the coast again in this devils sun? Aloud he said, That young liar! He brought me a message from Don Felipe. And not one from me? asked Mis- ser Williams. The manager was regarding Tete. The boy shook his head violently and waved the letter in the sun. Then he stood up on his saddle. You are right, Segor Alcalde, said he, smiling. I have my motives. Imp of the devil! I shall ask you to send that boy to the cep to-morrow, Seiior Managero. The manager was thinking deeply. If Tete has done wrong, he shall cer- tainly be punished, Seiior Alcalde. For the borrowing of the stallion and the brown bull Tete might need disciplina- ry measures. Misser Williams looked serious. But you will not refuse my invitation, seiior? I am alone, with the exception of the Sefiora Cordeza. The Alcaldes inner man was gnaw- ing, and, all things considered, he could do nothing but accept. And now they had reached the veran- da steps. The gentlemen alighted. The horses were led away, the bull trotted after, and all were tethered so securely by Tete that no slight effort would re- lease them. Lola, show the Seiior Alcalde to the green chamber, and bring pure water and some fresh clothes. The blue room is nearer, said Lola, argumentative like her race. Take the Sefior Alcalde to the green room, Lola. The entire order was re- peated. Lola retreated sulkily. The Alcalde followed in her wake. The woman went for water. The Alcalde tried to close his door. It had swollen and would not close, as all the household knew. For doors grow, as every one must know who has built a house. Misser Williams was not long behind his guest. He hovered over him; he made it a point of hospitality to see with his own eyes that fresh water and cool linen were brought to the chamber. He sat just outside the door, where he could watch his every movement, and talked with his guest. The Alcalde was constrained, and did his dressing in a very awkward manner. Sometimes he turned his back on the manager; without ostentation, however. When Tete went to the stables, Cito Mores was lounging against one of the posts. Bully, Leon, and two ragged grooms were each busily engaged in lounging against his own particular post, each one chewing his own particular straw. Why did you bring the Alcalde to Las Lilas, boy? asked Cito Mores. That is my business, Cito Mores. I must look after Misser Williams, since there is no one else to look after him. Perhaps, Leon, and you, Bully, it would be a good thing to attend to the roan and the gray, and not eat up all of the straw that they may have no beds. But the Alcalde, persisted Cito Mores. Why did he come? He knows no more than you your- self, Cito Mores. Do you think that he would have come if I tell to him the 704 The Alcaldes Visit. reasons? If you will take the advice from one which has travel and which know the world, you will draw near the casa; the Seiior Managero may require you presence. Misser Williams and his guest sat upon the broad veranda, beneath the shade of a bougainvillea vine. Lola brought out a tray with cigarillos and some flue old rum. She took tiae yellow water jar from its short branch upon the natural pilotijo. She placed it, dripping with moisture, upon the table. It made a wet, cold ring. Old Marta must have the time to concoct a special dish for so distinguished a guest as the Alcalde. Juan must bring mangoes from the large tree down by the river. He must also bring aguacate pears of the finest from the pasture patch, though they were not well ripe as yet. The Alcalde sat with his green.striped coat buttoned tightly across his breast, his arms squarely folded. The heat was excessive; the breeze had died away. Open your coat, Seiior Alcalde, I beg of you. It is a hot day, even at Las Li- las. Let me hand you a fan. Misser Williams took a palm leaf from the rack behind his head. The Alcalde sat like a statue. He bowed stiffly. I thank you, Sei~ior Superintendente. I find it cool enough. Silent contradictors in the shape of round beads of moisture stood upon the Alcaldes brow. He felt sick and faint. It was a long, hot ride to the coast, but if the stallion had stood at the steps, the Alcalde would have made a vault and spurred for distance and for honor. He wondered feebly how all this was to end. He took up his glass in an embarrassed manner. He allowed the manager to pour out his drink for him. He thanked him, with a constrained bow. Spicy odors were wafted appetizingly round the corner of the casa. One could hear old Marta, with Pedro to hinder, clattering her dishes and discoursing on different methods of flavoring. The Al- calde might have had the strength of mind to take his departure, but had he the strength of stomach? His inner man almost spoke aloud. A light for your cigarillo, Seiior Alcalde. Lola was standing near, smiling and bare of foot, her dress starched and full of holes. She held a tray with a silver dragon all aflame. A broken saucer for ashes was in this proud company. A stiff bow from the Alcalde; stiffer acknowledgment in the words, My thanks to you, Sefior Managero. I have given up the practice my heart The Alcalde pressed his hand upon the place where that member beat with rage, disappointment, and chagrin. Under- neath that hand was a round, fiat object, of somewhat different shape and size from the organ named. Misser Williams puffed silently. He was musing upon the fact of having come upon the Alcalde just as he tossed away a cigar, very long and very black. Few persons lie gratuitously. There must always be a motive for premedi- tated sin; unless, like the French, one pursues the habit to keep his hand in. What could be the Alcaldes motive? The Alcalde grew fixed, rigid; he clasped his hands over the vacuum with- in him. At the suggestion of Tete, Cito Mores, with the grooms, had come round from the stables. The three had seated them- selves upon the lowest of the veranda steps. Tete had been exercising his legs by balancing himself upon the veranda rail, his motions like those of Dondy- Jeem, a tight-rope walker whom he had once seen over at Haldez. He, however, kept a close watch upon the Alcalde. At times he withdrew his gaze to fix a pity- ing glance upon Misser Williams, as if to say, Poor innocent! So ignorant of the world! It is I, Tete, which must employ myself in serving those interest of yours. The Alcaldes Visit. 705 The dinner is served, Sefior Mana- gero. It was Lola who spoke, trying to fas- ten together the edges of a hole in her waist, where the starch would not allow the pin to enter. The manager arose. He bowed to the Alcalde and signed to him to lead the way. They entered the dining-room. The Seiiora Cordeza entered at the same moment from another door. Wrinkled and yellow, her mantilla thrown over the high comb that she wore, she stepped lightly toward the table. She bowed to the Alcalde with a certain dignity com- bined with a languid grace, which re- minded one, in spite of himself, of moon- lit verandas and odorous breezes of the night. Her eyes, once the pride and toast of all the estates round about Las Lilas, were still large and dark, and they sent a challenge to the Alcalde as they were raised to his. Now was her harvest. The young sefiora was away. For when does a daughter of the sunny South realize that she has long passed by the milestone where the word at- tractiveness is writ large That glance of the Sefiora Cordeza met with no response. The Alcalde felt that he was meat for her masters. He had matters of more importance to dis- tract him than the mere smiles of wo- man. Unlike the luminous orbs of the Sefiora Cordeza, his small eyes were set far back in his head and close to his aquiline nose. His movements were embarrassed. Each awkward gesture seemed to confess, I am in a devil of a box; how am Ito get out of it? A little of the san-coche, Seiior Al- calde? The half-famished man was minded to reply, I am not hungry, I have no appetite. But St. Anthony himself could not have withstood the spicy odors of that seductive dish, although he might have withstood the charms of the Se- flora Cordeza. The Alcalde pulled the VOL. LXXXII. No. 493. 45 sleeves of his green-striped coat down, down over his knuckles; he grasped his spoon; he began to eat with ungraceful motions. The san-coche was delicious. A feast for the gods! Who could be prudent? In a twinkling the soup-plate was bare. He would enjoy yet another dish of this delightful stew. Custom makes us un- mindful. To compass our desires pru- dence is thrown to the winds; we grow careless to the point of discovery, from the habitual coquette to the chronic em- bezzler of other mens money. With one hand the Alcalde pushed back the long, drooping mustache; with the other he raised the spoon hurriedly to his lips. The green-striped sleeve slipped upward toward the elbow. Misser Williamss eyes grew round and large; they were glued to the objects before him. The Alcalde laid his spoon down with a sigh of contentment, to find the managers gaze fixed upon his cuffs. Those sleeve-links remind me very much of some that I lost on the steamer, Sefior Alcalde, those of which I wrote you. The managers tone had never been more polite. The Alcaldes eyes dropped. He start- ed hurriedly to pull his sleeves over his cuffs, but at once thought better of it. These sleeve-links? Sefior Mana- gero Ah! How could I forget my errand! Will my dear Sefior Managero pardon me? I put them in my cuffs this morning, that I might bring them to the Sefior Managero myself. How more than kind, Seflor Al- calde! The manager rivaled the Al- calde in bows and smiles. Do not re- move them, I beg. They are yours. The Alcalde, having appreciated from the time that he could speak the amount of truth that lies in this generous declara- tion, slowly removed the links from his cuffs. Allow me, he said, and placed the links in the managers politely reluctant hand. No defeated general on the field 706 The Alcaldes Visit. of battle ever surrendered his sword with a greater degree of grace. They were discovered upon the wretched peon who stole them from the managero. I have him safe in the cep at Saltona. His feet are in the stocks. The Alcalde concealed the fact that he should be more than glad to see the Seftor Mana- gero in the same predicament. He awaits the Sefior Manageros disposition. Shall it be the army, or shall he be shot at once, as he deserves ? You may put him in the army, Sefior Alcalde. Misser Williams smifed sweet- ly. They prefer death, I believe. Tete had followed Lola into the room with some peppers. The Sefior Alcalde has a very fine watch, hazarded Tete. (He stood gaz- ing at the Alcalde as if he would say, Who is deserving of the cep now?) I saw it open wide when lie leave the fin-keel. Ah! Misser Williamss tone was one of pleased discovery. Cito Mores and the grooms had lounged near the doorless opening of the dining-room. All eyes were fixed upon the Aicalde. Your fine dishes make me forget my errand. The Alcalde slid those long, brown fingers into his waistcoat pocket. I started with the purpose of bringing the Sefior Managero all of his belong- ings. Is it then certain, seiior, that this fine watch belongs to you? The familiar timepiece was laid in Misser Williamss hand. It was a pre- sent from my wife; one that belonged to the Seiior Sagasta, he said simply. He pressed the spring. The cover flew back. We say in the North, the blessed, honest North, Misser Wil- liams spoke with emphasis, He who runs may read. That depend on which ways he will run at that time, Misser Williams. Now, if the Sefior Alcalde run to the coast Be quiet, Tete! The reproachful tone was sugared with a smile. The manager handed the watch back to the Alcalde. The Alcalde put the dear temptation from him with a sigh. I do not read the English, Sefior Managero. That is a mistake, sefior. It is well to know all languages. It often pre- vents misunderstandings. Misser Williams turned the inside of the cover to all the light that the jalou- sies allowed to enter, and read, Pre- sented to John fiLho as 147illiams by his loving w~fr, Suzon. Bless her! lie added. Every one in the island knows that watch, high as well as low. It is not difficult to find the owner of such a watch. The Sefior Sagasta bought it on the last visit he made to Spain. It was the Sefiora Cordeza who spoke, in the purest Spanish. One should be cau- tious how one undervalues the charms even of a Sefiora Cordeza. It is useful to know all languages, repeated the American manager. I suffer from much the same trouble with the Spanish. Not quite the same, either. Misser Williams smiled broadly. And and there was the Sefior Alcalde will pardon me a long note-case did diddidyou The Alcalde glanced toward the open- ing. Cito Mores and the grooms, with the freedom of the trusted servants of that indolent land, were leaning against the veranda posts. They were resolute- looking men. Their faces showed a watchful interest. The Alcalde remem- bered with joy the changing of some large bills from his pocket to his safe, that very morning, bills for which the American captain would gladly exchange his silver dollars. He put his hand into his breast pocket and drew forth a case. Is this the one, perhaps, Sefior Superintendente? The manager took the case eagerly, and opened the leathern flap. He looked up blankly. If one could have analyzed the expression on the Alcaldes face. one Some Aspects of fLhaclceray. would have said that it was a look of concealed triumph. I suppose there was no money in it, when it was recovered, seiior? Not a peso, Sefior Managero. Misser Williams proceeded to search the interior of the note-case with the fa- miliarity which old acquaintance gives. He took from it a gold-bearing draft. Mama Cordezas inquisitive eye caught the number 1000. Let us be thankful for small favors, Alcalde. This draft would be of no use to any one else. Of not the very slightest use, Seiior Managero. The Alcalde spoke with a settled con- viction. He ground his teeth together. Regardless of the Seiiora Cordezas pre- sence, he raised his clenched hands and shook them in air. The linkless sleeves flapped against the dark wrists. Ah! But that thief! Ah But that jail bird! I will have him shot! I will have him to remain in the cep until his feet rot from his ankles! He shall never walk again! A-a-a-a-ak! Any death is much too good for a thief! And that he should have stolen from my good friend the managero! He shall be taken to-morrow outside the town! He shall be stood against the wall! He shall be sent to hell, where he belongs! Misser Williams was slowly removing the ivory studs which had done duty for the links, and replacing them with his recovered treasures. The Alcalde ad- dressed himself again to the savory stew. How can I thank you, my dear Seiior Alcalde? I have my buttons just in time to wear them to the wedding of the Sefiorita Carlota. She marries the Don Hilario at Haldez to-morrow morning. The Alcalde dropped his spoon with a tremendous splash. And they will tell you in the States that there is no honesty in the Span- iard! said Misser Williams in a mus- ing tone. Thus one sees how unjustly we are represented the world over, added the Alcalde in an almost even voice. Let us continue our dinner, re- joined the manager. The san-coche will be cold, and we shall not get to the wedding. JIrs. Schuyler Crowninshield. SOME ASPECTS OF THACKERAY. I. TWENTY years ago, at Harvard Col- lege, in the rooms of all students of certain social pretensions who affected books, you were sure to see on the most conspicuous shelf, in green and gold or in half calf, the works of William Make- peace Thackeray. The name, boldly printed, greeted you as you entered the door, and served, together with sundry red - sealed certificates and beribboned silver medals, to inform you of the gen- eral respectability and gentility of your host. Of a Sunday morning, this stu dent was likely to be discovered compla- cent over the Book of Snobs or serious over Vanity Fair. Public opinion went that Thackeray was the novelist of gentlemen and for gentlemen; that Dickehs was undoubted- ly strong, but he had not had the privi- lege of knowing and of delineating the things which were adapted to interest the most select of Harvard undergradu- ates. In every fold there are some to lower the general standard of critical excellence; there were some partisans of Dickens. They were judged, as mi- norities are, found guilty of running coun

Some Aspects of fLhaclceray. would have said that it was a look of concealed triumph. I suppose there was no money in it, when it was recovered, seiior? Not a peso, Sefior Managero. Misser Williams proceeded to search the interior of the note-case with the fa- miliarity which old acquaintance gives. He took from it a gold-bearing draft. Mama Cordezas inquisitive eye caught the number 1000. Let us be thankful for small favors, Alcalde. This draft would be of no use to any one else. Of not the very slightest use, Seiior Managero. The Alcalde spoke with a settled con- viction. He ground his teeth together. Regardless of the Seiiora Cordezas pre- sence, he raised his clenched hands and shook them in air. The linkless sleeves flapped against the dark wrists. Ah! But that thief! Ah But that jail bird! I will have him shot! I will have him to remain in the cep until his feet rot from his ankles! He shall never walk again! A-a-a-a-ak! Any death is much too good for a thief! And that he should have stolen from my good friend the managero! He shall be taken to-morrow outside the town! He shall be stood against the wall! He shall be sent to hell, where he belongs! Misser Williams was slowly removing the ivory studs which had done duty for the links, and replacing them with his recovered treasures. The Alcalde ad- dressed himself again to the savory stew. How can I thank you, my dear Seiior Alcalde? I have my buttons just in time to wear them to the wedding of the Sefiorita Carlota. She marries the Don Hilario at Haldez to-morrow morning. The Alcalde dropped his spoon with a tremendous splash. And they will tell you in the States that there is no honesty in the Span- iard! said Misser Williams in a mus- ing tone. Thus one sees how unjustly we are represented the world over, added the Alcalde in an almost even voice. Let us continue our dinner, re- joined the manager. The san-coche will be cold, and we shall not get to the wedding. JIrs. Schuyler Crowninshield. SOME ASPECTS OF THACKERAY. I. TWENTY years ago, at Harvard Col- lege, in the rooms of all students of certain social pretensions who affected books, you were sure to see on the most conspicuous shelf, in green and gold or in half calf, the works of William Make- peace Thackeray. The name, boldly printed, greeted you as you entered the door, and served, together with sundry red - sealed certificates and beribboned silver medals, to inform you of the gen- eral respectability and gentility of your host. Of a Sunday morning, this stu dent was likely to be discovered compla- cent over the Book of Snobs or serious over Vanity Fair. Public opinion went that Thackeray was the novelist of gentlemen and for gentlemen; that Dickehs was undoubted- ly strong, but he had not had the privi- lege of knowing and of delineating the things which were adapted to interest the most select of Harvard undergradu- ates. In every fold there are some to lower the general standard of critical excellence; there were some partisans of Dickens. They were judged, as mi- norities are, found guilty of running coun 708 Some Aspects of Thackeray. ter to accepted opinions, and outlawed from further literary criticism. These Harvard critics did not make for themselves this opinion of Thackeray; they brought it with them from home. We suppose that parents, what time their son started in the world on the first path which diverged from theirs, deemed that they were equipping him with the best master to teach him concerning the ways of that world. Theirs was the old lack of faith, so common to the fearful; they sought to guard their son from the world by pointing out to him its vanity, its folly, its emptiness. Oh, if he shall only know what the world is, they thought. he will escape its evils to come. So they gave him Thackeray, and wrote him long letters on idleness and vice. His bookshelves and his in- ner pockets thus encumbered, the youth found Harvard College a miniature of the world of which he had been warned. There were materials enough for such a conclusion. A seeker will find what he goes forth to seek. The youth learned his Thackeray well, spent four years en- joying his little Vanity Fair, and then departed from Cambridge to help build up the larger world of Vanity which shows so fine in America to-day. There is no phenomenon so interest- ing as the unconscious labor of boys and men over tbe task of shaping, hewing, whittling, and moulding the world into accord with their anticipations. All lend helping hands to the great master im- plement, public expectation. A young fellow goes to college, and joins a group of a dozen others. Brown, the rake, thinks, Here s a Lothario who will sup at Dame Quicklys with me; Smith, the boxer, says, A quick eye, I 11 make a boxer of him; Jones, who translates Homer for the group, sees rhythm and Theocritus in the new- comer s curly hair; Robinson, the phi- losopher, feels a fellow Hegelian. These rival expectations leap out to meet the stranger ~ they struggle among them- selves. Of the students, some agree with Brown, some with Smith, others with Robinson or Jones. The sturdiest of these expectations chokes out the oth- ers and survives. After a short time our young fellow yet entirely undis- covered a strong current of unani- mous expectation has decided that he shall be a boxer. All obstacles to the execution of this judgment are taken away, and moral earthworks are quickly thrown up, guarding him from Brown, Jones, and Robinson. Expectation seats him beside Smith; expectation turns the conversation upon champions of the ring; expectation draws the gloves upon his fists; it offers him no Eastcheap, no Theocritus, no Hegel. The youth takes boxing lessons; soon he learns the lan- guage of the fraternity; he walks, runs, avoids mince pies, eschews books, and with a single eye looks forward to a bout in Hemenway Gymnasium. Thus the tricksy spirit expectation shapes the destinies of common humankind. Thus do parents begin to expect that their son will see the world with their own and Thackerays beam-troubled eyes; they insist that he shall, and in due time he does. Once convince a young man that Thackerays world is the real world, that vulgarity, meanness, trickery, and fraud abound, and you put him in a yoke from which he shall never free him- self. This is the yoke of base expecta- tion. This is what is known in Scrip- ture as the world; it is the habit of screwing up the eyes and squinting in order to see unworthiness, baseness, vice, and wickedness; it is a creeping blindness to nobler things. The weapon against the world is, as of old, to use a word of great associations, faith. Faith is nothing but noble expectation, and all education should be to supplant base ex- pectation by noble expectation. What is the human world in which we live but a mighty mass of sensitive matter, high- ly susceptible to the great force of hu Some Aspects of Thackeray. man expectation, which flows about it like an ever shifting Gulf Stream, now warming and prospering noble people, and then wantonly comforting the un- worthy? Feeble folk that we are, we have in this power of creation an element of di- vinity in us. Our expectations hover about like life-giving agencies. We are conscious that our hopes and our fears are at work all the time helping the on- coming of that which we hope or fear. The future is like a newborn babe stretch- ing out its arms to the stronger. It may be that this power in us is weak, intermit- ten.t, often pitiably feeble; but now and again comes a man with a larger mea- sure of divine life, and his great expec- tations pass into deeds. Before every Trafalgar first comes an expectation that duty will be done. Thackeray has no faith; he does not entertain high expectations. His char- acters do shameless things, and Thack- eray says to the reader, Be not sur- prise(l, injured - seeming friend; you would have done the like under the like temptation. At first you contradict, you resent; but little by little Thacke- rays opinion of you inoculates you; the virus takes; you lose your conviction that you would have acted differently; you concede that such conduct was not impossible, even for you, no, nor im- probable, and, on the whole, after re- flection, that the conduct was excusable, was good enough, was justified, was in- evitable, was right, was scrupulously right, and only a Don Quixote would have acted otherwise. Nothing sickens and dies so quickly as noble expectation. Luxury, comfort, custom, the ennui of hourly exertion, the dint of disappointment, assail it un- ceasingly if a man of ten talents, like Thackeray, joins the assailants, is it not just that admiration of him should be confined to those who are willing to ad- mire talents, irrespective of the use to which they are put? II. England has found it hard to bring forth men of faith. In the great days of Queen Elizabeth, a number of uniting causes produced an emotional excitement which lifted Englishmen and English- wonien to such a height that Shakespeare saw Othello, Hamlet, Brutus, Coriola- nus, Miranda, Cordelia. There was the material stimulus of commerce with strange countries, the prick of money; there was this curious earth, inviting wooers; there was the goad of con- science, troubled to renounce the religion of old; there was the danger of foreign conquerors; there was manly devotion to a Virgin Queen. England roused her- self, and, like a dew-drop from the lions mane, shook off the trammels of petty interests, of vulgar self-seeking, and pre- sented to her poet great sights of human nobility. Not that the moral elevation of a nation is very much higher at one time than at another, but a little swell- ing of noble desires so breaks the ice of custom that a poet must see the clearer waters which lie beneath. If Shake- speare were alive to-day, we doubt not that he would tell of new Othellos, new Cordelias; but it was easier for him then than it would be now, or how could such a host of noble men and women people his pages? Since that time England has been pro- sperous and comfortable; and as her comfort and prosperity have increased she has drifted further and further from a great acceptance of the world. Dry- den and his group, Fielding, Sheridan, men of talents in their different genera- tions, have succeeded, who contemplate themselves, and, expecting to find the world a fit place for them to live in, have helped to render it so. A hundred years ago England shook herself free from the dominion of vulgar men. In France, the triple burden of church, monarch, and nobility, the prohi- bition of thought. the injustice of power, 710 Some Aspects of Thackeray. had lain like millstones on the people; each individual had borne his own bur- den, but one after another each saw that not he alone groaned and sweated, but his brothers also. The fardel a man can bear by himself he can no longer carry when he sees an endless line of other men weighted down and stagger- ing. Sight of injustice to others made each individual in France throw off his own yoke; and the most exultant cry of justice, of brotherly love, ever heard, was raised. No country lives alone. French passion flushed to England. Eng- lishmen were roused some were for lib- erty; others saw their dull old homes and habits transfigured in the blaze of new ideas. Noble Republicans bred no- ble Tories. Everything was ennobled; babies looked more beautiful to their mothers; Virgil interested schoolboys; ragamuffins and ploughboys felt strange disquiet as they heard the words liber- ty, country, brotherhood, home: This shock and counter-shock prepared the way for the great poets of that time, and made Walter Scott possible. Scott had faith; he saw a noble world. But the idealism of France passed away, its glow faded from the English cliffs; dan- ~ger was locked up in St. Helena, and prosperity and comfort, like Gog and Magog, stalked through England. Thackeray was bred when Englishmen were forsaking swords for ledgers, and deserting the students bower for gold. His father died when he was very young. His mother married for her second husband an Indian officer, and Thackeray was sent to school in Eng- land. In a new biographical edition of Thackerays works which Messrs. Har- per & Brothers are publishing, Mrs. Ritchie has written brief memories of her father at the beginning of each vol- ume, with special relation to its contents. These memories are done with filial af- fection. Thackerays kindness, his ten- derness. his sympathetic nature, are writ- ten large on every page. He has many virtues. He dislikes vice, drunkenness, betrayal of women, pettifogging, huck- stering, lying, cheating, knavery, the an- noyance and tomfoolery of social distinc- tions. He would like to leave the world better than he found it, but he cannot see. Pettiness, the vulgarity of money, the admiration of mean things, hang be- fore him like a curtain at the theatre. Romeo may be on fire, Hotspur leap for the moon, Othello stab Jago, Lear die in Cordelias lap; but the sixteenth of an inch of frieze and fustian keeps it all from him. At nineteen Thackeray spent a win- ter at Weimar. He soon writes to his mother of Goethe as the great lion of Weimar. He is not eager to possess the great measures of life. He is not sensitive to Goethe, but to the court of Pumpernickel. He wishes he were a cornet in Sir John Kennaways yeoman- ry, that he might wear the yeomans dress. A yeomanry dress is always a handsome and respectable one. In 1838, when in Paris, he writes: I have just come from seeing Marion Dc- brine, the tragedy of Victor Hugo, and am so sickened and disgusted with the horrid piece that I have hardly heart to write. He did not look through pain and extravagance into the noble passion of the play. He lived in a moral Pum- pernickel where the ideal is kept outside the town gates. Pumpernickel was his home, and he has depicted it in Vanity Fair. This book reflects Thackerays intellectual image in his prime; it is his first great novel, and is filled with the most vivid and en- during of his beliefs and convictions. There are in it a vigor, an independence, and a sense of power that come when a man faces his best opportunity. Into it Thackeray has put what he deemed the truest experiences of his life. He has also written two long sequels to it. The Newcomes is the story of his stepfather, Major Carmichael - Smyth in Vanity Some Aspects Fair; Pendennis, that of Thackeray him- self and his mother wandering in its outskirts. There is this one family of nice people, gathered into an ark as it were, floating over the muddy waters. Thackeray was able to see that his im- mediate family were not rogues; he was also able to draw a most noble gentle- man, Henry Esmond, by the help of the idealizing lens of a hundred odd years; but the world he thought he saw about him is the world of Vanity Fair. Thackeray had so many fine qualities that one cannot but feel badly to see him in such a place. Had his virtues his kindness, his tenderness, his charm, his capacity for affection been energetic enough to dominate his entire charac- ter, he would have lived among far dif- ferent scenes; his readers would have beheld him potting flowers by some vine- covered house in a village where neigh- bors were simple, honest, and true, where round the corner stood a Mermaid Tavern, to which poets and far-voyaging sailors would come, full of stories about a glorious world. Who would not have liked to sit by Thackerays hearth in such a home, a fire warming his kindly feet, his good cheroot gayly burning, a mug at his elbow, and he reading his last man- uscript? Was it Thackerays fault that this was not to be ? Or did he suffer the incidental misfortunes which large causes bring to individuals as they follow their own regardless paths? III. Thackeray is the poet of respectabili- ty. His working time stretches from the Reform Act almost to the death of Lord Palmerston. He chronicles the contem- porary life of a rich, money-getting gen- eration of merchants and manufacturers, lifted into sudden importance in the na- tional life by steamboats and railroads. by machinery for spinning, weaving. mining, by Arkwright, Watt, Davy, and Stephenson. His is a positive, matter- of-fact world, of which Peel is the states- of Thackeray. 711 man and Macaulay the man of letters. Macaulay, in his essay on Bacon, has given us the measure of its spiritual elevation: We have sometimes thought that an amusing fiction might be writ- ten, in which a disciple of Epictetus and a disciple of Bacon should be intro- duced as fellow travelers. They come to a village where the smallpox has just begun to rage, and find houses shut up, intercourse suspended, the sick aban- doned, mothers weeping in terror over their children. The Stoic assures the dismayed population that there is no- thing bad in the smallpox; and that, to a wise man, disease, deformity, death, the loss of friends, are not evils. The Baconian takes out a lancet and begins to vaccinate. They find a body of min- ers in great dismay. An explosion of noisome vapors has just killed many of those who were at work; and the sur- vivors are afraid to venture into the cavern. The Stoic assures them that such an accident is nothing but a mere Jwowpo~y~Evov. The Baconian, who has no such fine word at his command, con- tents himself with devising a safety- lamp. They find a shipwrecked mer- chant wringing his hands on the shore. His vessel, with an inestimable cargo, has just gone down, and he is reduced in a moment from opulence to beggary. The Stoic exhorts him not to seek happiness in things which lie without himself; the Baconian constructs a diving-bell. It would be easy to multiply illustrations of the difference between the philosophy of thorns and the philosophy of fruit, the philosophy of words and the phi- losoplly of works. This is the very no- bility of machinery. As we read, we listen to the buzz and whir of wheels, the drip of oil-cans, the creaking and strain- ing of muscle and steel. Such things serve, no doubt, in default of other agen- cies, to create a great empire, but the England of Thackerays day was a nou- reau riche, self-made, proud of its lack of occupation other than money-getting. 71~ Some Aspects of Thaciceray. Thackeray was fallen upon evil times. He was born into this moral estate of Pumpernickel, and he has described it with the vividness and vigor of complete comprehension. He has immense cle- verness. He knows whereof he talks. Never has a period had so accomplished an historian. The bourgeoisie have their epic in Vanity Fair. During the formative period of Thack- crays life the English nation was pass- ing under the influence of machinery. There was the opportunity of a great man of letters, such as Thackeray, to look to it that literature should respond to the stimulus of added power, and grow so potent that it would determine what direction the national life should take. At such a time of national expansion, literature should have seen England in the flush of coming greatness; it should have roused itself to re-create her in no- bler imagination, and have spent itself in making her accept this estimate and expectation, and become an England dominatiugmaterial advantages and lead- ing the world. The interest in life is this potentiality and malleability. The allotted task of men and women is to take this poten- tiality and shape it. Men who have strong intelligence and quick perceptions, like Thackeray, accomplish a great deal in the way of giving a definite form to the material with which life furnishes us. What Michelangelo says of marble is true of life: Non ha lottimo artista alcun concetto Chun marmo solo in se non circoscriva Col sno soverchio. The problem of life is to uncover the figures hiding in this material: shall it be Caliban, Circe, Philip Sidney, Jeanne dArc? Thackeray, with what Mrs. IRitchie calls his great deal of common sense, saw Major Pendennis and Becky Sharp; and he gave more effective cut- tings and chiselings and form to the po- tential life of England than any other man of his time. The common apology for such a nov- elist is that he describes what he sees. This is the worst with which we charge him. We charge Thackeray with see- ing what he describes; and what justi- fication has a man, in a world like this, to spend his time looking at Barnes New- come and Sir Pitt Crawley? Thackeray takes the motes and beams floating in his minds eye for men and women, writes about them, and calls his tale a history. Thackeray wrote, on finishing Vanity Fair, that all the characters were odious except Dobbin. Poor Thackeray, what a world to see all about him, with his tender, affectionate nature! Eveii Colo- nel Newcome is so crowded round by a mob of rascally fellows that it is hard to do justice to Thackerays noblest at- tenipt to be a poet But why see a world, and train children to see a world, where The great man is a vulgar clown? A world with such an unreal standard must be an unreal world. In the real world vulgar clowns are not great men. Thackeray sees a world all topsy-turvy, and it does not occur to him that he, and not the world, is at fault. This is the curse of faithlessness. He himself says, The world is a looking-glass, and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Thackeray has been praised as a mas- ter of reality. As reality is beyond our ken, the phrase is unfortunate; but the significance of it is that if a man will portray to the mob (he world with which the mob is familiar, they will huzza themselves hoarse. Has not the Pari- sian mob shouted for Zola? Do not the Madrileilos cheer Vald~s? Do not Oui- da and the pale youth of Rome and Paris holla, dAnnunzio ! dAnnun- zio! There is no glory here. The poet, not in fine frenzy, but in sober simplicity, tells the mob, not what they see, but what they cannot of themselves perceive, with such a tone of authority that they stand gaping and likewise see. Some Aspects of Thackeray. 713 Thackerays love of reality was mere- ly an embodiment of the popular feeling which proposed to be direct, business- like, and not to tolerate any nonsense. People felt that a money-getting country must take itself seriously. The Reform Act had brought political control to the bourgeoisie, men of common sense; no ranters, no will-o-the-wisp chasers, but burgornasters arid great oneyers, men who thought very highly of circum- stances under which they were prosper- ous, and asked for no more beautiful sight than their own virtues. Influenced by the sympathetic touch of this atmo- sphere, novel-readers found their former favorites old-fashioned. Disraeli, Sam- uel Warren, Bulwer Lytton, G. P. R. James, seemed false, theatrical, and sen- timental. Thackeray was of this opin- ion, and he studied the art of caricature as the surest means of saving himself from any such fantastic nonsense. He approached life as a city man, one who was convinced that the factories of Lon- don, not the theories of the philosopher, were the real motive force underneath all the busy flow of outward life. He found his talents exactly suited to this point of view. His memory was an enormous wallet, into which his hundred- handed observation was day and night tossing scraps and bits of daily experi- ence. He saw the meetings of men as he passed: lords, merchants, tiusmiths, guardsnien, tailors, cooks, valets, nurses, policemen, boys, applewomen, every- body whom you meet of a morning be- tween your house and your office in the city. He remarked the gestures, he heard the words, he guessed what had gone before, he divined what would hap- pen thereafter: and each sight, sound,. guess, and divination was safely stowed away in his marvelous wallet. England of the forties, as Thackeray saw it, is in Vanity Fair, Pendennis, and The New- comes. I ask you to believe, he says in the preface to Pendennis, that this person writing strives to tell the truth. Where lies the truth? Are men merely outward parts of machinery, ex- posed to view, while down below in the engine - room steam and electricity de- termine their movements? Or do men live and carry on their daily routine un- der the influence of some great thought of which they are half unconscious, but by which they are shaped, moulded, and moved? A French poet says : Le vrai Dieu, le Dieu fort, est le Dien des id6es. But Macaulay says that the philosophy of Plato began with words and ended with words; that an acre in Middlesex is better than a principality in Utopia. The British public applauded Macaulay, and young Thackeray took the hint. Iv. Nobody can question Thackerays style. His fame is proof of its excellence. Even if a man will flatter the mob by say- ing that he sees what they see, he can- not succeed without skill of expression. Readers are slow to understand. They need grace, pithy sentences, witty turns of phrase, calculated sweep of periods and paragraphs. They must have no labor of attention; the right adjective alone will catch their eyes; they require their pages plain, clear, perspicuous. In all these qualities Thackeray is very nearly perfect. Hardly anybody would say that there is a novel better written than Vanity Fair. The story runs as easily as the hours. Chapter after chap- ter in the best prose carries the reader comfortably on. Probably this excel- lence is due to Thackerays great powers of observation. His eyes saw everything, saving for the blindness of his inward eye, and his memory held it. He was exceedingly sensitive. Page after page is filled with the vividness of well-chosen detail. He cultivated the art of writing most assiduously. From 1830 to 1847, when Vanity Fair, the first of his great novels, was published, he was writing all the time, and for almost all of that time 714 Some Aspects of Thackeray. as a humorist, drawing caricatures, a kind of writing perhaps better adapted than any other to cultivate the power of portraying scenes. The caricaturist is restricted to a few lines; his task does not allow him to fill in, to amplify; he must say his say in little. The success of wit is the arrangement of a dozen words. This training for sixteen contin- uous years taught Thackeray a style which, for his subjects, has no equal in English literature. To-day we greatly admire Stevenson and Kipling. We applaud Stevensons style for its cultivation and its charm; we heap praises upon Kiplings for its dash, vigor, and accuracy of detail. All these praises are deserved; but when we take up Thackeray again, we find pages and pages written in a style more cultivated than Stevensons and equally charming, and with a dash, vigor, and nicety of detail that Kipling might envy. Descriptions that would constitute the bulk of an essay for the one, or of a story for the other, do hasty service as pro- logues to Thackerays chapters. Conver- sations of a happy theatrical turn, with enough exaggeration to appear wholly natural, which Stevenson and Kipling never have rivaled, come growding to- gether in his long novels. There are two famous scenes which are good examples of Thackerays power, one of his sentiment, one of his humor. The first is Colonel Newcomes death in the Charterhouse. The second is the first scene between Pendennis and the Fotheringay. Pen tried to engage her in conversation about poetry and about her profession. He asked her what she thought of Ophelias madness, and whether she was in love with Ham- let or not. In love with such a little ojus wretch as that stunted manager of a Bingley? She bristled with indigna- tion at the thought. Pen explained it was not of her he spoke, but of Ophelia of the play. Oh, indeed; if no offense was meant. none was taken: but as for Bingley, indeed, she did not value him. not that glass of punch. Pen next tried her on Kotzebue. Kotzebue? Who was he? The author of the play in which she had been performing so admirably. She did not know that the mans name at the beginning of the book was, Thompson, she said. Pen laughed at her adorable simplicity. He told her of the melancholy fate of the author of the play, and how Sand had killed him. - . . How beautiful she is! thought Pen, cantering home- wards. How simple and how tender! How charming it is to see a woman of her genius busying herself with the humble offices of domestic life, cooking dishes to make her old father comfort- able, and brewing him drink! How rude it was of me to begin to talk about professional matters, and how well she turned the conversation! . . . Penden- nis, Pendennis, how she spoke the word! Emily, Emily! how good, how noble, how beautiful, how perfect, she is This scene is very close upon farce, and it is in that borderland that Thack- crays extraordinary skill shows itself most conspicuous. Difficult, however, as it must be to be a master there, and the fact that Thackeray has no rival in this respect proves it, it is easy work compared to drawing a scene of real love, of passion. Perhaps some actions of Lady Castlewood are Thackerays only attempt thereat. The world of passion is not his world. His ear is not attuned to Das tiefe, schmerzenvolle Gliick Des Hasses Kraft, die Maclit der Liebe. Charlotte Bront~, Tourguenef, Haw- thorne, Hugo, Balzac, all excel him. Thackeray hears the click of custom against custom, the throb of habit, the tick-tick of vulgar life, all the sounds of English social machinery. The dif- ferent degrees of social efficiency and inefficiency rivet his attention. What interests him is the relation that Harry Poker or Blanche Amory bears to the Some Aspects standard of social excellence accepted by commercial England in the forties. He is never at least as an artist dis- turbed by any scheme of metaphysics. His English common sense is never lured afield by any speculations about the value of a human being uncolored by the shadows of time and space. He is never troubled by doubts of stan- dards, by skepticism as to uses, ends, purposes; he has a hard-and-fast Brit- ish standard. He draws Colonel New- come as an object of pity; he surrounds him with tenderness and sympathy. Here is Thackeray at his highest. But he never suggests to the reader that Colo- nel Newcome is not a man to be pitied, but to be envied; not a failure, but a suc- cess; not unhappy, but most fortunate. The great poets of the world have turned the malefactors cross into the symbol of holiness. Thackeray never departs from the British middle class conceptions of triumph and failure. In all his numer- ous dissertations and asides to the read- er, he wrote like the stalwart Briton he was, good, generous, moral, domestic, stern, and tender. You never forget his Puritan ancestry, you can rely upon his honesty; but he is not pure-minded or humble. He dislikes wrong, but he never has a high enough conception of right to hate wrong. His view is that it is a matter to be cured by policemen, pro- priety, and satire. Satire is the weapon of the man at odds with the world and at ease with himself. The dissatisfied man a Ju- venal, a Swift, a youthful Thackeray belabors the world with vociferous indig- nation; like the wind on the travelers back, the beating makes him hug his cloaking sins the tighter. Wrong runs no danger from such chastisement. The fight against wrong is made by the man discontented with himself and careless of the world. Satire is harmless as a moral weapon. It is an old - fashioned fowling piece, fit for a man of wit, intel- ligence, and a certain limited imagina of Thackeray. 715 tion. It runs no risk of having no quar- ry; the world to it is one vast covert of lawful game. It goes a-traveling with wit, because both are in search of the un- worthy. It is well suited to a brilliant style. It is also a conventional depart- ment in literature, and as such is de- manded by publishers and accepted by the public. Thackeray was born with dexterity of observation, nimbleness of wit, and a quick sense of the incongruous and the grotesque. He lost his fortune when a young man. He wrote for a livelihood, and naturally turned to that branch of literature which was best suited to his talents. It was his misfortune that satire is bad for a mans moral development. It intensified his natural disbelief in the worth of humanity, but gave him the schooling that enabled him to use his powers so brilliantly. Thackeray was often hampered by this habit of looking at the grotesque side of things. It continually~dragged him into farce, causing feebleness of effect where there should have been power. Sir Pitt Crawley, Jos Sedley, the struggle over Miss Crawley, Harry Foker, the Chevalier de Florac, Aunt Hoggerty, are all in the realm of farce. This is due partly to Thackerays train- ing, and partly to his attitude toward life. If life consists of money, clothes, and a bundle of social relations, our daily gravi- ty, determination, and vigor are farcical, because they are so out of place; they are as incongruous as a fish in trousers. But Thackeray forgets that there is some- thing disagreeable in this farce, as there would be in looking into Circes sty and seeing men groveling over broken meats. To be sure, Thackeray makes believe that he finds it comic to see creatures of great pretensions busy themselves so continually with the pettiest things. But it too often seems as if the comic ele- ment consisted in our human preten- sions, and as if Thackeray merely kept bringing them to the readers notice for 716 Some Aspects of Thackeray. the sake of heightening the contrast be- tween men and their doings. V. Thackeray is not an innovator; he follows the traditions of English litera- ture, lie is in direct descent from the men of the Spectator, Addison, Steele, and their friends, and from Fielding. He has far greater powers of observa- tion, wit, humor, sentiment, and descrip- tion than the Spectator group. He ex- cels Fielding in everything except as a story-teller, and in a kind of intellectual power that is more easily discerned in Fielding than described, a kind of im- perious understanding that breaks down a path before it, whereas Thackerays in- telligence looks in at a window or peeps through the keyhole. Fielding is the bigger, coarser man of the two; Thack- eray is the cleverer. Each is thorough- ly English. Fielding embodies the Eng- land of George I.; Thackeray, that same England refined by the revolutionary ideas of 1789, trained by long wars, then materialized by machinery, by a successful bourgeoisie and the quick ac- cession of wealth. Each is a good fel- low, quick in receiving ideas, but slow to learn a new point of view. Field- ing is inferior to Thackeray in educa- tion, in experience of many men, and in foreign travel. Tom Jones is the beget- ter of Arthur Pendennis, Jonathan Wild of Barry Lyndon. Some of Fieldings heroines, wandering out of Toni Jones and Amelia, have strayed into Penden- nis, Vanity Fair, and The Newcomes. The fair 6migr6es change their names, but keep their thoughts and behavior. It is said that a lady once asked Thackeray why he made all his women fools or knaves. Madam, I know no others. It may be tbat living in Paris in his youth hurt his insight into women; it may be that the great sorrow of his wifes insanity instinctively turned his thoughts from the higher types of wo- men; perhaps his life in Bohemia and in clubs limited his knowledge during the years when novel-writing was his chief occupation. The truth seems to be that Tbackeray, like Fielding, was a mans man, he understood one cross- section of a common man, his hopes, aims, fears, wishes, habits, and manners; but he was very ignorant of women. He says: Desdemona was not angry with Cassio, though there is very little doubt she saw the lieutenants partiality for her (and I, for my part, believe that many more things took place in that sad affair than the worthy Moorish oflicer ever knew of); why, Miranda was even very kind to Caliban, and we may be pretty sure for the same reason. INot that she would encourage him in the least, the poor uncouth monster, of course not. Shakespeare and Thackeray looked dif- ferently at women. Thackeray lacked the poets eye; he could not see and was not troubled. Ahi quanto nella mente mi commossi, Quando mi volsi per veder Beatrice, Per non poter vedere, ben chio fossi Presso di lei, e nel mondo felice! But poor Thackeray was never near the ideal, and never in paradise. Some critic has said of him that because he had Eden in his minds eye, this world appeared a Vanity Fair. No criticism could be more perverted; he had Vanity Fair in his minds eye, and therefore could not see paradise. This treatment of women is half from sheer ignorance, and half from Thack- erays habit of dealing in caricature with subjects of which he is ignorant. He behaves toward foreign countries very much as he does toward women. France, Germany, Italy, appear like geography in an opera bouffe. They are places for English blackguards to go to, and very fit places for them, tenanted as they are by natives clad in outlandish trousers, and bearded and moustachioed like pards. His delineations of Germany, and those pen-and-ink sketches by Rich- ard Doyle in his delightful Brown, Jones Some Aspects of ]ihackeray. 717 and Robinson, made so strong an impres- sion upon an ignorant portion of the pub- lie, of which we were, that it was fright- ened to death in 1871, when it thought of the French armies trampling down poor little Germany. Thackeray looked on Germany, as he did upon the world, with the greedy eye of the caricaturist, and he could not refrain from his gro- tesque sketches. Of the French he says: In their aptitude to swallow, to utter, to enact humbugs, these French people, from Majesty downwards, beat all the other nations of this earth. In looking at these men, their manners, dresses, opinions, politics, actions, history, it is im- possible to preserve a grave countenance; instead of having Carlyle to write a His- tory of the French Revolution, I often think it should be handed over to Dick- ens or Theodore Hook. . . . I can hardly bring my mind to fancy that anything is serious in France, it seems to be all rant, tinsel, and stage-play. His atti- tude toward French literature is dis- torted by lack of sympathy to an aston- ishing degree. Thackerays fault was not merely a certain narrowness of mind, but also that he allowed himself to see only the grotesque and disagreeable, until habit and nature combined to blind him to other things. Thackeray is not a democrat. Demo- cracy, like many another great and vague social conception, is based upon a funda- mental truth, of which truth adherents to the conception are often ignorant, although they brusb against it in the dark and unwittingly draw in strength for their belief. The fundamental truth of democracy is that the real pleasures of life are increased by sharing them, that exclusiveness renders pleasure in- sipid. One reason why democracy has prevailed so greatly is that everywhere, patent to everybody, in the simplest family life, there is proof of this truth. A man amuses himself skipping stones: the occupation has a pleasure hardly to be detected; with a wife it is interest- ing, with children it becomes exciting. Every new sharer adds to the fathers stock of delight, so that at last he lies awake on winter nights thinking of the summers pleasure. With a slight appli- cation of logic, democrats have struggled, and continually do struggle, to break down all the bastions, walls, fences, and demilunes that time, prejudice, and igno- rance have erected between men. They wish to have a ready channel from man to man, through which the emotional floods of life can pour; For they, at least, ilave dreamd [that] hnman hearts might blend In one, and were through faith released From isolation without end. What is the meaning of patriotism? Does the patriot think his country wiser, better, more gifted, more generous, than another? Perhaps, and in this he is al- most certainly wrong; but the power of patriotism to disregard truth lies in the fact that it is one of the most powerful conductors of human emotion ever dis- covered. It is part of the old human cry, Self is so small; make me part of something large. Esprit de corps, which makes people unreasonable and troubles the calculations of the bloodless man, is a like conductor of the emotions in lesser matters; and the fact is familiar that the larger the body, the greater is the emotion generated. Humanity has had a hard task in civilizing itself; in periods of ignorance, ill humor, and hunger it has built up a most elaborate system, which has been a great factor in material prosperity. This system is the specialization of labor, which serves to double the necessary differences among men, and to make every specialty and every difference a hindrance to the joys that should be in commonalty spread. The age of ma- chinery increased specialization, special- ization increased wealth, wealth was popularly supposed to be the panacea 718 Some Aspects of Zfhackeray. for human ills; and the bars and bar- riers between men were repaired and strengthened. Specialization in Thack- crays time was in the very air; every- thing was specialized, trade was spe- cialized, society was specialized, money was specialized; there was money made, money inherited from father, money in- herited from grandfather, money, like blood, growing purer and richer the further back it could be traced. Every act of specialization produced a new batch of social relations. Thackeray is very sensitive, especial- ly to this elaborate system of special- ization, and to its dividing properties, strengthened and repaired by the com- mercial Briton. Thackeray has no gift for abstraction; he does not take a man and grow absorbed in him as a spiritual being, as a creature in relations with some Absolute; he sees men shut off and shut up in all sorts of little coops. He is all attentive to the coops. The world to him is one vast zotilogical gar- den, this Vanity Fair of his. He does not care that the creatures are living, growing, eating, sun-needing animals; he is interested in the feathers, the curl of the tail, the divided toe, the pink eye, the different occupations, clothes, habits, which separate them into differ- ent groups. A democrat does not care for such classification; on the contrary, he wishes to efface it as much as pos- sible. He wishes to abstract man from his conditions and surroundings, and contemplate him as a certain quantity of human essence. He looks upon the dis- tinctions of rank, of occupation, of cus- toins and habits, as so many barricades upon the great avenues of human emo- tions; Napoleon-like, he would sweep them away. He regards man as a seri- ous reality, and these accidents of social relations as mere shadows passing over. This is the Christian position. This is the attitude of Victor Hugo, George Eliot, George Sand, Hawthorne, Tourge- nef, Tolstoi, Charlotte Bront~. No wonder that Charlotte Bronte made this criticism upon Thackerays face: To me the broad brow seems to express intellect. Certain lines about the nose and cheek betray the satirist and cynic; the mouth indicates a child- like simplicity, perhaps even a degree of irresoluteness, inconsistency, weak- ness, in short, but a weakness not un- amiable... . A certain not quite Chris- tian expression. This is a true like- ness. Thackeray was not a Christian. He acted upon all the standards which Christianity has proclaimed to be false for nearly two thousand years. He had a certain childlike simplicity. Some of his best passages proceed upon it. Take the chapters in Vanity Fair where Anielia is neglected by Osborne, or the scene at Colonel Newcomes death. These incidents are described as they would appear to a child. The impres- sions seem to have been dinted on the sensitive, inexperienced mind of a child. This quality is Thackerays highest. He is able to throw off the dust of years, and see things with the eyes of a child, not a child trailing glory from the east, but one bred in healthful ignorance. Walter Bagehot, in his essay on Sterne and Thackeray, compares the two, and, after describing Sternes shiftless, lazy life, asks, What can there be iii common between him and the great Thackeray, industrious and moral? Bagehot found that the two had sensitiveness in com- mon. There is another likeness, a cer- tain lack of independence, a swimming with the stream. Thackeray has an element of weakness; it appears continu- ally in his method of writing novels. He puts his character before you, but he never suffers you to consider it by your. self; he is nervously suggesting this and that; he is afraid that you may misjudge what he conceives to be his own correct moral standard. He points out how virtuous he really is, how good and no- ble. He keeps underscoring the badness of his bad people, and the weakness of Some Aspects of Thackeray. 719 his weak people. He is like a timid mother, who will not let her brood out of sight while any one is looking at them. Moreover, his satire never attacks any- body or anything that a man could be found publicly to defend. He charges upon social malef actors who are absolute- ly defenseless. He belabors brutality, avarice, boorishness, knavery, prevarica- tion, with most resounding thwacks. In the year 1847 Vanity Fair was published. Thackeray won great fame as the terrible satirist of society. And what did society do? Society invited him to dinner, in the correct belief that it and Thackeray agreed at every point. We think that such satire betrays a cer- tain weakness and lack of courage. Did the Jesuits invite IMIoli~re to dinner after Tartuffe? Thackerays face had, according to the criticism we have quoted, a weak- ness not unamiable. Certainly Thack- eray was not unamiable; lie must have been most lovable in many ways. The childlike characteristic to which we have alluded is enough to prove that; and in chapter after chapter we find evidence of his human kindliness. Take, for ex- ample, the passage quoted by Mr. Men- vale, in his somewhat pugnacious Life of Thackeray, from Titmarshs letter on Napoleons funeral at Les Invalides. Here is a description of an English family in three generations, a somewhat foolish family, perhaps, given with some affectation, but perfectly genuine in its sympathy with childish hopes and fears. His books are full of passages of a like character. If further evidence were needed, Mrs. Ritchies prefaces to this new edition supply it most abundantly. VII- A novelist, however, in the end, must be judged according to a common human measure. This the novelist, like other men devoted to special pursuits, resents; he interposes a claim of privilege, and demands a trial by his peers. He claims that as a man he may be judged by Tom, Dick, and Harry, but as a novelist in that noble and sacrosanct capacity he is only within the jurisdiction of men acquainted with the difficulties and triumphs of his art. This is the old error, the Manichean heresy of trying to divide the one and indivisible into two. It reminds one of Gibbons I sighed as a lover, I obeyed as a son. It is the character of the novelist that provides tissue for his novels; there is no way by which the novelist can sit like an absentee god and project into the world a work that tells no tales of him. Every man casts his work in his own image. Only a great man writes a great novel; only a mean man writes a mean novel. A novel is as purely a per- sonal thing as a hand-shake, and is to be judged by a simple standard which every- body can understand. There has been a foolish confusion of nomenclature, due to the desire of critics to make a special vocabulary for them- selves, partly to the end that they may be known to be critics, partly to shut themselves off into a species of the liter- ary genus that shall be judged only by members of the same species. Hence the silly words idealism~ and real- ism. M. de Maupassant says: How childish it is to believe in reality, since each of us carries his own in his mind! Our eyes, ears, noses, tastes, create as many different varieties of truth as there are men in the world. And we who re- ceive the teachings of these senses, af- fected each in his own way, analyze, judge, and come to our conclusions as if we all were of different races. Each creates an illusion of the world for him- self, poetical, sentimental, gay, melan- choly, ugly, or sad, according to his na- ture. This is a correct statement, but it does not go far enough. The world not only looks different to different peo- ple, bat, as it is the most delicately plastic and sensitive matter imaginable, it is always tending to become for any 720 Some Aspects of Thackeray. community what the man in that com- munity with the greatest capacity for expression thinks it is. Like an old Polonius, the city, the village, or the household sees the world in shape like a camel, or backed like a weasel or a whale, according as the prince among them thinks. Consider a fashion in criticism or in dress. Sir Joshua Rey- nolds admired Annibale Carracci, and all the people who looked at pictures, in very truth, saw beautiful pictures by the great, glorious Annibale. A group of dressmakers and ladies of quality in Paris wear jackets with tight sleeves, and every city-bred woman in France, Eng- land, and America sees the beauty of tight sleeves and the hideousness of loose sleeves. Strictly speaking, everything is real and everything is ideal. The world is but an aggregate of opinions. The man who sees an ugly world is as pure an idealist as he who sees a glorious orb rising like the sun. The question for poor humanity is, Shall the earth shine or float dead and dull through eternity? Every man who sees it golden helps to gild it; every man who sees it leaden adds to its dross. Shall we look with Miranda? 0, wonder! low many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! 0 brave new world, That has such people in t! Or with Timon? The learned pate Dncks to the golden fool: all is oblique; There s nothing level in our cursed natures, But direct villauy. The novelist is on the same standing- ground as another; only he has the greater influence, and therefore the greater responsibility. This world and all which inherit it are a dream; why not make it a nobler dream than it is? Before this great act of creation, the petty details of the novelists craft plot, story, arrangement, epigram, eloquence drop off like last years leaves. These details will always find individuals to study them, to admire them, to be fond of them. They will have their reward, they add to the interest of life, they fill the vacant niches in the rich mans time, they embroider and spangle. They quicken our wits, stimulate our lazy at- tentions, spice our daily food, help us to enjoy; but they must not divert our at- tention from the great interest of life, the struggle between rival powers for the pos- session of the world. It is a need com- mon to us and to those who shall come after us, that the world suffer no detri- ment in our eyes. We must see what poets see; one cannot help but dogmatize and say that it is base to believe the world base. We need faith; we cannot do without the power of noble expectation~ Is that lope Faith, that lives in thought On comforts which this world postpones, That idly looks on life and groans And shuns the lessons love has taught; Which deems that after three score years, Love, peace and joy become its due, That timid wishes should come true In some safe spot untouched by fears? Or has he Faith who looks on life As present chance to prove his heart, As time to take the better part, And stronger grow by constant strife; Who does not see the mean, the base, But sees the strong, the fresh, the true, Old hearts, old homes forever new, And all the world a glorious place; So bent that they he loves shall find This earth a home both rich and fair, That he is careless to be heir To all inheritance behind? Henry D. Sedgwick, Jr.

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: ~ ffrn~apnc of ILttcraturc, ~CWflCt~, !~rt, an~ j~oIitic~. VOL. LXXXIL DECEMBER, 1898. No. CUUCXCIV~ THE UNITED STATES AND THE CONTROL OF THE TROPICS. THE editor of The Atlantic Monthly has written me the following letter In your suggestive volume on the control of the tropics you declare it futile that any first-class world-power should hope in the future to fold its hands and stand aloof from the tropics. You say that there can be no choice in the matter, and that with the filling up of the tem- perate regions and the continued devel- opment of industrialism, rivalry for the trade of the tropics will be the largest factor in the era upon which we are en- tering. You declare that, by reason of past experience, we have now come face to face with the following conclusions regarding the tropics: The ethical development that has taken place in our civilization has ren- dered the experiment once made to de- velop their resources by forced native labor no longer possible, or permissible, even if possible. We have already abandoned, un- der pressure of experience, the idea, which at one time prevailed, that the tropical regions might be occupied and permanently colonized by European races, as vast regions in the temperate climes have been. Within a measurable period in the future, and under pressure of experience, we shall probably also have to abandon the idea, which has in like manner pre- vailed for a time, that the colored races, left to themselves, possess the qualities ne- cessary to the development of the rich re- sources of the lands they have inherited. The only method left, therefore, in your opinion, is that the tropics must be governed from a base in the temperate regions; and, in particular, and in this you make a new departure, be governed by the nations which undertake such work as a trust for civilization. This solution of the problem of the tropics Great Britain has begun to make in the case of Egypt. But Great Brit- ain is already a world-wide empire, and has developed by long experience the methods and machinery for exercising such control. You refrain, in your book on the control of the tropics, no doubt pur- posely, from saying whether, in your judgment, the United States has incurred obligations by her victory over Spain to take a share in the development of the tropics, and whether the United States is politically able to enter upon such a ca- reer. The body of opinion in the United States that opposes a policy of expan- sion bases its objections on these three propositions: (1) that the traditions of the United States are directly and strong- ly opposed to a policy of expansion, and have been so opposed from George Wash- ingtons Farewell Address to the present time; (2) that a dangerous if not an insuperable practical difficulty to a pol- icy of expansion is found in the ineffi- cient civil service of the United States; and (3) that the control of colonies is illogical for the United States, because such a policy directly contradicts the fundamental proposition on which the 722 The United States and the Control of the Tropics. republican form of government rests, that it shall consist only of self-govern- ing commonwealths. In view of these objections, do you bold that the United States could safely enter upon a policy of expansion? The questions asked in this letter are so very important, and bear so closely upon a great public issue about which it is the right and duty of the people of the United States alone to express a direct opinion, that I feel some difficulty in replying to them. Let me take the propositions in order, and deal first with the policy of expansion. I have recently been traveling over a large part of the United States, particularly in the West. I have been as far west as the Pacific coast, passing over two main lines of communication, out one way and back another, stopping at various places, and living amongst the people a good deal. On this subject of expansion I talked with the people generally. It was im- possible to avoid the subject. I was struck by two great bodies of opinion, as I might call them, on the question of ex- pansion. One of these I might describe as being a sort of unreasoning body of opinion; that is to say, it has not been reasoned out. It takes the shape in the popular mind of a pronounced and even intense feeling that in this matter of ex- pansion the duty of the United States is clear. Ask the farmers and business men in the West why the course which they propose is the duty of America. They will give no direct reason or logical reason, as far as I could find out. But they are, nevertheless, perfectly decided about one thing, and that is that this thing has got to be done. You ask, What thing? and they reply, Why, that America should keep a stiff upper lip to the world; should hold that which she has not sought, but which has come to her; should keep what she has got. She must, in short, in a favorite phrase, be true to her own destiny. Now that is one body of opinion. There is also another great body of opinion, largely prevaihiiig amongst the reasoning classes in the United States. Many men of this class undoubtedly hold strongly that the government is about to embark upon a very responsible ex- periment, perhaps an experiment in which there is a considerable element of danger. With regard to the first body of opin- ion, which is a serious force it seemed to me in most places, I tried to explain to myself what this feeling is which finds expression as the destiny of America now to be carried forward in a policy of expansion. I can only put the matter in the shape in which it has presented itself to my own mind. To get at the underlying meaning of that great phase of world-development which is now culminating in the United States, it would appear to be necessary to go a little distance back into the past: we must take up the threads of European history. As European history is coming to be understood at the present day, there is a principle which is gradually emerging into the view of the student, and growing clearer and clearer even to the general mind. If we look back over a short period it may perhaps fail to at- tract attention, but when we extend the view over a few centuries there can be no mistaking it. At first sight this his- toric principle of development or prin- ciple of movement in European affairs may be described as the gradual move- ment of power northward; when it is regarded more closely, it is possible to see that it is something more than this. Underneath all the outward national quar- rels of Europe there has been going on for centuries what is really a strugglo between what we might call the Latin type of civilization, represented by the southern races, and that type of civiliza- tion which has been developed in north- ern Europe. We first catch sight of it early in the The United States and the Control of the Tropics. history of the German Empire. It may be seen there how German unity was a sort of ideal which the German people had put before them a long way back in the centuries; how the German people sought to realize that ideal; and how the German people were constantly thwarted by a set of influences from southern Europe, in which at first the influence of Spain, and later the influence of Austria, predcminated. It has been only in our own time that the ideal of German unity has been realized, and the rise of Prus- sia becomes, as Professor Acton sees it, the most significant historical phenome- non in the history of modern Continental Europe. Again, we see Spain joined in a tremendous world - struggle with the Dutch. It is impossible to read Motleys History of the Dutch Republic without vividly feeling what a momentous strug- gle it was, and with what cost to the Netherlands it was waged. Although the Dutch emerged from it eventually victo- rious, and were for some time afterward a leading power in Europe, much of the life - blood of the people had certainly been sucked. Finally the conflict may be observed in its last and most significant phase. To take up the threads we must go a little distance back to where we find Spain con- fronting England in Elizabethan times, with apparently an overwhelming advan- tage o~i the side of the former country. Slowly the outwardly stronger power goes down, and toward the end of the eighteenth century it is France, with Spain behind her, which stands confront- ing England throughout the world. Even yet historians have scarcely fathomed the meaning of the great struggle that culminated in what is known as the Na- poleonic wars. Up to recent times Pro- fessor Seeley has probably been the only English historian who has risen to the philosophical position of seeing that that contest was in reality a duel, in which France, with Spain behind her, had joined with England for the future of the world, a duel in which the real is~sue was whether Latin civilization or that kind of civilization with which England had become identified was to be predom- inant. The whole Napoleonic era, as Seeley puts it, was but a struggle against the world-expansion of the English prin- ciple, and Napoleon tried to conquer the whole continent of Europe because he realized that he could not otherwise conquer England. The cost of the conflict to England was enormous. It is impossible to give figures which would bring home to the mind the real extent of the sacrifices made. Toward the close of the war Great Britains population was about 17,000,000. But before peace was re- stored that comparatively small nation, at a period when money was very scarce and of higher value than it is now, had incurred a national debt of about $4,000,- 000,000. It is not yet perceived in America that one of the principal results of this prolonged struggle has been, not the se- cession of the United States from Eng- land, which was but an incident and of the nature of a development, but rather that the North American continent of the present day speaks English, and not French; and that the immense inherit- ance of that continent belongs to the type of civilization which the United States now represents, and not to any other type. But to present the history of this de- velopment in its next chapter w~ have to take a large canvas; for it is neces- sary to find room for the whole North American continent. Looking at the map of North America immediately before the period when the United States began its career as a nation, we have a remarkable spectacle. A little fringe of English-speaking people, some 5,000,000 in number, occupied the terri- tory along the Atlantic seaboard. The French occupied the broad hinterland of the Mississippi Valley. The Span- iards were in possession in the south; 723 724 The United States and the Control of the Tropics. they held also the great territories along the Pacific seaboard. This English- speaking territory is little more than a patch on the map, surrounded by terri- tories belonging to one or other of almost all the leading powers of Europe. Yet we look again toward the end of the nineteenth century, and a wonderful transformation has taken place; a later and vaster chapter of the world-move. ment, of which we had the opening chapters in another hemisphere, has been enacted. North, south, west, from Atlantic to Pacific, from seaboard to sea- board, the great wave of English-speak- ing civilization has flowed, submerging, nay, obliterating all other forms. Not a square mile of territory, once won, has ever been given back. The meaning of Washingtons Farewell Address, deliv- ered when the United States contained only about 6,000,000 people, surrounded on every side by hostile powers and hos- tile natural conditions, appears to be lost when the 6,000,000 have grown to 70,000,000, and are already reckoning the day when they will be 200,000,000. The people whom Henry Adams de- scribed as living at the beginning of the nineteenth century in an isolation like that of the Jutes and Angles of the fifth century have tamed a continent, have covered it with a vast network of the most magnificent railroads in the world, have grown to be the largest and most homogeneous nation on the face of the earth, with a great world-movement be- hind it, and certainly a great world-part in the future before it. It is because the man in the Western states to-day, in a dim instinctive way, realizes these things, because he has himself been in the midst of this development, and has even been a factor in it, that he seems to be willing to take the risks which more theoretical minds hesitate at. That was the answer which I gave myself. To look closer at the matter is only to have the importance of it brought home with increased force. The struggle above described has been going on ever since, and it is but the last phase of it that we have had in America in the recent war with Spain. Yet the conditions are slowly changing. A lead- ing factor in the future history of the world is that it is the probable destiny of the United States, at no distant time, to become the leading section of the English-speaking world; nay, not only that, but to become the leading world- power of the next century. Now, if the United States is going to be a great world- power in the next century, it would seem to be almost impossible to conceive that it will be able to escape the effect of its connection with what are really world- principles, and these world-principles will involve very important relationships to the world in the future. The first mat- ter with which it will undoubtedly be concerned is the trade of the world. It is not possible to conceive the North American continent as occupied by per- haps 200,000,000 people in the near fu- ture, without considering these inhabit- ants as having behind them a world-trade. Some persons seem to think that a coun- try may have an export trade without an import trade. It is an economic law that even that is impossible. When we come to look at the world of the present day, it may be seen at once that most of the developments that have gone on in the past have been those which have taken place in the temperate regions. We of the more vigorous races have been occupied during the last century or two with colonizing, spreading ourselves over, and taming the temperate regions of the world. That era, it would seem, will not last much longer; it is slowly but surely coming to a close. Within a time which many of us will live to see, the American continent will be settled up; it is very nearly settled up already, in the agricultural sense. The next era of expansion, which we are almost in the midst of, is the great era of indus- trial expansion, manufacturing expan- sion, an era of expansion which will The United States and the Control of the Tropics. 725 undoubtedly bring the United States into very important relations with the trade of the world. The people of the United States will be driven to seek the widest possible outside market for their indus- trial productions; they must be able to buy raw material in outside markets; and they will have behind them, as they will come to realize more and more clearly, a great history, for they will be the lead- ing representatives of definite principles in the development of the world. Now let us see what this trade means. It would seem that there can be little doubt that the trade of the world in the future will be largely a trade with the tropics. The tropics are naturally the most richly endowed portion of the world. Under proper conditions of administra- tion, the possibilities of production in the tropics are immensely greater than the possibilities of production in the temperate regions. Even with the ex- tremely unfavorable conditions which at present prevail in the tropics, as I have elsewhere tried to show, our civilization already rests to a large extent on its trade with the tropics. As regards Americas share in this trade, I may re- peat here the analysis that I have al- ready made in my little volume: Looking down the import list [of the United States] for 1895, and taking the fifteen heads under which the largest values were imported, we find that they include some two thirds of the total im- ports of the United States. A glance at the principal commodities is sufficient to show to what an enormous extent the produce of the tropics is represented. Here the two items which stand at the top of the list are coffee and sugar, of which the imports were valued at, respec- tively, $96,000,000 and $76,000,000. The value of the imports of these two articles alone does not fall very far short of one fourth of the total value of the imports of the United States for the year in question. If we add to it the values under three other heads, namely, (1) india rubber, (2) tobacco, and (3) tea, we have a total of about $221,000,- 000. If we endeavor to deal with the whole import list, and seek to distin- guish what proportion of the total im- ports of the United States comes from the region embraced between latitude 300 north and 30~ south of the equator, we get a total value of, approximate- ly, $250,000,000 from tropical regions. This is over one third of the entire im- ports of the United States, the total for the year from all sources being $731,- 000,000. In the case of the exports of the United States the currents of trade are somewhat different, about forty-seven per cent of the entire export trade being with the United Kingdom. But of the remainder, the export trade to the tropics forms a large proportion, amounting in all to, approximately, $96,000,000. Adding together, therefore, the ex- ports and imports of the United States, we have a remarkable analysis of the entire trade of the country as follows : Trade of the United States in 1895 with the tropics . . . $346,000,000 With the English-speaking world (not including British tropics) 657,000,000 Total with the tropics and Eng- lish-speaking world. . . . $1,003,000,000 With the rest of the world . . 535,000,000 Gross total $1,538,000,000 If we exclude consideration of trade within the English-speaking regions, the total trade of the United States with the tropics in 1895 was $346,000,000 as against $535,000,000 with the re- mainder of the world. This is a very striking and pregnant fact when we con- sider existing conditions. It must al- ways be kept in view, too, that no nation can remain permanently indifferent to the condition of a country with which it has large and vital trade relations. Al- though the United States interfered in Cuba in the cause of humanity, it must 726 The United States and the Control of the Tropics. be remembered that it was the close trade connection of the American people with the island which directly and f or- cibly compelled the attention of the pub- lie mind to what was taking place there. For all these reasons, it seems hard to believe that the traditions of the past, which opposed a policy of expansion on the part of the United States, will ope- rate with the same force in the future. For the same reason that expansion appears to the Western man to be inev- itable, there is a disposition to regard with equanimity the apparently insu- perable practical difficulty to a policy of expansion in the inefficient civil service of the United States. One of the most remarkable, and, if I mistake not, one of the most healthy symptoms of public life in America, is a disposition to regard with a cheerful optimism those problems of government which do so much to de- press the English observer. As yet, America probably has not taken serious- ly in hand the treatment of these pro- blems, and the results will likely enough be striking when the task is earnestly undertaken. The United States is the highest, and yet the youngest, of all po- litical organisms in the world, an or- ganism with a promise and a potentiality behind it of which there has been no previous parallel; but it has hardly had time to attend to the problems, the slow solution of which has taken hundreds of years in other countries. There seems to be no insurmountable reason why there should not be as efficient a civil service in the United States as there is in England. The principle which has been followed in England has been the keeping of the permanent civil service, abroad even more than at home, apart from the tra- ditions and influences of political parties. In England the one consistent idea which, through all outward forms, has in late years been behind the institution of the higher Indian civil service on existing lines is that, even where it is equally open to natives with Europeans through competitive examination, entrance to it shall be made through a British univer- sity. In other words, it is the best and most distinctive product that England can give, the higher ideals and stan- dards of her universities, which is made to feed the inner life from which the British administration of India proceeds. In the United States, the university system of education has already reached a kind of development which is far in ad- vance of anything that we have in Eng- land. There is a magnificent recruiting- ground existing from which to build up a civil service with high traditions of public duty. If the nation rises to the level of the occasion, insists on going straight in this matter from the begin- ning, there seem to be all the possibili- ties of the very best results. But it will be necessary to pay salaries adequate to the positions and responsibilities of the officials. In England there is a motto to the effect that power must be paid. If it is not paid by the state, it tends to pay itself, directly or indirectly, from other sources, and to serve the interests, not of the state, but of those who pay it. As to the question implied in the third proposition I have no right to reply. It is a matter exclusively for the American people. I would point out, however, that in this question the control of colonies by the United States is spoken of. One of the leading principles that I have tried to enunciate in my book on the control of the tropics is that such territories can never be colonies; that the white man can never be acclimatized in the tropics; that such regions must continue to be permanently peopled by their natural in- habitants; and that the highest duty of the civilized power that undertakes re- sponsibility in relation thereto is to see that they shall be governed, not in the interest of the governing power, but as a trust for civilization. As to the logic of the situation, that is also a matter solely for the American people. Yet it is one of the deepest The Name of Old Glory. 1898. 727 truths of philosophy that the meaning of living things cannot be put into logical formulas. The spirit behind the Consti- tution of the United States is probably one of the most vital and healthy things in the world; and yet, under the Con- stitution itself, there are already the most illogical results. One of the funda- mental principles of government in the United States is the assumption of the right of every citizen to liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The negro is a citizen of the United States, and yet in some states of the Union he is forbid- den to marry a citizen of a different color. The Indian is a ward of the United States, and not a citizen; and the Chinaman is forbidden a vote. All this is illogical. But it is not therefore wrong; and the fact rempins that the spirit behind the American Constitution is probably one of the healthiest forces in the world. The intense feeling of the Western man that there is a mean- ing and a reason behind a policy of ex- pansion which cannot be put into formu. las which it is not even necessary to put into formulas has more in it than appears on the surface; it may be near- er to the real meaning of things than the most thoroughly reasoned argument. We have not had a more philosophical historian in England than Professor See- ley, certainly none who has understood better the meaning of the principles be- hind the expansion of the English-speak- ing races. It was he who, writing about such principles, delivered himself of this remarkable saying: In a truly living institution the instinct of development is wiser than the utterances of the wis- est individual man. That is the West- ern mans conclusion put into the phi- losophy of the historian. Benjamin Kidd. THE NAME OF OLD GLORY. 1898. When, why, and by whom, was our flag The Stars and Stripes first called Old Glory? DAILY QUERY TO PREss. I. OLD GLORY! say, who, By the ships and the crew, And the long, blended ranks of the Gray and the Blue, Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear With such pride everywhere, As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air, And leap out full length, as we re wanting you to? Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same, And the honor and fame so becoming to you? Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red, With your stars at their glittering best overhead By day or by night Their delightfulest light Laughing down from their little square heaven of blue! Who gave you the name of Old Glory say, who Who gave you the name of Old Glory? The old banner lifted, and faltering then In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again.

The Name of Old Glory. 1898. 727 truths of philosophy that the meaning of living things cannot be put into logical formulas. The spirit behind the Consti- tution of the United States is probably one of the most vital and healthy things in the world; and yet, under the Con- stitution itself, there are already the most illogical results. One of the funda- mental principles of government in the United States is the assumption of the right of every citizen to liberty and the pursuit of happiness. The negro is a citizen of the United States, and yet in some states of the Union he is forbid- den to marry a citizen of a different color. The Indian is a ward of the United States, and not a citizen; and the Chinaman is forbidden a vote. All this is illogical. But it is not therefore wrong; and the fact rempins that the spirit behind the American Constitution is probably one of the healthiest forces in the world. The intense feeling of the Western man that there is a mean- ing and a reason behind a policy of ex- pansion which cannot be put into formu. las which it is not even necessary to put into formulas has more in it than appears on the surface; it may be near- er to the real meaning of things than the most thoroughly reasoned argument. We have not had a more philosophical historian in England than Professor See- ley, certainly none who has understood better the meaning of the principles be- hind the expansion of the English-speak- ing races. It was he who, writing about such principles, delivered himself of this remarkable saying: In a truly living institution the instinct of development is wiser than the utterances of the wis- est individual man. That is the West- ern mans conclusion put into the phi- losophy of the historian. Benjamin Kidd. THE NAME OF OLD GLORY. 1898. When, why, and by whom, was our flag The Stars and Stripes first called Old Glory? DAILY QUERY TO PREss. I. OLD GLORY! say, who, By the ships and the crew, And the long, blended ranks of the Gray and the Blue, Who gave you, Old Glory, the name that you bear With such pride everywhere, As you cast yourself free to the rapturous air, And leap out full length, as we re wanting you to? Who gave you that name, with the ring of the same, And the honor and fame so becoming to you? Your stripes stroked in ripples of white and of red, With your stars at their glittering best overhead By day or by night Their delightfulest light Laughing down from their little square heaven of blue! Who gave you the name of Old Glory say, who Who gave you the name of Old Glory? The old banner lifted, and faltering then In vague lisps and whispers fell silent again. 728 RAe Name of Old Glory. 1898. II. Old Glory, speak out! We are asking about How you happened to favor a name, so to say, That sounds so familiar and careless and gay, As we cheer it, and shout in our wild, breezy way We the crowd, every man of us, calling you that We, Tom, Dick, and Harry, each swinging his hat And hurrahing Old Glory! like you were our kin, When Lord / we all know we re as common as sin! And yet it just seems like you humor us all And waft us your thanks, as we hail you and fall Into line, with you over us, waving us on Where our glorified, sanctified betters have gone. And this is the reason we re wanting to know (And we re wanting it so! Where our own fathers went we are willing to go) Who gave you the name of Old Glory 0-ho! Who gave you the name of Old Glory? The old flag unfurled with a billowy thrill For an instant; then wistfully sighed and was still. III. Old Glory: the story we re wanting to hear Is what the plain facts of your christening were, For your name just to hear it, Repeat it, and cheer it, s a tang to the spirit As salt as a tear: And seeing you fly, and the boys marching by, There s a shout in the throat and a blur in the eye, And an aching to live for you always or die, If, dying, we still keep you waving on high. And so, by our love For you, floating above, And the scars of all wars and the sorrows thereof, Who gave you the name of Old Glory, and why Are we thrilled at the name of Old Glory? Iken the old banner leaped, like a sail in the blast, And fluttered an audible answer at last. TV. And it spake, with a shake of the voice, and it said: By the driven snow-white and th~ living blood-red Of my bars, and their heaven of stars overhead By the symbol conjoined of them all, skyward cast, As I float from the steeple, or flap at the mast, Or droop oer the sod where the long grasses nod, My name is as old as the glory of God. . . So I came by the name of Old Glory. fames Whiteomb Riley. European Experience with Tropical Colonies. 729 EUROPEAN EXPERIENCE WITH TROPICAL COLONIES. WRITING of the colonial problem now confronting the United States, Mr. Ben- jamin Kidd has said, in his little volume on the Control of the Tropics: It is not a question of the relative merits of any form of government; it is not even a question of the relative merits of any race amongst civilized peoples; it is simply and purely the question of the ul- timate relation of the white man to the tropics. Mr. Kidd has gone to the heart of the subject; for whilst it is certain that all intelligent citizens of the United States have realized that the war with Spain has created a new and important national problem, it is equally certain that there is a general tendency to un- derestimate its difficulties and to mis- judge its real character. In setting out to control tropical pos- sessions the United States has the ex- perience of six nations to draw upon, Spain, Portugal, Germany, France, Hol- land, and Great Britain. Three of these may be dismissed at once. Spain and Portugal may serve as warnings; they can never serve as examples. Germany has had an experience of only fourteen years in tropical colonization, and no opinion of her methods can be of value until her work has had the test of a longer time. If, therefore, the true sys- tem of controlling tropical colonies has been discovered, we may expect to find it in the colonial experience of France, Holland, or Great Britain. France embarked on a policy of co- lonial expansion from the necessity of keeping pace with Russia, who is ex- tending her empire in the Far East, and with Germany, who hopes to become an African power; and although colonial rivalry with England is at present out of the question, there is a lingering hope amongst a certain class of French states- men that the next century will witness a decrease rather than an augmentation of Great Britains colonial possessions. Of the French Asiatic colonies as a whole it may be said that they consist of a handful of French merchants and ad- venturers, a large body of government officials, and a considerable population of uneducated and semi-barbarous na- tives, who are exploited very unsuc- cessfully,it i true for the benefit of the home government. Mr. Henry Nor- man, in his Peoples and Politics of the Far East, has drawn a striking picture of the methods adopted by France in her Asiatic colonies. In 1890 the pop- ulation of French Cochin-China was 1,800,000, of whom only 1600 were French. Of these 1600, 1200 were government officials. The salaries of these officials amounted to $1,750,000, and in the same year the amount de- voted to public works was $80,000. More extraordinaty still, the whole of this $80,000 was paid out as salaries to officials of the department, and not a cents worth of work was done. In re- gard to Tongking, Mr. Norman calcu- lates that the French taxpayer has ex- pended $24,000 a day on the colony for each day, Sundays included, that it has been a French possession. Up to the end of 1892 France had spent 476,000,- 000 francs on Tongking, and as a set- off to this, during the same period, had sold the colony 59,000,000 francs worth of French goods. In the West Indies France has been financially more fortunate, and a con- siderable trade exists between Marti- nique and Guadeloupe and the mother country. But a visit to these islands will convince the impartial observer that although they are not mismanaged in the same way as the Asiatic colonies of France, they are in many respects in an

European Experience with Tropical Colonies. 729 EUROPEAN EXPERIENCE WITH TROPICAL COLONIES. WRITING of the colonial problem now confronting the United States, Mr. Ben- jamin Kidd has said, in his little volume on the Control of the Tropics: It is not a question of the relative merits of any form of government; it is not even a question of the relative merits of any race amongst civilized peoples; it is simply and purely the question of the ul- timate relation of the white man to the tropics. Mr. Kidd has gone to the heart of the subject; for whilst it is certain that all intelligent citizens of the United States have realized that the war with Spain has created a new and important national problem, it is equally certain that there is a general tendency to un- derestimate its difficulties and to mis- judge its real character. In setting out to control tropical pos- sessions the United States has the ex- perience of six nations to draw upon, Spain, Portugal, Germany, France, Hol- land, and Great Britain. Three of these may be dismissed at once. Spain and Portugal may serve as warnings; they can never serve as examples. Germany has had an experience of only fourteen years in tropical colonization, and no opinion of her methods can be of value until her work has had the test of a longer time. If, therefore, the true sys- tem of controlling tropical colonies has been discovered, we may expect to find it in the colonial experience of France, Holland, or Great Britain. France embarked on a policy of co- lonial expansion from the necessity of keeping pace with Russia, who is ex- tending her empire in the Far East, and with Germany, who hopes to become an African power; and although colonial rivalry with England is at present out of the question, there is a lingering hope amongst a certain class of French states- men that the next century will witness a decrease rather than an augmentation of Great Britains colonial possessions. Of the French Asiatic colonies as a whole it may be said that they consist of a handful of French merchants and ad- venturers, a large body of government officials, and a considerable population of uneducated and semi-barbarous na- tives, who are exploited very unsuc- cessfully,it i true for the benefit of the home government. Mr. Henry Nor- man, in his Peoples and Politics of the Far East, has drawn a striking picture of the methods adopted by France in her Asiatic colonies. In 1890 the pop- ulation of French Cochin-China was 1,800,000, of whom only 1600 were French. Of these 1600, 1200 were government officials. The salaries of these officials amounted to $1,750,000, and in the same year the amount de- voted to public works was $80,000. More extraordinaty still, the whole of this $80,000 was paid out as salaries to officials of the department, and not a cents worth of work was done. In re- gard to Tongking, Mr. Norman calcu- lates that the French taxpayer has ex- pended $24,000 a day on the colony for each day, Sundays included, that it has been a French possession. Up to the end of 1892 France had spent 476,000,- 000 francs on Tongking, and as a set- off to this, during the same period, had sold the colony 59,000,000 francs worth of French goods. In the West Indies France has been financially more fortunate, and a con- siderable trade exists between Marti- nique and Guadeloupe and the mother country. But a visit to these islands will convince the impartial observer that although they are not mismanaged in the same way as the Asiatic colonies of France, they are in many respects in an 730 European Experience with Tropical Colonies. unsatisfactory condition. Both in Mar- tinique and in Guadeloupe the leading industries are dependent on imported East Indian laborers. French Guiana, or Cayenne, is at present merely an in- significant tract of land on the mainland of South America, which is used as a convIct settlement, no serious effort ever having been made to develop its great natural resources. It is interesting to note that Algeria, the most important colonial possession of France, and the one which might be most reasonably ex- pected to prove a financial success, fails to pay the cost of its administration, from the necessity of maintaining an army of 54,000 men to control 3,500,- 000 natives. France has obtained little honor and less profit from her colonial ventures. Her ambition has been to achieve in the tropics what England has achieved in Australia, New Zealand, Canada, and her other non-tropical colo- nies, the founding of hardy dependen- cies, populated by a race mainly of the home stock, and bound to the mother country by all the ties of affection and loyalty, dependencies which in the hour of need would prove a source of strength to the nation. The failure of France is due rather to the fundamental difficulties of tropical colonization than to the evil effects of maladministration; for it is doubtful whether even any of Englands tropical possessions, loyal as they undoubtedly are, would prove a source of strength in time of war. Frenchmen have not emigrated to the French colonies, because to most white men the tropics offer little inducement as a home. The absence of all those conveniences and luxuries which form so large a part of our daily life becomes unendurable as soon as the novelty of a strange land has worn off. The experience of Holland presents 1 In Rear-Admiral Aubes La Martinique: Son Pn~,sent et son Avenir occors the follow- ing passage: The colony is fatally doomed to decadence, and it is to put things in the very a series of facts of the highest signifi- cance in relation to tropical colonization, and the history of the Dutch colonies furnishes us with material for the under- standing of the problem of colonial ad- ministration. The Dutch have tropical colonies both in the East Indies and in the West In- dies. In her East Indian colonies Hol- land has attained a degree of success which has been reached by no other nation in similar circumstances; but in the West Indies her failure has been no less conspicuous than that of other pow- ers. The principal East Indian possession of Holland is Java, an island which has an area of about 49,000 square miles, with a population of 22,500,000, or, in other words, 459 persons to the square mile. The population is made up of 22,000,000 natives, who are Malayans; 300,000 Chinese; 42,000 Europeans, including half-castes; 14,900 Arabs; 3500 Hindus; the rest are of various Asiatic and Polynesian races. Ninety- five per cent of the people are Moham- medans. When the Dutch occupied the island at the beginning of the seventeenth century, they found the people in an ad- vanced state of civilization, measured by the standards of the East; and since the Dutch authority became firmly estab- lished, they have shown themselves peace- ful, industrious, and of gentle disposi- tion. Holland determined to govern the island as a national plantation, and instituted a system of forced labor which, with slight modifications, still exists. The system cannot fairly be called slav- ery; for although it is compulsory for every able-bodied native to devote a cer- tain portion of his time to the cultivation of coffee, sugar, and other crops, to be delivered at the government depots, he receives in return a fair price for the best light to suppose that the richest part of the island will be able for a few years longer to maintain the degree of prosperity which it has arrived at. European Experience with Tropical Colonies. 731 products of his labor. What the Dutch insisted on was, in effect, that the natu- ral tendency of the people to work only so long as sufficed for the gratification of their simple needs should not be al- lowed to interfere with the development of a country which could be made to yield a handsome profit to the govern- ment, and at the same time provide a comfortable means of support for the natives. Under this system the island prospered amazingly. Trade increased with great rapidity; the government reaped enormous profits; the people en- joyed a degree of material prosperity be- fore undreamed of; gradually the task of ruling the island became less and less difficult, and the government has found it possible to appoint large num- bers of intelligent natives to those im- portant and responsible posts which had to be created, as a result of the commer- cial expansion arising out of the enforced industry of the people. Let us turn our attention now to Su- rinam, the principal colony of the Dutch in the West Indies. Surinam, or Dutch Guiana, as it is sometimes called, re- seinbies Java in many respects. It lies at the same distance to the north of the equator as Java lies to the south; it is of almost the same area; it possesses a similar climate; its soil is suitable for the cultivation of the same products; it is watered by noble rivers; it has enormous forests of valuable timber; and it has the advantage of Java in be- ing much nearer to the European mar- kets. Yet what do we find? Instead of the thriving population of Java, in- stead of its immense trade and tranquil prosperity, we see a country barely able to keep its head above the wave of bank- ruptcy which is continually threatening it; a country of whose area only one half of one per cent is beneficially occu- pied; a country where most of the work is done by laborers imported from the 1 Mr. Eves, C. M. G., F. R. G. S., is a mem- ber of the council of the Royal Colonial Jasti East, where, to quote from Mr. Wash- ington Eves, the neglected stores where the European merchants carried on their business tell a tale of decadence. It would be difficult, perhaps impossible, to enumerate all the circunistances which have combined to place in such striking contrast two countries so similar in natu- ral conditions; but two facts stand pro- minently forth, the differences in the nature of the native population and in the form of government of the two colo- nies. In Java the population is of Ma- lays, in Surinam of negroes. The Malays have shown themselves capable of evolv- ing a civilization, of combining together for the purpose of maintaining national institutions and of carrying out enter- prises of public utility without assistance or guidance from the white man. In character they exhibit those traits which belong to most Eastern races: a great reverence for family ties; a tendency to resist the intrusion of foreign authority, and a tendency no less marked to sub- mit quietly to that authority once it is firmly established; a natural disinclina- tion to steady work, which, however, yields readily in the face of reasonable inducement or slight pressure; a certain quickness of intellect which gives them a clear vision where their material inter- ests are concerned, and saves them from being improvident; and, finally, a curi- ous mental adjustment, which, if it be- comes unsettled through intense excite- ment or mental strain, is likely to change them in a moment into savages. It is not my purpose to undertake to describe the negro as he was before his introduction into the western hemi- sphere, or as he might have been un- der different circumstances, but only the West Indian negro as he is, without re- ference to the question whether his pre- sent characteristics are due to ill treat- ment, to lack of opportunity, or to in- herent mental and physical qualities. tute, and the author of an admirable history of the West Indies. 732 European Experience with Tropical Colonies. The Dutch found the negro undesir- able as a slave; they have found him still more undesirable as a free man. Having developed no civilization of his own, he cannot adapt himself to an alien civilization. Exhibiting some outward indications of adherence to Christianity, he reverts, as soon as he is left to him- self, to the disgusting rites which belong to his gross and abominable supersti- tions. He will not work, for he has no ambitions to gratify. For authority, un- less it be of the rigorous military kind, he has no respect. His passions are easily aroused, and he is prone to riot and insurrection. Finally, there seems to be no general tendency in the West Indian negro to improve under the in- fluence of education and example. The character of the negro, then, is one rea- son why Surinam differs so widely from Java. In government Holland has adopted toward Java an autocratic method, and under it the people have become pro- sperous and contented. In Surinamn a restricted system of representation exists, and the government has not compelled the people to work. The result has been that the negroes have retired into the forests, and given themselves up to devil worship, whilst the labor in the colony is done chiefly by imported East In- dian laborers. Whatever might have been the condition of the Surinam ne- gro. under autocratic government, he has proved himself, under a more liberal system, unsatisfactory as a colonist. The experience of the Dutch with trop- ical negroes, however, has been limited, and the idea naturally suggests itself that possibly the failure of the Surinam negro to make a good colonist is due rather to bad management by his rulers than to any defect in his own nature. In order to gain a broader view of the tropical negro, and to observe him under the most enlightened form of govern- ment he has ever enjoyed, a brief glance at the British West Indian colonies is necessary. I spent six years, beginning in 1891, in the West Indies and in Brit- ish Guiana, and made during that time a careful study of the conditions prevail- ing in the West Indian colonies. It is convenient to divide the more important of these colonies into three classes: the colonies of small industries, Dominica, St. Vincent, St. Lucia, Toba- go, Antigua, Grenada, St. Kitts, Nevis, and Montserrat; the colonies of large in- dustries, Trinidad, British Guiana, and Jamaica; and Barbados, the economic conditions of which differ materially from those of either of the other two classes. In the year 1896 the colonies of the first class exported produce of the total value of $3,240,000: the highest on the list being Antigua, with $910,000; the lowest Montserrat, with $120,000. The colonies of the second class export- ed produce of the total value of $24,000,- 000: the highest being British Guiana, with $9,000,000; the lowest Trinidad, with $6,750,000. It is impracticable to deal with each of these colonies sepa- rately, or to point out those distinctions which undoubtedly exist in their condi- tions. Taking the colonies of small in- dustries as a group, we find a most de- pressing state of affairs. These islands, which were once thriving and prosper. ous, are now fast sinking to ruin. Near- ly all are of extraordinary fertility. and most of them possess a delightful climate; yet the land is falling out of cultivation year by year, and unmistak- able signs of decay are observable on every side. The chief cause of this de- cay, in my judgment, is the nature of the native population. Except St. Lucia, none of the islands suffers from a lack of laborers; but very little labor is re- quired for the carrying on of the small industries that still survive. Were any attempt made to establish large indus- tries, it would fail unless laborers were imported from the East. In support of this view I turn to the colonies of large industries. Trinidad European Experience with Tropical colonies. has a population of 245,000, composed chiefly of negroes, half-breeds, and East Indian coolies. The coolies were intro- duced in order that the agriculture of the island might not disappear for want of men to do the work. These coolies and their descendants now form nearly one half of the population; and this tes- timony as to their importance as laborers is given in the Report of the West India Royal Commission, which visited the British West Indian colonies last year: It has, however, been pressed upon ns, by evidence which we cannot disregard, that at the present time, and under pre- sent conditions, indentured laborers are absolutely necessary to the carrying on of the sugar estates. In Jamaica a similar condition exists. To the ques- tion, Should the supply of immigrants be increased, continued, or diminished? Mr. P. C. Cork, a gentleman who has had an experience of twenty-three years in the West Indies, gives the follow- ing reply: The system should be con- tinued; otherwise no large agricultural operations can be conducted with good prospect of success. . . . A great many of the most important sugar estates would have long since had to be abandoned but for coolie labor. . . . And the ba- nana industry could not have extended at anything like the rate it has done without such aid. 2 In British Gui- ana the case is even more serious. The coolies in that colony are fully one half of the population ; and at least three quarters of the work done in the colo- ny is done by East Indians. A planter of thirty-seven years experience gave the following reply to the 4uestion, Does the need exist for further immigration? Yes, immigration is now as indispen- sable to the sugar planter as it ever was, because here in British Guiana the na- tive laborer is disinclined to work more than four days a week, and often [he works] less, perhaps not at all. He is 1 West India Royal Commission Report, Part 39, Sec. 302. quite unreliable, and not to be depended on. ~ In Trinidad, Jamaica, and British Guiana East Indian laborers are import- ed under contract to work on the sugar estates. The terms of indenture vary slightly in the different colonies, but are, in effect, as follows: The indentured la- borers must work five days a week, and seven hours a day, for a period of five years. In return for this, the planter must furnish him with a free house, free hospital accommodation on the estate, free medical attendance and medicine, and free schooling for his children, and must pay a minimum legal wage. At the end of five years the laborer becomes absolutely free, and can claim a free grant of land from the government or a passage back to India. The testimony is overwhelming that in those islands where the labor supply consists of negroes little work is done that wherever large industries are to be found it is the coolie who does the work. There is one, and only one exception to this rule, the island of Barbados; and the negro is there un- der absolute compulsion to work. Bar- bados is unique in several respects. With an area of 100,000 acres of culti- vable land, 91,000 acres are under culti- vation, the rest being used for residen- tial sites, pasturage, and so on. There are left no forests or waste lands on which the negro can squat. The popu- lation of the island is about 186,000, or 1120 to the square mile. Under these circumstances it is evident that the Bar- badian negro has his choice of working or starving. It is significant of the feeling which prevails at the British Colonial Office in reference to the fitness of the West In- dian negro for self-government that the island of Dominica has recently been deprived of its system of representation and converted into a Crown Colony. The 2 Ibid., Appendix C, Part 13, Sec. T50. ~ Ibid., Appendix C, Part 2, Sec. 160. 734 European Experience with Tropical Colonies. manner in which the change was effect- ed is most instructive. The Dominican House of Assembly, which consisted of elected and nominated members in such proportion that a solid vote of the elec- tives would place the government in a minority, rejected a government motion to make the island a Crown Colony. The administrator then dissolved the Assem- bly and issued writs for new elections. With the particular issue before them, the people returned one member whose views were known to coincide with those of the government. When the new As- sembly met, the resolution to make the island a Crown Colony was carried by one vote, that of an elected member representing the wishes of his constitu- ents. An amendment was introduced and lost, which ran: Inasmuch as the government is trying to deprive the in- habitants of their just rights and liber- ties, be it resolved that the British gov- ernment be asked to barter Dominica with the French, American, or any other nation. A local newspaper, comment- ing on the vote, said: Rather than counsel submission to such a policy we advise steadfast and persistent opposi- tion to the government; and when all constitutional means shall have been ex- hausted in vain, then we would hold up for imitation the resolve of the Cuban people, to let the aliens have the coun- try in ashes, if have it they must; since it is preferable to be a free man in a wild country rather than a serf in the most highly developed and prosperous community. It speaks something for the tolerance of British rule that such rank sedition should remain unnoticed by the authori- ties. The question of representative government for tropical negroes has been treated by many writers. James An- thony Froude, writing on the subject in 1887, said: If the Antilles are ever to thrive, each of them should have some trained and skillful man at its head, un- embarrassed by local elected assemblies. Let us persist in the other line; let us use the West Indian governments as asylums for average worthy persons who have to be provided for, and force on them black parliamentary institutions as a remedy for such persons inefficien- cy, and these beautiful countries will be- come like Hayti, with Obeah triumphant, and children offered to the devil, and salted and eaten, till the conscience of mankind wakes again and the Ameri- cans sweep them all away. To sum up. We find that Holland has succeeded in Java, where the population is composed of Malayans, and where forced labor has been exacted; that she has failed in Surinam, where the popu- lation is largely negro, and where no compulsion has been used; that Eng- land has failed wherever the population is composed of negroes, and has attained a moderate degree of success only where East Indian laborers form a large pro- portion of the population, and a contract- labor system is in force; finally, that wherever, in those colonies which have been dealt with in this article, any con- siderable industries exist, the East In- dian indentured immigrant is found do- ing the work. Any attempt to govern the tropical possessions of the United States on de- mocratic principles is doomed to certain failure. It has been clearly shown that without forced labor, or at least some form of indentured labor, large indus- tries cannot be developed in tropical col- onies. Apart from the instances already cited, this statement is true of Hawaii, Mauritius, Natal, Queensland, Peru, the Fiji Islands, the Straits Settlements, and the Danish West Indies. But there is a more serious question. It is thought by many that although it may be unadvisable to grant the colonies representative government at present, the time will soon come when the people of these colonies will show themselves capable of self-government. Judging from past experience, there would seem Our Government of Newly Acquired Territory. 735 to be little hope that these pleasant anticipations will ever be realized. We look in vain for a single instance within the tropics of a really well-governed in- dependent country. Would the United States tolerate under its flag the condi- tions which prevail in Venezuela, in Siam, in Hayti, in the Central American republics ? The system under which this country might hope to achieve success with her tropical possessions is one which is little likely to be adopted. It is the system advocated by Froude for the island of Dominica, surely the most beautiful of all tropical islands: Find a Rajah Brooke 1 if you can, or a Mr. Smith of Scilly. . . . Send him out with no more instructions than the knight of La Man- cha gave Sancho, to fear God and do his duty. Put him on his metal. Pro- mise him the praise of all good men if lie does well; and if he calls to his help intelligent persons who understand the cultivation of soils and the management of men, in half a score years Dominica would be the brightest gem of the An- tilles. . . . The leading of the ~vise few, the willing obedience of the many, is the beginning and end of all right ac- tion. Secure this, and you secure every- thing. Fail to secure it, and, be your liberties as wide as you can make them, no success is possible. W. Alleyne Irelctnd. OUR GOVERNMENT OF NEWLY ACQUIRED TERRITORY. THE acquisition of Porto Rico and the probable acquisition of the Philip- pine Islands, or of part of them, have called attention to our machinery for governing territories outside the Union. The United States has already had con- siderable experience in the government of territories acquired from foreign pow- ers. Eight times, by purchase, by con- quest, or by voluntary cession, it has en- larged its boundaries. In 1803 Louisi- ana was purchased from France. In 1819 Florida was obtained from Spain, and in 1845 Texas was annexed. In 1848 the conquest of Mexico resulted in the cession of provinces richer than any that she retained, and in 1853 another tract of laud was purchased from her. In 1867 Russia sold us Alaska, and in 1898 Hawaii has been received after the manner of Texas, while territories the extent of which is not at this time deter- niined are exacted of Spain. Of these additions, to our territory, Texas and Hawaii had been recognized 1 Qf Sarawak, Borneo. as independent states, both by the United States and by other goirernments. Tex- as became at once a member of the Union. For other annexed territory, Congress thought it necessary to provide a form of government not based upon the principle of local autonomy, and in which the ultimate control rested in the hands of the authorities at Washington. Local circumstances, such as sparsity of population or the presence of a prepon- derant foreign element, were the reasons for keeping these territories in tutelage. In making provision for our first ac- cession of foreign territory, Congress was guided by the Ordinance for the government of the territory of the Unit- ed States northwest of the river Ohio, a measure more popularly known as the Ordinance of 1787. When the gov- eminent under the Constitution came into existence, it found the Union in possession of a vast tract of country which was not organized into states, but which was held and administered as the common property of all the members of

Our Government of Newly Acquired Territory. 735 to be little hope that these pleasant anticipations will ever be realized. We look in vain for a single instance within the tropics of a really well-governed in- dependent country. Would the United States tolerate under its flag the condi- tions which prevail in Venezuela, in Siam, in Hayti, in the Central American republics ? The system under which this country might hope to achieve success with her tropical possessions is one which is little likely to be adopted. It is the system advocated by Froude for the island of Dominica, surely the most beautiful of all tropical islands: Find a Rajah Brooke 1 if you can, or a Mr. Smith of Scilly. . . . Send him out with no more instructions than the knight of La Man- cha gave Sancho, to fear God and do his duty. Put him on his metal. Pro- mise him the praise of all good men if lie does well; and if he calls to his help intelligent persons who understand the cultivation of soils and the management of men, in half a score years Dominica would be the brightest gem of the An- tilles. . . . The leading of the ~vise few, the willing obedience of the many, is the beginning and end of all right ac- tion. Secure this, and you secure every- thing. Fail to secure it, and, be your liberties as wide as you can make them, no success is possible. W. Alleyne Irelctnd. OUR GOVERNMENT OF NEWLY ACQUIRED TERRITORY. THE acquisition of Porto Rico and the probable acquisition of the Philip- pine Islands, or of part of them, have called attention to our machinery for governing territories outside the Union. The United States has already had con- siderable experience in the government of territories acquired from foreign pow- ers. Eight times, by purchase, by con- quest, or by voluntary cession, it has en- larged its boundaries. In 1803 Louisi- ana was purchased from France. In 1819 Florida was obtained from Spain, and in 1845 Texas was annexed. In 1848 the conquest of Mexico resulted in the cession of provinces richer than any that she retained, and in 1853 another tract of laud was purchased from her. In 1867 Russia sold us Alaska, and in 1898 Hawaii has been received after the manner of Texas, while territories the extent of which is not at this time deter- niined are exacted of Spain. Of these additions, to our territory, Texas and Hawaii had been recognized 1 Qf Sarawak, Borneo. as independent states, both by the United States and by other goirernments. Tex- as became at once a member of the Union. For other annexed territory, Congress thought it necessary to provide a form of government not based upon the principle of local autonomy, and in which the ultimate control rested in the hands of the authorities at Washington. Local circumstances, such as sparsity of population or the presence of a prepon- derant foreign element, were the reasons for keeping these territories in tutelage. In making provision for our first ac- cession of foreign territory, Congress was guided by the Ordinance for the government of the territory of the Unit- ed States northwest of the river Ohio, a measure more popularly known as the Ordinance of 1787. When the gov- eminent under the Constitution came into existence, it found the Union in possession of a vast tract of country which was not organized into states, but which was held and administered as the common property of all the members of 736 Our Government of Newly Acquired Territory. the Union. As the life of the old Con- tinental Congress slowiy drew to a close, it brought to an end its deliberations upon the disposition of the Northwest, and enacted the great Ordinance which has had a profound influence in many directions. It is usually recalled as the measure that kept slavery out of the Northwest; hut it has been no less im- portant in its influence upon our institu- tional history, for it was this Ordinance which served for many years as the model for the organization of govern- ment in the territories. The Congress which was first called upon to deal with the government of foreign acquisitions naturally turned to it as a guide. In- deed, it was used as a guide even before any annexations were made. In 1790, when Congress organized into a terri- tory the area now included in the states of Kentucky and Tennessee, it provided that the government of the said terri- tory south of the Ohio shall be similar to that which is now exercised in the territory northwest of the Ohio. Later, in 1798, the same provision was made for the government of Mississippi Terri- tory. And the governments established in the territories of Indiana, Michigan, and Illinois, formed by the division of the old Northwest Territory, were all copies of the government formulated in the Ordinance of 1787. The government of the Northwest Ter- ritory was as undemocratic as can well be imagined. It was divided into two grades; the first grade to cease when the territory should contain five thousand free male inhabitants of full age. While the territory remained under the first grade of government, the inhabitants had absolutely no voice in their political affairs. rrhe executive power was vest- ed in a governor, who was appointed by the President for a term of three years, and who was assisted by a secretary, similarly appointed for a term of four years. The judicial power was vested in three judges appointed by the Presi dent to hold office during good behavior. Besides their judicial functions, the three judges, with the governor, constituted the territorial legislature. But here their power was subject to severe limitations. Far from possessing a free hand in le- gislation subject to the supervision of Con- gress, they were merely empowered to adopt such statutes of the original states as they deemed applicable to the local needs of the territory. As the situation in the territory was radically different from that which led to legislation in the states, it is easy to see that suitable stat- utes were hard to find. To obviate this difficulty, the judges resorted to the ex- pedient of adopting parts of statutes from several states, and combining them into a new statute. The governor of the Northwest, St. Chair, protested against this practice as being beyond their com- petence; but, since the territory would have been without laws had not this method been adopted, he finally yielded to the necessities of the situation. This state of affairs was relieved some- what when the territory attained a pop- ulation of five thousand free male inhab- itants of full age, for then a legislature came into existence, one house of which was elected by the people. At the first meeting of the elective house it chose ten persons, whose names were sent to the President, and from these ten the Presi- dent appointed five, who constituted the legislative council, or upper house of the legislature. The election of the lower house was the full extent of the peoples participation in the territorial govern- ment under the Ordinance of 1787. The dread of a strong executive which had been manifested in the colonies so many times seems not to have prevailed when the Ordinance of 1787 was adopt- ed, for the executive office then created was almost autocratic in its power. The governor was made commander-in-chief of the militia, aU the officers of which below the grade of general officer were appointed by him. He also appointed Our Government of Newly Acquired Territory. 737 all the other territorial officers except the secretary and the judges. He was to establish such magistracies and other civil offices as he thought necessary for the preservation of order, and he was empowered to lay out counties and town- ships in those parts of the country in which the Indian title had been extin- guished, and to organize local govern- ment therein according to his discretion. He could summon, prorogue, and dis- solve the legislature, and he had an ab- solute veto upon its proceedings. When we add that the incumbent in the office of governor, General Arthur St. Clair, was inclined to push his power to the utmost, it is easy to see why the state of Ohio, in its first constitution, and in the later constitution of 1851, which is still in force, deprived the chief executive of almost all the usual functions of his office. In the formation of this territorial government, many of the cardinal po- litical principles in support of which the colonies had gone to war with Great Britain were entirely disregarded. Here was government without the consent of the governed. Here was taxation with- out representation. Here was such a mingling of the three departments of government, and such a concentration of power in the hands of the executive, as was not to be found in any other part of the United States. The explanation is that the authors of the government of the Northwest were making provision for the administration of a territory which might properly be called a colony, and the principles applied at that time to the government of colonies were ap- plied here. The inhabitants were not consulted about the form of government, their laws, or the selection of their offi- cers. Their delegate in Congress, chosen not by the people, but by the territorial legislature, could debate, but he had no vote. He held a position not unlike that formerly held by the agents maintained by the colonies in London. Indeed, it VOL. LXXXII. NO. 494. 47 was not unusual to hear the Northwest referred to as a colony. In 1786 Mon- roe sent to Jefferson a description of the government proposed for the Northwest, and said, It is, in effect, to be a colo- nial government, similar to that which prevailed in these states previous to the Revolution. A few weeks later he wrote, It hath been proposed and sup- ported by our state to have a colonial government established over the western districts, to cease at the time they shall be admitted into the Confederacy. This was the government which was to serve as a model for the government of territo- ry newly acquired by the United States. Our first annexation of foreign ter- ritory was the Louisiana purchase, of which the United States took possession December 20, 1803. By Article III. of the treaty of cession, it was stipulated that the inhabitants of the ceded terri- tory should be incorporated in the Union, and admitted as soon as possible, ac- cording to the principles of the Federal Constitution, to the enjoyment of all the rights, advantages, and immunities of citizens of the United States. Pending the arrangement of a temporary govern- ment for the territory, all the military, civil, and judicial powers exercised by the old French officers were to be vest- ed in persons appointed by the President, and exercised as he might direct. By virtue of this provision, practically all the functions of government became vest- ed for a few months in the hands of one man, Governor Claiborn, of Mississippi Territory, who was appointed governor of Louisiana. Alexander Johnston has said of this government, It was in ef- fect a military despotism over Louisiana, and may suffice as an example of the extent to which the sovereign power over the territories might go, if a wiser policy were not the rule. In the following year, 1804, Congress worked out a plan of government for the French purchase. The whole area was divided into two parts by a line 738 Our Government of Newly Acquired Territory. drawn along the thirty-third parallel, which is now the northern boundary of the state of Louisiana. That portion south of the line was called the territory of Orleans. All the rest of the area ceded by France was organized into the district of Louisiana. In neither of these divisions did Congress see fit to allow the people any great share in their gov- ernment: in one case because the pop- ulation, though considerable, was almost exclusively French and Spanish; and in the other, because there were few civ- ilized people of any race. In the more populous division, the territory of Orleans, a government mod- eled after that of the Northwest Terri- tory, but with some radical differences, was organized. The constitution of the executive was the same as in the North- west, but in the structure of the other two departments there were noteworthy changes. Instead of a legislature com- posed of the governor and judges, the law-making power was vested in a legis- lative council composed of thirteen of the most fit and discreet persons of the territory, whom the President was to appoint annually from among those hold- ing real estate therein. With the con- sent of a majority of the legislative council, the governor was empowered to alter, modify, or repeal any laws of the territory which were in force at the time of this territorial organiza- tion. The law provided that their le- gislative powers shall also extend to all rightful subjects of legislation; but no law shall be valid which is inconsistent with the Constitution and laws of the United States, or which shall lay any person under restraint, burden, or dis- ability, on account of his religious opin- ions, professions, or worship ; in all which he shall be free to maintain his own, and not burdened for those of an- other. The governor and council were further restricted in that they had no power over the primary disposal of the soil, nor could they tax the lands of the United States, or interfere with any claims to land in the territory. All legislative acts were of course subject to the approval of Congress. Instead of the three judges appointed by the President, there was to be a superior court, and such inferior courts and jus- tices of the peace as the territorial legis- lature should from time to time estab- lish. Trial by jury was secured to the inhabitants in all cases of capital crime, and they were also guaranteed certain other legal protections, such as the writ of habeas corpus, bail for offenses, and freedom from cruel or unusual punish- ments. These provisions are of impor- tance, as an attempt to engraft certain institutions of the English law upon a people accustomed to the forms of the Roman law. The United States was re- presented in the territory by a district judge, who was required to reside in the city of New Orleans, and hold therein four sessions annually. He was to ex- ercise the same jurisdiction and powers as were exercised by the judge of the Kentucky district. An attorney for the United States, and a marshal, both of whom were appointed by the President, completed the organization of the fed- eral court. The district of Louisiana, which com- prised all the rest of the French pur- chase, an area so vast that ten states have since been created out of it, was placed under the government of the officers of Indiana Territory. The ex- ecutive power vested in the governor of Indiana was extended over the district. The governor and the judges of Indi- ana were empowered to establish infe- rior courts, and to define their jurisdic- tion. They had also a general legisla- tive power; but the right of trial by jury was reserved in all criminal cases, and in civil cases in which more than one hundred dollars was involved, and either of the parties required it. The Indiana governor and judges had a much wider legislative power in the district Our Government of Newly Acquired Territory. 739 than they had in their own territory. The laws made by the governor and judges for the territory had no force in the district, unless it was expressly so provided, and likewise those made for the district had no force in the territory. These provisions for the government of the territory of Orleans and the district of Louisiana continued in force for about a year. They were then super- seded by acts which converted the dis- trict of Louisiana into the territory of Louisiana, and established both in that territory and in the territory of Orleans a government analogous to the second grade of government in the Northwest Territory. They remained thus without change until the territory of Orleans was admitted to the Union as the state of Louisiana in 1812. In the same year the name of the territory of Louisiana was changed to Missouri, but the same form of government was retained until 1816, when provision was made for the organization of a legislature both houses of which were elected by the people of the territory. This change marks the transition from the colonial state. Our next accessioa of territory was Florida, which was acquired from Spain by the treaty of February 22, 1819. Article VI. of this treaty, like Article III. of the treaty of Paris of 1803, pro- vided that the inhabitants should be in- corporated in the Union as soon as might be consistent with the principles of the Federal Constitution, and admitted to all the rights and immunities of citizens of the United States. There was a delay of two years between the signing of the treaty and the exchange of ratifications, and more than another year elapsed be- fore Congress provided a government for the Spanish cession. The territorial government of Florida was fashioned after that of the territory of Orleans. Here again we find an executive depart- ment consisting of a governor and a secretary appointed by the President, while the legislative power was vested in the governor and in thirteen of the most fit and discreet persons of the ter- ritory, who were to be appointed by the President from among the citizens of the United States residing in Flori- da. The ownership of real estate in the territory, which was made a requisite for membership in the legislature of Orleans, was not required for appointment to the legislature of Florida. The judicial organization of Florida was almost an exact copy of that of Orleans. The next extension of our boundaries was by the admission of Texas, which was annexed to the United States and admitted to the Union by the same act. In consequence of this arrangement it was never governed as a territory. The war in which the United States was in- volved because of this annexation re- sulted in the acquisition of Upper Cal- ifornia and New Mexico. In the case of California, the debates in Congress on the Wilmot Proviso delayed so long the organization of a territorial government to supplant the military government es- tablished during the war with Mexico, that the discovery of gold and the con- sequent immigration made a state gov- ernment necessary at once. This the people proceeded to form without any authorization from Congress; and when formed it was accepted by Congress, and the state was admitted to the Union Sep- tember 9, 1850. By the same act New Mexico was endowed with a territorial organization more liberal than any yet accorded to newly acquired provinces. Its government comprised the usual gov- ernor and secretary appointed by the President. The legislature, however, consisted of two houses, both of which were elected by the people of the terri- tory; but the federal government kept a check upon it by giving the governor an absolute veto. The qualifications for voting at the first election were very lib- eral, every free white male citizen of full age residing in the territory being a duly qualified elector. After the first elec 740 Our Government of Newly Acquired Territory. tion, the territorial legislature was em- powered to fix the qualifications for suf- frage. When the Gadsden purchase was added to the United States in 1853, it was incorporated in the territory of New Mexico, which then included an area greater in extent than the whole of the present German Empire. In 1867 Mr. Seward effected the purchase of Alaska. Unlike our other annexations, Alaska offered little or no prospect of ever becoming fit for ad- mission to the Union on an equal foot- ing with the states. It must remain in a colonial condition for an indefinite length of time. Owing to the character and situation of its inhabitants, self-gov- ernment was out of the question, and government of any kind was almost im- possible. Until 1884 Congress took no action with reference to the matter, but in that year a civil organization of the most rudimentary description was estab- lished. Alaska was made a civil and judicial district, and the President was authorized to appoint a governor there in. A district court and four commis- sioners who exercise the powers of jus- tices of the peace according to the laws of Oregon complete the government. In the absence of all legislative authority, the laws of Oregon, in so far as they are applicable and not in conflict with the laws of the United States, are extended over the district. The joint resolution for the annexa- tion of Hawaii, which received the ap- proval of the President July 7, 1898, contains some provisions regarding the temporary government of the islands quite similar to the articles of the treaty of Paris relating to the government of Louisiana. Until Congress shall other- wise direct, all the civil, judicial, and military powers exercised by the officers of the Hawaiian Republic shall be vest- ed in such person or persons as the Pre- sident may appoint, and exercised in such manner as he may direct. Such municipal legislation as does not conflict with its new relations nor with the Con- stitution or laws of the United States is to remain in force until altered by Con- gress. With a view to future legislation regarding the islands, the President was directed to appoint a commission of five, at least two of whom should be residents of Hawaii, who should recommend to Congress such measures as seemed ne- cessary and proper. This commission has studied the problem on the spot, and will lay before Congress a plan for the government of the islands. From the foregoing recital of facts it is possible to draw certain general con- clusions. First it is to be noted that all the lands hitherto annexed by the United States were sparsely populated, or else the population was predominantly Amer- ican. The inhabitants of Louisiana and California were very few as compared with the vast extent of territory. In Texas the American element predomi- nated, while Florida and Alaska had few people of any race. It is this charac- teristic of our former annexations that they consisted chiefly of vacant lands which has made them so important to the United States. They contained few persons who had to unlearn old hab- its and be trained in new political ideas. They offered an outlet to immigration from the older states and from Europe. Since the pioneers in almost all the new states have been largely of native Amer- ican stock, they have been a leaven in the European immigration which fol- lowed them, and the two elements acting together have built up communities ca- pable of taking a place in the sisterhood of self-governing states. With the exception of Alaska, all the territorial governments hitherto organ- ized have been avowedly of a temporary character. Their object has been to provide a government which would be sufficient for the needs of a sparse pop- ulation, and which would at the same time encourage the development of the territory into a state. Admission to the Our Government of Newly Acquired Territory. Union was the goal from the beginning. The territorial status was merely one of transition. Indeed, in the case of two of our most important annexations, Louisiana and Florida, it was stipulated in the treaties of cession that the ceded areas should be admitted to the Union as soon as was consistent with the prin- ciples of the Federal Constitution. This characteristic of our territorial system is not found in the colonial policy of any other nation. If now we attempt to apply these gen- eral conclusions to our acquisitions in the West Indies and the Pacific, we are at once impressed with differences which must influence our governmental policy in dealing with them; for these islands differ radically from any territory hith- erto annexed. Instead of vast areas with a comparatively small population, and offering tempting fields for settle- ment, we have in Porto Rico an island situated in the tropics, with an area one third less than that of the state of Connecticut, and a population one third greater, a population, moreover, un- like that of the United States in lan- guage, laws, aiid political experience and ideas. In the Philippines a similar situ- ation exists, except that the contrast is even greater. The United States has thus far dealt with problems of government in connection with the negro, with the Indian, and with numerous branches of the Caucasian race. In the Philippines it will meet with a race radically differ- ent from any of these, one which has shown considerable ability in resisting the established order, and, what is of greatest importance, one which shows little inclination to submit to the authori- ty of the United States. The problem is further complicated by the existence of a rival government, to which a con- siderable number of the natives have given their allegiance. To these conditions none of the forms of colonial government heretofore estab- lished in the United States seems to be applicable, except perhaps the autocratic government of Louisiana in 1804, and the military government which prevailed in California while Congress was debating what should be done with that province. Our problem, therefore, is to develop a new form to meet the peculiar necessi- ties of the case. It is probably safe to start with the general proposition that such territories as Porto Rico and the Philippines will have to be actively gov- erned by the authorities at Washington. The degree of local self-control that can safely be granted must be exceedingly small, at least for many years; for the growth of any considerable American population in either place will be a very slow process. Commerce, it is true, is a strong potential influence, but in the case of well-established populations its effects are seen only after the lapse of a long time. English and Dutch experi- ence with Asiatics has shown that only the constant presence of European gar- risons is sufficient to insure safety and good order. In the second place, whatever form of government is adopted for our new pos- sessions must have a degree of perma- nence not found in our territorial organi- zations. Porto Rico, for example, will not be ready for admission to the Union for many years, if it will ever be. A more permanent form of rule in this case must necessarily mean a permanent civil service. The government of colonies is not an art to be learned in a day. Our lack of experience must be cured by years of practice, in which we shall make costly mistakes, but as a result of which a body of men will emerge capable of handling the problems intrusted to them. And these men must constitute a per- manent staff both for administration and for the training of other men to succeed them. We may expect from these acces- sions of territory an indirect gain more important than any commercial or polit- ical advantages that may accrue to us. The cause of good government in Amer 741 742 Confessions of a Summer Colonist. ica rests largely upon the principle of an independent civil service, appointment to which shall be based upon merit alone. A striking example of its successful ap- plication held constantly and conspicuous- ly before tbe eyes of the people will do much to convince them of its inherent soundness; and once they are convinced, the struggle for good government at home will be more nearly won. Carl Evans Boyd. CONFESSIONS OF A SUMMER COLONIST. THE season is ending in the little sum- mer settlement on the Down East coast where I have been passing the last three months, and with each loath day the sense of its peculiar charm grows more poignant. A prescience of the home- sickness I shall feel for it when I go al- ready begins to torment me, and I find myself wishing to imagine some form of words which shall keep a likeness of it at least through the winter; some shadowy semblance which I may turn to hereafter if any chance or change should destroy or transform it, or what is more likely, if I should never come back to it. Per- haps others in the distant future may turn to it for a glimpse of our actual life in one of its most characteristic phases; I am sure that in the distant present there are many millions of our own in- landers to whom it would be altogether strange. I. In a certain sort fragile is written all over our colony; as far as the visible body of it is concerned it is inexpressibly per- ishable; a fire and a high wind could sweep it all away; and one of the most American of all American things is the least fitted among them to survive from the present to the future, and impart to it the significance of what may soon be a portion and parcel of our extreme- ly forgetful past. It is also in a supremely transitional moment: one might say that last year it was not quite what it is now, and next year it may be altogether different. In fact, our summer colony is in that happy hour when the rudeness of the first sum- mer conditions has been left far behind, and vulgar luxury has not yet cumbrous- ly succeeded to a, sort of sylvan distinc- tion. The type of its simple and sufficing hospitalities is the seven oclock supper. Every one, in hotel or in cottage, dines between one and two, and no less scrupu- lously sups at seven, unless it is a few extremists who sup at half past seven. At this function, which is our chief so- cial event, it is de rigueur for the men not to dress, and they come in any sort of sack or jacket or cutaway, letting the ladies make up the pomps which they forego. From this fact may be inferred the informality of their day-time attire; and the same note is sounded in the whole range of the cottage life, so that once a visitor from the world outside, who had been exasperated beyond endurance by the absence of form among us (if such an effect could be from a cause so nega- tive), burst out with the reproach, Oh, you make a fetish of your informality! Fetish is perhaps rather too strong a word, but I should not mind saying that informality was the tutelary genius of the place. American men are everywhere impatient of form. It burdens and bothers them, and they like to throw it off whenever they can. We may not be so very democratic at heart as we seem, but we are impatient of ceremonies that separate us when it is our business or our pleasure to get at one another; and

742 Confessions of a Summer Colonist. ica rests largely upon the principle of an independent civil service, appointment to which shall be based upon merit alone. A striking example of its successful ap- plication held constantly and conspicuous- ly before tbe eyes of the people will do much to convince them of its inherent soundness; and once they are convinced, the struggle for good government at home will be more nearly won. Carl Evans Boyd. CONFESSIONS OF A SUMMER COLONIST. THE season is ending in the little sum- mer settlement on the Down East coast where I have been passing the last three months, and with each loath day the sense of its peculiar charm grows more poignant. A prescience of the home- sickness I shall feel for it when I go al- ready begins to torment me, and I find myself wishing to imagine some form of words which shall keep a likeness of it at least through the winter; some shadowy semblance which I may turn to hereafter if any chance or change should destroy or transform it, or what is more likely, if I should never come back to it. Per- haps others in the distant future may turn to it for a glimpse of our actual life in one of its most characteristic phases; I am sure that in the distant present there are many millions of our own in- landers to whom it would be altogether strange. I. In a certain sort fragile is written all over our colony; as far as the visible body of it is concerned it is inexpressibly per- ishable; a fire and a high wind could sweep it all away; and one of the most American of all American things is the least fitted among them to survive from the present to the future, and impart to it the significance of what may soon be a portion and parcel of our extreme- ly forgetful past. It is also in a supremely transitional moment: one might say that last year it was not quite what it is now, and next year it may be altogether different. In fact, our summer colony is in that happy hour when the rudeness of the first sum- mer conditions has been left far behind, and vulgar luxury has not yet cumbrous- ly succeeded to a, sort of sylvan distinc- tion. The type of its simple and sufficing hospitalities is the seven oclock supper. Every one, in hotel or in cottage, dines between one and two, and no less scrupu- lously sups at seven, unless it is a few extremists who sup at half past seven. At this function, which is our chief so- cial event, it is de rigueur for the men not to dress, and they come in any sort of sack or jacket or cutaway, letting the ladies make up the pomps which they forego. From this fact may be inferred the informality of their day-time attire; and the same note is sounded in the whole range of the cottage life, so that once a visitor from the world outside, who had been exasperated beyond endurance by the absence of form among us (if such an effect could be from a cause so nega- tive), burst out with the reproach, Oh, you make a fetish of your informality! Fetish is perhaps rather too strong a word, but I should not mind saying that informality was the tutelary genius of the place. American men are everywhere impatient of form. It burdens and bothers them, and they like to throw it off whenever they can. We may not be so very democratic at heart as we seem, but we are impatient of ceremonies that separate us when it is our business or our pleasure to get at one another; and Confessions of a Summer Colonist. 7.43 it is part of our splendor to ignore the ceremonies as we do the expenses. We have all the decent grades of riches and poverty in our colony, but our informal- ity is not more the treasure of the hum- ble than of the great. In the nature of things it cannot last, however, and the only question is how long it will last. I think, myself, until some one imagines giving an eight oclock dinner; then all the informalities will go, and the whole train of evils which such a dinner con- notes will rush in. IT. The cottages themselves are of sev- eral sorts, and some still exist in the earlier stages of mutation from the fish- ermens and farmers houses which formed their germ. But these are now mostly let as lodgings to bachelors and other single or semi-detached folks who go for their meals to the neighboring hotels or boarding-houses. The hotels are each the centre of this sort of centri- petal life, as well as the homes of their own scores or hundreds of inmates. A single boarding-house gathers about it half a dozen dependent cottages which it cares for, and feeds at its table; and even where the cottages have kitchens and all the housekeeping facilities, their inmates sometimes prefer to dine at the hotels. By far the greater number of cottagers, however, keep house, bringing their service with them from the cities, and settling in their summer homes for three or four or five months. The houses conform more or less to one type: a picturesque structure of co- lonial pattern, shingled to the ground, and stained or left to take a weather- stain of grayish brown, with cavernous verandas, and dormer - windowed roofs covering ten or twelve rooms. Within they are, if not elaborately finished, elab- orately fitted up, with a constant regard to health in the plumbing and drainage. The water is brought in a system of pipes from a lake five miles away, and as it is only for summer use the pipes are not buried from the frost, but wander along the surface, through the ferns and bram- bles of the tough little seaside knolls on which the cottages are perched, and climb the old tumbling stone walls of the origi- nal pastures before diving into the ce- mented basements. Perhaps half of the cottages are owned by their occupants, and furnished by them; the rest, not less attractive and hardly less tastefully furnished, be- long to natives, who have caught on to the architectural and domestic prefer- ences of the summer people, and have built them to let. The rugosities of the stony pasture land end in a wooded point seaward, and curve east and north in a succession of beaches. It is on the point, and mainly short of its wooded ex- tremity, that the cottages of our settle- ment are dropped, as near the ocean as may be, and with as little order as birds nests in the grass, among the sweet-fern, laurel, bay, wild raspberries, and dog- roses, which it is the ideal to leave as un- touched as possible. Wheelworn lanes that twist about among the hollows find the cottages from the highway, but foot- paths approach one cottage from another, and people walk rather than drive to each others doors. From the deep-bosomed, well-sheltered little harbor the tides swim inland, half a score of winding miles, up the channel of a river which without them would be a trickling rivulet. An irregular line of cottages follows the shore a little way, and then leaves the river to the schoon- ers and barges which navigate it as far as the oldest pile-built wooden bridge in New England, and these in their turn abandon it to the fleets of rowboats and canoes in which summer youth of both sexes explore it to its source over depths as clear as glass, past wooded headlands and low rush-bordered meadows, through reaches and openings of pastoral fields, and under the shadow of dreaming groves. 744 Confessions of a Summer Colonist. III. If there is anything lovelier than the scenery of this gentle river I do not know it; and I doubt if the sky is purer and bluer in paradise. This seems to be the consensus, tacit or explicit, of the youth who visit it, and employ the land- scape for their picnics and their water parties from the beginning to the end of summer. The river is very much used for sun- sets by the cottagers who live on it, and who claim a superiority through them to the cottagers on the point. An im- partial mind obliges me to say that the sunsets are all good in our colony; there is no place from which they are bad; and yet for a certain tragical sunset, where the dying day bleeds slowly into the channel till it is filled from shore to shore with red as far as the eye can reach, the river is unmatched. For my own purposes, it is not less acceptable, however, when the fog has come in from the sea like a visible re- verie, and blurred the whole valley with its whiteness. I find that particularly good to look at from the trolley car which visits and revisits the river before finally leaving it, with a sort of despera- tion, and hiding its passion with a sudden plunge into the woods. Iv. The old fishing and seafaring village, which has now almost lost the recollection of its first estate in its absorption with the care of the summer colony, was sparsely dropped along the highway bor- dering the harbor, and the shores of the river, where the piles of the time-worn wharves are still rotting. A few houses of the past remain, but the type of the summer cottage has impressed itself upon all the later building, and the na- tive is passing architecturally, if not per- sonally, into abeyance. He takes the sit- uation philosophically, and in the season he caters to the summer colony not only as the landlord of the rented cottages, and the keeper of the hotels and boarding- houses, but as livery-stableman, grocer, butcher, marketman, apothecary, and doctor; there is not one foreign accent in any of these callings. If the native is a farmer, he devotes himself to vege- tables, poultry, eggs, and fruit for the summer folks, and brings these supplies to their doors; his children appear with flowers; and there are many proofs that he has accurately sized the cottagers up in their tastes and fancies as well as their needs. I doubt if we have sized him up so well, or if our somewhat conventional- ized ideal of him is perfectly representa- tive. He is perhaps more complex than he seems; he is certainly much more self- sufficing than might have been expected. The summer folks are the material from which his prosperity is wrought, but he is not dependent, and is very far from sub- missive. As in all right conditions, it is here the employer who asks for work, not the employee; and the work must be respectfully asked for. There are many fables to this effect, as for instance that of the lady who said to a summer visitor critical of the weeks wash she had brought home, I 11 wash you and I 11 iron you, but I wont take none of your jaw. A primitive independence is the keynote of the native character, and it suffers no infringement, but rather boasts itself. We re independent here, I tell you, said the friendly person who con- sented to take off the wire door. I was down Bangor way doin a piece of work, and a fellow come along, and says he, I want you should hurry up on that job. Hello! says I, I guess I 11 pull out. Well, we calculate to do our work, he added, with an accent which sufficiently implied that their consciences needed no bossing in the performance. The native compliance with any sum- mer-visiting request is commonly in some such form as, Well, I dont know but what I can, or, I guess there aint any- thing to hinder me. This compliance Confessions of a Summer Colonist. 745 is so rarely, if ever, carried to the point of domestic service that it may fairly be said that all the domestic service, at least of the cottagers, is imported. The na- tives will wait at the hotel tables; they will come in to accommodate; but they will not live out. I was one day witness of the extreme failure of a friend whose city cook had suddenly abandoned him, and who applied to a friendly farm- ers wife in the vain hope that she might help him to some one who would help his family out in their strait. Why, there aint a girl in the Hollow that lives out! Why, if you was sick abed, I dont know as I know anybody t you could git to set up with you. The natives will not live out because they cannot keep their self- respect in the conditions of domestic ser- vice. Some people laugh at this self-re- spect, but most summer folks like it, as I own I do. In our partly mythical estimate of the nitive and his relation to us, he is im- agined as holding a kind of carnival when we leave him at the end of the season, and it is believed that he likes us to go early. We have had his good offices at a fair price all summer, but as it draws to a close these are rendered more and more fitfully. From some perhaps flattered reports of the happi- ness of the natives at the departure of the sojourners, I have pictured them dancing a sort of farandole, and stretch- ing with linked hands from the farthest summer cottage up the river to the last on the wooded point. It is certain that they get tired, and I could not blame them if they were glad to be rid of their guests, and to go back to their own social life. This includes church festivals of divers kinds, lectures and shows, sleigh- rides, theatricals, and reading-clubs, and a plentiful use of books from the excel- lently chosen free village library. They say frankly that the summer folks have no idea how pleasant it is when they are gone, and I am sure that the gayeties to which we leave them must be more toler able than those which we go back to in the city. It may be, however, that I am too confident, and that their gayeties are only different. I should really like to know just what the entertainments are which are given in a building devoted to them in a country neighborhood three or four miles from the village. It was once a church, but is now used solely for social amusements. V. The amusements of the summer colo- ny I have already hinted at. Besides suppers, there are also teas, of larger scope, both afternoon and evening. There are hops every week at the two largest hotels, which are practically free to all; and the bathing-beach is of course a supreme attraction. The bath-houses, which are very clean and well equipped, are not very cheap, either for the season or for a single bath, and there is a pretty pavilion at the edge of the sands. This is always full of gossiping spectators of the hardy adventurers who brave tides too remote from the Gulf Stream to be ever much warmer than sixty or sixty-five degrees. The bathers are mostly young people, who have the courage of their pretty bathing-costumes or the inextin- guishable ardor of their years. If it is not rather serious business with them all, still I admire the fortitude with which some of them remain in fifteen minutes. Beyond our colony, which calls itself the Port, there is a far more populous watering-place, east of the Point, known as the Beach, which is the resort of peo- ple several grades of gentility lower than ours: so many, in fact, that we never can speak of the Beach without averting our faces, or, at the best, with a toler- ant smile. It is really a succession of beaches, all much longer and, I am bound to say, more beautiful than ours, lined with rows of the humbler sort of sum- mer cottages known as shells, and with many hotels of corresponding degree. The cottages may be hired by the week or mouth at about two dollars a day, and 746 Confessions of a Summer Colonist. they are supposed to be taken by inland people of little social importance. Very Jikely this is true; but they seemed to be very nice, quiet people, and I com- monly saw the ladies reading on their ve- randas, books and magazines, while the gentlemen sprayed the dusty road before them with the garden hose. The place had also for me an agreeable alien sug- gestion, and in passing the long row of cottages I was slightly reminded of Sche- veningen. Beyond the cottage settlements is a struggling little park, laid out this sea- son, and dedicated to the only Indian saint I ever heard of, though there may be others. His statue, colossal in sheet- lead, painted the copper color of his race, offers any heathen comer the choice be- tween a Bible in one of his hands and a tomahawk in the other, at the entrance of the park; and there are other sheet-lead groups and figures in the white of allegory at different points. It promises to be a pretty enough little place in future years, but as yet it is not much resorted to by the excursions which largely form the prosperity of the Beach. The trolley line was to have been carried as far as the park, but a want of juice, as the electric current is familiarly and affec- tionately called in the trolleymens par- lance, forbade the extension, and the en- tertainments of the park have languished. The concerts and the high-class vaude- ville promised have not flourished in the pavilion provided for them, and one of two monkeys in the zoiilogical depart- ment has perished of the public inatten- tion. This has not fatally affected the captive bear, who rises to his hind legs, and eats peanuts and doughnuts in that position like a fellow citizen. With the cockatoos and parrots, and the dozen deer in an inclosure of wire netting, he is no mean attraction; but he does not charm the excursionists away from the summer village at the shore, where they spend long afternoons splashing among the waves, or in lolling groups of men, women, and children on the sand. In the more active gayeties, I have seen nothing so decided during the whole season as the behavior of three young girls who once came up out of the sea, and obliged me by dan- cing a measure on the smooth hard beach in their bathing-dresses. XTI. I thought it very pretty, but I do not believe such a thing could have been seen on our beach, which is safe from all ex- cursionists, and sacred to the cottage and hotel life of the Port. Besides our beach and its bathing, we have a reading-club for the men, evolved from one of the old native houses, and verandaed round for sum- mer use; and we have golf-links and a golf club-house within easy trolley reach. The links are as energetically, if not as generally frequented as the sands, and the sport finds the favor which attends it everywhere in the decay of tennis. The tennis courts which I saw thronged about by eager girl-crowds, here, seven years ago, are now almost wholly aban- doned to the lovers of the game, who are nearly always men. Perhaps the only thing (beside, of course, our common mortality) which we have in common with the excursionists is our love of the trolley line. This, by its admirable equipment, and by the ter- ror it inspires in horses, has wellnigh abolished driving; and following the old country roads, as it does, with an occa- sional short-cut through the deep, green- lighted woods or across the prismatic salt meadows, it is of a picturesque variety entirely satisfying. After a year of fer- vent opposition and protest, the whole community whether of summer or of winter folks now gladly accepts the trolley, and the grandest cottager and the lowliest hotel - dweller meet in a grateful appreciation of its beauty and comfort. Some pass a great part of every after- noon on the trolley, and one lady has Confessions of a Summer Colonist. 747 achieved celebrity by spending four dol- lars a week in trolley rides. The exhil- aration of these is varied with an occa- sional apprehension when the car pitches down a sharp incline, and twists almost at right angles on a sudden curve at the bottom without slacking its speed. A lady who ventured an appeal to the con- ductor at one such crisis was reassured, and at the same time taught her place, by his reply: That motormans life, maam, is just as precious to him as what yours is to you. She had, perhaps, really ventured too far, for ordinarily the employees of the trolley do not find occasion to use so much severity with their passengers. They look after their comfort as far as possi- ble, and seek even to anticipate their wants in unexpected cases, if I may be- lieve a story which was told by a wit- ness. She had long expected to see some one thrown out of the open car at one of the sharp curves, and one day she actually saw a woman hurled from the seat into the road. Luckily the woman alighted on her feet, and stood looking round in a daze. Oh! oh! exclaimed another woman in the seat behind, she s left her um- brella! The conductor promptly threw it out to her. Why, demanded the witness, did that lady wish to get out here? The conductor hesitated before he jerked the bell-pull to go on. Then he said, Well, she 11 want her umbrella, anyway. The conductors are in fact very civil as well as kind. If they see a horse in anxiety at the approach of the car, they considerately stop, and let him get by with his driver in safety. By such means, with their frequeiat trips and low fares, and with the ease and comfort of their cars, they have conciliated public favor, and the trolley has drawn travel away from the steam railroad in such measure that it ran no trains last winter. VII. The trolley, in fact, is a fad of the summer folks, this year; but what it will be another no one knows; it may be their hissing and by-word. In the meantime, as I have already suggested, they have other amusements. These are not always of a nature so general as the trolley, or so particular as the tea. But each of the larger hotels has been fully supplied with entertainments for the benefit of their projectors, though nearly everything of the sort had some sort of charitable slant. I assisted at a stereopticon lecture on Alaska for the aid of some youthful Alaskans of both sexes, who were shown first in their sav- age state, and then as they appeared after a merely rudimental education, in the costumes and profiles of our own civilization. I never would have sup- posed that education could do so much in so short a time; and I gladly gave my mite for their further development in classic beauty and a final elegance. My mite was taken up in a hat, which, passed round among the audience, is a common means of collecting the spec- tators expressions of appreciation. Oth- er entertainments, of a prouder frame, exact an admission fee, but I am not sure that these are better than some of the hat-shows, as they are called. The tale of our summer amusements would be sadly incomplete without some record of the bull-fights given by the Spanish prisoners of war on the neigh- boring island, where they have been confined. Admission to these could be had only by favor of the officers in charge, and even among the 6lite of the colony those who went were a more elect few. Still, the day I went, there were some fifty or seventy - five spectators, who arrived by trolley near the island, and walked to the stockade which con- fined the captives. A real bull-fight, I believe, is always given on Sunday, and Puritan prejudice yielded to usage even 748 Confessions of a Summer Colonist. in the case of a burlesque bull-fight; at any rate, it was on a Sunday that we crouched in an irregular semicircle on a rising ground within the prison pale, and faced the captive audience in an- other semicircle, across a little alley for the entrances and exits of the perform- ers. The president of the bull-fight was first brought to the place of honor in a hand-cart, and then came the banderille- ros, the picadores, and the espada, won- derfully effective and correct in white muslin and colored tissue-paper. Much may be done in personal decoration with advertising placards; and the lofty mu- ral crown of the president counseled the public on both sides to Use Plug Cut. The picadors pasteboard horse was at- tached to his middle, fore and aft, and looked quite the sort of hapless jade which is ordinarily sacrificed to the bulls. The toro himself was composed of two prisoners, whose horizontal backs were covered with a brown blanket; and his feet, sometimes bare and some- times shod with india-rubber boots, were of the human pattern. Practicable horns, of a somewhat too yielding substance, branched from a front of pasteboard, and a cloth tail, apt to come off in the charge, swung from his rear. I have never seen a genuine corrida, but a lady present, who had, told me that this was conducted with all the right circum- stance; and it is certain that the per- formers entered into their parts with the artistic gust of their race. The picador sustained some terrific falls, and in his quality of horse bad to be taken out re- peatedly and sewed up; the banderilleros tormented and eluded the toro with table- covers, one red and two drab, till the espada took him from them, and with due ceremony, after a speech to the pre- sident, drove his blade home to the bulls heart. I stayed to see three bulls killed; the last was uncommonly fierce, and when his hindquarters came off or out, his forequarters charged joyously among the aficionados on the prisoners side, and made havoc in their thickly packed ranks. The espada who killed this bull was showered with cigars and cigarettes from our side. I do not know what the Sabbath- keeping shades of the old Puritans made of our presence at such a fete on Sun- day; but possibly they had got on so far in a better life as to be less shocked at the decay of piety among us than pleased at the rise of such Christianity as had brought us, like friends and com- rades, together with our public enemies in this harmless fun. I wish to say that the tobacco lavished upon the espada was collected for the behoof of all the pri- soners. VIII. Our fiction has made so much of our summer places as the mise en sc?~ne of its love stories that I suppose I ought to say something of this side of our colonial life. But after sixty I suspect that ones eyes are poor for that sort of thing, and I can only say that in its earliest and sim- plest epoch the Port was particularly fa- mous for the good times that the young people had. They still have good times, though whether on just the old terms I do not know. I know that the river is still here with its canoes and rowboats, its meadowy reaches apt for dual soli- tude, and its groves for picnics. There is not much bicycling, the roads are rough and hilly; but there is something of it, and it is mighty pretty to see the youth of both sexes bicycling with their heads bare. They go about bareheaded on foot and in buggies, too, and the young girls seek the tan which their mo- thers used so anxiously to shun. The sailboats, manned by weather- worn and weather-wise skippers, are ~rather for the pleasure of such older summer folks as have a taste for cod- fishing, which is here very good. But at every age, and in whatever sort our colonists amuse themselves, it is with the least possible ceremony. It is as if Nature having taken them so hospitably Confessions of a Summer Colonist. 749 to her heart, they felt convention an affront to her. Around their cottages, as I have said, they prefer to leave her primitive beauty untouched, and she re- wards their forbearance with such a profusion of wild flowers as I have seen nowhere else. The low pink laurel flushed all the stony fields to the edges of their verandas, when we first came; the meadows were milk-white with dai- sies; in the swampy places delicate or- chids grew, in the pools the flags and flowering rushes; all the paths and way- sides were set with dog-roses; the hol- lows and stony tops were broadly matted with ground juniper. Since then tbe goldenrod has passed from glory to glory; first mixing its yellow-powdered plumes with the red-purple tufts of the iron-weed, and then with the wild asters everywhere. There has come later a dwarf sort, six or ten inches high, won- derfully rich and fine, which, with a low white aster, seems to hold the field against everything else, though the taller goldenrod and the masses of the high blue asters nod less thickly above it. But these smaller blooms deck the ground in incredible profusion, and have an in- nocent air of being stuck in, as if they had been fancifully used for ornament by children or Indians. Ix. In a little while, now, as it is almost the end of September, all the feathery gold will have faded to the soft pale ghosts of that loveliness. The summer birds have long been silent; the crows, as if they were so many exultant natives, are shouting in the blue sky above the windrows of the rowan, in jubilant pre- science of the depopulation of our colony, which fled the hotels a fortnight ago. The days are growing shorter, and the red evenings falling earlier; so that the cottagers husbands who come up every Saturday from town might well be im- patient for a Monday of final return. Those who came from remoter distances have gone back already; and the lady cottagers lingering hardily on till Octo- ber must find the sight of the empty ho- tels and the windows of the neighboring houses, which no longer brighten after the chilly nightfall, rather depressing. Every one says that this is the loveliest time of year, and that it will be divine here all through October. But there are sudden and unexpected defections; there is a steady pull of the heart cityward, which it is hard to resist. The first great exodus was on the first of the month, when the hotels were deserted by four fifths of their guests. The rest followed, half of them within the week, and within a fortnight none but an all but inaudi- ble and invisible remnant were left, who made no impression of summer sojourn in the deserted trolleys. The days now go by in moods of rapid succession. There have been days when the sea has lain smiling in placid derision of the recreants who have fled the lin- gering summer; there have been nights when the winds have roared round the cottages in wild menace of the faithful few who have remained. We have had a magnificent storm, which came, as an equinoctial storm should, exactly at the equinox, and for a day and a night heaped the sea upon the shore in thundering surges twenty and thirty feet high. I watched these at their awfulest, from the wide windows of a cottage that crouched in the very edge of the surf, with the effect of clutching the rocks with one hand and holding its roof on with the other. The sea was such a sight as I have not seen on shipboard, and while I luxuriously shuddered at it, I had the advantage of a mellow log-fire at my back, purring and softly crackling in a quiet indifference to the storm. Twenty-four hours more made all se- rene again. Blood-curdling tales of lob- ster - pots carried to sea filled the air; but the air was as blandly unconscious of ever having been a fury as a lady who has found her lost temper. Swift alter- 750 Summer Died Last Night. nations of weather are so characteristic of our colonial climate that the other afternoon I went out with my umbrella against the raw cold rain of the morn- ing, and had to raise it against the broil- ing sun. Three days ago I could say that the green of the woods had no touch of hectic in it; but already the low trees of the swampland have flamed into crim- son. Every morning, when I look out, this crimson is of a fierier intensity, and the trees on the distant uplands are be- ginning slowly to kindle, with a sort of inner glow which has not yet burst into a blaze. Here and there the goldenrod is rusting; but there seem only to be more and more asters of all sorts; and I have seen ladies coming home with sheaves of blue gentians; I have heard that the orchids are beginning again to light their tender lamps from the burn- ing blackberry vines that stray from the pastures to the edge of the swamps. After an apparently total evanescence there has been a like resuscitation of the spirit of summer society. In the very last week of September we have gone to a supper, which lingered far out of its season like one of these late flowers, and there has been an afternoon tea which assembled an astonishing number of cot- tagers, all secretly surprised to find one another still here, and professing openly a pity tinged with contempt for those who are here no longer. I blamed those who had gone home, but I myself sniff the asphalt afar; the roar of the street calls to me with the magic that the voice of the sea is losing. Just 110W it shines entreatingly, it shines winningly, in the sun which is mellowing to an October tenderness, and it shines under a moon of perfect orb, which seems to have the whole heavens to itself in the first watch of the night, except for the red planet Mars. This be- gins to burn in the west before the flush of sunset has passed from it; and then later, a few moon-washed stars pierce the vast vault with their keen points. The stars which so powdered the summer sky seem mostly to have gone back to town, where no doubt people mistake them for electric lights. W. D. Howells. SUMMER DIED LAST NIGHT. SUMMER died last night, Lady of Delight, Summer died last night; Look for her no more. In the early gray Of this golden day, In the early gray By the mirrored shore I saw leaves of red, So I knew her dead, I saw leaves of red Wreathed upon her door. Ailictude Ccddwell Perry.

750 Summer Died Last Night. nations of weather are so characteristic of our colonial climate that the other afternoon I went out with my umbrella against the raw cold rain of the morn- ing, and had to raise it against the broil- ing sun. Three days ago I could say that the green of the woods had no touch of hectic in it; but already the low trees of the swampland have flamed into crim- son. Every morning, when I look out, this crimson is of a fierier intensity, and the trees on the distant uplands are be- ginning slowly to kindle, with a sort of inner glow which has not yet burst into a blaze. Here and there the goldenrod is rusting; but there seem only to be more and more asters of all sorts; and I have seen ladies coming home with sheaves of blue gentians; I have heard that the orchids are beginning again to light their tender lamps from the burn- ing blackberry vines that stray from the pastures to the edge of the swamps. After an apparently total evanescence there has been a like resuscitation of the spirit of summer society. In the very last week of September we have gone to a supper, which lingered far out of its season like one of these late flowers, and there has been an afternoon tea which assembled an astonishing number of cot- tagers, all secretly surprised to find one another still here, and professing openly a pity tinged with contempt for those who are here no longer. I blamed those who had gone home, but I myself sniff the asphalt afar; the roar of the street calls to me with the magic that the voice of the sea is losing. Just 110W it shines entreatingly, it shines winningly, in the sun which is mellowing to an October tenderness, and it shines under a moon of perfect orb, which seems to have the whole heavens to itself in the first watch of the night, except for the red planet Mars. This be- gins to burn in the west before the flush of sunset has passed from it; and then later, a few moon-washed stars pierce the vast vault with their keen points. The stars which so powdered the summer sky seem mostly to have gone back to town, where no doubt people mistake them for electric lights. W. D. Howells. SUMMER DIED LAST NIGHT. SUMMER died last night, Lady of Delight, Summer died last night; Look for her no more. In the early gray Of this golden day, In the early gray By the mirrored shore I saw leaves of red, So I knew her dead, I saw leaves of red Wreathed upon her door. Ailictude Ccddwell Perry. Among the Birds of the Yosemite. 751 AMONG THE BIRDS OF THE YOSEMITE. TRAVELERS in the Sierra forests usu- ally complain of the want of life. The trees, they say, are fine, but the empty stillness is deadly; there are no animals to be seen, no birds. We have not heard a song in all the woods. And no won- der! They go in large parties with mules and horses; they make a great noise; they are dressed in outlandish, unnatural colors: every animal shuns them. Even the frightened pines would run away if they could. But Nature lovers, devout, silent, open-eyed, looking and listening with love, find no lack of inhabitants in these mountain mansions, and they come to them gladly. Not to mention the large animals or the small in- sect people, every waterfall has its ouzel and every tree its squirrel or tamias or bird: tiny nuthatch threading the furrows of the bark, cheerily whispering to itself as it deftly pries off loose scales and ex- amines the curled edges of lichens; or Clarke crow or jay examining the cones; or some singer oriole, tanager, warbler resting, feeding, attending to domes- tic affairs. Hawks and eagles sail over- head, grouse walk in happy flocks below, and song sparrows sing in every bed of chaparral. There is no crowding, to be sure. Unlike the low Eastern trees, those of the Sierra in the main forest belt aver- age nearly two hundred feet in height, and of course many birds are required to make much show in them and many voices to fill them. Nevertheless, the whole range from foothills to snowy sum- mits is shaken into song every summer; and though low and thin in winter, the music never ceases. The sage cock Centroeercus uro- phasianus is the largest of the Sierra game-birds and the king of American grouse. It is an admirably strong, hardy, handsome, independent bird, able with comfort to bid defiance to beat, cold, drought, hunger, and all sorts of storms, living on whatever seeds or insects chance to come in its way, or simply on the leaves of sage-brush, everywhere abundant on its desert range. In winter, when the temperature is oftentimes below zero, and heavy snowstorms are blowing, he sits beneath a sage bush and allows him- self to be covered, poking his head now and then through the snow to feed on the leaves of his shelter. Not even the Arctic ptarmigan is hardier in braving frost and snow and wintry darkness. When in full plumage he is a beautiful bird, with along, firm, sharp-pointed tail, which in walking is slightly raised and swings sidewise back and forth with each step. The male is handsomely marked with black and white on the neck, back, and wings, weighs five or six pounds, and measures about thirty inches in length. The female is clad mostly in plain brown, and is not so large. They occasionally wander from the sage plains into the open nut - pine and juniper woods, but never enter the main coniferous forest. It is only in the broad, dry, half-desert sage plains that they are quite at home, where the weather is blazing hot in summer, cold in winter. If any one passes through a flock, all squat on the gray ground and hold their heads low, hoping to escape observation; but when approached with- in a rod or so, they rise with a magnifi- cent burst of wing-beats, looking about as big as turkeys and making a noise like a whirlwind. On the 28th of June, at the head of Owens Yalley, I caught one of the young that was then just able to fly. It was seven inches long, of a uniform gray color, blunt-billed, and when captured cried lustily in a shrill piping voice, clear in tone as a boys small willow whistle. I have seen flocks of from ten to thirty or forty on the east margin of the park,

Among the Birds of the Yosemite. 751 AMONG THE BIRDS OF THE YOSEMITE. TRAVELERS in the Sierra forests usu- ally complain of the want of life. The trees, they say, are fine, but the empty stillness is deadly; there are no animals to be seen, no birds. We have not heard a song in all the woods. And no won- der! They go in large parties with mules and horses; they make a great noise; they are dressed in outlandish, unnatural colors: every animal shuns them. Even the frightened pines would run away if they could. But Nature lovers, devout, silent, open-eyed, looking and listening with love, find no lack of inhabitants in these mountain mansions, and they come to them gladly. Not to mention the large animals or the small in- sect people, every waterfall has its ouzel and every tree its squirrel or tamias or bird: tiny nuthatch threading the furrows of the bark, cheerily whispering to itself as it deftly pries off loose scales and ex- amines the curled edges of lichens; or Clarke crow or jay examining the cones; or some singer oriole, tanager, warbler resting, feeding, attending to domes- tic affairs. Hawks and eagles sail over- head, grouse walk in happy flocks below, and song sparrows sing in every bed of chaparral. There is no crowding, to be sure. Unlike the low Eastern trees, those of the Sierra in the main forest belt aver- age nearly two hundred feet in height, and of course many birds are required to make much show in them and many voices to fill them. Nevertheless, the whole range from foothills to snowy sum- mits is shaken into song every summer; and though low and thin in winter, the music never ceases. The sage cock Centroeercus uro- phasianus is the largest of the Sierra game-birds and the king of American grouse. It is an admirably strong, hardy, handsome, independent bird, able with comfort to bid defiance to beat, cold, drought, hunger, and all sorts of storms, living on whatever seeds or insects chance to come in its way, or simply on the leaves of sage-brush, everywhere abundant on its desert range. In winter, when the temperature is oftentimes below zero, and heavy snowstorms are blowing, he sits beneath a sage bush and allows him- self to be covered, poking his head now and then through the snow to feed on the leaves of his shelter. Not even the Arctic ptarmigan is hardier in braving frost and snow and wintry darkness. When in full plumage he is a beautiful bird, with along, firm, sharp-pointed tail, which in walking is slightly raised and swings sidewise back and forth with each step. The male is handsomely marked with black and white on the neck, back, and wings, weighs five or six pounds, and measures about thirty inches in length. The female is clad mostly in plain brown, and is not so large. They occasionally wander from the sage plains into the open nut - pine and juniper woods, but never enter the main coniferous forest. It is only in the broad, dry, half-desert sage plains that they are quite at home, where the weather is blazing hot in summer, cold in winter. If any one passes through a flock, all squat on the gray ground and hold their heads low, hoping to escape observation; but when approached with- in a rod or so, they rise with a magnifi- cent burst of wing-beats, looking about as big as turkeys and making a noise like a whirlwind. On the 28th of June, at the head of Owens Yalley, I caught one of the young that was then just able to fly. It was seven inches long, of a uniform gray color, blunt-billed, and when captured cried lustily in a shrill piping voice, clear in tone as a boys small willow whistle. I have seen flocks of from ten to thirty or forty on the east margin of the park, 752 Among the Birds of the Yosemite. where the Mono Desert meets the gray foothills of the Sierra; but since cattle have been pastured there they are be- coming rarer every year. Another magnificent bird, the blue or dusky grouse, next in size to the sage cock, is found all through the main forest belt, though not in great numbers. They like best the heaviest silver - fir woods near garden and meadow openings, where there is but little underbrush to cover the approach of enemies. When a flock of these brave birds, sauntering and feed- ing on the sunny flowery levels of some hidden meadow or Yosemite valley far back in the heart of the mountains, see a man for the first time in their lives, they rise with hurried notes of surprise and ex- citement and alight on the lowest branches of the trees, wondering what the wander- er may be, and showing great eagerness to get a good view of the strange vertical animal. Knowing nothing of guns, they allow you to approach within a half dozen paces, then quietly hop a few branches higher or fly to the next tree without a thought of concealment, so that you may observe them as long as you like, near enough to see the fine shading of their plumage, the feathers on their toes, and the innocent wonderment in their beauti- ful wild eyes. But in the neighborhood of roads and trails they soon become shy, and when disturbed fly into the highest, leafiest trees, and suddenly become invis- ible, so well do they know how to hide and keep still and make use of their pro- tective coloring. Nor can they be easily dislodged ere they are ready to go. In vain the hunter goes round and round some tall pine or fir into which he has perhaps seen a dozen enter, gazing up through the branches, straining his eyes while his gun is held ready; not a fea- ther can he see unless his eyes have been sharpened by long experience and know- ledge of the blue grouses habits. Then, perhaps, when he is thinking that the tree must be hollow and that the birds have all gone inside, they burst forth with a startling whir of wing - beats, and after gaining full speed go skating swiftly away through the forest arches in a long, silent, wavering slide, with wings held steady. During the summer they are most of the time on the ground, feeding on in- sects, seeds, berries, etc., around the mar- gills of open spots and rocky moraines, playing and sauntering, taking sun baths and sand baths, and drinking at little pools and rills during the heat of the day. In winter they live mostly in the trees, depending on buds for food, shelter- ing beneath dense overlapping branches at night and during storms on the lee- side of the trunk, sunning themselves on the southside limbs in fine weather, and sometimes diving into the mealy snow to flutter and wallow, apparently for exer- cise and fun. I have seen young broods running beneath the firs in June at a height of eight thousand feet above the sea. On the approach of danger, the mother with a peculiar cry warns the helpless midgets to scatter and bide beneath leaves and twigs, and even in plain open places it is almost impossible to discover them. In the meantime the mother feigns lame- ness, throws herself at your feet, kicks and gasps and flutters, to draw your at- tention from the chicks. The young are generally able to fly about the middle of July; but even after they can fly well they are usually advised to run and hide and lie still, no matter how closely ap- proached, while the mother goes on with her loving, lying acting, apparently as desperately concerned for their safety as when they were featherless infants. Sometimes, however, after carefully studyiiig the circumstances, she tells them to take wing; and up and away in a blur- ry birr and whir they scatter to all points of the compass, as if blown up with gun- powder, dropping cunningly out of sight three or four hundred yards off, and keep- ing quiet until called, after the danger is supposed to be past. If you walk on a little way without manifesting any in- Among the Birds of the Yosemite. 753 clination to hunt them, you may sit down at the foot of a tree near enough to see and hear the happy reunion. One touch of nature makes the whole world kin; and it is truly wonderful how love-telling the small voices of these birds are, and how far they reach through the woods into one anothers hearts and into ours. The tones are so perfectly human and so full of anxious affection, few moun- taineers can fail to be touched by them. They are cared for until full grown. On the 20th of August, as I was passing along the margin of a garden spot on the head-waters of the San Joaquin, a grouse rose from the ruins of an old juniper that had been uprooted and brought down by an avalanche from a cliff overhead. She threw herself at my feet, limped and flut- tered and gasped, showing, as I thought, that she had a nest and was raising a second brood. Looking for the eggs, I was surprised to see a strong - winged flock nearly as large as the mother fly up around me. Instead of seeking a warmer climate when the winter storms set in, these hardy birds stay all the year in the High Sierra forests, and I have never known them to suffer in any sort of weather. Able to live on the buds of pine, spruce, and fir, they are forever independent in the matter of food supply, which gives so many of us trouble, dragging us here and there away from our best work. How gladly I would live on pine buds, however pitchy, for the sake of this grand independence. With all his superior re- sources, man makes more distractin.g dif- ficulty concerning food than any other of the family. The mountain quail or plumed par- tridge (Oreortyx pictus plumiferus) is common in all the upper portions of the park, though nowhere found in large numbers. He ranges considerably high- er than the grouse in summer, but is unable to endure the heavy storms of winter. When his food is buried he de- scends the range to the brushy foothills, VOL. LXXXII. NO. 494. 48 a height of from two thousand to three thousand feet above the sea; but like every true mountaineer, he is quick to follow the spring back into the highest mountains. I think he is the very hand- somest and most interesting of all the American partridges, larger and hand- somer than the famous Bob White, or even the fine California valley quail or the Massena partridge of Arizona and Mexico. That he is not so regarded, is because as a lonely mountaineer he is not half known. His plumage is delicately shaded, brown above, white and rich chestnut below and on the sides, with many dainty markings of black and white and gray here and there, while his beautiful head plume, three or four inches long, nearly straight, composed of two feathers close- ly folded so as to appear as one, is worn jauntily slanted backward like a single feather in a boys cap, giving him a very marked appearance. They wander over the lonely mountains in family flocks of from six to fifteen, beneath ceanothus, manzanita, and wild cherry thickets, and over dry sandy flats, glacier meadows, rocky ridges, and beds of bryanthus around glacier lakes, especially in au- tumn when the berries of the upper gar- dens are ripe, uttering low clucking notes to enable them to keep together. When they are so suddenly disturbed that they are afraid they cannot escape the danger by running into thickets, they rise with a fine hearty whir and scatter in the brush over an area of half a square mile or so, a few of them diving into leafy trees. But as soon as the danger is past, the parents with a clear piping note call them together again. By the end of July the young are two thirds grown and fly well, though only dire necessity can com- pel them to try their wings. In gait, gestures, habits, and general behavior they are like domestic chickens, but in- finitely finer, searching for insects and seeds, looking to this side and that, scratching among fallen leaves, jumping 754 Among the Birds of the Yosemite. up to pull down grass heads, and cluck- ing and muttering in low tones. Once when I was seated at the foot of a tree on the head-waters of the Merced, sketching, I heard a flock up the valley behind me, and by their voices gradually sounding nearer I knew that they were feeding toward me. I kept still, hoping to see them. Soon one came within three or four feet of me, without noti- cing me any more than if I were a stump or a bulging part of the trunk against which I was leaning, my clothing being brown, nearly like the bark. Presently along came another and another, and it was delightful to get so near a view of these handsome chickens perfectly un- disturbed, observe their manners, and hear their low peaceful notes. At last one of them caught my eye, gazed in si- lent wonder for a moment, then uttered a peculiar cry, which was followed by a lot of hurried muttered notes that sound- ed like speech. The others, of course, saw me as soon as the alarm was sound- ed, and joined the wonder talk, gazing and chattering, astonished but not fright- ened. Then all with one accord ran back with the news to the rest of the flock. What is it? what is it? Oh, you never saw the like, they seemed to be saying. Not a deer, or a wolf, or a bear; come see, come see. Where? where? Down there by that tree. Then they approached cautiously, past the tree, stretching their necks, and look- ing up in turn as if knowing from the story told them just where I was. For fifteen or twenty minutes they kept com- ing and going, venturing within a few feet of me, and discussing the wonder in charming chatter. Their curiosity at last satisfied, they began to scatter and feed again, going back in the direction they had come from; while I, loath to part with them, followed noiselessly, crawling beneath the bushes, keeping them in sight for an hour or two, learn- ing their habits, and finding out what seeds and berries they liked best. The valley quail is not a mountaineer, and seldom enters the park except at a few of the lowest places on the western boundary. It belongs to the brushy foothills and plains, orchards and wheat- fields, and is a hundred times more numerous than the mountain quail. It is a beautiful bird, about the size of the Bob White, and has a handsome crest of four or five feathers an inch long, recurved, standing nearly erect at times or drooping forward. The loud calls of these quails in the spring Pe-check- ah, Pe-check-a, Hoy, Hoy are heard far and near over all the lowlands. They have vastly increased in numbers since the settlement of the country, notwith- standing the immense numbers killed every season by boys and pot-hunters as well as the regular leggined sportsmen from the towns; for mans destructive action is more than counterbalanced by increased supply of food from cultiva- tion, and by the destruction of their ene- mies coyotes, skunks, foxes, hawks, owls, etc. which not only kill the old birds, but plunder their nests. Where coyotes and skunks abound, scarce one pair in a hundred is successful in raising a brood. So well aware are these birds of the protection afforded by man, even now that the number of their wild ene- mies has been greatly diminished, that they prefer to nest near houses, notwith- standing they are so shy. Four or five pairs rear their young around our cot- tage every spring. One year a pair nested in a straw pile within four or five feet of the stable door, and did not leave the eggs when the men led the horses back and forth within a foot or two. For many seasons a pair nested in a tuft of pampas grass in the garden; another pair in an ivy vine on the cottage roof, and when the young were hatched, it was interesting to see the parents getting the fluffy dots down. They were great- ly excited, and their anxious calls and directions to their many babes attracted our attention. They bad no great dif Among the Birds of the Yosemite. 755 ficulty in persuading the young birds to pitch themselves from the main roof to the porch roof among the ivy, but to get them safely down from the latter to the ground, a distance of ten feet, was most distressing. It seemed impossible the frail soft things could avoid being killed. The anxious parents led them to a point above a spir~a bush, that reached nearly to the eaves, which they seemed to know would break the fall. Anyhow they led their chicks to this point, and with infi- nite coaxing and encouragement got them to tumble themselves off. Down they rolled and sifted through the soft leaves and panicles to the pavement, and, strange to say, all got away unhurt ex- cept one that lay as if dead for a few minutes. When it revived, the joyful parents, with their brood fairly launched oa the journey of life, proudly led them down the cottage hill, through the gar- den, and along an osage orange hedge into the cherry orchard. These charm- ing birds even enter towns and villages, where the gardens are of good size and guns are forbidden, sometimes going sev- eral miles to feed, and returning every evening to their roosts in ivy or brushy trees and shrubs. Geese occasionally visit the park, but never stay long. Sometimes on their way across the range, a flock wanders into Hetch-Hetchy or Yosemite to rest or get something to eat, and if shot at, are often sorely bewildered in seeking a way out. I have seen them rise from the meadow or river, wheel round in a spiral until a height of four or five hun- dred feet was reached, then form ranks and try to fly over the wall. But Yo- semite magnitudes seem to be as decep- tive to geese as to men, for they would suddenly find themselves against the cliffs not a fourth of the way to the top. Then turning in confusion, and scream- ing at the strange heights, they would try the opposite side, and so on, until ex- hausted they were compelled to rest, and only after discovering the river caiion could they make their escape. Large harrow-shaped flocks may often be seen crossing the range in the spring, at a height of at least fourteen thousand feet. Think of the strength of wing required to sustain so heavy a bird in air so thin. At this elevation it is but little over half as dense as at the sea level. Yet they hold bravely on in beautifully dressed ranks, and have breath enough to spare for loud honking. After the crest of the Sierra is passed it is only a smooth slide down the sky to the waters of Mono, where they may rest as long as they like. Ducks of five or six species, among which are the mallard and wood duck, go far up into the heart of the moun- tains in the spring, and of course come down in the fall with the families they have reared. A few, as if loath to leave the mountains, pass the winter in the lower valleys of the park at a height of three thousand to four thousand feet, where the main streams are never wholly frozen over, and snow never falls to a great depth or lies long. In summer they are found up to a height of eleven thousand feet on all the lakes and branches of the rivers except the small- est, and those beside the glaciers encum- bered with drifting ice and snow. I found mallards and wood ducks at Lake Te- naya, June 1, before the ice-covering was half melted, and a flock of young ones in Bloody Cafion Lake, June 20. They are usually met in pairs, never in large flocks. No place is too wild or rocky or solitary for these brave swimmers, no stream too rapid. In the roaring, re- sounding cafion torrents, they seem as much at home as in the tranquil reaches and lakes of the broad glacial valleys. Abandoning themselves to the wild play of the waters, they go drifting confid- ingly through blinding, thrashing spray, dancing on boulder-dashed waves, toss- ing in beautiful security on rougher wa- ter than is usually encountered by sea birds when storms are blowing. 756 Among the Birds of the Yosemite. A mother duck with her family of ten little ones, waltzing round and round in a pot-hole ornamented with foam bells, huge rocks leaning over them, cascades above and below and beside them, made one of the most interesting bird pictures I ever saw. I have never found the great northern diver in the park lakes. Most of them are inaccessible to him. He might plump down into them, but would hardly be able to get out of them, since, with his small wings and heavy body, a wide ex- panse of elbow room is required in rising. Now and then one may be seen in the lower Sierra lakes to the northward about Lassens Butte and Shasta, at a height of four thousand to five thousand feet, mak- ing the loneliest places lonelier with the wildest of wild cries. Plovers are found along the sandy shores of nearly all the mountain lakes, tripping daintily on the waters edge, picking up insects; and it is interesting to learn how few of these familiar birds are required to make a solitude cheerful. Sandhill cranes are sometimes found in comparatively small marshes, mere dots in the mighty forest. In such spots, at an elevation of from six thousand to eight thousand feet above the sea, they are occasionally met in pairs as early as the end of May, while the snow is still deep in the surrounding fir and sugar- pine woods. And on sunny days in an- tumn, large flocks may be seen sailing at a great height above the forests, shaking the crisp air into rolling waves with their hearty koor-r-r, koor-r-r uck-uck, soaring in circles for hours together on their majestic wings, seeming to float without effort like clouds, eying the wrinkled landscape outspread like a map mottled with lakes and glaciers and meadows, and streaked with shadowy cafions and streams, and surveying every frog marsh and sandy flat within a hundred miles. Eagles and hawks are oftentimes seen above the ridges and domes. The great- est height at which I have observed them was about twelve thousand feet, over the summits of Mount Hoffman, in the mid- dle region of the park. A few pairs had their nests on the cliffs of this mountain, and could be seen every day in sum- mer, hunting marmots, mountain beavers, pikas, etc. A pair of golden eagles have made their home in Yosemite ever since I went there thirty years ago. Their nest is on the Nevada Fall Cliff, oppo- site the Liberty Cap. Their screams are rather pleasant to hear in the vast gulfs between the granite cliffs, and they help the owls in keeping the echoes busy. But of all the birds of the High Sierra, the strangest, noisiest, and most notable is the Clarke crow (Nucifraga columbi- ana). He is a foot long and nearly two feet in extent of wing, ashy gray in gen- eral color, with black wings, white tail, and a strong sharp bill, with which he digs into pine cones for the seeds on which he mainly subsists. He is quick, boisterous, jerky, and irregular in his movements and speech, and makes a tre- mendously loud and showy advertise- ment of himself, swooping and diving in deep curves across gorges and valleys from ridge to ridge, alighting on dead spars, looking warily about him, and leav- ing his dry springy perches trembling from the vigor of his kick as he launches himself for a new flight, screaming from time to time loud enough to be heard more than a mile in still weather. He dwells far back on the high, storm-beaten margin of the forest, where the mountain pine, juniper, and hemlock grow wide apart on glacier pavements and domes and rough crumbling ridges, and the dwarf pine makes a low crinkled growth along the flanks of the summit peaks. In so open a region, of course, he is well seen. Everybody notices him, and no- body at first knows what to make of him. One guesses he must be a woodpecker, another a crow or some sort of jay, an- other a magpie. He seems to be a pret- ty thoroughly mixed and fermented com- pound of all these birds, has all their Among the Birds of the Yosemite. 757 strength, cunning, shyness, thievishness, and wary, suspicious curiosity combined and condensed. He flies like a wood- pecker, hammers dead limbs for insects, digs big holes in pine cones to get at the seeds, cracks nuts held between his toes, cries like a crow or Steller jay, but in a far louder, harsher, and more for- bidding tone of voice, and besides his crow caws and screams, has a great va- riety of small chatter talk, mostly uttered in a fault-finding tone. Like the mag- pie, he steals articles that can be of no use to him. Once when I made my camp in a grove at Cathedral Lake, I chanced to leave a cake of soap on the shore where I had been washing, and a few minutes afterward I saw my soap flying past me through the grove, pushed by a Clarke crow. In winter, when the snow is deep, the cones of the mountain pines empty, and the juniper, hemlock, and dwarf pine or- chards buried, he comes down to glean seeds in the yellow pine forests, startling the grouse with his loud screams. But even in winter, in calm weather, he stays in his high mountain home, defying the bitter frost. Once I lay snowbound through a three days storm at the tim- ber-line on Mount Shasta; and while the roaring snow-laden blast swept by, one of these brave birds came to my camp, and began hammering at the cones on the topmost branches of half-buried pines, without showing the slightest distress. I have seen Clarke crows feeding their young as early as June 19, at a height of more than ten thousand feet, when nearly the whole landscape was snow- covered. They are excessively shy,~ and keep away from the traveler as long as they think they are observed; but when one goes on without seeming to notice them, or sits down and keeps still, their curi- osity speedily gets the better of their caution, and they come flying from tree to tree, nearer and nearer, and watch every motion. Few, I am afraid, will ever learn to like this bird, he is so sus- picious and self-reliant, and his voice is so harsh that to most ears the scream of the eagle will seem melodious compared with it. Yet the mountaineer who has battled and suffered and struggled must admire his strength and endurance, the way he faces the mountain weather, cleaves the icy blasts, cares for his young, and digs a living from the stern wilder- ness. Higher yet than Nucifraga dwells the little dun - headed sparrow (Leuco. sticte tephroeotis). From early spring to late autumn he is to be found only on the snowy icy peaks at the head of the glacier cirques and cafions. His feed- ing grounds in spring are the snow sheets between the peaks, and in midsummer and autumn the glaciers. Many bold in- sects go mountaineering almost as soon as they are born, ascending the highest summits on the mild breezes that blow in from the sea every day during steady weather; but comparatively few of these adventurers find their way down or see a flower bed again. Getting tired and chilly, they alight on the snow fields and glaciers, attracted perhaps by the glare, take cold, and die. There they lie as if on a white cloth purposely outspread for them, and the dun sparrows find them a rich and varied repast requiring no pursuit, bees al-id butterflies on ice, and many spicy beetles, a perpetual feast, on tables big for guests so small, and in vast banqueting halls ventilated by cool breezes that ruffle the feathers of the fairy brownies. Happy fellows, no rivals come to dispute possession with them. No other birds, not even hawks, as far as I have noticed, live so high. They see people so seldom, they flutter around the explorer with the liveliest curiosity, and come down a little way, sometimes nearly a mile, to meet him and conduct him into their icy homes. When I was exploring the Merced group, climbing up the grand calion be- tween the Merced and Red mountains into the fountain amphitheatre of an an- 758 Among the Birds of the Yosemite. cient glacier, just as I was approaching the small active glacier that leans back in the shadow of Merced Mountain, a flock of twenty or thirty of these little birds, the first I had seen, came down the cafton to meet me, flying low, straight toward me as if they meant to fly in my face. Instead of attacking me or pass- ing by, they circled round my head, chirping and fluttering for a minute or two, then turned and escorted me up the cailon, alighting on the nearest rocks on either hand, and flying ahead a few yards at a time to keep even with me. I have not discovered their winter quarters. Probably they are in the de- sert ranges to the eastward, for I never saw any of them in Yosemite, the win- ter refuge of so many of the mountain birds. Hummingbirds are among the best and most conspicuous of the mountaineers, flashing their ruby throats in countless wild gardens far up the higher slopes, where they would be least expected. All one has to do to enjoy the company of these mountain-loving midgets is to dis- play a showy blanket or handkerchief. The arctic bluebird is another delight- ful mountaineer, singing a wild, cheery song and carrying the sky on his back over all the gray ridges and domes of the subalpine region. A fine, hearty, good-natured lot of woodpeckers dwell in the park, and keep it lively all the year round. Among the most notable of these are the mag- nificent log cock (CeophUens pileatus), the prince of Sierra woodpeckers, and only second in rank, as far as I know, of all the woodpeckers of the world; the Lewis woodpecker, large, black, glossy, that flaps and flies like a crow, does but little hammering, and feeds in great part on wild cherries and berries; and the carpenter, who stores up great quantities of acorns in the bark of trees for winter use. The last named species is a beau- tiful bird, charmingly familiar and far more common than the others. In the woods of the West he represents the eastern red-head. Bright, cheerful, in- dustrious, not in the least shy, the car- penters give delightful animation to the open Sierra forests at a height of from three thousand to fifty-five hundred feet, especially in autumn when the acorns are ripe. Then no squirrel works harder at his pine-nut harvest than these wood- peckers at their acorn harvest, drilling holes in the thick, corky bark of the yel- low pine and incense cedar, in which to store the crop for winter use; a hole for each acorn, so nicely adjusted as to size that when the acorn, point foremost, is driven in, it fits so well that it cannot be drawn out without digging around it. Each acorn is thus carefully stared in a dry bin, perfectly protected from the weather, a most laborious method of stowing away a crop, a granary for each kernel. Yet the birds seem never to weary at the work, but go on so dili- gently that they seem determined to save every acorn in the grove. They are never seen eating acorns at the time they are storing them, and it is commonly be- lieved that they never eat them or intend to eat them, but that the wise birds store them and protect them from the depreda- tions of squirrels and jays, solely for the sake of the worms they are supposed to contain. And because these worms are too small for use at the time the acorns drop, they are shut up like lean calves and steers, each in a separate stall with abundance of food, to grow big and fat by the time they will be most wanted, that is, in winter, when insects are scarce and stall-fed worms most valuable. So these woodpeckers are supposed to be a sort of cattle-raisers, each with a drove of thousands, rivaling the ants that raise grain and keep herds of plant lice for milk cows. Needless to say the story is not true, though some naturalists even believe it. When Emerson was in the park, having heard the worm story and seen the great pines plugged full of acorns, he asked (just to pump me, Among the Birds of the Yosemite. 759 I suppose), Why do the woodpeckers take the trouble to put acorns into the bark of the trees? For the same reason, I replied, that bees store honey and squirrels nuts. But they tell me, Mr. Muir, that woodpeckers dont eat acorns. Yes, they do, I said, I have seen them eating them. During snowstorms they seem to eat lit- tle besides acorns. I have repeatedly interrupted them at their meals, and seen the perfectly sound, half-eaten acorns. They eat them in the shell as some peo- ple eat eggs. But what about the worms? I suppose, I said, that when they come to a wormy one they eat both worm and acorn. Anyhow, they eat the sound ones when they cant find anything they like better, and from the time they store them until they are used they guard them, and woe to the squirrel or jay caught stealing. In- dians, in times of scarcity, frequently resort to these stores and chop them out with hatchets; a bushel or more may be gathered from a single cedar or pine. The common robin, with all his famil- iar notes and gestures, is found nearly everywhere throughout the park, in shady dells beneath dogwoods and ma- ples, along the flowery banks of the streams, tripping daintily about the mar- gins of meadows in the firand pine woods, and far beyond on the shores of glacier lakes and the slopes of the peaks. How admirable the constitution and temper of this cheery, graceful bird, keeping glad health over so vast and varied a range. In all America he is at home, flying from plains to mountains up and down, north and south, away and back, with the seasons and supply of food. Oftentimes, in the High Sierra, as you wanderthrough the solemn woods, awe-stricken and si- lent, you will hear the reassuring voice of this fellow wanderer ringing out sweet and clear as if saying, Fear not, fear not. Only love is here. In the sever- est solitudes he seems as happy as in gar- dens and apple orchards. The robins enter the park as soon as the snow melts, and go on up the mountains, gradually higher, with the opening flow- ers, until the topmost glacier meadows are reached in June and July. After the short summer is done, they descend like most other summer visitors in concord with the weather, keeping out of the first heavy snows as much as possible, while lingering among the frost-nipped wild cherries on the slopes just below the glacier meadows. Thence they go to the lower slopes of the forest region, com- pelled to make haste at times by heavy all-day storms, picking up seeds or be- numbed insects by the way, and at last all, save a few that winter in Yose- mite valleys, arrive in the vineyards and orchards and stubble-fields of the lowlands in November, picking up fallen fruit and grain, and awakening old-time memories among the white-headed pio- neers, who cannot fail to recognize the influence of so homelike a bird. They are then in flocks of hundreds, and make their way into the gardens of towns as well as into the parks and fields and or- chards about the bay of San Francisco, where many of the wanderers are shot for sport and the morsel of meat on their breasts. Man then seems a beast of prey. Not ev~n genuine piety can make the robin-killer quite respectable. Saturday is the great slaughter day in the bay region. Then the city pot-hunt- ers, with a ragtag of boys, go forth to kill, kept in countenance by a sprinkling of regular sportsmen arrayed in self- conscious majesty and leggins, leading dogs and carrying hammerless, breech- loading guns of famous makers. Over the fine landscapes the killing goes for~ ward with shameful enthusiasm. After escaping countless dangers, thousands fall, big bagfuls are gathered, many are left wounded to die slowly, no Red Cross Society to help them. Next day, Sun- day, the blood and leggins vanish from the most devout of the bird butchers, who go to church. carrying gold-headed 760 Among the Birds of the Yosemite. canes instead of guns. After hymns, prayers, and sermon they go home to feast, to put Gods songbirds to use, put them in their dinners instead of in their hearts, eat them, and suck the pitiful lit- tle drumsticks. It is only race living on race, to be sure, but Christians singing Divine Love need not be driven to such straits while wheat and apples grow and the shops are full of dead cattle. Song- birds for food! Compared with this, making kindlings of pianos and violins would be pious economy. The larks come in large flocks from the hills and mountains in the fall, and are slaughtered as ruthlessly as the rob- ins. Fortunately, most of our songbirds keep back in leafy hidings, and are com- paratively inaccessible. The water ouzel, in his rocky home amid foaming waters, seldom sees a gun, and of all the singers I like him the best. He is a plainly dressed little bird, about the size of a robin, with short, crisp, but rather broad wings, and a tail of moderate length, slanted up, giving him with his nodding, bobbing manners a wrennish look. He is usually seen flut- tering about in the spray of falls and the rapid cascading portions of the main branches of the rivers. These are his fa- vorite haunts; but he is often seen also on comparatively level reaches and occa- sionally on the shores of mountain lakes, especially at the beginning of winter, when heavy snowfalls have blurred the streams with sludge. Though not a wa- ter bird in structure, he gets his living in the water, and is never seen away from the immediate margin of streams. He dives fearlessly into rough, boiling eddies and rapids to feed at the bottom, flying under water seemingly as easily as in the air. Sometimes he wades in shallow places, thrusting his head under from time to time in a nodding, frisky way that is sure to attract attention. His flight is a solid whir of wing-beats like that of a partridge, and in going from place to place along his favorite string of rapids he follows the windings of the stream, and usually alights on some rock or snag on the bank or out in the cur- rent, or rarely on the dry limb of an overhanging tree, perching like a tree bird when it suits his convenience. He has the oddest, neatest manners im- aginable, and all his gestures as he flits about in the wild, dashing waters be- speak the utmost cheerfulness and con- fidence. He sings both winter and sum- mer, in all sorts of weather, a sweet, fluty melody, rather low, and much less keen and accentuated than from the brisk vigor of his movements one would be led to expect. How romantic and beautiful is the life of this brave little singer on the wild mountain streams, building his round bossy nest of moss by the side of a rapid or fall, where it is sprinkled and kept fresh and green by the spray! No won- der he sings well, since all the air about him is music; every breath he draws is part of a song, and he gets his first music lessons before he is born; for the eggs vibrate in time with the tones of the waterfalls. Bird and stream are insep- arable, songful and wild, gentle and strong, the bird ever in danger in the midst of the streams mad whirlpools, yet seeming immortal. And so I might go on, writing words, words, words; but to what purpose? Go see him and love him, and through him as through a win- dow look into Natures warm heart. John ]Ifuir. The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 761 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A REVOLUTIONIST. THE CORPS OF PAGES. I. IN August, 1857, the long-cherished ambition of my father was realized. There was a vacancy in the corps of pages which I could fill before I had got beyond the age to which admission was limited, and I was taken to St. Petersburg and entered the school. Only a hundred and fifty boys most- ly children of the nobility belonging to the court received education in this privileged corps, which combined the character of a military school endowed with special rights and of a court in- stitution attached to the imperial house- hold. After a stay of four or five years in the corps of pages, those who had passed the final examinations were re- ceived as officers in any regiment of the guard or of the army they chose, irrespective of the number of vacancies in that regiment; and each year the first sixteen pupils of the highest form were nominated jpages de chambre; that is, they were personally attached to the several members of the imperial fam- ily, the Emperor, the Empress, the grand duchesses, and the grand dukes. That was considered, of course, a great honor; and, moreover, the young men upon whom this honor was bestowed be- came knowii at the court, and had after- ward every chance of being nominated aides-de-camp of the Emperor or of one of the grand dukes, and consequently had every facility for niaking a brilliant ca- reer in the service of the state. Fathers and mothers of families connected with the court took due care, therefore, that their boys should not miss entering the corps of pages, even though entrance had to be secured at the expense of other can- didates who never saw a place opening for them. Now that I was in the select corps my father could give a free flight to his ambitious dreams. The corps was divided into five forms, of which the highest was the first, aiid the lowest the fifth, and the intention was that I should enter the fourth form. However, as it appeared at the examina- tions that I was not sufficiently familiar with decimal fractions, and as the fourth form contained that year over forty pu- pils, while only twenty had been mustered for the fifth form, I was enrolled in the latter. I felt extremely vexed at this decision. It was with reluctance that I entered a military school, and now I should have to stay in it five years instead of four. What should I do in the fifth form, when I knew already all that would be taught in it? With tears in my eyes I spoke of it to the inspector (the head of the edu- cational department), but he answered me with a joke. You know, he re- marked, what C~sar said, better to be the first in a village than the second in Rome. To which I warmly replied that I should prefer to be the very last, if only I could leave the military school as soon as possible. Perhaps, after some time, you will like the school, he remarked, and from that day he took a liking to me. To the teacher of arithmetic, who also tried to console me, I gave my word of honor that I would never cast a glance into his textbook; and nevertheless you will have to give me the highest marks. I kept my word; but thinking now of this scene, I fancy that the pupil was not even then of a very docile disposition. And yet, as I look back upon that re- mote past, I cannot but feel grateful for having been put in the lower form.

The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 761 THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A REVOLUTIONIST. THE CORPS OF PAGES. I. IN August, 1857, the long-cherished ambition of my father was realized. There was a vacancy in the corps of pages which I could fill before I had got beyond the age to which admission was limited, and I was taken to St. Petersburg and entered the school. Only a hundred and fifty boys most- ly children of the nobility belonging to the court received education in this privileged corps, which combined the character of a military school endowed with special rights and of a court in- stitution attached to the imperial house- hold. After a stay of four or five years in the corps of pages, those who had passed the final examinations were re- ceived as officers in any regiment of the guard or of the army they chose, irrespective of the number of vacancies in that regiment; and each year the first sixteen pupils of the highest form were nominated jpages de chambre; that is, they were personally attached to the several members of the imperial fam- ily, the Emperor, the Empress, the grand duchesses, and the grand dukes. That was considered, of course, a great honor; and, moreover, the young men upon whom this honor was bestowed be- came knowii at the court, and had after- ward every chance of being nominated aides-de-camp of the Emperor or of one of the grand dukes, and consequently had every facility for niaking a brilliant ca- reer in the service of the state. Fathers and mothers of families connected with the court took due care, therefore, that their boys should not miss entering the corps of pages, even though entrance had to be secured at the expense of other can- didates who never saw a place opening for them. Now that I was in the select corps my father could give a free flight to his ambitious dreams. The corps was divided into five forms, of which the highest was the first, aiid the lowest the fifth, and the intention was that I should enter the fourth form. However, as it appeared at the examina- tions that I was not sufficiently familiar with decimal fractions, and as the fourth form contained that year over forty pu- pils, while only twenty had been mustered for the fifth form, I was enrolled in the latter. I felt extremely vexed at this decision. It was with reluctance that I entered a military school, and now I should have to stay in it five years instead of four. What should I do in the fifth form, when I knew already all that would be taught in it? With tears in my eyes I spoke of it to the inspector (the head of the edu- cational department), but he answered me with a joke. You know, he re- marked, what C~sar said, better to be the first in a village than the second in Rome. To which I warmly replied that I should prefer to be the very last, if only I could leave the military school as soon as possible. Perhaps, after some time, you will like the school, he remarked, and from that day he took a liking to me. To the teacher of arithmetic, who also tried to console me, I gave my word of honor that I would never cast a glance into his textbook; and nevertheless you will have to give me the highest marks. I kept my word; but thinking now of this scene, I fancy that the pupil was not even then of a very docile disposition. And yet, as I look back upon that re- mote past, I cannot but feel grateful for having been put in the lower form. 762 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. Having only to repeat during the first year what I already knew, I got into the habit of learning my lessons by merely listening to what the teachers said in the classroom; and, the lessons over, I had plenty of time to read and to write to my hearts content. When I reached the higher special forms, I was better pre- pared to master the variety of subjects we had to study. All children, I now think, would be benefited very much if serious teaching did not begin for them before they have reached a certain de- velopment, usually attained at about the age of fifteen. After that age they learn veryquickly, and far better, what would have taken them years to master when younger; and those early years could be so well utilized in many other ways. Be- sides, I spent more than half of the first winter in the hospital. Like all children who are not born at St. Petersburg, I had to pay a heavy tribute to the capital on the swamps of Finland, in the shape of several attacks of local cholera, and final- ly one of typhoid fever. When I entered the corps of pages, its inner life was undergoing a profound change. All Russia awakened at that time from the heavy slumber and the nightmare of the terrible years of Nicho- las I.s reign. Our school also felt the effects of that revival. I do not know, in fact, what would have become of me, had I entered the corps of pages one or two years sooner. Either my will would have been totally broken, or I should have bcen excluded from the school with no one knows what consequences. Happily, the transition period was already in full sway in the year 1857. The director of the corps was an excel- lent old man, General Zheltiiikhin. But he was the nominal head only. The real master of the school was the Colonel, Colonel Girardot, a Frenchman in the Russian service. People said he was a Jesuit, and so he was, I believe. His ways. at any rate, were thoroughly im bued with the teachings of Loyola, and his educational methods were those of the French Jesuit colleges. Imagine a short, extremely thin man, with dark, piercing, and furtive eyes, wearing very short clipped mustaches, which gave him the expression of a cat; very quiet and firm; not remarkably intelligent, but exceedingly cunning; a despot at the bottom of his heart, who was capable of hating intensely hating the boy who would not fall under his fascination, and of expressing that ha- tred, not by silly persecutions, hut, un- ceasingly, by his general behavior, by an occasionally dropped word, a gesture, a smile, an interjection. His walk was more like gliding along, and the explor- ing glances he used to cast round without turning his head completed the illusion. A stamp of cold dryness was impressed on his lips, even when he tried to look well disposed, and that expression be- came still more harsh when his mouth was contorted by a smile of discontent or of contempt. With all this there was nothing of a commander in him; you would rather think, at first sight, of a be- nevolent father who talks to his children as if they were full-grown people. And yet, you soon felt that every one and everything had to bend before his will. Woe to the boy who would not feel hap- py or unhappy accord5ng to the degree of good will shown toward him by the Colonel. The words the Colonel were con- tinually on all lips. Other officers went by their nicknames, but no one dared to give a nickname to the Colonel. A sort of mystery hung about him, as if he were omniscient and everywhere present. True, he spent all the day and part of the night in the school. Even when we were in the classes he prowled about, vis- iting our drawers, which he opened with his own keys. As to the night, he gave a good portion of it to the task of inscrib- ing in certain small books, of which he had quite a lihrary, in separate col The Autobiography umns, by special signs and in inks of dif- ferent colors, all the faults and virtues of each boy. Play, jokes, and conversations stopped when we saw him slowly moving along through our spacious rooms, hand in hand with one of his favorites, balancing his body forward and backward; smiling at one boy, keenly looking into the eyes of another, casting an indifferent glance upon a third, and giving a slight contor- tion to his lip as he passed a fourth: and from these looks every one knew that he liked the first boy, that to the second he was indifferent, that he intentionally did not notice the third, and that he disliked the fourth. This dislike was enough to terrify most boys, the more so as no reason could be given for it. Impres- sionable boys had been brought to de- spair by that mute, unceasingly displayed aversion and those suspicious looks; in others the result had been a total annihi- lation of will, as one of the Toistoys Theodor, also a pupil of Girardot has shown in an autobiographic novel, The Diseases of the Will. The inner life of the corps was miser- able under the rule of the Colonel. In all boarding - schools the newly entered boys are subjected to petty persecutions. The greenhorns are submitted in this way to a test. What are they worth? Are they going to turn telltales? And then the old hands like to show to newcomers the superiority of an estab- lished brotherhood. So it goes in all schools and in prisons. But under Gi- rardots rule these persecutions took on a harsher aspect, and they came, not from the comrades of th~ same form, but from the first form, the pages de chambre, who were non-commissioned officers, and whom Girardot had placed in a quite exceptional, superior position. His sys- tem was to give them carte blanche; to pretend that he did not know even the horrors they were enacting; and to ~inain- tam through them a severe discipline. of a Revolutionist. 763 To answer a blow received from a page de chambre would have meant, in the times of Nicholas I., to be sent to a battal- ion of soldiers sons, if the fact became public; and to revolt in any way against the mere caprice of a page de chambre meant that the twenty youths of the first form, armed with their heavy oak rulers, would assemble in a room, and, with Gi- rardots tacit approval, administer a se- vere beating to the boy who had shown such a spirit of insubordination. Accordingly, the first form did what they liked; and not further back than the preceding winter one of their favorite games had been to assemble the green- horns at night in a room, in their night- shirts, and to make them run round, like horses in a circus, while the pages de chambre, armed with thick india - rub- ber whips, standing some in the centre and the others on the outside, pitilessly whipped the boys. As a rule the cir- cus ended in an Oriental fashion, in an abominable way. The moral conceptions which prevailed at that time, and the foul talk which went on in the school concern- ing what occurred at night after a circus, were such that the least said about them the better. The Colonel knew all this. He had a perfectly organized system of espionage, and nothing escaped his knowledge. But so long as he was not known to know it, all was right. To shut his eyes to what was done by the first form was the foun- dation of his system of maintaining dis- cipline. However, a new spirit was awakened in the school, and only a few months before I entered it a revolution had taken place. That year the third form was different from what it had hitherto been. It contained a number of young men who learned splendidly, and read a good deal; some of them became, later, men of mark. My first acquaintance with one of them let me call him von Schauff was when he was reading Kants Critique of Pure Reason. Be- 764 The Autobiography sides, they had amongst them some of the strongest youths of the school. The tallest member of the corps was in that form, as also a very strong young man, K6shtoff, a great friend of von Schauff. They could not bear the yoke of the pages de chambre with the same docil- ity with which it had been endured up to that time; they looked with disgust upon what was going on; and in conse- quence of an incident, which I prefer not to describe, a fight took place be- tween the third and the first form, with the result that the pages de chambre got a very severe thrashing from their subor- dinates. Girardot hushed up the affair, but the authority of the first form was broken down. The india-rubber whips remained, but never more were they put to use. The circuses and the rest be- came things of the past. That much was won; but the lowest form, the fifth, composed almost entirely of very young boys who had just entered the school, had still to obey the petty caprices of the pages de chambre with- out murmuring. We had a beautiful garden, filled with old trees, but the boys of the fifth form could enjoy it lit- tle: they were forced to run a round- about, while the pages de chambre sat in it and chattered, or to send back the balls when these gentlemen played nine- pins. A couple of days after I had entered the school, seeing how things stood in the garden, I did not go there, but remained upstairs. I was reading, when a page de chambre, with carroty hair and a face covered with freckles, came upon me, and ordered me to go at once to the garden to run the roundabout. I will not; you see I am reading, was my reply. Anger disfigured his already unplea- sant face. He was ready to jump upon me. I took the defensive. He tried to give me blows on the face with his cap. I fenced as best I could. Then he flung his cap on the floor. Pick it up. of a Revolutionist. Pick it up yourself. Such an act of disobedience was un- heard of in the school. Why he did not beat me unmercifully on the spot I do not know. He was much older and stronger than I was. Next day and the following days Ire- ceived similar commands, but obstinate- ly remained upstairs. Then began the most exasperating petty persecutions at every step, enough to bring one to de- spair. Happily, I was always of a jovial disposition, and answered with jokes, or took little heed of them. Still, my young- er comrades were so vexed that they asked the third form to interfere, but received the wise reply that it would be impossible to engage in a new fight for such a reason. The third form, how- ever, began to show us in various little ways its friendly disposition; with von Schauff we had many points of contact. Moreover, all this soon came to an end. The weather turned rainy, and we spent most of our time indoors. In the garden the first form smoked freely enough, but when we were indoors the smoking club was the tower. It was kept beautifully clean, and a fire was always burning there. The pages de chambre severely punished all others whom they caught smoking, but they themselves sat continually at the fire- side chattering and enjoying cigarettes. Their favorite smoking time was at night, after all were supposed to have gone to bed at ten; they kept their club till half past eleven, and, to protect themselves from an unexpected interruption by Gi- rardot, they ordered us to keep watch. The small boys of the fifth form were taken out of their b~ds in turn, two at a time, and they had to loiter about the staircase till half past eleven, to give no- tice of the approach of the Colonel. We decided to put an end to these night watches. Long were the discus- sions, and the higher forms were con- sulted as to what was to be done. At last the decision came: Refuse, all of The Autobiography you, to keep the watch; and when they begin to beat you, which they are sure to do, go, as many of you as can, in a block, and call in Girardot. He knows it all, but then he will be bound to stop it. The question whether that would not be reporting was settled in the negative by experts in honor matters: the pages de chambre did not behave to- ward the others like comrades. The turn to watch fell that night to a Prince Sh , an old hand, and to S , a newcomer, an extremely timid boy, who even spoke in a girlish voice. Sh was called upon first, but re- fused to go, and was left alone. Then two pages de chambre went to the timid S ,who was in bed; as he refused to obey, they began to flog him brutally with heavy leather braces. Sh woke up several comrades who were near at hand, and they all ran to find Girardot. I was also in bed when th~ two came upon me, ordering me to take the watch. I refused. Thereupon, seizing two pairs of braces, we always used to put our clothes in perfect order on a bench by the bedside, braces uppermost, and the necktie across them, they began to flog me. Sitting up in bed, I fenced with my hands, and had already received several heavy blows, when a command resound- ed, The first form to the Colonel! The fierce fighters became tame at once, and hurriedly put my things in order. Dont say a word, they whispered. The necktie across, in good order, I said to them, while my shoulders and arms burned from the blows. What Girardots talk with the first form was we did not know; but next day, as we stood in the ranks before marching downstairs to the dining-room, he addressed us in a minor key, saying how sad it was that pages de chambre should have fallen upon a boy who was right in his refusal. And upon whom? A newcomer, and so timid a boy as 5 was. The school were simply disgusted at that Jesuitic speech. of a Revolutionist. 765 No need to say that that was the end of the watch-keeping, and that it gave a final blow to the worrying of the new- comers: it has never been renewed. It surely was also a blow to Girar- dots authority, and he resented it very much. He regarded our form, and me especially, with great dislike (the round- about affair had been reported to him), and he manifested it at every opportu- nity. During the first winter I was a fre- quent inmate of the hospital. After suf- fering from typhoid fever, during which the director and the doctor bestowed on me a really parental care, I had very bad and persistently recurring gastric attacks. Girardot, as he made his daily rounds of the hospital, seeing me so often there, began to say to me every morn- ing, half jokingly, in French, Here is a young man who is as healthy as the New Bridge, and loiters in the hospi- tal. Once or twice I replied jestingly, but at last, seeing malice in this constant repetition, I lost patience. Frequently boys pretended to be ill and went to the hospital when they did not know their lessons; but there was no necessity for me to do so, and, as I never could bear a suspicion of deceit, I grew very angry. How dare you say that? I ex- claimed. I shall ask the doctor to for- bid your entering this room, and so on. Girardot recoiled two steps his dark eyes glittered, his thin lip be~ame still thinner. At last he said, I have of- fended you, have I? Well, we have in the hall two artillery guns: shall we have a duel? I dont make jokes, and I tell you that I shall bear no more of your insin- uations, I continued. He did not repeat his joke, but re- garded me with even more dislike than before. Happily enough, there was little op- portunity for punishing me. I did not smoke; my clothes were always hooked 766 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. and buttoned, and properly folded at night. I liked all sorts of games, but, plunged as I was in reading and in a correspondence with my brother, I could hardly find time to play a lapta match (a sort of cricket) in the garden, and al- ways hurried back to my books. But when I was caught in fault, it was not I that Girardot punished, but the page de chambre who was my superior. Once, for instance, at dinner, I made a physi- cal discovery: I noticed that the sound given out by a tumbler depends on the amount of water it contains, and at once tried to obtain a chord with four glasses. But there stood Girardot behind me, and without saying a word to me he ordered my page de chambre under ar- rest. It so happened that this young man was an excellent fellow, a third cousin of mine, who refused even to lis- ten to my excuses, saying, All right. I know be dislikes you. His comrades, though, gave me a warning. Take care, naughty boy; we are not going to be punished for you, they said; and if reading had not been my all-absorbing occupation, they probably would have made me pay dearly for my physical ex- periment. All the comrades and officers spoke of Girardots dislike for me; but I paid no attention to it, and probably increased it by my indifference. For full eighteen months he refused to give me the epau- let,s, which were usually given to newly entered 1~oys after one or two months stay at the school, when they had learned some of the rudiments of military drill; but I felt quite happy without that mili- tary decoration. At last, an officer the best teacher of drill in the school, a man simply enamored of drill volun- teered to teach me; and when he saw me performing all the tricks to his en- tire satisfaction, he undertook to intro- duce me to Girardot. The Colonel re- fused again, twice in succession, so that the officer took it as a personal offense; and when the director of the corps once asked him why I had no epaulets yet, he bluntly answered, The boy is all right; it is the Colonel who does not want him; whereupon, probably after a remark of the director, Girardot him- self asked to reexamine me, and gave me the epaulets that very dny. But the Colonels influence was rap- idly vanishing. The whole character of the school was changing. For twenty years Girardot had realized his ideal, which was to have the pages nicely combed, curled, and girlish looking, and to send to the court pages as refined as courtiers of Louis XIV. Whether they learned or not, he cared little; his favor- ites were those whose clothes-baskets were best filled with all sorts of nail-brushes and scent bottles, whose private uni- form (which could be put on when we went home on Sundays) was of the best make, and who knew how to make the most ele- gant salut oblique. Formerly, when Gi- rardot had held rehearsals of court cere- monies, wrapping up a page in a striped red cotton cover taken from one of our beds, in order that he might represent the Empress at a baisernctin, the boys almost religiously approached the imaginary Empress, seriously performed the cere- mony of kissing the hand, and retired with a most elegant oblique bow; but now, though they were very elegant at court, they would perform at the rehearsals such bearlike bows that all roared with laugh- ter, while Girardot was simply raging. Formerly, the younger boys who had been taken to a cou~rt levee, and had been curled for that purpose, used to keep their curls as long as they would last; now, on returning from tIme palace, they hurried to put their heads under the cold- water tap, to get rid of the curls. An effeminate appearance was laughed at. To be sent to the palace to stand as a decoration at a levee was now considered a drudgery rather than a favor. And when the small boys who were occasion- ally taken to the palace to play with the little grand dukes remarked that one of The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 767 the latter used, in some game, to make a hard whip out of his handkerchief, and use it freely, one of our boys did the same, and so whipped the grand duke that he cried. Girardot was terrified, while the old Sebastopol admiral who was tutor of the grand duke only praised our boy. A new spirit, studious and serious, de- veloped in the corps of pages, as in all other schools. Informer years, the pages, being sure that in one way or another they would get the necessary marks for being promoted officers of tfie guard, spent the first years in the school hardly learning at all, and only began to study more or less in the last two forms; now the lower forms learned very well. The moral tone also became quite different from what it was a few years before. Ori- ental amusements were looked upon with disgust, and an attempt or two to re- vert to old manners resulted in scandals which reached the St. Petersburg draw- ing-rooms. Girardot was dismissed. He was only allowed to retain his bache- lor apartment in the building of the corps, and we often saw him afterward, wrapped in his long military cloak, pa- cing along, plunged in reflections, sad, I suppose, because he could not but con- demn the new spirit which rapidly de- veloped in the corps of pages. II. All over Russia people were talking of education. As soon as peace had been concluded at Paris, and the sever- ity of censorship had been slightly re- laxed, educational matters began to be eagerly discussed. The ignorance of the masses of the people, the obstacles that had hitherto been put in the way of those who wanted to learn, the absence of schools in the country, the obsolete methods of teaching, and the remedies for these evils became favorite themes of discussion in educated circles, in the press, and even in the drawing-rooms of the aristocracy. The first high schools for girls had been opened in 1857, on an excellent plan and with a splendid teaching staff. As by magic a number of men and women came to the front who not only have since devoted their lives to education, but have proved to be such remarkable practical pedagogists that their writings would occupy a place of honor in every civilized literature, if they were known abroad. The corps of pages also felt the ef- fect of that revival. Apart from a few exceptions, the general tendency of the three younger forms was to study. The head of the educational department, the inspector, Winkler, who was a well-edu- cated colonel of artillery, a good math- ematician, and a man of progressive opinions, hit upon an excellent plan for stimulating that spirit. Instead of the indifferent teachers who formerly used to teach in the lower forms, he endea- vored to secure the best ones. In his opinion, no professor was too good to teach the very beginnings of a subject to the youngest boys. Thus, to teach the elements of algebra in the fourth form he invited a first-rate mathemati- cian and a born teacher, Captain Sukh6- nin, and the form took at once to mathe- matics. By the way, it so happened that this captain was a tutor of the heir of the throne (Nikolai Alexdndrovich, who died at the age of twenty-two), and the heir apparent was brought once a week to the corps of pages to be pre- sent ~t the algebra lessons of Captain Sukh6nin. Empress Marie Alexdndrov- na, who was an educated woman, thought that perhaps the contact with studious boys would stimulate her son to learn- ing. He sat amongst us, and had to an- swer questions like all the others. But he managed mostly, while the teacher spoke, to make drawings very nicely, or to whisper all sorts of droll things to his neighbors. He was exceedingly good- natured and gentle in his behavior, but rather superficial in learning as in his affections. For the fifth form the inspector se 768 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. cured two remarkable men. He en- tered our classroom, one day, quite ra- diant, and told us that we should have a rare chance. Professor Klas6vsky, a great classical scholar and expert. in Russian literature, had consented to teach us Russian grammar, and would take us through all the five forms in suc- cession, shifting with us every year to the next form. Another university pro- fessor, Herr Becker, librarian of the imperial (national) library, would do the same in German. Professor Klas6vsky, he added, was in weak health that win- ter, but the inspector was sure that we would be very quiet in his class. The chance to have such a teacher was too good to be missed. He had thought aright. We became very proud of having university profes- sors for teachers, and although there came voices from the Kamch~itka (in Russia, the back benches of each class bear the name of that remote and unciv- ilized peninsula) to the effect that the sausage-maker that is, the German must be kept by all means in obedi- ence, public opinion in our form was de- cidedly in favor of the professors. The sausage - maker won our re- spect at once. A tall man, with an im- mense forehead and very kind, intelli- gent eyes, not devoid of a touch of hu- mor, came into our class, and told us in quite good Russian that he intended to divide our form into three sections. The first section would be composed of Ger- mans, who already knew the language, and from whom he would require more serious work; to the second section he would teach grammar, and later on Ger- man literature, in accordance with the es- tablished programmes ; and the third sec- tion, he concluded with a charming smile, would be the Kamchi~tka. From you, he said, I shall only require that at each lesson you copy four lines which I will choose for you from a book. The four lines copied, you can do what you like; only do not hinder the rest. And I pro- mise you that iu five years you will learn something of German and German liter- ature. Now, who joins the Germans? You, Stackelberg? You, Lainsdorf? Perhaps some one of the Russians? And who joins the Kamch~tka? Five or six boys, who knew not a word of Ger- man, took residence in the peninsula. They most conscientiously copied their four lines, a dozen or a score of lines in the higher forms, and Becker chose the lines so well, and bestowed so much attention~ upon the boys, that by the end of the five years they really knew some- thing of the language and its literature. I joined the Germans. My brother Alexander insisted so much in his letters upon my acquiring German, which pos- sesses so rich a literature and into which every book of value is translated, that I set myself assiduously to learn it. I translated and studied most thoroughly one page of a rather difficult poetical de- scription of a thunderstorm, and learned by heart, as the professor had advised me, the conjugations, the adverbs, and the prepositions, and began to read. A splendid method it is for learning lan- guages. Becker advised me, moreover, to subscribe to a cheap illustrated week- ly, and its illustrations and short stories were a continual inducement to read a few lines or a column. I soon mastered the language. Toward the end of the winter I asked Herr Becker to lend me a copy of Goethes Faust. I had read it iu a Russian translation; I had also read Turgu6neffs beautiful novel, Faust; and I now longed to read the great work in the original. You will understand no- thing in it; it is too philosophical, Becker said, with his gentle smile; but he brought me, nevertheless, a little square book, with the pages yellowed by age, containing the immortal drama. He little knew the unfathomable joy that that small square book gave mc. I drank in the sense and the music of every line of it, beginning with the very The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 769 first verses of the ideally beautiful dedi- cation, and soon knew full pages by heart. Fausts monologue in the forest, and especially the lines in which he speaks of his understanding of nature, Thou Not only cold, amazed acquaintance yieldst, But grantest that in her profoundest breast I gaze, as in the bosom of a friend, simply put me in ecstasy, and till now it has retained its power over me. Every verse gradually became a dear friend. And then, is there a higher a~sthetic de- light than to read poetry in a language which one does not yet quite thorough- ly understand? The whole is veiled with a sort of slight haze, which admi- rably suits poetry. Words, the trivial meaning of which, when one knows the language colloquially, sometimes inter- feres with the poetical image they are intended to convey, retain but their sub- tle, elevated sense; while the music of the poetry is only the more strongly im- pressed upon the ear. Professor Klas6vskys first lesson was a revelation to us. He was a small man, about fifty years of age, very rapid in his movements, with bright, intelligent eyes and a slightly sarcastic expression, and the high forehead of a poet. When he came in for his first lesson, he said in a low voice that, suffering from a pro- tracted illness, he could not speak loud enough, and asked us, therefore, to sit closer to him. He placed his chair near the first row of tables, and we clustered round him like a swarm of bees. He was to teach us Russian gram- mar; but, instead of the dull grammar lesson, we heard something quite dif- ferent from what we expected. It was grammar; but here came in a compari- son of an old Russian folklore expres- sion with a line from Homer or from the Sanskrit Mahabharata, the beauty of which was rendered in Russian words; there, a verse from Schiller was intro- duced, and was followed by a sarcastic VOL. LXXXII. No. 494. 49 remark about some modern society pre- judice; then solid grammar again, and then some wide poetical or philosophical generalization. Of course, there was much in it that we did not understand, or of which we missed the deeper sense. But do not the bewitching powers of all studies lie in that they continually open up to us new, unsuspected horizons, not yet un- derstood, which entice us to proceed fur- ther and further in the penetration of what appears in vague outlines, only, at the first sight? Our hands placed on one anothers shoulders, some of us lean- ing across the tables of the first row, others standing close behind Klas6vsky, our eyes glittering, we all hung on his lips. The more his voice fell, toward the end of the hour, the more breathlessly we listened. The inspector opened the door of the classroom, to see how we behaved with our new teacher; but on seeing that motionless swarm he retired on tiptoe. Even Daiiroff, a restless spir- it, stared at Klas6vsky as if to say, That is the sort of man you are? Even von Kleinau, a hopelessly obtuse Circassian with a German name, sat motionless. In most of the others some- thing good and elevated simmered at the bottom of their hearts, as if a vision of an unsuspected world was opening before them. Upon me Klas6vsky had an immense influence, which only grew with years. Winklers prophecy, that, after all, I might like the school, was fulfilled. In western Europe, and probably in America, that type of teacher the teacher of literature is unknown; but in Russia there is not a man or woman of mark, in literature or in polit- ical life, who does not owe the first im- pulse toward a higher development to his or her teacher of literature. Every school in the world ought to have such a teacher. Each teacher in a school has his own subject, and there is no link be- tween the different subjects. Only the 770 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. teacher of literature, guided by the gen- eral outlines of the programme, but left free to treat it as he likes, can bind to- gether the separate historical and hu- manitarian sciences that are taught in a school, unify theni by a broad philo- sophical and humane conception, and awaken higher ideas and inspirations in the brains and hearts of the young peo- ple. In Russia, that necessary task falls quite naturally upon the teacher of Rus- sian literature. As he speaks of the development of the language, of the contents of the early epic poetry, of popular songs and music, and, later on, of modern fiction, of the scientific, polit- ical, and philosophical literature of his own country, and the divers ~sthetical, political, and philosophical currents it has reflected, lie is bound to introduce that generalized conception of the develop- ment of human mind which lies beyond the scope of each of the subjects that are taught separately. The same thing ought to be done for the natural sciences as well. It is not enough to teach physics and chemistry, astronomy and meteorology, zo~Aogy and botany. The philosophy of all the natu- ral sciences a general view of nature as a whole, something on the lines of the first volume of Humboldts Cosmos must be conveyed to the pupils and the students, whatsoever may be the ex- tension given to the study of the natural sciences in the school. The philosophy and the poetry of nature, the methods of all the exact sciences, and an inspired conception of the life of nature must make part of education. Perhaps the teacher of geography might provision- ally assume this function; but then we should require quite a different set of teachers of this subject, and a different set of professors of geography iii the uni- versities would be needed. What is now taught under this name is anything you like, but it is not geography. uproarious form in a quite different manner. It was the teacher of writing, the last one of the teaching staff. If the heathen that is, the German and the French teachers were regard- ed with little respect, the teacher of writing, Ebert, who was a German Jew, was a real martyr. To be insolent with him was a sort of chic amongst the pages. His poverty alone must have been the reason why lie kept to his les- son in our corps. The old hands, who had stayed for two or three years in the fifth form without moving higher up, treated him very badly; but by some means or other he had made an agree- ment with them One frolic during each lesson, but no more, an agree- ment which, I am afraid, was iiot always honestly kept on our side. One day, one of the residents of the remote peninsula soaked the blackboard sponge with ink and chalk and flung it at the cahigraphy martyr. Get it, Ebert! he shouted, with a stupid smile. The sponge touched Ebcrts shoulder, glanced into his face and down on his white shirt, covering both with ink and chalk. All saw it, and were sure that this time Ebert would leave the room and report the fact to the inspector. But he only exclaimed, as lie took out his cotton handkerchief and wiped his face, Gentlemen, one frolic, no more to- day ! The shirt is spoiled, he add- ed in a subdued voice, and continued to correct some ones book. We looked stupefied and ashamed. Why, instea(l of reporting, lie had thought at once of the agreement! All feelings turned in his favor. What you have done is stupid, we reproached our com- rade. He is a poor juan, and you have spoiled his shirt! Shame! somebody cried. The culprit went at once to make ex- cuses. One must learn, was all that Ebert said in reply, with sadness in his Another teacher conquered our rather voice. The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 771 All became silent after that, and at the next lesson, as if we had settled it be- forehand, many of us wrote in our best possible handwriting, and took our books to Ebert, asking him to correct them. He was radiant; he felt happy that day. This fact deeply impressed me, and was never wiped out from my memory. To this day I feel grateful to that re- markable man for his lesson. With our teacher of drawing, who was named Ganz, we never came to live on good terms. He continually reported those who played in his class. This, in our opinion, lie had no right to do, be- cause he was only a teacher of draw- ing, but especially because he was not an honest man. In the class he paid little attention to most of us, and spent his time in improving the drawings of those who took private lessons from him, or paid him in order to show at the exami- nations a good drawing and to get a good mark for it. Against those com- rades who did so we had no grudge. On the contrary, we thought it quite right that those who had no capacity for mathematics or no memory for geogra- phy, and had but poor marks in these subjects, should improve their total of marks by ordering from a draughtsman a drawing or a topographical map for which they would get a full twelve. Only for the first two pupils of the form it would not have been fair to resort to such means, while the remainder could do it with untroubled consciences. But the teacher had no business to make drawings to order; and if he chose to act in this way, he ought to bear with resignation the noise an(l the tricks of his pupils. That was our ethics. Instead of this, no lesson passe(l without his lodging complaints, and each time he grew more arrogant. As soon as we were moved to the fourth form, and felt ourselves natural- ized citizens of the corps, we decided to tighten the bridle upon him. It is your own fault, our elder comrades told us, that he takes such airs with you; we used to keep him in obedience. So we decided to bring him into subjec- tion. One day, two excellent comrades of our form approached Ganz with cigar- ettes in their mouths, and asked him to oblige them with a light. Of course, that was only meant for a joke, no one ever thonght of smoking in the class- rooms, and, according to our rules of propriety, Ganz had merely to send the two boys away; but he inscribed them in the journal, and they were severely punished. That was the last drop. We decided to give him a benefit night. That meant that one day all the form, provided with rulers borrowed from the upper forms, would start an outrageous noise by striking the rulers against the tables, and send the teacher out of the class. However, the plot offered many difficulties. We had in our form a lot of goody boys who would promise to join in the demonstration, but at the last moment would grow nervous and draw back, and then the teacher would name the others. In such enterprises unanim- ity is the first requisite, because the pun. ishment, whatsoever it may be, is always lighter when it falls on the whole class instead of on a few. The difficulties were overcome with a truly Machiavellian craft. At a given sig- nal all were to turn their backs to Ganz, and then, with the rulers laid in readiness in the desks of the next row, they would produce the required noise. In this way the goody boys would not feel terrified at Ganzs staring at them. Bnt the sig- nal ? Whistling, as in robbers tales, shouting, or even sneezing would not do: Ganz would be capable of naming any one of us as having whistled or sneezed. The signal must be a silent one. One of us, who drew nicely, would take his draw- ing to show it to Ganz, and the moment he returned and took his seat, that should be the time! 772 The Autobiography All went on admirably. Nes~doff took up his drawing, and Ganz corrected it in a few minutes, which seemed to us an eternity. He returned at last to his seat; he stopped for a moment, looking at us; he sat down. . . . All the form turned suddenly on their seats, and the rulers rattled merrily within the desks, while some of us shouted amidst the noise, Ganz out! Down with him! The noise was deafening; all the forms knew that Ganz had got his benefit night. He stood there, murmuring something, and finally went out. An officer ran in, the noise continued; then the sub-inspec- tor dashed in, and after him the inspec- tor. The noise stopped at once. Scold- ing began. The elder under arrest at once! the inspector commanded; and I, who was the first in the form, and conse- quently the elder, was marched to the black cell. That spared me seeing what followed. The director came; Ganz was asked to name the ringleaders, but he could name nobody. They all turned their backs to me, and began the noise, was his reply. Thereupon the form was taken downstairs, and although flogging had been completely abandoned in our school, this time the two who had been reported because they asked for a light were flogged with the birch rod, under the pretext that the benefit night was a revenge for their punishment. I learned this ten days later, when I was allowed to return to the class. My name, which had been inscribed on the red board in the class, was wiped off. To this I was indifferent; but I must con- fess that the ten days in the cell, without books, seemed to me rather long, so that I composed (in horrible verses) a poem, in which the deeds of the fourth form were duly glorified. Of course, our form became now the heroes of the school. For a month or so we had to tell and retell all about the af- fair to the other forms, and received con- gratulations for having managed it with of a Revolutionist. such unanimity that nobody was caught separately. And then came the Sun- days all the Sundays down to Christ- mas that the form had to remain at the school, not being allowed to go home. Being all kept together, we managed to make those Sundays very gay. The mammas of the goody boys brought them heaps of sweets; those who had some money spent it generously, and moun- tains of pastry substantial before din- ner, and sweet after it were absorbed, while in the evenings the friends from the other forms smuggled in quantities of fruit for the brave fourth form. Ganz gave up inscribing any one; but drawing was totally lost for us. No one wanted to learn drawing from that mer- cenary man. III. My brother Alexander was at that time at Moscow, in a corps of cadets, and we maintained a lively correspondence. As long as I was at home that would have been impossible, because our father con- sidered it his prerogative to read all let- ters addressed to our house; he would have soon put an end to any but a com- monplace correspondence. Now we were free to discuss in our letters whatever we liked. The only difficulty was to get money for stamps; but we soon learned to write in such fine characters that we could convey an incredible amount of matter in each letter. Alexander, whose handwriting was beautiful, contrived to get four printed pages on one single page of note paper, and his microscopic lines were as legible as the best small type print. It is a pity that these letters, which he kept as precious relics, have disappeared. The states police, dur- ing one of their raids, robbed him even of these treasures. Our first letters were mostly about the petty things of my new surroundings, but our correspondence soon took a more serious chara~cter. My brother could not write about trifles. Even in society he became animated only when some sen The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. 773 ous discussion was engaged in, and he complained of feeling a dull pain in the brain a physical pain, as he used to say when he was with people who cared only for small talk. He was very much in advance of me in his intellect- ual development, and all the time he urged me forward, raising new scientific and philosophical questions one after an- other, and advising me what to read or to study. What a happiness it was for me to have such a brother! a brother who, moreover, loved me passionately. To him I owe the best part of my de- velopment. Sometimes he would advise inc to read poetry, and would send me in his letters quantities of verses and whole poems, which he wrote from memory. Read poetry, he wrote: poetry makes men better. How often, in my after life, I realized the truth of this remark of his! Read poetry: it makes men better. He himself was a poet, and had a wonderful facility for writing most mu- sical verses; indeed, I think it a great pity that he abandoned poetry. The reaction against art, which arose among the Russian youth in the early sixties, and which Turgu6neff has depicted in Bazi~roff (Fathers and Sons), induced him to look upon his verses with con- tempt, and to plunge headlong into the natural sciences. I must say, however, that my favorite poet was none of those whom his poetical gift, his musical ear, and his philosophical turn of mind made him like best. His favorite Russian poet was Yenevftinoff, while mine was Nekr~soff, whose verses were very often unmusical, but appealed most to my heart by their sympathy for the downtrodden and offended. One must have a set purpose in his life, he wrote me once. Without an aim, without a purpose, life is not life. And he advised me to get a purpose in my life worth living for. I was too young then to find one; but something undetermined, vague, good altogether, already rose under that appeal, even though I could not say what that good would be. Our father gave us very little spend- ing money, and I never had any to buy a single book; but if Alexander got a few rubles from some aunt, he never spent a penny of it for pleasure, but bought a book and sent it to me. He objected, though, to indiscriminate reading. One must have some question, he wrote, ad- dressed to the book lie is going to read. However, I did not then appreciate this remark, and cannot think now without amazement of the number of books, often of a quite special character, which I read, in all branches, but particularly in the domain of history. I did not waste my time upon French novels, since Alexan- der, years before, had characterized them in one blunt sentence: They are stupid and full of bad language. The great questions concerning the conception we should form of the uni- verse our Welt anschauung, as the Germans say were, of course, the domi- nant subjects in our correspondence. In our childhood we had never been reli- gious. We were taken to church; but in a Russian church, in a small parish or in a village, the solemn attitude of the peo- ple is far more impressive than the mass itself. Of all that I ever had heard in church only two things had impressed me: the twelve passages from the Gos- pels, relative to the sufferings of the Christ, which are read in Russia at the night service on the eve of Good Friday, and the short prayer condemning the spirit of domination, which is recited dur- ing the Great Lent, and is really beau- tiful by reason of its simple, unpreten- tious words and feeling. P4shkin has rendered it into Russian verse. Later on, at St. Petersburg, I went several times to aRoman Catholic church, but the theatrical character of the ser- vice and the absence of real feeling in it shocked me, the more so when I saw there with what simple faith some re~ 774 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. tired Polish soldier or a peasant woman would pray in a remote corner. I also went to a Protestant church; but com- ing out of it I caught myself murmuring Goethes words But you will never link hearts together Unless the linking springs from your own heart. Alexander, in the meantime, had em- braced with his usual passion the Lu- theran faith. He had read Michelets book on Servetus, and had worked out for himself a religion on the lines of that great fighter. He studied with enthusi- asmn the Augsburg declaration, which he copied out and sent me, and our letters now became full of discussions about grace, and of texts from the apostles Paul and James. I followed my brother, but theologic~d discussions did not deeply interest me. Since I had recovered from the typhoid fever I had taken to quite different reading. Our sister H6kne, who was now mar- ried, was at St. Petersburg, and every Saturday night I went to visit her. Her husband had a good library, in which the French philosophers of the last century and the modern French historians were well represented, and I plunged into them. Such books were prohibited in Russia, and evidently could not be taken to school; so I spent most of the night, every Saturday, in reading the works of tim encyclop~edists, the philosophical dictionary of Voltaire, the writings of the Stoics, especially Marcus Aurelius, and so on. The infinite immensity of the universe, the greatness of nature, its poetry, its ever throbbing life, impressed me more and more; and that never ceasing life and its harmonies gave me the ecstasy of admiration which the young soul thirsts for, while my favor- ite poets supplied me with an expres- sion in words of that awakening love of mankind and faith in its progress which make the best part of youth and impress man for all his life. Alexander, by this time, had gradual- ly come to a Kantian agnosticism, and the relativity of perceptions, per- ceptions in time and space, and time only, and so on, filled pages and pages in our letters, the writing of which be- came more and more microscopical as the subjects under discussion grew in im- portance. But neither then nor later on, when we used to spend hours and hours in discussing Kants philosophy, could my brother convert me to become a disciple of the K~inigsberg philoso- pher. Natural sciences that is, mathemat- ics, physics, and astronomy were my chief studies. In the year 1858, before Darwin had brought out his immortal work, a professor of zotilogy at the Moscow University, Roulier, published three lectures on transformism, and my brother took up at once his ideas con- cerning the variability of species. He was not satisfied, however, with approx- mmat& proofs only, and began to study a number of special books on heredity and the like; communicating to me in his letters the main facts, as well as his ideac and his doubts. The appearance of The Origin of Species did not settle his doubts on several special points, but only raised new questions and gave him the impulse for further studies. We after- ward discussed and that discussion lasted for many years various ques- tions relative to the origin of variations, their chances of being transmitted and being accentuated ; in short, those ques- tions which have been raised quite lately in the Weismaun-Spencer controversy, in Galtons researches, and in the works of the modern Neo-Lamarckians. Owing to his philosophical and critical mind, Alexander had noticed at once the fun- damental importance of these questions for the theory of variability of species, even though they were so often over- looked then by many naturalists. I must also mention a temporary cx- cursion into the domain of political eco- nomy. In the years 1858 and 1859 every f/ike Autobiography one in Russia spoke of political econo- my; lectures on free trade and protec- tive duties attracted crowds of people, and my brother, who was not yet ab- sorbed l)y the variability of species, took a lively though temporary interest in economical matters, sending me for reading the Political Economy of Jean Baptiste Say. I read a few chapters only: tariffs and banking operations did not interest me in the least; but Alex- ander took up these matters so passkn. ately that he even wrote letters to our stepmother, trying to interest her in the intricacies of the customs duties. Later on, in Siberia, as we were re-reading some of the letters of that period, we laughed like children when we fell upon one of his epistles in which he coal- plained of our stepmothers incapacity to be moved even by such burning ques- tions, and raged against a greengrocer whom he had caught in the street, and who, would you believe it, he wrote with signs of exclamation, although he was a tradesman, affected a pig-head- ed indifference to tariff matters! Every summer about one half of the pages were taken to a military camp, with the other military schools, at Pc- terhof. The lower forms, however, were dispensed from joining the camp, and I spent the first two summers at Nik6l- skoye. To leave the school, to take the train to Moscow, and there to meet Al- exander was such a happy prospect that I used to count the days that had to pass till that glorious one should arrive. But on one occasion a great disappointment awaited me at Moscow. Alexander had not passed his examinations, and was left for another year in the same form. He was, in fact, too young to enter the spe- cial classes; but our father was very an- gry with him, nevertheless, and would not permit us to see each other. I felt very sad. We were not children any more, and had so much to say to each other. I tried to obtain permission to of a Revolutionist. 775 go to our aunt Sulima, at whose house I might meet Alexander, but it was abso- lutely refused. After our father remar- ried we were never allowed to see our mothers relations. That spring our Moscow house was full of guests. Every night the recep- tion rooms were flooded with lights, the band played, the confectioner was busy making ices and pasti-y, and card-play- ing went on in the great hall till a late hour. I strolled aimlessly about in the brilliantly illuminated rooms, and felt un- happy. One night, after ten, a servant beck- oned me, asking if I would come out to the entrance hail. I went. Come to the coachmens house, the old major. domo Frol whispered to me. Alexan- der Alex6ievich is here. I dashed across the yard, up the flight of steps leading to the coachmens house, and into a wide, half-dark room, where, at the immense dining-table of the ser- vants, I saw Alexander. S~sha, dear, how did you come? and in a moment we rushed into each others arms, hugging each other and un- able to speak from emotion. Hush, hush! they may overhear you, said the servants cook, Prask6- via, wiping away her tears with her apron. Poor orphans! If your mo- ther were only alive Old Frol stood, his head deeply bent, his eyes also twinkling. Look here, P6tya, not a word to any one; to no one, he said, while Pm- sk6via placed on the table an enrthen- ware jar full of porridge for Alexan- der. He, glowing with health, in his cadet uniform, already had begun to talk about all sorts of mattei-s, while he rap- idly emptied the pormidge pot. I could hardly make him tell me how he came there at such a late hour. We lived then near the Smol6nsky boulevard, within a stones throw of the house where our mother died, and the corps of cadets 776 Quatrain. was at the opposite outskirts of Moscow, full five miles away. He had made a doll out of bedclothes, and had put it in his bed, under the blankets; then he went to the tower, de- scended from a window, came out unno- ticed, and walked the whole distance. Were you not afraid at night, in the deserted fields round your corps? I asked. What had I to fear? Only lots of dogs were upon me; I had teased them myself. To - morrow I shall take my sword with me. The coachmen and other servants came in and out; they sighed as they looked at us, and took seats at a dis- tance, along the walls, exchanging words in a subdued tone, so as not to disturb us; while we two, in each others arms, sat there till midnight, talking about nebuhe and Laplaces hypothesis, the structure of matter, the struggles of the papacy under Boniface VIII. with the imperial power, and so on. From time to time one of the servants would hurriedly run in, saying, P& tinka, go and show thyself in the hall; they may ask for thee. I implored S~sha not to come next night; but he came, nevertheless, not without having had a scrimmage with the dogs, against whom he had taken his sword. I responded with feverish haste, when, earlier than the day before, I was called once more to the coachmens house. Stfsha had made part of the journey in a cab. The previous night, one of the servants had brought him what he had got from the card-players and asked him to take it. S~sha took some small coin to hire a cab, and so he came earlier than on his first visit. He intended to come next night, too, but for some reason it would have been dangerous for the servants, and we de- cided to part till the autumn. A short official note made me understand next day that his nocturnal escapades had passed unnoticed. How terrible would have been the punishment, if they had been discovered! It is awful to think of it: flogging before the corps till he was carried away unconscious on a sheet, and then dismissal to a soldiers sons bat- talion, anything was possible, in those times. What our servants would have suf- fered for hiding us, if information of the affair had reached our fathers ears, would have been equally terrible; but they knew how to keep secrets, and not to betray one another. They all knew of the visits of Alexander, but none of them whispered a word to any one of the family. They and I were the only ones in the house who ever knew anything about it. P. Kropotkin. QUATRAIN. WHY fear the night? The sun may sink And never rise again on me; Yet some one that I love shall see It blaze above the eastern brink. John Albert Aiae~,,.

776 Quatrain. was at the opposite outskirts of Moscow, full five miles away. He had made a doll out of bedclothes, and had put it in his bed, under the blankets; then he went to the tower, de- scended from a window, came out unno- ticed, and walked the whole distance. Were you not afraid at night, in the deserted fields round your corps? I asked. What had I to fear? Only lots of dogs were upon me; I had teased them myself. To - morrow I shall take my sword with me. The coachmen and other servants came in and out; they sighed as they looked at us, and took seats at a dis- tance, along the walls, exchanging words in a subdued tone, so as not to disturb us; while we two, in each others arms, sat there till midnight, talking about nebuhe and Laplaces hypothesis, the structure of matter, the struggles of the papacy under Boniface VIII. with the imperial power, and so on. From time to time one of the servants would hurriedly run in, saying, P& tinka, go and show thyself in the hall; they may ask for thee. I implored S~sha not to come next night; but he came, nevertheless, not without having had a scrimmage with the dogs, against whom he had taken his sword. I responded with feverish haste, when, earlier than the day before, I was called once more to the coachmens house. Stfsha had made part of the journey in a cab. The previous night, one of the servants had brought him what he had got from the card-players and asked him to take it. S~sha took some small coin to hire a cab, and so he came earlier than on his first visit. He intended to come next night, too, but for some reason it would have been dangerous for the servants, and we de- cided to part till the autumn. A short official note made me understand next day that his nocturnal escapades had passed unnoticed. How terrible would have been the punishment, if they had been discovered! It is awful to think of it: flogging before the corps till he was carried away unconscious on a sheet, and then dismissal to a soldiers sons bat- talion, anything was possible, in those times. What our servants would have suf- fered for hiding us, if information of the affair had reached our fathers ears, would have been equally terrible; but they knew how to keep secrets, and not to betray one another. They all knew of the visits of Alexander, but none of them whispered a word to any one of the family. They and I were the only ones in the house who ever knew anything about it. P. Kropotkin. QUATRAIN. WHY fear the night? The sun may sink And never rise again on me; Yet some one that I love shall see It blaze above the eastern brink. John Albert Aiae~,,. The Landscape as a ilfeans ?f Culture. 777 THE LANDSCAPE AS A MEANS OF CULTURE. THE habits of civilized life tend to separate men from the charm of the world about them. The insistent ac- tivities which are the price of success, in the effort to win the harvests of an immediately profitable kind, fix the at- tention on certain limited fields of the environment, and necessarily exclude all recognition of the larger features of na- ture. Thus, the noble aspects of the sky, in the changes from dawn to dark, and from storm to fair weather, count to most of us only as the conditions of our occupations or our diversions; in themselves, they are quite without con- sideration. This is no new state of man; indeed, by the demands of econo- mic life, the primitive savage and the barbarian have ordinarily followed in the path of the prehuman species whence they came, giving no more heed to the scenes about them than their needs called for. Now and then, in moments of poetic exaltation, the beauty of the natural realm has forced itself on their attention, but only the rarer spirits see that there is here a great field to be won for the profit of man. The art of appropriating the landscape is not a lost art, but one which is yet to be invented and applied to the profit of our kind. It is likely to be a long time before we acquire the habit of atten(ling to the ex- pression of the world about us as we do to that of the human countenance. It is evident that our culture is near the station where we may hope for some effort to develop the landscape sense by a systematic training in the arts which may enable us to appreciate scenery. Such a training may be regarded as a fitting supplement of that which we now devote to the purely scientific as- pects of nature. It is likely that the task would long ago have been essayed in our American schools, where any pe dagogic novelty commends itself, but for the evident difficulty of devising a fit system by which it can be done. The trouble is that the appreciation of scenic beauty is like the poetic sense, or the other sympathetic movements of the spirit, not only without the field of or- dinary teaching, but quite beyond the reach of its methods. Every part of the movement which is required must come from within. Something can doubtless be done to favor the development of the landscape motive by the proper use of such literature as presents the beauties of nature in a way to awaken the emo- tions; something also by practice in sketching, or in describing actual or pic- tured scenes. Still, the effective impulse must come from within. To those who would develop their sensibility to natural beauty, the teacher can be most helpful by telling the ex- periences he has had in the development of his sympathy with the external world. In my own case, these tokens are not many. Their value is uncertain, for the reason that minds differ incalculably in their modes of action. Ways of looking at nature which may lead one to rich harvests may beguile another into desert places. Moreover, it is not easy even for those who are accustomed to intro- spection to gain an adequate notion of how their states of mind are induced. Therefore I will limit the suggestions to points which lie well in the field of my individual experience and that of others who have helped me with theirs. The first of all the mental arts which the student of the landscape needs to acquire is that of contemplation, the calm, affectionate forthgoing to the en- vironment which permits the scene to enter in its fullness to the understanding and to sink quietly therein. Until this way of beholding is established, the

The Landscape as a ilfeans ?f Culture. 777 THE LANDSCAPE AS A MEANS OF CULTURE. THE habits of civilized life tend to separate men from the charm of the world about them. The insistent ac- tivities which are the price of success, in the effort to win the harvests of an immediately profitable kind, fix the at- tention on certain limited fields of the environment, and necessarily exclude all recognition of the larger features of na- ture. Thus, the noble aspects of the sky, in the changes from dawn to dark, and from storm to fair weather, count to most of us only as the conditions of our occupations or our diversions; in themselves, they are quite without con- sideration. This is no new state of man; indeed, by the demands of econo- mic life, the primitive savage and the barbarian have ordinarily followed in the path of the prehuman species whence they came, giving no more heed to the scenes about them than their needs called for. Now and then, in moments of poetic exaltation, the beauty of the natural realm has forced itself on their attention, but only the rarer spirits see that there is here a great field to be won for the profit of man. The art of appropriating the landscape is not a lost art, but one which is yet to be invented and applied to the profit of our kind. It is likely to be a long time before we acquire the habit of atten(ling to the ex- pression of the world about us as we do to that of the human countenance. It is evident that our culture is near the station where we may hope for some effort to develop the landscape sense by a systematic training in the arts which may enable us to appreciate scenery. Such a training may be regarded as a fitting supplement of that which we now devote to the purely scientific as- pects of nature. It is likely that the task would long ago have been essayed in our American schools, where any pe dagogic novelty commends itself, but for the evident difficulty of devising a fit system by which it can be done. The trouble is that the appreciation of scenic beauty is like the poetic sense, or the other sympathetic movements of the spirit, not only without the field of or- dinary teaching, but quite beyond the reach of its methods. Every part of the movement which is required must come from within. Something can doubtless be done to favor the development of the landscape motive by the proper use of such literature as presents the beauties of nature in a way to awaken the emo- tions; something also by practice in sketching, or in describing actual or pic- tured scenes. Still, the effective impulse must come from within. To those who would develop their sensibility to natural beauty, the teacher can be most helpful by telling the ex- periences he has had in the development of his sympathy with the external world. In my own case, these tokens are not many. Their value is uncertain, for the reason that minds differ incalculably in their modes of action. Ways of looking at nature which may lead one to rich harvests may beguile another into desert places. Moreover, it is not easy even for those who are accustomed to intro- spection to gain an adequate notion of how their states of mind are induced. Therefore I will limit the suggestions to points which lie well in the field of my individual experience and that of others who have helped me with theirs. The first of all the mental arts which the student of the landscape needs to acquire is that of contemplation, the calm, affectionate forthgoing to the en- vironment which permits the scene to enter in its fullness to the understanding and to sink quietly therein. Until this way of beholding is established, the 778 The Landscape as a llilieans of Culture. mind can do no more than snatch frag- mentary impressions of the scene, which may gratify the curiosity or awaken the pleasure of surprise, but have no relation to the higher ~sthetic sense. Few persons in this day develop any capacity for the contemplative mood, it has indeed been rare in all days; but our time, with its crowding of people and interests, with its almost fiendish sense of duty by the moment, makes against the motive in a disastrously ef- fective way. He who would acquire this, the very foundation of all msthetic sense, must be prepared to set himself against the spirit of his age. The contemplative attitude demands solitude, or at least a mental isolation from our fellow men. In this it is like the kindred poetic motive, which acts only when the mind is isolated. The iso- lation, indeed, in both these movements of the spirit, has to be so complete that self-consciousness is banished before the needed solitude is won. Therefore he who would become a lover of the land- scape must accustom himself to seek it alone, and must learn to know that his mere presence at its doors will not make him free to its treasures. He must come to them as a worshiper, and with the spirit of devotion which befits a temple. He who really seeks the landscape will surely find that he possesses a pro- fitable remnant of the natural affection for the outer world that belongs in the spirit of men, but which our unhappy methods of education and of living so tend to wear away. If he has never set himself before a scene with the in- tention of winning all that he can gain from it, he is certain to find his first essay rather unprofitable. He will find himself in the tourists frame of mind, with the additional hamper of the self- consciousness which attends any such experiment. His first task is to make himself familiar with the view, so that lie may feel at home in it, so that all mere surprise is cleared away. With years of training, he will be able quickly to enter on this friendly relation with a landscape, but to the novice the relation comes slowly; lie may have to look again and again before lie can begin to feel its true charm. The best plan for him is to see the place from the same point of view, and under the same conditions of hour and sky, day after day, until it be- comes something like his own property. Although the contemplative attitude may seem to those who know little about it to be one of indolent repose, it really demands all the strength the mind gives to intellectual labor. It is quite as taxing as any other form of such work. Therefore those who would view a landscape aright must see to it that they have nervous energy at their command, as they are accustomed to have it when they need to use their minds in full measure. Hurriedly to seek a view after hard climbing and in dis- comfort is no more reasonable than it would be to make a like preparation for other absorbing mental work. On this account it is worth the observers while to see to his condition, when he would appreciate a landscape, even as carefully as lie would do in preparation for hear- ing music. At the beginning of his study of land- scapes, the observer learns that all scenes have one point of view which is for him the best, though it may not be for an- other. From that station the effects- are evidently most harmonious, fit- ting to his previously acquired motives. Therefore a certain reconnoitring of the ground is required before one deter- mines just how one shall face the vista. Practice will in time enable the observer almost instinctively to come upon the point where the field can be best read; he will form the habit of looking at the landscape as lie has formed that of reading the printed page, limiting his attention to the few characters which lie need have in eye and mind in order to go swiftly forward with the im4erpre- The Landscape as a 11/Jeans of Culture. 779 tation. In the larger record of the field, as in the smaller of the print, habit must guide in this necessary limi- tation of the attention, and in its mea- sured ongoing from one passage to an- other. It is important that this habit be rationally formed, for on its guid- aiice depends success in approaching the beautiful in nature. The applica- tion is, indeed, much wider; it includes the scientific as well as the ~esthetic con- tact with the world about us. Answers come only to our interrogations; the su- preme art is that of questioning. Perhaps the commonest blunder, in looking upon the landscape, is found in the effort to take in at once all that a wide field contains. The tourists usual en- deavor is to climb some hill, the higher the better for his desire, whence he can have a panorama including the larg~st possible number of peaks, lakes, and towns within the bewildering circle of the horizon. He willingly climbs for another half day to double his catalogue of telescopic objects. It is not too much to say that to approach the landscape in this way is to insure immunity from any spiritual contact with it. There may be creatures in other solar systems so organ- ized that they can appropriate a panora- ma. If such there are, their minds must hav~ other qualities than ours have. They must have eyes on every side, so that they are exempt from the sense of before and behind which is one of the limitations of mans nature. With our- selves, this sense is a part of the stock inherited from our ancestors, man and brute alike; it is dominating in all our relations to the surrounding world; along with that of up and down, it rules our feelings in all our contacts with the environment. If the observer has attained to some skill in approaching a landscape, he will be conscious of a certain measure of dis- comfort whenever he is forced to attend to a circular view; the portion of the vista which he feels to be behind him, or too far on either side to receive due atten- tion, is in a way discomforting. Acting on this suggestion afforded by the unea- siness aroused by a panorama, the obser- ver will find it profitable to make some experiments to determine the most ad- vantageous limits of a view; these limits appear to vary within a rather narrow range with different persons and per- haps in different stages of training in the landscape art. The easiest way in which to make the essay is by looking at a wide and attractive view through a doorway or a window, where there is no obstruc- tion from the sashes. Beginning the test from a point so near the opening that its margins do not force themselves upon the eye, the observer should note, as well as he can, the measure of satis- faction which he receives from the be- holding. This, if his experience is the same as that of the writer and of those who have tried like experiments for him, will be qualified by the fact that the vision cannot take in anything like as wide an angle as is offered to it. The view, in a word, is not one, but many, for the eyes have to turn in order to compass it. When this first impres- sion has been gained, another should be sought at a distance back from the open- ing which will make its margins come in to limit the field of view, so that all the scene can, in a way, be compassed with one setting of the eyes. At a certain point on the reduction in the angle, the observer will find that with the particular view he obtains the max- imum of satisfaction. The above described experiment, though apparently simple, is not alto- gether easy of trial, for the reason that the observer must have a certain capa- city for valuing his impressions, such as is not commonly attained without a good deal of training in the art of see- ing. With most persons the trial of the method appears to show that there is a distinct increase i~ the ~sthetic value as the angle is diminished from say 780 The Landscape as a ilifeans of Culture. ninety degrees to about fifteen degrees or less. Much, however, depends upon the nature of the view: one in which the features are simple and there are few details which demand attention per- mits a wider lateral range than another where the notable details are numerous and closely interrelated. In general, the more the scene has to give, the narrower the range of vision which can profitably be applied to it. Without resorting to deliberate ex- periment, which may be held as rather out of place in ~sthetic inquiry, the ob- server can gain a fair idea of the prin- ciple that I have laid down, and at the same time determine his capacity for taking in a view, by noting his daily ex- perience in the scenes which offer them- selves to his eyes. When the houses of a street terminate in a manner to open a pleasing field, he can, as he walks to- ward the expanse, find the point where the vista is most satisfactory. Repeat- ing the trial from day to day, he will perhaps be able to judge whether his sensibility to the landscape is sufficient- ly keen to afford him a basis for judg- ment; if not, he has not beconie quick- ened to such perceptions. He has yet to make his novitiate. Another observation, which serves to illustrate the limitation which needs to be put on the range of vision in order to obtain the best effect, may be made when we look upon a great building. In such viewing, because of the necessary concentration of the attention on details of form and proportion, the suitable angle to be included by the eyes is much smaller than in beholding a wide land- scape where the features are of a broader nature. The scope fitted to give an im- pression of a building is probably not over five degrees; in the appreciation of details of architecture it is yet less. As a general statement it may be said that the closest observation in vision, such as we give to a single small object, requires that there shall be practically no angle of divergence to the boundaries of the field. As the field is widened, the mea- sure of attention given to any part of it is diminished, until at a certain point in the increase the eyes have to be turned and readjusted to another set of impressions. This change is instinctively made when- ever the sense of interest in the margins of the visual area is aroused, without the perception being clear enough to satisfy the demands of the mind. When this change is made, the second view is in part superimposed on the first, and the pano- ramic method of observation is begun, with a resulting loss of a~sthetic value. If the reader has never criticised his ways of looking at the landscape, he will be likely to think that there can be no great difference in the mental result aris- ing from the mere shifting of the eyes in the process of compassing a view. The shortest answer to this suggestion is the advice to try the experiment. He will perceive, after his essay, that his atten- tion is distracted by the change, and that he has diminished the effectiveness of the impression. The conditions are much the same as those we meet in be- holding pictures. We all know that a painting, especially if it be a landscape, is most advantageously seen alone; not in a gallery, but where its effect is not overlaid by that of others, however~ like in motive. The only canvases which the writer vividly remembers are those seen under such circumstances, though the value of these works has not been as great as that of others exhibited in large collections. With such, the effect of the successive impressions may destroy all the iesthetic value of the noblest art. The analogy of the mind to a sensitive photographic plate, whereon one impres- sion destroys another, though too me- chanical for the exact tr~ith, presents fairly enough the results of overlaying one mental image with another. The sum of this plea for a singleness of impression in the effort to obtain the full aisthetic value of the landscape may The Landscape as a ilfeans of Culture. 781 be stated in a few words. It is that panoramic or even wide-angled seeing, while it gratifies the curiosity, is destruc- tive to all valuable effects so far as the sense of beauty is concerned. The im- pression gained is distinct and powerful by virtue of its limitation so long as the boundaries are not so narrow that they chafe the understanding; it is strong in proportion to its repetition from the same point of view and under the same con- ditions of air and light. The next consideration for the student of the landscape to note is the relation between the purely intellectual or ra- tional interest he may find or introduce into a view and the a~sthetic impression which he seeks to gain from it. It is easi- ly made clear to those who in any mea- sure share in the scientific and the spir- itual motives of interpreting nature, that good as these motives are in themselves, and effectively as they may be made to stimulate and reinforce one another in the general economy of the mind, they cannot at any one time be profitably as- sociated. They are, indeed, so far antag- onistic as to be mutually destructive in all but their ultimate purpose, the com- prehension of nature. The task of the iesthetic sympathies is to take the data which consciousness presents, things seen as well as remoter knowledge, and combine these impressions in the ideal realm so that they awaken the con- structive imagination and extend the po- etic fancy to the utmost. While thus act- ing, the mind, though advantageously it may use all its store of knowledge in building its baseless fabrics of a vi- sion, cares for no rules; construction is in large measure and necessarily emanci- pated from the control of facts. There can be no doubt that knowledge may vastly enhance the intensity of ies- thetic impressions. There are many landscapes in the unhistoric wilder- nesses, endowed with a far greater share ol purely natural beauty than that of the Val dAriio or of the plain of Marathon. It is the light from the past which gives these scenes their abiding dignity; but this light does not shine forth from the pages of the guidebook; it must come from the ancient wealth of the mind. Therefore, the student who would make himself ready to bi-ing all the value of the landscape before his spiritual under- standing must be prepared to gain his knowledge of a scene some time before he seeks to turn it over to his fancy, long enough before to have the facts be- come so well organized in the memory that they come forth unconsciously and without command. Otherwise, fancy, the most independent of all his powers, will deny them any place in her creations. In beginning the study of landscapes, the novice will find it necessary slowly to acquire all the knowledge which en- ters into the imaginative impression the scene is to yield him. The evidence of the slow changes which have brought the bit of earth to its existing form, which have shaped the face which it turns to the eyes of man, has to be gained by de- liberate inquiry, so that the reading is as that of a great volume in its difficul- ty and in the time it demands. This stage will pass with the increase in knowledge, and of skill in selecting from that knowledge the little yet precious share which may be used by the imagi- nation in its constructive work. So, at least, it is true as regards the details of scientific fact. It is otherwise as re- gards the more general conceptions which relate to the application of the natural forces to the earth, and the larger results arising therefrom. Such truths are in their very essence so far poetic that, to the discerning eye, they shine with its light even in the grim frame- work of a mathematical proposition. On an ocean-beaten shore, we may feel the power of the sea in the overhanging cliffs even when there are no waves. In the rivei-, the waterfall, or the glacier, the energy which enters into the work appeals to the informed imagination 782 The Landscape as a ~Ifeans of Culture. scarcely less than do its visible results. This enlarged conception is what makes the difference between the ignorant and the cultivated appreciation of the beau- ties of nature. With the rustic, A primrose by a rivers brim A yellow prinirose is to him, And it is nothing more. Knowledge it is which places the blos- som in the realm of life, making us to see it as the product of the ages, in kin- ship with what has gone before and what is to come hereafter, and thus en- dows it with the dignity that thought can lend. This is as true of the earth as of its flowers. With most if not all people, the landscape gains much from its associations with mankind. Even where human life does not enter visibly or in conscious memory, it usually seeks a place shyly and as an aside, in mere spectres of the imagination which we un- consciously allow to enter on the scene. Even if the view be in desert wilder- nesses, the observer, if he be attentive to his thought, will remark the work of this humanizing instinct. If the scene be such as the eternal snowfields or the troops of icebergs present, excluding the conception of life, we feel that it in some way fails to awaken the mind. We do not go forth to it as its mere phy- sical charm bids us do. On this account, the quality of the human life of a field, that which is visible or in memory, has with most men quite as much to do with its value as a landscape as its physical aspect has. With the advance which an assiduous training of the landscape sense brings, the observer finds himself less in need of the human note in the view; his de- velopment follows the course by which the landscape motive became established. In its earlier stages, only the regions of garden-like aspect commanded ~sthetic approval; then only so much of primi- tive nature as would make a foil for the culture was admitted to be good. Even the Alps, though they rise from fertile plains, in no wise charmed the ancients; until within two centuries they were ut- terly repugnant to refined minds. Now those of well-trained eye find sntisfaction in the wilderness, though all alike will confess that the scenes which yield the most pleasure are those which are at once humanized and historic. All this points to the conclusion that the novice will do well to begin his studies of the landscape with its more domesticated parts. Even the cities and great towns commonly afford prospects which are sufficiently gratifying to the ~stlietic sense to give it nurture. The many strong impres- sions arising from the grouping of build- ings, which even when bad in themselves often afford agreeable masses and sky- lines, make them profitable to the be- ginner by the easily acquired impressions they present. Moreover, our cities, by the very badness of their smoke and dust laden air, are richer in atmospheric ef- fects of a striking kind than is the open country; by them the observer may be led to note those more delicately toned qualities of atmosphere which, though they are the very flower of the land- scape, are so generally overlooked. From the limited though varied as- pects of the overhumanized views in and about the town, the student should pass, in a well-devised gradation, to the scenes where pure nature, though the fields be tilled, controls the expression, and thence by a further step to the primitive lands where there is no trace of the hand of man. As he departs from the realm of excessive culture, where the expression of the earth everywhere is controlled by the artificial, the need increases of an enlargement of the conception by the un- derstanding of how the natural forces have shaped the view. In place of the power of man which is so manifest in his seats of most dominant action, we have in the wilderness the elemental forces, those which make and unmake the lands and which rule every feature of their aspect. To have these conceptions so The Landscape as a iiicans of Culture. 783 well in mind that they may afford even a general basis for interpreting the land- scape demands a somewhat extended training in that part of geology which is included in modern geography, a science not limited, as of old, to mere statements of facts concerning the earth forms, but going back to their causes. This schooling, which is happily becom- ing common, leads the student to take account of the variations of the earths surface, and to seek their explanation in visible processes of nature. With some knowledge of what we may term the evolution of scenery, the ob- server will be led almost at a glance to create a persl)ective in time for the land- scape he is beholding, less vivid, of course, than that it occupies in space, but of the same mind-leading quality that takes the imagination afar. It is not to be expected that these conceptions will have scientific value, they may indeed not rise above the plane occupied by the legends of men and their doings, but they may well have all the truth that the poetic needs demand, for Fancy cares more that her servants are nimble than that they are scientifically accurate. It is easy to see an historic foundation for the value which we find in the con- ception of the action of the forces which shape the landscape; for the history of mans relations to nature shows us that all the true poetry which we have from it comes out of the ineradicable idea that the natural realm is informed with a spirit like our own. To the pantheist the world is hut the expression of the universal (livine power. To the poly- theist each entity of shape and action represents the thought or will of a god of some degree. To the monotheist all things are the work of the supreme pow- er dwelling apart from, yet informing all things. These views, under the in- fluence of which our minds have taken their shape, have the common quality that they have led men to see, behind the face of events and forms, the might that shaped them. One of the distress- ing influences of natural science upon the people of to-day be it said of to-day, for the situation is most likely but tern- porary is a crude view to the effect that the universe is a great mechanical contrivance, going like a huge clockwork moved by a power lying quite beyond the limits of our understanding. In the present state of our learning, there is no escape from this tyranny of the ma- chine except by going so close to ac- tual nature that we feel the currents of its life even as we do those of our own bodies, seeing how the forces have worked to produce in the end our intelligence which looks forth upon the universe and the beauty that gratifies our sympathetic desires. While any one may feel a measure of satisfaction in the beauty of a land- scape, the degree of the satisfaction is doubtless in large part determined by what we read into the scene. it is as in hearing music, where much of the pleasure comes, miot from the associa- tions of sounds, but from the thought which they excite. So, too, in a play, though the acting be bad and the ideas displeasing, the mind may be aroused to make a by-play, as it would not do but for the stimulus of the situation. Such secondary pleasures depend for their ex- istence on the mental store which he who hears or sees brings with him to the orchestra or the stage. Unless lie have a store of fit memories out of which his fancy can build its edifices, his profit is not likely to be great. The stock which the amateur of the landscape may pro- fitably bring with him to the theatre he attends is all that relates thereto in the way of lore of earth and man. A common error on the part of those who seek to acquire some sense of the beauty of the landscape is that its charmn exists only in certain very select places, to which it is necessary to resort in or- dei to obtain such impressions. So they hie away from the beauty which is about 784 The Landscape as a ilifeans of Culture. them, to seek, at much cost, that which is usually far less comprehensible than what they left at their doors. It may well be said that all landscapes are beau- tiful, and that while the harvest which may be won from them by those who know how to gathei it varies greatly in kind, its value changes in no like mea- sure. It is the part of fancy to separate the dross from the gold. This is to be done in the appreciation of the beauty of a landscape, however limited that may be, as it is in other work of the ideals. There are few, if any, scenes deserving the name of landscape so utterly ignoble that they yield nothing to such assay. They may foil the eye of the novice, but not that of the master in the art of seeing. One of the evils which come from overmuch search after rarely composed and famous landscapes is that the mein- ones they leave become false standards, leading their possessors to overlook the beauty which is about them, because it is other than they have had chosen for them as the proper fashion for nature to follow. One of the best results of a crit- ical method with this art of beholding the face of the earth will be the clearing away of this false view. Every student should be on his guard against it. Let him go as far as he will, see as much of the earth as he can, but let him not for- get that it is about as reasonable to go on long journeys to make human friends as it is to seek in that way for the friendship of nature. The chance for both is at its best near home. It is often suggested that the true way to acquire a keen sense of natural beauty in any field is to practice delineation with the pencil or brush. It is clear that the ability to discern is greatly improved by such training, and in so far as seeing clearly is part of the landscape art, this training is of much value; a share of it is indeed almost indispensable in an ef- fective education. It appears doubtful, however, whether the drawing habit af- fords all that its advocates claim for it, for the reason that, when well developed, it tends so far to fix the attention on the elements of form as to separate the mind from the larger interests of the scene. If the draughtsman attain to the digni- ty of the true artist, so that his craft becomes the unconscious instrument of his understanding and feeling, lie may use his hands to help his eyes; but this station is won by few even among those who gain a name in the profession. The greater number do not attain to more than mere delineation; they fail to pene- trate the depths of the landscape. Their pictures, after the manner of photo- graphs, render the facts with more or less accuracy, but they do not, in the man- ner of true sympathetic art, translate them into terms which arouse the emo- tions. The task of depicting is in itself so absorbing of the attention that the novice is likely to be diverted by it from his main end, which is to enter upon a friendly relation with the scene. His con- tact with it is apt to take on a business- like character which will hinder his en- largement. Therefore it seems best for the beginner to use the pencil and the brush as he may use the field-glass, to aid his seeing and to develop the habit of looking closely, supplementing the note- book picture, when he makes it, by the photograph, which for the mere record of fact is better than any handwork can be. Some people are likely to resent the suggestion that the instinctive pleasure which they derive from the landscape should be made the subject of a delib- erate training, because it seems to them that the emotions lie beyond the field of schooling. To this objection, which at first sight appears to have some value, it may be answered that the pleasure which we have from music or from the drama is of the same primitive nature as that which the earths prospects afford. Yet these arts have been subjected to a pro- cess of culture, to the vast advantage of men. Even more purely instinctive ac- tions, such as the movements of the limbs, Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. 785 are profitably removed from the animal plane by education, as by a training in dancing or fencing. While a novice in them, the youth is conscious of all he does, but, as is well said, the second na- ture stage of the culture again makes him free with a perfected freedom. He forgets the rules of the dance or the mimic combat, but his body and mind retain the alacrity and grace which they impart. We may fairly reckon that with the landscape motive, as with other forms of the sympathetic emotions, all sound training will but serve to enlarge and emancipate the instinct, giving it a chance to attain something like the place that music and acting have won with like aid from the rational side of the mind. As regards the art of appreciat- ing the landscape, we are at present in the state in which music and acting were before the score and the stage had been invented. Men whistled, sang, and mim- icked their fellows before they brought these actions into set form. No one will doubt, however, that the higher steps have been well taken, and that the musical and dramatic motives are really finer than they were of old. If, as seems likely, we can bring into definite shape, by educative means, the emotions which lead to pleasure in the landscape, we shall thereby add anoth- er important art to those which serve to dignify our lives. The art of seeing the landscape has a certain advantage over all the others we have invented, in that the data it uses are ever before those who are blessed with eyes. Out- side of prison, a man is sure of the sky, the largest, most varied, and in some regards the richest element of all scenes. The earth about him may be defiled, but rarely in such measure that it will not yield him good fruit. Every look abroad tempts him beyond himself into an en- larging contact with nature. Not only are the opportunities for this art ever soliciting the mind, but the practice of it demands no long and painful novitiate. There is much satisfaction at the very beginning of the practice; it grows with exercise, until it opens the world as no other art can do. N. Shaler. UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF CARLYLE. Iv-. Ix April, 1861, Carlyle went to hear Ruskins lecture on Leaves; and in August, 1862, highly praised to Erskine the same writers Unto this Last. April 29, 1863, Carlyle wrote thus of one of Dickenss readings: I had to go yesterday to Dickenss Reading, 8 p. in. Hanover Rooms, to the complete upsetting of my evening habitudes and spiritual composure. Dickens does do it capitally, such as it is; acts better than any Macready in the world; a whole tragic, comic, heroic theatre visi- ble, performing under one hat, and VOL. LXXXH. No. 494. 50 keeping us laughing in a sorry way, some of us thought the whole night. He is a good creature, too, and makes fifty or sixty pounds by each of these readings. Carlyles unfortunate horse, mentioned in the following letter, was Fritz. He was sold for nine pounds. Lady Ash- burton supplied a successor, whom Car- lyle called Noggs. xxxvii. GARLYLE TO MRS. RANKING, HAMIL- TON, c. w. CHELSEA, LONDON, 13 Aug. 1863. DEAR SISTER JENNY, It is a long time since I have had on hand to send

Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. 785 are profitably removed from the animal plane by education, as by a training in dancing or fencing. While a novice in them, the youth is conscious of all he does, but, as is well said, the second na- ture stage of the culture again makes him free with a perfected freedom. He forgets the rules of the dance or the mimic combat, but his body and mind retain the alacrity and grace which they impart. We may fairly reckon that with the landscape motive, as with other forms of the sympathetic emotions, all sound training will but serve to enlarge and emancipate the instinct, giving it a chance to attain something like the place that music and acting have won with like aid from the rational side of the mind. As regards the art of appreciat- ing the landscape, we are at present in the state in which music and acting were before the score and the stage had been invented. Men whistled, sang, and mim- icked their fellows before they brought these actions into set form. No one will doubt, however, that the higher steps have been well taken, and that the musical and dramatic motives are really finer than they were of old. If, as seems likely, we can bring into definite shape, by educative means, the emotions which lead to pleasure in the landscape, we shall thereby add anoth- er important art to those which serve to dignify our lives. The art of seeing the landscape has a certain advantage over all the others we have invented, in that the data it uses are ever before those who are blessed with eyes. Out- side of prison, a man is sure of the sky, the largest, most varied, and in some regards the richest element of all scenes. The earth about him may be defiled, but rarely in such measure that it will not yield him good fruit. Every look abroad tempts him beyond himself into an en- larging contact with nature. Not only are the opportunities for this art ever soliciting the mind, but the practice of it demands no long and painful novitiate. There is much satisfaction at the very beginning of the practice; it grows with exercise, until it opens the world as no other art can do. N. Shaler. UNPUBLISHED LETTERS OF CARLYLE. Iv-. Ix April, 1861, Carlyle went to hear Ruskins lecture on Leaves; and in August, 1862, highly praised to Erskine the same writers Unto this Last. April 29, 1863, Carlyle wrote thus of one of Dickenss readings: I had to go yesterday to Dickenss Reading, 8 p. in. Hanover Rooms, to the complete upsetting of my evening habitudes and spiritual composure. Dickens does do it capitally, such as it is; acts better than any Macready in the world; a whole tragic, comic, heroic theatre visi- ble, performing under one hat, and VOL. LXXXH. No. 494. 50 keeping us laughing in a sorry way, some of us thought the whole night. He is a good creature, too, and makes fifty or sixty pounds by each of these readings. Carlyles unfortunate horse, mentioned in the following letter, was Fritz. He was sold for nine pounds. Lady Ash- burton supplied a successor, whom Car- lyle called Noggs. xxxvii. GARLYLE TO MRS. RANKING, HAMIL- TON, c. w. CHELSEA, LONDON, 13 Aug. 1863. DEAR SISTER JENNY, It is a long time since I have had on hand to send 786 Unpublished Letters of Carl gle. you the little bit of remembrance marked on the other page, but I am held in such a ferment of perpetual hurry and bother- ation here and have grown so weak and weary of my sad work, (till it do end), that I have seldom five minutes to dis- pose of in my own way, and leave many little jobs undone for a long time and many little satisfactions unenjoyed for want of a bold stroke at them. Finally I bethought me of the Dr. in Edinburgh and he has now got me your little paper into readiness for sending. I understand you have nothing to do but present it at the Bank and at once get payment. If, (till you have time to write a long letter of news, which will be very welcome), you at once address me a Canada news- paper with thre~ strokes, nothing more will be necessary in regard to this little bit of business. I expect to get done with my book in six or eight months. 0 that I saw the day! I can and have been working thitherward with all the strength that I possess, to the hurt of my health as well, but I calculate when the end have once come I shall begin directly to im- prove more or less, and perhaps by de- grees get very considerably better again. I had an excellent horse who had carried me 7 years and above twenty thousand miles, his hoofs were got spoiled on the stone hard roads. He came plunging down with me one day, (not throwing me nor hurting me in the slightest), a most decided fall for no reason whatever upon which I had to sell him (to a kind master for an old song), and for the last six weeks have been walking, which was a great enjoyment by way of change. It would not do, however, and since about a week I am mounted again: very swift, very rough (in comparison to my old friend), but good natured, healthy, willing: and must continue adding a dozen miles daily to the twenty thousand already done. We have had such a winter for warmth as was never seen before, not very healthy, I believe, but it has agreed well with Jane: and indeed the kin- dred, I think, are all well. Poor Wullie Carlyle (if you remember him at all) died lately at Edinburgh, an old man, as we are all growing hereabouts. Tell Alick about my affairs and this last news you have had. That I never do or can forget him, he need not be told. I hope your lasses are doing well and that Robert and all of you are push- ing along patiently, faithfully as hereto- fore. In August, 1863, Mrs. Carlyle fell in St. Martins Lane and broke her thigh. The accident resulted in long illness and pain. During the spring of 1864 she grew worse, and in March was taken to St. Leonards. From a subsequent trip to Scotland she returned in October to Cheyne Row, weak, shattered, body worn to a shadow, spirit bright as ever. The last volume of Frederick was pub- lished in April, 1865. When the proofs were finished, Carlyle and his wife went to Devonshire for a few weeks with Lady Ashburton. xxxviii. CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, HAM- ILTON, C. w. CHELSEA, 4 May, 1865. DEAR JENNY, Two or three days ago, I saw a letter from you to Sister Jean; which was very welcome here, as bringing more definite news of you than we had got for a good while be- fore. I have now got done with my Book (a copy of it probably in your hands before this); and am not hence- forth to be so dreadfully hampered in writing a little note to my friends from time to time. I am still in a huge fuss, confusions of all kinds lying about me, and indeed I am just about running off for Scotland (to Jeans, in the first place), to try and recover a little from the com- pletely shattered state these twelve years of incessant drudgery and slaving have reduced me to. But there is something Unpublished Letters of 6~arlyle. 787 I had meant, this long time and here it is just come to hand. Inclosed is a Paper which will bring you the amount of Dollars for 20, on your presenting it at the Hamilton Bank. If by way of identifying, they ask you who sends the money, you can answer with my name, and if further needful, add that the Negociator for me with the Edinr. Bank, was Dr. Carlyle of that City. Nothing more, I suppose, if even that much will be necessary. Let me know by return that it is safe in your hand (a newspaper with three strokes will serve if you are short of time for the moment). ~ And so with my best blessings, dear little Jenny, accept this poor mark of my remembrance. My Jane is very frail and feeble, but always stirring about, and has got bless- edly away out of the horrible torments she had (and all of you had on her ac- count) last year. Scotsbrig, Gill, Dum- fries, Edinburgh; all is going in the usual average way there. To you I can fancy what a distress the removal of your poor little Mary and her Hus- band to the Far West must be! These things happen and are inevitable in the current of life. That your son-in-law is a good man, this should be a great joy to you. Do not you be too hasty to fol- low to Iowa; consider it well first. You see what a shaky hand I have; you do not see the bitter hurry I am still in! With kindest wishes to you and all your household, Ever your Affectionate Brother, T. CARLYLE. Carlyle was elected Lord Rector of the University of Edinburgh in Novem- ber, 1865; and on April 2, 1866, spoke his inaugural address at Edinburgh, of which the best account known to me best for a general impression of Carlyle is that given by Mr. Moncure Conway. On the 2lst of April the news of Mrs. Carlyles sudden death was brought to Carlyle at his sisters house in Dumfries. The epitaph which he wrote for her grave in the abbey church of Haddington ends with the words, And the light of his life as if gone out. An episode of the time when that light was fading will remain longer with some of us than most of the occur- rences of Carlyles life. Mrs. Oliphant has left a sketch, done with very few lines, of Mrs. Carlyle playing Scotch airs to the tall old man in his dress- ing-gown, sitting meditative by the fire. Carlyle himself, in his Journal for De- cember 3, 1867, described the last of these occasions: One evening, I think in the spring of 1866, we two had come up from dinner and were sitting in this room, very weak and weary creatures, perhaps even I the wearier, though she far the weaker; I at least far the more inclined to sleep, which directly after dinner was not good for me. Lie on the sofa there, said she the ever kind and graceful, herself refusing to do so there, but dont sleep, and I, after some superficial objecting, did. In old years I used to lie that way, and she would play the piano to me: a long se- ries of Scotch tunes which set my mind finely wandering through the realms of nI~mory and romance, and effectually prevented sleep. That evening I had lain but a few minutes when she turned round to her piano, got out the Thom- son Burns book, and, to my surprise and joy, broke out again into her bright little stream of harmony and poesy, silent for at least ten years before, and gave me, in soft tinkling beauty, pathos, and melody, all my old favourites: Banks and Braes, Flowers of the Forest, Gilderoy, not forgetting Duncan Gray, Cauld Kail, Irish Coolen, or any of my favourites tragic or comic. . . That piano has never again sound- ed, nor in my time will or shall. In late months it has grown clearer to me than ever that she had said to herself that night, I will play his tunes all yet once, and had thought it would be but 788 U~upublished Letters of Garlyle. once. . . . This is now a thing infinite- ly touching to me. So like her; so like her. Alas, alas! I was very blind, and might have known better how near its setting my bright sun was. The following letter is shadowed with the death of Mrs. Carlyle, although near- ly two years had passed. XXXIX. CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, HAMIL- TON, C. w. CHELSEA, 14th February, 1868. M~ DEAR JENNY, This is a little New Years gift which I intended for you sooner. It (the essential part of it) has been lying here apart and wrapt up for you ever since Christmas time, but I never could get up to have it made into a banking, portable form till now, so languid, sad and lazy have I been! The banks all close at an earlier hour than my walking one, and it is rare that I can get so far into town in time. I am dreadfully indisposed to writing, and even my poor shaking right hand makes continual protest! I hope the poor lit- tle Gift will be welcome to you and in some savings bank or otherwise be inno- cently waiting to do you good some time or other! I am told there will be no difficulty for you at the Gore Bank in Hamilton merely to go thither and sign your name. A newspaper with three strokes will sufficiently announce it for me till you have leisure for writ- ing. I have also sent a photograph for nephew Toms young wife, to whom, with all my affectionate regards to them both, pray send it by your first oppor- tunity. There is another (if the letter will carry it), for yourself for your own free disposal otherwise. I am not specially in worse health than usual, but excessively languid, dis- pirited, weary, sad and idle especial- ly in the late dark months of winter, which however are now gone, and in- deed were never severe, but lighter upon us than common. Jean has been here ever since early in December. It makes the house a little less lonesome to me than it has become for the last twenty two months, but cannot, as you may imagine, lift the heavy heart of me into anything of cheeriness, nor indeed per- haps should it. She will go home by Liverpool before long, where her son Jim (who is a clever solid fellow and has got promotion in Liverpool) is just setting up house with his sister Maggie as Manageress. Their mother will look in so soon as they have the home settled. All kinds of business are reported as ut- terly dull here: much distress among the idle poor and a general silent anxiety as to this new Reform Bill or Leap in the dark, poor stupid souls! An extremely accursed atrocity of mur- der and worse has happened in Cum- mertrees, which has thrown all the com- munity into horror and excitation of which you will see or hear soon enough in the newspapers and probably know the location as I do. Your kindred in Annandale and here are all well and I can send their best regards. Ever your affectionate brother, T. CARIJYLE. In October, 1868, Carlyle was again thrown, this time from a horse named Comet. A conversation with the Queen, the death of Mr. Erskine of Linlathen, and a letter to the Times newspaper on the Franco-Prussian war were among the events of the next few years. Carlyle speaks again now of his shak- ing right hand. A few weeks after he quite lost the use of it for writing with a pen. Mary Aitken, ready to write to his dictation, was Mary Carlyle Ait- ken, daughter to his sister Jean. XL. CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, HAMIL- TON, c. w. 5 CHEYNE Row, CHELSEA, 13 Feb. 1871. M~ DEAR SISTER JENNY, Here is a little bit of a present which you must ac- cept from me; it was intended for the Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. 789 New Years time, but has been belated; which will do it no great ill with you. Buy yourself something nice with it; and consider at all times that my affec- tionate best wishes are with you; and that if I could in any way do you a use- ful kindness, I gladly would. We get a good few Canada news- papers from you; welcome tokens of your remembrance: in one of the last, there was a very melancholy item of news marked by your hand, the death of your dear little grandchild, poor Marys Bairn; we conceived painfully how sad it must have made you all; and were ourselves sad and sorry. Poor Mary, she was herself a child when I saw her last, and she is now a bereaved mother: Death snatches us from one another at all ages! I often think with silent gratitude to Providence how gen- tly we older ones have been dealt with in this respect; saved, a whole family of us, for so many years; none lost but poor Margaret, (very dear, and very sa- cred to me at this hour), and a wee wee Jenny whom you never saw, but whose death, and my mothers unappeasable grief for it, are still strangely present to me, after near seventy years. All we can say is, both the Living and the Dead are with God; and we have to obey, and be of hope. You regret sometimes that I do not write to you; but it is not my blame, it is my misfortune rather. For rather above five years past my right hand has been getting useless for writing, (the left strangely enough, is still steady, and holds good) ; the weight of years, too, 75 of them gone December last, presses heavy on me; and all work, but most especially all kinds of writing, are a thing I avoid as sorrowfully disagree- able. Mary Aitken, who drives an ad- mirable pen, is indeed ever willing to be dictated to; and I do, in cases of ne- cessity, trust that method; but find, on the whole, that it never will succeed with me. From the Dr. and from Jean I believe you get all the news that are worth writ- ing; and that is the main interest in the matter. The Dr. is in Edinburgh of late weeks, and seems to be enjoying himself among old friends : and finds it, no doubt, a pleasant and useful interruption of his Dumfries solitude, to which he will return with fresh appetite. He is much stronger and cheerier than I; five years younger, and at least twice five lighter of heart. He has an excellent lodging at Dumfries yonder; and is of much service to all the kindred; every one of whom he is continually ready to help. Mary Aitken has been here with me above two years : a bright little soul, writing for me, trying to be useful and cheerful to me. I have plenty of friends here; but none of them do me much good, except by their evident good- will; company in general is at once wearisome and hurtful to me; silence, and the company of my own sombre thoughts, sad probably, but also loving and beautiful, are wholesomer than talk- ing; these and a little serious reading are my chief resource. I have no bodily ailment, except what belongs to the grad- ual decay of a digestive faculty which was always weak; except when sleep- less nights afflict me too much, I have no reason to complain, but the contrary. This winter, now nearly done, has been a blusterous, cold, inclement one as any I can latterly remember; it grew at last to tell upon me as the unfriendliest of all its brethren : but I think, after all, it may have done me little or no int~insic damage. With the new Spring and its bright days I hope to awaken again and shake away this torpor of nerves and mind. I have long owed Alick a letter that is to say, intended to write him one, though by count it is his turn. I often think of you all on that side the Sea as well as this; if that could do you any good, alas! I will end here, dear little Sister; wishing all that is good to 790 Unpublished Letters of Garlyle. you and yours, as at all times. I am and remain, Ever your affectionate Brother, T. CARLYLE. Send a newspaper with 3 strokes when this comes: dont trouble yrself with any other announcement. In November, 1872, Emerson made his last visit to England. Carlyle was iiow reduced to writing in largish let- ters with blue pencil. After the next letter he never wrote again with his own hand to Mrs. Hanning or to any mem- ber of the family across the Atlantic. XLI. CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, HAMIL- TON, C. w. CHELSEA, 2 Jane 1873. DEAR SISTER JENNY, I please my- self with the thought that you will ac- cept this little Newyears Gift from me as a sign of my unalterable affection, whh tho it is obliged to be silent (un- able to write as of old) cannot fade away until I myself do! Of that be always sure, my dear little sister, and that if in anything I can be of help to you or yours, I right willingly will. Cliuthills Photograph is wonder- ful and deeply affecting to me. Not one feature in it can I recognise as his : such are the changes half-a-century works upon us! If you have any means, send him my affectionate remembrances and unchanged good-wishes. No more from this lame hand, dear Sister Jenny, except my hearts bless- ings for the year and forever. Y~ affects Brother, T. CARLYLE. Carlyles eightieth birthday Decem- ber 4, 1875 (year of Early Kings of Norway and Portraits of John Knox) was celebrated with a memorial from his friends and a whirlwind of gifts and congratulations. In February, 1876, John Forster died, and in April Carlyles brother Alexander. Carlyle wrote in his Journal: Young Alicks account of his death is altogether in- teresting a scene of sublime simpli- city, great and solemn under the hum- blest forms. That question of his, when his eyes were already shut, and his mind wavering before the last finis of all : Is Tom coIning from Edinburgh the morn? will never leave me should I live a hundred years. Poor Alick, my ever faithful brother! Come back across wide oceans and long decades of time to the scenes of brotherly companionship with me, and going out of the world as it were with his hand in mine. Many times he convoyed me to meet the Dum- fries coach, or to bring me home from it, and full of bright and perfect affec- tion always were those meetings and partings. The last bit of Carlyles writing printed during his life was a letter to the Times, in May, 1877, on the Russo-Turkish war. In the same year Boehm made a statue of Carlyle, and Millais a portrait. John Carlyle died in 1879. Carlyle was now growing steadily weaker, and by October of 1880 was under the con- stant care of a physician. Mary Aitken, by marriage with her cousin Alexander Carlyle, was now be- come Mary Carlyle. XLII. MRS. ALEXANDER CARLYLE TO MRS. HANNING, HAMiLTON, C. W. 24 CHEYNE Row, CHELSEA, 18 July, 1880. M~ DEAR AUNT, I received my Cousin Mrs. Bairds letter about ten days ago, asking for tidings of my Uncle. I am extremely sorry that you have been made anxious about him through my not writing; but indeed there have been many sufficient apologies for my waut of punctuality in that way, which, how- ever, I need not trouble you with here. It will suffice to say that I use the very first chance I have had to answer your enquiries. Unpublished Letters of Carl yle ~91 It is not very easy to explain to you exactly how Uncle is. He is exceedingly weak, hardly able to walk fifty yards without help, and yet until about ten days ago, when he had a very severe at- tack of Diarrhaia which has left him much below par, he was what one might call for him very well. He generally spends his mornings till about half past two oclock between lying on the sofa, reading in his easy chair, and smoking an occasional pipe; at half past two he goes out to drive for two or two and a half hours, sleeps on the sofa till dinner time (half past six) then after dinner sleeps again, at nine has tea, reads or smokes or talks, or lies on the sofa till bed time, which is usually about mid- night, and so ends the day. He looks very well in the face, has a fine, fresh ruddy complexion and an immense quan- tity of white hair, his voice is clear and strong, he sees and hears quite well; but for the rest, as I have said, lie is not good at moving about. In general he is wonderfully good humored and con- tented; and on the whole carries his eighty-four years well. He desires me to send you his kind love, and his good wishes: as you know, he writes to no- body at all. I do not think he has writ- ten a single letter, even dictated one, for over a year. We are very glad to hear that all is well with you and with all your family. I have not time for more just now, as I am interrupted. Good-bye, dear aunt. I am, Your affectionate Niece, MARY CARLYLE. Carlyle died on the 5th of February, 1881. The Abbey was offered, but re- fused; and, as the world knows, Carlyle was buried in the kirkyard of his native Ecclefechan. The following narrative of the funeral is from the pen of Mr. John Carlyle Aitken, brother to Mary Aitken Carlyle. One likes his letters less than his sisters, which are perfect iii their unaffected plainness. XLIII. MR. JOHN CARLYLE AITREN TO MRS. HANNING, HAMILTON, C. W. Tm~ HILL, DIJMFRIES, N. B., 11 Feb., 1881. M~ DEAR AUNT, Today I mean only to write a note of the more needful details, reserving for a more fitting time the full statement. I need not worry you with the account of my tempestu- ous voyage from New York, in which I made acquaintance with a hurricane, and its full meaning nor how glad I was at sight of the dear bare and rugged hills of my native land Leaving America to the Americans and welcome! I shall think for sometime ere I do the herring-pond again! Well, no more of that if you love me! no more o that! I am home, and well, and likely to re- main there for the remainder of my days in one shape or other. Let that serve just now on that score. You would observe the date of Uncles death and might hear of it the same day, as I thought. At all events The Scotsman would supply more details; and that I hope reached you all right. All has been in such hurry, bustle and confusion ever since that no one has had time to think of writing anything requir- ing time or calm consideration. Uncle had not been considered seriously ill more thaii about a fortnight or so before the end. The vital spark of life towards the last days kept flickering in a way so extraordinary that the Doctor declared he had never met such tenacity of life and vitality in the whole course of his varied London and other experience. Dear Uncle, the good, true and noble old man fhat he was, really suffered lit- tle in the way of pain for some weeks before his death, which was itself little more than a gentle flickering sleep, end- ing in a scarcely heard last sigh of sound. While lying in a comatose or unconscious state his mind seemed to wander back to old Annandale memo- ries of his ever loved ones and their sur- roundings; his mother holding her su 792 Unpublished Letters of Carl yle. preme seat surrounded by a trooping throng of once familiar faces, not very greatly less dear to him. He died full of years, with all his weary task of worlds work well and nobly done, and leaves no mortal behind him who does not love and reverence his life and memory. By the newspapers I send today you may see how very quiet the funeral yesterday was. The vale of Annan was grim and wintry. You could catch a glimpse of Hoddam, the Brownmuir, Woodcockaire, and all the old places through the white roupy mist hanging over and round them. The most touch- ing sight I saw was that of three gray haired, smooth crowned fathers of the village of Ecclefechan, who stood togeth- er by the way-side, bare-headed and with unfeigned sadness of face and manner silently and impressively bearing witness to their sorrow. It was really very touch- ing to look upon. The Presbyterian Kirk bells tolled mournfully as they laid him gently in the bed of rest within a few yards of the place where he first drew the breath of life, and all was as unosten- tatious as he himself desired it might be. Ah, me! Ah, me! Uncle James was there, as the last male link of the ever shortening chain. Mother bids me send her love to you and your fellow mourners who here and over all the wide world are many. All would gladly unite in sympathy and love with you in your far away home. Ever affectionately, JOHN C. AITKEN. I give here the conclusion of Mr. Reginald Blunts account of the move- ment to preserve Carlyles house: The canvass was pushed vigorously forward from the beginning of 1895. Circulars and letters were widely distrib- uted, the assistance of libraries through- out the country was invoked, and, by the invitation of the Lord Mayor, a crowded meeting was held at the Mansion House at the end of February, and addressed by Lord Ripon, the United States Am- bassador, Mr. Leonard Courtney, Mr. Leslie Stephen, and Mr. Crockett. Funds came in slowly, but steadily; auxiliary committees were formed in New York and in Glasgow, and over 400 was re- mitted from America. By the end of April about 2000 had been collected, sufficient to complete the purchase, pay the expenses of the fund, and carry out part of the essential repairs. The free- hold of the house was accordingly bought in May, and, after a careful survey of its actual condition, the necessary works were put in hand at the end of the month, and completed in June. The end of the season in London, and the occurrence of a General Election in July, rendered the arrangement of any opening ceremony impossible, and the House was therefore opened informally at the end of July, and was visited by over a thousand persons, from all parts of the world, during the next six weeks. In December, 1897, at the age of eighty-four, died Janet Carlyle Hanning, the last surviving Carlyle of her gener- ation. As the reader has seen, many of the foregoing letters were addressed to her. Those which had passed between other members of the family, and were afterward either carried by her beyond seas or sent to her in Canada, were kept by Mrs. Hanning as precious memorials of family affection. Charles Townsend Copeland. Gal~fornia and the Californians. CALIFORNIA AND THE CALIFORNIANS. THE Californian loves his state be- cause his state loves him, and he re- turns her love with a fierce affection that men of other regions are slow to understand. Hence he is impatient of outside criticism. Those who do not love California cannot understand her, and, to his mind, their shafts, however aimed, fly wide of the mark. Thus, to say that California is commercially asleep, that her industries are gambling ventures, that her local politics is in the hands of professional pickpockets, that her small towns are the shabbiest in Christendom, that her saloons control more constituents than her churches, that she is the slave of corporations, that she knows no such thing as public opinion, that she has not yet learned to distinguish enterprise from highway robbery nor reform from blackmail, all these things and many more the Californian may admit in discussion or may say himself, but he does not find them acceptable from others. They may be more or less true, in certain times and places, but the conditions which have permitted them will like- wise mend them. It is said in the Alps that not all the vulgar people who come to Chamonix can ever make Chamonix vulgar. For similar rea- sons, not all the sordid people who drift overland can ever vulgarize California. Her fascination endures, whatever the accidents of population. The charm of California has, in the main, three sources, scenery, climate, and freedom of life. To know the glory of California scenery, one must live close to it through the changing years. From Sis- kiyou to San Diego, from Mendocino to Nariposa, from Tahoe to the Far- ralones, lake, crag, or chasm, forest, mountain, valley, or island, river, bay, or jutting headland, every one bears the stamp of its own peculiar beauty, a singular blending of richness, wildness, and warmth. Coastwise everywhere sea and mountains meet, and the surf of the cold Japanese current breaks in turbu- lent beauty against tall rincones and jagged reefs of rock. Slumbering amid the hills of the Coast Range, A misty camp of mountains pitched tumult- uously, lie golden valleys dotted with wide- limbed oaks, or smothered under over- weighted fruit trees. Here, too, crum- ble to ruins the old Franciscan missions, passing monuments of Californias first page of written history. Inland rises the great Sierra, with spreading ridge and foothill, like some huge, sprawling centipede, its granite back unbroken for a thousand miles. Frost-torn peaks, of every height and bearing, pierce the blue wastes above. Their slopes are dark with forests of noble pines and giant sequoias, the mightiest of trees, in whose silent aisles one may wander all day long and see no sign of man. Dropped here and there rest purple lakes which mark the craters of dead volcanoes, or swell the polished basins where vanished glaciers did their last work. Through moun- tain meadows run swift brooks over- peopled with trout, while from the crags leap full-throated streams, to be half blown away in mist before they touch the valley floor. Far down the fra- grant caiions sing the green and troubled rivers, twisting their way lower and lower to the common plains. Even the hopeless stretches of alkali and sand, sinks of lost streams, in the southeastern counties, are redeemed by the delectable mountains that somewhere shut them in. Everywhere the landscape seems to swim in crystalline ether, while over all broods 793

Gal~fornia and the Californians. CALIFORNIA AND THE CALIFORNIANS. THE Californian loves his state be- cause his state loves him, and he re- turns her love with a fierce affection that men of other regions are slow to understand. Hence he is impatient of outside criticism. Those who do not love California cannot understand her, and, to his mind, their shafts, however aimed, fly wide of the mark. Thus, to say that California is commercially asleep, that her industries are gambling ventures, that her local politics is in the hands of professional pickpockets, that her small towns are the shabbiest in Christendom, that her saloons control more constituents than her churches, that she is the slave of corporations, that she knows no such thing as public opinion, that she has not yet learned to distinguish enterprise from highway robbery nor reform from blackmail, all these things and many more the Californian may admit in discussion or may say himself, but he does not find them acceptable from others. They may be more or less true, in certain times and places, but the conditions which have permitted them will like- wise mend them. It is said in the Alps that not all the vulgar people who come to Chamonix can ever make Chamonix vulgar. For similar rea- sons, not all the sordid people who drift overland can ever vulgarize California. Her fascination endures, whatever the accidents of population. The charm of California has, in the main, three sources, scenery, climate, and freedom of life. To know the glory of California scenery, one must live close to it through the changing years. From Sis- kiyou to San Diego, from Mendocino to Nariposa, from Tahoe to the Far- ralones, lake, crag, or chasm, forest, mountain, valley, or island, river, bay, or jutting headland, every one bears the stamp of its own peculiar beauty, a singular blending of richness, wildness, and warmth. Coastwise everywhere sea and mountains meet, and the surf of the cold Japanese current breaks in turbu- lent beauty against tall rincones and jagged reefs of rock. Slumbering amid the hills of the Coast Range, A misty camp of mountains pitched tumult- uously, lie golden valleys dotted with wide- limbed oaks, or smothered under over- weighted fruit trees. Here, too, crum- ble to ruins the old Franciscan missions, passing monuments of Californias first page of written history. Inland rises the great Sierra, with spreading ridge and foothill, like some huge, sprawling centipede, its granite back unbroken for a thousand miles. Frost-torn peaks, of every height and bearing, pierce the blue wastes above. Their slopes are dark with forests of noble pines and giant sequoias, the mightiest of trees, in whose silent aisles one may wander all day long and see no sign of man. Dropped here and there rest purple lakes which mark the craters of dead volcanoes, or swell the polished basins where vanished glaciers did their last work. Through moun- tain meadows run swift brooks over- peopled with trout, while from the crags leap full-throated streams, to be half blown away in mist before they touch the valley floor. Far down the fra- grant caiions sing the green and troubled rivers, twisting their way lower and lower to the common plains. Even the hopeless stretches of alkali and sand, sinks of lost streams, in the southeastern counties, are redeemed by the delectable mountains that somewhere shut them in. Everywhere the landscape seems to swim in crystalline ether, while over all broods 793 794 Gatifornia and the Cal~fornians. the warm California sun. Here, if any- where, life is worth living, full and rich and free. As there is from end to end of Cali- fornia scarcely one commonplace mile, so from one end of the year to the other there is hardly a tedious day. Two sea- sons only has California, but two are enough if each iu its way be perfect. Some have called the climate monoto- nous, but so, no doubt, is good health. In terms of Eastern experience, tbe sea- sons may be defined as late in the spring and early in the fall; Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and sky, according to Bret Harte. But with the dust and sky comes the unbroken succes- sion of days of sunshine, the dry invigor- ating air, and the boundless overflow of vine and orchard. Each season in its turn brings its fill of satisfaction, and winter or summer we regret to look for- ward to change, because we would not give up what we have for the remem- bered delights of the season that is past. If one must choose, in all the fragrant California year the best month is June; for then the air is softest, and a touch of summers gold overlies the green of winter. But October, when the first swift rains dash the whole long slope with color, and leave the clean-washed atmosphere so absolutely transparent that even dis- tance is no longer blue, has a charm not less alluring. So far as man is concerned, the one essential fact is that he is never the climates slave; he is never beleaguered by the powers of the air. Winter and summer alike call him out of doors. In summer he is not languid, for the air is iever sultry. In most regions he is seldom hot, for in the shade or after nightfall the dry air is always cool. When it rains, the air may be chilly, in- doors or out, but it is never cold enough to make the remorseless base-burner a welcome alternative. The habit of roast- ing ones self all winter long is unknown iu California. The old Californian sel- dom built a fire for warmths sake. When he was cold in the house lie went out of doors to get warm. The house was a place for storing food and keeping ones belongings from the wet. To hide in it from the weather would be to lay a false stress on its function. The climate of California is especial- ly kind to childhood and old age. Men live longer there, and, if unwasted by dissipation, strength of body is better conserved. To children the conditions of life are particularly favorable. Cali- fornia could have no better advertise- ment at some worlds fair than the visi- ble demonstration of this fact. A series of measurements of the children of Oak- land has recently been taken, in the in- terest of comparative child-study; and should the average of these for differ- ent ages be worked into a series of moulds or statues for comparison with similar models from Eastern cities, the result would cause surprise. The chil- dren in California, other things being equal, are larger, stronger, and better formed than their Eastern cousins of the same age. This advantaige of develop- ment lasts, unless cigarettes, late hours, or grosser forms of dissipation come in to destroy it. A wholesome, sober, out- of-door life in California invariably means a vigorous maturity. A third element of charm in Califor- nia is that of personal freedom. The dominant note in the social develop- ment of the state is individualism, with all that this implies of good or evil. Man is man, in California: lie exists for his own sake, not as part of a social or- ganism. He is, in a sense, superior to society. In the first place, it is not his society; he came froni some other region on his own business. Most likely, he did not intend to stay; but, having sum- mered and wintered in California, he has become a Californian, and now lie Ual~fornia and the Ual~fornians. 795 is not contented anywhere else. Life on the coast has, for him, something of the joyous irresponsibility of a picnic. The feeling of children released from school remains with grown people. A Western man, says Dr. Amos G. Warner, is an Eastern man who has had some additional experiences. The Californian is a man from some- where or anywhere in America or Eu- rope, typically from New England, per- haps, who has learned a thing or two he did not know in the East, and perhaps has forgotten some things it would have been as well to remember. Time things he has learned relate chiefly to elbow- room, nature at first hand, and the unearned increment. The tIming he is most likely to forget is that escape from public opinion is not escape from the consequences of wrong action. Of elbow - room California offers abundance. In an old civilization men grow like trees in a close-set forest. Individual growth and symmetry give way to the necessity of crowding. There is no room for spreading branches, and the characteristic qualities and fruitage develop only at the top. On the fron- tier men grow as the California live oak, which, in the open field, sends its branches far and wide. With plenty of elbow-room, the Cali- fornian works out his own inborn char- acter. If he is gree(ly, malicious, intem- perate, by nature, his bad qualities rise to the second degree in California, and sometimes to the third. The whole responsibility rests on himself. Society has no part of it, and he does not pre- tend to be what he is not, out of defer- ence to society. Hypocrisy is the homage vice pays to virtue, but in California no such homage is demanded or accepted. In like manner, the vir- tues become intensified in freedom. No- where in the world can one find men and women more hospitable, more re- fined, more charming, than in the homes of prosperous California~ And these homes, whether in the pine forests of the Sierras, in the orange groves of the south, in the peach orchards of the Coast Range, or on the great stock ranches, are the delight of all visitors who enter their open doors. To be sure, the bewildering hospitality of the great financiers and greater gamblers of the sixties and seventies is a thing of the past. We shall never again see such prodigal entertainment as that which Ralston, bankrupt, cynical, but magnifi- cent, once dispensed in Belmont Caiion. Nor do we find, nowadays, such lavish outgiving of fruit and wine, or such rush- ing of tallyhos, as once preceded the auction sale of town lots in paper cities. These gorgeous spreads were not hos- pitality, and disappeared when the tra- veler had learned his lesson. Their evident purpose was the sale of worth- less land to old duffers from the East. But real hospitality is characteristic of all parts of California where men and women have an income beyond the needs of the day. To a very unusual degree, the Cali- fornian forms his own opinions on mat- ters of politics, religion, and human life, and these views he expresses without reserve. His own head he carries un- der his own hat, and whether this be silk or a sombrero is a matter of his own choosing. The dictates of church and party have no binding force on him. The Californian does not confine his views to abstractions. He has his own opinions of individual men and women. If need be, he will analyze the charac- ter, motives, and actions of his neigh- bor in a way which will horrify the traveler who has grown up in the shade of a libel law. The typical Californian has largely outgrown provincialism. He has seen much of the world, and he knows the varied worth of varied lands. He tra- vels more widely than the man of any other state, and he has the educatioa which travel gives. As a rule, the well- 796 California and the Gal~fornians. to-do Californian knows Europe better than the average Eastern man of equal financial resources, and the chances are that his range of experience includes a part of Asia as well. A knowledge of his own country is a matter of course. He has no sympathy with the essen- tial provinciality of the mind which knows the Eastern seaboard, and has some measure of acquaintance with countries and cities, and with men from Ireland to Italy, but which is densely ignorant of our own vast domain, and thinks that all that lies beyond Phila- delphia belongs to the West. Not that provincialism is unknown in California, or that its occasional exhibition is any less absurd or offensive here than else- where. For example, one may note a tendency to set up local standards for literary work done in California. An- other, more harmful idea would insist that methods outworn in the schools elsewhere are good because they are Californian. This is the usual provin- cialism of ignorance, and it is found the world over. Especially is it character- istic of centres of population. When men come into contact with men in- stead of with the forces of nature, they mistake their own conventionalities for the facts of existence. It is not what life is, but what the singular mess we agree to call life is, that interests them. In this fashion they lose their real understanding of affairs, become the toys of their local environment, and are marked as provincials or tenderfeet when they stray away from home. California is emphatically one of earths male lands, to accept Brown- ings classification. The first Saxon settlers were men, and in their rude civilization women had no part. For years women in California were objects of curiosity or of chivalry, disturbing rather than cementing influences in so- ciety. Even yet California is essen- tially a mans state. It is common to say that public opinion does not exist there; but such a statement is not whol- ly correct. It does exist, but it is an out - of - door public opinion, a mans view of men. There is, for example, a strong public opinion against hypocrisy, in California, as more than one clerical renegade has found, to his discomfiture. The pretense to virtue is the one vice that is not forgiven. If a man be not a liar, few questions are asked, least of all the delicate one as to the name he went by in the states. What we com- monly call public opinion the cut-and- dried decision on social and civic ques- tions is made up in the house. It is essentially feminine in its origin, the opinion of householders as to how men should behave. In California there is little which corresponds to the social atmosphere pervading the snug, white- painted, green - blinded New England villages, and this little exists chiefly in communities of people transported thi- ther in block, traditions, convention- alities, prejudices, and all. There is, in general, no merit attached to conform- ity, and one may take a wide range of rope without necessarily arousing dis- trust. Speaking broadly, in California the virtues of life spring from within, and are not prescribed from without. The young man who is decent only because he thinks that some one is look- ing would do well to stay away. The stern law of individual responsibility turns the fool over to the fool-killer without a preliminary trial. No finer type of man can be found in the world than the sober Californian; and yet no coast is strewn with wrecks more pitiful. There are some advantages in the ab- sence of a compelling force of public opinion. One of them is found in the strong self-reliance of men and women who have made and enforced their own moral standards. With very many men life in California brings a decided strengthening of the moral fibre. They must reconsider, justify, and fight for their standards of action; and by so Ual~fornia and the Cal ~fornians. 791 doing they become masters of them- selves. With men of weak nature the result is not so encouraging. The bad side of this life is shown in lax business methods, official carelessness and corrup- tion, the widespread corrosions of vul- gar vices, and the general lack of pride in their work shown by artisans and craftsmen. In short, California is a mans land, with male standards of action, a land where one must give and take, stand and fall, as a man. With the growth of womans realm of homes and houses this will slowly change. It is changing now, year by year, for good and ill; and soon California will have a public opinion. Her sons will learn to fear the rod behind the looking-glass, and to shun evil not only because it is vile, but because it is improper. Contact with the facts of nature has taught the Californian something in it- self. To have elbow-room is to touch nature at more angles; and whenever she is touched, she is an insistent teacher. Whatever is to be done, the typical Cali- fornian knows how to do it, and how to do it well. He is equal to every occa- sion. He can cinch his own saddle, har- ness his own team, bud his own grape- vines, cook his own breakfast, paint his own house; and because he cannot go to the market for every little service, per- force he serves himself. In dealing with college students in California, one is im- pressed by their boundless ingenuity. If anything needs doing, some student can do it for you. Is it to sketch a water- fall, to engrave a portrait, to write a sonnet, to mend a saddle, to sing a song, to build an engine, or to bust a bronco, there is some one at hand who can do it, and do it artistically. Varied ingenu- ity California demands of her pioneers. Their native originality has been inten- sified by circumstances, until it has be- come a matter of tradition and habit. The processes of natural selection have favored the survival of the ingenious, and the quality of adequacy is become hereditary. The possibility of the unearned incre- ment is a great factor in the social evolu- tion of California. Its influence has been widespread, persistent, and in most re- gards baneful. The Anglo-Saxon first came to California for gold to be had for the picking up. The hope of secur- ing something for nothing, money or health without earning it, has been the motive for a large share of the subse- quent immigration. From those who have grown rich through undeserved prosperity, and from those who have grown poor in the quest of it, California has suffered sorely. Even now, far and wide, people think of California as a region where wealth is not dependent on thrift, where one can somehow strike it rich without that tedious attention to details and expenses which wears out life in effete regions such as Europe and the Eastern States. In this feeling there is just enough of truth to keep the no- tion alive, but never enough to save from disaster those who make it a working hypothesis. The hope of great or sud- den wealth has been the mainspring of enterprise in California, but it has also been the excuse for shiftlessness and recklessness, the cause of social disinte- gration and moral decay. The Argo- nauts of 49 were a strong, self-reliant, generous body of men. They came for gold, and gold in abundance. Most of them found it, and some of them retained it. Following them came a miscellane- ous array of parasites and plunderers; gamblers, dive-keepers and saloon-keep- ers, who fed fat on the spoils of the Ar- gonauts. Every Roaring Camp had its Jack Hamlin as well as its Flynn of Vir- ginia, and the wild, strong, generous, reckless aggregate cared little for thrift, and wasted more than they earned. But it is not gold alone that in Califor- nia has dazzled men with visions of sud- den wealth. Orange groves, peach or- chards, prune orchards, wheat-raising, 798 Ual~fornia and the Gal ~forni ans. lumbering, horse-farms, chicken-ranches, bee-ranches, seal - poaching~, codfishing, salmon-canning, each of these has held out the same glittering possibility. Even the humblest ventures have caught the prevailing tone of speculation. Industry and trade have been followed, not for a living, but for sudden wealth, and often on a scale of personal expenses out of all proportion to the probable results. In the sixties, when the gold fever began to subside, it was found that the despised cow counties would bear marvelous crops of wheat. At once wheat-raising was undertaken on a grand scale. Farms of five thousand to fifty thousand acres were established on the old Spanish grants in the valleys of the Coast Range and in the interior. The comparative exhaustion of the placer mines and the advent of quartz- crushing with elaborate machinery have changed gold-mining from speculation to regular business, to the great advan- tage of the state. In the same manner the development of irrigation is chan- ging the character of farming in many parts of California. In the early days fruit-raising was of the nature of specu- lation, but the spread of irrigation has brought it into more wholesome rela- tions. To irrigate a tract of land is to make its product certain; but at the same time, irrigation demands expenditure of money, and the building of a home neces- sarily follows. Irrigation thus tends to break up the vast farms into small hold- ings which become permanent homes. On land well chosen, carefully planted, and thriftily managed, an orchard of prunes or of oranges should reward its possessor with a comfortable living, be- sides occasionally an unexpected profit thrown in. But too often men have not been content with the usual return, and have planted trees with a view only to the unearned profits. rro make an hon- est living from the sale of oranges or prunes is quite another thing from ac- quiring sudden wealth. When a man without experience in fruit-raising or in general economy comes to California, buys land on borrowed capital, plants it without discrimination, and spends his profits in advance, there can be but one result. The laws of economics are in- exorable even in California. One of the curses of the state is the fool fruit- grower, with neither knowledge nor conscience in the management of his business. Thousands of trees have been planted on ground unsuitable for the pur- pose, and thousands of trees which ought to have done well have died through his neglect. Through his agency frozen or- anges are sent to Eastern markets under his neighbors brands, and most needless- ly his varied follies have spoiled the re- putation of the best of fruit. The great body of immigrants to Cali- fornia have been sound and earnest, fit citizens of the young state, but this is rarely true of seekers of the unearned increment. No one is more greedy for money than the man who can never get any. Rumors of golden chances have brought in a steady stream of incompe- tents from all places and all strata of social life. From the common tramp to the inventor of perpetual motions is a long step in the moral scale, but both are alike in their eagerness to escape from the competitive social order of the East, in which their abilities found no recognition. Whoever has deservedly failed in the older states is sure to think of redeeming his fortunes in California. Once on the Pacific slope the difficulties in the way of his return seem insurmount- able. The dread of the winters cold alone is in most cases a deterrent fac- tor. Thus San Francisco, by force of circumstances, has become the hopper into which fall incompetents from all the world, and from which few escape. The city contains about three hundred thou- sand people. Of these, a vast number, thirty thousand to fifty thousand, it may be, have no real business in San Fran- cisco. They live from hand to mouth, Ual~fornia and the Ual~fornians. 799 by odd jobs that might be better done by better people; and whatever their success in making a living, they swell the army of discontent, and confound all attempts to solve industrial problems. In this rough estimate I do not count San Franciscos own poor, of which there is a moderate proportion, but only those who have drifted in from the out- side. I would include, however, not only those who are economically im- potent, but also those who follow the weak for predatory ends. In this last category I place a certain number of saloon-keepers; a class of so-called law- yers; a long line of soothsayers, clair- voyants, lottery agents, and joint-keepers, beside gamblers, sweaters, promoters of medical institutes, magnetic, psychi- cal, and magic healers, and other types of unhanged scoundrels that feed upon the life-blood of the weak and foolish. The other cities of California have had a similar experience. Each has its repu- tation for hospitality, and each has a con- siderable population which has come in from other regions because incapable of making its own way. It is not the poor and helpless alone who are the victims of imposition. There are fools in all walks in life. Many a well-dressed man or woman can be found in the rooms of the clairvoyant or the Chinese doctor. In matters of health, especially, men grasp at the most unpromising straws. In one city I lately visited, I found scarcely a business block that did not contain at least one human leech under the trade name of healer, metaphysical, electri- cal, astral, divine, or what not. And these will thrive so long as men seek health or fortune with closed eyes and open hands. In no way has the unearned incre- ment been more mischievous than in the booming of cities. With the growth of towns comes increase in the value of the holdings of those who hold and wait. If the city grows rapidly enough, these gains may be inordinately great. The mar- velous beauty of Southern California and the charm of its climate have impressed thousands of people. Two or three times this impression has been epidemic. At one time almost every bluff along the coast, from Los Angeles to San Diego and beyond, was staked out in town lots. The wonderful climate was everywhere, and everywhere men had it for sale, not only along the coast, but throughout the orange-bearing region of the interior. Every resident bought lots, all the lots he could hold. The tourist took his hand in speculation. Corner lots in Sari .Diego, Del Mar, Azusa, Redlands, River- side, Pasadena, anywhere, brought fab- ulous prices. A village was laid out in the uninhabited bed of a mountain tor- rent, and men stood in the streets in Los Angeles, ranged in line, all night long, to await their turn in buying lots. Worthless land and inaccessible, barren cliffs, river-wash, sand hills, cactus de- serts, sinks of alkali, everything met with ready sale. The belief that Southern California would he one great city was universal. The desire to buy became a mania. Millionaires of a day, even the shrewdest lost their heads, and the boom ended, as such booms always end, in utter collapse. Mr. T. S. Van Dyke, of San Diego, has written of this collapse: The money-market tightened almost on the instant. From every quarter of the land the drain of money outward had been enormous, and had been balanced only by the immense amount constantly coming in. Almost from the day this inflow ceased money seemed scarce everywhere, for the outgo still contin- ued. Not only were vast sums going out every day for water-pipe, railroad iron, cement, lumber, and other materi- al for the great improvements going on in every direction, most of which mate- rial had already been ordered, but thou- sands more were still going out for dia- monds and a host of other things already bought, things that only increase the 800 Gal~fornia and the Cabfornians. general indebtedness of a community by making those who cannot afford them imitate those who can. And tens of thousands more were going out for but- ter, eggs, pork, and even potatoes and other vegetables, which the luxurious boomers thought it beneath the dignity of millionaires to raise. But the normal growth of Los Ange- les and her sister towns has gone on, in spite of these spasms of fever and their consequent chills. Their real advantages could not be obscured by the bursting of financial bubbles. By reason of sit- uation and climate they have continued. to attract men of wealth and enterprise, as well as those in search of homes and health. The search for the unearned incre- ment in bodily health brings many to California who might better have re- mained at home. The invalid finds health in California only if he is strong enough to grasp it. To one who can spend his life out of doors it is indeed true that our pines are trees of heal- ing, but to one confined to the house, there is little gain in the new conditions. To those accustomed to the close heat of Eastern rooms the California house in the winter seems depressingly chilly. I know of few things more pitiful than the annual migration of hop~less consumptives to Los Angeles, Pasadena, and San Diego. The Pullman cars in the winter are full of sick people, ban- ished from the East by physicians who do not know what else to do with their incurable patients. They go to the large hotels of Los Angeles or Pasadena, and pay a rate they cannot afford. They shiver in half-warmed rooms; take cold after cold; their symptoms grow alarm- ing; their money wastes away; and finally, in utter despair, they are hurried back homeward, perhaps to die on board the train. Or it may be that they choose cheap lodging-houses, at prices more nearly within their reach. Here again, they suffer for want of home food, home comforts, and home warmth, and the end is just the same. People hopelessly ill should remain with their friends; even California has no health to give to those who cannot earn it, in part at least, by their own exertions. It is true that the one-lunged peo- ple form a considerable part of the population of Southern California. It is also true that no part of our Union has a better population, and that many of these men and women are now as robust and vigorous as one could desire. But this happy change is possible only to those in the first stages of the dis-. ease. Out-of-door life and physical ac- tivity enable the system to suppress the germs of disease, but clitnate without activity does not cure. So far as cli- mate is concerned, many parts of the arid regions in Arizona, New Mexico, and Colorado are more favorable than California, because they are protected from the chill of the sea. Another class of health-seekers receives less sympathy in California, and perhaps deserves less. It is made up of jaundiced hypochondri- acs and neurotic wrecks. These people shiver in the California winter board- ing-houses, torment themselves with en- nui at the country ranches, poison them- selves with nerve foods, and perhaps finally survive to write the sad and squalid truth about California. Doubt- less it is all inexpressibly tedious to them: subjective woe is always hard to bear but it is not California. There are others, too, who are disaf- fected, but I shall not stop to discuss them or their points of view. It is true, in general, that few to whom any- thing else is anywhere possible find dis- appointment in California. With all this, the social life is, in its essentials, that of the rest of the United States, for the same blood flows in the veins of those whose influence dominates it. Under all its deviations and varia- tions lies the old Puritan conscience, which is still the backbone of the civili The Wholesome Revival of Byron. 801 zation of the republic. Life there is a little fresher, a little freer, a good deal richer, in its physical aspects, but for these reasons, possibly, more intensely and characteristically American. With perhaps ninety-five per cent of identity there is five per cent of divergence, and this five per cent I have emphasized even to exaggeration. We know our friends by their slight differences in fea- ture or expression, not by their common humanity. Much of this divergence is already fading away. Scenery and cli- mate remain, but there is less elbow- room, and the unearned increment is disappearing. That which is solid will endure; the rest will vanish. The forces that ally us to the East are growing stronger every year with the immigra- tion of men with new ideas. The vigor- ous growth of the two universities in California insures the elevation as well as the retention of these ideas. In this way, perhaps, California may contribute something to the social development of the East, and be a giver as well as a receiver. But to the last certain traits will persist. It is the most cosmopoli- tan of all the states of the Union, and such it will remain. Whatever the fates may bring, the people will be tolerant, hopeful, and adequate, sure of them- selves, masters of the present, fearless of the future. David Starr Jordan. THE WHOLESOME REVIVAL OF BYRON. THE simultaneous appearance of two sumptuous editions of Byron, from the presses of Messrs. Murray and Macmil- lan, must have rather a puzzling effect on certain critics and readers of poetry. So much has been written of late years about Wordsworth and Shelley, while their quondam rival has been treated with such contumelious silence, that the disdainers of Byron had begun to feel that the ground was entirely their own; and the faithful few, who in secret handed down the old Byron cult, must have fallen into desperation, for there are still a few faithful, like the well- known Greek scholar of whom it was remarked in my hearing that he never quoted any English save Byron and the Bible. But apart from these scoffers and idolaters, there are some who re- cognize fully all the imperfections of Byrons work, and yet regard the re- cent exaltation of Shelley and Words- worth so high above him as indicative of an effeminate and oversubtilized taste. To such persons the appearance of these VOL. Lxxxii. NO. 494. 51 new editions must be welcome as a pro- mise of renewed interest in the poet, and of a return to sounder principles of criticism. Much has been written about Byron; yet no author, perhaps, remains so much in need of calm and discriminating study. The elements of his genius are diverse, to a certain extent even contradictory; and to this fact are due in part the ex- traordinary unevenness of his own work and the curious divergence of opinion regarding him. In a word, the two master traits of Byrons genius are the revolutionary spirit and classical art. By classical is meant a certain predominance of the in- tellect over the emotions, and a reliance on broad effects rather than on subtle im- pressions; these two characteristics work- ing harmoniously together, and being subservient to human interest. And here at once we may seeni to run counter to a well-established criticism of Byron. It will be remnembered that Matthew Ar- nold has quoted and judiciously enlarged

The Wholesome Revival of Byron. 801 zation of the republic. Life there is a little fresher, a little freer, a good deal richer, in its physical aspects, but for these reasons, possibly, more intensely and characteristically American. With perhaps ninety-five per cent of identity there is five per cent of divergence, and this five per cent I have emphasized even to exaggeration. We know our friends by their slight differences in fea- ture or expression, not by their common humanity. Much of this divergence is already fading away. Scenery and cli- mate remain, but there is less elbow- room, and the unearned increment is disappearing. That which is solid will endure; the rest will vanish. The forces that ally us to the East are growing stronger every year with the immigra- tion of men with new ideas. The vigor- ous growth of the two universities in California insures the elevation as well as the retention of these ideas. In this way, perhaps, California may contribute something to the social development of the East, and be a giver as well as a receiver. But to the last certain traits will persist. It is the most cosmopoli- tan of all the states of the Union, and such it will remain. Whatever the fates may bring, the people will be tolerant, hopeful, and adequate, sure of them- selves, masters of the present, fearless of the future. David Starr Jordan. THE WHOLESOME REVIVAL OF BYRON. THE simultaneous appearance of two sumptuous editions of Byron, from the presses of Messrs. Murray and Macmil- lan, must have rather a puzzling effect on certain critics and readers of poetry. So much has been written of late years about Wordsworth and Shelley, while their quondam rival has been treated with such contumelious silence, that the disdainers of Byron had begun to feel that the ground was entirely their own; and the faithful few, who in secret handed down the old Byron cult, must have fallen into desperation, for there are still a few faithful, like the well- known Greek scholar of whom it was remarked in my hearing that he never quoted any English save Byron and the Bible. But apart from these scoffers and idolaters, there are some who re- cognize fully all the imperfections of Byrons work, and yet regard the re- cent exaltation of Shelley and Words- worth so high above him as indicative of an effeminate and oversubtilized taste. To such persons the appearance of these VOL. Lxxxii. NO. 494. 51 new editions must be welcome as a pro- mise of renewed interest in the poet, and of a return to sounder principles of criticism. Much has been written about Byron; yet no author, perhaps, remains so much in need of calm and discriminating study. The elements of his genius are diverse, to a certain extent even contradictory; and to this fact are due in part the ex- traordinary unevenness of his own work and the curious divergence of opinion regarding him. In a word, the two master traits of Byrons genius are the revolutionary spirit and classical art. By classical is meant a certain predominance of the in- tellect over the emotions, and a reliance on broad effects rather than on subtle im- pressions; these two characteristics work- ing harmoniously together, and being subservient to human interest. And here at once we may seeni to run counter to a well-established criticism of Byron. It will be remnembered that Matthew Ar- nold has quoted and judiciously enlarged 802 The Wholesome Revival of Byron. upon Goethes saying, The moment he reflects, he is a child. The dictum is perfectly true. Byron as a philosopher and critic is sadly deficient, oftentimes puerile. But in fact he rarely reflects; he is more often a child because he fails to reflect at all. Predominance of intel- lect does not necessarily imply true wis- dom; for in reality an impulsive, restless activity of mind seems often to militate against calm reflection. It implies in Byron rather keenness of wit, pungency of criticism, whether sound or false, pre- cision and unity of conception. So, in the English Bards, the ruinous criticism of Wordsworth, that mild apostate from poetic rule, is the expression of an irresistible mental impetus, but it is hardly reflection. When the poet came to reflect on his satire, he wisely added the comment, unjust. When in Childe Harold he describes Gibbon as sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer, he displays astonishing intellectual force in summing up the effect of a huge work in one keen memorable phrase, such as can scarcely be paralleled from the poetry of his age. And in this case he is by chance right; reflection could not modify or improve the judgment. In its larger effect this predominance of intellect causes simplicity and tangi- bility of general design. Thus, on read- ing Manfred, we feel that a single and very definite idea has been grasped and held throughout; and we in turn receive a single and definite impression, which we readily carry away and reproduce in memory. But turn to Shelleys Prome- theus Unbound, and mark the difference. However much the ordinary reader may admire this drama, it is doubtful whe- ther he could give any satisfactory ac- count of its central idea, for the reason that this idea has been diverted and refracted through the medium of a way- ward imagination, and is after all but an illusion of the senses. Love, all- embracing, victorious love, is in a sense the motive of the poem; yet the most superficial analysis will show this to be an emotion or vague state of feeling, rather than a distinct conception of the intellect. The inconsistencies bewilder the reader, although, on a rapid perusal, they may escape his critical detection. Love is the theme, yet the speeches are full of the gall of hatred: in words Pro- metheus may forgive his enemy, but the animus of the poem is unrelenting bit- terness. Yet the predominance of intellect, which forms so important a factor in what I have called classical art, is far from excluding all emotion. On the contrary, the simple elemental passions naturally provoke intense activity of mind. They almost inevitably, more- over, lead to an art which depends on broad effects instead of subtle and vague impressions. The passion of Byron is good evidence of this tendency. He himself somewhere remarks that his genius was eloquent rather than poetical, and in a sense this observation is true. His language has a marvelous sweep and force that carry the reader on through a sustained emotion, but in detail it is prosaic in comparison with the iridescent style of Shelley or of Keats. Marino Faliero, one of Byrons less important works, may be cited as a fair example of his eloquence and concentrated pas- sion. The theme of the drama is per- fectly simple, the conflict in Marinos breast between aristocratic pride and the love of liberty (predominant character- istics, be it observed, of the poet him- self) ; and about this conflict the whole action of the play revolves, without any minor issues to dissipate the effect. The mind is held gripped to one emotion and one thought; we seem to hear the mighty pleading of a Demosthenes. There is no poem of Shelleys (with the possible exception of The Cenci, where he resorts to monstrous and illegitimate means) which begins to leave on the mind so distinct and powerful an impression as this, yet the whole drama contains per- The Wholesome Revival of Byron. 803 haps not a single line of the illusive charm to be found in passages on every page of Shelleys works. We know from Byrons letters and prefaces that he made a conscious effort to be, as he himself calls it, classical in this respect. Had his genius possessed also the subtle grace of the more romantic writers, he would have been classical in a still high- er and broader sense; for the greatest poets, the true classics, Homer as well as Shakespeare, have embraced both gifts. As it is, we are left to contrast the vigorous, though incomplete, art of Byron with the more wayward and ef- feminate style of his rivals. And in this we are justified by the known hostility of Byron to the tendencies of his age and by the utterances of the romantic writers themselves, from whom a volume of quotations might be culled showing that they deliberately look on poetry as a vehicle for the emotions and imagina- tions of the heart alone. It was in no spirit of mere carping at the present that Byron condemned the romantic spirit, and waged continuous if often indiscreet warfare for Milton and Dryden and Pope. His indifference to Shakespeare proves the sincerity of his opinion, however it may expose the nar- rowness of his judgment. He perceived clearly a real kinship, on one side of his genius, with Dryden and Pope, and was sincere in his wish to follow them as models. He was saved from their arid- ity by the revolutionary spirit, which was equally strong within him, and which he acknowledged by partially condemning \ himself with his contemporaries. Were the subject not too technical, the radical difference between these classes of poets might be shown by a study of their use of metaphor. Poetry hardly exists without metaphor. Besides the formal simile there is in verse the more pervasive use of metaphorical language, by which the whole world of animate and inanimate nature is brought into similarity and kinship with the human soul, so that our inner life is enlarged and exalted by a feeling of universal do- minion. The classical metaphor is sim- ple and intellectual; through its means the vague is fixed and presented clearly to the mind by comparison with the more definite, the complex by comparison with the simple, the abstract with the con- crete, the emotional with the sensuous. Its rival, the romantic metaphor, appeals to the fancy by the very opposite method. It would be easy to take the Prometheus Unbound aiid show how Shelley persist- ently relaxes the mind by vague and ab- stract similes. The moments are said to crawl like death-worms; spring is compared with the memory of a dream, with genius, or joy which riseth up as from the earth; the rush- ing avalanche is likened to thought by thought . . . piled up, till some great truth is loosened, and the nations echo round. In the famous and exquisitely beautiful singing-metaphor of that poem we have in miniature a perfect picture of the romantic poets art: Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions In musics most serene dominions; Catching the winds that fan that happy hea- yen. And we sail on, away, afar Without a course, without a star, But by the instinct of sweet music driven. Perhaps nowhere could a more perfect expression of this wayward and delicate spirit of romance be found, unless in that brief phrase of A Winters Tale : A wild dedication of yourselves To unpathed waters, undreamed shores. Take away this subtle and baffling over- growth of the emotions, and the sturdier metaphor of the classical poets remains. Individual comparisons of this vague character may no doubt be cited from Byron (they are not altogether wanting even in Homer), but they are in him dis- tinctly exceptions. In general the poetic medium in which he works has an intel- lectual solidity akin to the older masters. Poetry is the most perfect instrument 804 The Wholesome Revival of Byron. of expression granted us in our need of self-utterance, and it is something to have learned in what way this instru- ment is shaped to the hand ~f a strong poet. But this is not all. We desire to know further the material he chooses and how he treats it. How does he deal with the great themes of literature? How does he stand toward nature and man? And here too we shall find a real con- trast between Byron and his contem- poraries. There is a scene in Mrs. Gaskells Cranford which to me has always seemed to set forth the aim of the mo- mantic nature-poet in a charming light. It is the bewitching chapter where the ladies visit old Mr. Holbrook, the bache- lor, and he, musing after dinner in the garden, quotes and comments on Tenny- son : The cedar spreads his dark-green layers of shade. Capital term layers! Wonderful man! . . . Why, when I saw the review of his poems in Blackwood, I set off within an hour, and walked seven miles to Misselton (for the horses were not in the way) and ordered them. Now, what color are ash-buds in March? Is the man going mad? thought I. He is very like Don Quixote. What color are they, I say? re- peated he vehemently. I am sure I dont know, sir, said I, with the meekness of ignorance. I knew you did nt. No more did I an old fool that I am ! till this young man comes and tells me. Black as ash-buds in March. And I ye lived all nmy life in the country; more shame for me not to know. Black: they are jet-black, madam. Excellent botany, no doubt, and very dainty verse; and yet I cannot think the fame of the great masters of song depends on such trivialities as this. Black as ash-buds in 2k/larch, one might read all the famous epics of the past without acquiring this curious bit of informatiosm. Now it is perfectly sure that, practically, all the verse- makers of the present day look to nat- ural description for their main theme, and would clap their poetical hands as in the joy of a vast inspiration over one such novel bit of observation that chanced to fall in their way. And in this they have but carried to its extreme tenuity tIme disposition of the romantic poets, their forbears. There is a good deal of this petty, prying nature-cult in Keats and Shelley, along with inspiration of a more solid or mystical quality. And it is Wordsworth who chants over the small celandine : Since the day I foand thee out, Little flower! I 11 make a stir, Like a great astronomer. Some kinship of spirit, some haunting echo of the revolutionary cry, binds us very close to the singers of that age, and we are perforce influenced by their at- titude toward the outer world. It would be a matter of curious inquiry to search out the advent of this nature-worship into poetry, and to trace it down through later writers. Its growth and culmination are in a way coincident with the revolu- tionary period to which Byron belongs, and, like most innovations of the kind, it denotes both an enlargement and a loss of idealism. The peculiar form of religious enthusiasm developed in the Middle Ages had wrought out its own idealism. The soul of the individual man seemed to the Christian of that day, as it were, the cen- tre of the world, about which the divine drama of salvation revolved; and on the position taken by the individual in this drama depended his eternal life. A mans personality became of vast impor- tance in the universal scheme of things, and a new and justifiable egotism of in- tense activity was born. There was ne- cessarily an element of anguish in this thought of personal importance and in- security, but on the whole, while faith lasted, it was overbalanced by feelings of joy and peace; for, after all, salvation The Wholesome Revival of Byron. 805 was within reach. The idealism of such a period found its aim in the perfection of mans soul, and humanity in the life of its individual members was the one theme of surpassing interest. The new humanism which came in with the Re- naissance modified, but did not entirely displant this ideal; the faith of the ear- lier ages remained for a long time intact. But by the closing years of the eighteenth century the long illusion of mans per- sonal value in the universe had been rudely shattered; his anchor of faith had been rent away. Then came the readjust- ment which is still in progress, and is still the cause of so much unrest and tribulation. In place of the individual arose a new ideal of humanity as a whole, a very pretty theory for phi- losophers, but in no wise comforting for the homeless soul of man, trained by centuries of introspection to deem him- self the chosen vessel of grace. There was a season of revolt. The individual, still bearing his burden of self-impor- tance, and seeing now no restrictive laws to bind him, gave himself to all the wild vagaries of the revolutionary period. Nor is it a matter of chance that Vol- taire, the father of modera skepticism, and Rousseau, the first of romantic na- ture - worshipers, had worked together to this end. It was under this stimulus that those who were unable to silence the inner need amidst the turmoil of action turned to the outer world, seeking there the comfort of an idealism not attainable in the vague abstraction of humanity. The individual found a new solace in reverie, which seemed to make him one with the wide and beneficent realm of nature. The flattering trust in his own eternal personality was undermined, the unsubdued egotism born of the old faith left him solitary amid mankind; he turned for companionship to the new world whose kinship to himself was so newly discovered: Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone; A truth, which through our being then doth melt And purifies from self: it is a tone, The soul and source of music, which makes known Eternal harmony, aud sheds a charm, Like to the fabled Cythereas zone, Binding all things with beauty; t would disarm The spectre Death, had he substantial power to harm. An eternal harmony did indeed spring from this new source of music; it was a substantial gain, a new-created idealism in poetry. But we should not shut our eyes to the concomitant danger and foss. In this flattering absorption, into nature the poet was too apt to forget that, after all, the highest and noblest theme must forever be the struggle of the human soul; he was too ready to substitute vague reverie for honest thought, and to lose his higher sympathy with man in the eager pursuit of minute phenomena. We are all familiar with the travestied nature-cult to be seen especially in un- attached women, who seek in this way an outlet for unemployed emotions such as formerly they found in religious en- thusiasm. There is, alas, too much of this petty sentimentality in the verse of the day. We turn to the earlier bards of the century, the founders of this new religion, for guidance and inspiration, and too often we imitate their weakness instead of their strength. Wordsworth has made a stir over the small celandine, and Tennyson has discovered that ash- buds are black in March; the present generation must, for originality, examine the fields with a botanists lens, while the poor reader, who retains any use of his mind, is too often reminded of the poet Grays shrewd witticism, that he learnt botany to save himself the trouble of thinking. If for no other reason, we are justified in calling attention to Byron, who in his treatment of nature shows the same breadth and mental scope, the same human sympathy, which characterize his classical use of metaphor. 806 The Wholesome Revival of Byron. There is a curious passage in one of Franklins letters, where the philosopher attempts to prove by experiment that the perception of form is remembered more clearly than the perception of color. I am not sure that his expla- nation of this phenomenon is strictly scientific, but the fact is indisputable. Form and motion of form are clearly defined, intelligible, so to speak; color is illusive and impressionistic. So, it will be remembered, the Greeks were preiiminent in their imitation of form; the Renaissance artists excelled in color. Distinctions of this kind, to be sure, are a matter of degree only, but none the less significant for that. Now there are descriptions in Byron of gorgeous coloring, notably in certain stanzas of the Haid6e episode; but even here the colors are sharply defined, and there is little of the blending, iridescent light of romance, The light that never was on sea or land, The consecration and the poets dream and in general Byron dwells on form and action in his presentation of na- ture, whereas his contemporaries, and notably Shelley, revel in her variety of hues. It is curious, in fact, that many who are prone to dignify emotional reverie as thought would ascribe such predomi- nance of intellect to shallowness, just as they would deem the breadth of Byrons natural description due to narrowness of observation. You will indeed find in Byron no poems on the small celan- dine, or the daisy, or the cuckoo, or the nightingale, or the west wind; but you may find pictures of mountains reared like the palaces of nature, of the free bounding ocean, of tempest on sea and storm among the Alps, of the solitary pine woods, of placid Lake Leman, of all the greater, sublimer aspects of na- ture, such as can hardly be paralleled elsewhere in English literature. Byron was too much a child of his age to escape the longing for mystic fellowship with nature which came in with the century, and still, in milder form perhaps, troubles mankind. But even here there are in him a firmness and a directness of utterance which dis- tinguish his work from the more flaccid rhapsodies of his romantic rivals. Let us by all means retain as a precious and late-won possession this sense of com- munion with the fair outlying world, but let us at the same time beware of loosening our grip on realities. I know no better palliative for the insidious re- laxing sentimentality that lurks in such brooding contemplation than certain well-known passages of Childe Harold, such as I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me; or, There is a pleasure in the pathless woods; or, Clear, placid Leman! thy contrasted lake. It is again the classic element in By- rons art which saves him from shadowy, meaningless words; and he is assisted also by his intense human passiotis and personality. I have indeed intimated that the preponderance of human in- terest is an essential feature of the classical spirit; it would have been easy to show that, along with predomi- nance of intellect and breadth, this hu- man interest is everywhere present in Byrons work; but the humanism the egotism, if you choose is so universally recognized in his character that any de- tailed exposition of its presence in his poetry seemed superfluous. Only in his treatment of nature, perhaps, ought spe- cial attention to be called to this trait, for here most of all he differs from cer- tain of the romantic writers. It is well to remember that now and always the proper study of mankind is man. We need still to reflect on the wise admoni- tion of St. Augustine: And men go abroad to gaze at the lofty mountains, and the great waves of the sea, and the The Wholesome Revival of Byron. 807 wide flowing of rivers, and the circle of ocean, and the revolutions of the stars, and pass themselves, the crowning won- der, by. This genuine human interest distinguished Byron from the pseudo- classical writers as well, who would ethe- realize predominance of intellect into in- animate abstractions, from those thin- blooded poets of the last century whose art depended on a liberal distribution of capital letters. At bottom Byrons sympathy is not with nature, but with man, and in the expression of this sympathy he displays the sturdy strength of classic art. Th~o- phile Gautier, in his study of Villon, has a clever appeal for the minor bards. The most highly vaunted passages of the poets, he says, are ordinarily com- monplaces. Ten verses of Byron on love, on the brevity of life, or on some other subject equally as new will find more admirers than the strangest vision of Jean Paul or of Hoffmann: this is be- cause very many have been or are in love, and a still greater number are fearful of death, but very few, even in dreams, have beheld the fantastic images of the German story-tellers pass before them. Gautier himself, as one of the fantastics, may be prejudiced in their favor, but his characterization of Byron is eminently right. It is a fact that the great poets, the classic poets, deal very much with commonplaces, but Gautier should know his Horace well enough to remember that nothing is more difficult than the art of giving these common- places an individual stamp. Here again it may be wise to turn for a while from the romantic poets who search out the wayward, obscure emotions of the heart to one who treated almost ex- clusively those simple, fundamental pas- sions which are most compatible with pre- dominance of intellect and breadth of ex- pression. I hardly know where in English literature, outside of Shakespeare, one is to find the great passions of men set forth so directly and powerfully as in Byron, and on this must rest his final claim to serious consideration. It is said that By- ron could never get outside of himself and this, to a certain extent, is true. He lacked the dramatic art; but, on the other hand, his own human passions were so strong, his life was so vigorous, that from personal experience he was able to accomplish more than most others whose sympathies might be wider. His range is by no means universal, and yet what masterly pictures he has drawn of love and hate, of patriotism, honor, disdain, sarcasm, revenge, remorse, despair, awe, and mockery! If he had touched the passion of love alone, he would still be worthy of study. It is wholesome now and again to forget the ethereal heights where Cythna dwells, and linger by the sea with Haid6e, the pure and innocent child of nature. Love in Byron is com- monly the lust which enslaves and de- grades, or it is the instinctive attraction of youth uncorrupted of the world, that simple self-surrender, unquestioning and unpolluted, which to the aged sight of the wise Goethe and weary Renan seemed, after all, the best and truest thing in life. Other poets in search of loves mystic shadow have philosophized with Plato or scaled the empyrean with Dante; but rarely in these excursions have they avoided the perils of unreality or self- deception, of inanity or morbidness. It is at least safer to see in love the simple animal passion, pure or perverted as the case may be. And this brings us to the vexed ques- tion of Byrons morality. I would not appear to excuse his shortcomings in this respect, and yet I think the evil of his work has been much exaggerated. His aggressive free-thinking, which so shocked his contemporaries, can scarcely do more than elicit a smile to-day ; the grossly sensual passages in his poems are few, and these are more outspoken than seductive; his sneers are mostly for cant and bypocrisy, which, God knows, deserved such lashing then as they do 808 The Wholesome Revival of Byron. now. And withal his mind was right; he never deceived himself. Many times he refers to the ruin of his own life, and always he puts his finger on the real source of the evil, his lack of self-re- straint and his revolt from conventions. There is something manly and pathetic at once, not without strange foreboding of what was to come, in these lines from Childe Harold : If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion bar My name from out the temple where the dead Are honourd by the nations let it be And light the laurels on a loftier head! And be the Spartans epitaph on me Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. Meantime Iseek no sympathies, nor need; The thorns which I have reap d are of the tree I planted, they have torn me, and I bleed: I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed. In his Epistle to Augusta, perhaps the noblest of all his shorter poems, he more explicitly mentions the evil that brought about his ruin: I have been cunning in mine overthrow, The careful pilot of my proper woe. Mine were my faults, and mine be their re- ward. My whole life was a contest, since the day That gave me being, gave me that which marrd The gift, a fate, or will, that walkd astray.~~ I cannot refrain from quoting, by way of contrast, the words of Mrs. Shelley in regard to her wayward companion. In all Shelley did, she says, he, at the time of doing it, believed himself jus- tified to his own conscience. This, sure- ly, is the inner falsehood, more deadly, as Plato affirmed, than the spoken lie; and I am sufficiently a Platonist to be- lieve that in this glozing of evil lies the veritable danger to morals. There is no such insidious disease in Byrons mind. The errors of Byron, both in conduct and in art, were in fact largely due to the revolutionary spirit which so easily passed into licentiousness. Classical art should result in self-restraint and perfec- tion of form, but to this Byron never at- tained except spasmodically, almost by accident it would seem. So far he is classical that he almost universally dis- plays predominance of intellect, breadth of treatment, and human interest; but side by side with this principle of limita- tion runs the other spirit of revolt, pro- ducing at times that extraordinary in- congruity of effect which has so baffled his later audience. The world, after manifold struggles, had begun to throw off the medimeval ideals; faith in the in- finite and eternal value of the human person, with all its earthly desires and ambitions, with its responsibility to a jealous God, had been rudely shaken; nor had that deeper faith taken hold of the mind wherein this laboring, grasping, earthly self is seen to be but a shadow, an obscuration, of something vastly great- er, hidden in secr~t places of the heart. Belief in the divine right of rulers had been burst as an insubstantial bubble, but in the late-born ideal of a humanity bound in brotherhood and striving up- ward together the individual was very slow to feel the drawing of the new ties; he had revolted from the past, and still felt himself homeless and unattached in the shadowy ideals of the future. In such an age Byron was born, a man of superabundant physical vigor which at anytime would have ill brooked restraint, and of mental impetuosity which had by nature something of the tiger in it. He was led at first by the very spirit of the age to glory in physical and mental li- cense and to exaggerate his impatience at restraint, and only by the hard ex- perience of life did he learn, or partly learn, the lesson of moderation. Natu- rally his poetry often reflected his tem- perament in its lack of discipline. I have dwelt at length on the strength The Wholesome Revival of Byron. 809 of Byron~s art, but I would not slur over his deficiencies. No one can be more conscious of these deficiencies than the present writer, whose recent task it has been to read through Byrons works with an editors questioning eye. His language is often very often slip- shod, made obscure by endless anacolu- thons, disfigured by frequent lapses into bad grammar; the thought and style of certain poems The Prophecy of Dante, for instance are so cheap as to render the reading of them a labor of necessity; yet all this hardly affects his importance for us. We are not likely to learn bad grammar from him, and his dull poems are easily passed over. He wrote, to use his own words, as the tiger leaps; and if he missed his aim, there was no re- trieving the failure. We call this lack of artistic conscience, and so it is; but in these days of pedantic ~esthetes, it is refreshing now and again to surrender ourselves to the impulse of untrammeled genius. And then, if Byron often failed, he sometimes hit the mark. There are passages more than that, there are whole poems wherein his classical method has dominated the license of re- volt sufficiently to achieve almost perfect harmony of form, while still retaining the full vigor of his imperious inspiration. But the inner spirit of his poems was affected even more than his art by the new ferment. To do anything like jus- tice to the psychology of Byron would require a separate study in itself; and if the subject is here passed lightly over, this is because it seems, on the whole, less important at the present moment than the analysis of his art, and because it has already been treated with consid- erable acumen. Every one recognizes at a glance the tormented personality and the revolutionary leaven in Byrons spirit; not every one, perhaps, would comprehend immediately the extraor- dinary result pro(luced by the union of these with his classical method, a re sult so extraordinary as alone to lend per- manent interest to his work. And this interest is heightened by the rapid change and development in his character. There are four pretty clearly defined periods in his life, although as always these overlap one another to a certain extent. First we see the youthful sati- rist lashing friend and foe with irresisti- ble bitterness, as if his egregious ego- tism could find relief only in baying at the world; then follows a second phase of revolt, taking pleasure in melodra- matic isolation from society, exulting in moody revenge and unutterable myste- ries, stalking before the world in gor- geous Oriental disguise; out of this ex- travagance grows the Byron of the later Childe Harold, who would unburden his soul of its self-engendered torture in sol- itary communion with nature, and would find relief from the vulgar cant of the present in profound reflection on the grandeurs of the past; and last, when even these fail him, the self-mocking Don Juan, with his strange mixture of sweet and bitter, infinitely heavy-hearted at bottom, who cries out in the end Now . . Imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth that hovers oer my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque. And if I laugh at any mortal thing, T is that I may not weep; and if I weep, T is that our nature cannot always bring Itself to apathy. He was saved, indeed, from the final si- lence of apathy by an early death. Yet it has always seemed to me that for one brief moment, when, after escaping the vexatious of his ruined domestic life, he wrote his Epistle to Augusta from the solitudes of Switzerland, Byron caught, dim and distorted it may be, a glimpse of divine wisdom, which, if fol- lowed, might have rendered him great among the wisest. But some Nemesis of fate, some error of will, swept him back into the bondage of darkness, from which he never escaped. Paul Elmer More. 810 An Unpublished Poem by Byron. AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BYRON. THE library of Harvard University received in 1874, as part of the bequest of Charles Sumner, a copy of The Poems of Ossian in two volumes, which has been carefully guarded as one of the treasures of the university. The edi- tion (London, 1806) is not a notable one; but that Sumner, in paying twenty guineas for it, drove a good bargain will be seen from a printed slip affixed above the Harvard book-plate, which describes the volumes as a unique and most valu- able copy, having extensive original anno- tations in the autograph of Lord Byron, and his signature on the fly-leaf of each volume. At the end of the first volume is an original unpublished poem in his autograph, being a rendering into verse of Ossians Address to the Sun. Byr9ns notes on Ossian and his ver- sion of a portion of Carthon make no addition to what, in the good old-fash- ioned sense, we used to call literature; for the notes are intrinsically of no value, and the value of the poem itself may fairly be a matter of dispute. But even the scraps from a great authors waste-basket, if discreetly adjusted, have a certain definite biographical interest; and Byrons notes furnish a pleasant lit- tle commentary on his critical ineptitude, and his poem gives additional evidence, if any were needed, of his astonishing facility. With two exceptions, the notes are of so general a nature that when brought together they give a fair, al- though disjointed idea of Byrons criti- cal estimate of Ossian. The first note is on the fly-leaf of the first volume: The early and unculti- vated periods of society, in which the age of Ossian must doubtless be ranked, were most favorable to the display of original poetical genius. Such a period will always be found to have the happi- est influence on sentimental and descrip tive poetry, whether sublime or pathetic; though it must likewise be granted that civilized life will for the most part in- troduce a greater variety of incidents and character into poetical composition. After the poem Carthon, with which Byron was apparently most strongly im- pressed, he wrote on a blank page: That the poet possesses the talent of raising to a great degree both the ten- der and more violent passions of the mind by his sentiments as well as by his descriptions will not be questioned by those who are themselves possessed of the smallest share of sensibility, and have read his poems with any measure of at- tention. These indeed are almost con- stantly addressed to the affections and to the heart, over which he maintains an absolute and uncontrolled power. On the blank page after the table of con- tents of the second volume, and sprawling across the false title of Fingal, Byron begins to grow more definite, and, if any- thing, more courageous: The portrait which Ossian has drawn of himself is in- deed a masterpiece. He not only appears in the light of a distinguished warrior, generous as well as brave, and possessed of exquisite sensibility, but of an aged, venerable bard, subjected to the most melancholy vicissitudes of fortune, weak and blind, the sole survivor of his family, the last of the race of Fingal. The character of Fingal, the poets own father, is a highly finished one. There is certainly no hero in the Iliad or the Odyssey who is at once so brave and amiable as this renowned king of Morven. It is well known that Hector, whose character is of all the Homeric heroes the most complete, greatly sul- lies the lustre of his glorious actions by the insult over the fallen Patroclus. On the other hand, the conduct of Fingal appears uniformly illustrious and great,

810 An Unpublished Poem by Byron. AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BYRON. THE library of Harvard University received in 1874, as part of the bequest of Charles Sumner, a copy of The Poems of Ossian in two volumes, which has been carefully guarded as one of the treasures of the university. The edi- tion (London, 1806) is not a notable one; but that Sumner, in paying twenty guineas for it, drove a good bargain will be seen from a printed slip affixed above the Harvard book-plate, which describes the volumes as a unique and most valu- able copy, having extensive original anno- tations in the autograph of Lord Byron, and his signature on the fly-leaf of each volume. At the end of the first volume is an original unpublished poem in his autograph, being a rendering into verse of Ossians Address to the Sun. Byr9ns notes on Ossian and his ver- sion of a portion of Carthon make no addition to what, in the good old-fash- ioned sense, we used to call literature; for the notes are intrinsically of no value, and the value of the poem itself may fairly be a matter of dispute. But even the scraps from a great authors waste-basket, if discreetly adjusted, have a certain definite biographical interest; and Byrons notes furnish a pleasant lit- tle commentary on his critical ineptitude, and his poem gives additional evidence, if any were needed, of his astonishing facility. With two exceptions, the notes are of so general a nature that when brought together they give a fair, al- though disjointed idea of Byrons criti- cal estimate of Ossian. The first note is on the fly-leaf of the first volume: The early and unculti- vated periods of society, in which the age of Ossian must doubtless be ranked, were most favorable to the display of original poetical genius. Such a period will always be found to have the happi- est influence on sentimental and descrip tive poetry, whether sublime or pathetic; though it must likewise be granted that civilized life will for the most part in- troduce a greater variety of incidents and character into poetical composition. After the poem Carthon, with which Byron was apparently most strongly im- pressed, he wrote on a blank page: That the poet possesses the talent of raising to a great degree both the ten- der and more violent passions of the mind by his sentiments as well as by his descriptions will not be questioned by those who are themselves possessed of the smallest share of sensibility, and have read his poems with any measure of at- tention. These indeed are almost con- stantly addressed to the affections and to the heart, over which he maintains an absolute and uncontrolled power. On the blank page after the table of con- tents of the second volume, and sprawling across the false title of Fingal, Byron begins to grow more definite, and, if any- thing, more courageous: The portrait which Ossian has drawn of himself is in- deed a masterpiece. He not only appears in the light of a distinguished warrior, generous as well as brave, and possessed of exquisite sensibility, but of an aged, venerable bard, subjected to the most melancholy vicissitudes of fortune, weak and blind, the sole survivor of his family, the last of the race of Fingal. The character of Fingal, the poets own father, is a highly finished one. There is certainly no hero in the Iliad or the Odyssey who is at once so brave and amiable as this renowned king of Morven. It is well known that Hector, whose character is of all the Homeric heroes the most complete, greatly sul- lies the lustre of his glorious actions by the insult over the fallen Patroclus. On the other hand, the conduct of Fingal appears uniformly illustrious and great, An Unpublished Poem by Byron. 811 without one mean or inhuman action to tarnish the splendour of his fame. He is equally the object of our admiration, esteem, and love. The next note is in the second volume, at the beginning of the second book of Fingal. The italics are, of course, By- rons. One of the most consummate char- acters which the poet has contributed is that of Connal. This hero is the Ulysses of Ossian, though he is a far more complete charn~ter than the Grecian chief. Like him, he is distinguished by his profound wisdom, by his cautious prudence, and by his calm, temperate valour. But he is free of that cunning and artifice which so much distinguish Ulysses, and which rather diminish than aggrandize the true hero. Ossians female characters are less distinctly marked. It was unnecessary to draw their pictures at full length, not being engaged in the active scenes of life, except when they sometimes attend their lovers in disguise. The poet, however, has hit off some striking features even of these. How happily, for instance, has he characterized his own mistress, afterwards his wife, by a single epithet, expressive of that modesty, softness, and complacency which constitute the perfec- tion of feminine excellence: the mildly blushing Everallin. Finally, we have Byrons summing up of the whole matter on the four blank pages at the end of the book. I am of opinion, he somewhat magnificently con- cludes, that though in sublimity of sen- timent, in vivacity and strength of de- scription, Ossian may claim a full equality of merit with Homer himself, yet in the invention both of incidents and charac- ters he is greatly inferior to the Grecian bard. This inferiority, however, evi- dently proceeds from the different peri- ods of society in which the poets lived. Though the age in which Homer wrote his Iliad was far from being polished, yet were the arts of civility much farther advanced than they were in the age in which Ossian composed Fingal and Te- mora; and therefore it must have been easier for Homer to present us with a variety of characters, which he might partly have copied from life, partly created, and partly derived from tradi- tion, a source which in Greece could have supplied him with greater abun- dance both of incidents and characters for the conduct of an epic poem, than it could have done for Ossian, who had no materials for his imagination to work upon excepting what he collected from his own observation, and from the songs of preceding bards, either or both of which could afford little variety of char- acters or incidents in our unpolished age. It further deserves attention that Os- sian never thought of trying the strength of his genius in the invention of the one or the other, which would by no means have corresponded with his design; and if he had, it is impossible he should ever have succeeded in it as Homer has done, unless he had lived in the age and coun- try of Homer. Even if we did not know that Byrons criticisms, when not of the splenetic and underbred Johnny Keats kind, were characteristically immature, we should attribute this to a youthful writer; for although the slight grandiloquence and the occasional excellent balance of the style give it an almost elderly, Johuso- nian effect, the very cocksureness of tone and the superficiality of taste betray the youth of the critic. But at no time had Byrons prose a more pompous elderli- ness of tone than when he was between the ages of fifteen and twenty. Take this, almost at random, written to his sister in his sixteenth year: Although, My ever Dear Augusta, I have hitherto appeared remiss in replying to your kind and affectionate letters; yet I hope you will not attribute my neglect to a want of affection, but rather to a shy- ness naturally inherent in my Disposi 812 An Unpublished Poem by Byron. tion. I will now endeavour as amply as lies in my power to repay your kind- ness, and for the future I hope you will consider me not only as a Brother, but as your warmest and most affectionate Friend, and if ever Circumstances should require it, your protector. The super- ficiality of taste is obvious in the discus- sion of Homer, where Byron writes more like a schoolboy than like a man whose mature soul has been moved by the great Greek. Even if we did not know that Byrons knowledge of books was limited ( Lord Byrons reading, Scott wrote of him in 1815, did not seem to me to have been very extensive either in poetry or his- tory), we should attribute the notes on Ossian to a youthful writer; for no grown man of letters could be so mag- nificently ignorant of the contempt in which Macphersons semi-forgeries were held by many. Thirty-one years before Byrons copy of Ossian was printed, Dr. Johnson challenged Macphersons hon- esty, and on Macphersons threatening him, after procuring a stout cudgel he wrote his famous reply, in which occurs the splendid phrase, I hope I shall never be deterred from detecting what I think a cheat, by the menaces of a ruffian. And on another occasion the doctor had exclaimed of the Ossianic translations, Sir, a man might write such stuff forever, if he would abandon his mind to it. As early, indeed, as 1760, Gray doubted whether Macpher- sons Fragments of Ancient Poetry were the invention of antiquity or of a mod- erri Scotchman. But with Dr. Johnson alone in one pan of the critical scale, Lord Byron is bound to count for lit- tle in the other. Still, it is only fair to Byron to admit that in this instance Dr. Johnsons antipathy for the Scotch car- ried him farther than posterity is now willing to follow; and that greater men than Byron, and critics older and at least as well equipped, swallowed Mac- pherson as completely as Byron did. It is, furthermore, but fair to Byron to add that his copy of Ossian is prefaced with nearly two hundred pages of what purports to be an impartial discussion of the Ossianic controversy, but is chiefly a reprint of Macphersons preface and Dr. Blairs incredibly dull and one-sided critical dissertntion supporting the so- called translator. It is much to be doubt- ed, indeed, that Byron had the patience to read any of the preliminary matter. It was not until the following year, 1807, that Laings critical edition put Macpher- son in more nearly a proper light. Here we have, I think, good evidence as to the date of Byrons notes. For in the same year that Laings Ossian ap- peared Byron published his Hours of Idleness, in which he included an imi- tation of Ossian, The Death of Calmar and Orla. At the end of this he ap- pends the following somewhat regretful note: I fear Laings late edition has completely overthrown every hope that Macphersons Ossian might prove the translation of a series of Poems, com- plete in themselves; but while the im- posture is discovered, the merit of the work remains undisputed, though not without faults, particularly, in some parts, turgid and bombastic diction. The present humble imitation will be par- doned by the admirers of the original, as an attempt, however inferior, which evinces an attachment to their favourite author. Clearly, then, by 1807 Byron had read Ossian carefully enough to imitate it with moderate success ( Sir, a man might write such stuff forever, if he would abandon his mind to it!); and at least by the time Hours of Idle- ness was in press (1807) he hnd been in- formed of the spurious nature of most of his model. His own copy of Ossian, dated 1806, is filled with notes expres- sive of nothing but enthusiastic admira- tion, and showing no consciousness of turgid and bombastic diction. Obvi- ously, even if internal evidence were wanting, the notes were written either An Unpublished Poem by Byron. in 1806 or in the early part of 1807, or, in other words, when Byron was about the age of eighteen. If this date be accepted, one re-reads the notes with a heightened interest, for as the production of a youth of eighteen they are fairly notable in style; and when that youth is Byron, the indica- tion they give of several traits of the writer which afterwards became more marked is very significant. Thackeray said of him, many years later, more sweepingly, perhaps, than fairly: That man never wrote from his heart; he got up rapture and enthusiasm with an eye to the public. And even in these early notes, whether we accept in full or not Thackerays savage dictum, By- ron seems almost to set his manuscript in one eye and the public in the other. Again, his admiration of that modesty, softness, and complacency which con- stitute the perfection of feminine excel- lence, shows that very early he cher- ished the somewhat gazelle-like ideal that, in one form or another, he was al- ways faithful to. But to me the most interesting note is one written on the margin of page 194 of the first volume, which I have not previously given. The passage in Carthon which follows, Byron has underscored: Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield. Whereat Byron exclaims, This striking and beautiful sentiment is the natural dictate of that contemplative disposition, united with that melancholy which dis- tinguishes every great genius, and which seems remarkably to have distinguished the character of Ossian. Here, finally, we have Byron ipsustmus. For fidelity to the text, for compact- ness of expression (with the exception of a single passage), for rhythmic fluency, Byrons metrical version of Ossians Ad- dress to the Sun, which follows, is supe nor to any performance of a like nature, by a youth of eighteen, with which I am familiar. The manuscript of the poem covers the four blank pages at the end of the first volume. It is apparent- ly rapidly written, with but a single era- sure; and I have followed the text ac- curately, with the exception of the punc- tuation. Throughout notes and poem Byrons punctuation consists almost ex- clusively of dashes, a system which commends itself to the reader but little more than that of another noble author, Lord Timothy Dexter. A VERSION OF OSSIANS ADDRESS TO THE SUN. O thou! who rollest in yon azure field, Round as the orb of my forefathers shield, Whence are thy beams? From what eternai store Dost thou, 0 Sun! thy vast effulgence pour? In awful grandeur, when thou movest on high, The stars start back aud hide them in the sky; The pale moon sickens in thy brightening blaze, And in the western wave avoids thy gaze. Alone thou shinest forth for who can rise Companion of thy splendour in the skies! The mountain oaks are seen to fall away; Mountains themselves by length of years de- cay; With ebbs and flows is the rough Ocean tost; In heaven the moon is for a season lost; But thou, amidst the fullness of thy joy, The same art ever, blazing in the sky! When tempests wrap the world from pole to pole, When vivid lightuings flash and thunders roll, Thou, far above their utmost fury borne, Lookst forth in beauty, laughing them to scorn. But vainly now on me thy beauties blaze; Ossian no longer can enraptured gaze! Whether at morn, in lucid lustre gay, On eastern clouds thy yellow tresses play, Or else at eve, in radiant glory drest, Thou tremblest at the portals of the west, I see no more! But thou mayest fail at length; Like Ossian lose thy beauty and thy strength; Like him, but for a season, in thy sphere To shine with splendour, then to disappear! Thy years shall have an end, and thou no more 813 814 Little henry and his Bearer. Bright through the world enlivening radiance pour, But sleep within thy clouds, and fail to rise, Heedless when morning calls thee to the skies! Then now exult, 0 Sun! and gaily shine, While youth and strength and beauty all are thine. For age is dark, unlovely, as the light Shed by the moon when clouds deform the. night, Glimmering uncertain as they hurry past. Loud oer the plain is heard the northern blast, Mists shroud the hills, and, neath the growing gloom, The weary traveller shrinks and sighs for home! In Mr. Ernest Hartley Coleridges edition of Byron now appearing (Mur- ray), among the early poems the reader will find a wholly different version of Ossians Address to the Sun, dated 1805, and transcribed, as Mr. Coleridge ex- plains in a note, from an autograph manuscript at Newstead, now for the first time printed. The critical reader will find it interesting to compare the iNewstead version with that of the later Harvard manuscript, to which is now given, it seems to me, an additional value. The Newstead version, because the earlier, is the more florid; and after finishing Ossians song, Byron adds to it eighteen lines, the gist of which is not to be found in Macpherson. The Har- vard version is incontestably superior, because, on the whole, more direct, and more faithful to the original both in text and in poetic feeling. Oddly enough, the two translations have not a sin- gle line in common. To one interested in Byrons personality and in his liter- ary technique it is very pleasant to have Mr. Coleridges new evidence of his temporary enthusiasm for Ossian, and to be able, from the two versions of Carthon, to trace in a unique way a single phase of his development. Pierre la Rose. LITTLE HENRY AND HIS BEARER. I. WHEN I was a child I wept over a story if I remember right, by Mrs. Sherwood which bore this title. Years after I came to mans estate, I felt in- clined to weep over an incident in real life which this title seemed to fit. Looking back on those first tears, I judge them uncalled for, by what my ma- turer age condemns as false sentiment. Perhaps my later emotion is equally at fault. The reader had better judge for himself. Speak on, oh Bisram bearer! Wherefore dost not obey? Speak on about Mai K~li and the noose, the noose that is so soft, that never slips. Wherefore dost not speak, son of an owl? The voice was childish, fretful. So was the listless little figure in a flannel dressing-gown, which lay, half upon the reed mat spread on the veranda floor, half against the red and yellow livery coat of Bisram bearer. The latter re- mained silent, his dark eyes fixed depre- catingly on a taller figure within ear-shot. It was the childs mother, standing for a glance at her darling. Speak! Why dost not speak, base- born child of pigs? Lo! I will smite thee! Speak of Mai K~li and the noose! Lo! Bisram bearer, be not unkind. Re- member I am sick. Show me the noose. Ai! Bisra! Show it to Sonny Baha. The liquid sounds fell from the childs lips with quaint precision, and ended in the coaxing wail of one who knows his power. That was unmistakable. The mans

814 Little henry and his Bearer. Bright through the world enlivening radiance pour, But sleep within thy clouds, and fail to rise, Heedless when morning calls thee to the skies! Then now exult, 0 Sun! and gaily shine, While youth and strength and beauty all are thine. For age is dark, unlovely, as the light Shed by the moon when clouds deform the. night, Glimmering uncertain as they hurry past. Loud oer the plain is heard the northern blast, Mists shroud the hills, and, neath the growing gloom, The weary traveller shrinks and sighs for home! In Mr. Ernest Hartley Coleridges edition of Byron now appearing (Mur- ray), among the early poems the reader will find a wholly different version of Ossians Address to the Sun, dated 1805, and transcribed, as Mr. Coleridge ex- plains in a note, from an autograph manuscript at Newstead, now for the first time printed. The critical reader will find it interesting to compare the iNewstead version with that of the later Harvard manuscript, to which is now given, it seems to me, an additional value. The Newstead version, because the earlier, is the more florid; and after finishing Ossians song, Byron adds to it eighteen lines, the gist of which is not to be found in Macpherson. The Har- vard version is incontestably superior, because, on the whole, more direct, and more faithful to the original both in text and in poetic feeling. Oddly enough, the two translations have not a sin- gle line in common. To one interested in Byrons personality and in his liter- ary technique it is very pleasant to have Mr. Coleridges new evidence of his temporary enthusiasm for Ossian, and to be able, from the two versions of Carthon, to trace in a unique way a single phase of his development. Pierre la Rose. LITTLE HENRY AND HIS BEARER. I. WHEN I was a child I wept over a story if I remember right, by Mrs. Sherwood which bore this title. Years after I came to mans estate, I felt in- clined to weep over an incident in real life which this title seemed to fit. Looking back on those first tears, I judge them uncalled for, by what my ma- turer age condemns as false sentiment. Perhaps my later emotion is equally at fault. The reader had better judge for himself. Speak on, oh Bisram bearer! Wherefore dost not obey? Speak on about Mai K~li and the noose, the noose that is so soft, that never slips. Wherefore dost not speak, son of an owl? The voice was childish, fretful. So was the listless little figure in a flannel dressing-gown, which lay, half upon the reed mat spread on the veranda floor, half against the red and yellow livery coat of Bisram bearer. The latter re- mained silent, his dark eyes fixed depre- catingly on a taller figure within ear-shot. It was the childs mother, standing for a glance at her darling. Speak! Why dost not speak, base- born child of pigs? Lo! I will smite thee! Speak of Mai K~li and the noose! Lo! Bisram bearer, be not unkind. Re- member I am sick. Show me the noose. Ai! Bisra! Show it to Sonny Baha. The liquid sounds fell from the childs lips with quaint precision, and ended in the coaxing wail of one who knows his power. That was unmistakable. The mans Little Henry and his Bearer. 815 high-bred, sensitive face, which had not quivered under the parentage assigned to him by the thin, domineering voice, melted at the appeal, and the red and yellow arms seemed to close round their charge at the very suggestion of sickness. Bisram gave another deprecating glance at the tall white figure at the door, and then from the folds of his waistcloth took out a silk handkerchief crumpled into a ball; but a dexterous flutter left it in un- creased folds across the childs knees. Lo! Protector of the Poor! such is the noose of K~li, said Bisram defer- entially. Seen thus, the handkerchief looked larger than one would have expected; or perhaps it is more correct to say longer, for the texture being loose like canvas, even the slight drag across the childs knees stretched the stuff length- wise. It was of that curious Indian color called oodcth, which is not purple or crimson, but which looks as if it had been the latter and might become the former; the color, briefly, of recently spilt blood. It looked well, however, in the soft, lustrous folds lying upon the childs white dressing-gown. He smiled down at it joyfully, yet not content, since there was more to come. Twist it for Mai K& li, twist it, Bisram bearer! Ai! base-born, twist it, or I will smite. It is time for the Shelter of the World to take his medicine, began Bis- ram, interrupting the imperious little voice. Lo! does his honor not see the men~ waiting for him? Sonny gave a quick glance at his mo- ther. He knew his power there, also. Ise not goin to take it, mum, he called decisively, till he s twisted a noose I wont I want a stwangle somefin first. Tell him, mum pleath. Then I 11 waller it like a good boy. Do what he wants, Bisram, and then bring him here, said Sonnys mother, her eyes soft. For the child had but lately chosen the path of Life instead of the Valley of the Shadow, so even way- ward footsteps along it were welcome. Now is it government orders, boast- ed Sonny, reverting to the precisions and peremptoriness of Hindustani with a wave of his small hand. So twist and stwangle; and if thou dost it not, my fa- ther will cause hanging to come to thee. Huzoor! assented Bisram cheer- fully, as he shifted his burden slightly so as to free his left hand. The next in- stant a purple-crimson rope of a thing circled on itself settled down upon the neck of a big painted mud tiger, bright yellow with black stripes and fiery red eyes, which one of the native visitors had brought that morning for the magistrates little son. Now the Protector of the Poor can pull, said Bisram bearer; it will not slip. But Sonnys wan little face had per- plexity and doubt in it. But, Bisra, Mai K~li rides a tiger. She would nt stwangle it; would she, mum? I would nt stwangle my pony. I d watber stwan- gle the gwoom, would nt you, mum? I would. I d wather like to stwangle Gamoo. My dear Sonny! exclaimed his mother, looking with amused horror at the still helpless little figure which Bis- ram had brought to her. You would nt murder poor Gamoo, surely! Sonny made faces over his quinine, as if that were a matter of much more im- portance. Ees I would, he said, with his mouth full of sweet biscuits. I d stwangle him, and then Mai K~li would be pleathed for a fousand years; and then I d stwangle Dittoo an Reroo too; so she d be pleathed for a fousand, fousand years, would nt she, Bisra ? Huzoor! assented Bisram bearer. My dear, said Sonnys mother, go- ing back with a somewhat disturbed look to the room where the magistrate, Son- nys father, was busy over crabbed San- skrit texts and bright-colored tale pie- 816 Little Henry and his Bearer. tures; (for in his leisure hours he was compiling a Hindoo Pantheon for the use of students), I almost wish Bisram would not tell Sonny so many stories about the gods and goddesses. They do such horrid things. The scholar, who in his heart nour- ished a hope that his son might in due time follow in his footsteps, and perhaps gain reputation where his father only found amusement, looked up from his books mildly. Gods and goddesses always do, my dear. Their morality seldom conforms to that which obtains among their wor- shipers. I intend to draw special atten- tion to this anomaly. Besides, Sonny will have to learn these things anyhow when he begins Greek and Latin; he will in fact find this previous knowledge of grea~t use. K~li, for instance, is the terrific form of Durga, who of course corresponds to the Juno of the Greeks and Romans, and the Isis of Egypt. She is also the crescent-crowned Diana and the Rarbutto Earth Mother Ceres. Un- der the name of Atma again she is god- dess of souls governing the three worlds, and so equivalent to Hecate Triformis. Yes, my dear, interrupted his wife meekly. But for all that, I dont want Sonny to talk of strangling the grooms; it really does nt sound nice. However, as Bisram is eager, now Sonny is really recovering, to get away at once for his usual leave, I wont say anything to the child. He will forget while Bis- ram is away, and I will give orders that the latter is not to mention the subject on his return. Bisram himself, receiving his pay and his orders ere starting on the yearly vis- it to his own country, which was the only portion of his life by day or night not absolutely without any reservation whatever at the disposal of his em- ployers, fully acquiesced in the mem sahibs dictum. The noose of K~1i was scarcely a nice game for the little mas- ter; indeed, his slave would never have introduced it under ordinary circum- stances. But the mem must remember that dreadful day, when the Hearts Eye lay so still, caring for nothing, and the doctor sahib had said there was nothing to be done save to coax him into look- ing into the restless Face of Life instead of into the restful Face of Death. That was when he, Bisrain, who knew, had spoken of the noose; and at least it had done the little Shelter of the World no harm. Harm? echoed Sonnys mother gently. You have never done him harm, Bisra. Why, the doctor sahib him- self said your hand was fortunate with the child. If you had not been with him, I think I think, Bisram he might have died. And now I am even won- dering if I am wise to let you go. Bisram looked up eagerly. I must go, Huzoor. I must go without fail to- night, the year is over. He paused abruptly, then added quietly, The Hu- zoor need have no fear. The little mas- ter will do well. The Mighty One, who cares for children, will protect this one. He spoke with such faith in voice and face that Sonnys mother, going back to the study, and finding her husband busy as usual over his Pantheon, lingered to look doubtfully at the tale pictures, and finally remarked that, after all, the peo- ple really had a good deal of religious feeling, and really seemed to believe in a God. Bisram, for instance, bad said that Sonny was in the guardianship of One who suffered the little children Here her eyes filled with tears and her voice sank. He meant Mata deai, I suppose, my dear, replied the scholar without look- ing up. She is another form of Kali or Durga, and corresponds to Cybele or the Mater Montana. He was very eager to get away, however, went on Sonnys mother, al- most aggrievedly. I really think he might have stayed a few days longer, till the boy was quite himself. But, de Little Henry and his Bearer. 817 voted as he is, he is just like the rest of them, selfishly set on what they are accustomed to. He put off going nearly a month, though, and you know, my dear, that when he took service as Sonnys bearer he stipulated for a fortnights leave every spring about a certain time, in order to perform some religious ceremonial, protested justice. Well, and he has had it, every year for five years; so he might have given it up for once. But he would nt I dont believe he would, not even to save Sonnys life. However, I think the child is all right; and even if I had kept Bisram he would nt have been much good, for he has been frightfully restless and hurried the last few days. He did not seem so, however, as he stood quietly in the growing dusk at the gateless gate of the compound, to look back at the house where he had left the little Shelter of the World asleep. His scarlet and yellow coat was gone, re- placed by the faint coral-colored gar- ment of the pilgrim; he carried a net- work-covered pot for holy water slung on his left wrist, and the yellow trident of Siva showed like a frown on his fore- head. The thickets of flowering shrubs, the tangle of white petunias bordering the path, sent their perfume into the air; but above it rose the heavy dead-sweet scent from the wild dhatura plant which, taking advantage of an unweeded nook by the gate, thrust its long white flow- ers across the plaster; one of them in- deed reaching past it, and so seen, fine pointed against the dusk beyond, looking like a slim white hand pointing the way thither. Bisram stooped deliberately to pick it, tore it into its five segments, and placed the pieces in his bosom, muttering softly, With heart, and brain, and feet, and hands, and eyes, Deni, I am thy servant. Then for a second he raised himself to his full height, and stretched both his thin, fine hands such delicately sup- VOL. LXXXII. NO. 494. 52 ple, strong hands toward the house. Sleep sound, Life of my Life, he mur- mured again. Sleep sound, and have no fear. The offering will be complete, though the time is short indeed. So, turning on his heel, he passed into the dusk beyond the gate whither the flower had pointed. A fortnight later he canie out of it again, passed into his hut in the gloaming dressed as a pilgrim, and emerged therefrom, ten minutes af- terward, in the red and yellow coat, with a huge white turban with a bend, as the heralds call it, across it bearing his mas- ters crest. So attired he slipped back into his place, as if he had never left it, and setting aside the reed screen at the door of Sonnys nursery stood within. Sonny, in his white flannel dressing-gown, was convalescent enough to be saying his prayers kneeling on his mothers knee. Go on, dear, she said gently. You can speak to Bisrarn afterwards. Sonny, whose feet were less wayward now, shut his eyes again, and assumed a prayerful eXl)ression. an all kine friends, an make me a velly good boy yamen Oh, Bis- ram! where s the noose? The mother might smile, unable to pretend ignorance. Not so Bisram bear- er, who had his orders. What noose, Shelter of the World? he asked grave- ly. The servant remembers none; but he hath brought the Protector of the Poor a toy. It was only one of the many which you can buy in any Indian town for the fraction of a farthing, made of mud, straw, and cane. A bit of tinsel, per- haps, or tuft of cotton, their sole value over and above the ingenuity and time spent in making them; but Sonny had never seen this kind before, and laughed as the snakes made out of curled shav- ings leaped and twisted, leaped so like life that his mother drew back hastily, telling herself that the bearer had cer- tainly a fine taste in horrors. And no doubt there would be some tale to match 818 Little Henry and his Bearer. these. Sonny, however, seemed to know it vaguely, for a puzzled look replaced the laugh. Yes, Bisra, he said, in impe- rious argument, Mai K~ili had snakes and skulls too, but I like the noose best. Why dicist thou not bring it back, son of an owl ? The man never moved a muscle. The little master mistakes, he replied calm- ly. It was some other who tied the noose; not this dust-like one. He is hut the Protector of the Poors bearer Bis- ram. II. A year is an eternity to the memory of a child. Indeed, before one twelfth of one was over, Sonny had ceased from suddenly asking irrelevantly, Oh, Bis- ra, where is the noose? Why didst not bring it back, son of an owl? The thought seemed to have passed from his life altogether. From Bisrams also, as he tended the child night and day, day and night, unremittingly, contentedly. So the spring of the year returned, and with it, by one of those mysterious coincidences beyond classification, came the old desire. It came suddenly ir- relevantly it seemed to Sonnys parents during a brief attack of fever which the changing season brought to the boy. But Bisram bearer, hearing the little fretful wail, Oh, Bisra, where is the noose? I want the noose, stood silent for a moment with a scared look in his eyes, then turned them in quick appeal to his mistress, as if to ask leave for something. But she was silent, also, so the old formula came gently, What noose, Shelter of the World? That evening, however, when Harry as his mother vainly strove to call him, now that, as she used to tell her boy fondly, he was a man, and had had his curls cut had fallen into the heavy sleep which brings so little relief, the bearer came into the study and asked for his usual yearly leave. A week might do, but leave he must have at once. True, the year was not up, but the master would doubtless remember that his slave had deferred going at the proper season last time, because of Harry sahibs ill- ness. (Bisram, punctilious to the least order, never forgot the childs new dig- nity.) He did not want to lose the right season again, so if he went now at once, even for a week, he would be ~back in time, even if Harry sahib were to be ill, as he was last year, which Heaven forefend! He was quite calm, but there was an almost pathetic entreaty in his dark eyes, so soft, so dark, that, looking into theni, one seemed to see nothing save soft darkness. Go! commented Sonnys mother, when, moved by a vague feeling that Bisram meant well, his master handed on his request to the real authority. Certainly not. I wonder he has the face to ask for leave when Sonny I mean Harry is down with fever. INot that it is anything, the doctor says, but a passing~ attack. Still, I am not going to run any risks with a strange servant. Go! Indeed, it shows what his pretend- ed devotion is worth. Surely, my dear, he is devoted Oh, very, in his way. But really you spoil Bisra, Edward, just because he can tell you things about those hor- rid gods and goddesses. Do you know, I really think of getting an English nurse for the child, until I have until I have to take him home, interrupted his wife, her initial sharpness of tone softening over the inevitable certainty of separation which clouds Indian mo- therhood. It cannot be right to let him live in such an atmosphere of su- perstition and ignorance. The magistrate, who was leaving the room, had paused at her remark aboulj the nurse, as he might have paused be- fore a painful scene. By Jove! he murmured, as if to himself, I believe it would break the mans heart. I often Little Henry and his Bearer. 819 wonder what on earth he 11 do when the child has to go home. The inevitable lent a tremor to the fathers voice, also. But Bisram, despite the formers belief, spoke of the same separation quite calmly, when, the very next morning, the doctor, coming early, found his little patient on the veranda in Bisras arms getting the advantage of the fresh, bright air; when he asked calmly, but with that slow, pathetic anx- iety in his eyes, was Harry sahib go- ing across the black waters ? You think he ought to go, said the doctor. Why? This slave does not think; he knows the little master must go, go at once, replied the man, still calmly, though he held the child to him with a visibly closer strain. The Huzoor himself knows how bad Hindustan is for the lit- tle ones. He must go, Huzoor, before he gets worse. But he is not going to get worse, said the doctor kindly. He is better already, and if he has another bout of fever his mother has promised to take him to the hills; so dont distress yourself. Bisrams dark eyes looked unrestful- ly into the doctors. The hills? That would be worse. That would be nearer the evil. He must go far from Hindus- tan at once, Huzoor; and if you tell Lhe mem this she will go, she will not mind. And you, Bisra? asked the doctor curiously. The mans eyes flinched, but he never stirred a muscle under the blow. I am only the little masters bearer, Huzoor. He will not need one much longer; he grows big. It is only because he is in a hurry to get away himself, I verily believe, said Sonnys mother, when the doctor, also vaguely impressed with something in the mans appeal, told her of it. You cant fathom these people. Ah! I know he would nt abate one atom of his care, and it is simply wonderful. All the same, I believe that just now lie would be glad to be rid of the necessity for it, since it clashes with some of his religious no- tions. That s it, depend upon it. And I mean to let him go, as soon as Sonny I mean Harry is better; and he really is better to-day, is nt he? Much better; and you may be right, only it s always impossible to lay down the law for men like Bisra. Those high- caste hill Brahmins are a law unto them- selves. However, I expect to find the boy quite cool to-morrow. He was not, however, and more than once, as he lay in Bisras arms, the little fretful wail rose between sleeping and waking. Where s the noose, Bisra? I want the noose. And Bisra would pause as if waiting for a promise of way- ward life in threat or abuse, and when neither came would turn a wistful appeal to authority, and when it was silent say, What noose, Shelter of the World? But in the dead of the night, a day or two later, when even maternal authority slept for a brief spell, Bisras answer to the request which came almost incoher- ently from the childs dry lips was differ- ent. Then he stood bent over the boys cot in the attitude of a suppliant, and his joined petitioning hands trembled. Why dost ask it, KMi Ma? he whispered rapidly. Lo! have I not served thee? Would I not serve thee now if I could? But I have promised this, and they will not let me go for the other. Lo! Kali Ma! be merciful, and ask no more, and when the child has gone away I will serve thee all the years, yea, every day of all the years. There was no passion, no excitement, in his face or voice; only that pathetic appeal which passed into a murmured lullaby as the restless little sleeper turned on his pillow with a sigh of greater con- tent. Better again this morning, was the doctors verdict, with the rider that Bis- ram himself stood in need of a little rest. The man smiled faintly when his mis- 820 Little Henry and his Bearer. tress replied that it would be her turn that night, though, to say sooth, Harry certainly did seem to improve when she slept. Perhaps Bisram works charms, re- marked the doctor thoughtlessly; whereat she frowned. Charms or no charms, the boy was evi- dently worse i~ext morning, and that de- spite the fact that Bisram, who had stead- ily refused to go further than the ve- randa, had spent the night huddled up outside the threshold, within which his mistress refused to allow him to come. He needed rest, she said, and though she could not compel him to take it, he should at least not work. You had better let him have his own way to-night, said the doctor at his even- ing visit. The child gets on better, and you are fresher for the days nursing. Those thin, delicate-looking natives are very wiry, and if the man wont rest he wont, and that s an end of it. He spoke cheerfully, but as he was get- ting into his dogcart he saw Bisram at his elbow. The doctor sahib thinks the little master very ill to-night? he asked quietly. So ill that you must do your very best for him to-night. If any one can pull him through, you can, remember that. Huzoor, said Bisram submissively. It was a dark night, so dark that the rushlight in Sonnys room seemed almost brilliant from the veranda. Looking thence you could see the childs cot, one of its side rails removed, and in its place as it were the protection of Bisram s crouching figure. He did not touch the cot; he crouched beside it, with clasped hands hanging over his knees and dark eyes staring hard into the darkness, as if waiting and listening. So he sat, his clasped hands loosen- ing, his eyes growing softer, as the hours passed, bringing nothing but half-con- scious sleep, half-conscious wakening, to the child; until suddenly, irrelevantly, just on the borderland of night and day, the fretful wail rose upon the silence loudly, insistently. Where is the noose, Bisra? I want it. Oh, Bisra bearer, bring the noose and strangle something. The slackness, the dreaminess, left the mans hands and eyes. He stood up blindly, desperately, to face these last words, the words for which he had been listening. Yet there was still the same pathetic self-control as he stretched his hands and out over the sleeping child. Lo! K~iii Ma! heinuttered. Have I not served thee as ever despite the child? Have I set him before Thee? Nay! thou knowest I have risked life it- self to have Thy tale of offering complete when I was hindered. Thou didst not suffer. Wilt not wait for once? Wilt not wait one little while ? His voice sinking in its entreaty ended in silence; but only for a second. Then the fretful wail began again. The noose, Bisra! Be not unkind; remember I ani ill. Oh, Bisra, I want you to stran- gle something for me Bisra gave a faint sob, then joined his outstretched hands. Huzoor! so be it! the noose shall find a victim. Yea, Shelter of the World, Bisra will strangle some- thing. Sleep in peace! There was no sound in the room after that save the little contented sigh in which restlessness finds rest. Outside the shiver of the cicalas seemed to count the seconds, but inside the darkness hours seemed to pass unno- ticed as Bisra sat beside the cot, his hands listless, his eyes dreamy. There was nothing t~o wait for now, nothing to fear. That which had to come had come. So with the first glint of light a stealthy step glided in and an anxious voice whispered, How is it with the child, Bisra? It is well, lie whispered back, rising rather stiffly. He hath slept since the darkest hour. He will sleep on. The mother, peering carefully for a glimpse Little Henry and his Bearer. 821 of the childs face, smiled at what she saw. He sleeps indeed. Thou hast done well, Bisra. He made no answer. But ere he left the room, his night-watch be- ing over, he paused to touch the foot-rail of the cot with both hands and so salaam as those do who leave the presence. Sonny was still sleeping when his fa- ther, entering his study with a lighter heart, found a stranger, as he thought, awaiting him there. It was a man naked save for a waisteloth, lean, sinewy, lithe; the head was clean-shaven save for the Brahminical tuft, and the face was dis- figured by the weird caste marks of ex- treme fanaticism. Who he began, shrinking in- voluntarily from one who might well be dangerous. It is Bisra, Huzoor, said the fa- miliar voice gently. Bisra the childs bearer, Bisra the servant of Kali also. Lo! here is her noose. As he spoke he held out the crimson - scarlet handker- chief twisted to a rope and coiled in his curved palms like a snake. The mas- ter, being learned, will know the noose and its meaning. It hath brought Her many a blood offering, Huzoor, many and many every year without fail, and it will not fail this year, either. It will bring Her the blood of Her servant, the blood of Bisram the Strangler. Bisram the Strangler? echoed the magistrate stupidly, as the even, mono- tonous voice ceased. Then he sat down helplessly in his chair. In truth he knew too much of the mystery of India to be quite incredulous. Yet two hours after, when with the help of the police officer he had been cross-questioning Bisra upon his confes- sion, he told himself as helplessly that it was incredible, the man must be mad. He had been born to strangle, he said, and had strangled to keep Kali Ma content. That was necessary when you were born Her servant, especially when you had children. Perhaps he had let the little Shelter of the World creep too close to his heart, though he had striven to be just. At any rate, K~li Ma had become jealous. He had not known this at first, or he would never have given the mis- tress that promise about the noose; for if it had been in Harry sahibs hands Dovi Would never have sought his life. She always protected those with th~ noose they never came to harm unless He had paused there, and then asked quickly if he had not said enough. Did they want him to tell any more? He could not give them the names of the victims, of course, not knowing them, but they were many, very many. There is nothing against him but his own story, said the magistrate, fighting against his growing conviction that the man spoke truth. I cant commit him to the sessions on that. There is something more, I think, replied the police officer reluctantly. Dont you remember that man who was found dead in a railway carriage, about this time last year? He had an up- country ticket on him, and as this was out qf the beat of Stranglers no inquiry was made here. It was just about this time, and and Bisram says be was in a hurry because the year was nearly up. He had been nursing the boy. The boys father, leaning with his head on his hands, groaned. But Bisra was quite cheerful. He looked a little anxious, however, when two days after he was brought up formally to be committed for trial. There was still nothing definite against him save his own confession and the coincidence of the strangled man in the railway car- riage. But opinion was dead against him amongst his countrymen. Of course he was one of Kalis Stranglers. Did he not look one? Was he not now one? So bow could he help being one? The argument brought no consolation to Son- nys father. But Bisram again was charged. He stood patiently between two yellow-legged policemen and told 822 Ten Beautiful Years. his tale at length, as if anxious to incrim- inate himself as much as possible, anx- ions that there should be no mistake. Aiid when all the mysterious intricacies of charges and papers were over, and the two policemen nudged him to make place for other criminals with a friendly Come along, brother, he paused a mo- ment with handcuffed, petitioning hands to ask how soon he was to be hanged. The magistrate made no answer; he knew what the question meant, and could not. The thought of his little son came between him and the truth; namely, that Bisras sacrifice must await the laws pleasure. The doctor in charge of the jail where Bisra awaited trial had not the heart to tell the truth. Every day when on his rounds he looked into the cell, like a wild beasts cage, where Bisra, being a Strangler and therefore dangerous to life, was confined alone, he answered the question which the tall naked figure stood up at his entrance to ask in the same words. Harry sahib was better; and as for the hanging, that would come soon enough, never fear. Yet every day the pathetic self-controlled eagerness on the mans face struck him with a sense of physical pain, and left him helpless be- fore his own pity. Until a day came after not many days when, with a face red from the sight of bitter grief that he could un derstand, the sense of his absolute help- lessness before the mystery of this mans nature made the doctor feel inclined to throw pity to the winds and fall back on sheer common sense. After all, the man was a murderer; and if he had been fond of the child, what then? Such criminals were often men of strong affec- tions. Yet once again the sight of the sub- missive salnaming figure, the sound of the wistful yet calm voice, made his an- swer as usual. The child was better. The hanging would doubtless come ere- long. For once, however, Bisram did not ac- cept the reply as final. The Huzoor means that it will not come to-day? he asked quietly. The doctor raised his eyebrows. To- day? What made you think of to-day? Certainly not. There s no chance of it. But he was wrong. Two hours after- ward the jail overseer sent for him in a hurry, because Bisram had completed his sacrifice by strangling himself in his cell with his waisteloth. What else could he do, seeing that it was the last day of the year during which the propitiation of a sacrifice kept KMi Ma from re- venge? Poor devil! said the doctor as he stood up after his examination. I m glad now I did nt tell him the child was dead. Flora Annie Steel. TEN BEAUTIFUL YEARS. TEN beautiful years. He dropped his head on her desk arid whispered the words over and over. There could never be any more years with her, and the light and j~y were gone from his life We have been so happy! There s nothing to regret. We have had ten beautiful years. That was her last message. He could see her now, and hear her faintly whis- per the tender words. Something of the comfort she meant to give stole into his heart as he remembered them. At least, he could be glad for the past, glad beyond all that she had nothing to regret.

822 Ten Beautiful Years. his tale at length, as if anxious to incrim- inate himself as much as possible, anx- ions that there should be no mistake. Aiid when all the mysterious intricacies of charges and papers were over, and the two policemen nudged him to make place for other criminals with a friendly Come along, brother, he paused a mo- ment with handcuffed, petitioning hands to ask how soon he was to be hanged. The magistrate made no answer; he knew what the question meant, and could not. The thought of his little son came between him and the truth; namely, that Bisras sacrifice must await the laws pleasure. The doctor in charge of the jail where Bisra awaited trial had not the heart to tell the truth. Every day when on his rounds he looked into the cell, like a wild beasts cage, where Bisra, being a Strangler and therefore dangerous to life, was confined alone, he answered the question which the tall naked figure stood up at his entrance to ask in the same words. Harry sahib was better; and as for the hanging, that would come soon enough, never fear. Yet every day the pathetic self-controlled eagerness on the mans face struck him with a sense of physical pain, and left him helpless be- fore his own pity. Until a day came after not many days when, with a face red from the sight of bitter grief that he could un derstand, the sense of his absolute help- lessness before the mystery of this mans nature made the doctor feel inclined to throw pity to the winds and fall back on sheer common sense. After all, the man was a murderer; and if he had been fond of the child, what then? Such criminals were often men of strong affec- tions. Yet once again the sight of the sub- missive salnaming figure, the sound of the wistful yet calm voice, made his an- swer as usual. The child was better. The hanging would doubtless come ere- long. For once, however, Bisram did not ac- cept the reply as final. The Huzoor means that it will not come to-day? he asked quietly. The doctor raised his eyebrows. To- day? What made you think of to-day? Certainly not. There s no chance of it. But he was wrong. Two hours after- ward the jail overseer sent for him in a hurry, because Bisram had completed his sacrifice by strangling himself in his cell with his waisteloth. What else could he do, seeing that it was the last day of the year during which the propitiation of a sacrifice kept KMi Ma from re- venge? Poor devil! said the doctor as he stood up after his examination. I m glad now I did nt tell him the child was dead. Flora Annie Steel. TEN BEAUTIFUL YEARS. TEN beautiful years. He dropped his head on her desk arid whispered the words over and over. There could never be any more years with her, and the light and j~y were gone from his life We have been so happy! There s nothing to regret. We have had ten beautiful years. That was her last message. He could see her now, and hear her faintly whis- per the tender words. Something of the comfort she meant to give stole into his heart as he remembered them. At least, he could be glad for the past, glad beyond all that she had nothing to regret. Ten Beaut~fid Years. 823 Thank God, she never dreamed how his jealousy of her success had once nearly ruined their lives. The blood burned hot in his cheeks as the memory of that wretched time came back to him. How could he have been so contempti- bly weak? The thought carried him from the desolate horrors of the present back to the beginning of their married life. Slowly their years together passed before his inner sight. The picture of their first two years was full of the light of perfect happi- ness. No two, he felt, had ever been more truly wedded. It was then, too, that her paintings gained their first de- cided recognition. Though the same years brought him nothing but failure, he had felt only pride and delight in her success. He would have lingered tenderly over this part of their life, but something hurried him on to the next year. He dropped his illustrative work entirely that year, and devoted all his time to painting. It was a wise change, too, he had felt, for by spring his work clearly showed a great gain in strength and charm. Secretly, he had almost agreed with Margaret that one of his pictures must take the Society prize. But it was the same old story. At the end of the season they all came back to him, unsold, unprized. But all of Margarets pictures had sold, and one received hon- orable mention. And he had realized that the next years expenses must be paid by her. The memory of that hour swept over him with a horrible vividness. The only comfort that caine to him now was the knowledge that he had kept his feel- ings from her. She never knew why he was so glad just then to make a visit to their old uncle. In the quiet of the country he struggled with himself till he was able to come back, sane. The following months were crowded with work and happiness. He was sure she had never remembered that she was the breadwinner that year. Those days were full of light and rosy color; but his thoughts soon drew him away from them to the next spring. All his pictures that season had been well received and fairly well hung; not nearly so well, however, as Marga- rets. It seemed as if hanging commit- tees, for once, had suddenly developed unexpected discrimination. They gave her steadily lighted places, neither too high nor too low, her perspectives taken into account in a most miraculous way. And Margaret had sold; more than all, Margaret had taken a first prize, and once again a third prize. Here his mental picture became grim and distorted. Could he ever forget how, for one dreadful hour, he had for- gotten to make jubilee with her? He had been awarded no prize, and not one of his glowing canvases had been sold. Then, bitter chagrin and a terrible doubt of his own ability so racked him that he grew afraid to let her see his face. With a fishing-trip for excuse, he had again left her till he could regain his self-command. Three days later, he was so sore and smarting that even now he did not care to specu- late upon what might have been the end. It was in the midst of his despair that a blessed letter came. In it the trus- tees of a well-known art museum offered him a thousand dollars for his picture exhibited that year. When he took Margaret into his arms again, she did not suspect that his first thought was one of thankfulness for an escape from possible shipwreck. She was only wildly happy over his success. You re known now! she cried glee- fully. You wont have stupid men and stupider pictures climbing over you any more. You ye begnn to win, and you 11 keep right on. What a glorious year that next was! a year of noble work flooded with the sunshine of happy love. Sitting before her desk, where she would sit no more, he felt more deeply than ever all the 824 Ten Beautiful Years. joy of those months. What a busy pair, too, they had been! And when spring came, how well their pictures appeared! What did she say about his Easter Morning just before it was boxed? He seemed to hear the very tones of the dear voice. Rob, I think you have found your forte. But it is nt in such dream-sub- jects as this. It s down there in the left-hand corner. If you cant paint better sheep and cows and brooks and skies than any man we have, I 11 sell my Mother and Child for a dollar. Rob, you re an animal-landscapist, and we never knew it before! Then she danced a Highland fling be- fore him, till he caught her in his arms, and promised~ to please her, that his next composition should have nothing in it but sheep and cows and brooks and skies. Once more his big frames started on their wandering way, with her little ones beside them. He remembered he had hoped much that time, and when the season s last exhibit was nearly over, with all his pictures still unsold, the old wretched thoughts again pressed upon him. It had taken more effort than he cared to remember to show Margaret only joy at her successes; but she had not seen his trouble, he was certain; and the very last day of the last exhibit, his big Easter Morning was bought by their own art museum. After that he began his animal- scrapes, as Margaret called them; and she was right, as she always was. He had taken prizes and sold, till now every canvas he sent out was sure to find a purchaser. At last he had been able to do all for her that he had longed to do. Best of all, she had never suspected his sore bitterness before his success came. Thank God, she could say truly, Ten beautiful years. Forever these words would comfort and console him. That he had been true to his trust, that he had not even in his despair tortured her, was exceeding sweet to him now. Yes, he was glad, unspeakably glad, he said to himself, as he once more be- gan to look over her letters and papers. Yet, just for a minute, he felt himself insanely longing that she might have guessed his trouble. For the next hour he tried to forget everything but the papers that he must arrange. Her scrappy memoranda, has- ty marginal notes on bills and receipts, her curious collection of useless odds and ends, kept choking him and send- ing sharp stings into his heart; but he worked on, till all was in order except the last drawer. That held a fat lea- ther book which he saw was a sort of journal. One day she made only brief jottings of subjects for pictures; the next she told in comical sentences of a row with a grocer. Further on she went into a little rhapsody over a beau- tiful day in the country that they had taken together. One night she wrote of a religious discussion with a certain min- ister who was troubled about her soul. Robert laughed and almost cried at the way she tripped the worthy parson, and then contritely showed him how far she really was from the heretic he thought her. Once she described a mans face, a face that, though idealized beyond his belief, he did not need her conclud- ing words, the man I love, to know was his own. A little further on came the following entries JIlay 20. Robs pictures have come back, unsold. What are people think- ing of? And why did that stupid jury give me an honorable mention, and ig- nore him? This is the third year that he has nt sold a canvas. It breaks my heart. I know he will succeed soon- er or later, but it is nt the easiest thing for one who seems to be making only failures to keep his own courage up. If only he had the little money I have! Or else, if he could sell instead of me! JIlay 21. Rob is going to uncle Bens for a few days rest. I know what is the real matter. He s discouraged; Ten Beautiful Years. 825 and he s thinking of the remarks that certain of our relatives will make about his failures. They never shall have the chance to make them. I 11 get a new gown to-morrow, and tell them that Robs last picture bought it. I wish I could comfort him. June 1. Rob is back, and all right again, thank Heaven, and he s the brav- est man I know. He has gone to work without any fuss, and is as cheery as a bobolink. If I could only make him understand how big and splendid and fine he is to me, I dont believe he d worry about art committees or stupid people who dont know good pictures. So she had guessed! The little book dropped from his hand. And she had no reproaches for him; she even thought him brave and splendid. Somehow this knowledge comforted him unspeakably, and he turned to the next pages with a warm glow. There was very little writ- ten for nearly a year; then, under date of March 20, he read: All the canvases are out of the house. Robs Earth and Heaven is stun- ning. But it is nt the kind of picture that appeals to the public, nor, I m afraid, to prize committees either. I wonder if it is a part of nineteenth-cen- tury decadence, this fashion in art? Where do we end, when painters them- selves fail to appreciate good work un- less when it is their kind ? If Rob should nt get any recogni- tion this year, I dont know what I shall do. He must! No one can go on for- ever without encouragement. If he only could once get a prize or be bought by a prominent somebody, he d be all right. The herd always follows a leader. April 5. We are all hung. Robs Earth and Heaven is nt in a very good light, while my Moonshine is fairly foist- ed into conspicuous notice by the extraor- dinary care in placing. Why I should be so favored, and the real genius of Rob so little appreciated, I cant com- prehend. I only wish I could be hang- ing committee and prize committee and general public, all in one, for just one day! April 30. Two of my daubs have sold, and one has taken a prize. It breaks my heart; I wish I had nt sent any at all. There is one more chance for Rob. If be is nt mentioned then, I shall want to go away and hide. And he is as brave as ever. Would nt I rave if I were he! It is so abominably unfair. May 25. Everything is over. Rob did nt sell, did nt get a prize, did nt get anything. I never shall forget his face when he first knew it. If I could only have comforted him! But I am sure he would rather have me never sus- pect his soreness. He is going off fish- ing for a day or two. Fishing! My brave boy! He thinks he will get over the hurt before he comes back to me. What s a wife good for if she cant help at such times as this? But I seem so powerless. May 30. Its done! Im glad now that Rob insisted I should keep en- tire control of the little money I have. It was easy, once thought of, to sell a bond, and have the broker himself send the amount to the museum with the un- derstanding that it should buy Robs picture. No one except that unimpor- tant broker knows a thing about it. As for giving up the bond, it does nt make any difference. I 11 scrimp in house- keeping. Besides, once Rob is recog- nized so publicly, he 11 be gaining shek- els for himself. Once more the book slipped from the mans hands, and his head dropped into them, while big sobs shook his whole body. N My wife! he whispered broken- ly, my wife ! After a while, with the tears still on his cheeks, he again opened the little volume at a date a year later. May 25. Only one more day, and Rob has won nothing, while I, wretched 826 if Edmond Rostand. catelipenny, have sold and got prizes in abundance. How could they praise my trash, and slight such work as Robs? He shall not be so disappointed. I 11 sell another bond and present it to the museum. The broker can manage it for me, and nobody will ever know. I only wish I dared take more of the money. But there is so little, and house- keeping does cost so much. If our re- spected relatives knew how we do man- age, they would have a high opinion of our domestic economy. This thousand dollars must be spent for a better studio for Rob. He will need the room if he goes in for animals. Guess we 11 build a double one right behind the house. A year after this came the following: June 15. Hurrah! Hurrah! Robs triumph has come! He got prizes, and has sold everything and has orders ahead. Is nt that glorious! I always knew he would finally win, but the waiting seemed so long. I ye been almost wishing I might tell him about the last two years. But he is a man, and I m afraid it might hurt his pride, even if he has at last succeeded. I never realized till those years of apparent failure how strong he is, or how I worship him! And I felt so ashamed of the stupid people who praised me instead of him that I could n t bear to take their money. I had no business with it. Besides, I knew if he once got his name before the public the rest would follow. I m so happy and thankful! I should like to tell him all about it, and how I love love him love him. The fire burned low in the grate; the shadows crept out of the corners, and slipped across the floor, and huddled about the man who sat, with bowed head, clasping the little book. Out of the still- ness came the message that would abide with him so long as he must live: There s nothing to regret. We have had ten beautiful years. Mary Knight Potter. M. EDMOND ROSTAND. THE world is seeking a poet. There was a time the poet came uncalled, but that is past. Now men search diligent- ly lest the light be hid forever beneath its bushel, and leave the earth in dark- ness. Slender volumes of verse, tenta- tively put forth by publishers, are zeal- ously examined. To stand sponsor to a poet is the secret hope of the reviewer. Academies offer prizes for poetry with signs of permanence. The laurel wreath is plaited and trimmed. The feast of welcome is spread. Out in the high- ways and hedges the critics search to find a poet, and compel him to come in. The wisdom of this course is a vexed question. Should a poet, to borrow a phrase of Burkes, be coaxed and dan- dled into eminence, or do the winds of adversity provoke a sturdier growth? There is little use in citing witnesses. What Johnson would swear to, Mat Prior must deny; while Goldsmith would shake his head sadly over Gay. The truth lies between the poles. Much de- pends on temperament, the rest on cir- cumstances. It is safer to run no risk. Let us be generous, not lavish. The poet should be of his own making; but when he has made and proved himself a poet, then let not our praise halt re- luctantly behind. And our welcome should be catholic as it is generous. The realm of poetry is wide, but it is one. Neither race, nor language, nor class divides it. The

826 if Edmond Rostand. catelipenny, have sold and got prizes in abundance. How could they praise my trash, and slight such work as Robs? He shall not be so disappointed. I 11 sell another bond and present it to the museum. The broker can manage it for me, and nobody will ever know. I only wish I dared take more of the money. But there is so little, and house- keeping does cost so much. If our re- spected relatives knew how we do man- age, they would have a high opinion of our domestic economy. This thousand dollars must be spent for a better studio for Rob. He will need the room if he goes in for animals. Guess we 11 build a double one right behind the house. A year after this came the following: June 15. Hurrah! Hurrah! Robs triumph has come! He got prizes, and has sold everything and has orders ahead. Is nt that glorious! I always knew he would finally win, but the waiting seemed so long. I ye been almost wishing I might tell him about the last two years. But he is a man, and I m afraid it might hurt his pride, even if he has at last succeeded. I never realized till those years of apparent failure how strong he is, or how I worship him! And I felt so ashamed of the stupid people who praised me instead of him that I could n t bear to take their money. I had no business with it. Besides, I knew if he once got his name before the public the rest would follow. I m so happy and thankful! I should like to tell him all about it, and how I love love him love him. The fire burned low in the grate; the shadows crept out of the corners, and slipped across the floor, and huddled about the man who sat, with bowed head, clasping the little book. Out of the still- ness came the message that would abide with him so long as he must live: There s nothing to regret. We have had ten beautiful years. Mary Knight Potter. M. EDMOND ROSTAND. THE world is seeking a poet. There was a time the poet came uncalled, but that is past. Now men search diligent- ly lest the light be hid forever beneath its bushel, and leave the earth in dark- ness. Slender volumes of verse, tenta- tively put forth by publishers, are zeal- ously examined. To stand sponsor to a poet is the secret hope of the reviewer. Academies offer prizes for poetry with signs of permanence. The laurel wreath is plaited and trimmed. The feast of welcome is spread. Out in the high- ways and hedges the critics search to find a poet, and compel him to come in. The wisdom of this course is a vexed question. Should a poet, to borrow a phrase of Burkes, be coaxed and dan- dled into eminence, or do the winds of adversity provoke a sturdier growth? There is little use in citing witnesses. What Johnson would swear to, Mat Prior must deny; while Goldsmith would shake his head sadly over Gay. The truth lies between the poles. Much de- pends on temperament, the rest on cir- cumstances. It is safer to run no risk. Let us be generous, not lavish. The poet should be of his own making; but when he has made and proved himself a poet, then let not our praise halt re- luctantly behind. And our welcome should be catholic as it is generous. The realm of poetry is wide, but it is one. Neither race, nor language, nor class divides it. The ~L Edmond Rostand. 827 poetic dramatist, the pastoral poet, the writer of sonnets, the singer of songs, are all members one of another. Homer, Horace, Victor Hugo, Heine, Tennyson, are the common heritage of all who love them. It is the same with lesser men who have delighted generations. And now we are glad that another name may worthily be added to the list of po- ets, the name of the young French dramatist, M. Edmond Rostand. The success of a young man carries with it an exhilarating sense of possi- bility that can never come from the work of a veteran. M. Rostand has not yet passed his thirtieth year. The full- ness of his power lies, we hope, in the future, although it is hard to believe that he can outdo the merit of his last achievement. M. Rostand was born at Marseilles in the autumn of 1868. The passion of his boyhood was for the stage. Plays and acting soon became his favorite study. Given romance, ambition, po- etry, and a boy, and who shall tell the reams of paper used ? His proficiency in verse increased amazingly, and at eighteen he was the author of a metri- cal comedy in manuscript. For some time the play was laid away. We be- lieve it must have been revised, but, however this may be, the author plucked up courage, dispatched his work to the Com6die Fran9aise, and waited for an answer. Like editors, the managers of theatres are but poor correspondents. If we may trust report, the reply was postmarked one year later. Even then the managers were not to be hurried to a rash conclusion. They required the author to appear before them. He obeyed, and read his work in the pre- sence of his assembled judges. The in- genuity, the drollery, the nimble verse of Les Romanesques delighted the au- dience. The play was accepted and promptly filed. The author returned to the provinces. Soon afterward he joined a theatrical company, and ap peared before the footlights in a drama called Le Gant Rouge. It was not, however, until the 2lst of May, 1894, that, together with two other brief pieces, both the work of young playwrights, Les Romanesques was actually performed upon the stage. The plot of this three-act play is an inversion of a traditional farce. Two fathers, in reality the nearest of friends, wish their children to marry each other. But the youth and maiden, living in dreams of romance, would never hear of a smooth road to love. Wise parents know their children. The fathers feign the hate of Capulets and Montagues, and to their delight the enraptured chil- dren play Romeo and Juliet in earnest. And so the theme runs on through a succession of absurd misadventures te a happy ending. It is all mere farce. In the love scenes the verse is heightened to play- ful burlesque. At times the humor broadens, and we fear buffoonery. But buffoonery never really comes, and all the while we laugh as at the high spirits of a child. We cannot criticise the work seriously; we do not care to. We think of the author as some charming boy who has within him the traditions of a noble school. His verses show the elegance of his breeding. We need have little fear for his future. Let him frolic as he will. In his second piece, played at the Th6~tre de la Renaissance the follow- ing year, M. Rostand has grown older. La Princesse Lointaine is romance in very truth. Jeifroy Rudel, prince and troubadour, sails eastward in search of the princess of his waking dreams. When the boat reaches Tripoli, the crew are fainting from starvation, and the minstrel himself is very close to death. Calling his brother-in-arms, Bertrand, he bids him land and implore the princess to come to the ship that he may behold her once before he dies. Bertrand plights his word. He goes ashore, and finds 828 H. Edmond Rostand. Messalinde beautiful beyond dreams, and surrounded by the splendor of the East. The messenger pleads his cause too well. Struck by his grace, his bearing, and the passion of his words, the princess de- termines to make him hers. Gradually she seduces him from his loyalty. Her own love swells with her success. She exclaims to her maid: Quon doit laimer celni que lon rendit in- fame Et qail faut consoler de ce quil fit pour bus.,, Bertrand struggles in vain against the gilded meshes of her net. He yields, and renounces honor, loyalty, every- thing, for her. Suddenly black sails, the token of death, are seen in the harbor. The horror of their crime comes over the lovers. The signal is a mistake, but their awakening has come. In an agony of repentance, they hasten to the galley. The nobleness of Jeifroy Rudel, as he lies dying, strikes to the soul of Messa- linde. The minstrel dies in her arms, and thenceforth she consecrates her life to God. The play is pitched upon a note of deep intensity, and supports it well. The author attempts to relieve the stress by the introduction of a semi-comic villain, Squarciarfico, who serves the turn with indifferent success. A better expedient is the grace of the lighter verse, while a charming little love song adds a touch of archness that is all too slight. In the love scenes, the verse is rich and pas- sionate, though unequal. Like a born playwright, the author shapes his situa- tions to fine powers of acting. Indeed, one feels instinctively that the key of the play is in its dedication ~ Madame Sarah Bernhardt; for as if to suit the part the great actress loves best to play, the character of Messalinde finds its prototype in the Serpent of Old Nile. La Princesse Lointaine is a remark- able literary accomplishment. Its roman- tic passion and dramatic power deserve high praise, yet we cannot but regret that the authors gayety and sprightly humor find no outlet here. We recog- nize his ripening power, but we would not have him lose his earlier charm. We would counsel him: Enjoy your dear wit and gay rhetoric That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence. It is a custom of the Parisian stage to produce each year, during Passion Week, plays based upon some religious topic. And so it seemed little out of the common, when the bill for Holy Wednesday night in 1897, at the Th& ~tre de la Renaissance, was announced as La Samaritaine, Evangile en vers par M. Rostand. In substance, the play is an elaborate paraphrase of the pathetic story in the fourth chapter of St. John. After the conversation at the well, the woman of Samaria, mocked and despised by the people of her city, confesses her sins be- fore them, and describes with passionate adoration the Saviour sitting at their gates. The crowd listens with incredu- lity; then, suddenly taking fire at her words, streams from out the city. Je- sus talks with them, sometimes accord- ing to the Gospel of St. John, sometimes according to that of M. Rostand; and when the emotional fervor has reached its height the play ends in prayer. It is hard for an Anglo-Saxon to at- tempt an impartial judgment of the liter- ary worth of this astonishing perform- ance, so opposed is it to every ingrained principle and prejudice of our inherit- ance. The Passion Play at Oberam- mergau is a religious rite. This is an emotional pastime. The simplicity of the Gospels remains in our minds as the noblest type of dignity. It has even been hard for many of us to accept the New Version of the Testament, and now this Frenchman mutilates, amplifies, al- ters at will, to suit the nice requirements of his verse, and gain the plaudits of a holiday crowd. The words of Jesus, so ilL Edmond Rostand. 829 familiar in their English rendering, are in our ears: But whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in huin a well of wa- ter springing up into everlasting life. And then we read: Quiconque Boira leau de ce puits aura soif de nouveau; Mais ii naura plus soif, celni qui boira lean Q ue je lui donnerai; car en mi naitra delle Le bondissement frais dune eau perp~tuelle, De sorte quil sera sans fin d& alt~r6 Celni qui boira leau que je mi donnerai. The dilution sounds weak and mawk- ish. If worse were wanting, we might find it in the parable of the Good Sa- maritan in verse of complicated metre. Nor is this all. Ill satisfied with the words which sixty generations of men have learned as the perfect expression of a simple faith, this metrical evangel- ist turns the Lords Prayer into rhyme, and uses it for a stage climax. But it would be folly to deny that there is merit in the play. There is skill and there is poetry. Take, for in- stance, these verses in which Photine (such it seems is the name of the woman at the well) speaks of her jar of water: Tu vois cette ean, cette ean limpide, si urn- pide Que lorsquil ~ est plein, le vase semble vide; Si fraiche que lon voit en larmes de ineur, En perles de clart4 ruisseler la sneur, La sneur de fraicheur que lamphore pansue Par tons les pores fins de son argue sue! One must seek far for a description more delicate than this. It is a fair generalization to say that whenever M. Rostand is able to shake off the shackles of his paraphrase his verse gains in strength and dignity. Sometimes, however, he ventures upon sentiment dangerously at variance with our conception of the Gospel. As Pho- tine first comes upon the stage she sings some lovers verses, which, were not their original familiar to us in the Song of Songs, we should think charming. A little later, when, marveling at the gra cious words of Christ, she seeks to give voice to her love and adoration, she breaks forth involuntarily in the same strain, a strain that had been but too often addressed to earthy lovers. In a moment she checks herself, with a sense of sacrilege; but Jesus comforts her, saying : Je suis tonjours un pen dans tons les mots damour. Surely we Anglo-Saxons may rejoice that a wise Providence withheld from the French the original writing of the four Gospels! It was not until last winter that M. Rostands reputation crossed the Chan- nel, upon the burst of applause that followed the production of Cyrano de Bergerac. Here for the first time the playwrights talents found their proper measure. His wit, his mastery of verse, his spirit, his young enthusiasm corn- bined in a romantic masterpiece. Not since She Stoops to Conquer and A School for Scandal has so brilliant a play been written for the stage. Suc- cess was immediate and overwhelming. Critic and audience were swept away in a torrent of delighted approbation. Even M. Jules Le Maitre, striving hard to maintain his judicial composure, ex- claimed that his thirteen years of critical experience had never witnessed any such performance; while M. Emile Faguet and an army of connoisseurs fairly shout- ed themselves hoarse in a tumult of un- reasoning admiration. The story of the play is well known. Cyrano de Bergerac, prince among wits, king among his comrades, poet, gascon, and swashbuckler, blessed with a thou- sand graces, but penniless and cursed with a fatal nose, adores his cousin, Roxane. She, umisuspicious of his secret, likes his companionship, but her own af- fections lean toward Christian, a soldier with a generous heart, a dull wit, and a pretty face. As for Christian, he wor- ships Roxane, but, distrusting his own eloquence, he dares not plead his cause. 830 AL Edmond Rostand. With romantic unselfishness, Cyrano teaches him the nice art of gallantry, and even writes for him his love letters, pour- ing into them all his own passion. Rox- ane is touched by the fascinating impor- tunity of the lover. While she leans one night from her balcony, Christian wooes her with words whispered in his ear by Cyrano under cover of the darkness. She is conquered, and Cyrano raises his rival to receive the kiss that he himself has won. But the chivalrous hero does not pause till the victory is complete. By his con- trivance the lovers are married. Then Christian and Cyrano are compelled to depart for the wars, and the next act opens upon the siege of Arras. Roxane 5 love for her husband has been fanned by every letter Cyrano has written in his name. Fearful of his safety she comes to the camp. She tells him that hers is no common love: she loves him for his soul; she would deem it an insult were her passion for his beauty alone. Poor simple-hearted Christian is over- whelmed. He seeks out Cyrano, and tells him that all dissimulation must cease. Roxane must choose between them. Cyrano feels that it is he who is loved beneath the mask of another; but his constancy does not falter. He implores Christian, for the sake of her whom they both adore, to keep the se- cret, and hastens to Roxane. All that he has heard is true. Her love is more than skin-deep. Were her husband ugly, hideous, nay, were he disfigured, she swears that she should love him still. Nothing could make him grotesque in her sight. Cyrano scarcely trusts him- self to speak. Just then a comrade whis- pers something in his ear. Christian has been mortally wounded by the enemy. His friends hurry to his side, and as he lies dying in his mistresss arms Cyrano whispers a noble falsehood in his ear : Jai tout dit. Cest toi quelle aime encore. The last act takes place fifteen years later. Roxane, who ever since the tra gedy has been living in retiroment, is cheered every Saturday by a visit from Cyrano, who tells her of the doings of the great world of Paris. One day he is wounded by a billet of wood hurled at his head by a skulking valet. Un- willing to renounce his audience, he goes to see Roxane without telling of his hurt. They talk of old times, and she shows Cyrano her last letter from Christian, which through all these years she has worn near her heart. As Cy- rano reads aloud the familiar words, the daylight fades. Unconsciously he goes on. Roxane watches him in amaze- ment. All at once she understands. But Cyranos wound is mortal. I have loved but a single being, and I have lost him twice! she exclaims. And presently he dies. Upon Paris, crammed to repletion with plays of an outworn and degenerate type, Cyrano de Bergerac came with a quick- ewing spirit. The school of the classics had long been neglected. The reign of Dumas ills had scarcely been challenged. The problems of conscience which he loved dearly to exploit under most un- toward circumstances were favorite texts for polite conversation. Le Demi- Monde and Monsieur Alphonse afforded ample opportunity for debate. Denise went further, and united the two absorb- ing questions: Should a young woman who has sinned confess her fault to an honest man who has asked her hand in marriage? Should a man who has be- trayed a woman tell the truth to his best friend, if he wishes to marry her, but is suspicious of her past? In the name all that is reasonable, here were subtleties enough to enliven a dozen soir6es. But other decadent types were not wanting. The m~nage ~ trois had been acted in all its variations from light comedy to suicide and murder. Social problems, treated in their most brutal forms in Les Mauvais Bergers and a host of lesser pieces, had played upon the passions of the people. The question of womans ilL Edmond Rostand. 831 position in every rank of society had been a favorite theme to juggle with. Only recently, the crowd had applauded as a masterpiece a play which discusses in its nakedness the problem which con- fronts the wife of a debauchee, and sug- gests as a solution that marriage vows once broken by the husband are no long- er binding upon the wife. After all this, the noble touch of idealism that makes Cyrano de Bergerac the play it is was hailed with intense relief. It was the same relief that in a petty scale comes to the reader of some sparkling romance after he has toiled through shelves of bald and arid realism. People love ex- tremes, and M. Rostand came in the nick of time. Yet all this detracts not one whit from the merits of the play. M. Ros- tands venture commanded success, but it deserved it. At the moment, Pari- sians thought the play a creation of a new type. In reality it is the lineal de- scendant of the best traditions of French literature. The author has schooled him- self in his Moli~re, his Corneille, his Hugo, and he knows them as well as ever Stevenson did his Scott or Keats his Shakespeare. Read Cyrano de Bergerac carefully, and you will find reverence for the masters at every turn. The note of high romance, which Corneille caught from iRonsard and from the literature of Spain, is struck again by M. Rostand. In Cyranos disdain for the world there is something that reminds us of Le iMlis- anthrope himself. Perhaps it is not fan- ciful to imagine that, in part at least, our hero inherits his adventurous spirit and merry humor straight from Le Sages Knight of Santillane. Certain it is that the blood of Ruy Blas flows in his veins, and who would deny his kin- ship to the Three Musketeers and dAr- tagnan to boot? But M. Rostand has been the master, not the servant, of tra- dition. In the best sense his play is original, for it is instinct with his own genius. The keynote of the plot is the heros self-sacrifice. His unselfishness is com- plete, but it is not without compensation. In the intensity of his pain, he is con- scious of a subtle delight in knowing that he himself is loved in the person of Christian. This is far from pure altru- ism. It is more sensuous, more com- plex, more human, more interesting. Yet were it not for Cyrano himself, we should care little for his ideals. Bar but his nose, and he fits snugly in the choicest niche left vacant in our fancy. Again, he is just as once he was when all Paris was his stage. In a pleasant volume that has long lain undusted on li- brary shelves, Gautier recalls the Cyrano of history, and numbers him among Les Grotesques, the odd fish of literature. Born in the province of P~rigord in 1620, Cyrano early grew impatient of a quiet home and a parochial school. At eighteen he hurried to Paris, and speedi- ly became the gayest and most brilliant of a gay and brilliant throng. His caus- tic wit made a new jest at every enemy, and a new enemy at every jest. Soon, too, all good Churchmen swelled the number of his foes; when he wrote the tragedy of Agrippine, he was promptly accused of atheism, because, as was point- edly remarked, neither Agrippine nor Sejanus played a truly Christian part. Indeed, it could not be denied that Se- janus spoke like a downright heathen when he said These gods whom men have made, and who have not made men. The scandal was patent, and the author was duly held responsible. His rapier, however, proved a ready defense, and beyond a duel or two a day he ran lit- tle danger. But the hero was not in- vulnerable. His nose was a tender spot. The vaguest reference to this inimitable feature threw him into a paroxysm of rage. If a stranger stared, it was an insult; if he pointed, it was a signal for instant execution. At the siege of Arras, in 1640, Cy 832 ilL Edmond Rostand. ranos prodigies might have put Frois- sarts heroes to the blush. When a hundred enemies hurl an insult at his friend, he charges them single-handed: kills two, wounds a score, and chases the remnant breathless from the field. But valor without a patron is worth little. Cyranos services went unrewarded, and soon he left the service in disgust. Again at Paris, he turned his attention to literature. His Voyage ~v la Lune was famous in its day, and his P6dant Jou6 contained a brilliant scene worthy of a place among the master strokes of comedy. It was laid aboard a pirates galley, and iNIoli~re, then just rising into fame, felt little compunction in preying upon it, stealing the dialogue almost ver- batim, and adorning the Fourberies de Scapin with the borrowed refrain : Que diable allait-il faire dans cette gaThre. As an inventor, too, Cyrano was born to make his mark, and the principle of the balloon can clearly be traced to his in- genious mind. But wit, skill, and cour- age served the poor fellow ill. His re- putation was stolen, his money left him, and in 1655 he died miserably at the hand of an assassin. As he lay on his death-bed, like many a worse sinner, he renounced forever the glittering folly of the world. His soul would rest in heaven, were it not reincarnate in M. Coquelin to-day. M. Rostands hero is the very Cyrano of real life, though his brilliancy is now beyond poor human limits. The scenes about him lend him fitting scope. A dozen butts stand ready for his ridicule, and every shaft he wings strikes home. An unpresented viscount, angered at his bearing, stalks up to him. Rascal, knave, jackass, idiot! he exclaims. With perfect gravity Cyrano removes his cap, and, as though his lordship had just introduced himself, replies: Ah ? And I am Cyrano Savinien Hercule de Bergerac. If Cyrano can shine as a wit, he can burn as a lover. Though spokesman for anothers heart, his words pour forth straight from his own. In the tumult of his feelings, he forgets everything but his own love. But all the while a quaint affectation that might rival Lovelace clings to his speech in a charming ex~ travagance of simile and conceit : Un baiser, quest ce? Un point rose qnon met sur li da verbe aimer; Cest un secret qui prend la bouche ponr oreille, Un instant dinflni qui fait un bruit dabeille. A Sidney would, we fear, have num- bered this lover Of them who in their lips loves standard wear. When Cyrano grows old, as is the way of life, his charm declines. He comes on the stage feeble and wounded. It is not in nature nor in art that his at- traction should be strong as once it was. And yet though the play must needs be rounded out, we half regret that we have read the closing act. The heros name shall not be spoken when we do not think of him as he was in the heyday of his romance. Roxane is a perfect type of the pre- cieuse. A past mistress of affectation, she never wants for wit or spirit. About these central figures cluster a score of minor characters. The play itself sweeps forward with a rush of splendid spirit. Jest follows jest; retort, retort; and there is action in every line. The verse, where it is not broken up in conversation too greatly to allow it, is fluent and melodi- ous, and shows the stamp of careful workmanship. The songs are full of fire, and go dashing along in an infec- tious metre that will not leave the mind at rest. We defy anybody to listen to Ce sont les cadets de Gascogne, and then to go home and forget its gay re- frain. A man might as well stuff his fingers in his ears, and swear he should not know the Marseillaise when next he heard it. In the fourth act the fight is Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe. 833 worthy of a place in the bastion of the Three Musketeers before La Rochelle. The duel in the first outrivals Bob Acress bout with Sir Lucius. We scarce- ly know how we had rather spend an evening than in watching M. Coquelin play Cyrano de Bergerac. For M. Rostand himself our hopes are high. His is a lucky star, and since his birth it has been in the ascendant. He has never played at buffets with the world. Fortunately for him, his ances- tors have spent their days upon high stools, and he is free to court the muses in a drawing-room. Thus far, comfort has not spoiled him, and success has but served to sharpen his ambition. His education is of the best, he is young, and he has ideals. Let us trust that he will follow them. In nns selbst liegen die Sterne unseres Gijicks. Ellery Sedgwick. REMINISCENCES OF JULIA WARD HOWE. I. EARLIEST YEARS. I HAVE been urgently asked to put to- gether my reminiscences. I could wish that I had begun to do so at an earlier period of my life, because now, well on in my seventy-eighth year, the lines of the past are somewhat confused in my memory. Yet, with Gods help, I shall endeavor to do justice to the individuals whom I have known, and to the events of which I have had some personal know- ledge. Let me say at the very beginning that I esteem this century, now near its close, to hnve eminently deserved a record among those which have been great land- marks in human history. It has seen the culmination of prophecies, the birth of new hopes, and a marvelous multipli- cation both of the ideas which promote human happiness and of the resources which enable man to make himself mas- ter of the world. Napoleon is said to have forbidden his subordinates to tell him that any order of his was impossible of fulfillment. One might think that the genius of this age must have uttered a like injunction. To attain instantaneous communication with our friends across oceans and through every continent; to command locomotion whose swiftness VOL. LXXXII. No. 494. 53 changes the relations of space and time; to steal from Nature her deepest secrets, and to make disease itself the minister of cure; to compel the sun to keep for us the record of scenes and faces, of the great shows and pagenuts of time, of the perishable forms whose charm and beau- ty deserve to remain in the worlds pos- session, these are some of the achieve- ments of our nineteenth century. Even more wonderful than these may we es- teem the moral progress of the race; the decline of political and religious enmities, the growth of good will and mutual un- derstanding between nations, the waning of popular superstition, the spread of civic ideas, the recognition of the mutual obligations of classes, the advancement of woman to dignity in the household and efficiency in the state. All this our cen- tury has seen and approved. To the ages following it will hand on an inestimable legacy, an imperishable record. While my heart exults at these gran- deurs of which I have seen and known something, my contribution to their his- tory can be of only fragmentary and fitful interest. On the worlds great scene, each of us can only play his little part, often with poor comprehension of

Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe. 833 worthy of a place in the bastion of the Three Musketeers before La Rochelle. The duel in the first outrivals Bob Acress bout with Sir Lucius. We scarce- ly know how we had rather spend an evening than in watching M. Coquelin play Cyrano de Bergerac. For M. Rostand himself our hopes are high. His is a lucky star, and since his birth it has been in the ascendant. He has never played at buffets with the world. Fortunately for him, his ances- tors have spent their days upon high stools, and he is free to court the muses in a drawing-room. Thus far, comfort has not spoiled him, and success has but served to sharpen his ambition. His education is of the best, he is young, and he has ideals. Let us trust that he will follow them. In nns selbst liegen die Sterne unseres Gijicks. Ellery Sedgwick. REMINISCENCES OF JULIA WARD HOWE. I. EARLIEST YEARS. I HAVE been urgently asked to put to- gether my reminiscences. I could wish that I had begun to do so at an earlier period of my life, because now, well on in my seventy-eighth year, the lines of the past are somewhat confused in my memory. Yet, with Gods help, I shall endeavor to do justice to the individuals whom I have known, and to the events of which I have had some personal know- ledge. Let me say at the very beginning that I esteem this century, now near its close, to hnve eminently deserved a record among those which have been great land- marks in human history. It has seen the culmination of prophecies, the birth of new hopes, and a marvelous multipli- cation both of the ideas which promote human happiness and of the resources which enable man to make himself mas- ter of the world. Napoleon is said to have forbidden his subordinates to tell him that any order of his was impossible of fulfillment. One might think that the genius of this age must have uttered a like injunction. To attain instantaneous communication with our friends across oceans and through every continent; to command locomotion whose swiftness VOL. LXXXII. No. 494. 53 changes the relations of space and time; to steal from Nature her deepest secrets, and to make disease itself the minister of cure; to compel the sun to keep for us the record of scenes and faces, of the great shows and pagenuts of time, of the perishable forms whose charm and beau- ty deserve to remain in the worlds pos- session, these are some of the achieve- ments of our nineteenth century. Even more wonderful than these may we es- teem the moral progress of the race; the decline of political and religious enmities, the growth of good will and mutual un- derstanding between nations, the waning of popular superstition, the spread of civic ideas, the recognition of the mutual obligations of classes, the advancement of woman to dignity in the household and efficiency in the state. All this our cen- tury has seen and approved. To the ages following it will hand on an inestimable legacy, an imperishable record. While my heart exults at these gran- deurs of which I have seen and known something, my contribution to their his- tory can be of only fragmentary and fitful interest. On the worlds great scene, each of us can only play his little part, often with poor comprehension of 834 Reminiscences of Julia Ward howe. the mighty drama which is going on around him. If any one of us under- takes to set this down, he should do it with the utmost truth and simplicity; not as if Seneca or Tacitus or St. Paul were speaking, but as he himself, plain Hodge or Dominie or Mrs. Grundy, is moved to speak. He should not bor- row from others the sentiments which he ought to have entertained, but relate truthfully how matters appeared to him, as they and he went on. Thus much I can promise to do in these pages, and no more. The attention bestowed upon impres- sions of childhood to-day will, I hope, justify me in recording some of the ear- liest points in consciousness which I still recall. I remember when a thimble was first given to me, some simple bit of work be- ing at the same time placed in my hand. Some one said, Take the needle in this hand. I did so, and, placing the thim- ble on a finger of the other hand, I began to sew without its aid, to the amusement of my teacher. This trifle appears to me an early indication of a want of percep- tion as to the use of tools which has ac- companied me through life. I remember also that, being told that I must ask par- don for some childish fault, I said to my mother, with perfect contentment, Oh yes, I pardon you, and was surprised to hear that in this way I had not made the amende honorable. I encountered great difficulty in acquir- ing the th sound, when my mother tried to teach me to call her by that name. Muzzer, muzzer, was all that I could manage to say. But the dear parent presently said, If you cannot do bet- ter than that, you will have to go back and call me mamma. The shame of going back moved me to one last effort, and, summoning my utmost strength of tongue, I succeeded in saying mother, an achievement from which I was never obliged to recede. A journey up the Hudson River was undertaken, when I was very young, for the bettering of my mothers health. An older sister of hers went with us, as well as a favorite waiting-woman, and a young physician whose care had saved my fathers life a year or more before my own birth. After reaching Albany, we traveled in my fathers carriage; the grown persons occupying the seats, and I sitting in my little chair at their feet. A book of short tales and poems was often resorted to for my amusement, and I still remember how the young doctor read to me, Pity the sorrows of a poor old man, and how my tears came, and could not be hidden. The sight of Niagara caused me much surprise. Playing on the piazza of the hotel, one day, with only the doctor for my companion, I ventured to ask him, Who made that great hole where the water comes down? He replied, The great Maker of all. Who is that? I innocently inquired; and he said, Do you not know? Our Father who art in heaven. I felt that I ought to have known, and went away somewhat abashed. Another day, niy mother told me that we were going to visit Red Jacket, a great Indian chief, and that I must be very polite to him. She gave me a twist of tobacco tied with a blue ribbon, which I was to present to him, and bade me observe the silver medal which I should see hung on his neck, and which, she said, had been given to him by General Washington. We drove to the Indian encampment, of which I dimly remem- ber the extent and the wigwams. A tall figure advanced to the carriage. As its door was opened, I sprang forward, clasped my arms around the neck of the noble savage, and was astonished at his cool reception of such a greeting. I was surprised and grieved afterwards to learn that I had not done exactly the right thing. The Indians, in those days and long after, occupied numerous settlements Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe. 835 in the western part of the state of New York, where one often saw the boys with their bows and arrows, and the squaws carrying their papooses on their backs. The journey here mentioned must have taken place when I was little more than four years old. Another year and a half brought me the burden of a great sorrow. I recall months of sweet com- panionship with the first and dearest of friends, my mother. The last summer of her life was passed at a fine country- seat in Bloomingdale, which was then a picturesque country place, about six miles from New York, but is now incorporated in the city. I remember this summer as a partic- ularly happy period. My younger bro- ther and I had our lessons in a lovely green bower. Our French teacher caine out at intervals in the Bloomingdale stage. My mother often took me with her for a walk in the beautiful garden, from which she plucked flowers that she arranged with great taste. There was much mysterious embroidering of small caps and gowns, the purpose of which I little guessed. The autumn came, and with it our return to town. And then, one bitter morning, I awoke to hear the words, Little Julia, your mother is dead. Before this my father had an- nounced to us that a little sister had ar- rived. And she can open and shut her eyes, he said, smiling. His grief at the loss of my mother was so intense as to lay him prostrate with ill- ness. He told me, years after this time, that he had welcomed the physical ago- ny which perforce diverted his thoughts from the cause of his mental suffering. The little sister of whose coming he had told us so joyfully was for a long time kept from his sight. The rest of us were gathered around him, but this feeble lit- tle creature was not asked for. At last my dear old grandfather came to visit us, and learned the state of my fathers feelings. The old gentleman went into the nursery, took the tiny infant from its nurse, and laid it in my fathers arms. The little one thenceforth became the ob- ject of his most tender affection. He regarded all his children with great solicitude, feeling, as he afterward said to one of us, that he must now be mother as well as father. My mothers last re- quest had been that her unmarried sis- ter, the same one who had accompanied us on the journey to Niagara, should be sent for to have charge of us, and this arrangement was speedily effected. This aunt of ours had long been a care- taker in her mothers household, where she had had much to do with bringing up her younger sisters and brothers. My mother had been accustomed to borrow her from time to time, and my aunt had threatened to hang out a sign over the door with the inscription, Cheering done here by the job, by E. Cutler. She was a person of rare honesty, entirely consci- entious in character, possessed of few ac- complishments, but endowed with the keenest sense of humor. She watched over our early years with incessant care. We little ones were kept much in our warm nursery. We were taken out for a drive in fine weather, but rarely went out on foot. As a consequence of this overcherishing, we were constantly liable to suffer from colds and sore throats. The young physician of whom I have al- ready spoken became an inmate of our house soon after my mothers death. He was afterward well known in New York society as an excellent practitioner, and as a man of a certain genius. Those were the days of mighty doses, and the slightest indisposition was sure to call down upon us the administration of the drugs then in favor with the faculty, but now rarely used. My fathers affliction was such that a change of scene became necessary for him. The beautiful house at the Bowl- ing Green was sold, with the new furni- ture which had been ordered expressly for my mothers pleasure, and which we never saw uncovered. We removed to 836 Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe. Bond Street, which was then at the upper extremity of New York city. My fa- thers friends said to him, Mr. Ward, you are going out of town. And so indeed it seemed at that time. We oc- cupied one of three white freestone houses, and saw from our windows the gradual building up of the street, which is now in the central part of New York. My father had purchased a large lot of land at the corner of our street and Broadway. On a part of this he subse- quently erected a house which was con- sidered one of the finest in the city. My father was disposed to be extreme- ly careful in the choice of our associates, and intended, no doubt, that we should receive our education at home. At a la- ter day his plans were changed some- what, and after some experience of gov- ernesses and masters I was at last sent to a school in the near neighborhood of our house. I was nine years old at this time, somewhat precocious for my age, and endowed with a good memory. This fact may have led to my being at once placed in a class of girls much older than myself, especially occupied with the study of Paleys Moral Philosophy. I managed to commit many pages of this book to memory, in a rather listless and perfunctory manner. I was much more interested in the study of chemistry, al- though it was not illustrated by any ex- periments. The system of education followed at that time consisted largely in memorizing from the textbooks then in use. Removing to another school, I had excellent instruction in penmanship, and enjoyed a course of lectures on his- tory, aided by the best set of charts that I have ever seen, the work of Professor Bostwick. In geometry I made quite a brilliant beginning, but soon fell off from my first efforts. The study of lan- guages was very congenial to me; I had been accustomed to speak French from my earliest years. To this I was enabled to add some knowledge of Latin, and af- terward of Italian and German. The routine of my school life was varied now and then by a concert and by Handels oratorios, which were given at long intervals by an association whose title I cannot now recall. I eagerly anticipated, and yet dreaded, these oc- casioiis, for my enjoyment of the music was succeeded by a reaction of intense melancholy. The musical stars of those days are probably quite out of memory in these later times, but I remember some of them with pleasure. It is worth no- ticing that, while the earliest efforts in music in Boston produced the Handel and Haydn Society, and led to the occa- sional performance of a symphony of Beethoven or of Mozart, the musical taste of New York inclined more to oper- atic music. The brief visit of Garcia and his troupe had brought the best works of Rossini before the public. These performances were followed, at long intervals, by seasons of English opera, in which Mrs. Austin was the favorite prima donna. This lady sang also in oratorio, and I recall her rendering of the soprano solos in Handels Messiah as somewhat mannered, but on the whole quite impressive. A higher grade of talent came to us in the person of Mrs. Wood, famous be- fore her marriage as Miss Paton. I heard great things of her performance in La Sonnambula, which I was not al- lowed to see. I did hear her, however, at concerts and in oratorios, and I par- ticularly remember her rendering of the famous soprano song, To mighty kings he gave his acts. Her voice was beau- tiful in quality and of considerable ex- tent. It possessed a liquid and fluent flexibility, quite unlike the curious stac- cato and tremolo effects so much in favor to-day. My fathers views of religious duty became much more stringent after my mothers death. I had been twice taken to the opera during the Garcia perform- ances, when I was scarcely more than Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe. 837 seven years of age, and had seen and heard the Diva Malibran, then known as Signorina Garcia, in the r6les of Cenerentola (Cinderella) and Rosina in the Barbiere di Seviglia. Soon after this time the doors were shut, and I knew of theatrical matters only by hear- say. The religious people of that period had set their faces against the drama in every form. I remember the destruc- tion by fire of the first Bowery Theatre, and how this was spoken of as a judg- ment upon the wickedness of the stage and of its patrons. A well-known thea- tre in Richmond, Virginia, took fire while a performance was going on, and the re- sult was a deplorable loss of life. The pulpits of the time improved this event by sermons which reflected severe- ly upon the frequenters of such places of amusement, and the judgment was long spoken of with holy horror. My musical education, in spite of the limitations of opportunity just men- tioned, was the best that the time could afford. I had my first lessons in musi- cal notation from a very irritable French artist, o~ whom I stood in such fear that I could remember nothing that he taught me. A second teacher, Mr. Boocock, had more patience, and soon brought me forward in my studies. He had been a pupil of Cramer, and his taste had been formed by hearing the best music in London, which then, as now, commanded all the great musical talent of Europe. He gave me lessons for many years, and I learned from him to appreciate the works of the great com- posers, Beethoven, Handel, and Mozart. When I grew old enough for the train- ing of my voice, Mr. Boocock recom- mended to my father Signor Cardini, an aged Italian, who had been an inmate of the Garcia family, and was well acquaint- ed with Garcias admirable method. Under his care my voice improved in character and in compass, and the daily exercises in holding long notes gave strength to my lungs. I think that I have felt all my life through the benefit of those early lessons. Signor Cardini remembered Italy before the invasion of Napoleon I., and sometimes enter- tained me with stories of the escapades of his student life. He had resided long in London, and had known the Duke of Wellington. He related to me that once, when he was visiting the great soldier at his country-seat near the sea, the duke invited him to look through his telescope, saying, Signor Cardini, venez voir coinme on travaille les Fran- ~ais. This must have had reference to some mnwnuvre of the English fleet, I suppose. Mr. Boocock thought that it would be desirable for me to take part in concerted pieces, with other instru- ments. This exercise brought me great delight in the performance of certain trios and quartettes. The reaction from this pleasure, however, was very painful, and induced at times a visitation of mor- bid melancholy which threatened to af- fect my health. While I greatly disapprove of the scope and suggestions presented by Count Tolstoi in his Kreutzer Sonata, I yet think that, in the training of young persons, some regard should be had to the sensitiveness of youthful nerves, and to the overpowering response which they often make to the appeals of music. The dry practice of a single instrument and the simple drill of choral exercises will not be apt to overstimulate the currents of nerve force. On the other hand, the power and sweep of great orchestral per- formances, or even the suggestive charm of some beautiful voice, will sometimes so disturb the mental equilibrium of the hearer as to induce in him a listless me- lancholy, or, worse still, an unreasoning and unreasonable discontent. The early years of my youth were passed in the seclusion not only of a home life, but of a home most careful- ly and jealously guarded from all that might be represented in the orthodox trinity of evil, the world, the flesh, and 838 Reminiscences of Julia Ward Howe. the devil. My father had become deeply imbued with the religious ideas of the time. He dreaded for his children the dissipations of fashionable society, and even the risks of general intercourse with the unsanctified many. He early embraced the cause of temperance, and became president of the first temperance society formed in this country. As a result, wine was excluded from his table. This privation gave me no trouble, but my brothers felt it, especially the eldest, who had passed some years in Europe, where the use of wine was, as it still is, universal. I was walking with my father one evening when we met my two younger brothers, each with a cigar in his mouth. My father was much troubled, and said, Boys, you must give this up, and I will give it up, too. From this time I forbid you to smoke, and I will join you in relinquishing the habit. I am afraid that this sacrifice on my fathers part did not have the de- sired effect, but am quite certain that he never witnessed the infringement of his command. At the time of which I speak, my fa- thers family all lived in our immediate neighborhood. He bad considerably dis- tanced his brothers in fortune, and had built for himself the beautiful house of which I have already spoken. In the same street with us lived my music-lov- ing uncle, Henry, somewhat given to good cheer, and of a genial disposition. In a house nearer to us resided my grandfather, Samuel Ward, with an un- married daughter and three bachelor sons, John, Richard, and William. The outings of my young-girlhood were con- fined to this family circle. I went to school, indeed, but never to dancing- school, a sober little dancing-master giv- ing us lessons at home. I used to hear, with some envy, of Monsieur Chariots classes and of his publics, where my schoolfellows disported themselves in their best clothes. My grandfather was a stately old gentleman, a good deal more than six feet in height, very mild in manner, and fond of a game of whist. With us children he used to play a very simple game called Tom, come tickle me. Cards were not allowed in my fathers house, and my brothers used to resort to the grand-paternal mansion when they desired this diversion. The eldest of my fathers brothers was my uncle John, a man more toler- ant than my father, and full of kindly forethought for his nieces and nephews. In his youth he had sustained an injury which deprived him of speech for more than a year. His friends feared that he would never speak again, but his mother, trying one day to render him some small assistance, did not succeed to her mind, and said, I am a poor, awkward old woman. No, you are not! he ex- claimed, and at once recovered his power of speech. He was anxious that his nieces should be well instructed in practical mat- ters, and perhaps be grudged a little the extra time which we w,ere accustomed to devote to books and music. He was fond of sending materials for dresses to me and my sisters, but insisted that we should make them up for ourselves. This we managed to do, with a good deal of help from the family seamstress. When I had published my first literary venture, uncle John showed me in a newspaper a favorable notice of my work, saying, This is my little girl who knows about books, and writes an article and has it printed, but I wish that she knew more about housekeeping, a sentiment which in after years I had occasion to echo with fervor. Julia Ward Howe. The Battle of the Strong. 839 THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XL. D~TRICAND, Prince of Vaufontaine, was no longer in the Vend6e. The whole of Brittany was in the hands of the vic- torious Hoche, the peasants were dis- banded, and his work for a time, at least, was done. On the same day of that momentous scene in the Cohue Royale when Guida was vindicated, D6tricand had carried to Granville the Comtesse Chantavoine, who presently was passed over to the loving care of her kinsman, General Grandjon-Larisse. This done, he pro- ceeded to England. From London he communicated with Grandjon-Larisse, who applied himself to secure from the Directory leave for the Chouan chieftain to return to France, with amnesty for his past rebellion. This was got at last through the influ- ence of young Bonaparte himself. D6- tricand was free now to proceed against Philip. He straightway devoted himself to a thing conceived on the day when Guida was restored to her rightful status as a wife. His purpose was to wrest from Philip the duchy of Bercy. Philip was heir by adoption only, and the inherit- ance had been secured at the last by help of a lie. Surely his was a righteous cause! His motives had not their origin in hatred of Philip alone, nor in desire for honors and estates for himself, nor in racial antagonism; for had he not been allied with England in this war against the government? He hated Philip the man, but he hated still more Philip the usurper who had brought shame to the escutcheon of Bercy. There was also at work another and a deeper design, to be shown in good time. Philip had retired from the English navy, and gone back to his duchy of Bercy. Here he threw himself into the struggle with the Austrians against the French. Received with enthusiasm by the people, who as yet knew little or nothing of the doings in the Cohue Royale, he now took over command of the army, and proved himself almost as able in the field as he had been at sea. Of these things D~tricand knew, and knew also that the lines were closing in round the dlichy; that one day soon Bo- naparte would send a force which would strangle the little army and its Austrian allies. The game then would be another step nearer the end. Free to move at will, he visited the courts of Prussia, Russia, Spain, Italy, and Austria, and laid before them his claims to the duchy; urging an insistence on its neutrality, and a trial of his cause against Philip. Ceaselessly, adroitly, with persistence and power, he toiled toward his end, the way made easier by tales told of his prowess in the Vend~e. He had offers without number to take service in foreign armies, but he was not to be tempted. Gossip of the courts said that there was some strange romance be- hind this tireless pursuit of an inherit- ance, but he paid no heed. If at last there crept over Europe wonderful tales of D6tricands past life in Jersey, of the real Duchesse de Bercy and of the new Prince of Vaufontaine, D~tricand did not, or feigned not to hear them; and the Comtesse Chantavoine had disappeared from public knowledge. The few who guessed his romance were puzzled to understand his course; for if he dispos- sessed Philip, Guida must also be dispos- sessed. This, certainly, was not lover- like or friendly. But D4tricand was not at all puzzled; his mind and purpose were clear. Guida should come to no injury through him,

The Battle of the Strong. 839 THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG. XL. D~TRICAND, Prince of Vaufontaine, was no longer in the Vend6e. The whole of Brittany was in the hands of the vic- torious Hoche, the peasants were dis- banded, and his work for a time, at least, was done. On the same day of that momentous scene in the Cohue Royale when Guida was vindicated, D6tricand had carried to Granville the Comtesse Chantavoine, who presently was passed over to the loving care of her kinsman, General Grandjon-Larisse. This done, he pro- ceeded to England. From London he communicated with Grandjon-Larisse, who applied himself to secure from the Directory leave for the Chouan chieftain to return to France, with amnesty for his past rebellion. This was got at last through the influ- ence of young Bonaparte himself. D6- tricand was free now to proceed against Philip. He straightway devoted himself to a thing conceived on the day when Guida was restored to her rightful status as a wife. His purpose was to wrest from Philip the duchy of Bercy. Philip was heir by adoption only, and the inherit- ance had been secured at the last by help of a lie. Surely his was a righteous cause! His motives had not their origin in hatred of Philip alone, nor in desire for honors and estates for himself, nor in racial antagonism; for had he not been allied with England in this war against the government? He hated Philip the man, but he hated still more Philip the usurper who had brought shame to the escutcheon of Bercy. There was also at work another and a deeper design, to be shown in good time. Philip had retired from the English navy, and gone back to his duchy of Bercy. Here he threw himself into the struggle with the Austrians against the French. Received with enthusiasm by the people, who as yet knew little or nothing of the doings in the Cohue Royale, he now took over command of the army, and proved himself almost as able in the field as he had been at sea. Of these things D~tricand knew, and knew also that the lines were closing in round the dlichy; that one day soon Bo- naparte would send a force which would strangle the little army and its Austrian allies. The game then would be another step nearer the end. Free to move at will, he visited the courts of Prussia, Russia, Spain, Italy, and Austria, and laid before them his claims to the duchy; urging an insistence on its neutrality, and a trial of his cause against Philip. Ceaselessly, adroitly, with persistence and power, he toiled toward his end, the way made easier by tales told of his prowess in the Vend~e. He had offers without number to take service in foreign armies, but he was not to be tempted. Gossip of the courts said that there was some strange romance be- hind this tireless pursuit of an inherit- ance, but he paid no heed. If at last there crept over Europe wonderful tales of D6tricands past life in Jersey, of the real Duchesse de Bercy and of the new Prince of Vaufontaine, D~tricand did not, or feigned not to hear them; and the Comtesse Chantavoine had disappeared from public knowledge. The few who guessed his romance were puzzled to understand his course; for if he dispos- sessed Philip, Guida must also be dispos- sessed. This, certainly, was not lover- like or friendly. But D4tricand was not at all puzzled; his mind and purpose were clear. Guida should come to no injury through him, 840 The Battle of the Strong. Guida, who, as they left the Cohue Royale that day of days, had turned on him a look of heavenly trust and grati- tude; who, in the midst of her own great happenings~ found time to tell him by a word how well she knew he had kept his promise to her, even beyond belief. Jus- tice for her was now the supreme and immediate object of his life. There were others ready to care for France, to fight for her, to die for her, to struggle toward the hour when the King should come to his own; but there was only one man in the world who could achieve Guidas full justification, and that was himself, D6tri- cand of Vaufontaine. He was glad to turn to the chevaliers letters from Jersey. It was from the chevaliers lips he had learned the whole course of Guidas life during the four years of his absence from the island. It was the chevalier wh& drew for him pic- tures of Guida in her new home, none other than the house of Elie Mattingley, which the Royal Court having confiscat- ed now handed over to her as an act of homage. The little world of Jersey no longer pointed the finger of scorn at Guida Landresse de Landresse, but bent the knee to Princess Guida dAvranche. D6tricand wrote many letters to the chevalier, and they, with their cheerful and humorous allusions, were read aloud to Guida, all save one. Writing of himself to the chevalier on one occasion, he laid bare with a merciless honesty his nature and his career. Concerning nei- ther had he any illusions. I do not mistake myself, chevalier, he wrote, nor these late doings of mine. What credit shall I take to myself for coming to place and some little fame? Everything has been with me: the chance of inheritance; the glory of a cause as hopeless as splendid, and more splendid because hopeless; and the luck of him who loads the dice, for all my old comrades, the better men, are dead, and I, the least of them all, remain, hav- ing even outlived the cause. What praise shall I take for this? None, from all decent fellows of the earth, none at all. It is merely laughable that I should be left, the monument of a sacred loyab ty the greatest that the world has ever known. I have no claims But let me draw the picture, dear chevalier. Here was a discredited, dissolute fellow whose life was worth a pin to nobody. Tired of the husks and the swine, and all his fol- lies grown stale by overuse, he takes the advice of a good gentleman and joins the standard of work and sacrifice. What greater luxury shall man ask? If this be not running the full scale of lifes en- joyment, pray you what is! The world loves contrasts. The deep-dyed sinner raising the standard of piety is pictur- esque. If, charmed by his own new vir- tues, he is constant in his enthusiasm, behold a St. Augustine! Everything is with the returned prodigal, the more so if he be of the notorious Vaufontaines, who were ever saints turned sinners, or sinners turned saints. Tell me, my good friend, where is room for pride in me? I am getting far more out of life than I deserve; it is not well that you and others should think better of me than I do of myself. I do not pretend that I dislike it; it is as balm to me. But it would seem that the world is monstrously unjust. One day, when I m grown old, I cannot imagine what else Fate has spared me for, I shall write the Diary of a Sin- ner, the whole truth. I shall tell how, when my peasant fighters were kneeling round me praying for success, even thanking God for me, I was smiling in my glove, in scorn of myself, not of them, chevalier; no, no, not of them! The peasants is the true greatness. Everything is with the aristocrat; he has to kick the great chances from his path, but the peasant must go hunting them in peril. Hardly snatching suste- nance from Fate, the peasant fights into greatness; the aristocrat may only win The Battle of the Strong. 841 to it by rejecting Fates luxuries. The peasant never escapes the austere teach- ing of hard experience; the aristocrat, the languor of good fortune. There is the peasant, and there am I. VoiTh! enough of D6tricand of Vaufontaine. The Prin- cess Guida and the child, are they So the letter ran, and the chevalier read it aloud to Guida up to the point where her name was writ. Afterward Guida would sit and think of what D6- tricand had said, and of the honesty of nature that never allowed him to deceive himself. It pleased her, also, to think she had in some small way helped a man to the rehabilitation of his life. He had said that she had helped him, and she believed him; he had proved the sound- ness of his aims and ambitions; his ca- reer was in the worlds mouth. The one letter the chevalier did not read to Guida referred to Philip. In it Wtricand begged the chevalier to hold himself in readiness to proceed at a days notice to Paris. So it was that when, after months of waiting, the chevalier suddenly left St. Heliers to join D~tricand, Guida did not know the object of his journey. All she knew was that he had leave from the Directory to visit Paris. Imagining this to mean some good fortune for him, with a light heart she sent him off in charge of Jean Touzel, who took him to St. Malo in the Hardi Biaou, and saw him safely into the hands of an escort from D6tricand. Three days later there wa~ opened in one of the chambers of the Emperors palace at Vienna a congress of four na- tions, Prussia, Russia, Austria, and Sar- dinia. D6tricands labors had achieved this result at last. Grandjon-Larisse, his old enemy in battle, now his person- al friend and colleague in this business, had influenced Napoleon, and the Direc- tory through him, to respect the neutral- ity of the duchy of Bercy, for which the four nations of this congress declared. Philip himself little knew whose hand had secured the neutrality, until sum- moned to appear at the congress to de- fend his rights to the title and the duchy against those of D6trican.d, Prince of Vaufontaine. Had he known that D6- tricand was behind it all, he would have fought on to the last gasp of power and died on the battlefield. He realized now that such a fate was not for him; that he must fight, not on the field of battle like a prince, but in a court of nations like a doubtful claimant of sovereign honors. His whole story had become known in the duchy; and though it begot no feel- ing against him in war-time, now that Bercy was in a neutral zone of peace there was much talk of the wrongs Guida and the Countess Chantavomne. He became moody and saturnine, and saw few of his subjects save the old governor-general and his whilom enemy, now his friend, Count Carignan Damour. That at last he should choose to accom- pany him to Vienna the man who had been his foe during the lifetime of the old duke seemed incomprehensible. Yet, to all appearance, Damour was now Philips zealous adherent. He came frankly repemjting his old enmity; and though Philip did not quite believe him, some perverse temper, some obliquity of vision which overtakes the ablest minds at times, made him almost eagerly accept his new partisan. One thing Philip knew: Damour had no love for D6tricand, who indeed had lately sent him word that for his work in sending Fouch6s men to attempt his capture in Bercy he would have him shot, if the court of nations upheld Detricands rights to the duchy. Damour was able, even if Damour was not honest. Damour, the able, the im- placable and malignant, should accom- pany him to Vienna. The opening ceremony of the con- gress was simple, but it was made nota- ble by the presence of the Emperor of Austria, who addressed a few words of 842 The Battle of the Strong. welcome to the envoys, to Philip, and, very pointedly, to the representative of the French nation, the aged Duc de Mauban, who, while taking no active part in the congress, was present by re- quest of the Directory. The dukes long residence in Vienna and freedom from share in the civil war in France had been factors in the choice of him when his name was submitted to the Directory by Gen- eral Grandjon - Larisse, upon whom in turn it had been urged by D6tricand. The Duc de Mauban was the most marked figure of the court, the Empe- ror not excepted. Clean-shaven, with snowy linen and lace, his own natural hair, silver white, tied in a queue be- hind, he had large, eloquent, wondering eyes that seemed always looking, look- ing beyond the thing he saw. At first sight of him at his court, the Emperor had said, The stars have frightened him. No fanciful supposition, for the Duc de lXlauban was equally well known as astronomer and as student of history and philanthropist. When the Emperor mentioned de Maubans name, Philip wondered where he had heard it before. Something in the sound of it was associated with his past, he knew not how. He had a cu- rious feeling, too, that those deliberate, searching dark eyes saw the end of this fight, this battle of the strong. The face fascinated him, though it awed him. He admired it, even as he detested the ardent strength of D6tricands face, where the wrinkles of dissipation had given way to the bronzed carven look of the war-beaten soldier. It was fair battle between these two, and there was enough hatred in the heart of each to make the fight deadly. Philip knew and he had known since that day, years ago, in the Place du Yier Prison that D6tricand loved the girl whom be himself had married and dishonored. He felt, also, that D6tri- cand was making this claim to the duchy more out of vengeance than from desire to secure the title for himself. He read the whole deep scheme how D6tricand had laid his mine at every court in Eu- rope to bring him to this pass. For hours Philips witnesses were ex- amined, among them the officers of his duchy and Count Carignan Damour. The physician of the old Duke of Bercy was examined, and the evidence was with Philip. The testimony of Dalbarade, the French ex-minister of marine, was read and considered. Philips story, up to the point of the formal signature by the old duke, was straightforward and clear. So far the court was in his favor. D6tricand, as natural heir of the duchy, combated each step in the pro- ceedings from the standpoint of legal- ity, of the dukes fatuity concerning Philip and his personal hatred of the house of Vaufontaine. On the third day, when the congress would give its decision, D6tricand brought the cheva- lier to the palace. At the opening of the sitting he requested that Damour be examined again. The count was asked what question had been put to Philip immediately before the deeds of inher- itance were signed. It was useless for Damour to evade the point, for there were other officers of the duchy present who could have told the truth. Yet this truth, of itself, need not ruin Philip. It was no phenomenon for a prince to have one wife unknown, and, coming to the throne, to take to himself another more exalted. D6tricand was hoping that the nice legal senseof mine and thine would be suddenly weighted in his favor by a pre- pared tour de force. The sympathies of the congress were largely with himself, for he was of the order of the nobility, and Philips descent must be traced through centuries of yeoman blood ; vet there was the deliberate adoption by the duke to face, with the formal assent of the states of Bercy, but little lessened in value by the fact that the French government had sent its emissaries to Bercy to pro- The Battle of the Strong. 843 test against it. The court had come to a point where decision upon the exact legal merits of the case was difficult. After Damour had testified to the ques- tion the duke asked Philip when signing the deeds at Bercy, D6tricand begged leave to introduce another witness, and brought in the chevalier. Now he made his great appeal. Simply, powerfully, he told the story of Philips secret marriage with Guida, and of all that came after, up to the scene in the Cohue Royale when the marriage was proved and the child given back to Guida; when the Countess Chantavoine, turning from Philip, ac- knowledged to Guida the justice of her claim. He drove home the truth with bare, unvarnished power, the wrong to Guida, the wrong to the countess, the wrong to the dukedom of Bercy, to that honor which should belong to those in high estate. Then at the last he told them who Guida was: no peasant girl, but the granddaughter of the Sieur Lar- chant do Mauprat, of the de Mauprats of Chamb~ry, the granddaughter of an exile, indeed, but of I~he noblest blood of France. The old Due de Mauban fixed his look on him intently, and as the story pro- ceeded his hand grasped the table before him in strong emotion. When at the close D6tricand turned to the chevalier and asked him to bear witness to the truth of what he had said, the duke, in agitation, whispered to the president. All that D~tricand had said had moved the court profoundly; but when the withered little flower of a man, the che- valier, told in quaint, brief sentences the story of the Sieur de Mauprat, his suf- ferings, his exile, and the nobility of his family, which had indeed, far back, come of royal stock, and then finally of Guida and the child, more than one member of the court turned his head away with misty eyes. It remained for the Due de Mauban to speak the word which hastened and compelled the end. Rising in his place, he addressed to the court a few words of apology, inasmuch as he was without real authority there, and then he turned to the ch~valier. Monsieur le Chevalier, said he, I had the honor to know you in some- what better days for both of us. You will allow me to greet you here with my profound respect. The Sieur Larchant do Mauprat, he turned to the pre- sident, his voice became louder, the Sicur do Mauprat was my friend. He was with me upon the day I married the Duchess Guidabaldine. Trouble, exile, caine to him. Years passed, and at last in Jersey I saw him again. It was the very day his grandchild was born. The name given to her was Gui- dabaldine, the name of the Duchesse de Mauban. She was Guidabaldine Landresse de Landresse; she is my godchild. There is no better blood in France than that of the de Mauprats of Chamb6~y, and the grandchild of my friend her father being also of good Norman blood was worthy to be the wife of any prince in Europe. I speak in the name of our order, I speak for Frenchmen, I speak for France. If D~tricand, Prince of Vaufontaine, be not secured in his right of succession to the dukedom of Bercy, France will not cease to protest till protest hath done its work. From France the duchy of Bercy came. It was the gift of a French king to a Frenchman, and she hath some claims upon the courtesy of the nations. For a moment after he took his seat there was absolute silence. Then the president wrote upon a paper before him, and it was passed to each member of the court sitting with him. For a moment longer there was nothing heard save the scratching of a quill. Philip recalled that day at Bercy when the duke stooped and signed his name upon the deed of adoption and succession three times, three fateful times. Then the president, rising in his place, read the pronouncement of the court: 844 The Battle of the Strong. that D6tricand, Prince of Vaufontaine, be declared true inheritor of the duchy of Bercy, the nations represented here con- firming him in his title. The president having spoken, Philip rose, and, bowing to the congress with dignity and composure, left the chamber with Count Carignan Damour. As he passed from the portico into the grounds of the palace, a figure came sud- denly from behind a pillar and touched him on the arm. He turned quickly, and received upon the face a blow from a glove. The owner of the glove was General Grandjon-Larisse. XLI. You understand, monsieur? said Grandjon-Larisse. Perfectly, and without the glove, Monsieur le G6n6ral, answered Philip quietly. Where shall my seconds wait upon you? As he spoke he turned with a slight gesture toward Damour. In Paris, monsieur, if it please you. I should have preferred it here, Monsieur le G6n6ral; but Paris, if it is your choice. At 22, Rue de Mazarin, monsieur. Then, with an elaborate bow to Philip, I bid you good-day, monsieur. Afonsejaneur, not monsieur, Philip corrected. They may deprive me of my duchy, but I am still Prince Philip dAvranche. I may not be robbed of my adoption. There was something so steady, so infrangible, in Philips composure now that Grandjon-Larisse, who had come to challenge a great adventurer, a ma- rauder of honor, found his furious con- tempt checked by some integral power resisting disdain. He intended to kill Philip, he was one of the most expert swordsmen in France, yet he was con- strained to respect a composure not sang- froid, and a firmness in misfortune not bravado. Philip was still the man who had valiantly commanded men, who had held of the high places of the earth. In whatever adventurous blood his pur- poses had been conceived or his doubt- ful plans accomplished, he was still, stripped of power, a man to be reckoned with, resolute in his course once set upon, and impulsive toward good as toward evil. He was never so much worth respect as when, a dispossessed sovereign with an empty title, discoun- tenanced by his order, disbarred his pro- fession, he held himself ready to take whatever penalty came. In the presence of General Graudjon- Larisse, with whom was the might of righteous vengeance, he was the more distinguished figure. To Philip now there came the cold quiet of the sinner great enough to rise above physical fear, proud enough to say to the world, Come, I pay the debt I owe. We are quits. You have no favors to give, and I none to take. You have no pardon to grant, and I none to ask. At parting Grandjon-Larisse bowed to Philip with great politeness, and said, In Paris, then, Monsieur le Prince. Philip bowed his head in assent. When they met again, it was at the entrance to the Bois de Boulogne near the Maillot gate. It was a damp, gray morning, imme- diately before sunrise, and at first there was scarce light enough for the combat- ants to see each other perfectly; but both were eager and would not delay. As they came on guard the sun rose. Philip, where he stood, was full in its light. He took no heed, and they en- gaged at once. After a few passes Grandjon-Larisse said, You are in the light, monseigneur; the sun shines full upon you, and he pointed to the shade of a wall nearby. It is darker there. One of us must certainly be in the dark soon, answered Philip grimly, but he removed to the wall. The Battle of the Strong. 845 From the first Philip took the offen- sive. He was more active, and he was quicker and lighter of fence, than his antagonist. But Grandjon-Larisse had the surer eye, and was invincibly certain of hand and strong of wrist. Presently Philip wounded his opponent slightly in the left breast, and the seconds came for- ward to declare that honor was satisfied. But neither would listen or heed; their purpose was fixed to fight to the death. They engaged again, and almost at once the Frenchman was slightly wounded in the wrist. Suddenly taking the offensive and lunging freely, Grandjon - Larisse drove Philip, now heated and less wary, backwards upon the wall. At last, by a dexterous feint, he beat aside Philips guard, and drove the sword through his right breast at one fierce lunge. With a moan Philip swayed and fell forward into the arms of Damour. Graudjon-Larisse stooped to the in- jured man. Unloosing his fingers from the sword, Philip stretched up a hand to his enemy. I am hurt to death, he said. Per- mit my compliments to the best swords- man I have ever known. Then, with a touch of sorry humor, he added, You cannot doubt their sincerity! Grandjon-Larisse was turning away, when Philip called him back. Will you carry my profound regret to the Comtesse Chantavoine? he whispered. Say that it lies with her whether Hea- ven pardon me. Grandjon-Larisse hesitated an instant; then answered, Those who are in hea- ven, monseigneur, know best what Hea- ven may do. Philips pale face took on a look of agony. She is dead she is dead! he gasped. Grandjon-Larisse inclined his head; then, after a moment, gravely said, What did you think was left for a woman, for a Chantavoine? It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride, monseigneur. So saying, he bowed again to Philip and turned upon his heel. Philip lay on a bed in the unostenta- tious lodging in the Rue de Vaugirard where Damour had brought him. The surgeon had pronounced the wound mor- tal, giving him but a few hours to live. For long after he was gone Philip was si- lent, but at last he said, You heard what Grandjon - Larisse said, it is broken pride that kills, Damour. Then he asked for pen, ink, and paper. They were brought to him. He tried the pen upon the paper, but faintness suddenly seized him, and he fell back unconscious. When he came to himself he was alone in the room. It was cold and cheerless, no fire on the hearth, no light save that flaring from a lamp in the street outside his window. He rang the bell at his hand. No one answered. He called aloud, Damour! Damour! Damour was far beyond earshot. He had bethought him that now his place was in Bercy, where he might gather up what fragments of good fortune re- mained, what of Philips valuables might be secured. Ere he had fallen back in- sensible, Philip, in trying the pen, had written his own name on a piece of paper. Above this Damour wrote for himself an order upon the chamberlain of Bercy to enter Philips private apart- ments in the castle; and thither he was fleeing as Philip lay dying in the dark room of the house in the Rue de Vau- girard. The woman of the house, to whose care Philip had been passed over by Damour, had tired of watching, and had gone to spend one of his goldpieces for supper with her friends. Meanwhile, in the dark, comfortless room, the light from without flickering upon his lAanched face, Philip was alone with himself, with memory, and with death. As he lay gasping, a voice seemed to ring through the silent room, repeat- ing the same words again and again; 846 The Battle of the Strong. and the voice was his own voice. It was himself some other outside self of him saying, in tireless repetition: Ahy I die a black, dishonorable death, aban- doned and alone, ~f ever I deceive you. I should deserve that, ~f I deceived you, Guida! A black, dishonorable death, abandoned and alone. It was like some horrible dirge chanting in his ear. Pictures flashed before his eyes, strange imaginings. Now he was passing through dark corridors, and the stone floor be- neath was cold, so cold! He was go- ing to some gruesome death, and monks with voices like his own voice were in- toning: Abandoned and alone. Alone alone abandoned and alone. And now he was fighting, fighting on board the Araminta. There was the roar of the great guns, the screaming of the carronade slides, the rattle of musketry, the groans of the dying, the shouts of his victorious sailors, the crash of the main- mast as it fell upon the bulwarks; then the swift sissing ripple of water, the thud of the Araminta as she struck, and the cold chill of the seas as she went down. How cold was the sea, ah, how it chilled every nerve and tissue of his body! He roused to consciousness again. Here was still the blank, cheerless room; the empty house; the lamplight flaring through the window upon his stricken face, upon the dark walls, upon the white paper lying on the table beside him. Paper, ah, that was it. He must write, he must write while he had strength. With the last courageous ef- fort of life, his strenuous will forcing the declining powers into obedience for a final combat, he drew the paper near and began to write. The light flickered, wa- vered; he could just see the letters that he formed, no more. Guida, he began, on the Ecr6hos I said to you, If I deceive you, may I die a black, dishonorable death, aban- doned and alone! It has all come true. You were right, always right, and I was always wrong. I never started fair with myself or with the world. I was always in too great a hurry; I was too ambitious, Guida. Ambition has killed me, and it has killed her, the cointesse. She is gone. What was it he said if I could but remember what Grandjon-Larisse said ah yes, yes ! after he had given me my death- wound, he said, It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride. There is the truth. She is in her grave, and I am going out into the dark. He lay back exhausted for a moment, in desperate estate. The body was fight- ing hard that the spirit might confess itself before the vital spark died down forever. Seizing a glass of cordial near, he drank of it. The broken figure in its mortal defeat roused itself again, leaned over the paper, and a shaking hand traced on the brief, piteous record of a life: I climbed too fast. Things dazzled me. I thought too much of myself, myself, myself was everything always; and myself has killed me. In wanton haste I came to be admiral and sover- eign duke, and it has all come to no- thing, nothing. I wronged you, I de- nied you: there was the cause of all. There is no one to watch with me now to the one moment of life that counts. In this hour the clock of time fills all the space between earth and heaven. It will strike soon, the awful clock. It will soon strike twelve: and then it will be twelve of the clock for me always, always. I know you never wanted revenge on me, Guida, but still you have it here. My life is no more now than vraic upon a rock. I cling, I cling, but that is all, and the waves break over me. I am no longer an admiral, I am no more a duke, I am nothing. It is all done. Of no account with men, I am going to my judgment with God. But you remain, and you are Princess Philip dAvranche, and your sonyour sonwill be Prince Guilbert dAvranche. But I The Battle of the Strong. 847 can leave him naught, neither estates nor power. There is little honor in the title now, so it may be you will not use it. But you will have a new life: with my death happiness may begin again for you. That thought makes death easier. I was never worthy of you, never. I under- stand myself now, and I know that you have read me all these years, read me through and through. The letter you wrote me, never a day or night has passed but, one way or another, it has come home to me. There was a footfall outside his win- dow. A roisterer went by in the light of the flaring lamp. He was singing a ribald song. A dog ran barking at his heels. The reveler turned, drew his sword, and ran the dog through, then staggered on with his song. Philip shud- dered, but, with a supreme effort, bent to the table again, and wrote on : You were right: you were my star, and I was so blind with selfishness and vanity I could not see. I am speaking the truth to you now, Guida. I believe I might have been a great man, if I had thought less of myself and more of others, more of you. Greatness, I was mad for that, and my madness has brought me to this desolate end, alone. Go tell Maitresse Aimable that she too was a good prophet. Tell her that, as she foresaw, I called your name in death, and you did not come! One thing before all: teach your boy never to try to be great, but always to live well and to be just. Teach him, too, that the world means better by him than he thinks, and that lie must never treat it as his foe; he must not try to force its benefits and rewards; he must not approach it like the highwayman. Tell him never to flatter. That is the worst fault in a gentleman; for flattery makes false friends, and makes the flatterer him- self false. Tell him that good address is for ease and courtesy of life; but it must not be used to ones secret advantage, as I have used mine to mortal undoing. If ever Guilbert be in great temptation, tell him his fathers story, and read him these words to you, written, as you see, with the cramped fingers of death. He could scarcely hold the pen now, and his eyes were growing dim. I am come to the end of niy strength. I thought I loved you, Guida, but I know now that it was not love, not real love. Yet it was all a twisted manhood had to give. There are some things of mine that you will keep for your son, if you forgive me dead whom you despised living. D6tricand, Duke of Bercy, will deal honorably by you. All that is mine at the castle of Bercy he will secure to you. Tell him I have written it so; though he will do it of himself, I know. He is a great man. As I have gone downward, he has come upward. There has been a star in his sky, too. I know it, I know it, Guida, and he he is not blind. He trem- bled violently. The light is going. I cannot see. I can only He struggled fiercely for breath, but suddenly collapsed upon the table, and his head fell forward upon the paper: one cheek lying on the wet ink of his last-written words; the other, cold and stark, turned to the window. The light from the lamp without flickered on it in gruesome sportiveness. The eyes stared and stared from the little dark room out into the world; but they did n~t see. The night wore on. At last came a knocking, knocking at the door, tap! tap! tap! But he did not hear. A mo- ment of silence, and again caine a knock- ing knocking knocking! XLII. The white and red flag of Jersey was flying half-mast from the Cohue Royale, and the bell of the parish church was tolling. It was Saturday, but little business was being done in the Vier Marchi. At familiar points chattering 848 The Battle of the Strong. people were gathered, and at the foot of La Pyramide a large group sur- rounded two sailormen just come from Gasp6, bringing news of adventuring Jersiais, Elie Mattingley, Carterette, and Ranuiph Delagarde. This audience quickly grew, for word was being passed on from one little group to another. So keen was interest in the story told by the home-coming sailors that the great event which had brought them to the Vier Marchi was, for the moment, al- most neglected. Presently, however, a cannon-shot, then another, and another, roused the people to remembrance. The funeral cort6ge of Admiral Prince Philip dAvranche was about to leave the Cohue Royale, and every eye was turned to the marines and sailors lining the road from the court- house to the church. The Isle of Jersey, ever stubbornly loyal to its own, even those whom the outside world contemned or cast aside, jealous of its dignity even with the dead, had come to bury Philip dAvranche with all good ceremony. There had been abatements to his honor, but he had been a strong man and he had done strong things, and he was a Jerseyman born, a Norman of the Normans. The Royal Court had judged between him and Gui- da, doing tardy justice to her, but of him they had ever been proud; and where conscience condemned here, vanity com- mended there. In any event, they re- served the right, independent of all non- Jersiais, to do what they chose with their dead. For what Philip had been as an ad- miral they would do his body reverence now; for what he had done as a man, that belonged to another tribunal. It had been proposed by the admiral of the station to bury him from his old ship, the Imperturbable; but the Royal Court had made its claim, and so his body had lain in state in the Cohue Ro- yale. The admiral joined hands with the island authorities. In both eases it was a dogged loyalty. The sailors of Eng- land knew Philip dAvranche as a fight- er, even as the Royal Court knew him as a famous and dominant Jerseyman. A battleship is a world of its own, and Jersey is a world of its own. They neither knew nor cared for the comment of the world without; or, knowing, re- fused to consider it. When the body of Philip was carried from the Cohue Royale, signals were made to the Imperturbable in the tide- way. From all her ships in company forty guns were fired funeral-wise, and the flags were struck half-mast. Slowly the cort6ge uncoiled itself to one long, unbroken line from the steps of the Cohue Royale to the porch of the church. The jurats in their red robes, the officers, sailors, and marines added color to the pageant. The coffin was cov- ered by the flag of Jersey with the arms of William the Conqueror in the canton. Of the crowd, some were curious, some stoical; some wept, some essayed philo- sophy. Et ben, said one, he was a brave admiral! Bravery was his trade, answered another: act like a sheep and you 11 be eaten by the wolf. It was a bad business about her that was Guida Landresse, remarked a third. Every man knows himself; God knows all men, snuffled the fanatical barber who had once delivered a sermon from the Pompe des Brigands. He made things lively while he lived, b~ sft! droned the jailer of the Vier Prison. But he has folded sails now, pergui! Ma f 6, yes, he sleeps like a porpoise now; and white as a wax he looked up there in the Cohue Royale, put in a cen- tenier standing by. A voice came shrilly over the head of the centenier: As white as you 11 look yellow one day, bat dla goule! Yel- low and green, oni-gia ! yellow like a bad apple, and cowardly green as a The Battle of the Strong. 849 leek. This was Manon Moignard, the witch. Mon doux dla vie, where s the master of burials? babbled the jailer. The apprentice does the obsquies to- day. The master s sick of a squinzy, grunted the centenier. So hatchet-face and bundle-o-nails there brings dust to dust, amen. All turned now to the undertakers apprentice, a grim, saturnine figure with his gray face, protuberant eyes, and ob- sequious solemnity, in which lurked a callous smile. The burial of the great, the execution of the wicked, were alike to him. In him Fate seemed to per- sonify lifes revenges, its futilities, its calculating ironies. The flag-draped coffin was just about to pass, and the fanatical barber harked back to Philip. They say it was all empty honors with him afore he died abroad. A full belly s a full belly, if it s only full of straw! snapped Manon Moignard. Who was it brought him home? asked the jailer. None that was born on Jersey, but two that lived here, remarked Maitre Damian, the schoolmaster from St. Au- bins. That Chevalier of Cbampsavoys and the other Duc de Bercy, interposed the centenier. Maitre Damian tapped his stick upon the ground, and said oracularly, It is not for me to say, but which is the right- ful duke, and which is not, there is the political question! Pardi, that s it! answered the centenier. Why did D6tricand Duke turn Philip Duke out of duchy, see him killed, then fetch him home to Jersey like a brother? Ah, man p~the b~nin, that s beyond me! Those great folks does things their own ways, oni-gia! remarked the jailer. Why did D~tricand Duke go back VOL LXXXII. -~- NO. 494. 54 to France? asked Maitre Damian, cocking his head wisely. Why did he not stay for obsequies he? That s what I say, answered the jailer: ~those great folks does things their own ways. Ma fistre, I believe you! ejacu- lated the centenier. But for the che- valier there, for a Frenchman, that is a man after Gods own heart, and mine. Ah, then, look at that! said Manon Moignard, with a sneer; when one pleases you and God, it is a ticket to heaven, diantre! But in truth what Detricand and the chevalier had done was but of human pity. The day after the duel D6tricand had arrived in Paris, to proceed thence to Bercy. There he heard of Philips death and of Damours desertion. Send- ing officers to Bercy to frustrate any possible designs of Damour, he, with the chevalier, took Philips body back to Jersey, delivering it to those who would do it honor. D~tricand did not see Guida. For all that might be said to her now the chevalier should be his mouthpiece. In truth, there could be no better mouth- piece for him. It was D6tricand, D6tri- cand, DStricand, like a child, in admira- tion and in affection. If Guida did not understand all now, there should come a time when she would understand. D6- tricand would wait. She should find that he was just; that her honor and the honor of her child were safe with him. As for Guida, it was not grief she felt in the presence of this tragedy. No spark of love sprang up, even when re- membrance was now brought to its last vital moment. But a fathomless pity stirred her heart, that Philips life had been so futile, and that all he had done was come to naught. His letter, blotched and blotted by his own dead cheek, she read quietly. Yet her heart ached bit- terly, so bitterly that her face became pinched with pain; for here in this let- ter was despair, here was the final agony 850 The Battle of the Strong. of a broken life, here were the last words of the father of her child to herself. She saw, with a sudden pang, that in writing of Guilbert he only said your child, not ours. What a measureless distance there was between them in the hour of his death, and how clearly the letter showed that he understood at last! The evening before the burial she went with the chevalier to the Cohue Royale. As she looked at Philips dead face, bitterness and aching compassion were quieted within her. The face was peaceful, strong. There was on it no record of fret or despair. Its impassive dignity seemed to say that all accounts had been settled, and in this finality there was quiet; as though he had paid the price; as though the long account against him in the markets of life was closed and canceled, and tbe debtor freed from ob- ligation forever. Poignant impulses in her stilled, pity lost its wounding acute- ness. She shed no tears, but at last she stretched out her hand and let it rest upon his forehead for a moment. Poor Philip! she said. Then she turned and slowly left the room, followed by the chevalier, and by the noiseless Dormy Jamais, who had crept in behind them. As Dormy Ja- mais closed the door he looked back to where the coffin lay, and in the compas- sion of fools repeated Guidas words. Poor Philip! he said. Now, during Philips burial Dormy Jamais sat upon the roof of the Cohue Royale, as he had done on the day of the battle of Jersey, looking down on the funeral cort6ge and the crowd. He watched it all until the ruffle of drums at the grave told that the body was being lowered, four ruffles for an admiral. As the people began to disperse and the church bell ceased tolling, Dormy turned to another bell at his elbow, and set it ringing to call the Royal Court to- gether. Sharp, mirthless, and acrid it rang: Chicane-chicane! Chicctne-chi- cane. Chicane-ehicane! XLIII. What is that for? asked the child, pointing. D~tricand put the watch to the childs ear. It s to keep time. Listen. iDo you hear it, tic-tic, tie-tic? The child nodded his head gleefully, and his big eyes blinked with under- standing. Does nt it ever stop? he asked. This watch never stops, replied D6- tricand, but there are plenty of watches that do. I like watches, said the child sen- tentiously. Would you like this one? asked D6tricand. The child drew in a gurgling breath of pleasure. I like it. Why does nt mother have a watch? The man did not answer the last ques- tion. You like it? he said again, and he nodded his head toward the little fellow. Hm! it keeps good time, ex- cellent time it keeps, and he rose to meet the childs mother, who, having just entered the room, stood looking at them. It was Guida. She had heard the last words, and she glanced toward the watch curiously. D6tricand smiled in greeting, and said to her, Do you remember it? He held up the watch. She came forward eagerly. Is it is it that, indeed, the watch that the dear grandp~the He nodded and smiled. Yes; it has never once stopped since the moment he gave it me in the Vier Marchi, seven years ago. It has had a charmed ex- istence amid many rough doings and ac- cidents. I was always afraid of losing it, always afraid of an accident to it. It has seemed to me that if I could keep it things would go right with me, and would come out right in the end. Superstition, of course, but I lived a long time in Jersey. I feel more a Jersey- The Battle of the Strong. 851 man than a Frenchman sometimes. Al- though his look seemed to rest but casu- ally on her face, it was evident he was anxious to feel the effect of every word upon her, and he added, When the Sieur de Mauprat gave me the watch he said, May no time be ill spent that it records for you. Perhaps he knows his wish was ful- filled, answered Guida. You think, then, that I ye kept my promise? I am sure he would say so, she re- plied warmly. It is nt the promise I made to him that I mean, but the promise I made to you.~~ She smiled brightly. Ah, you know what I think of that. I told you long ago. She turned her head away, for a bright color had come to her cheek. You have done great things, prince, she said in a low tone. He flashed a look of inquiry at her. To his ear there was in her voice a lit- tle touch, not of bitterness, but of some- thing, as it were, muffled or reserved. Was she thinking how he had robbed her child of the chance of heritage at Bercy? He did not reply, but, stooping, put the watch again to the childs ear. There you are, monseigneur! Why do you call him monseigneur? she asked. Guilbert has no title to your compliment. A look half amused, half perplexed, crossed D6tricands face. Do you think so? he said musingly. Stooping once more, he said to the child, Would you like the watch? and added quickly, You shall have it when you re grown ~ Do you really mean it? asked Guida, delighted. Do you really mean to give him the grandp~thes watch one day? Oh yes, at least that, one day. But I have something more, something more for you, and he drew from his pocket a miniature set in rubies and dia monds. I have brought you this from the Duc de Mauban, and this, he went on, taking a letter from his pocket, and handing it with the gift. The duke thought you might care to have it. It is the face of your godmother, the Duchess Guidabaldine. Guida looked at the miniature earnest- ly, and then said a little wistfully, How beautiful a face but the jewels are much too fine for me. What should one do here with rubies and diamonds? How can I thank the duke! Not so. He will thank you for ac- cepting it. He begged me to say as you will find by his letter to you that if you will but go to him upon a visit with this great man here, pointing to the child with a smile, he will count it one of the greatest pleasures of his life. He is too old to come to you, but he begs you to go to him, the chevalier, and you, and Guilbert. He is much alone now, and he longs for a little of that friendship which can be given by but few in this world. He counts upon your com- ing, for I said I thought you would. It would seem so strange, she an- swered, to go from this cottage of my childhood, to which I have come back in peace at last, from this kitchen to the chateau of the Due de Mauban. But it was sure to come, he re- turned. This kitchen, to which I come also to redeem my pledge after seven years, it belongs to one part of your life. But there is another part to fulfill, he passed his hands over the curls of the child, and for your child here you should do it. I do not find your meaning, she said, after a moments deliberation. I do not know what you would have me understand. In some ways you and I would be happier in simple surroundings, here- plied gravely, but it would seem that, to play duly our part in the world, we must needs move in wider circles. To my mind this kitchen is the most de 852 The Battle of the Strong. lightful spot in the world. Here I took a fresh commission of life. I went out, a sort of battered remnant, to a forlorn hope ; and now I come back to headquar- ters once again, not to be praised, he added in an ironical tone, and with a quick gesture of almost boyish shyness, not to be praised; only to show that from a grain of decency left in a man may grow up some sheaves of honest work and plain duty. Oh, it is much more than that, it is much, much more than that! she broke in. No, I am afraid it is not; but that is not what I wished to say. I wished to say that for monseigneur here A little flash of anger came into her eyes. He is no monseigneur; he is Guilbert dAvranche, she said bitterly. It is not like you to mock my child, prince. Oh, I know you mean it play- fully, she hurriedly added, but but it does not sound right to me. For the sake of monseigneur the heir to the duchy of Bercy, he said, laying his hand upon the childs head, these things your devoted friends sug- gest you should do, princess. Her clear, unwavering eye looked steadfastly at him, but her face turned pale. Why do you call him monsel- gneur the heir to the duchy of Bercy? she said almost coldly, and with a little fear in her look, too. Because I have come here to tell you the truth, and to place in your hands the record of an act of justice. Drawing from his pocket a parchment gorgeous with seals, h~ stooped, and taking the hands of the child he placed it in them. Hold it tight, hold it tight, my little friend, for it is your very own, he said, with cheerful kindliness. Then stepping back a little, and looking ear- nestly at Guida, he continued, with a mo- tion of ~he hand toward Guilbert, You must learn the truth from him. Oh, what can you mean, what can you mean! she exclaimed. Dropping upon her knees, and running an arm round the child, she opened the parch- ment and read. What what right has he to this? she cried in a voice of dismay. A year ago you dispossessed his father from the duchy. Ah, I do not understand it! You only you are the Duc de Bercy. Her eyes were shining with a happy excitement ana tenderness. No such look had been in them for many a day. Something that had long slept was wak- ing in her, something long voiceless was speaking. This man brought back to her heart a glow she had thought never to feel again, the glow of the wonder of life and of a girlish faith. I am only D6tricand of Vaufon- tame, he answered. What! did you could you think that I would dispos- sess your child? His father was the adopted son of the Duc de Bercy; no- thing could wipe that out, neither law nor nations. You are always Princess Guida, and your child is always Prince Guilbert dAvranche, and more than that. His voice became lower; his war-beat- en face lighted with that fire and force which had made him, during years past, a figure in the war records of Europe. I unseated Philip dAvranche, he continued, because he acquired the duchy through a misapprehension; because the claims of the house of Vau- fontaine were greater. We belonged; he was an alien. He had a right to his adoption; he had no right to his duchy, no real right in the equity of nations. But all the time I never forgot that the wife of Philip dAvranche and her child had rights infinitely be- yond his own. All that he achieved was theirs by every principle of justice. My plain duty was to win for your child the succession belonging to him by all moral right. When Philip dAvranche was killed, I set to work to do for your child what had been done by another for Philip dAvranche. I have made The Battle of the Strong. 853 him my heir. When he is of age, I shall abdicate from the duchy in his fa- vor. This deed, countersigned by the Powers that dispossessed his father, se- cures to him the duchy, when he is old enough to govern. Guida had listened like one in a dream. A hundred feelings possessed her, and one more than all. She sud- denly saw all D& ricands goodness to her stretch out in a long line of devoted friendship, from this day to that far-off hour, seven years before, when he had made a vow to her, kept how nobly! Devoted friendship, was it devoted friendship alone, even with herself? In a tumult of emotions she exclaimed, No, no, no, no! I cannot accept it. This is not justice; this is a gift for which there is no example in the worlds history! I thought it best, he went on qui- etly, to govern Bercy myself during these troubled years. So far its neu- trality has been honored, but who can tell what may come? As a Vaufontaine, it is my duty to see that Bercys inter- ests are duly protected amidst the trou- bles of Europe. Guida got to her feet now, and stood looking dazedly at the parchment in her hand. The child, feeling himself neg- lected, ran out into the garden. There was moisture in Guidas eyes as she presently said, I had not thought that any man could be so noble, no, not even you.~~ You should not doubt yourself so, he answered meaningly. I am the work of your hands. If I have fought my way back to reputable life again He paused, and took from his pocket a handkerchief. This was the gage, he said, holding it up. Do you re- member the day I came to return it to you, and carried it off again? It was foolish of you to keep it, she said softly, as foolish of you as to think that I shall accept for my child these great honors.~~ But suppose the child in after years should blame you? he returned slowly and with emphasis. Suppose that Guil- bert should say, What right had you, my mother, to refuse what was my due? This was the question she had asked herself long, long ago. It smote her heart now. What right had she to reject this gift of Fate to her child? Scarcely above a whisper she replied, Of course he might say that; but how, oh, how should we simple folk, he and I, be fitted for these high places yet? Now that what I have desired for him has come, I have not the courage. You have friends to help you in all you do, he remarked meaningly. But friends cannot always be with one, she said. That depends upon the friends. There is one friend of yours who has known you for eighteen years. Eighteen years growth should make a strong friendship, there was always friend- ship on his part, at least. He can be a still stronger and better friend. He comes now to offer you the remainder of a life for which your own goodness is the guarantee. He comes to offer you a love of which your own soul must be the only judge, for you have eyes that see and a spirit that knows. The che- valier needs you and the Due de Mauban needs you, but D~tricand of Vaufontaine needs you a thousand times more. Oh, hush but no, you must not, she broke in, her face all crimson, her lips trembling. But yes, I must, he answered quickly. You find peace here, but it is the peace of inaction. It dulls the brain, and life winds in upon itself wea- rily at the last. But out there are light and fire and action, and the quick-beat- ing pulse, and the joy of power wisely used, even to the end. You come of a great people, you were born to great things; your child has rights accorded now by every court of Europe. You must act for him. For your childs sake, for my sake, come out into the 854 The Battle of the Strong. great field of life with me as my wife, Guida. She turned to him frankly, she looked at him steadfastly; the color in her face came and went, but her eyes glowed with feeling. After all that has happened? she asked in a low tone. It could only be because of all that has happened. No, no, you do not understand, she said quickly, a great pain in her voice. I have suffered so, these many, many years. I shall never be light - hearted again. And I am not fitted for such high estate. Do you not see what you ask of me, to go from this cottage to a palace? I love you too well to ask you to do what you could not. You must trust me, he answered, you must give your life its chance, you must But listen to me, she interjected, with breaking tones. I know as surely as I know as I know the face of my child, that the youth in me is dead. My summer came and went long ago. No, no, you do not understand, I would not make you unhappy. I must live only to make my child happy. That love has not been marred! And I must be judge of what is for my own happiness. And for yours, if I thought my love would make you unhappy for even one day, I should not offer it. I am your lover, but I am also your friend. Had it not been for you, I might have slept in a drunkards grave in Jersey. Were it not for you, my bones would now be lying in the Vend6e. I left my peasants, I denied myself death with them, to serve you. The old cause is gone. You and your child are now my only cause You make it so hard for me! she broke in. Think of the shadows from the past always in my eyes, always in my heart. You cannot wear the con- victs chain without the lagging footstep afterward. Shadows! Friend of my soul, how should I dare come to you if there had never been shadows in your life! It is because you you have suffered, be- cause you know, that I come. Out of your miseries, the convicts lagging step, you say? Think what I was. There was never any wrong in you, but I was sunk in evil depths of folly I will not have you say so, she in- terrupted; you never in your life did a dishonorable thing. Then again I say, trust me; for, on the honor of a Yanfontaine, I believe that happiness will be yours as my wife. The boy, you see how he and I Ah, you are so good to him! You must give me chance and right to serve him. What else have you or I to look forward to? The honors of this world concern us little. The brightest joys are not for us. We have work be- fore us, no rainbow ambitions. But the boy think for him He paused. After a little she held out her hand to- ward him. Good-by, she said softly. Good-by you say good-by to me! he exclaimed in dismay. Till till to - morrow, she an- swered, and she smiled. The smile had a little touch of the old archness which was hers as a child, yet, too, a little of the sadness belonging to the woman. But her hand-clasp was firm and strong, and her touch thrilled him. Power was there, power with infinite gentleness. And he understood her, which was more than all. He turned at the door She was stand- ing very still, the parchment with the great seals in her hand. Without speak- ing she held it out to him, as though un- certain what to do with it. As he passed through the doorway he smiled, and said, To - morrow, to- morrow! Gilbert Parker. (The end.) Old Homes. happiness. 855 OLD HOMES. OLD homes among the hills! I love their gardens; Their old rock-fences that our day inherits; Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens; Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens. I see them gray among their ancient acres, Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled, Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled, Serene among their memory-hallowed acres. Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies, Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers, Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, And Autumn ingots marigolds in showers, And all the hours are toilless as the lilies. I love their orchards, where the gay woodpecker Flits, flashing oer you, like a wing~d jewel; Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker. Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love, they touch me, through the years that sever, With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever. 2liadison Cawein. HAPPINESS. IT was before the sunset that I turned From where the late day burned, And climbed the wide brown pasturelands that run Along the hillside. There the warm weeds purr For comfort of the sun. Some secret in their look Led me, until, struck through with love and awe, I saw My Brook. Glad hastener!

Old Homes. happiness. 855 OLD HOMES. OLD homes among the hills! I love their gardens; Their old rock-fences that our day inherits; Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens; Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens. I see them gray among their ancient acres, Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled, Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled, Serene among their memory-hallowed acres. Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies, Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers, Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, And Autumn ingots marigolds in showers, And all the hours are toilless as the lilies. I love their orchards, where the gay woodpecker Flits, flashing oer you, like a wing~d jewel; Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker. Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love, they touch me, through the years that sever, With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever. 2liadison Cawein. HAPPINESS. IT was before the sunset that I turned From where the late day burned, And climbed the wide brown pasturelands that run Along the hillside. There the warm weeds purr For comfort of the sun. Some secret in their look Led me, until, struck through with love and awe, I saw My Brook. Glad hastener!

Old Homes. happiness. 855 OLD HOMES. OLD homes among the hills! I love their gardens; Their old rock-fences that our day inherits; Their doors, round which the great trees stand like wardens; Their paths, down which the shadows march like spirits; Broad doors and paths that reach bird-haunted gardens. I see them gray among their ancient acres, Severe of front, their gables lichen-sprinkled, Like gentle-hearted, solitary Quakers, Grave and religious, with kind faces wrinkled, Serene among their memory-hallowed acres. Their gardens, banked with roses and with lilies, Those sweet aristocrats of all the flowers, Where Springtime mints her gold in daffodillies, And Autumn ingots marigolds in showers, And all the hours are toilless as the lilies. I love their orchards, where the gay woodpecker Flits, flashing oer you, like a wing~d jewel; Their woods, whose floors of moss the squirrels checker With half-hulled nuts; and where, in cool renewal, The wild brooks laugh, and raps the red woodpecker. Old homes! old hearts! Upon my soul forever Their peace and gladness lie like tears and laughter; Like love, they touch me, through the years that sever, With simple faith; like friendship, draw me after The dreamy patience that is theirs forever. 2liadison Cawein. HAPPINESS. IT was before the sunset that I turned From where the late day burned, And climbed the wide brown pasturelands that run Along the hillside. There the warm weeds purr For comfort of the sun. Some secret in their look Led me, until, struck through with love and awe, I saw My Brook. Glad hastener! 856 The Contributors Club. Though the high tide of clover was astir, And blue-eyed flowers leaned across the grass To see it pass, And the long, rippled tresses Of watercresses Were misted with thin crystal, under stream, For more content To small suspected presences, agleam, And then away! yet, ever diligent, Untamed, soft fluttering, The little creature went on rapturous wing, Loyal and changeful, feathered, yet at rest, On its own quest, Subtle as light and simple as a nest. It mused among the shaggy weeds and bubbled In broken paths, untroubled; With such a tongue to comfort and beseech, It won the stones to speech! Long time I listened, pondered, with love-looks, The ways of brooks; When, feeling, half aware, The benediction-touch upon my hair, Of something fair, I turned from that wise water happy-voiced; And there, Against the flush of waning afternoon, Early, a dim moth-silver, poised The Moon. Josephine Preston Peabody. THE CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. IT is maliciously said that the femi- The Last nine reader is accustomed to Chapter. treat the last chapter of a novel as a preface. She believes that here the flavor of the story is concen- trated. If it be to her taste, she will straightway read the book, regardless of dinner-bells or callers. If not, ten min- utes are her only loss. Fearful of being inveigled into unnecessary reading, she wishes to make sure that the game is worth the candle. The recommendation of friends is unreliable. Book notices are sometimes wrong. The last chapter is a certain key. The advantages of this method are indisputable. Given an innocent young woman, of moderate sense and immoder- ate sensibility: why should she be con- demned to three hundred pages at hard labor to find in the end that the heros life is as prosaic as her own fathers? Or if the woman be older, with rather more sense and decidedly less sensibility, the type known among us as a very worthy person, why, if justice still be justice, should she toil through thirty chapters to learn that the heros passion for romance is incorrigible, after all? These are pertinent questions, and this

856 The Contributors Club. Though the high tide of clover was astir, And blue-eyed flowers leaned across the grass To see it pass, And the long, rippled tresses Of watercresses Were misted with thin crystal, under stream, For more content To small suspected presences, agleam, And then away! yet, ever diligent, Untamed, soft fluttering, The little creature went on rapturous wing, Loyal and changeful, feathered, yet at rest, On its own quest, Subtle as light and simple as a nest. It mused among the shaggy weeds and bubbled In broken paths, untroubled; With such a tongue to comfort and beseech, It won the stones to speech! Long time I listened, pondered, with love-looks, The ways of brooks; When, feeling, half aware, The benediction-touch upon my hair, Of something fair, I turned from that wise water happy-voiced; And there, Against the flush of waning afternoon, Early, a dim moth-silver, poised The Moon. Josephine Preston Peabody. THE CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. IT is maliciously said that the femi- The Last nine reader is accustomed to Chapter. treat the last chapter of a novel as a preface. She believes that here the flavor of the story is concen- trated. If it be to her taste, she will straightway read the book, regardless of dinner-bells or callers. If not, ten min- utes are her only loss. Fearful of being inveigled into unnecessary reading, she wishes to make sure that the game is worth the candle. The recommendation of friends is unreliable. Book notices are sometimes wrong. The last chapter is a certain key. The advantages of this method are indisputable. Given an innocent young woman, of moderate sense and immoder- ate sensibility: why should she be con- demned to three hundred pages at hard labor to find in the end that the heros life is as prosaic as her own fathers? Or if the woman be older, with rather more sense and decidedly less sensibility, the type known among us as a very worthy person, why, if justice still be justice, should she toil through thirty chapters to learn that the heros passion for romance is incorrigible, after all? These are pertinent questions, and this The Contributors Club. 8~7 system, which we will make bold to call the feminine, as opposed to the stolid masculine practice of beginning at the beginning and ending at the end, is one of the great economic inventions of this ingenious age. But, unfortunately, the value of the system is negative. It prevents a shock- ing waste of time upon uncongenial books; yet if, by some happy accident, the volume is congenial, when once the solution is known, the bubble of interest is pricked. For my own part, I follow the simpler method; but recognizing that the value of the feminine system is too evident to be lightly cast aside, I submit with some diffidence a few simple rules for the guidance of discriminating readers. (1.) New books in paper covers should be read after the feminine system. (2.) When a brand-new author issues a brand-new book, the feminine method is very safe. (3.) When the newspapers hail the author as the Thackeray of the United States, the Balzac of America, or the Fielding of the nineteenth century, the feminine system should be rigorously followed. (4.) Wheu a novel is suspected of a purpose, apply the system and dis- cover the purpose. If these directions be scrupulously followed, it is my confident belief that I shall deserve the lasting gratitude of every reader who would save time, trou- ble, and vexation of spirit. Thus I admit the typical last chapter has its legitimate use. But surely it is not for this that authors add their smooth explanation of the past, their elaborate horoscope of the future, their public scrutiny into lives that have passed beyond the limits of their story. Their purpose is to gratify the people, not to do honor to their craft. As the component part of a work of art, the weakness of the traditional last chapter is but too evident. When once we have reached the climax, we are straightway tempted to close the book. There the story ends. The curtain drops. Gold and tinsel vanish. The actors become men and women much like the rest of us. To describe them further is mere gossip. Many a successful author knows this in his heart. But if, regardless of his readers curiosity, he carefully omit the closing sketch of a paternal hero and a domesticated heroine, then Give us a sequel ! is at once the cry. With half- assumed reluctance, the complacent au- thor yields. In due time the sequel is brought forth. Everybody reads it. The Sunday newspapers predict undying fame. The original is surpassed, they say, the author has outdone himself. A year later the very title is on the verge of oblivion. Indeed, the failure of the sequel is proverbial, for David Balfour and the romances of Dumas merely serve to prove the rule. But, most commonly, the author holds nothing back, and the last chapter is given to the reader in all its relentless accuracy. Let us take a few familiar examples. It is, for instance, to a last chapter that we owe the description of Daniel Derondas wedding in the very heart of Jewry, and willy-nilly we must read of Mira glowing like a dark tipped yet delicate ivory-tinted flower in the warm sunlight of success. What in the name of satiety is the need of this! one exclaims involuntarily. But here the reader will say that Jam prejudiced; that my thoughts are fixed on Gwendolen; that I never really appreciated Mira; that this last vignette of the sentimental Jewess, surrounded by the whole Cohen family, makes me needlessly intolerant. Lest these charges be thought too plausi- ble, I will adduce a fairer instance. The conclusion of Jane Eyre purports to be written by the heroine ten years after her marriage with Rochester. What has she to tell us? I know no weariness of my Edwards society. . 858 The Contributors club. We talk, I believe, all day. (Bless us, of course they did, or she had not been Jane Eyre nor he Rochester.) Diana and Mary Rivers are both married. (We guessed as much.) My Edward is no longer stone blind. (Here, it is true, is news, but might it not have been hinted to us before?) Even Hawthorne, who was not wont to swerve from literary ideals, was badg- ered by public curiosity into some re- luctant explanations. The Marble Faun, I believe, originally ended with the famous scene in the Pantheon where be- neath the eye of Heaven Kenyon and Hilda plight their lovers oaths. Here was the natural and therefore the artis- tic ending; but the public cried out, and half a chapter was added. Hildas for- mer disappearance is explained. Poor Donatellos fate is hinted at. But, still insatiate, the reader clamors for the se- cret of the Faun. How would Cuvier classify Donatello? he demands. This is too much. At last the long-suffering author protests: On that point, at all events, there shall be no word of expla- nation, and his promise is well kept. One half of this apparent curiosity is in reality pure laziness. Like children who turn to the appendix for the answer before they do a problem, readers grudge the smallest claims upon their intellect or fancy. They do not read, they say, for mental exercise, but for pleasure. Print is plainer and more satisfactory than speculation. It is the authors busi- ness to write the story, and a good work- man makes his work complete. Why should a reader, buried in the easiest of chairs, and fortified against discomfort by dressing-gown and slippers, be obliged to cudgel the brain and start the ima- gination from quiescence, when the au- thor can save the trouble in no time? A pest upon The Lady or the Tiger! A plague on the ears of the Faun! Bet- ter a thousand times crop them short than leave them hidden in this everlast- ing doubt. Yet, to my thinking, it is just here that a chief duty of the author lies. He owes it to the reader to develop qualities which the world too often leaves untouched. Not business nor golf, not housekeeping nor driving, will stir the imagination; yet if it lie fallow, how much is gone from life! Once roused, the fancy feeds on its own growth, until it colors the world and softens the hardness of every outline. The last chapter opens a wide opportunity. In it, if the author will, he may lead the reader to the border- land of fact and fancy, and thence let him stray unaided. The first step taken, the exercise becomes a pleasure. The reader closes the book, but his thoughts run on and on, and in his mild way he shares the keen delight of a creative mind. It is a hopeful sign of the times that many novelists of to-day have self-con- trol enough to halt when their story is told. But, unhappily, their whole task is not accomplished thus. A dull story with the best of endings is but a crime without aggravating circumstance. To the vulgar author, the opportunity of the last chapter is denied. Long since, the readers attention has flagged hopelessly, and pricked as it may be, at the close, it will not budge one inch beyond the pale marked by the blessed Finis. Again the mind becomes a peaceful blank. I know no more perfect master of the art of effect in a last chapter than the Russian Turgueneff. When the acme of interest is past, he never runs on in gar- rulous anti-climax, sparing the imagina- tion every effort; nor does he drop a curtain behind which it is impossible to grope. The few pages which end his novels, like the mists that wrap a distant landscape, vaguely suggest the unknown scenes beyond. If some incident subse- quent to the story is necessary to com- plete our understanding of a character, as for instance the death of Dmitri Rudin~ he gives it to us briefly, yet The Contributors club. 859 without reserve. But if the details we seek are the mere sequel of the plot, we find them hedged about with tantalizing doubt. What reader, as he finishes the wonderful story of Helene, does not pause while his mind follows her from Venice upon her unknown journey? And who is insensible to the fascination of the thought that her fate may be divined by him alone? For such an ending to such a story the reader may well feel grateful. Crea- tions like this are rare, as they are pre- cious. Their authors are fewer still, but they are born to immortality. IN 1862, when President Lincoln is- The Two sued his second call for Stages of a troops, a certain young man Hero. quitted the gold fields of Col- orado, and hastened across the plains to Omaha as fast as the enduring ox-teams of the time could carry him. There he took a train for Michigan, the state of his residence; stopped at Kalamazoo to marry his sweetheart, and to deliver to her his belt of gold dust; and then sped on to the recruiting station at Detroit. He enlisted in the ranks, went to the front, fought in no less than seven of the historic battles, incurred serious physical troubles, was wounded, and in the third year of the war was discharged and sent home a lieutenant of his company. This man, still in the prime of life, sitting under his own vine and apple tree, heard of the recent war with irritation. Why cant we have peace ? he asked. What is all this trouble about, anyway? Whats all this talk about civilization, if men must fall at one an- others throats? As for these young boys who are enlisting, they 11 be crying for their mothers. Why, Bill Brown left his father, now getting to be an old man, to look after the farm alone this summer. Bill d no business to go off. The best way for him to serve his coun- try is by staying at home and getting in the crops. And Conover, who was clerking for Sisson, he s gone too, and has nt been married but a month. Why cant he stay at home and take care of his wife? She 11 be a widow, the first thing she knows! It s a very strange thing to me that men cant attend to their business, and get over the habit of kill- ing one another. While there are many exceptions to the rule, this lament of the civil-war veteran is that of many of his class. They re- present what may be termed the subjec- tivity of the spontaneous patriot. They are not men accustomed to viewing his- torical events in an objective way, and they are interested in the course of things chiefly as it affects themselves. It is an open question whether such men as Bill Brown, and Conover, and the vet- eran as he was in his youth (for tbey are all of the same class) are not of more use to a commonwealth than men of reflection. At any rate, they make up the ranks; they do the work in the fields, in the shops, in the trenches, in the churches; they comprise the great majority of this enormous, heterogene- ous nation. But what distinguishes them most from the men of reflection is the fact that they unconsciously obey the laws of nature. When they are young, they are young. When they are old, they are old. They have a time for seeking the bubble reputation at the cannons mouth, and a time for the lean and slippered pantaloon; nor do they feel impelled to accept sentiments in- consistent with their time of life, nor to affect a state of mind they do not feel. This simple obedience to the course of nature makes many of the heroes of our past generation intolerant of those of to- day. Years have softened them; their aggressive masculinity is a thing of the past, all the more because they once put it to the test, and expressed them- selves passionately in the most strenuous conflict of the world; having satisfied themselves, their women, and their friends of their manhood in this most conclusive way, they rest content with peace. They 860 The Contributors Club. forget that the present generation has a right to its drama; that the young wo- men want their heroes, and the old wo- men wish to see their sons distinguish themselves; and that deep in the souls even of young men half drugged by commercial monotony is a dream of prowess, a desire for adventure, and an impatience for some form of intense per- sonal expression. This histrionic self-expression the pre- sent generation has now had. It has idealized itself for its own delight, and is able to regard itself poetically. Now it, too, is ready to move on to unimpas- sioned work and prudent living. I HAVE often wondered why some one scorning has not taken issue with ?r~~ Shakespeare on his dogmatic turn. command, Let still the wo- man take an elder than herself. The frequent marriages of women to men younger than themselves have been sin- gularly happy and congenial, from Dr. Johnson~ s marriage with his dear Tet- zey, who was twice his age, to Yarn- liagen von Ense and Madame Mohi. In Napoleons marriage the age of Jose- phine did not matter. When Madame de Stad turned to her young husband, Rocca, one must feel that she brought to him more than Chloe offered Daphnis; and when George Eliot married Mr. Cross, must we not believe that the union was one of dignified significance? Hear what Yarnhagen says in his journal before his marriage with Rahel Levin, the woman whose merit has been attested by Goethe, Jean Paul Richter, and Carlyle: I was then twenty-four years old, Rahel my senior by more than half those years. This circumstance taken by itself might seem likely to have driven our lives far asunder. It was, however, but an accident; it was essen- tially of no account. This noble life, so rich in experience both of joy and of sor- row, retained all its vigor; not only the powerful intellect which hovered above every - day regions, but the heart, the senses, the whole corporeal being, were as though bathed in clear light. She stood a commanding presence between an accomplished past and a hopeful fu- ture. To whom do we owe so high an inter- pretation of the ideal of marriage as to Charles Kingsley, whose wife was seven years his senior? Turn the pages of his Life and re-read these words: Mat- thew xxii. 30 has been to me always a comfort. I am so well and really mar- ried on earth that I should be exceeding- ly sorry to be married again in heaven; and it would be very needless. All I can say is, if I do not love my wife, body and soul, as well there as I do here, then there is neither resurrection of my body nor of my soul, but of some other, and I shall not be I. It is interesting to recall the heroines of Disraeli, Henrietta Temple and others, and then to remember that Disraeli defied the theory of feminine attraction which he had advanced in fic- tion, by selecting for his wife a woman who was much older than himself, and to whom he attributed the success as well as the happiness of his life. The story runs that once, seeing his wife, then aged and frail, leaning on the arm of an attend- ant, Lord Beaconsfield said of her to the friend with whom he was at the mo- inent talking, There is the only person who has never bored me. Those beautiful love poems, At the Fireside and One Word More, were writ- ten by Robert Browning to his wife, who was six years his senior. Robert Louis Stevenson~ s marriage with Mrs. Osborne, who was much older than he, was, as we all know, a union of extraor- dinary felicity. His own words in the poem which serves as the dedication to Weir of Hermiston, as well as the tes- timony of his friends, attribute to her much help in his literary success, as well as his domestic happiness. Publishers Announcements I CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS IMPORTATIONS. ROME. By REINHOLD SCHOENER. With 300 full-page and text illustrations by the best Italian artists, uniform with Venice. Quarto, $12.50. The Illustrations of this costly volume form an art epitome of the history of Rome in themselves, for they include not only reproductions of the masterpieces of antiquity and of the Middle Ages, hut scenes from the every-day Lre of tile Rornans of the present time. They are after original drawings by Aleardo and Amadeo Terzi, G. Bacarisas, F. von Len- bach, and others. Venice. France Under Louis IV. (Le Grand Si& le). Translated from the French of Emile Depicted by Pen and Pencil. Being a superb delineation Bourgeois. With 22 photogravures and 500 other illus- of the City which is always potting out to sea. With trations. Imperial Svo, beautifully bound, $I5.oo. i8o full-page and text illustrations from original draw- It is distinguished alike for the historical value of its con- ings by Ettore Tito and other celebrated Venetian artists. tents, the interest and charm of its style, and for the rich- Uniform with Rome. 4to, cloth, decorated with a beauti- ness and profuseness of its illustrative material, which has ful i~th-century design in color, $12.50. been drawn from every source, public and private. A HISTORY OF RUGBY SCHOOL. By W. H. D. Rouse. With numerous Portraits, Views, etc., etc. Being the first one of a series of volumes on the Great English Public Schools. Crown Svo, 1.50. To he followed by volumes on Eton, Winchester, etc., etc. Chitral. The Story of a Minor Siege. The Sepoy Mutiny. By Sir G. S. ROBERTSON. 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Publishers Announcements I CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS IMPORTATIONS. ROME. By REINHOLD SCHOENER. With 300 full-page and text illustrations by the best Italian artists, uniform with Venice. Quarto, $12.50. The Illustrations of this costly volume form an art epitome of the history of Rome in themselves, for they include not only reproductions of the masterpieces of antiquity and of the Middle Ages, hut scenes from the every-day Lre of tile Rornans of the present time. They are after original drawings by Aleardo and Amadeo Terzi, G. Bacarisas, F. von Len- bach, and others. Venice. France Under Louis IV. (Le Grand Si& le). Translated from the French of Emile Depicted by Pen and Pencil. Being a superb delineation Bourgeois. With 22 photogravures and 500 other illus- of the City which is always potting out to sea. With trations. Imperial Svo, beautifully bound, $I5.oo. i8o full-page and text illustrations from original draw- It is distinguished alike for the historical value of its con- ings by Ettore Tito and other celebrated Venetian artists. tents, the interest and charm of its style, and for the rich- Uniform with Rome. 4to, cloth, decorated with a beauti- ness and profuseness of its illustrative material, which has ful i~th-century design in color, $12.50. been drawn from every source, public and private. A HISTORY OF RUGBY SCHOOL. By W. H. D. Rouse. With numerous Portraits, Views, etc., etc. Being the first one of a series of volumes on the Great English Public Schools. Crown Svo, 1.50. To he followed by volumes on Eton, Winchester, etc., etc. Chitral. The Story of a Minor Siege. The Sepoy Mutiny. By Sir G. S. ROBERTSON. With Introduction explaining As seen by a Subaltern/row Delhi to Luchnow. - the events which culminated in the famous siege. With By Colonel EnwARn VIBART. With a Portrait, a Plan, and numerous Illustrations, Plans, aud Map. Demy Ivo, 10 illustrations. Large crown ivo, $2.50. 6.~o. The Indian Frontier War. A brilliant record by one of the besieged of one of the Being an account of the Mobmund and Tirah Expeditions most heroic defences in history, rivalling even that of Luck- in 1897. By LIONEL JAMES, Reuters Special Correspond- now. The story of this conflict far up tosvard Central Asia ent. With 35 illustrations from sketches by the author, has especial interest at this time. and photographs, and 10 maps and plans. Svo, $3.50. GREA T A li/THORS ZN NEW EDITIONS. THE WORKS OF HENRY FIELDING. 12 vols. demy Svo, printed on hand-made paper at the Chsswick Press, and limited to 750 copies for England and Anlerica. Mr. Edmund Gosse has writtell a critical essay lncluded to the first volume. The text is based on the last edition revised by the author. $a.~o, net, per volume, and sets only sold. JOSEPH AN DREWS, 2 vols., and TOM JONES, vols. I and 2, now ready. Book-lovers are under an obligation by the publication of this beautiful edition of Fieldings works. Fielding, although by universal acknowledgment our greatest novelist, has not been as well treated as some of our older writers. There is a delightful introductory essay by Mr. Gosse. Illustrated London News. A C~HARMING EDITION 71/ST COMPLETED. THE SPECTATOR. The Text Edited and Anootated by Mr. G. GREOOEY SMITH, of Edinburgh University. With an Introductory Essay by Mr. AUSTIN DoissoN. 8 volumes. Foolscap Svo, half canvas, with Miniature Portrait Frontispiece in each volume. Price, per set, $12.00. EDITION It is to be an exact reprint of the First Collected Edition revised by the authors. REPRODUCTIONThe authors punctuation, capital letters, and spelling are faithfully reproduced. AUTHORS The authors name when known is placed at the head of each paper. INTRODUCTION An exhaustive Introduction has been written by AusTIN DoesoN, and Notes are added by G. GRROORY SMITH. INDEXES Biographical and Subject Indexes appear in the last volume. PORTRAITS A Frontispiece Portrait will appear tn each volume THE POETICAL AND PROSE WORKS OF LORD BYRON. A New Text, with Many Hitherto Unpublished Additions. The Poetry edited by ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDOR. Tile Letters edited by ROWLAND E. PROTHERO, with the coiSperation of Lord Byrons Grandson, the EARL OF LovE- LACE. With illustrations. Cr. Svo. To be completed in 12 volumes, $2.00 each. POETRY. LETTERS. Edited by ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE. Edited by ROWLAND E. PROTHERO. Vol. 1. THE EARLY, POEMS. [7ust out. Vol. I. 1788 to ilt t. [rust out. Vol. II. CommencingwithTuE THYEZA POEMS and CHILDE Vol. II. t5ti to 1813. [In the jlress. HAROLD. [Nearly ready. If the succeeding volumes are as careful and thorough as the first, no other edition is likely to be desired for many years to come. London Times. Scott Temple Edition. Carlyle Centenary Edition. Sir Walter Scotts Waverley Novels in 48 vols., size 6 x 3~ Thomas Carlyles Works in 30 vols. Printed from the last inches, bound in lambskin, beautifully printed by Dent of edition which was revised by the author, and with new London, to be issued at the rate of two volumes each matter not before published, to be issued at the rate of month, at So cents per volume. 25 vols. now ready two volumes each month, at $t.25 per volume. 20 vols. now ready DICKENS GADSHILL EDITION. Charles Dickenss works to 34 volumes Edited by ANDREW LANG. With all the original Cruikshank (etc.) illustrations; printed from unused duplicate plates, to be issued at the rate of two volumes each month, at $t.~o per volume, a8 vols. now ready. ____________________ CHAS. SCRIBNERS SONS, 153-157 Fifth Ave., N. Y. Publishers Announcements CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS? First Novel by I/ic Author of Marse C/ian. RED ROCK. A Chronicle of Reconstruction. By THOMAS NELSON PAGE. With illustrations by B. West Clinedinst. i2mo, . . . . . . $1.50 Red Rock, which has much of the same note that made Marse Chan famous, is a romantic love-story of the South just after the war, a time when romance and pathos com- bined in many picturesque developments, as Mr. Pages former writings have amply attested. An unusually excellent novel, admirable in spirit and skilfully told. Philadelphia City and State. THE LOST WORD. A Christmas Legend of Long Ago. By HI~NRY VAN DYKE. With illustrations hy Corwin Knapp Linson in photogravure, and with decorative borders and illuminated title. 8vo $5 Dr. van Dykes new Christmas story is marked by the same poetry, the same deep religious feeling, and the same literary charm that made The First Christmas Tree so successf ul. THE HEART OF TOIL By OCTAVE THANET. Illustrated by A. B Frost and C S. Reinhart. i~mo, . . $1.50 She has presented a series of truthful pictures of life amonit she solid middle-class people of the West, who constitute its strength and are the hope of its future. St. Louis Giebe-Demecra/. ANTIGONE, AND OTHER PORTRAITS OF WOMEN. ( Voyageuses.) From the French of PAUL BOURGET. 12m0, . . . . $1.50 M. Monod, in Li/era/are, says: Antigone may be considered a masterpiece of psychological analysis and dramatic exposition. LEONARDO DA VINCI. The Artist, the Philosopher, the Scholar. From the French of EUGENE MPNTZ. With 20 photogravures, 24 colored plates, and 200 text illustrations. 2 vols. royal Svo, net, $15.00. This is the first comprehensive biography of the great master, treating, as it does, all the sides of Leonardos varied temperament. FASHION IN PARIS. The Various Phases of Feminine Taste and ~Esthetics from 1797 to 5897. By OCTAVE UZANNE. Translated by Lady Mary Loyd. With too full-page hand-colored plates and 250 text ilbistrations by Fran~ois Courbin. Limited edition. Royal Svo $15.00 It is a chronicle of clothes, of course; but it is very much more than that: it is a sketch of the social history of Pails from the date of the whiff of grape-shot to that of the momentous first appearance in the Bois of femittute knickers astride a wheel. Leaden 6Jeraatcte. MISS AMERICA. Pen and Camera Sketches of the American Girl. By ALEXANDER BLAcK. With 75 illustra titins from photographs by the author. 8vo $2.50 The illustrations, which are from the authors photographs, form a veritable galaxy of beauty; and in the accompanying text the author philosophizes with much shressdness aitd humor upou the very diverse activities of tlse Americin girl. REMBRANDT: A ROMANCE OF HOLLAND. By WALTER CRANStON LARNED, author of Arriands Masteipsece, Churches and Castles of Medimval France, etc. With S full-page illustrations. sitmo, . . . $1.50 Mr. Lamed has coitstructed a romance of surpassing dramatic interest, the central figures of which are use great Dutch painter and the famous men and women of his dsy MUSIC AND MANNERS IN THE CLASSICAL PERIOD. Lssays By H E KREHBIEt, author of How to Listen to Music s2mo, . ihe volume is thus personal ltterary, and social in interest, as well as musical, and this unusual combination of qu unties makes it delightful resdiig Brooklyn Lfe Charles Scribners Sons, 153-157 Fifth Avenue, New York 2 ii iwlisizers A nnouncements HOLIDAY PUBLICATIONS THE STORY OF THE REVOLUTION. By HENRY CABOT LODGE. With nearly 200 illustrations by Pyle, Yohn, Chapman, de Thuistrup, Clark, Ditzler, Shipley, and others. .2 vols. Svo, . . . . . . $6.oo Senator Lodges work is at once an absorbing story and a dignified contribution to bistory. Tbat tbe autbors narrative would be fresb and vigorous, true to life botb in proportion and spirit, modern in its treatment, yet earnest, exalted, and patriotic - tbese qualities migbt have been expected from Mr. Lodges previous work. But no one could bave foreseen wbat an effect tbe multitude of significant points developed by recent historical researcb bad bad upon tbe familiar story, and bow revitalized the account would become in tbe writers bands. THE CUBAN AND PORTO RICAN CAMPAIGNS. By RICHARD HARDING DAVIs. XVitb many illustrations. Crown Svo $2.00 Mr. Davis remarkable articles in Scribesers Miega ice, which have given a virtually continuous picture of the conflict, form the basis for this history of the war; but in addition the book is rounded out and completed by the incorporation of a great deal of carefully sifted new material COMMERCIAL CUBA. A Book for Business Men. By WILLIAM J. CLARK. With 8 maps, 7 plans, and 40 illustrations, and a Commercial Directory of the Island. 8vo $4.00 This is a publication which will be welcomed by tile business world generally, in view of the well-nigh limitless field for American enterprise in Cuba Mueg/ac/erers Recerd OUR NAVY IN THE SPANISH WAR. By JOHN R. SPEARS. With many illustrations. t~mo $2.00 Mr. Spears showed in his Naval History~ his preitminent ability as a historian of our fighting force afloat. This volunle deals with its achievements in 1898, and sums up tile present naval situation, with the outlook for the future. By the same author, The History of ottr Navy. 4 vols. Illttstrated. With the above,. . $to.oo WAR MEMORIES OF AN ARMY CHAPLAIN. By HENRY CLAy TRUMBULL, D. D. With 14 futll-page illustrations. Crown 8vo, . . . $2.00 It is incomparably the best chaplaiu~s story the great war has produced. Bus/au 7uuurea/. GAINSBOROUGH, And His Place in English Art. By WALTRR ARMSTRONG. With 62 photogravures, to lith ographs, and other itlustratioris Folio . . . $25.00 This magnificent volume ts a x~orthy tribute to an artist who is in modern tudgment the most illustrious pairter of the English school. THE WORKERS THE WEST. By XVALTER A. XVYCKOFF. Illustrated by W. H. Leigh. t2mo $1.50 TIle merits of Mr. Wyckoffs studies are incontestable. The lesson illey teach every man in this great coun- try of ours should take to heart. New Jerk limes. By the same author, The \Vorkers the East. Illustrated. t~mo $1.25 THE GOEDE VROUW OF MANA-HA-TA. At Home and in Society ufloq 1760 By Mrs JOHN KING VAN RENSSELAER. 8vo, . $2.00 This book furnishes perhaps the most graphic, entertaining, instructive, and satisfactory picture of the early life of the Dutch and the first English in New York that has hitherto been given us. Nesu Perk Times. YESTERDAYS IN THE PHILIPPINES. By JOSEPH EARLE STEVENS. Fezer/is edilien With 32 full page illustrations. i~mo, . . $1.50 Ttle style is so intimate and direct, and tue descriptions are so vivid and humorous, tllat, besides being timely, the book is an unusually eugaging volume of travel. Bus/uuu Heruid. THE BASHFUL EARTHQUAKE, And Other Fables and Verses. By OLIVER HERFORD. Illustrated by the atithor. I2nlo, . $1.25 Mr. Herfords versel and drawings are characterized by subtle fun, quaint conceits, the 1aug11 witldtl a laugh, and the exquisitely light touch which have made him famous. 3 Charles Scribners Sons, 153-157 Fifth Avenue, New York SCRIBN ERS FOR THE SUCCESS OF SCRIBNERS MAGAZINE DURING THE PRESENT YEAR HAS NOT ONLY BEEN THE 1IJOST REMARKABLE iN ITS HISTORY; BUT THE MOST AOT- ABLE IN THE MAGAZINE FIELD. THIS IS A TTES TED BOTH BY THE GREAT INCREASE IN SALES AND THE UNIVERSAL ENDORSEMENT OF THE PRESS AND P UB- LIC. THE FOLLO WING IS THE PARTIAL PROGRAMME FOR ~. COLONEL THEODO RE ROOSEVELT ON THE WAR. Illustrated by Drawings and Photographs. O Nthe en- tire sub- ject of the Spanish-Amer- ican war, be- fore, during, and after hos- tilities, Col, Roosevelt will write for Scrib- ner s exclu Col. Theodore Roosevelt. From a copyrigisted photograph by Rockwood. sively. (t) The picturesque story of the Rough Riders, from the inception of the original idea to the mustering out of the famous regiment, is to he told, beginning in January, and occupying six numbers. The organizer and commander of the re iment was already well known as a depicter of picturesque adventures before he became famous as a soldier. This will stand as the authoritative history of his regiment as a fighting machine, as well as being a vivid narrative, with numerous anec- dotes, showing the individual bravery of his men. He was personally acquainted with num- bers of them, both plainsmen and city - bred riders. There will be individual sketches of many of these, together with photographs taken, under the supervision of Col. Roosevelt, by Dwight L. Elmendorf and other expert photographers. Col. Roosevelts further articles on the war, telling of the preparation of the navy (in which as Assistant Secretary of the Navy he took an ac- tive part), of the administrative side of the cam- paign, the strategy, etc., will be announced later. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSONS LET- TERS. Edited by SIDNEY CoLvIN. Many of the letters are to Edmund Gosse, \Villiam Ar- cher, Henry James, W. E. Henley, and his other British correspondents. Some of the best of all are addressed to J. M. Barrie, though the two men never saw each other. A good share are to his American friends. No one of modern times had more literary friends than Stevenson. 1 hese not- able letters cover the significant years and events of his life. Their publication will begin in Janu- ary, and continue throughout the magazine year. They will be accompanied by illustrations from rare sources and facsimiles. SENATOR HOARS REMINISCENCES, illustrated from portraits, facsimiles, etc., will be the political and personal memoirs of one of the fathers of the Senate, dealing with the great public men and events of the past half-century. Having been a delegate to Four National Conventions, he tells of their inner workings and of some of the little things that change the destinies of nations. In another paper he writes of Webster, in another of Blame; in another he repeats verbatim certain memorable conversations with Grant. Rough Riders trom Princeton, Yale, and Harvard. 4 Publishers Announcements MAGAZINE 1899 GEORGE W. CABLES THE ENTO- MOLOGIST, illustrated by ALBERT HEaTER, wid be a short serial love story of New Orleans, among the scenes of his earlier books. The in- terest of the plot is increased by the fact that the latter part of the action takes place during one of the great yellow-fever panics. JOEL CHANDLER HARRISS NEW S1 ORIES, illnstvited by A. B. FROST, will be called The Chronicles of Aunt Minervy Ann, but each is a separate tale in itself, just as the different stories of Uncle Re- mus are. MRS. JOHN D R E W S R E M I N I 5- CENCES, with an introduction by her son, J ?~ DREW, will be full of anecdotes o f Macready, the elder Booth, the elder Jefferson, of Fanny Kein- ble, of the Old Bowery Thea- tre, the old Park Theatre, as well as of forgot n players and for- gotten playhouses of tne early days of the Amer- ican stage. Copious illustrations are being se- cured from private collections and other rare sources. THE SLAVE-TRADE IN AMERICA, BY JOHN R. SPEARS, illustrated by WALTER APPLETON CLARK, includes much that will de- light those who are fond of stirring adventures and startling details, and will prove a revelation to nearly all of the present generation. RICHARD HARDING DAVIS will con- tinue to be a prominent and frequent contributor during 99, beginning with the January Scribuer, in which he will have a love story having to do with the Spanish war. He will contribute both fiction and special articles. ROBERT GRANTS S E A R C H- L I G H T LETTERS will be es- says on modern human topics, in the form of re- plies to various letters sent to Mr. Grant in con- sequence of his celebrated Reflections of a Mar- ried Man and The Opinions of a Philoso- pher. One is To a Young Man Wishing to be an American, an- other To a Young Man or Young Woman in Search of the Ideal. A SHORT SERIAL STORY BY Q., the first long story he has written since The Blue Pavilion, a stirring tale of love and adventure, will run about half the year. SIDNEY LANIERS MUSICAL IMPRES- SIONS will be given in a series of letters from the late poet to his wife. SHORT STORIES, of the ~ort for which Scribners is known, will be plentiful, including a quite extraordinary tale in a fresh field, by Rudyard Kip- - hug. One group, inspired by phases of Western polit- ical life, will be by William Al- len White, the first enti- tled A Vic- tory for the People. C. D. GIB- SONS The Seven Ages of ( American Wo- ~ / man, a nota-7~~ ble series of N ~ drawings and / special draw- ings by Walter Appleton Clark From a Drawing by and in colors by C. D. Gibson, Henry MeCar- ter, are included in the Art Plans for 99. K c~~z: ~ SUBSCRIPTION PRICE, $3.00 A YEAR, POSTAGE PREPAID. 25 CENTS A NUMBER. CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS, 153157 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK. THE DECEMBER SCRIBNER contains a notable article by the Rt. Hon. Joseph Chamberlain on America and Colonial Expansion; In the Rifle Pits, by Richard Harding Davis; The Taking of Manila, by Capt. T. Bentley Mott; Senator Lodges Story of the Revolution (conclusion); A Mimic War Correspondence, by Robert Louis Stevenson; three striking short stories, and numerous rich illustrations, including 16 pages in color, by Maxfield Parrish. 5 George W. Kooert Louis ~tevenson. Publishers Announcements OUR NEiWEiST TEXT=BOOKS First Steps in the History of Our Country. By XV. A. MOWEY, Ph. D., and A. M. MOWRY, A. M. 316 pages fully illustrated. 6o cents. A fascinating and forceful history, told in the biographi- cal sales of 38 great Americans, from Columbus to Edison. It centres every epoch upon representative personages, yen- table history-makers. Full of anecdotes and tellin,, illustra- tions. Historic Pilgrimages in New England. By EDWtN M. BACON. A narrative of Puritan and Pilgrim times, and of the Colonial and Pre-Revo- lutionary periods. I 2~O, 486 pp., richly illustrated. Historically accurate; abounding in incident; told with the skill of the accomplished raconteur. Scientific Sewing and Garment Cutting. By Mrs. ANTOINETTE V. H. WAKEMAN and Miss LouIsE M. HELLER. Square I2mo, 156 pages, fully illustrated with diagrams, full-page cuts, etc. A delightful exposition of the mysteries of needlework, hased on a system thoroughly tested in school use; scien- tific, but simple aud teachable. Poetry of the Seasons. Complied by MARY I. LOVEJOY. A beautiful Na- ture Reader for Gratnmar Grades or for home reading, containing 300 choicest gems from Anterican and Eng- lish Poets. 336 pp. Exquisitely illustrated, with nutuerous text cttts and four beautiful fttll-page illus- trations. Clotit 6o cents. Braided Straws. By ELIZABETH E. FOULKE. A bewitching collec- tion of original stories and poems for little readers of the second and third grades. A beautiful gift-book as well. Square I2mo. 136 pp. Daintily illustrated and bound. 40 cents. The First Book of Observation, Thought, and Expression. Hazens Language Series: Book I. By M. W. HAZEN, M. A. A unique langttage book for little readers, teaching them how to see, think, know, talk, and write. 128 pages. Illustrated. 32 cents. OTHER SUPERIOR TEXT=BOOK5 Stepping Stones to Literature. By SARAH LouIsE ARNOLD, Boston Supervisor, and Sctpt. CHARLES B. GILBERT. A new series of eight graded Readers, built on a unique plan. They give a better idea of the worlds great litera- ture, and more of it, than can be found anywhere else in the same space. Beautifully illustrated. The Rational Method in Reading. By Prof. E. G. WARD, and Mrs. E. E. K. WARNER. An original combination of the Word and Phonetic Methods; wonderfully successful in its results with young children. The World and Its People. A delightful series of eight Geographical Readers, edited by LARKIN DUNTON, LL. D. Choicely illus- trated. The Normal Course in Reading. By EMMA j. TODD and Supt. W. B. POWELL. Nature study, elementary science, history, geography, language. form the basis of these entertaining and instruc- tive Readers. The Normal Review System of Writing: Slanting and Vertical. By Profs. D. H. FARLEY and W. B. GuNNISoN. Among its unique features are: Constant review; double copies on each page; special attenlion to capitals and figures. The Normal Course in Spelling. By LARRIN DUNTON, LL. D., and C. G. CLARK. Primary Advanced Comptete. Adapted to all grades; everywhere popular. Spelling Blanks in both Slant and Vertical Script. The Normal Course in Number. By Pres. JOHN W. COOK and Miss N. CEOPSEY. Elementary ArIthmetIc New Advanced Arithmetic. Logical in plan, practical in method; the most a tisfactery arithmetics published. The Normal Music Course. The Cecilian Series of Study and Song. By JOHN W. TUFTS. These two series form a complete system of vocal instruc- tion, including Music Readers, Song Books, Charts, etc. etc. A History of American Literature. By Professor F. 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The December CENTURY contains also the second part of CAPTAIN SIUSBEES STORY OF THE MAINE covering the explosion in Havana harbor. The Christmas CENTURY contains Christmas Stories Christmas Pictures Christmas Poems The richly colored cover is the work of the great French artist Tissot, whose paintings of the Life of Christ have brought him world-wide fame. The cover represents The Worship of the Magi. Tissot himself con- tributes an article on Christmas Eve in Bethlehem to this beautiful issue of THE CENTURY. One feature of the number is A PORTRAIT OF THE ORIGINAL ALICE OF ALICE IN WONDERLAND Price $4.00 a year. After this announcement appears new subscribers who send a years subscription for a year beginning with December can have the November number free (beginning tbe volume) if we are able to supply it, and so get first chapters of The New Life of Alexander the Great By Professor Benjamin Ide Wheeler. Superbly illustrated Marion Crawfords New Novel Via Crucis, a Romance of the Second Crusade Paul Leicester Fords The Many-Sided Franklin and the first of Captain Sigsbees Papers on the Destruction of the Maine THE CENTURY Cb Union Square, New York. I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I Miaiatere of th~ cover of i/se Christmas Ceo/cry, a water- color drawing by Tissot. All dealers and the publishers take subscriptions. 8 Publishers Announcements * Ut CENTURY CO.S vi _______ The Art Book of the Year. HE ___ THE PILGRIMS PROGRESS. he New York Tribune says of the illustrations, Certainly no more artistic enter- prise than this has ever been carried through in this country. Bunyans great classic ~ has been illustrated and decorated by George Woolliscroft Rhead, Louis Rhead, and Frederick Rhead, making a superb art book and one which will revive interest in INITIAL FROM THE NEW EDITION Pilgrims Progress. The price is extraordinarily low: large 8vo, in brown ink, on OF FILORIMS PNOORE55. heavy paper, rich binding, $1.50; edition de Zuxe, large paper, in colors, l$5.OO. DR. S. WEIR MITCHELL. RUDYARD KIPLING. The Adventures of Fran~ois. The Jungle Books. THE twenty-fifth thousand and third large edition of THESE wonderful stories of the Indian jungle have this book was on press before issue. It is the become classics. They are The Jungle Book story of a Foundling, Thief, Juggler, and Fencing- and The Second Jungle Book, both of them illus- Master during the French Revolution. s~o. trated and decorated, and costing $i.~o each. Grown- up children will find these stories fully as fascinating Hugh Wynne. as a younger generation.Brooklyn EczgZe. (60th thousand.) Captains Courageous. ovel of the American Revolution. The R. KIPLINGS first American novel. A story of T sale of this book is continuous. ~2.OO. the Grand Banks. The New York Tribune says, Far in the Forest. The passion of the sea is in the story, and it is this NEW edition of one of Dr. Mitchells most inter- that gives it an incomparable charm. With illus- A esting novels. $i.~o. trations by Taber. $i.~o. CUBA AND PORTO RICO. I ARELIABLE work on Cuba and Porto Rico, With the Other Islands of the West Indies, setting forth in a Ic and entertaining style the geology, climate, soil, and possibilities of the West Indian Islands. The author, Robert T. Hill, of the United States Geological Survey, is an authority on tropical America, having been for years engaged in exploralion of the regions. 8vo, ~oo pages, richly illustrated. $3.oo. Life and Letters of Lewis Carroll. THUiVIB-NAIL SERIES. A biography of the author of Alice in Wonderland, made up as far as possible of his own letters, especially to children, and richly Delsi~htfnl little books bound in illustrated with roo pictures. I stamped leather. $i.oo each. Gallops, By David Gray. The Worlds Rough Hand. The Cricket on the Hearth. 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Now issued in handsome form, with a great number of illustrations by Frederick Dorr Steele. $i.~o. In Palestine, and Other Poems, by Richard Watson Gilder, $~.00. The Story of Marie-Antoinette. Joseph Jeffersons Autobbo~raPhY.~ $ 9 By ANNA L. BScKNELL. Richly illustrated. $3.Oo. A classic of the stage. ~oo pp., richly illustrate By JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. The Rubaiyat of Doc Sifers. $.50. Poems Here at Home, $b50. Sonny, by Ruth McEnery Stuart. $~.00. A New Edition of De Tocquevilles Americas Foreign Policy. Democracy in America. By Theodore S. Woolsey, t Introduction by DANIEL C. GILMAN. Fullindex. $~.oo. Professor of International Law at Yale. $1.25. A New Book by President Eliot. A New Book by President Gilman. Educational Reform. $2.00. University Problems. $2.00. __ ~. .~. - if .5- U, .~~- - ~5 Publishers Announcements 9 / SHRISTMAS_BOOKS. __________________________________________ JOME ECONOMICS, BY MARIA PARLOA. ~ GUIDE to household management, including the proper treatment of the 1- materials entering into the construction and furnishing of the modern iuse. Fully illustrated, 400 pa~,es, rich binding $i 50. I Out of Mulberry Street. )Y JAcOB A Rsis, author of How the Other Half Lives. A collection A ) of stories and sketches of New York tenement-house life. $1.25. Our Conversational Circle. The Century Cook Book. A familk r essay on the art of con- A new cook hook compiled with isation, put in a clever and attractive great care and illustrated with 150 em by AGNES H. MORTON. Intro- photographic reproductions of dishes, ction by Hamilton W.Mabie. $1.25. cooking implements, etc. 600 pp. $2.00. Gladstone, by James Bryce, M. P. g V ~ei~ ~ the best of all reviews of Mr. Gladstones personal friend. With portrait. $1.00. FOR BOYS AND GIRLS. The Book of the Ocean. PATRIOTIC ERNEST INGDRSOLL. Magniflcently The BOOKS illustrated. All the young it. Tells all about the ocean,winds, tides Century Book of j ~ fishesexplorers, Arctic regions, war-ships; the American Revolution. etc., etc. Up-to-date. $z.~o. BN ELRRIOOE S. BRooKs. With 9 otroduction by Chauncey M. I Down Durley Lane. Depew. The story of the trip of 9 a party of young people to Revo- a ALLADS by VIRGINIA WOODWARD lutionary battle-fields. Superbly B CLouD, beautifully illustrated by Regi- illustrated. Ptiblished under the nald Birch, and printed in colors. $i.5o. auspices of the Sons of the Am- erican Revolution. $s.5o. The Lakerim Athletic Club. The Century Book A LIVELY story for boys by RUPERT for Young Americans. ./711. HUGHES. With twenty illustrations by B~ ELBEmOK S. Biroo,cs. Tell C. M. Relyea. $1.50. ing in attractive story form whatevery American boy and girl Two Bicldicut Boys. ought to know about the govern- ment. 200 illustrations, $1.50. _____ ~Y J. T. TROWBRIDGE. A capital story 1) for boys. Illustrations by Rogers. $i.~o. The Century Book Through the Earth. The Story of Marco Polo, of Famous Americans. .Jules Verne story by CLEMENT By NOAH BRooKs. Illustrated by B~ ELmunoR S. BRooKs. ,Thej ZANOIt Illustrated. .l~zro W. H. Drake. ~1e~ story of a young pee pies pil- grimage to the homes of great Denise and Ned Toodles. St. Nicholas Songs. Americans. roorlius. $1.50. x charming story for girls by Mrs. Original music by 32 composers. Hero Tales BRIELLE E. JACKSO , $1.25. Beautifully illustrated. $1.25. from American History. BOUND VOLUMES OF ST. NICHOLAS. B~I~DORE ROOSEVELT and 9 CABOT LoocE Gra UBLISHED in two parts. All the numbers of this favorite magazine for phic descriptions of acts of hero- the past year. Full of stories, serial and short, illustrated articles, poems, ism. 300 pages, illustrated, $r.5o. ~les, etc. 1000 pages and nearly as many pictures. $4.00. Some Strange Corners I An Art Book for Young Folks. of our Country a simple account of the life of the patron saint of France. V CHARLES F LUMMIS Out OAN of Arc, B of-the way wonders of Am Superbly illustrated by Boutet de Monveland richly printed in colors $3 00 erica 270 pages, illustrated 9 $250 Send for our new richly illustrated catalogue of booksno charge. THE CENTURY CO.7 Union Square, New York. j ~ .~ V ~ ) * ~ Publishers Announcements ST. NICHOLAS FOR YOUNG FOLKS. Edited by Mary Mapes Dodge. BEGINNING THE TWENTY-SIXTH YEAR. PERHAPS you used to read ST. NICHOLAS in its early days. Do you remember how you enjoyed it, how you looked forward with eagerness to the day of issue? Twenty-five years have gone by since the first number ap- peared in November, 1873, but the magazine ST. NICHOLAS OR YOUR LIFE! is to-day just what it was then, The Best Periodical in the World for ~iirls and Boys. It has the same editor, Mary Mapes Dodge, and the same policy, to get the best things in literature and art that money can buy and young folks will enjoy and thrive under. Young people to-day like to read the Henty books, so Mr. Henty has written for them a story of American history which will appear as a serial in ST. NICHOLAS for the coming year; and Mrs. Amelia E. Barr, author of Jan Vedders Wife, will furnish a historical romance of Old New York; and Mrs. Laura E. Richards will contribute a serial; and there are to be good things from many writersMrs. Burton Harrison, Lient. Robert E. Peary, Lloyd Osbourne, Mrs. Charles D. Sigsbee (the wife of the Maines commander), Poultney Bigelow, and others. GeLett Burgess is to contribute a series of remarkable pictures and verse about the Goop Babies. Every number of ST. NICHOLAS will be as good as can be made. Keep in mind the fact that the young ____________________________________ people of to-day are just as anxious to read ST. NICHOLAS as you used to be, ~bC ~tcnttii~ ~o. and how many of them can you subscribe ~ of for and make happy? ~ ~I& cIioIa~ c9T~agaxine for.~ goung ~7y~ A large Cert~ftcate in colors, of which this is a miniature, is useful if you wish ___________________________ to make a present of a years subscrziz5tion. We send it~ free of charge, to any one who asks for it, with a subscrzj5tion. ___________________ The price is $3.00 a year, and the year begins with November,an esp ecially beau- t~ful birthday issue. December is the Christmas Number. All dealers or the publishers take subscrz~tions. THE CENTURY CO., UNION SQUARE, NEW YORK. Jo ~1~~~_~j - ~ i~ entitled to a iiea.o nebocoiption fez tine .,aid lft, ~]~.cho1at o97Zaga~~cne~ beqinnin~q teith tAe~qift ~f -? toon the a~net.ze of the ~teezetenj efCh. S~eztt.Jt ~O.,4t theoff.ofd~.pezyiz%ot. ethatie dejt of ----Jn see. Publishers Announcements II L. C3 Page & Coin~anys Holiday Publications R. FitzGeralds Ruhaiyat of Omar Kliayyam. Standard edition of the five versions of s85q, i868, 1872, 1879, and 1889, complete 1 n o 0 e volume. Illustrated with twelve photogravure plates from original draw- ings by E. H. Garrett and Gilbert James and a photo- gravure finn- t i s p i e c e of FitzGerald from a signed portrait. vol. library i2mo, cloth 2.00. Three quar- ters morocco op~wmen 1 !ILUUULU. ~5.Oo. Heron-Allens Rubaiyat of Omar Kliayy~m. BEING A FACSIMILE OF THE PERSIAN MAN- USCRIPT IN THE BODLEIAN LIBRARY AT OXFORD, WITH A TRANSCRIPT INTO MOD- ERN PERSIAN CHARACTERS. Translated, with an Introduction and notes, and a bibliography, by EDWARD HERON-ALLEN, I vol., 8vo, cloth and gold cover, after a Persian design The Blessed Damozel. By DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. Edited by Wil ham Michael Rossetti. This beautiful new edition contains the following distinctive features: The text is that of the earli- est printed version, as issued in the rare periodi- cal, The Gem, afterwards An and Ree-Iry, and consequently presents the poem in a form hitherto practically inaccessible. The frontispiece, by per- mission of Mr. Frederick Hollyer, is a reproduc- tion of Dante Gabriel Rossettis crayon study of the head of the Blessed Damozel. Each verse is enclosed in a designed border, drawn by Mr. W. B. Macdougall, who has also designed tIle cover. vol., cloth, decorative cover, gilt top . Old World Memories. By EDWARD LOWE TEMPLE. With eighty photogravure and half-tone illustrations, deckle-edge, gilt top, flat backs. An interesting collection of essays and travel sketches through both familiar haunts and out-of-the-way places of the Old World. Mr. Temples style is charming, his information varied, his knowledge of things classic and pictur- esque, broad and scholarly. As a whole, th ebook is a valuable contribution to American belles- lettres. 2 vols., crown iflmo . $3.50 Three quarters levant morocco 3.00 7.00 Angels in Art. I Love in Art. By CLARA ERSEINE CLEMENT. I By MARY KNIGHT POTTER. Two beautiful gift books, companion volumes to the successful Madonna in Art and Child Life in Art, by authors who are recognized authorities on art subjects. Each is illustrated with thirty-five full page reproductions in half-tone and photogravure from paintings by the great masters. Each I vol., 12m0, deckle-edge paper, gilt top, flat back, with silk head-band and decorative cover $2.00 The same, three quarters levant morocco 5.00 Or the two vols. boxed together, cloth 4.00 Half levant morocco 10.00 Great Composers and Their Famous Singers of To-Day and Work. I Yesterday. By LOUIS C. ELSON. By HENRY C. LAHEE. The authors are among the leading critics and musical authorities in the country, and their graphic and authentic accounts of great musicians, living and dead, will prove a popular addition to the literature of music. Each volume is illllstrated with rich photogravure portraits of the leading figures of the world of music, including Beethoven, Handel, Haydn, Mendelssohn, and Wagner, and such renowned artists as Jenny Lind, Rubini, Nordica, Calv6, Melba, Eames, and the Do Reszkes. Each I vol., crown ifimo, cloth $1.50 I vol., crown Ifimo, llalf levant morocco 5.00 The above 2 vols. boxed together, cloth , 3.00 Half levant morocco 7.00 FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS, OR SENT DELIVERY PREPAID BY THE PUBLISHERS 192 SUMMER STREET, BOSTON Publishers Announcements Little, Brown, and Companys TIlE COUNTS SNUFF=BOX A Romance of Washington and Buzzards Bay during the War of 1812. By GEORGE R. R. RIVERS, author of The Governor s Garden, Captain Shays etc. Illustrated, 12m0, $1.50. I AM TIlE KING Being the Account of some Happenings in the Life of Godfrey de Bersac, Crusader Knight. By SHEPPARD STEVENS. i6mo, $1.25. This romantic story of the days of Saladin and Richard Cceur de Lion is foil of the home life of that period. TIlE hISTORICAL ROMANCES OF SIENKIEWICZ Popular Edition. Comprising: With Fire and Sword, 75 cents; The Deluge, 2 vols., $1.50 ; Pan Michael, 75 cents; Quo Vadis, 75 cents. EXOTICS AND RETROSPECTIVES By LAFcADIO HEARN, author of Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan, etc. Illustrated, t6mo, $2.00. Japanese topics form the first part. The Retrospectives are psychological essays in us- thetics. All the papers now appear in print for the first time. TITlE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY By EDWARD EVERETT HALE. New Edi- tion, with preface and an entirely new introduction. Cloth, ~o cents. New filets- trated Edition, 75 cents. The story of The Man Without a Country will he rememhered and read as long as the American flag flies. New York Sun (editorial). BELLE By the author of Miss Tooseys Mission, etc. i6mo, cloth, illustrated, 1.00. HASSAN, A ROMANCE OF PALESTINE By HENRY GILLMAN Crown Svo, cloth, extra, $2.00. Mr. Gillmans powerful romance of the Holy Land as it is to-day is universally praised. It is the result of careful observation of the Fellaheen of Palestine. The hero of Hassan, says the New York Times, will be a revelation even to those who carry their ethnolo- gical studies beyond the realm of fiction.~~ From The Zndeslendent. A Bihlical, patriarchal, pastoral spirit pervades it. Indeed, the whole hook is saturated with the authors reverence for the Holy Land, its lenends, traditions, glory, misery, its romance, in a word, and its one supreme glory, the impress of the Chosen of God and of the Master who walked among them. Front The Art Interchange. One feels that he has gained a wide knowledge of the customs, life, and condition of modern Palestine that could only he otherwise had hy a long residence in the country. The book is one thai seems destined to bake ho/d of/he toAnlar heart as strongly as did Ben Hur or Quo Vadis, nor is it less worthy of such potularisy than either of those named. THE KINGS HENCHMAN THE DUENNA OF A GENIUS A Chronicle of the Sixteenth Century, by By M. E. FRANCIS (Mrs. Francis Blundell), WILLIAM HENRy JOHNSON. I 2m0, cloth, Author of In a North County Village, etc. extra, $I.5o. tlmo, cloth, extra, $t.5o. One of the queerest, daintiest, cleverest hits of story- While the hook is Weyman in vigorous activity, it is writing that one could imagine. Church Standard Dumas in its hrilliant touches of romanticism. Boston Herald For Girls and Boys TWIXT YOU AND ME A Story for Girls. By GRACE LE BARON, author of Little Miss Faith, etc. Illus- trated, 12m0, $1.50. HESTER STANLEYS FRIENDS By HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD, author of Hester Stanley at St. Marks. Illus- trated, 16m0, $1.25. AF1ONG THE LINDENS By EVELTN RAyMOND, author of The Little Lady of the Horse, etc. Illustrated, 12m0, $1.50. TEDDY, HER BOOK A Story of Sweet Sixteen. By ANNA CHAPIN RAT. Illustrated, I 2m0, $1.50. A spirited account of Teddy (Theodora), her esca- pades, good-heartednesi, and loyalty. The scenes are laid in a New England town, New York, and Smith College. THE YOUNG PURITANS IN KING PHILIPS WAR A sequel to Young Puritans of Old Had- ley. By MART P. WELLS SMITH. i6mo, illustrated, 1.25. Our Illustrated 7uvenile Catalogue will be sent on application. Little, Brown, and Company, Publishers 254 Washington Street, Boston u& Lis/iers A nflQ4!flCements Books for the Holidays SIELANKA, A FOREST PICTURE, and THE STORY OF GOSTA BERLING Other Stories From the Swedish of SELMA LAGERL6F By HENRYK SIENKIEwIcz, author of Quo by PAULINE BANCROFT FLACH. t2mo, Yadis. Translated from the Polish by JEREMIAH CURTIN. With frontispiece. cloth, $1.75. Crown 8vo, cloth, $2.00. A remarkable book, depicting life in a lovely tract in This new volume by Sienkiewice, tbe most popular the southern slope of Sweden. The author has grown up writer of the time, includes the shorter stories which have amidst the wild legends of her country, and, deeply imbued not before been published in the uniform library edition with their spirit, interprets them with a living force all of his works. her own. A New Library Edition of FRANCIS PARKMANS WORKS New plates. 24 photogravures. Fully indexed. 12 vols., medium Svo. Per volume: cloth, gilt top, $2.00; half calf, gilt top, $4.50; half crushed levant, $6.oo. A new Uniform Edition of the Works of ALPHONSE DAUDET Newly translated, without abridgment, by KATHARINE PRESCOTT WORMELEY, GEORGE B. IVES, CHARLES DR KAY, and others. 2mo, cloth, gilt top, with photogravures, $t.~o per volume. Vol. I. Alphonse Daudet. By L~ON DAUDET. To which is added My Brother and I. Recollections of Childhood and Youth. By ERNEST DAUDET. Vol. II. Fromont and Risler. By ALPHONSE DAUDET. JANE AUSTENS NOVELS Including a Memoir, Letters, and several stories not contained in other editions. Moderate in price, easy to hold, satisfying to the eye. 12 vols. i6mo, cloth, gilt top, 75 cents per volume; half crushed morocco, $2.25 per volume. Sense and Sensibility, 2 vols.; Pride and Prelu- dice, 2 vols. ; Manstiell Park, 2 vois.; Emma, 2 vols. Northanger Abbey vol.; Persuasion, a vol.; Lady Susan, The Wattons, and Memoir, a vol.; Letters, a vol. flODERN POLITICAL INSTITUTIONS By SIMEON E. BALDWIN, LL. D., President of the American Social Science Association. Crown Svo, $2.00, net. Among the timely topics here treated are Absolute Power an American Institution, International Arbi- tration, and The Monroe Doctrine in 1898. THE tIAJOR TACTICS OF CHESS By FRANKLIN K. YOUNG, author of Grand Tactics of Chess, The Minor Tactics of Chess, etc. Svo, $2.50. A simple and concise elucidation of all the known forms of chess stratagems. AUTOBIOGRAPHY AND CORRE= SPONDENCE OF flRS. DELANEY Edited by SARAH CHAUNCEY WooLsEx-. Svo, cloth, $2.50. The Collected Works of EDWARD EVERETT HALE A New Library Edition, with portraits. To comprise ten volumes. t ~mo, cloth, extra. Printed from new type. $t.5o per volume. The volumes will be prepared for the press by Dr. Hale, and the first issue in the set svill be The Man without a Country, and Other Stories, ~In His Name, and Christmas 5tories. A Third Series of THE WORLD BEAUTIFUL By LILIAN WHITING. t6mo, cloth, $t.oo; white and gold, $1.25. By the same author: The World Beautiful, first series; The World Beautiful, second series; After Her Death. t6mo, cloth, each, $i.oo; white and gold, $1.25. From Dreamland Sent. t6mo, cloth, extra, $1.25. FROM DAY TO DAY Passages from the Bible, with versions in French, German, and Italian. By THEODORA W. WOOLSEY. I6mo, $1.25. THE LITTLE FLOWERS OF SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI Translated from the Italian by AIIBY L. ALGER. Exquisite new edition. Illustrat- ed, t6mo, 50 cents. WALTON AND COTTONS COMPLETE ANGLER With JAMES RUSSELL LOWELLS introduc- tion and seventy-four wood engravings. New edition, on choice paper. I 2~O, cloth, gilt, $t.5o. PICTURES OF TRAVEL, and Other Poems By MACKENZIE BELL, author of Christina Rossetti; a Biographical and Critical Study. 16m0, cloth, $1.25. THE ISLES AND SHRINES OF GREECE By SAMUEL J. BARROWS. With nine full- page plates. Svo, cloth, $2.00. Our Illustrated Holiday Catalogue will be Sent on application. Little, Brown, and Company, Publishers 254 Washington Street, Boston 3 r tb.)ikr.) ~ jj4L4~jdUa~Lfls.) 14 ?I HARPERS MAGAZINE I Announcements for 1899 Ma year 1898 was the dividing line between the old and the new United States. Our nifest Destiny is moving to accomplishment. Our outlook will be the keynote of HARPERS MAGAZINE during 1899. The Hon. HENRY CABOT LODGE will contribute a comprehensive political and narrative History of the Spanish War which will run through half a year and be especially valuable owing to the facilities which Mr. Lodge has for obtaining information from his position as United States Senator and Member of the Foreign Relations D. HO~\EILS Committee. their Silver-Wedding Journey By WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS ~ will be an important serial story extending through many months. The story is an account ~i of Europe revisited after twenty-five years, enlivened by a characteristic love theme. ~$ Important contributions on particular subjects connected with the war will be strong features of the earlier numbers of the year. Some of these may be especially mentioned The Battle of Manila Bay The Naval Lessons of the War By LIEUTENANT J. M. ELLICOTT, U. S. N. By H. W. WILSON The Rescue of the Winslow The Cuban Blockading Fleet By LIEUTENANT B. B. MEAD, U. S. R. C. S. By LIEUTENANT S. R. STA UNTON, U. S N. ~ Three other important serials will run through the numbers of the MAGAZINE, each by !~ an author of international fame. The Princess Xenia The Span o Life A Spanish War Story By H. B. Al. WA TSON By WILLIAM McLENNA N By JOHN FOX, Jr. nd J. N. AlcIL WRA I TN he first is a stirring tale of adventure laid in our midst to-day, the second is a histor- P ical romance, the third has for its scene Santiago de Cuba. 9! A Centurys Progress in Science. By HENRY SMITH WILLIAMS 9, This series, undertaken a year ago, has required a special visit to Europe on the authors part, and the result of his trip appears in several valuable scien- tific and readable articles on Biology, Psychology, Sociology, and their allied subjects. Among many other features, such as the usual number of short stories, timely articles, 9, special essays, all illustrated by the best artists, as only HARPERS MAGAZINE is illus- ~ 9 trated, are two series of great importance to our National life. 9 I, White Plans Asia The Republics of South America By FOUL TNEY BIGELOW ByJULIAN RALPH 9 1 The first throws light on the problems besetting us to-day in the East. The second 9, calls attention to the problems which some day will beset us in our sister continent. 7. 35 cents a COPY $4 00 a year ~ New York HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers London Publishers Announcements 5 HARPERS_HOLIDAY LIST ~ The Autobiography of Prince Bismarck Thoughts and Reminiscences (~c~ankcn nn~ ~rinnevnn~en) of Otto, Prince von I3ismarck. Translated into English, with portraits. Two volumes. 8vo, Cloth, Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops. About 750 pages. Through Asia. By SVEN HEDIN. With The Letters of Robert Browning Two Maps and Two Plates Printed in Colors, and Elizabeth Barrett. Illustrated from Photo~raphs. About 1300 pages. Two ers, and Two Facsimile Letters. With a Prefa~ and about 280 Illustrations by the Author and with Two Contemporary Portraits of the Writ~~ volumes. Laree 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, Un- tory Note by R. BARIIETT BROWNING, and cut Edges and Gilt Tops. Notes, by F. G. KENTON, Explanatory of th Y~ In the Forbidden Land. By A Greek Words. Two Volumes. Crown 8vo, Un- HENRY SAVAGE LANDOR. An Account o% cut Edges and Gilt Tops. About 1200 pages. a Journey into Tibet, Capture by the Tibetan The Red Axe. A Novel. By S. R Lamas and Soldiers, Imprisonment, Torture, CROCKETT, Author of Lochinvar, The Gray and Ultimate Release, brought about by Dr. Man, etc. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Or- ~t Wilson and the Political Peshkar Karak Sing- namental, $1 50. Pal. With the Government Enquiry and Re- Crooked Trails. Written and Illustrated :1 :~ port and other official Documents, by J. LAR- by FREDERIC REMINGTON, Author of ~Ponv KIN, EsQ., Deputed by the Government of In- Tracks, etc. 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $2 00. dia. With One Photogravure, Eight Colored Old Chester Tales. By MARGARET DE- Plates, Fifty Full-page and about One Hundred and Fifty Text Illustrations, and a Map from LAND, Author of John Ward, Preacher, etc. Surveys by the Author. 2 vols. Svo, Cloth, Illustrated by HOWARD PYLE. Post Svo, Cloth, ]j Uucut Edges and Gilt Tops. Ornamental, $1 50. Transformation. By ARcH. Fables for the Frivolous. (With China in Apologies to La Fontaine.) By Gu~ WETMORE IBALD H. COLQUHOUN. With Frontispiece, CARRYL. With Illustrations by PETER NEW- # Maps, and Diagrams. Svo, Cloth, $3 00. ELL. Svo, Cloth, Ornamental, Deckel Edges ~ The Biographical Edition of W. NE. and Gilt Top, $1 50. Thackerays Complete Works. The Copper Princess. A Story. By This new and revised edition comprises addi- KIRK MUNROR, Author of The Painted Des- tional material and hitherto unpublished letters, ert, etc. Illustrated. Post Svo, Cloth, Orna- sketches, and drawings, derived from the aii- mental, $1 25. thors original manuscripts and note-books. The Associate Hermits. By FRANK p Edited by Mrs, ANNE THACKERAY RITCHIE. H. STOCKTON. Illustrated by A. B. FROST. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops, Post Svo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. 13 Volumes, $1 75 per Volume. The Adventurers. A Novel. By H. G. Through the Gold-Fields of Alaska MARRIOTT WATSON. Illustrated. Post Svo, to Bering straits. By HARRY DE WINDT, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50. F.R.G.S., Author of A Ride to India, etc The Golfers Pictures by A. With a Map and Illustrations. Svo, Cloth, Or- Alphabet. namental, $2 50. B. FROST. Rhymes by W. G. VAN T. SUTPHEN. A Study of a Child. By LOUISE E 4to, Illuminated Boards, $1 50. HOGAN. With a Colored Frontispiece ani Dumb Foxglove, and Other Stories. By Many Illustrations. Crown 8vo, Cloth, Orna- ANNIE TRUMBULL SLOSSON, Author of Seven mental, $2 5~. Dreamers, The Heresy of Mehietabel Clark, etc. With One Illustration. Post Rodens Corner. A Novel. By HENRY Ornaffien Svo, Cloth, SETON MERRIMAN, Author of The Sowers, tal, $1 25. With Edged Tools,etc. hid by T. DE TIIUL- Wild Eelin; Her Escapades, Adventures, STRUP. Post Svo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 75. and Bitter Sorrows. A Novel. By WILLIAM How to Get Strong, and How to Stay So. BLACK. Authior of A Princess of Thule, The Strange Adventures of a Phacton, etc. By WILLIAM BLAIKIE. With Numerous Por- Illustrated by T. DE TIIULSTRUP. Post Svo, traits. New and Enlarged Edition from New Cloth, Ornamental, $1 75. Plates. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 75. Social Life in the British Army. Harpers Round Table. Bound Vol. By a British Officer. lIld by H. CATON WOOD- ume, 1898. 4to, Cloth, Ornamental, $2 50. VILLE. Post Svo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 00. New York HARPER & BROTHERS, Publishers London Publishers Announcements THE BIOGRAPHY OF PRINCE BISMARCK .. BISMARCK.. A DIARY KEPT BY DR. MORITZ BUSCH During twenty-five years official and private Intercourse with the great Chancellor Two Volumes With Portraits Cloth 8eo $10 Net There is no need to encourage students of modern One of the most remark- history and politics to read these memoirs of Dr. Busch. able literary products of the . . In any case they will he eagerly devoured in Ger- nook and corner of the civilized world they will he read year. Tribune, Chicago. many, France, England, and America indeed, io every and discussed with keen interest. Revieoo of Reviews. We see no more important announcement in sound liter~ atore for the year. The Sun, Baltimore. CONE.. Paul The Man, the Missionary, and the Teacher By ORELLO CONE, D. D., anthor of Gospel Criti- cism and Historical Christianity, etc. cloth, crown 8vo, $2.00. While passing over no questions svhich scholars will expect to find discussed, the author presents the suhject in a form and style acceptable also to the general reader. FRASER.. Japan By Mrs. HUGH FRASER, author of Palladia, etc. Medium 8vu. Beautifully illustrated. $6.oo. As the wife of the British minister to Japan, the author had exceptional opportunities to observe the people and their customs, and had access to sources of information which she has been enabled to use in a striking way. IIIGGINSON.. When the Birds go North Again A VOLUME OF VERSE. By Mrs. ELLA HioolessoN, author of The Land of the Snow Pearls, etc. Vellum, i6mo, $1.25. There is heart and soul in her work emhodied in the richest and most delicate imagery. Northwest Magazine. JAMES.. The Two Magics The Turn of the Screw Covering End By HENRY JAMES, author of Daisy Miller, Em- barrassments, The Other House, etc., etc. Cloth, crown 8vo, $i.so. McCARTHY.. The Story of Gladstones Life New Edition with additional Chapters. By JUSTSN MCCARTHY, M. P., author of A History of Our Own Times, etc. 8vo, cloth extra, $6.oo. With additional chapters descrihing the close of Mr. Glad- stones life, with an account of the funeral in Westminster Ahbey. MOULTON.. The Modern Readers Bible Books from the Sacred Scriptures presented in Mod- ern Literary Form hy Dr. RICHARD G. MOULTON, University of Chicago. COMPLETE SETS NOW READY. Cloth, $o. The Text is that of the Revised Version, the volumes are pocket size, hut printed its unusually clear type, of good size, and attractively hound. To the student, and to all who relish truth in its finest form of expression, it is a positive hoon. JOHN F. HURST, Bishop of the Methodist Episcopal Church. Send for a Descr~~ttive Circular. PURCELL.. Life of Cardinal Manning, Archbishop of Westminster A Cheapler New Edition. By EDMUND SHERIDAN PURCELL, Member of the Roman Academy of Letters. Cloth, crown 8vo. Two vols. $3.50. Nothing like it has appeared for generations. Phila- delj5hia Evening Telegram. SEAWELL.. The Loves of the Lady Arabella By MOLLY ELLIOTT SEAWELL, author of The Sprightly Romance of Marsac, The History of the Lady Betty Stair, etc. With Illustrations by George Gibbs. Crown 8vo, cloth, $i.5o. The first edition sold out entirely before the day of publication. A stirring romance, full of picturesqueness. VAN DYKE.. The Gospel for an Age of Doubt By the Rev. HENRY VAN DYKE, Pastor of The Brick Church. New York. Being the Yale Lec- tures on Preaching, s89fi. I2mo, cloth, $1.25. A new and cheater edition. It is the best one of a very few books I should venture to put into the hands of a young man troubled by doubts. JAMEs 0. MURRAY, D. D., Dean of Princeton Univer- sity. WORCESTER . . The Philippine Islands and Their People A Record of Personal Observation and Experience, with a General Account of the Archipelago, and a Sum mary of its History, by DEAN C. 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Cloth cr. 8vo STORIES FROM AMERICAN HISTOR Y Price, $i.so each Companion volumes to Buccaneers and Pirates of Our Coasts Companion volumes to Southern Sodier By FRANK R. STOCKTON. Yankee Ships and Slories Illustrated by G. Varian and B. XV. Clinedinst. Yankee Sailors De Soto and his Men in the Tales of the Enchanted Isles Land of Florida The narratives are full of the Atlantic By GRACE KING, author of New of startling adventure By THOMAS WENTWORTH HIG Orleans. Illustrated by George . . enough to satisfy and GINSON. Illustrated by Albert Gibbs. fset the niost ex Hurter. PREVIOUSLY ISSUED acting. TheTimes,N.Y. Yankee Ships and Yankee Southern Soldier Stories Sailors By GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON, Eu- Tales of 1812. By JAMES BARNES. Illustrated by thor of A Rebels Recollections, etc. Illustrated R. F. Zoghaum and C. T. Chapman. by R. F. Zoghaum. 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Upon receipt of a post-card mentioning this Magazine, we witt take pteasure in forwarding ournewX-mas Catatogue. 21 or by the Pubtishers, Publishers, Phi/ada. 22 Publishers Announcements HISTORY OF THE To READERS OF THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: We make the following proposition to become members of the Review of Reviews History Club and obtain the three volumes of OUR WAR IN TWO HEMISPHERES By ALBERT SHAW, Editor of the American Monthly Re- view of Reviews, and author of Municipal Govern- ment in Great Britain, etc. The Standard Reference History MILES 177 VERY American citizen possessing a library, and LL~ many that do not possess one, will be interested in the announcement of the history of the late war with Spain, now published by the Review of Reviews Co. Much of the narrative was written by Dr. Albert Shaw during the actual fighting of the summer. This has been revised and amplified by him in the light of the official reports and documents which have only become available after hostilities ceased. A free quotation from the critical Congressional debates, and other public utterances at cru- cial periods, aids in making this work what it is, the stan- SHAFTER dard reference history of this decisive and successful struggle. But it is much more than a lively and compre- hensive narrative. It goes back to the years of struggle in Cuba which prepared the way for the war; it discusses energetically the problems which confronted the United States after the war as to the Philippines, Cuba, and Porto Rico; and as a whole it forms a broadly conceived pic- ture of the year which has seen America brought face to face with new world-duties. Chapters by Experts The important special and technical matters of the war MONTOJO period, generally dismissed by the historian with only slight and often insufficient discussion, are fully and authentically dealt with in contributed chapters, written by men who had unusual opportunities for studying their subjects. Thus, the lessons which the war has for us as to the relative efficiency of rifles and machine guns are in a carefully written chapter by Lieut. John H. Parker, of the United States Army. The military movements of the Santiago and Porto Rican campaigns are analyzed by the Editor of the Army aiid Navy Journal; the battle with Cervera is described by the novelist, Winston Churchill, who is a graduate of the U. S. Naval Academy; the actual LONG condition of Cuba before the war and the facts which caused the war are described by eye-witnesses, Murat Halstead and Stephen Bonsal. WAIiN vvt~iGHT CAIVIAKA .LI.~ VY I~ I Publishers Announcements 23 SPANISH WAR Over Half a Thousand Illustrations The illustration of the book is especially valuable in the hundreds of portraits, pictures of the navies, photographed scenes of the war, and the entertaining cartoons reproduced from Spanish, French, German, and English papers, as well as from the American. Some of the Spanish cartoons are fascinating, aside from their intrinsic humor, in their curi- ous perversion of the actual conditions, and are valuable contributions to history in their graphic explanation of the fatuity which led to Spains overthrow. How to Obtain the Handsome Edition by a Payment of only Two Dollars Down. The three beautifully bound large octavo volumes and a years subscription to the American Monthly Review of Reviews can be obtained by any of the readers of rHE ATLANTIC MONTHLY by joining the Review of Reviews Club and paying two dollars. The volumes will be sent as soon as ready to those who remit the sum, and the pur- chase will be completed by the payment of two dollars per month for six months. The first volume, will be ready early in December. The subscription to the magazine, which goes with the offer, can be dated from any month. Use this Coupon. THE REVIEW OF REVIEWS CO., New York SCHLEY MERRITT LAWTON BROOKE SAMPSON CERVERA THE REVIEW OF REVIEWS CLUB, i6 Astor Piace~ New York City. I enclose $2.00 for membership in the Review of Reviews Club, and agree to pay six monthly install- ments of $2.00 each, beginning December i, i8~8, for one years subscription for the American Monthly Review of Reviews, to begin with the current num- ber, and Our War in Two Hemispheres (three vol- umes, half morocco), the same to be sent me as fast as issued. Name WHEELER ROOSii~ vELT 24 Publishers Announcements ~br fforurn IT NQUESTIONABLY the ) ablest, most carefully edited, and most comprehensive magazine of its class in the world. As a purely impartial organ, it endeavors to discuss all important questions from many points of view. It brings its readers in touch with the brightest minds of this and every other country. Every field of activity is represented, and each and every contributor is a specialist, and an authority in his or her particular line of thought or investigation. THE FORUM is entitled to a place in every home. Subscription price $3 a year Single copies, 35 cents THE FORUM PUBLISHING COMPANY j~ ii Fifth Avenue, New York Publishers Announcements 25 HEwYOUTH COMPANIO] cannot choose a gift more certain the to confer immediate and lasting Thursday the year round. it .. ~ affords on Christmas Day is renewed every The Volume for I 899 The 1899 volume will be the best The Companion has ever pub- ) lished, strong in those qualities which make it the welcome friend of young and old in thousands of homes. The character of the contents of the fifty-two issues for the new year is indicated by the titles of some of the more noteworthy contributions: OPPORTUNITIES FOR YOUNG EXPLORERS, Sir Clements Markham. WHERE LIVING IS CHEAPEST, - Hon. Carroll D. Wright. LITTLE DEMONS OF WAR, = - = Hon. John D. Long. IN THE SOUTH, = = = = Thomas Nelson Page. IN AN ARCTIC HURRICANE, = - Lient. Robert E. Peary. FOR LIFE AND LIBERTY, = - - - Henry M. Stanley. SHIPMATES, = = - - - Wallace E. Mather. THE AGRICULTURAL STRIKE, - - = = Charles K. Lush. A POCKETFUL OF MONEY, = = - - William D. Howells. AN INLAND ARMOR=CLAD, = = - = Charles Adams. HOW I WENT TO THE MINES, = - = Bret Harte. THE WOLF AND THE WHEELBARROW, - - = Frank R. Stockton. FIFTY YEARS WITH A MENAGERIE, - = = = Dan Rice. POLICE SPIES IN RUSSIA, = = - = = Poultney Bigelow. THE BOY WITH A VOICE, = - - = = David Bispham. The Comilanior, Calendar free to New subscribers This is the most beautiful calendar ever given to Companion readers, if not the most beautiful onel ever produced. Lithographed in twelve colors with a border of stamped gold, it will be found suitable for the adornment of the prettiest corner in the house. p New Subscribers who cut out and send this slip with $1.75 at once, will receive The Companion every week from the time of subscription to January, 1899, FREE, and ( then a full year, 52 weeks, until January, 1900. This offer includes 1 0 the exquisite Companion Calendar, above described. QR7d PERRY MASON & CO., 201 Columbus Ave., BOSTON, MASS= PubLishers Announcements NORTHWARD Over the Great Ice BY PEARY THE MOST IMPORTANT BOOK OF 1898 A complete authentic record of Lieutenant Pearys Arctic work. His first and only book The narrative abounds in infinite variety, as it deals with land and sea, and includes de- scriptions of the ARCTIC OASIS AND THE ARCTIC HIGHLAND- ERS, the latter being the most northerly human beings in their habitat. The discovery and suc- cessful transportation here of THE GREATEST KNOWN METEORITE weighing ninety tons, is another feature of great interest. Northward is in two volumes of about 6oo pages each, and contains over Sno half-tone engravings made from Pearys wonderful photographs, together with val- uable maps, diagrams, etc., which make the work of the ~reatest educational value, and it is almost a necessary addition to any course of general reading in connection with the study of geography, ethnology, or natural history. NORTHWARD APPEALS TO THE YOUNG as well as to the old, and should he as great a favorite with the boys as Dr. Kanes delightful work has been for years. Senafor Illualraled Circular. 2 Vols. 8vo, cloth, gilt tops, boxed, $6.50, net; Same, half leather, $2.50,net; Same,fulI leather, $~8.00, net; Same, three-quarters levant, $20.00. Important_New Publieation8 SOUTH LONDON By Sir Walter Besant The third of the series which includes the authors successful works on ~ and Westminster. This is not meant to he a formal history, but an account of the condition, the manners, and the customs of the people dwelling in the borough of South London. In writing this, Sir Walter found his greatest difficulty in the wealth of material about this strange spot. A work of unusual interest. Profuaely illuslraled. Large s2mo, buckram, 3.00. A SHORT HISTORY OF THE WAR WITH SPAIN By Marrion Wilcox This is in no wise a hasty compilation. Mr. Wilcox has been for years a student of and writer on Spain and her people, and many of his sketches and stories of Spanish life have appeared in she leading magazines. Daring Ike en/ire conflicl, Mr. Wilcox conlribuled a diary of Ike war In HarySera Weekly Ikal was admirable in every way. Praclically Ikis work is Ike resnil of many years work and slndy. ismo, cloth, stamped with gold, $s.25. MOTHER SONG AND CHILD SONG By Charlotte Brewster Jordan A collection of poems which have for their subject motherhood and childhood. Among the authors are, Longfellow, Riley, Field, etc. s~mo, cloth, gilt top, deckle edges, 1.50. ROSES By Paul De Longpr~ Twelve facsimiles of roses by the greatest painter of flowers in the world. 4t0, ornamental, 2.50. ANTHONY HOPES MASTERPIECES Simon Dale Phroso The Heart of Princess Osra These three great novels come in a set in the Buck- logham Edition. Well printed on English paper, deckle edges, buckram, gilt top, with photogravure frontispieces after designs by W. St. John Harper. Boxed, 5.25; either volume, singly, boxed, ~ GOOD FICTION A mong recenl novels, Ikese can be recommended Tekia. A story of adventure. By ROBERT BARR. iamo, cloth, $1.25. The Destroyer. By BENJAMIN SWIFT. As fine a piece of literature as has been written in recent years. ismo, cloth, $s.as. Ashes of Bmpire. By ROBERT W. CHAMBERs. The best work by this leading American writer. s~mo, cloth, $1.25. The Letter and the Spirit. By CORA MAYNARD. American society, marriage, and divorce. s2mo, cloth, 1.25. Grace OMalley. By RORERT MAdERAY. An Irish tale of adventure in the time of Queen Elizabeth. I2mo, cloth, 1.25. More Cargoes. By XV. W. JAcoBs. A collection of funny sea stories by a most delightful modern humorist. 12100, cloth, $1.00. The Ambassador. A play by JOHN OLIVER HossEs, produced with great success in London. s2mo, cloth, $i.oo. The Town Traveller. By GEORGE GIssIRo. A story marked by Dickens-like humor. i~mo, cloth, $1.25. Domitia. By S. BARING-GOULD. A worthy successor to Quo Vadis. i~mo, cloth, $i.~o. The Changeling. By SIR WALTER BEsANT. The best of his recent novels. 12100, cloth, 5.25. A general cczlczlogue, descrzbing miscelianeons books, novels, am.Izsliclnveniles, ele., senl, gralis, on cej.~/licaIio~z ~ 2~ & 29 West Twenty-third Street FREDERICK A. STOKES ~ NEW YORK 26 SENT ON APPROVAL to any address, provided $i.oo is sent to pay the cost of carriage both ways. (The set weighs 5 pounds.) lithe set is purchased, this will be deducted from the purchase price. Payments can also be made at the rate of $1.00 per month, if desired. On receipt of ten cents, a cata- logue and a calendar will be sent to any address. Publishers Announcements NEW HOLIDAY_GIFTS FOR ALL BOOKS BY MAUD HUMPhREY Babys Record With 12 color plates and 30 half-tone engravings, after designs hy Miss Humphrey. These represent hahies or children of tender age in their first attempts to walk, first times at worship, in the country, at school, first Christmas, etc., and are marked hy the delicacy and truth that have made the artists work so famous. A ccom~5aayiag Ihese illas/ra/lons are rages wi/k blanks lefI for recording the babys age, and all even/s of lazier- ace in i/s 4/e. Large 4to, cloth, hoxed, $2.50; each page mounted on guards, cloth, full gilt, hoxed, $~.~o; china silk, boxed, full gilt, 5.00. The Littlest Ones With 12 color plates by Miss Humphrey, with appropriate text for each picture by Miss Elizabeth S. Tucker, printed in inks of different colors and enclosed in decorative borders, and with artistic tail-pieces designed by her. Large 4to, boards, 2.00. Little Rosebuds Baby Folk Made up of selections from The Littlest Ones, each containing just half the illustrations and text of the larger volume, and bound so exactly the same manner. Price, each, i.25. A YANKEE BOYS SUCCESS BY HARRY STEELE MORRISON WI/k an In/rodnc/ ion by CHAUNCEv M. Dnsww The true story of an indomitable Western boy who started out to see the world when he was but sixteen years of age and had only twenty-five dollars in his pocket. He made a successful trip abroad, and succeeded in interviewing Queen Victoria, Gladstone, the President of France, the King of Belgium, and others. The young author tells his story in a most interesting way, and he has plenty of adventures to tell. With eight illustrations, excellent pictures of young Mor- rison ~ with the President, the Queen, etc. i~mo, cloth, i 25 THE JINGLE JANGLE RHYME= BOOK BY HENRY BRADFORD SIMMONS A collection of very humorous nonsense ver5e5, illus- trated by still more humorous pictures in color. The original drawings, which were in colored crayons, were marked by broad and strong treatment, and they are closely followed in the lithography of the work. a~mo, boards, with cover in colors, $1.50. HEROESOF OUR WAR WITH SPAIN Told for Boy BY CLINTON ROSS, author of A Trooper of the ~mpress,~~ etc. Mr. Ross has told the heroic exploits of our army and navy during the late xvar, in simple but picturesque language that will appeal to boys. Mr. Henry B. Wechsler h s con/nba/ed s/irring illas- tr tions con/ iniag excellent yior/rai/s of/ke heroes whose e iloi/s are described. Sckley, Samjtsoa, Dewey, IJobson, Sigsbee, Roosevel/, W iawrz~h/, and others are all ~5or- /rayed in characteristic at/itades and j5laces. iamo, cloth, ornate, i.5o. A~ LITTLE COLONIAL DAME BY MISS AGNES C. SAGE An attractive story for boys and girls, the scene of which is laid in old New York. It gives a vivid picture of the life in Manhattan in the eighteenth century. Profusely illus- trated by Mabel Humphrey. 4to, cloth, $i.~o. CALENDARS Over 525 calendars, wills facsimiles of water colors, photo. gravures, etchings, or half-tone engravings, and of a great variety of subjects. Maud Humphrey, C. D. Gibson, Paul de Longprb, are among the artists represented. A beautiful series of imported block calendars. Sendfor holiday cata- logue. SHIPS AND SAILORS BY RUFUS F. ZOGBAUM and JAMES BARNES Author of , Naval Actions of 1812. A beautiful and artis- tic gift book, and especially timely. The illustrations are twelve superb facsimiles of water colors (size ii~ x I4~ inches), and 26 engravings in black- and-white after drawings by Mr. Zoghaum. They are of the highest order, and some of the represen- tations of warships are by far the finest of the kind ever published. The book contains the words and music of the most famous sea snugs in the English language. Besides Old Sea S~ngs and Patriotic Songs known and popular the world over, there are some stirring new Songs of the Modern Navy, by JAMES BARNES, with music by RoECRT CovnRLnv. Pojtularfavorites like The Lass that Loved a Sailor, Three Fishers, The Midshz~ztmi/e,~7 etc., are included. The size of/he page is so large that the asic c a easily be re dat/heilano. Large folio, half cloth, 5.00; cloth, $6.oo. CARTOONS OF OUR WAR WITH SPAIN BY CH. NELAN, of the New York Herald. The most interesting and successful cartoons published during our war with Spain were those by Ch. Nelan. They were humorous, but yet dignified, and they won for Mr. Nelan at once a position as one of the leading cartoonists of the world. There are over fifty of these jtic/ures, and they have a serious v lue, as they tellir ctically the history of the war in vivid and mos/fasci a/lag w y. The size of/he page, q~ X ii inches, thefine paler, and the e cellent~ressworh bring out all/he merit of Mr. Nel slen-and-lak sketches. Large folio, boards, with a humorous design of Uncle Sam and Columbia laughing at the pictures, 2.00. Noyo ag woman mi/h sense of humor can fail to enjoy CHAP RECORD A decided novelty. All through the book are blanks for recording names, dates, places of meeting, and opinions formed. s2mo, ornamental binding, $s.oo. A gener 1 catalogue, describing miscellaneous books, novels, artistic juveniles, etc., sent on aitlication On receij5t of io cents, a catalogue cad a calendar or a coz5y of tke Cknistmas Pocket Magazine will be scat to ny address. rA1~ffnA1~Tv 2~ & 29 West Twenty-Third Street FREDERICK A. STOKES ~ NEW YORK 27 Publishers Announcements D. APPLETON & CO.S NEW BOOKS Cannon and Camera. Sea and Land Battles of the Spanish-American War in Cuba, Camp Life, and Return of the Soldiers. Described and illustrated by J. C. HEMMENT, War Artist at the Front. With over one hundred full-page pictures taken by the author, and an Index. Large samo, Cloth, $2.00. Mr. Hemment is probably the first photographer who has obtained at close range a complete series of pictures illustrat- ing a war from its inception to its close. He was on the wreck of the Maine while the Commission was sittittg. He saw the volunteers called into service, and visited Camps Black and Chickamauga. He was at Tampa and with Ad- miral Sampsons squadron, and he was at Santiago from the beginning to the surrender. Mr. Hemment was under fire with the Regulars and Rough Riders at El Caney, San Juan, and elsewhere, and he sltared in the dramatic scenes preced- ing tite capitulation. He witnessed the bombardments of Santiago, and saw Cerveras fleet destroyed. Later, Mr. Hemment was present at Camp Wikoff, and saw tlte return of the Regulars, the Rough Riders, and the Seventy-first Regiment. Recollections of the Civil War. By CHARLES A. DANA. With Portrait. Large tamo, Cloth, Gilt Top, tmttcut, $2.00. Tlte late Charles A. Danas Recollections of the Civil War~~ forms one of Ate most remarkable volumes of histor- ical, political, and personal reminiscences which have been given to tlte public. Mr. Dana was not only practically a member of the Cabinet and in the confidence of the leaders at Wasltington, but he was also the cltosen representative of the War Department with General Grant and other military commanders, and he was present at ntany of the councils which preceded movements intl the greatest importance. Mr. Dana was selected to sit in jttdgment upott charges of treasott, bribery, and frattd, attd he was familiar with all the inner workings of the vast machinery which was set in oper- ation by the war. The importance of this nnwritten history is obvious. Furthermore, Mr. Danas own narrative is re- inforced by many letters from Grant, Stanton, Sherman, and others. A New Voinme in /he Concise Knowledge Library. The History of the World. From the Earliest lIi..torical Time to the Year 1898. By EnnAic SAscoRusoN, M. A., Sometime Scholar of Clare College, Cambridge; attlltor of A History of the British Empire, The British Empire in the Nineteenth Cen- tury, Outlines of the Worlds History, etc. Uniform with Natural History, Astronomy,~~ and The His- torical Reference Book. Small ivo, Half Leather, $2.00. The thoroughness and compactness of this well-digested and comprehensive work render it invaittable as a conven- ient book of reference. The American edition has brought the history of our own country down to the close of the war with Spain. The Story of the Railroad. By Cv WARMAN, author of The Express Messenger, etc. A new volume in the Story of the West Series, edited by Ripley Hitchcock. With maps, and many illustrations by B. West Clinedinst and from photographs. Uniform with The Story of the Cosvboy, The Story of the Mine, and The Story of the Indian. t2mo, Cloth, David Haruni. A Story of American Life. By EnwARn Novas WEsT- COTT. t2mo, Cloth, $s.~o. (Third Edition.) Mr. Westcott has created a new and interesting type. We are led into a bright and sunny, although quaint atmo- sphere. David Harumis a character entirely unlike those we have had from Dickens, Thackeray, Cltarles Reade, or any of the English school. He is distinctly American, and yet his portrayal has awaited the hand of Mr. Westcott, in spite of tlte activity of Miss Wilkins, Miss Jewett, and others. New York Times. Her Memory. By MAARTEN MAARTEN5, author of Gods Fool, The Greater Glory, Joost Aveliogh, etc. Uniform edition. With Photogravure Portrait. samo, Cloth, $t.~o. Maarten Maartens is one of the best novel-writers of this or any day. Her Memory may be recommended as an unaffected story of life, pulsing with real feeling, and never morbid nor abnormal. C7aicago Times-Heraid. Latitude 190. A Romance of the West Indies in the Year of Our Lord Eighteen Hundred and twenty. Being a faithful account and true of the painful adveittures of the Skipper, the Bosn, the Smith, tlte Mate, and Cynthia. By Mrs. SCHUvLER CEowNINsHIELO, author of Where the Trade Winds Blow. illustrated. samo, Cloth, $1.50. Mrs. Crowninshie~ds first novel is a book which will be read and talked about. TIte local color is fresh and capti- vating, and the interest of novelty attaches to the historical background, including as it does ilte pirates and voodoo worsltippers of the earlier part of the centttry in Haiti, and the strange figure of King Christophe. TIte unflagging in- terest of the adventures wltich are encoetttered is accom- panied by a constant vein of deliglttlul Imuntor. The Phantom Armiiy. A Romance of Adventnre. By MAX PEMEERTON. Uttiform with Kronstadt. Illus- trated. I2mo, Cloth, $1.5o. A Herald of the West. An American Story of 18111815. By J. A. ALT5HELEE, author of A Soldier of Manhattan and The Sun of 5aratoga.~~ ssnso, Cloth, $s.~o. The American Revolution, 1 763- 1783. Being she chapters and passages relating to America from the authors History of England in the Eighteenth Cen- tury. By WILLIAM EnwAso HARTP1tLE LEcIcv, M. P., author of The History of Ettropean Morals, Demo- cracy and Liberty, Rationalism in Europe, etc. Ar. ranged and Edited, with Historical and Biographical Notes, by JAMES ALBERT WoonnuEN, Professor of American History and Politics in Indiatta Uttiversity. s~mo, Cloth, $i.ss. Foot-Notes to Evolution. A Series of Popular Addresses on the Evolution of Life. By DAvIn STARR JOROAN, Ph. D., President of Leland Stanford, Junior, Uttivetatty. ismo, Cloth, $i.~o. NEW JUVENILE BOOKS. The Hero of Erie (Commodore Perry). By JAMEs BARNES, author of Midshiptttan Farragut, Commo- dore Balubridge, etc. A new volitme in the Young He- roes of Our Navym~ Series. Illustrated. x~mo, Cloth, 1.00. Paleface and Redskin, and Other Stories for Boys and Girls. By F. AN5TRv, attthtr of Vice Versa, etc. With many illustrations. ssmo, Cloth, 1.50. The authors delightful httmor and his command of unex- pected incidents are seen at their best in this most entertain- ing book, which will be read by old and young alike. With the Black Prince. A Story of Adventure in the Fourteenth Century. By WItLIAM 0. STonno so, author of The Battle of New York, Ultris the Model Maker, Little Smoke, Crowded Out o Crofield, On the Old Frontier, or The Last Raid of the Iroquois, etc. Illustrated by B. West Clinediust. i~mo, Cloth, $I.5o. The Pilot of the Mayflower. By HEZEIcAAH BUT- TEEWOETH, author of~ Trinte to His Home, In the Boy- hood of Lincoln, The Zigzag Books, etc. Illustrated by H. Winthrop Peirce and Others. i~mo, Cloth, $i.~o. Success against Odds; or, flow an A merican Boy Made His Way. By \VILLIAM 0. SloonAso. Illus- trated by B. West Clinediust. Uniform edition. s2mo, Cloth, p1.50. In this spirited and interesting story Mr. Stoddard tells the adventures of a plucky boy who fought his own battles atid made his way upward fnttm poverty in a Long Island seashore town. It is a tale of plttck and self-reliance capi- tally told. Bible Stories in Bible Language. By EnwARn 1OCKERMAN POTTER. New edition, with an introduction by the Rigltt Rev. HENRy C. POTTEE, Bishop of New York. With new illustrations. z2mo, Cloth, $i.oo. In his introduction Bialtop Potter says: Since this is a volume wltich aims to gather these Bible stories and to set them in their familiar langitage in clear and consecutive form, it cannot but serve a good use and find a wide welcome. The earlier edition of this volume has received such a wel- come, and now that it is asked for agalis, I am sure that many readers and hearers, both old and young, will be glad to possess it. *** Send for copy (free) of the Illustrated Holiday Numnber of Appletons Monthly Bulletin. These books arefor sale by all Booksellers, or Ihey will be send by mail, on recez~ttI ofgtrice by Ike Publishers, D. APPLETON & COMPANY, 72 Fifth Ave., New York 28 Publishers Announcements 29 A LIBRARY that cost over $1,500,000 to prepare. -w-~~x-w--w- A LIBRARY so complete that it covers the entire A. IMIILILION L,I~jLAiI A LIBRARY so reliable that it has heroine the range of human knowledge. LIBRARY iw~ $25 standard of all English-speaking countries of the world. A LIBRARY so compact that it places readily hefore you complete knowledge of every sehject. SPECI AL 30=DAY OFFER TO ATLANTIC MONTHLY READERS TO IN= I TRODUCE OUR ELEGANT NEW EDITION, ALLEN REPRINT ~ Eincyc1opa~dia Britannica at $25 With a SPECIAL DISCOUNT to Atlantic Monthly Readers ordering within 30 days. THIS NEW EDITION of the popular Allen Reprint of this famous cork is supplied with a NEW COMPLETE APPENDIX VOLUME I in addition to our exhaustive American Supplement. This Appendix Vulume takes every important title in the cork and rives all the know- ledge that is new or recent concerning it, hringing information Down to Date. It contains also 52 New Maps including the new Government Map of Kiondike, Hawaii, Cuha. Thus, witls our Supplemental Volumes, the Britannica hecomes the la/es/ as xvell as the greaieal. ____________________________ I BINDINGS. The volumes are laandaanaely and durably hound in genuine silk cloth hinding, d uhie-hinged, with flexihie hack, on good quality hook paper. II is sewed on the Susythe Sewer, which makes tise most durahie of hindings. Entire Set Delivered on Payment c~ $2.00 only Balance Payable $2.00 per Month No Risk The set may he returned to us any time within ten days, if nut satisfactory, and the money will he returned. maps, .1 itis editinit ciii not he affected hy the To Canadian Readers Cnpt rigltt law, hite ca be legally sea/ zn/a Canada. Absolutely Complete Titis ~ one of and 25,000 articles foutsd i,, the original, and while at less titan one titird the price, it will he esse daily egnal Ia ibe arz~z,al ed//zen. Comsider the advaulage of a family witicis has these volumes over one witiclt has isot, nr whiclt has a cheap, three or lour pages; in a few years they possess a fttnd of knowledge worth many I volttme, u reliable, so-railed encyclopmdia. When izsformation is wanted NOTE Upon all our lsigher-priced 3o-Vot. edt- hy parents or children, here it is close at hand, and, shove all, it is rell- tions, of which tlte ahove is a sample, a special able. The memhers of the family hecoine accustomed to refer to its d discoutst will also he given. - _______________________________________________________________ times the prtce of the work. 1000 special Order and take advantage of this splendid sets wIll be supplied of this now cltance to accure this unrivalled fund limited edition at of universal knowledge. _ ______________________________ I SET Si1jn this ezpplieetioie or write for fuller PER pezrficulerrs. Or, with the Supplement, $30.00 HENRY G. ALLEN & CO., 150 Fifth Ave., N.Y. with a SPECIAL DISCOUNT to Atlantic Monthly Gentlemen I desire to take advantage of readers orderingT within 30 days your special offer on the Eneyclopeedia Bri- tannica to ATLANTIC MONTHLY readers, GREATEST GENERAL HISTORY and inclose i~2.00 as initial payment. Send GREATEST SCIENTIFIC WORK full particulars, and if found satisfactory I GREATEST THEOLOGICAL WORK will order the set, paying for it in monthly GREATEST BIOGRAPHICAL WORK payments of $2.00; otherwise the money to GREATEST ART WORK bereturnedtome. GREATEST GEOGRAPHICAL WORK ~ Every article upon tltese an,l every other suhject is treated cx- haustively hy the greatest known specialists: hence esery article is the heat, most reliahie and satisfactory that the whole world can I ..~ furnish. Publishers, 150 Fifth Avenue, New York Publishers Announcements JACOBS & Co.s HOLIDAY BOOKS KITTYBOYS CHRISTMAS By AMY B. BLANCHARD, author of Thy Friend Dorothy, A Dear Little Girl, etc. Illus- trated by Ida Waugh. t~mo. With decora- tive cover design. Price, 50 cents. Kittyboys Christmas tells how a small kitten, by fol- lowing an oid bachelor to his comfortable home, brought about a romance. It also tells isow Dr. Brewster played Santa Claus, through inadvertently catching sight of a few lines in a newspaper: this too on account of Kittyboys influ- ence. AN OBSTINATE MAID Translated from the 2tst edition of the German of Emma Von Rhoden by MARY E. IRELAND. Illustrated by Ida Waugh. With striking cover design. t2mo. Cloth. Price, $t.25. A pretty story of life at a German boarding-school. Her life here is the theme of the greater part of the story; her rude manners and obstinate will cauwd her much trouble at first, but under the gentle guidance of Fr5ulein l3ulow and the loving advice of sweet English Nellie, Ilses room- mate, her wild ways gradually disappear. When use re- turns home, her father finds, instead of Isis wild, wilful dauglster, a charming young girl, refined and lovable; atsd Leo, the young lawyet whom Ilse meets on Iser journey home, is quite as much pleased with the lovely maiden as is her father. WITH THE DREAM-MAKER By JOHN HABBERTON, author of Helens Ba- bies, The Worst Boy in Town, etc. Square tamo. Illustrated by J. C. Claghorn. Price, 50 cents. The newest thing by the author of Helens Babies is a humorous whimsicality, entitled With the Dream- Maker. Between bedtime and daylight a small boy somehosv fitids his way into the establishment of ats old man who provides dreams for every one in North America and the neighboring islands. The old man is quite a busy per- son, yet he finds time between contracts to answer many questions of the khsd that any small boy would ask, and to volunteer a lot of information on the why and wherefore of dreaming, and discloses wonders that never were dreamed of in our philosophy, to say nothing of our boys. He is a reminiscent old chap, too, and some of his stories of dream- making for the Pilgrim Fathers and Christopher Columbus and for King Alfred of England, whom he served with an experimental dream that caused the experimenter to be ban- ished to the New World, are quite unnatural enough to startle readers of all ages. ENGLISH WIT AND HUMOR With handsome cover design in gold, and fron- tispiece of Sydney Smith. i6mo. Cloth. Price, 50 cents. IRISH WIT AND HUMOR With handsome cover design in gold, and fron- tispiece of Thomas Moore. s6mo. Cloth. Uniform with English Wit and Humor. Price, 50 cents. SCOTCH WIT AND HUMOR With handsome cover design in gold, and fron- tispiece of Thomas Campbell. t6mo. Cioth. Uniform with English and Irish Wit and Hu- mor. Price, 50 cents. Tise three above books, neatly boxed, cloth, per set, $e.~o; calf or full leather, per set, $1.75. THY FRIEND DOROTHY By AMY E. BLANCHARD, author of Taking a Stand, A Dear Little Girl, etc. t~mo. Illustrated by Ida Waugh. With appropriate cover design. Price, $5.25. Tlsis story tells of an English girl, Dorothy James, whose mother becomes impressed by the Quaker doctrines and preaching, and who, after enduring some persecutions, resolves to emigrate to America with Penns colony. The landing of William Pe,sn, the making of the city of Phila- delphia, the early life of the settlers among the already arrived Swedes and the Indians, are incidentally referred to. THE SPIRITUAL LIFE By ANDREW MURRAY. t2mo. Cloth. With decorative cover design. Price, ~o cents. This is a series of lectures, delivered before the students of the Moody Bible Institute, Chicago, setting forth the rea- sons given in the New Testament for the higher spiritual life, and the means of attaining to that life through prayer and faith. All the references are taken directly from the teaching of the Apostles. EVERYDAY HONOR By FANNY B. NEWBERRY, author of The Wrest- ler of Philippi, etc. Illustrated by Ida Waugh. t2mo. Cloth. With handsome cover design. Price, $t.25. A bright, interesting story, full of life and spirit, one which Isolds our close attention from beginning to end. The Pemberton children are real children, just such as we meet every day, witis good principles and Isigh ideals, hut having many faults as well. VACATION DAYS IN HAWAII AND JAPAN By CriAs. M. TAYLOR, Jr. With over too half- tone illustrations. Crown 8vo. About 350 pages. With unique cover design. Price, $a.oo. Mr. Taylor is a Philadelphia business man who spent be- tween three and four months on a trip through H awail and Japan, and whose terse but interesting descriptions of alt he saw betoken that his observing faculties have been fully developed. Mr. Taylor made quite an extended excursion into the interior of Japan, and depicts the real life of this most interesting people in the most charming style. A LIFE OF CHRIST FOR THE YOUNG By GEORGE L. WEED, author of Great Truths Simply Told, etc. t6mo. Cloth. About 400 pages. Fully illustrated with 74 full-page half- tone illustrations. Price, 50 cents. In this series the Messrs. Jacobs & Co. intend to include only notable Christian characters. The second volume will be a life of St. Paul for the young. Lives of other promi- nent Biblical characters, as wetl as noted missionaries, will be added from time to time. A LITTLE TURNING ASIDE By BARBARA YECHTON, author of We Ten; or, The Story of the Roses, Derrick, etc. With numerous text and full-page illustrations by Wilhelmina and Jessie B. Walker. s~mo. Cloth. With decorative cover. Price, $s.oo. A story about a girl and for girts. tt is written with a clear understanding of girt nature, with strong sympathy and much tendermiess. The story is in three parts, entitled respectively Work, Strife, and Victory. For viv- idness of scene, for tenderness, pathos, and faithful portrai- ture of character, and for the strong usoral lesson, deftly woven in, the story itself must be read. For Sale by all Baokselle,-s, or sent, ~z5ost,z5aid, by GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO., Philadelphia 30 Publishers Announcements 3 Messages and Papers of ~HE PRE~SIDENTS A History of the Written by Our Presidents edited by the Hon.JAMES D. RICHARDSON, Under the Direction of Congress. Xc the American CitizenThe Father of the Future and Greater American: In this Holiday season, when the whole nation is rejoicing over the outcome of the recent stirring events of our history, and congratulating itself on the final settlement in accordance with the American idea, it is well to think of the citizen that is to be, as well of him who is. Your boy should have a holiday gift to remind him for all time to come of what the American citizen of 1898 is, and what will be expected of the greater American citizen that is to be. The great questions which confront us today are simple in comparison with those which will come up for solution, and the precedents of our past history are the guide posts for the future. The greater American citizen must know more about American Statesmanship, American Genius, American Progress, American Institutions, and the inner workings of our American Government, past, present and future. The Messages and Papers of the Presidents are the original sources for this education, and in these utterances are crystallized the wisdom and experience of our forefathers in history, and History always repeats itself. Congress had this in mind in authorizing the publication of this great work, and in appropri. ating the necessary amount to defray the initial expenses. 67 The Hon. AINSWORTH R. SPOFFORD, formerly Librarian of Congress, has accepted the posi- tion of General Secretary of the Committee appointed to distribute the work. If a private publisher were to undertake to publish it, even if he could gain access to the Government records, it would cost not less than a million dollars to produce, and he could not afford to sell it for less than Ten Dol- lars per volume. The Committee on Distribution has, however, undertaken to distribute the work at ~1 a trifle over the cost of manufacture and distribution. If it is necessary to increase the price to meet expenses, it will be done later, but not on applications received during month of December. A postai card request for fuil particulars, addressed as below, will bring ampie descriptive matter, fuii instructions for making applications, and several of the magnificent engravings contained in the work, suitable for framing, absolutely free. 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Illus- trated with twelve full-page photogravures, and over two hundred half-tone illustrations in the text. Three volumes. Small quarto. Ornamental binding. Gilt tops. By sub- scription only. Per volume, net, $5.00; half levant morocco, net, $io.oo. [Send for descriptive circular.] THE STANZAS OF OMAR KHAYYAM. Translated from the Persian by JOHN LESLIE GARNER. Second edition, with an introduc- tion and notes. This first and only transla- tion of Omar Khayy~m by an American scholar, privately printed a few years since, has been revised and re-written, and is now offered to the public. It is printed in an an- tique type, on deckel-edged laid paper, with photogravure frontispiece and decorative title- page. Square i6mo, flexible leather, gilt top, $1.00. MOROCCO. By EDMONDO DE AMIcIS. Translated from the Italian by MARIA H. LANSDALE. Illustrated by 50 photogravures and a map. Two volumes, crown Svo, cloth, gilt tops, ornamental covers. 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PARIS: ITS SITES, MONUMENTS AND HISTORY. Compiled from the principal secondary authorities by MARIA HORNOR LANSDALE. With an introduction by Hilaire Belloc, B. A., late Brackenbury History Scholar of Balliol College, Oxford. Illustrated with thirty photogravures and a complete map of Paris. One volume. Crown Svo, cloth, gilt tops, $3.00; full polished calf, gilt edges, $7.00. PEMBERTON: or, One Hundred Years Ago. By HENRY PETERSON. With twelve half-tone illustrations from original photo- graphs. One volume. i2mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.50. A new edition of an admirable story of revolutionary times. The opening scenes are located in and about Phil- adelphia, describing the battle of Germantown and other events occurring during the memorable winter at Valley Forge. Tise leading character is the ill-fated Major Andr& THE RUBAIYAT OF OMAR KIiAYYAM. Rendered into English Verse by EDWARD FITZGERALD. Containing the first and fourth editions, and much other matter pertaining to the now world-famous series of verses. With a fore-word and fore-plea by Talcott Williams, LL. D. With a photogravure re- production of an original Persian drawing, and a decorative title-page. Printed in an- tique type, on deckel - edged laid paper. Square i6mo, daintily bound in flexible leather, gilt top, $1.25. HOLLAND. By EDMONDO DE AMIcIS. Translated from the Italian by HELEN ZIM- MERN. Illustrated with 44 photogravure illustrations and a map. Bound in two vol- umes, crown Svo, gilt tops, cloth, ornamental, in cloth box (with slip covers), $5.oo; three quarters calf, gilt tops, $io.oo. SPAIN AND THE SPANIARDS. By ED- MONDO DR AMIcIS. Translated from the Italian by STANLEY RHOADS YARNALL, M. A. Illustrated with 45 photogravure illustrations and a map. With an index. Bound in two volumes, crown Svo, gilt tops, cloth, orna- mental, in cloth box (with slip covers), $5.oo; three quarters calf, gilt tops, $10.00. VENICE. Its History, Art, Industries, and Modern Life. Translated from the French by F. J. SITWELL. Illustrated with 28 pho- togravures. With index and map. One vol- ume, crown Svo, cloth, gilt top, $3.00; full polished calf, gilt edges, $7.00. THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. By THOMAS CARLYLE. Beautifully illustrated with 6o photogravures. Bound in three volumes, crown Svo, with gilt tops, ornamental gilt side, in fleur-de-lis design, cloth, in cloth box, $8.oo; three quarters calf, gilt tops, $t~.oo. *** For sale by all Booksellers. Sent post or express paid on recez~t of the price. HENRY T. COATES AND COMPANY, Publishers Philadelphia Mention The Atlantic. 3Q Publishers Announcements DOUBLEDAY & McCLURE COMPANY PUBLISH The Book The Days Work 40th of the BY Thousand Year RUDYARD KIPLING ____ The twelve tales in The Days Work are such as no other man living, and few dead, can match. TALCOTT WILLIAMS, in Book News. SPECIFICATIONS: Size 51 x 81; Binding, green cloth; Pages, 431; Type, io-point; 8 foil-page Illustrations. Price, 1.50. BOOKS ON APPROVAL. Our Book-Store is in every Post Office of the U. S. RE you interested in any of these books? Write to us, and we will see that they are in your hands by next mail. If you want them, you have merely to remit the price; if not, return them to us. You need not take our opinions. Examine the books for yourself. No matter where you are, a postal card brings them to you at our e.ty5euse. We shall be glad to send you a complete catalogue if you desire it. FICTION The People of OurNeigborhood. By Mary E. Wilkins. Jilustrated. r~th Thousand. Cloth, ~o cents; fuil leather $x.oo The Perfect Dickens (Tempie Edition), 40 vols., 3 ready each month, colored frontispieces, leather, each . .8o Snbscrz~5t ion Edition. Sold on Installments. Limited to 1000 sets. Send for particulars. Cyrano de Bergerac. By Edmond Rostand. Translated hy Gertrude Hail. zhth Thousand . . . net .~o A lao an Ill strated Edition de Luxe, on large ~5a~er, with deckel edges and gilt to5; very handsomely bound with the Lilies of France and a decorative deszgn; illustrations from actual scenes of the flay as jterformed in Paris; ttrinted on J~ag5an ,5ater . 1.00 The Nameless Castle. By Dr. Maurice Jokal. ( The Hungarian Dumas.) Illustrated. Second Edition . 1.25 Bob, Son of Battle. A Novel of Sheep Dogs antI Shepherds. By Alfred Ollivant . . . . . . 1.25 TALES OF INCIDENT AND ADVENTURE The Lady of Castell March. By Owen Rhoscomyl I.00 Adventures of Captain Kettle. By Cutcliffe Hyne 1.00 Mistress Nancy Molesworth. By Joseph Hocking I.00 Moran of the Lady Letty. A Novel of the Sea. By Frank Norris 1.00 The Spirit of Sweetwater. By Hamlin Garland.) A Minister of the World. By C. A. Mason. Each, cloth, 50 cents; each, leather 1.00 The Open Boat, and Other Tales of Adventure. By Stephen Crane I.00 NATURE STUD Y BY NFL T~E BLANC/IA/V. Bird Neighbors. 20th Thousand. Introduction hy John Burroughs. 52 colored plates . . . . 2.00 Birds that Hunt and are Hunted. ioth Thousand. Introduction hy G. 0. Shields (Coquina).45 colored plates 2.00 The Butterfly Book. By W. J. Holland, Ph. D., LL. D. 48 colored, and many other illustrations . . net 3.00 rlashlights on Nature. (Descrihing the Wonders of Nature.) By Grant Allen. Illustrated . . . . i.5o POPULAR MANUALS AND EDUCATIONAL How to Build a Home. By F. C. Moore 1.00 How to Study Shakespeare. By W. H. Fleming. With Introduction hy W. J. Rolfe . net .oo Good Cooking. By Mrs. Rorer. With portrait. Cloth, ~o cents; leather i.00 Inside of 100 Homes. By W.. M. Johnson. Illustrated. Cloth, ~o cents; leather . i.oo Model Homes at Low Cost. By W. M. Price. Illustrated. Cloth, ~o cents; leather I.00 Home Games and Parties (with Evening Refreshments, hy Mrs. Rorer). Illustrated. Cloth, ~o cents; leather ion The Well-Bred Girl in Society. By Mrs. Burton Harrison. Illustrated. Cloth, ~o cents; leather 1.00 The Business Girl. By Ruth Ashmore. Illustrated. Cloth, ~o cents ; leather 1.00 FOR YOUNGER READERS A Gunner Aboard the Yankee. From the Diary of Numher Five. Introduction hy Rear-Admiral Sampson. With ~ colored plates and many other illustrations. Second Edition 1.50 What Shall Our Boys do for a Living? By Charles F. Wingate 1.00 Lifes Book of Animals. 140 illustrations 1.00 Klondyke Nuggets, and How Two Boys Secured them. By Edward S. Ellis. Illustrated . MISCELLANEOUS Songs of Action. By A. Conan Doyle. Second Edition 1.25 Little Masterpieces. Edited hy Bliss Perry. 76th Thousand. 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By Editor of Daily Strength for Daily Needs~~ 1.00 DOUBLEDA Y & - McGLUJ?E CO., 141-155 EAST 25TH ST., N 1K 33 34 Publishers Announcements McClures Magazine for 1899 A NEW SERIAL BY RUDYARD KIPLING This is a series of stories of schoolboy life, introducing Stalky, Beetle, and Mc- Turk, heroes of Mr. Kiplings creation already somewhat known. The stories will con- tinue through a number of months. Each is complete in itself; and to understand and enjoy one it will not be necessary to read those that precede it. At the same time, they carry the same characters through a succession of adventures, and readers will find a special entertainment in following the whole series. The stories show Mr. Kipling in his most joyous mood; it is clear that he has renewed his own boyhood in writing them, as he will have renewed the boyhood or girlhood of all who read them. The first story appears in the December number. A GREAT HISTORICAL SERIAL No series of articles, in any magazine, ever had a greater success than Miss Tarbells articles on the Early Life of Lincoln. As soon as these articles were ended, sub- scribers began to write in to us asking when they might expect the series promised by Miss Tarbell on the LATER LIFE OF LINCOLN and such inquiries have continued in great numbers ever since. Miss Tarbell was resolved that no important new material should be overlooked, and by her rare industry and talent and her exceptional connections, she secured such an abundance that to bring it within the practical limits of magazine publication has been a long labor. But the articles begin in the December number. The Personal Side of Lincolns Life during the war is what these articles will present. Miss Tarbell has secured through personal interviews with associates of Lincoln in the White House, in the Depart- ments, in Congress, at the headquarters of the several Armies; from surviving members of his bodyguard; from unpublished correspondence; from. unpublished documents lately become available at the War Department, and from various other sources a wealth of new material exhibiting the personal traits and qualities of the man. CAPTAIN A. T. MAHAN The War on the Sea and its Lessons Captain Mahans articles will be the account and interpretation of the naval movements of the recent war of a man who, in addition to being the foremost authority on naval science, himself helped to plan the movements which he describes and explains. War played like a game of chess is the only word for the recent naval campaign; and Captain Mahan, himself one of the players of the game, explains the cause and purpose of every move, and shows what results followed. The articles begin in the December number and will continue through several months, giving, as it were, the inner history of every naval movement and operation down to the close of the war. A TELEGRAPH OPERATORS LIFE Experiences and Adventure as Operator and Train-Despatcher Captain Jasper E. Brady, now of the Army, began life as a telegraph operator. He served in commercial and railroad offices in and about all parts of the country and under all possible conditions. He passed through all the grades up to that of chief train despatcher; and since he entered the Army he has been detailed to many special services where his experience with the telegraph and railroads would be particularly useful. These chapters are A Series of Choice Stories from Captain Bradys own experience, illustrating the telegraph operators life in about all the curious conditions that ever fall to his lot. Publishers Announcements 35 SCIENCE AND INVENTION THE TELECTROSCOPE Mr. Cleveland Moffett has lately returned from a visit to the young Polish inventor, Jan Szczepanik, to examine his wonderful invention that transmits a whole picture by telegraph so that it comes out to a beholder miles away complete, and even in the natural colors of the object or scene portrayed; and in an article soon to appear he gives an interesting account of the inventor and of his invention. The article will be fully illustrated. A PLUNGE IN THE DIVING TORPEDO BOAT An article by Franklin Matthews de- scribes his own strange experience in going down under the sea in the new submarine torpedo boat, the Holland. The article also describes the curious construction of the boat. She is, un- doubtedly, one of the most remarkable products of the mechanical ingenuity of man. THE LAKE SUBMARINE BOAT Mr. Lake, inventor of the Lake Subma- rine Boat, has prepared an article on his successful cruises on the bottom of the sea, which cover over 1,200 miles. His boat has remained submerged for ten hours, and from it, at the bottom of Chesapeake Bay, telephone communica- tions were carried on with Washington, Baltimore, and New York. THE MARVELS OF THE SEA This is an account of the zodlogical station at Naples, where all the animal and vege- table growths of the Mediterranean Sea have been gathered, still living, and to which advanced students from all parts of the world resort to study these growths, as it were, in a great and beautiful book of living Nature. The article will be fully illustrated, and will be one of the most interesting of the kind that we have ever published. SPLENDID SHORT STORIES Our short stories during the coming year will be of unusual distinction. They will come from such writers as Rudyard Kipling William Allen White Hamlin Garland Robert Barr Stephen Crane Cutcliffe Hyne Sarah Orne Jewett Octave Thanet Sarah Barnwell Elliott NEW BOYVILLE STORIES Mr. William Allen White, the author of the Boyville stories, those most refreshing and delightful tales of real boy life, will be a frequent contributor to the magazine during the coming year. STORIES OF THE EAST AND THE WEST These stories are by W. A. Fraser, a civil engineerwhose profession has taken him into many parts of India and about all parts of Canada, and who has thus gathered material for no end of good stories. Mr. Fraser has had a good friend and counsellor in Mr. Kipling, who greatly admires his work. POLITICAL SHORT STORIES We have in hand for early publication three remarkable short stories of polit- ical life In the Third House, A Woman Who Hesitated, and In the Last Ditch. They are by a new writer, Dr. G. W. Barr, of Keokuk, Iowa. $1.00 a year HAMLIN GARLANDS INDIAN STORIES Following Custers Last Fight as Seen by Two Moons, published a few months ago, there will be other true stories of the Indians, recorded by Mr. Garland in the Indians own words. NEW ADVENTURES OF CAPTAIN KETTLE Cutcliffe Hynes creation, Captain Ket- tle, is already a favorite with the read- ing public; and the author has just fin- ished a new series of Captain Kettle stories. io cents a copy The S. S. McClure Company ~4J-I55 E. 25th Street, New York, N. Y. 36 ~ wwwww ww w I I I We advise our I readers who desire to broaden their minds to take one or more. Enctineering News. 41 6 4 41 41 I II With all achievements in mag- azine literature we have no rival of the great English Reviews. The scholar of human life and thought is obliged to turn to them for thorough discussion of great political and so- cial questions. One cannot get on without them. The Nero Unity. The tables of contents present what the French would call a tempt- ing ragoi2~ from which no delicacy belonging to the season is omitted. The topics treated are timely. The Examiner. These Reviews contain more articles by more noted writers on important subjects than any other se- ries. No reader who hopes to keep in touch with the best thought of the day can afford to ignore them. The J?hilade~/hia Press. The most valu- able aids to contem- porary literature. Chicago Inter- Ocean. 44 44 41 41 41 41 41 41 41 44 44 41 41 The writers are always able. The constant reading of these pe- riodicals lets one out into a larger world, and gives breadth and, vigor to the understanding. Zions Her- ald. SPECIMEN COPIES FREE TERMS TO SUBSCRIBERS NINETEENTH CENTURY, CONTEMPORARY REvIEW, FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW, WESTMINSTER REVIEW, each $4.50 per year; any two, $8.50; any three, $12; all four, $16.00; single copies, 40 cents. 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THE MUSIC DRAMAS OF WAGNER WORK AND CULTURE By ALBERT LAYIGNAC. Translated by ESTHER By HAMILTON W. MABIE. t6mo, cloth, gilt Mr. Mabies works are now published in uniform style. SINGLETON. With illustrations and examples top, $1.25. of music. Svo, cloth, $2.50. I Eight volumes, s6mo, cloth, gilt tops; per volume, ~I.25. TURRETS, TOWERS, AND TEMPLES Descriptions, by the masters of literature, of the great masterpieces of architecture throughout the world. With 75 illustrations. Edited and arranged by ESTHER SINGLETON. Svo, cloth, $2.00. THE GERMAN EMPEROR AT HOME j HAWAII IN TIME OF REVOLUTION By MAURICE LEUDET. Translated from the By MARY H. KROUT. Svo, cloth, illustrated, $2.00. French. With illustrations. Svo, cloth, $3.00. THRO CHINA WITH A CAMERA FROUDE AND THOMAS CARLYLE I By JOHN THOMSON, F. R. G. S. Fully illus- By DAVID WILSON. 8vo, cloth, $3.00. I trated. Svo, cloth, $5.oo net. TITlE POLYCHROME BIBLE A new English version of the Old Testament, with the structure of the books shown in polychrome. Ready shortly: (t) The Book of Ezekiel. Translated by Professor C. H. Toy. (2) The Book of Joshua. Translated by Professor W. H. BENNETT. Recently j5ublished: Judges, Psalms, Isaiah, Leviticus. (Send ~e cts. for afullprospctus.) TRIMALCHIOS DINNER AFRICA Its Partition and its Future. By HENRY M. Translated from the Latin of Petronius, with an STANLEY, J. SCOTT KELTIE, Sir GEORGE T. Introduction and Appendix, by HARRY THURS. GOLDIE, and others. t2mo, cloth, with map, TON PECK. Illustrated. t~mo, cloth, $t.5o. $1.25. THE LIFE OF NAPOLEON III. By ARCHIBALD FORBES. With 40 illustrations. 8vo, cloth, $3.50. ( The best life of Napoleon III.) EGYPT IN 1898 THE GOSPEL OF JOY By G. W. STEEVENS, author of The Land of the By STOPFORD A. BROOKE, author of Tennyson, Dollar, etc. t~mo, illustrated, t.5o. I The Old Testament, etc. I2mo, cloth, $t.5o. AfIERICAN BOOKI1EN By M. A. DEWOLFE HOWE. Illustrated with 100 portraits, facsimiles, and sketches. Svo, cloth, $2.50. The series of articles on American Bookmen which have been appearing in The Bookeean have attracted wide atten- tion, and are now gathered into a volume, with many important additions and revisions by the author. MISCELLANIES MEDITATIONS ON GOUT By AUSTIN DoasoN. A New Volume of tSth By GEORGE H. ELLWANGER. I2mo, cloth, $2.00. Century Essays. t6mo, cloth, gilt tops, $1.25. Dobsons works are now published in a uniform edition. MAIDS, WIVES, AND BACHELORS Ask to see them. By AMELIA E. BARR. t2mo, cloth, $1.25. AT ALL BOOKSTORES. POSTPAID ON RECEIPT OF PRICE. DODD, MEAD & CO., Publishers, iNew York Publishers Announcements MR. MOSHERS NEW BOOKS. The Old World Series. THE OLD WORLD SERIES is iD fDrmat a narrow Fcap 8vo, printed from new type on a size of Van Gelder paper made for this edition only. Original head-bands and tail-pieces have been freely used with the best effects, and each issue has its special cover design. Bound in flexible Japan vel- lum with silk ribbon marker, white parchment wrap- pers, gold seals, and in slide cases, an almost ideal volume is offered the book lover. EACH EosTtoN 15 AS FoLLows: 925 copies on Van Gelders paper at $ioo, net. too coptes on Japan vellum (numbered) at $2.50, net. XI. THE HOUSE OF LIFE A Sonnet-Sequence by Dante Gabriel Rossetti. NH. MODERN LOVE AND OTHER POEMS By George Meredith. Includes ti poems from the rare t8~t volume, never before reprinted. XHI. THE STORY OF MY HEART My Autobiography. By Richard Jefferies. XIV. UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH A Book of Verses by Michael Field- The Brocade Series. o far as known this was and is the first attempt to issue books printed on Japan vellum at a price so moderate as to almost cause incredulity. Price, 73 ceuia gIer volume, nel. Six New Volumes Now Ready. IMAGINARY PORTRAIT5 BY WALTER PATRR, viz: VH. VILL IX. N. A PRINCE OF COURT PAINTERS DENYS LAUXERROIS SEBASTIAN VAN STORCK DUKE CARL OF ROSENMOLD XI. KING FLORUS & THE FAIR JEHANE By Willians Morris. NH. QUA TTROCENTISTERIA: HOW SANDRO uoTICELLI SAW SIMONETTA IN THE SPRING. By Maurice Hewlett. With Frontispiece of Botticellis Pink of Venus, in autotype. Reprint of Privately Printed Books5 I. ESSAYS FROM THE GUARDIAN2 By WALTER PATEE. Reprinted from the privately printed edition (London, 1896). With portrait by WILL ROTHENSTEIN. OWING to the continued demand for these Essays (the first edition going out of pritst early last spring), it has been decided to make a second edition, which is now ready. 400 copies, Fcap Svo, on Van Gelder hand-made paper done up in old-style blue paper boards, white label, uncut edges. Price, $2.50, net. H. SPECIMENS OF MODERN POETS TIte Heptalogia, or the Seven Against Sense; a Cap with Seven Bells. By ALGERNON CHARLES SWIN. BORNE. 450 copies, small quarto, on Van Gelder hand-made paper, done up in old-style blue paper boards, white label, uncut edges, $a.oo, net. 5o copies on Japan vellunt at $4.00. HI. THE GERM: MDCCCL THOUGHTS TOWARDS NATURE IN POETRY, LIT- ERATURE, AND ART. THE ORGAN OF THE PRE-RAPHARLITE BROTHERHOOD THE Four Original Parts issued in t8~o, includ- ing facsimiles of the wrappers, and reproduc- tion in photogravure of the etchings by Hol- man Hunt, Ford Madox Brown, James Collinson and W. H. Deverell. It was here that Rossetlis Blessed Dumozel, and Hand and Soul, first appeared. THE EDITION IS AS FOLLOWS: 450 copies, medium octavo, printed on Van Gelder hand-made paper, with Chitwick head-bands and tail- pieces, initials, and rubricated title-page. Each copy done up in Japan vellum wrappers, uncut edges and in slide case. PRICE $5.00, NET. The Eclogues of Virgil. DONE INTO ENGLISH PROSE BY J. W. MACRAIL. THIS little hook is printed with a specially designed border, in color, narrow tfimo, done up in decorated vellum wrappers, each volume tn brocade slide case. Witls frontispiece from an etching by Samuel Palmer. 450 COPIES ON VAN GELDEE PAPER, 75 CENTS, NET. 50 COPIES ON JAPAN VELLUM, $soo, net. NEW DESCRIPTIVE LIST (64 PAGES) POSTPAID ON APPLICATION. 38 THOMAS B. MOSHER, AT XLV EXCHANGE ST., PORTLAND, MAINE, SEASON OF MDCCCXCVIIII Publishers Announcements HOLIDAY GIFT BOOKS This Seasons Gift Book for Amateur Photographers IN NATURES IMAGE Chapters on Pictorial Photography. By W. I. LINCOLN ADAMS (author of Sunlight and Shadow ). Profusely illustrated by Original Photographs from Nature. Large Svo, cloth (uniform in size, but not in decoration, with Sunlight and Shadow ), full gilt, in a box, $2.50. An even more attractive book than SUNLIGHT AND SHADOW, treating its subject more from the point of viesv of portraiture, figure composition, genre, etc. its topics are: Laudsc:Jes and Figures, Fz~ures and Laudseates, Genre, Telling a Slury, Mudeis, Tue Nude in Pku/ugra~5ky, Fur/raiture at House, Children, Fkuiugra~king Fiuners, In/eriurs. No hook of the year will be equally acceptable as a gift to any one having a camera. SUNLIGHT AND SHADOW By the same author. Uniform with In Natures Image except in decoration. $2.50. If you have a young friend who is interested in amateur photography, you may depend upon it that among all the books of this holiday season there will not be many, if there will be one, the receipt of which would gratify bins more at Christmas time. Bus/un L i/erary Wend. THE GENTLE ART OF PLEASING By ELIZABETH GLOVER. i6mo, cloth decorated, gilt top, 1.00. The authors thought during much association with young people has often been drawn towards the unpopular among their mates. She has noted that although keenly conscious of social exclusion, they seldom have any inkling of its rea- sons. Hence this little book, which is lovingly inscribed to all who would unveil and adorn that individual beauty of soul sure to have been impressed by the hand of the Maker. JEFFERSON WILDRIDER A New England Story. By ELIZABETH GLOTER. t2mo, cloth decorated, gilt top, $1.25. A story treating New England life and character broadly, and with unusual discernment of the universal elements of human nature and the reciprocal influence of one character upon another. The author, with marked force and occa- sional touches of humor and genuine pathos, tells a story of intrinsic interest. FORTUNES TANGLED SKEIN A Novel. By JEANNETTE H. WALWORTH. i2mo, cloth decorated, $1.25. In this story of the fortunes of a Southern family the au- thor has preserved that distinctive touch of character por- traiture which marks all her writings. The unravelling of the mystery which subjects the hero to general suspicion of a crime discloses much ingenuity and compels the readers absorbed attention. A gift of permanent, intrinsic value, the natural use of which will be a daily reminder of the giver, is THE STUDENTS STANDARD DICTIONARY An abridgment of the famous Funk & Wag- nails Standard Dictionary. Moderate- sized, but full, easily handled, low-priced. Contains 923 pages, 6o,ooo words, 1225 illus- trations; synonyms, antonyms, faulty diction, disputed pronunciations, etc.; presents the English Language of to-day. Incom- parably the newest and best Dictionary in existence for the every-day use of English- speaking people. Svo, cloth, leather back, $2.50; sheep, $4.00. Indexed, 50 cents addi- tional. A treasure. Bus/un Yonrnnl ufEduea/iun. A PURITAN WOOING A Tale of the Great Awakening in New England. 17401750. By FRANK SAMUEL CHILD. t~mo, cloth, gilt top, 1.25. The story of a courtslsip which involved the play of in- tense, fanatic, religious feeling, and the deep forces which master the human heart in its experience of the tender pas- sion. The life of the period called the Great Awakening has never been previously touched in fiction. This book is a gateway into a frosts realiss of New England life, full of startling changes and tragic situations. A COLONIAL WITCH Being a Study of the Black Art in the Colony of Connecticut. By the same author. t~mo, cloth, gilt top, $1.25. Mr. Child is a ripe sclsolar its colonial history, atsd has given special attentiots to the psychology of tise witchcraft delusion. His treatment of the theme takes the form of a well-sustained and fascinating tiarrative. 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Otse of the purest and strongest pieces of historical romatsce that have yet been produced from the French mis- stois materials. Chicago Tribune. FABIUS THE ROMAN Or, How the Church Became Militant. By Rev. Dr. E. FIrcH BURR. I2mo, cloth decorated, gilt top, $t.5o. This stirring story of the Roman Empire tells vividly how the Christiatus under Fabiuss leadership escaped the oppres- sion and cruelty of Maxentius, and obtained civil and mu- giouts liberty under Constantine. A thread of love and adventure runs through the quick and exciting action of tlse story. The above books a/ all book-dealers, or mailed, glos/jtaid, by /he /nblishers on reeezlzl/ of/he adver/ised~lrice. Ourfull ca/alogue mailed on aAAlica/ion. THE BAKER AND TAYLOR COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 5 and 7 East 16th Street, between Broadway and Fifth Avenue, New York 39 Publishers Announcements COLONIAL BOOKS BY WILLIAM ROOT BLISS Quaint Nantucket Second Edition. With a new chapter. Crown 8vo, gilt top, $1. 50. Colonial Times on Buzzards Bay With Map, Illustrations, and Facsimiles. Third Edition. Crown 8vo, gilt top, $1.50. The Old Colony Town, and Other Sketches Crown 8vo, gilt top, $1.25. Side Glimpses from the Colo~ nial Meeting-House Crown 8vo, gilt top, $1.50. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. BOSTON w The Sportsmans Home Jouuial. WHEN BARNUM8 MUSEUM BURNED UP THE great showman said to Horace Greeley, L Now I can go fishing. That was good Barnum philosophy, hut the better part of wisdom is not to wait for a conflagration to set us free from the daily grind, but to get our share of the amenities of the woods and the waters as we go along. You may go fishing or shooting every week by having your address on a FOREST AND STREAM WRAPPER. You will like its breezy sketches of sport with rod and reel and dog and gun; its stories of camp life and accounts of tramp and cruise. Single copies, io cents. Per year, $4.00. 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Much of the material is translated direct from original and recent French sources, not easily accessible to the ordinary student. The narratives of eye-witnesses and of actors and sufferers in the great drama are frequently quoted in detail. Unrrn wi/h /he above, and by /he same au/her, are: rrance in the 19th Century; I Russia and Turkey in the 19th Century; England in the 19th Century; Europe in Africa in the 19th Century; Italy in the 19th Century; Spain in the 19th Century. PERSONAL SKETCHES OF RECENT AUTHORS By HATTIE TYNG GRIsWoLD. With a handsome and carefully selected portrait of each author. I2~0, 352 pages, $I.5o. These sketches are so sympathetic and appreciative that they impress the reader with a sense of thoroughness which long biographies often fail to give. The materials are taken from the most trustworthy and sutlsentic cources, and the facts given in the sketches may he implicitly relied on. By /he same ac/her: Home Life of Great Authors. A YANKEE VOLUNTEER By M. 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This latest addition to the Tales from Foreign Lands sustains the high and unique reputation of the series. The author, Caroline Svetla, though regarded as the George Eliot of Bohemia, has thus far, we believe, remained unknown to English readers. Prenleus ye/nines ef /h/s series are: Memories; Graziella; Marie; Madeleine; Marianela; Cousin Phillis; and Karine. THREE FRESHMEN By JEssIE ANDERSON CHASE. ssmo, $t.oo. The three freshmen are girl students at Smith College; one of them comes from Chicago, one from Boston, and one from the South. They lead a merry, studious, and happy life, full of fun, frolic, and womanly kiudheartednecs. THE WIDOW OtCALLAGHANS BOYS By GULIELMA ZOLLINGER. Illustrated. usmo, $t.s~. Ills the story of a brave little Irish widow left in poverty with seven boys ranging from three to fifteen years. Her management and encouragement of them and their patience and cheerfulness and ambition amidst poverty are told simply, forcibly, interestingly, and altogether delightfully The book contains a strong practical lesson in the battle of life. SIR JEFFERSON NOBODY By EFFIE W. MERRIMAN. Illustrated. ssmo, $s 25. This story relates in most interesting fashion the experiences of two waifs, a brother and sister who were bound ~ after their parents died. Bad treatment niade the boy run away to the city, where he fell in with the title characters a sort of juvenile Mark Tapley, a most interesting character entirely new to fiction. GENERAL NELSON?S SCOUT By BYRON A. DUNN. Illustrated. s~mo, $t 25 A book of tise Civil War for boys. The story is told by an old soldier familiar with the scenes which he describes, and with peculiar conditions existing in Kentucky at the time The whole narrative is vividly real, and is handsomely ilitistrated. CHOICE READINGS By ROBERT MCLEAN CUSINoCK. Large ssmo, 6os pages. Revised and enlarged edition, s.5o. After twenty years of great success and popularity a revised edition of this standard book has been prepared. New selections and a series of discussions on important topics in elocution have been added. LOVE IN EPIGRAM Compiled by FREDERICK W. MORTON. s6mo ,$i.oo. A collection of epigrams embracing writers ancient and modern, classical and popular, us poetry and prose. By /he sauce cemjSi/er: Men in Epigram and Woman in Epigram. Far sale by booksellers generally, or will be se~/, Jostjaid o recee,s5t of the ~rice, by the publiskers, A. C. McCLURG & CO., CHICAGO The Atlantic Monthly Advertiser 42 History for Ready Reference ~ind Topical Reading. In Five Imperial Volumes. By J. A~ LARNED, Ex-Pres. American Library Assn. Besides containing complete historical infor- mation upon all events in the exact language of recognized historians, there are many thousands of Alphabetical and Cross References, which not only show the Inter-relations of History, but, what may he considered more im- portant, give the most valuable information upon all Related Topics. As an absolute proof of its superiority over, and differing from, every other work, we ap- pend the following FACTS AND FIGURES. Alphabetical References in Volume I . . 3,513 II . . 893 III . 2,638 IV. . 3,385 V . . 1,258 Total number of Alphabetical References 11,687 Cross-References in Volume I . . . . 4,582 II . . 1,960 I ~ ~ IV . . . . 4,747 V . . . . 2,096 Total number of Cross-References . . 17,495 I am quite sure it is one of the most valuable reference books in existence. JOHN FISKE, LITT. D., LL. D. The best book ever sold in the country by subscription. CHAS. ORR, Librarian, Cleveland, 0. Puts the history of the world on a single shelf. BISHOP JOHN H. VINCENT, D. D., LL. D. I find more pleasure and more satisfaction when I refer to this book for information than I do from any historic source within my reach. PRES. JOHN W. HESTON, Agricultural College, South Dakota. We have reason to be proud that an American scholar has produced this work so invaluable to every student of history, and so indispensable to every library. PRES. JAMES B. ANGELL, LL. D., Michigan University. No other work of the kind is comparable with it. PRES. CHARLES KENDALL ADAMS. Write for circulars and specimen pages, giving full information. Sent carriage free to responsible subscribers on easy payments. SOLICITORS EMPLOYED. The C. A. Nichols Co., Publishers, Springfield, Mass. offers the following very reduced prices to the readers of THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY. Publishers Price with The Price. A /1cc/ic Monthly. 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BOX 5206, BOSTON, MASS. 43 44 NEW YORK OBSERVER The foremost Religious Weekly Newspaper of the Country Subscription $j.oo Yearly. g years for $io.oo. Augustus Letters Correspondence from all over the World Record and Review Re- ligious Intelligence Literary Household Youths A Complete Family Newspaper. As a special inducement to read- ers of The Atlantic Monthly we make this offer: To any one not already a sub- scriber for the New York Observer, we will send it on trial, Three months for 25 cents. Ten months for $LOO. Sample copies free. Address Circu- lation Department, IN. Y. OBSERVER 156 Fifth Avenue New York The Liberal Relzgious Review of America Is a quarterly Review of Religion, Ethics, and Theo- logy, each number of which contains 200 pages octavo; it is published the first of March, June, September, and Decemher. Its editors are Professors c. C. EVERETT, D. D., and C. H. Toy, LL. D., of Harvard University, Rev. ORELLO CONE, D. D., and Professor N. P. 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Publishers Announcements NOW READY The Book Buyer FOR CHRISTMAS The cover by MAXFIELD PAR- RISH, in four colors Frontispiece reproduction of Penrhyn Stanlaws poster - portrait of RICH- ARD HARDING DAVIS, in three colors The new books on the Spanish War reviewed by JOHN R. SPEARS The other holiday books reviewed by HAMILTON W. MABIE MARY HARTWELL CATHERWOOD CHARLES F. LUMMIS ERNEST INGERSOLL DR. JOHN C. VAN DYKE NOAH BROOKS RUSSELL STURGIS HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD The illustrations by HOWARD PYLE A. B. FROST C. D. GIBSON FREDERIC REMING- OLIVER HERFORD TON WILLIAM NICHOL- ALBERT HERTER SON MAXPIELD PARRISH AND OTHERS On all News Stands Price 15 Cents Subscription $1.50 ChARLES SCRIBNERS SONS Publishers 153-157 Fifth Avenue, New York City Publishers Announcements 45 The Finest Editions of the Waverley Novels Ever Published Andrew Lang Edition. THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. By Sir WALTER SCOTT. With new introductions, notes, and glossaries by Andrew Lang. The text will be reprinted from the anthors favorite edition, and will contain all of his introductions and notes. To Ihese will be added new introductions, notes, and glossaries by the world-re ow ed critic and author, A stdrew Lang, who h s had the coi5~eration of Ike Hon. Mrs. Maxwell Scott, of A bbotsford, the great-granddaughter of Sir Walter Scott, in /re/aring this edition, and who has hod access to all of the manuscrz/t and other material now at A bbolsford, so that many new points of interest will be in this edition. This edition will also excel all previous editions in points of artistic merit. The ilinstrasions will consist of one hundred and thirty etchings from original designs by some of the most distinguished artists in the world. Among the artists and etchers wlsose work will appear in this edition may be mentioned the following: A rtists. Etchers. SIR J. R. MILLAIS, BART., R. A. An. LALAUZE. R. w. MACBETH, A. R. A. AD. LALAUZE. R. w. MACERTH, A. R. A. LOCKHART BOOLE. H. MACBETH RARBURN. H. C. MANESsE. SIR OROROR REID, P. R. 5. A. OORDON BEOwNE. HENRI LEFORT. P. TEY55ONNIERR5. The paper is a fine English finish and the printing is the best. Cloth, gilt tops; sold in complete sets or separate works divided, each column $1.50; complete set, 25 volumes, $37.50. ILLUSTRATED CABINET EDITIONS. The Waverley Novels by Sir WALTER SCOTT. With new introductions, notes, and glossaries by Andrew Lang. This editiun will also excel all previous editions in points of artistic merit. The illustrations will consist of two hundred nndfifty etchings from original designs by some of the most distinguished artists in the world, printed on Japanese paper. rhe volumes are printed on deckle-edge laid paper and bound with flat hacks, gilt tops, size tall ifimo. Sold in complete sets or separate works at $1.50 per volume; complete sets, 48 volumes, cloth, $72.00. Specimen pages and illustrations of each edition of the Waverley Novels will be sent postpaid on application. Shakespeares Works, 12 vols., cloth, gilt top, - $18.00 Charles Dickens Works, 30 vols., cloth, gilt top, - $45.00 Ileorge Eliots Works, 24 vols., cloth, gilt top, - 38.00 John Ruskins Works, 26 vols., cloth, gilt top, - 39.00 Victor Hugos Works, 16 vols., cloth, gilt top, - 24.00 Win. H. Prescotts Works, 16 vols., cloth, gilt top, 24.00 W. M. Thackerays Works, 20 vols., cloth, gilt top, 30.00 S5ecial catalogue sent ~tost/aid u/on a//licatzon. DANA ESTES & COMPANY,_Publishers, Boston. When Buying Christmas Gifts Look at these Books. HAROLD FREDERICS The Deserter $1.25 MARGARET SIDNEYS Little Maid of Concord Town s.~o WILLIAM H. BABCOCKS Cian of the Chariots 1.50 SOPHIE SWETTS Bilberry Boys and Girls t.25 ELBRIDGE S. BROOKSS True Story of Benjamin Franklin 1.50 JULIA MAGRUDERS Labor of Love .~ MARY B. SLEIGHTS Island Heroine s.~o LOUISE E. CATLINS Marjory and her Neighbors s.~o _____________________________ PANSYS (Mrs. ALDEN) Prince of Peace 5.50 KATE TANNATT WOODS Little New England Maid .00 EMILIE POULSSONS Child Stories and Rhymes 1.25 _______________________ CHARLES STUART PRATTS Buz- buz ~ hENRIETTA R. ELIOTS Lauras Holidays .~o *** The Best ~7uvenile Books of I/se Year. Send for Illustrated Holiday Catalogue. Mailed Free. LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY, Boston. IMPERIALISM and other questions of vast impor- tanCe are now before the American people. PUBLIC OPINION is the only journal in the United States that gives a// sides of all national questions. In addition to this the departments of Foreign Affairs, Social Questions, SCience, Letters and Art, and Busi- ness and Finance give aweekly digest of the best current contributions on these subjects. The subscription price is $2.50 a year, $1.25 for six months. WE HAVE MADE A SPE- CIAL RATE FOR TRIAL SUBSCRIPTIONS OF 25 CENTS FOR 3 MONTHS. Sample copies and cards for mailing coins sent on request. THE PUBLIC OPINION CO. 13 Astor Place, N. Y. Publishers Announcements EMIN PASHA His LIFE AND WORK. Compiled from his journals, letters, scientific notes, and from official documents by Georg Schweitzer. With an introduction by R. W. FELKIN, M. D., F. R. S. F., etc. With portrait and map. 2 vols. demy Svo, cloth, gilt, $io.oo. This, the first biography of the great explorer, has been prepared by Entins literary executor, and has created tremendous interest in England, and is about to be published in Germany. The Londoet Times review says: All who are interested in this part of Africa (the Soudan and Central Africa) and who is not at present ? when the competi- tion among the European powers is keenest, and when the forces of darkness are making their last stand will welcome this. It is a piece of rare good fortune that Emins carefully written and copious diaries have been recovered. ... The book abounds throughout with matters of interest to the geographer, the naturalist, the student of humanity, and all concerned with the recent his- tory of Africa. In the opinion of the Alkeneseem, of London, the book has a vivid, pathetic, almost tragic in- terest. It presents a picture of Emin, as revealed in his often charming private letters, which will do much to efface the common estimate formed of his character.... His diary, which is written up to the date of his murder, reveals a character as intellec tual as it was unselfish. For sale by all Booksellers, or sent, postpaid, by HADLEY AND MATHEWS 156=158 Fifth Ave., New York, N. V. BEACON LIGHTS The clearest state- ment of the yreatest men and epochs that have made our eicilizatiou. S. D. Fess, Proj History, Ado (0.) Normal College. No library is complete without it. 7. A. Shaman, Stole Suit. Public Zustruc- two, Coiumirus, 0. Every sentence from the pen of Dr. Lord is wortls at- tention. . . Every library would be enriched by the unique productions of this rare genius. Proj Geo. K. Morris I) 1) Sclaool of Theology, Bostou Univer- sity. In its department I know of nothing finer. Here epochs are me and history is iffe. Faulttess in style, in subject- matter comprehensive, in the interpretation of events accu- rate, and in description most charming. S. Li. Faust, Li. Li., Proj Church History, Union Biblical Semioury. Many owe their enthusiasm in tlse stndy of history to Dr. Lord. Francis L. Patton, Li. Li., Prea. Princeton College. He has inspired large numbers of thoughtful young men to historical study. A udrem Li. White, ex-Pres. Cornell University. Even read as RECREATION, it still has an educative and stimulating force not elsewhere found. Many subscribers growing enthusiastic double their en- joyment by getting up a social reading club. Keen ones discover a congenial and lucrative business in its wide intro- duction, noting that every set placed creates further demand. I am getting full value for niy monthly payments in the current re ding, besides enriching my library for future refreshment or reference. For particulars write to A FORDS, HOWARD, & HULSERT 47 E. 10th St., New York Busy Mans Library. ~. The Psalms and their Story By WILLIAM E. BARTON, D. D. 2 vois in box. Pp. 256 and 265. $2.30 per set is. NTERExTED in qoestions of the hi her criticism without feeling that that interest re qutres him to adopt all the conclusions of the most cadical critics, Dr. Barton has endeavored / in this book to set forth the conclusions to which ~ careful and conservative men have come regard tog the date of the Psalms and the historical cii cetmatances under which they were written ~5/ With the frank acknowledgment that in the case ~tv of very many Psalms it is utterly impossibi 7~ fix a date he, nevertheless, has placed every 7 Psalm in the circumstances in which it appears most ltkely that it was written. The result is a 4. book which while entirely popuilar in style and 2 enlivened here and there with Dr. Barton a oharacteristsc hutmor, xviii be of very great valtie to every one who loves the Psalms and desires .7 7/ t make them most profitable to himself. 2 What they are saying about it : I rum Prof W. G. BALLANTINE, of the Springfield ~2 Training School, fornierly of Oberlin College, Ohio lam teaching the Psalms in our Training School, ~ and t know of nothing at all comparable to your book 4 for meetin~ the wants of such students as we have From Pruf G. F. WemonT, Oberlin: lam dehghted wills it. You have hit exactly subtI I believe to be a widely felt want of Christian peop e. have given the historical setting of the 4 various Psatms which commends itself to thebest tndg 7. went of cell infprmed and pious people. Personally I thank you locthehelpitistome.G. 17.WRiooT ON f Z~e ~I1grIIn Prt~, CHICAGO Holiday Publications THE MONEY MARKET A novel by E. F. BENSON, author of The Vintage, Dodo, etc. samo, cloth, 264 pages, $I.50. THE LAUREL WALK A Novel by MARY LocisA MoicawoeTH, author of The Cuckoo Clock, Phillipa, etc. Illustrated by J. Steeple Davis. ismo, buckrans, 464 pages, $I.lo. A PRINCE OF THE BLOOD A novel by Jucius A. Lewis, author of The Physi- cains Love, Shoddy Castle, etc. s~mo, cloth, orna- mental, 264 pages, $I.oO. PAVING THE WAY A novel by SmMrsoN NEwLANO, Ex-Treasiirer of South Australia. With a preface by A. J. Drexel Biddle. Containing a~ engravings by Herbert Cole, the famous English artist. ~mo, cloth, 184 pages, s.~o. 5GILES INGILBY A novel by Mu F Noecis, author of The Dancer in Yellow, The Ii ight for the Crown, Clarissa Furl- osa, etc. I2mo, 294 pages, cloth, ornamental, $i.~u. THE WOODLEY LANE GHOST Ily Mo.uisLsen VINTON DAHEGREN, wills ptsotogravure of Author. i~mo, 184 pages, gilt top, cloth, ornamental. Price, $i.~o. *In Preparatfon. DREXEL BIDDLE, Publisher Drexel Building, Philadelphia 46 Publishers Announcements 47 THE FIRST AND GREATEST AMERICAN MAGAZINE. Kansas City Gazette. THE NORTH AIIRIGAN REVIEW Is the mouthpiece of the men who know most about the great topics on which Americans require to be informed from month to month, its con- tributors being the leaders of thought and action in every field. Those who would TAKE COUNSEL OF THE HIGHEST KNOW- LEDGE ON THE AFFAIRS OF THE TIME, and learn what is to be said regarding them by the recognized authorities on both sides, must therefore read THE NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW. The review devotes much attention to subjects that are of special inter- est to women, and is the only publication of its class which has A RECOG- NIZED PLACE AMONG THE FAMILY MAGAZINES. This magazine has for more than eighty years, within its well-defined lines, stood at the head of monthly publications. Chicago Record. 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A BEA UTIF UL CHRISTY/A S GIFT Church Calendar FOR THE PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL CHURCH, From Advent, 98, to January 1st, 1900. Unquestionably the most beautiful and convenient calendar ever published by our Church. Larger, handsomer type, FEATURES. Arrauged to haug upou the wa/i. Oiw page/or each week. Giviug Daily Scrz~ture aud heavier paper, more ser- Order of Service. Haudsomely desz~ned cover iu three viceably bound than last colors. Q~iotations, appropriate to each seasou, upon the Christiau Lf?, aud upou the Churchs Teachiugs years edition. and OI$serva,zces. SUITABLE FOR CHOIR ROOMS, VESTRIES, AND THE STUDY OR LIBRARY. Of Booksellers, or seuz postpaid ou recez~t 0/price, 50 ceuts, l~y THE CHURCH PUBLICATION COMPANY, 103 Devonshire Building, Boston, Mass. NEW YORK. THOMAS WHITTAKER, 2 AND 3 BIBLE HOUSE. 48 Publishers Announcements Christmas Gift Suggestion $1.00 secures the Complete Set, and future payments are to be made as stated below. IHJDSONS SHAKESPEARE, International Edition. Issued in 13 Artistic Volumes. illustrated with Photogravures. Beautifully Printed. Hudsons Shakespeare is a complete Shakespearian Library. The text is founded on the best authorities. The introductions to each play, the notes, analyses, and glossaries, are full and scholarly. The Life of Shakespeare and the history of the older English dramas are probably the best ever written. One volume is given to a complete Topical Index of Shakespeare. About Half Subscription Price. No Risk Incurred. A MAGNIFICENT PORTFOLIO OF ART PLATES, hA iH~ iNS i~ EAH~i iN~ ~ six in number, for framing; size of sheet i6 by 20 inches HIS ~ HI iHIE IEEE CAME lOS EA ERHIES ~ (all are photogravures from iHH HI ~ ii~l HAhi~ ~EH- A5H~~ A5 Ai~li ~iiJ HEH All I HIM HEM HEAR HE Hull AIR famous paintings, and all are H- Shakespearian subjects), ~ FREE. 1!~ I- ~, H 1 HI THE UNIVERSITY SOCIETY 78 Fifth Avenue, New York. Gentlemen: I enclose one dollar. 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THE LITERARY WORLD BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS A Fortnightly Journal of Literary News and Criticism The oldest publication of its class in this country The only publication of its class in this country appearing as often as once a fortnight ABSOLUTELY INDEPENDENT FRANK, FAIR, FRIENDLY AND FORCIBLE The stability and steadiness of the LITERARY WoRLo, its scrupulous fairness to both publishers ard readers, as well as to authors. us comprehensive scope, it~ care for the least as well as for the most important items of current literature, its long experience, the general promptitude of its notices, its interesting correspondence at home and abroad, and the singleness of its aim, have long since earned for it the con- fidence and respect of the reading community not only in this country but all round the world. While other workers in the same field have come and gone, this one has kept quietly but faiihfuliy in its path, and continued to perform its duty, and has proved itself a journal to be depended upon. Pf.sblished by E. H. HAMES & CO., ~4 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass. $2.00 a year The LITERARY WORLD will save its cost to buyers of books many times over every year by guiding their judgment and selection. ~ Three sample copies mailed for Ten Cents. 50 Publishers Announcements DELIGHTFUL STORIES BY Kate Doug/as W4~rgIn. U Penelopes Progress. i6mo, in unique Scottish binding, $1.25. This is a continuation of Mrs. Wiggins sensible, humorous, delightful story of Penelopes English Expe- riences. Penelope and her fellow-tourists invade first Edinburgh and then the outlying districts, and they take the country and the Scots by storm. The story is an indescribable mingling of good sense and fun. Marm Lisa. i6mo, $i.oo. Little Marm Lisa is a fresh child-figure in fiction. The very interesting story describes the quickening of her clouded and burdened life, till her pathetic faithfulness ripens, in the climax, into heroism. It is the longest story, and one of the best, Mrs. Wiggin has written. The Village Watch Tower. i vol. i6mo, $1.00. Each of the stories in its way presents a revelation of certain phases of New England life with s subtlety of insight and a completeness of range that the most rigid adherent of the formal rules of story-writing might per- haps notbe able to surpass. Beacon (Boston). Mrs. Wiggins work improves as time goes on. Argonaut (San Francisco). The Birds Christmas Carol. Illustrated. Square e2mo, boards, 50 cents. One can hardly imagine how it would be possible to write a sweeter story. New York Evening Post. The London C/iris/ian World calls it a delightful story, and Literary Opinion, of London, finds it full of sweet and tender pathos. The Story of Patsy. Illustrated. Square I2mo, boards, 6o cents. I have read Patsy from cover to cover. It is a book of that high order of writing which I call the second gospel of John, like Kingsleys Water Babies and Mrs. Ewings Story of a Short Life. Its pathos is very deep. WM. T. HARRIS, U. S. Commissioner of Education. Timothys Quest. A Story for anybody, young or old, who cares to read it. i6mo, $i.oo. Holiday Edition. Finely illustrated by OLIVER HERFORD. $s.~o. A charming narrative. . . - The tale is told with a rare combination of feeling and humor. - . . By this feli- citous sketch Mrs. Wiggin has firmly established her literary reputation. London Times. A. Summer in a Cafion. With many illustrations. 12m0, $1.25. A jolly party of people, young and old, camping in a cation of the mountains of California, is the snbject of this bright, amusing book, every page of which is suffused with the spirit of harmless fun. Tile Congrega- tionalist (Boston). A Cathedral Courtship. And Penelopes English Experiences. Illustrated. e6mo, $1.00. It is pleasant to meet with an American lady writer so cultivated in style, so susceptible to enthusiasm, and so capable of seasoning her enthusiasm with quiet humor. London Times. There is only one word that will fittingly describe A Cathedral Courtship. It is delightful.. Punck (London). Polly Olivers Problem. Illustrated. s6mo, $i.oo. The story is a charming, wholesome one, with the merry touches Mrs. Wiggin bestows so happily, and it is a very ordinary sort of girl indeed who will not be the better and brighter for having with us solved Polly Olivers Problem. ~Bosto,. TranscriAt. Nine Love Songs and a Carol. Mrs. Wiggin has set to music ten lyrics by Herrick, Sill, Miss Mulock, Am~lie Rives, Oscar Leighton, Ruth McEnery Stuart, and others. Square Svo, with decorative flexible cover, $1.25. Sold by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaid, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY, 4 Park St., Boston, and ii East 17th St., New York. 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All the new Asneri H. W. HAGBIYIANN, Importer, 160 5th Av., NewYork. can, English, and French books and French novels of merit constantly on hand. LECHO DE LA SEMAINE. Revue Litt6raire et Mondaine, Paraissant le Sansedi. Abonnement, $2.00 par an. 175 Tremont St., Boston, Mass. Nnmdro specimen envoyd sur demande. Foreign Photographs C. H. DUNTON & CO. Recent importations personally se- lected abroad during the fall with especial reference to Christmas. Framed Carbons and Photographs of the beautiful paintings of the old world Now ON EXHIBITION in our galleries, and ready for im- mediate delivery AN EARLY INSPECTION DESIRABLE DIRECT IMPORTERS MAKERS OF ARTISTIC PICTURE FRAMES New 298 Boylston St. On Art Street Rooms Boston. Floor. AUTOGRAPHS, Catalogue of Antoeraph Letters and Documents, American, Roy- PORTRAITS. alty, Napoleana, Literary, Artists and composers; also Portraits of Washington. OHARLBS De P. BURNS, 156 5th Ave., New York. ii ~e i~ta; nc i ~onimy Aaverlzser 53 ~oofr~ anI ~I1vt ~2~R2S2S25 carbons, famous Platinums, Statue au4 Prints, Ulew in ~o1or the Worl4. Photographs. We are sole agents in the We carry complete United States for lines of BRAUN, CLEMENT THE BERLIN PHOTO Co. & CO., PARIS. THE HANFSTAENGL FRATELLI ALINARI PHOTO Co. FLORENCE. THE So LE PHOTO Co. SODERHOLTZ, FOSTER BROS. NEW YORK, j~wi,i~itiuiiua, ~y ~ruzzi. DETROIT PHOTO Co. Why buy pictures of an inferior quality when for the same money you can secure the originals of beautiful artistic value. READERS OF FRENCH RARE BOO We have special acilities for pro- for the isew French Catalogue of curing scarce books to order. In addition to our large Shoul send stock of New and Second-hand Books, we carry a very Pubikber and Importer, S.l and S5.3 Sixth Ave., FASHION BOOKS, MAGAZINES, and FOREIGN WILLIAM R. JENKINS, complete line of DOMESTIC AND FOREIGN New York, who e reprin 5 are all excelleut eith .r for NEWSPAPERS. Book Plates, Prints, and Posters. school or home reading. Libraries and schools supplied. Small Libraries bought. Subscription to reach periodicaL received, hooks not in stud imported to order, Pleese ne tie sThe Atla stic. SMITH & McCANCE, 57 Bromfield St., Boston. 7W. 28th St. The VI AAI.nAss f~mhlI,hvss 7W.28th St. New York M ~ ~ New York Iyj R. Kiackner announces a recent importation of the finest work of the foremost European Oil and Water Color Artists, and invites an inspec- of his latest publications. Etchings by ACHILLE JACQUET, LEON RUET, ARMAND MATHEY, from Paint- f~ ing s by MEISSONIER, Novelties for Holiday and Wedding Gifts I I Portfolios and Portfolio Stands C. KLACKNER, 7 West 2& th St., New York Repro4uctions front the Originals. Pictures handsomely framed in hard wood for 75 cents and up, or 30 cents and up, unframed. They make desirable Xmas presents. If your dealer does not handle our Reproductions, write us direct for Fully Illustrated Xmas Catalogue, enclosing two cent stamp for postage. The llelman=Taylor Co., Cleveland, 0. Publishers Announcements Houghton. Muffin TOUT Invite attention to the following works of sterling value ~oRIE~ and high literary quality included in editions which they regard as specially desirable for libraries, namely: THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. Complete Poetical and Prose Works. Thor- oughly revised by the author. Poems in 2 vol- umes, I2mo, $3.00; Prose works in 6 volumes, 12m0, $9.00. Complete works, 8 volumes, 12m0, $12.00. ROBERT BROWNING. Poetical and Dramatic Works. A beautiful and compact edition, with Text from the latest English edition, revised and rearranged by Mr. BROWNING. Portrait and Indexes. 6 vols. crown 8vo, gilt top, each $1.50; the set, $9.00. JOHN BURROUGHS. His delightful Out-Door Books and Essays on Poets. With engraved title-pages and sev- eral Portraits. io vols. i2mo, cloth, gilt top the set, $i~.oo, net. NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. Complete Works. With Bibliographical Notes by GRO. P. LATHROP, 12 original full- page Etchings, 13 vignette Wood-cuts, and Portrait. 13 volumes, crown 8vo, gilt top, $2.00 each; the set, $26.00. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. Complete Works. Including the Breakfast. Table Series, Novels, and other prose writings, in eleven volumes; Poetical Works, in three volumes. With Portraits, Notes by Dr. Holmes, etc. 14 volumes, crown 8vo, each volume, $i.5o; the set $21.00. HENRY WADSWORTH LONG- FELLOW. Complete Poetical and Prose Works. With Notes (many of them by Mr. Longfellow) giv- ing various readings, and Literary, Historical, Biographical and Bibliographical Information, Indexes, etc., and five Portraits. ii volumes, crown Svo, gilt top, the set, $16.50. Vols. i, 2. Prose Works. Vols. 38. Poetical Works. Vols. 9IT. Translation of Dante. The Same, with the Life of Longfellow by his brother, SAMUEL LONGFELLOW (~ volumes). 14 vol- umes, crown Svo, $22.50. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Poetical and Prose Works. Embracing Lit- erary Essays in four volumes, Political Essays, Literary and Political Addresses, Poems in four volumes, Latest Literary Essays and Addresses, The Old English Dramatists. With Portraits, Indexes, etc. 12 volumes, crown Svo, gilt top, each (except vols. ii and 12) $1.50; vols. ii and 12, each $1.25; the set, 12 volumes, $17.50. RALPH WALDO EMERSON. Complete Works, comprising his remarkable Essays, Lectures, and Poems. With two Por- traits. 12 vols. each I2mo, gilt top, $1.75; the set, 12 vols., $21.00. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE. Complete Dramatic Works and Poems. Ed- ited by RICHARD GRANT WHITE. With Glos- sarial, Historical, and Explanatory Notes. 6 volumes. The set, crown Svo, gilt top, $io.oo. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Complete Poetical Works Edited, viith an Introductory Memoir and Notes, by GLORGE E. WOODBERRY, Professor of English in Co- lumbia College. With a new steel Portrait of Shelley. (ente;un-y Edition (uniform with the Riverside Editions above described). 4 vol- umes, crown Svo, $7 00 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. Works. Thoroughly edited and-rearranged. With a Biographical Sketch, and Notes. With Portraits, Views of Mrs. Stowes Homes, and other Illustrations on engraved Title - pages. i6 vols. crown Svo, gilt top, handsomely bound, each, $1.50; the set, $24.00. ALFRED (LORD) TENNYSON. Poetical Works. With Portrait. 6 vols. i6mo, $6.oo. HENRY D. THOREAU. Complete Works. Carefully edited, with a full Index to each volume, and in the tenth volume a General Index to the whole. One volume has a Biographical Sketch of Thoreau by Mr. Emerson. Three Portraits. ii vol- umes (including the volume of Letters), each, crown Svo, gilt top, $I.5o; the set, in box, $i6.~o. JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. Complete Poetical and Prose Works. With Notes by Mr. Whittier, Table of First Lines, Chronological List of Poems, etc., etc., and five Portraits. The set, 7 volumes (Poetical Works 4 volumes, Prose Works 3 volumes), crown Svo, gilt top, $Io.5o. 54 Sold by Booksellers. Sent, ~ostJaid, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., BOSTON ii East 17th Street, New York. Publishers Announcements 55 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co.s AUTUMN FICTION The Battle of the Strong By GILBERT PARKER, author of The Seats of the Mighty, etc. Izmo, $I.5o. Twentieth Thousand. Mr. Parker has written in The Battle of the Strong a most worthy, dignified, and carefully studied story. The scene is set in the Channel Islands, chiefly in Jersey, in the midst of a romantic people and picturesque traditions. New York Tribune. Modern fiction has few finer examples of the perfect woman. One of the most delightful of quasi-historical tales. It is splen- didly dramatic. Mr. Parker has in this book finally proved him- self a master of imaginative fiction. Scotsman, Edinburgh. Guida is a fine character, finely and convincingly presented. The book is full of varied emotion. It has open-air freshness. It has stir and movement. Daily News, London. Such a splendid story, so splendidly told, will be read by the public with avidity. St. 7ames~s Gazette, London. Prisoners of Hope Stories of the Cherokee Hills The Black Curtain By MARY JOHNSTON. With a Frontispiece Illustration. Second Impression. Crown Svo, $i.~o. A capital story of Colonial Virginia in i6fi3, when Berkeley was governor. The book is one of strong interest, and singularly graphic power in narration. It has plenty of plot, and incident and ad- venture enough to satisfy the most exacting in these respects. In addition to these claims upon the novel-reader it is an admirable piece of literary work, finished and graceful in point of style and finely discriminated in its depiction of character. Boston Herald. By MAURICE THOMPSON, author of A Tallahassee Girl, etc. With eight full-page Illustrations by E. W. KEMBLE. These stories belong to the same general place and time with Mr. Joel Chandler Harriss Home Tales. They are mostly stories of masters and slaves, whose relations are usually friendly, with some fantastic or humorous element; and the stories, with Mr. Kembles illustrations, make a very attractive book. A Novel. By FLORA HAINES LOUGHEAD, author of The Man Who Was Guilty, The Abandoned Claim, etc. Crown Svo, $i.~o. Among the foot-hills not far from San Francisco, the hero and the heroine, unknown to each other, simultaneously take posses- sion of the same section of government land. The friendly contest for possession is admirably described, and the mystery of a black curtain in the heros cottage adds to the zest of an uncommonly interesting story. Sold by all Booksellers. Sent, postpaId, by HOUGHTOIM, MIFFLIN & CO., Boston; J ~ East Uth St., New York -35 -35 35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -35 -33 Publishers Announcements NOW NEARLY FINISHED ~flU~Vt(an * ~ta tt~mtn Edited by John T Morse, Jr. THE POLITICAL DEVELOPMENT OF THE UNITED STATES TRACED THROUGH THE LIVES OF REPRESENTATIVE. STATESMEN AND LEADERS... T HIS is one of the greatest historical works of the Century. ~ It enables the reader to enter into the lives and times of the really great leaders who have contributed some- thing to the polit- ical development of the country. COMPLETE IN 32 VOLUMES A twenty- page circular, with portraits of the distinguished contributors, and full particulars re- garding our SPECIAL OFFER TO SUBSCRIBERS will be mailed free on application to HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 4 PARK ST.5 BOSTON; H EAST ~7TH ST., NEW YORK 378-388 WABASH AVE., CHICAGO tT c0o Od 1. LIST OF VOLUMES THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD i. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.... By JOHN T. MORSE, JR. 2. SAMUEL ADAMS By JAMES K. HOSMER. 3. PATRICK HENRY By MOSES COlT TYLER. 4. GEORGE WASHINGTON. IBy HENRY CABOT LODGE. ~. GEORGE WASHINGTON. II By HENRY CABOT LODGE. THE CONSTRUCTIVE PERIOD 6. JOHN ADAMS By JOHN T. MORSE, JR. 7. ALEXANDER HAMILTON .By HENRY CABOT LODGE. 8. GOUVERNEUR MORRIS.... By THEODORE ROOSEYELT. 9. JOHN JAY By GEORGE PELLEW. io. JOHN MARSHALL By ALLAN B. MADRUDER. THE JEFFERSONIAN DEMOCRACY ii. THOMAS JEFFERSON By JOHN T. MORSE, JR. 12. JAMES MADISON By SYDNEY HOWARD GAY. 13. ALBERT GALLATIN B~ JOHN AUSTIN STEYRNS. 14. JAMES MONROE By DANIEL C. GILMAN. 15. JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.... By JOHN T. MORSE, JR. i6. JOHN RANDOLPH By HENRY ADAMS. DOMESTIC POLITICS: THE TARIFF AND SLAVERY 17. ANDREW JACKSON By WILLIAM G. SUMNER. iS. MARTIN VAN BUREN By EDWARD M. SHEPARD. 19. HENRY CLAY. I By CARL SCHURZ. 20. HENRY CLAY. II By CARL SCHURZ. 21. DANIEL WEBSTER By HENRY CAROT LODGE. 22. JOHN C. CALHOUN By DR. H. VON HOLST. 23. THOMAS H. BENTON By THEODORE ROOSEVELT. 24. LEWIS CASS By A. C. MCLAUGHLIN. THE CIVIL WAR 25. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. I... By JOHN T. MORSE, JR. 26. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. II.. By JOHN T. MORSE, JR. 27. WILLIAM H. SEWARD By THORNTON K. LOTHEOP. 28. SALMON P. CHASE By ALBERT BUSIINELL HART. 29. CHARLES FRANCIS ADAMSJ3y CHAS. FRANCIS ADAMS, JR. 30. CHARLES SUMNER By MOORFIELD STOREY. 31. THADDEUS STEVENS By S. W. MCCALL. 32. TOPICAL INDEX TO THE AMERICAN STATESMEN SERIES, WITH BIBLIOGRAPHY. By THEODORE C. SMITH. Holiday Bulletin THE PUBLICATIONS OF HOUGHTON MIFFLIN AND COMPANY BOSTON, NEW YORK AND CHICAGO 1898 3ff trat~b ~ofibci~ Q~ooft~ C The illustrated books prepared for the Holiday season by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY are of much variety, ana~ it is believed, of as hig-h artistic quality as any they have ever offered. The work of leading interest is t THE FAIR GOD HIS tale of the conquest of Mexico, by General Lew Wallace, is intensely dramatic. It could hardly be otherwise even if it told in the most direct and unembellished narrative the wonderful story of the march of Cortes and his fearless band through the country from the Gulf of Mexico till it approached the city of Montezuma; and then of the brilliant and tragic consummation of his eager and unscrupu- lous desire. But General Wallace, while setting the historic events in a clear light, intermingles with them a very romantic love-story; 2 HO UGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANT and the manifold attractions of the story have won for it a large and continuous popularity. It is written with such freedom and force that one might believe General Wallace had been an eye-witness of the picturesque and thrilling incidents in the conquest. The scenery, the simple natives, the fierce Spaniards, the swift-moving panorama of destruction and capture, all are described with great vividness and power. The Holiday Edition of this remarkable story is in two handsome volumes, containing forty full-page pictures, many headpieces, and other illustrations, all by Mr. Eric Pape. This famous artist vis- ited Mexico to secure historic accuracy and local color for his designs; he entered most heartily and sympathetically into the spirit of the story; and the result is a gallery of uncommon grandeur and beauty, at once an artistic commemoration of the Aztecs and their civilization, and a series of exquisite illustrations of General Wal- laces story. The historic and the artistic qualities of the designs are alike extraordinary. The Large-Paper Edition is brought out in an unusually rich style. The full-page illustrations, printed so as to bring out most effectively their high artistic qualities, appear on Japanese paper with gold borders, which set them forth very strikingly. The two volumes are bound in embossed calf, with an Aztec design, and are notably handsome. 41 THE BEGINNINGS OF NEW ENGLAND HE public favor and appreciation shown for Mr. Fiskes T American Revolution and The Critical Period of American History, in their illustrated form, are likely to greet The Beginnings of New England, which is brought out in the same style. The volume has a large variety of illustrations, every one of which is included because of its historic value and significance. So the work is an interesting account of the founding and growth of the New England colonies for a hundred and fifty years, and at the same time a series of pictures exhibiting the most conspicuous men, the most memorable scenes, and the most important documents, of that highly significant period. Maps and other illustrative material com- plete the pictorial value of this work. The Large-Paper Edition is uniform with similar editions of the two works above named, which have been taken up instantly on publication. C THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES T HI S most impressive story, hardly second to The Scarlet Let- ter, lends itself finely to illustration by appreciative artists. Miss Maude A. Cowles and Miss Genevieve Cowles, whose designs for Mr. Frank Dempster Shermans Little Folk Lyrics were among the most artistic of last years Holiday illustrations, have shown the. HOLIDAY BULLETIN 3 fullest appreciation of Hawthornes genius, and have given ampler proof of their artistic range and power by the designs they have made for the Holiday Edition of The House of the Seven Gables. Their twenty full-page pictures, with many beautiful headpieces and initials, by Misses Edith and Mildred Cowles, illustrate with rare skill the scenes and significance of this great story. Very few Holiday volumes are so well printed and bound as these two still fewer illustrate an art so strong and so delicate, so command- ing and so spiritual. In the regular edition it is a work of singular attractiveness; in the Large-Paper Edition its excellences and beauty are set forth with the best book-making art of the Riverside Press. Er A CHILDS HISTORY OF ENGLAND THE claim of this Holiday Edition of Dickenss deeply interest- ing book to the attention of seekers of suitable gifts is based partly on the beauty of the printed page and the attractiveness of the binding, but far more on the number, variety, and permanent in- terest of the illustrations. There are forty-eight of these, full-page engravings, made from photographs taken by Mr. Clifton Johnson, and they reproduce with perfect accuracy and a quite remarkable beauty many of the most important scenes and buildings connected with English history, cathedrals, abbeys, battlefields, castles, and landscapes. Er THE LIFE OF OUR LORD IN ART AMONG the noteworthy issues of three years ago was a careful- ly edited and profusely illustrated edition of Mrs. Jameson 5 art works, in five volumes, which have had a good share of popular favor. Miss Estelle M. Hurll, to whose skill that issue owed no little of its value, has produced a volume which supplements and completes that work, namely, The Life of Our Lord in Art. She gives a history and description of the treatment by artists of every incident in the life of Christ which has been made the subject of art. This covers the early and the crude; also the great masterpieces of Leonardo da Vinci, Tintoretto, and others, and comes down to in- clude the art of to-day. To this she adds a brief account of the artistic treatment of the life of St. John the Baptist. The volume contains sixteen full-page half-tones and over eighty text illustra- tions. Not a few of the famous specimens of Christ art are here reproduced; the great Italian masters, the best modern painters, and leading German engravers are represented. Er CORONA AND CORONET WEALTH of illustration as well as sprightliness of narration may well justify the inclusion among illustrated Holiday Books of Mrs. Mabel Loomis Todds book, Corona and Coronet. 4 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY It tells the story of the voyage in the yacht Coronet of the astro- nomical party under Professor David P. Todd, of Amherst College, to observe the solar eclipse in i 896. The place of observation was in the northern part of Japan, and Mrs. Todd describes the obser- vations, the interesting incidents of the voyage, the hairy Ainus of northern Yezo, and gives some interesting pages to Hawaii, where the party stayed for a while. The book is bountifully supplied with illustrations, reproduced from photographs made by the expedition. It is every way an attractive book, altogether suitable for a gift. (A WONDER-BOOK, AND TANGLEWOOD TALES THESE unrivaled stories, by Hawthorne, from some of the most famous and most significant Grecian and Roman mythological legends, are now combined in one volume, beautifully printed from large type, finely illustrated, and handsomely bound. It is a part of the choicest American literature, almost equally delightful to youthful readers and older ones, and is admirably suited for a Holi- day gift. (THE LEATHER-STOCKING TALES THE new Riverside Edition of Coopers novels, which have Leather-Stocking for their hero, is beyond comparison the best library form in which these have ever been produced. Beau- tiful large type, handsome binding, and an appropriate frontispiece illustration to each of the volumes, make a very attractive group of The Deerslayer, The Last of the Mohicans, The Pathfinder, The Pioneers, and The Prairie. It would not be easy to find a more acceptable gift. (ILLUSTRATED BOOKS OF ADVENTURE SEVERAL new books which appeal primarily to boys and girls (but which are very likely to be read with youthful eagerness by many persons no longer young) may fitly be mentioned here because they are more or less fully illustrated, and come easily within the charmed circle of possible Holiday gifts. Mr. Everett T. Tomlinsons BOYS OF OLD MONMOUTH, a story of Wash- ingtons campaign in New Jersey in 1778, introduces Washington, Lee, Greene, Mad Anthony Wayne, Captain Molly Pitcher, and other notable figures; describes the battle of Monmouth, in which one of the boys played an active part; and is so full of historic fact and so well told as to be a particularly interesting book. Mr. James Otis tells how, some ten years before the opening of the Revolution, when the Stamp Act was stirring the colonies to revolt, THE CHARMING SALLY, a privateer schooner, chased a British vessel which was bringing some of the hated stamped paper to America, but failed to capture her or to destroy the paper, and put HOLIDAY BULLETJN S in at Boston harbor, returning then to New York, where some pro- digiously alert boys had a remarkably patriotic time on her, as they had when sailing after stamped paper. Still earlier, in the time of James the First, IN THE BRAVE DAYS OF OLD, an English boy and a Dutch boy, according to the excellent account given by Miss Ruth Hall, clubbed their very considerable resources of observation, daring, and resolute adven- ture, and achieved several noteworthy things, such as detecting the Gunpowder Plot, saving the Dutch town of Sluys from the Spanish (who probably came to it overland), sailing with Hudson for America in the good ship Half Moon, spending a winter in Labra- dor, going to France, marrying and settling at New Amsterdam. Could more be asked for in one book? Mrs. Ellen Olney Kirk does not mingle history with her delight- ful story of DOROTHY DEANE. One reading it would say she did not mingle fiction with it, but happening by great good luck to find an uncommonly interesting little girl, and a very actual com- panion who had vast possibilities for getting into mischief, also cun- ning twins, she just told about them what she saw and heard, and made a very charming story, with a distinct Christmas flavor. The Story of LITTLE JANE AND ME, told by M. E., is good enough, even with but one picture, to be held in careful remem- brance for gift purposes. It belongs to New York about the middle of the century, and tells in the most entertaining manner of the plays and interests of two little girls. It is largely reminiscence, of the kind that little ones greatly enjoy, and, as in the case of Miss Eliza 0. Whites two winning stories, WHEN MOLLY WAS SIX, and A LITTLE GIRL OF LONG AGO, older readers find very at- tractive. C The number of new volumes in this department is not large, but a very notable volume is C THE CAMBRIDGE TENNYSON HIS presents Tennysons Poetic and Dramatic Works in a ~single volume, which, though containing over nine hundred pages, is entirely convenient to handle because printed on thin paper, which is opaque so that the print does not show through. The mechanical part of the volume is paralleled by the excellence of the editorial work, which presents the great wealth of Tennysons poetry in the most orderly arrangement, with strict accuracy of text, and furnished with ample notes. Indexes of Titles of Poems and of First Lines are given, also a Chronological Index to the poems; and a Biographical Sketch is prefixed. The lines of the longer 6 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY poems are numbered, making the book excellently adapted for study. A fine portrait of Lord Tennyson and on the engraved title- page a vignette of his Farringford home, introduce the reader to this very comprehensive and very satisfactory edition of Tennyson. C OTHER CAMBRIDGE EDITIONS T HE COMPLETE POETIC AND DRAMATIC WORKS OF MILTON are just issued in this form, under the com- petent editorship of William Vaughn Moody. The poets whose works are now included in the Cambridge Edition are Longfellow, Whittier, Lowell, Holmes, Browning, Burns, Tennyson, and Mil- ton. All have been brought out under the general editorship of Mr. Horace E. Scudder, and most of them indeed under his exclu- sive care. All are edited with great thoroughness to secure ac- curacy of text, completeness as far as possible, sufficient notes, indexes, biographical sketches, and bibliographical information. All contain excellent portraits of the poets, and, on the engraved title- pages, vignettes, generally, of the poets homes. All are printed on thin, opaque paper, and bound in handsome style. They would seem to justify the remark of The Outlook: The Riverside Press, which has rendered so much genuine ser- vice to American literature, has done nothing better in its way than the publication of one-volume standard editions of the poets, . notable for intelligence and completeness of editorial treatment. C FROM SUNSET RIDGE U ND ER this suggestive title Mrs. Julia Ward Howe gathers a volume which may be regarded as her poetic legacy to man- kind. It opens with her majestic Battle-Hymn of the Republic, written by the Potomac as she beheld the encampment of the Union soldiers in the Civil War, and beginning with the magnificent line, Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord. Following this are poems previously published but reclaimed for permanent preservation in this new volume, with many poems not before included in any book. It is a noble volume of poetry, and should be noted for Holiday use. C A CENTURY OF INDIAN EPIGRAMS A H UNDRED epigrams, meditations, and precepts, attributed to Bhartrihari, a Hindu king and sage who lived, abdicated, and wrote epigrams in the early part of the Christian era, have been translated from the Sanskrit by Mr. Paul E. More. He furnishes an interesting introduction for the tasteful book, which from its unique character and its attractiveness would be a good Christmas gift. HOLIDAY BULLETIN 7 C A VICTORIAN ANTHOLOGY BESIDES writing some of the best American poetry, notably his Poems now First Collected, published last year and com- mended in very high terms by the most competent critics, Mr. E. C. Stedman has prepared an uncommonly good selection of the best poetry produced in England during the last sixty years. The Victorian Anthology is every way excellent, and should be borne in mind by persons seeking a large body of the choicest poetry of modern times. C It may be true that all possible plots For novels have been used, hut fortunately they have not been used up; and very good stories are told this year, as good as the stories which orzginally embodied their plots. One of the most noteworthy of this season novels is C THE BATTLE OF THE STRONG IN which Mr. Gilbert Parker shows his skill in the use of European historic events to point a moral and adorn a tale, as he had before shown his skill in using American history for the background of his Seats of the Mighty and other strong novels. This new story of a century ago begins on the isle of Jersey, crosses to France, follows the march of soldiery and the course of true love, echoes the cries of the French Revolution, and gleams with the swords of La Vend~e. It is probably the most important novel yet written by Mr. Parker, and one of the most interesting of the year. C PRISONERS OF HOPE MISS Mary Johnston goes back two centuries and a half for the characters and incidents of her first novel, which is universally greeted as an uncommonly good novel for the authors entrance into the field of letters. The scene is Colonial Virginia when Berkeley was governor. The characters are gentlemen plan- ters, redemptioners, slaves, and Indians. The Oliverian conspiracy is part of the dramatic action; and a very engaging love story lights up the tragedy and the perplexities which belong to the time. Critics welcome the story as original, strong, finely charactered, and effectively told. 8 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY C THE PURITANS MR. Arlo Batess new story might truthfully be described as historic, since it uses a famous election of a Bishop in Bos- ton as one of its most telling features. It also introduces with little exaggeration sundry social, literary, and religious fads which have made Boston a subject for the humorous satire of jealous journal- ists. The author seizes these and other aspects of Boston life with great adroitness and weaves a story which is generally accounted the best and most artistic he has yet written. C A LOVER OF TRUTH THE truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, spoken everywhere and always, was the ideal and the achievement of one of the characters in Miss Eliza Orne Whites new story. He is by no means the most interesting character; a sensible young man shines in comparison. The pretty girl; the capable, judicious, lovable girl, these add their respective charms to a New England story told with sprightliness, humor, and literary felicity, as one would expect from the author of Winterborough, The Coming of Theodora, and her first story, Miss Brooks, which has just been taken over from the list of Messrs. Roberts Brothers. C THE BLACK CURTAIN THE curtain hung in the rude cabin of an artist who went to California for his health. To the same section of government land on which this cabin stood came a young woman, who also claimed it. Which should have it? The friendly contest over it gave excellent opportunities for bright conversation and the reveal- ing of interesting characters. Of course something came of it, which the black curtain helped to conceal and then proclaim. The story tells all about it, and is a vigorous, wholesome, firmly told story, such as the public would look for from the author of The Man who was Guilty, a powerful story which has not had a tithe of the honor and popularity it merits. C THE BLINDMANS WORLD THIS is the leading story in a group of fifteen, just gathered into a volume. They were written by Mr. Edward Bellamy, whose Looking Backward is one of the phenomenal books in Amer- ican literature; and while they have not the special quality which made that so exceedingly popular, they are so thoroughly good stories, so well told, and so instinct with what may be termed the Bellamy genius and spirit, that they are worthy of wide reading, and will undoubtedly win it. A prefatory sketch by Mr. Howells adds one more attraction to the book. HOLIDAT BULLETJN 9 C LOOKING BACKWARD J T is altogether too late to commend this book to popular atten- tion; it has already received this as few American books have. A new edition, with a fine portrait of Mr. Bellamy and a biograph- ical sketch by Mr. Sylvester Baxter, may well find a new army of readers, who will be stimulated to humaner thought and more un- selfish action by the reading. C A GREAT LOVE RS. Clara Louise Burnhams large constituency of readers find in her new book plenty of love, of a sweet and noble sort; interesting lovers, who mostly have (with good reason) the habit of being very hopeful; and story enough to describe all the felicities and transient trials which accompany true love, and the benign result. C STORIES IN LIGHT AND SHADOW JT seems superfluous to commend Mr. Bret Harte s stories, for a multitude of readers find them among the most entertaining, and in a literary way the most attractive, of modern stories. This is true of the new book above named; also of Tales of Trail and Town, published last spring. C PENELOPES PROGRESS RS. Wiggins latest story was published in April, but its M humor defied summer heat and gave it a continuous ovation. It has been accompanied on its prosperous journey through succes- sive thousands by the admiration and wholesome laughter of a con- stantly increasing host of readers. Its Scottish readers find it truthful and irresistibly funny. C CALEB WEST, MASTER DIVER MR. F. Hopkinson Smith is regarded by some of the most thoughtful critics as having initiated a new style of fiction in his Tom Grogan and Caleb West, celebrating the nobleness of skilled labor and the romance that may attend the building of a breakwater and the erection of a lighthouse. Without analyzing the stories, many scores of thousands have read them, and the de- mand for Caleb West is still very emphatic. C A SINGULAR LIFE J T is two years since this story by Miss Phelps was published, but from all directions still comes eloquent testimony to its un- failing hold on readers. The uncommon depth, unselfishness, help- fulness, and heavenly glow of him who lived the singular life appeal powerfully and tenderly to those who can appreciate these great human qualities, which are also divine. I0 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY ~i0(Or~ anb Q~io~tap~ E1I~ A very interesting department of literature is that which eml$ races hooks comhining history with hiography, and framing the individual career in the ife of the state. One of the hest recent hooks of this kind is Colonel Hzg-ginsons ~j CHEERFUL YESTERDAYS HI S life covers an intensely interesting period in the nations history, and his delightful volume affords numerous views of dramatic scenes, including the discussion on slavery, the Kansas struggle preliminary to the Civil War, and the war itself. It is peculiarly rich in personal elements, giving glimpses of a multitude of influential, notable, and interesting men and women, at home and abroad. The story of his varied career, told with charming frankness and nobleness of spirit, is uncommonly attractive. C SAMUEL EDMUND SE WALL JUDGE Sewall, as he was most frequently called, was a worthy descendant of the famous Judge Sewall of early Colonial New England; a chivalrous champion of every good but unpopular cause; a trusted befriender of the wronged and despised; a wise, strong, good man, worthy of all honor and confidence. A memorial of his life and character has been written by Mrs. Nina Moore Tiffany, which is a fitting tribute to a rare man. A portrait adds to its value and interest. C HISTORY OF THE PRESIDENCY MR. Edward Stanwood has prepared a serviceable book which gives the salient features of every presidential election in the United States, the political principles each party professed to hold, and the results. It describes the effectual minimizing of the Elec- toral College, and the origin and luxuriant development of the National Convention. Indeed, it is a repository of countless im- portant facts relating to the political history of the country; and it would seem to be one of the indispensable books to students and teachers of American history. C THE FIRST REPUBLIC IN AMERICA M R. Alexander Brown has now added a companion volume to his important Genesis of the United States. That showed, among other things, how Spain resisted the efforts of Great Britain HOLIDAY BULLETIN II to colonize and develop this country; this sets forth what Mr. Brown believes to be the substantial facts regarding the settlement and early years of Virginia, which are quite unlike the statements made by Captain John Smith. Without assuming to decide where Mr. Brown and other historical doctors disagree, it is only fair to say that Mr. Browns books are of great importance, and abound in weighty references and full citations. t THE PILGRIMS IN THEIR THREE HOMES REV. Dr. Griffis is firmly convinced of the great importance of the Dutch contribution to the outfit of the Pilgrim Fathers, and in his late book he sets this forth effectively and convincingly. This little volume is a valuable account of the Pilgrims in Eng- land, Holland, and New England. Several pictures lend added interest to the book. (THE BATTLES OF TRENTON AND PRINCETON GENERAL Stryker, Adjutant-Generar of New Jersey, per- forms what may be called a filial and an official duty in writing a full and minute account of the two most important Revo- lutionary battles that took place in his State. He has done it with so much intelligence and so generous an enthusiasm that he is entitled to the hearty thanks of historical students. (DR. WINSORS HISTORIES THE four octavos by Dr. Justin Winsor, devoted to Christo- pher Columbus, Cartier to Frontenac, The Mississippi Basin, and The Westward Movement, are vast treasuries of facts relating to the discovery of America and the steady push of civilization from the Atlantic to and beyond the Mississippi. History in its geo- graphical relations strongly attracted Dr. Winsor, and his books are of great value in this field. The Narrative and Critical History of America, which he edited, and to which many American scholars and historians contributed, comprises eight volumes of priceless worth. (DR. FISKES HISTORIES READERS interested in philosophy have greatly regretted that Mr. John Fiske relinquished the domain of philosophy for that of history; but their loss has proved the gain and the delight of all readers of the history of America. His grasp of facts is so sure, his treatment of them so orderly and clear, his temper so can- did, and his style so attractive, that his eight volumes are among the richest and the most interesting in American literature. These comprise The Discovery of America (two volumes), Old Virginia 12. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY and her Neighbours (two volumes), The Beginnings of New Eng- land, The American Revolution (two volumes), and The Critical Period of American History. C ORIGIN AND GROWTH OF THE ENGLISH CON- STITUTION HON. Hannis Taylor, late Embassador of the United States to Spain, has the good fortune to be the first to treat the entire development of Constitutional Government from the time of Tacitus through the great history of English law enlarging and buttressing English freedom, down to the American Constitution, and our for- tunate growth under it. The work is of a high order, and the second volume cannot fail to emphasize the favorable judgment passed upon the first by the most eminent authorities on constitu- tional history, both in England and America. C It is an unhappy lancy of the time that the essay is dropping out of current literature, as it is another gloomy conceit that the day of good generous letter-writing is over. But by and by some of the charming authors of our time will join their predecessors, and it will be found that they have left many and delz~htful letters, just as good as those we now enjoy so much, written by authors already promoted. And the same may be true of essays. A good new volume in this department is C SOCIAL IDEALS IN ENGLISH LETTERS MISS Vida D. Scudder, to whom we are indebted for an excel- lent volume on The Life of the Spirit in the Modern English Poets, now puts us under fresh obligation by a book in which she sets forth the results of her study to ascertain what eminent Eng- lish writers have thought in regard to society and the organization of human beings in daily life. The most prominent writers on whom she reports are More, Swift, Shelley, Wordsworth, Thack- eray, Dickens, Reade, and William Morris; and her book is both very interesting and instructive. HOLIDAY BULLETIN 3 C TIDES AND KINDRED PHENOMENA IN THE SOLAR SYSTEM PROFESSOR George H. Darwin, son of the man who has given to the name Darwin a unique distinction, last year de- livered at the Lowell Institute in Boston a singularly valuable course of lectures on Tides, their phenomena and causes. He gave a vast extension of interest to his subject by describing the occurrence of similar facts in other worlds. These lectures, carefully revised and accompanied with numerous diagrams and illustrations, form an authoritative book on tides. C THE SILVA OF NORTH AMERICA PROFESSOR Charles S. Sargent has reached the twelfth vol- ume in his great work on North American trees. His un- surpassed knowledge in this department stamps these volumes with great authority; and the illustrative plates are of remarkable accu- racy and beauty. C A WORLD OF GREEN HILLS THIS is Mr. Bradford Torreys attractive title for his new book, in which he takes us to the mountain region of Vir- ginia and North Carolina. He shows us the grandeur and beauty of these hills, and talks in his accustomed easy way of the birds that sing in them, and the human beings he found occasionally. It has the same charm which pervades his Birds in the Bush, A Ram- blers Lease, The Foot-path Way, A Florida Sketch-Book, and Spring Notes from Tennessee. C BIRDS OF VILLAGE AND FIELD MISS Florence A. Merriam, a born bird-lover, whom careful study and observation have made very bird-wise, adds a thoroughly practical and interesting volume to American bird liter- ature. She describes hundreds of varieties of birds living east of the Mississippi, and pictures of entire birds or of heads add greatly to the value of the book for bird-students. C THE MAGIC OF THE HORSE-SHOE DR. Robert M. Lawrence has made a most interesting contri- bution to the literature of Folk-Lore by his book on what may be called the superstition concerning the horse-shoe. Every- body knows, of course, that a proper regard for the horse-shoe, and putting it in proper places, will surely bring good luck, while neglect of its magic qualities may leave the door open to all sorts of annoy- ance, bad luck, and calamity. But few know how general is the influence of the horse-shoe, and what antiquity its reign can boast. Dr. Lawrence tells of this, and of other prevalent superstitions, and has produced a book of remarkable interest. 4 HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANT C THE BIBLIOTAPH AND OTHER PEOPLE MR. Leon H. Vincent, who is a successful lecturer on literary topics, has gathered into a handsome volume several essays which form a welcome addition to a charming department of litera- ture. He writes wisely, wittily, and well of Thomas Hardy, Keats, Lyly, Priestley, Gautier, and of the interesting ~ bibliotaph, who had great genius for getting books and virtually burying them. C FRENCH LITERATURE OF TO-DAY ]\/[ LLE. Blaze de Bury in an attractive volume gives much J3/j personal information, and mingles appreciative criticism, of several of the more conspicuous French writers of the time, Zola, Bruneti~re, Pierre Loti, Guy de Maupassant, Edmond de Gon- court, Charcot, Bourget, de Vogii6, Lemaitre, Anatole France, Mine. Blanc Bentzon, and Paul Verlaine. C GLEANINGS IN BUDDHA-FIELDS ~fR. Lafcadio H earns latest volume on the Japanese has the same full knowledge, remarkable appreciation, and inclusive sympathy for all Japanese persons and things, which have given a peculiar value and attraction to his previous volumes, Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan, Out of the East, and Kokoro. All have an affluence of literary qualities of the most engaging kind. C A STARLIGHT CALENDAR ~/[ISS Kate Sanborn, who has compiled some of the best and I Vim ost successful calendars, A Year of Sunshine, and The Rainbow Calendar, continues her prosperous course by gathering from a host of the worlds best thinkers the passages in which they prophesied or sang of immortality most persuasively and hopefully, and grouping these in A Starlight Calendar, which will be a peculiarly good gift-book. C UNFORESEEN TENDENCIES OF DEMOCRACY MR. Godkin, the trenchant editor of the New York Evening Post, whom some less stalwart and observant critics dispose of very quickly by calling him a pessimist, has recently sur- prised them by the optimistic outcome of his notable book above named. He depicts the unruly, reckless, happy-go-lucky tenden- cies in America with unsparing frankness; and then he reassures us by his faith that the latent, slowly operating, instructed good sense of Americans will by-and-by awake them to their great re- sponsibilities and opportunities, and cause them to decree righteous- ness, and bring it to pass. This is an admirable book to give to one who needs it and can appreciate it. HOLIDAT BULLETIN 5 C THE CAMBRIDGE CLASSICS IN this series are comprised twenty popular and standard vol- umes, uniform in size and binding. They are crown octavos, well printed, and attractively bound in red cloth, with gilt tops. The series includes some of the best and most interesting works of Hans Christian Andersen, Cooper, Dana, Emerson, Hawthorne, Holmes, Howells, Lowell, Scott, Mrs. Stowe, Thoreau, and others. The price is ~I.oo each. C Among the best and most helpful books in all literature are those which are devoted to strengthen in men the great ideas, the faith by which they truly live. C THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF PAUL THE APOSTLE IN this book Dr. Lyman Abbott seeks to extend and confirm the influence of his former books, The Evolution of Chris- tianity, Christianity and Social Problems, and The Theology of an Evolutionist, all of which have been heartily welcomed by a large circle of readers. He analyzes the various conceptions of God which have prevailed among Christians, the pagan, the Jewish, and the distinctively Christian, the conception of God as Father, giving life freely to whosoever will accept it. This he finds to be the great and good news proclaimed by the Apostle Paul. C THE MAKING AND THE UNMAKING OF THE PREACHER PRESIDENT Tucker, of Dartmouth College, delivered a course of lectures before the Divinity students of Yale Uni- versity last March, and now brings them out in a handsome vol- ume. It is a very timely subject at this time, when the preacher finds himself in an environment in some respects exceedingly per- plexing and disheartening. Dr. Tuckers book is suggestive, wise, sympathetic; and the preacher who can read it without decided benefit must be above the need of help, or below the possibility of being helped. C AFTERNOONS IN THE COLLEGE CHAPEL D R.F rancis Greenwood Peabody, of Harvard University, gathers into an attractive volume many of the short dis- courses which he has given at Vesper services at Harvard. Like those contained in his Mornings in the College Chapel, only longer, HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY they are almost unique in the distinctness with which a single thought is presented, in forcible and felicitous treatment, in manly appeal to the listeners highest mood, and in the profound and clear impression produced. Both of his books are admirable gifts. C HUMAN IMMORTALITY DR. William James delivered the second Ingersoll lecture at Harvard University, in which he sought to meet two sup- posed objections to the doctrine of human immortality, the first based on the fact of physical death, the second on the immense multitude of human beings. No adequate idea can be given here of his treatment of the theme, but the fame of Dr. James as pro- fessor of Philosophy is well sustained in the acuteness, breadth, and nobleness of his argument. The little book merits very wide and careful reading. 41i THE GREAT AFFIRMATIONS OF RELIGION R EV . Thomas R. Slicer, minister of the Church of All Souls, in New York city, offers a volume containing what he regards as statements now greatly needed concerning the cardinal points of religion. His book sets forth those views which in his judg- ment the scientific thought and the profoundest spiritual concep- tions of the time affirm about God, Man, the relation between God and Man, Jesus Christ, Life, and Immortality. The strong con- viction of the writer cannot fail to impress the reader, and to uplift his thoughts and deepen his sense of the greatest and simplest religious facts. Ccttafo~u~z C As it is possible in this Bulletin only to call special attention to the New Books, our readers who may wishful! information concerning our thousands of Standard and Popular Books can learn by con- sulting r. The Portrait Catalogue, comprising all our Publications, with a Class!fted List, and an Index, containing also Sixty Portraits. 2. An Illustrated Descrzj5tive Catalogue of our Juvenile Books. N. B. These Catalogues will be sent without charge to any address upon application. Publishers Announcements 57 Ca Ca HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO.S NEW FICTION Ca By ARLO BATES, author of The Pagans, The Philis- ~ Ca tines, etc. Second Impression. Crown 8vo, i.~o. -~ Ca Ca It is surprising that the interesting and singular group of -~ phenomena connected with the devotion to Orientalism, to mind cure, to Spiritualism, and to the group of movements more or less ~Th -8) ~ me correlated, known as the Higher Life, Faith Cure, and Christian Science, has not before attracted the atto-ition of the novelist. -8) -8) ~ Puritans All these ologies and isms, survivals aid revivals of ancient Ca religions or superstitions, or modern readings of old truths and 8) Ca modern uses of old forces, have had their chosen field in Boston, ~ ca and have, year after year, devastated a certain section of Boston 8) Ca -8) Ca society. . . . Mr. Arlo Bates has ventured into this dangerous ~ Ca field in his latest story, and has shown consummate skill in the 8) -8) Ca- undertaking. The Ontlook, New York. -8) -8) Ca Ca By EDWARD BELLAMY. New Edition, with a portrait of Ca Ca Mr. Bellamy, and a Biographical Sketch by SYLVESTER 8) Ca ca ~ BAXTER. i2mO, $i.oo; paper, 50 cents. -8) Ca .L,vvJs.1u~ The recent death of Mr. Bellamy calls attention anew to this -8 ~ Backxvard remarkable story, which has had a wider reading than almost any -8) -8) Ca other American book of this generation, and which one critic -~ Ca felicitously pronounced a marvelous story combined with social ~ -8) Ca philosophy and a forecast of the millennium. Ca Ca Ca And Other Stories. By EDWARD BELLAMY. With a 8 ~ The Blind- Prefatory Chapter by MR. HOWELLS. i2mo~ $i.5o. Ca Ca The fifteen stories in this book are thoroughly interesting, and -8) Ca mans have in large measure the humane imagination and the eager 8) Ca -8) Ca ~[T ia purpose of improving social conditions which distinguish all of Ca vvorILL Mr. Bellamys writings. -8) Ca -8) Ca -8) Ca ByELIZA ORNE WHITE, author of Winterborough, fp A Browning Courtship, etc. i6mo, $i.25. -8) Ca A Lover This charming New England story is named for a young man Ca of Truth who insists on speaking the truth, in season and out of season. Other characters are a young man of good sense, a pretty girl, a Ca girl who is much more than pretty, and the story is told with Ca brightness and humor. -8) -8) Ca Ca Ca By CLARA LOUISE BURNHAM, author of Miss Archer 8) Ca Ca Archer, Sweet Clover, etc. i6mo, $i.25. -8) Ca Mrs. Burnham here adds another to the list of her popular i~ Ca A Great h characters interesting, the incidents Ca novels, which a host of readers eagerly devour. The plot is in- -~ ~ Love genious but probable, Ca natural yet dramatic, and the tone is eminently sane and whole- ~. Ca some. -~ Ca Ca By BRET HARTE. i6mo, $i.25. Ca Ca SI-nries Another volume of Mr. Hartes characteristic stories, such as Ca ~w Ca. Light and o~yhecanwrite. Ca in Ca Ca Shadow Ca Ca Sold by all Booksellers. Sent, 15osl~ald, by Ca Ca ~- HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Boston; ~ J East ~7th St., New York -& Ca Ca Publishers Announcements QIambri?i~e cjThitwn OF THE POETICAL WORKS OF ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON With a Biographical Sketch and Notes by WILLIAM J. ROLFE, an Index to Titles and First Lines, a Portrait, and an engraved title-page with a vignette. i vol. large crown 8vo, $2.00. This single-volume edition of Tennysons Poetical Works is prepared on the plan pursued in the other Cambridge Editions. Dr. Rolfe, the editor, is widely known as a careful student of Tennyson, and has already edited sev- eral separate volumes of his poems. In the notes, several introductions and brief prefaces, he has made a careful bibliographical study of the poetry, so that the reader may trace the history of Tennysons poetical work. The volume includes, in an appendix, the portion of Poems by Two Brothers assigned to Alfred Tennyson; also those poems from his volumes of 1830 and 1833, and other sources, which have continued to be current in America, though dropped from collective editions in England. It can be said with confidence that no edition of Tefinysons writings can more nearly correspond with his own final decisions than this. Dr. Rolfes notes and illustrations should be particularly wel- come to all thoughtful readers of Tennyson, and will answer many questions that have often been asked in vain, it would he difficult to overstate the benefit conferred on all studious readers of the best Eng- lish literature by the publication of these cambridge Editions of the Masterpieces. The Li/erary World, Boston, Mass. The Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW The Complete Poetical Works of OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES The Complete Poetical Works of JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER The Complete Poetical Works of JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL The Complete Poetical Works of ROBERT BURNS The Complete Poetic and Dramatic Works of ROBERT BROWNING The poems of each author are complete in one volume, printed from clear type of good size, on opaque paper; with a Biographical Sketch, Notes, Brief Histories of how important poems came to be written, Indexes to Titles and First Lines, a fine Portrait, and a View of the Authors Home or Birthplace. Bound in attractive style, firm but flexible, and handsomely stamped. Large crown octavo, cloth, gilt top. Each, except Browning, cloth, $2.00; half calf, $3.50; tree calf or full levant, $5.50. Browning, cloth, $3.00; half calf, or full levant, $7.00. Sold by all booksellers. Sent postpaid on receipt of price by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 4 Park Street, Boston; I I East Seventeenth Street, New York Publishers Announcements HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANYS New Books of 1898 S~idion The Battle of the Strong By GILBERT PARKER. 12m0, $1.50. Prisoners of Hope By MARY JOHNSTON. With Frontispiece Illus- trati6n. Crown 8vo, $i.~o. The Puritans By ARLO BATES. Crown 8vo, $1.50. A Lover of Truth By ELIZA ORNE WHITE. s6mo, $1.25. A Great Love By CLARA LOUISE BUENHAM. i6mo, $1.25. The Black Curtain By FLORA HAsHES LOUGHEAD. Crown 8vo, $1.50. Looking Backward By EDWARD BELLAMY. New Edition, with a Biographical Sketch of Mr. Bellamy by SYLVES- TER BAXTER, and a Portrait. 12m0, $1.00; paper, ~o cents. The Blindmans World And Other Stories. By EDWARD BELLAMY. With a Prefatory Sketch by W. D. HOWELLS. 12m0, $1.50. Caleb West, Master Diver By F. HOPRINSON SMITH. Illustrated. 12m0, $1.50. Penelopes Progress By KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN. In unique Scot- tish binding. s6mo, $1.25. From the Other Side Stories of Transatlantic Travel. By HENRY B. FULLER. s6mo, $1.25. Tales of the Home-Folks in Peace and War By JOEL CHANDLER HARass. Illustrated. 12m0, 1.50. In the Brave Days of Old A Story of Adventure in the Time of King James the First. By RUTH HALL. With a Frontispiece Illustration. s~mo, $I.5o. The Story of Little Jane and Me By M. E. Square s2mo, $1.00. Social Ideals in English Letters By VIDA D. SCUDDER, author of The Life of the Spirit in the Modern English Poets. 12m0, $1.75. John Adams, the Statesman of the American Revolution With Other Essays and Addresses, Historical and Literary. By MELLEN CHAMBERLAIN. Crown Svo, 2.00. The Bibliotaph and Other People By LEON H. VINCENT. 12m0, $1.50. The Tides and Kindred Phenomena in the Solar System By GEORGE HOWARD DARWIN, Plumian Pro- fessor and Fellow at Trinity College, Cambridge University, England. 2m0, $2.00. French Literature of To-Day A Study of the Principal Romancers and Essay- ists. By YETTA BLAZE DR BURY. Crown 8vo, $1.50. C~efi~ion The Life and Letters of Paul the Apostle By LYMAN ABBOTT, D. D. 12m0, $1.50. Afternoons in the College Chapel By FRANCIS G. PEABODY, D. D., author of Mornings in the College Chapel. s6mo, $1.25. The Great Affirmations of Religion By THOMAS R. SLICER, Minister of the Church of All Souls, New York. 12m0, $1.50. Human Immortality Two Supposed Objections to the Doctrine. By WILLIAM JAMEs, Professor of Philosophy at Harvard University. 16m0, $1.00. The Making and the Unmaking of the Preacher Lectures delivered in March, 1898, on the Lyman Beecher Foundation, before the Divinity Stu- dents in Yale University. By WILLIAM JEW- ETT TUCKER D. D., President of Dartmouth College. I2mo, $s.~o. The Starlight Calendar Compiled by KATE SANBORN. s6mo $1.25. XJti~ceffc~neou~ A World of Green Hills By BRADFORD TORREY. 16m0, $1.25. A Corner of Spain By MIRIAM COLaS HARRIS. s6mo, $1.25. The Magic of the Horse-Shoe With Other Folk-Lore Notes. By ROBERT MEANS LAWRENCE, M. D. 8vo, $2.25. Traditions of the Thompson River Indians of British Columbia Collected by JAMES TEIT. With an Introduc- tion by FRANZ BoAs and Notes. Memoirs of the American Folk-Lore Society, Vol. IV. 8vo, $3.50, net. Birds of Village and Field A Bird-Book for Beginners. By FLORENCE A. MERRIAM. Illustrated. 12m0, $2.00. Unforeseen Tendencies of Demo- cracy By EDWIN L. GODKIN. Crown 8vo, $2.00. 4 PARK STREET, BOSTON; ~ EAST ~ 7TH STREET, NEW YORK 59 Publishers Announcements HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANYS New and Holiday Books Mfuztrc~fe~ Q~ooft0 The Fair God A Tale of the Conquest of Mexico. By LEW WALLACE, author of Ben Hur, etc. Holiday Edition. Illustrated with 40 full-page Photo- gravures, 76 Headpieces, 76 Rubricated Initials and Tailpieces, by ERIC PAPE. 2 vols. crown 8vo, ~7.00. Large-Pa~er Edition. 2 vols. octavo, $20.00, net. The House of the Seven Gables By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. Holiday Edi- tion. With 20 full - page Photogravures, by MAUDE A. 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Crown 8vo, hand- somely bound, $2.50. The Boys of Old Monmouth A Story of Washingtons Campaign in New Jer- sey in 1778. By EVERETT T. TOMLINSON. Illustrated. Crown 8Vo, 1.50. Stories of the Cherokee Hills By MAURICE THOMPSON. With 8 full-page Illlsstrations by E. W. KEMELE. 12m0, ~I.5o. The Charming Sally Privateer Schooner of New York. A Tale of 1765. By JAMES OTIS. With Illustrations. Crown Svo, I5o. Dorothy Deane A Christmas StorV for Girls. By ELLEN OL- NEY KIRK. With Illu~trations. 16m0, $1.25. ~i0for~ crnb Q~ioc~3e The Origin and Growth of the English Constitution An Historical Treatise, in which is drawn out by the light of the most recent researches, the gradual development of the English constitu- tional system, and the growth out of that system of the Federal Republic of the United States. Vol. II., completing the work. By HANNIS TAYLOR. Svo, ~4.5o. The complete work, $9.00. The First Republic in America By ALEXANDER BROWN. With Portrait of Sir EDWIN SANDYS. 8vo, $7.50, net. A History of the Presidency By EDWARD STANWOOD, Litt. D. Crown 8vo, $2.50. The Battles of Trenton and Prince- ton By WILLIAM S. STRYKER, President of the New Jersey Historical Society. Illustrated with Por- traits and Maps. 8vo, $4.00. The Pilgrims in their Three Homes, England, Holland, and America By WILLIAM ELLIOT GRIFFIS, D. D. Illus- trated. i6mo, 1.25. Cheerful Yesterdays By THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON. 12m0, $2.00. Samuel Edmund Sewall A Memoir. By NINA MOORE TiFFANY. With Portrait. 12m0, $1.25. (poefit The Poetic and Dramatic Works of Alfred, Lord Tennyson Cambridge Edition. With a Biographical Sketch and Notes by WILLIAM J. ROLFE, an Index to Titles and First Lines, a Portrait, and an En- graved Title-Page with a Vignette. Large crown 8vo, $2.00. The Complete Poetical Works of John Milton Cambridge Edition. With a Biographical Sketch and Notes by WILLIAM VAUGHAN MOODY, an Index to Titles and First Lines, a Portrait and an Engraved Title-Page with a Vignette. Large crown 8vo, $2.00. From Sunset Ridge Poems Old and New. By JULIA WARD HOWE. I2m0, $1.50. A Century of Indian Epigrams Chiefly from the Sanskrit of Bhartrihari. By PAUL E. MORE. I6mo, $1.00. Poems By FLORENCE EARLE COATES. I2mo, $1.50. 4 PARK STREET, BOSTON; ~ EAST X7TIi STREET, NEW YORK 6o EDUCATIONAL DIRECTORY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY OFFERS AN EXCELLENT ADVERTISING MEDIUM FOR EDUCATIONAL INSTITUTiONS OF HIGHER GRADES. SPECIAL EDUCATIONAL RATES ON APPLICATION %troIuItttIcut HARTFORD. Woodside Seminary for Girls. Re-opens September 28,1898. Address for Circular MISS SARA J. SMITH, Principal. NEW HAVEN. Mrs. & Miss Cadys School for Girls. Finishing and College Preparatory courses of study. One hour and a half from New York. 56 HiUhouse Avenue, New Haven, Coun. NEW MILFORD, Litchfield Co. InglesideA School for Girls. Opens Tuesday, October 4, 1898. MRS. WM. D. BLACK, PAvaosssas. RIDOEFIELD. The Misses Vintons School for GIrls, RIDGEFIELD, CONN. WAsssINevoN, Litchfield Co. The Gunnery. AHoarE ScsrooaFoa Boys. Courses preparatory to College or Scientific School; Physics and Chemistry Laboratories; preparatory department for young boys. Large athletic grounds; gymnasium; piano, violin, mandolin, etc. JOHN C. BRINSMADE, Principal. ~JIhnoi~ CificAno, Title and Trust Building. Chicago College of Law. Law Department Lake Forest University. Two and three year course. For information, address E. E. BARRETT, LL. B., Secretary. ~e~u~ttt~ BosToN, Huntington Avenue. Boston Normal School of Gymnastics3 Established i~ 1889 by the late Mrs. Mary Hemenway. Miss AMY Moaais HolEANs is the Director. BosToN, Corner of Tremont and Berkeley Streets. Emerson College of Oratory. Largest in America. Send for catalogue. CHARLES WESLEY EMERSON, President. MASSACHUSETTS (contin d) The Cambridge School A PRIVATE SCHOOL FOR YOUNG LADlES makes the advantages of Boston and Cambridge of service to those who seek a well rounded edu- cation. English is studied with systematic method, and the first position is given to it. The course is suited to the pupil not the pug5il to the course. The school buildings are well ventilated, being open to the air and light on all sides. The pupils receive such attention in the Resi- dences as a mother desires for her daughter when away from home, by ladies who are not teachers; and the instruction of the school- room is given by teachers specially trained for the particular lines of work under their care. Candidates are fitted for college, but pupils are able to take continuous courses in the School much beyond that limit, if desired. ARTHUR GILMAN, A. M., is the Director of the Cambridge School. His office is at No. 36 Concord Avenue, Cambridge, Mass. Second half year begins February i, 5899. BRADFORD. Bradford Academy. Founded 1803. For the higher education of young women. Classical and scientific course of study; also preparatory and optional. Year be- gins Sept. 15, 1898. Apply to MISS IDA C. ALLEN, Principal. CAMBRIDGE, 9 Channing St. The Lee School for Girls. MISS M. L. KELLY, Principal. EAsTHAMPTON. Williston Seminary. Prepares boys for any college or scientific school. Library. Physical, chemical, biological laboratories; gymnasium, etc. New athletic field with ~ mile track. Open Sept. 8, 1898. JOSEPH H. SAWYER, M. A., Principal. EVERETT. Home School for Young Ladies. College Preparatory or Special Studies. Twenty-fifth year opens Sept. 21, 1898. MRS. A. P. POTTER, Principal. BosToN, 23 Irvington Street. Posse Gymnasium. FORMENARD WOMEN. Normal Courses of two and three years in Medical and Edu- cational Gymnastics. Fall term begins September 21,1898. Telephone, ~ ~ jy, BARONESS ROSE POSSE. Educational Directory MASSACHUSETTS (continued) QUINCY. Quincy Mansion School for Girls. Admirably located 6 miles from Boston, in the historic city of Quincy, and in the famous Quincy Mansion. Send for circular. HORACE MANN WILLARD, Sc. D. Post Office Address, Wollaston, Mass. SPRINOFIELO. The Elms. Home, Day, and Music School for Girls. English, Music, Special, and College Preparatory Courses. Certificate admits to Vassar, Smith, and Welles- ley. MISS CHARLOTTE W. PORTER, Principal. THE HIGHLAND MILITARY ACADEMY, Worcester, Mass. 43d year. A First-Grade Prepara- tory School. Modern Sanitation. New Athletic Field. Generous Table. Live Teaching. Small Classes. Visitor: The Rt. Rev. William Lawrence, D. D. Head Master: Joseph Alden Shaw, A. A. WORcESTER. Miss Kimballs School. An English, French, and German Home and Day School for Girls. College Pre- paratory, Intermediate, Academic, Literary, Music, and Special Courses. Excellent gymnasium. Send for Illus- trated Manual. 52t9h~jiirrnt HouoHToN. MICHIGAN COLLEGE OF MINES. Supported by Michigan. Practical work. Elective system. College year 43 weeks. Summer term. The only college in U. S. giving its instruction solely to prepare men to aid in the development of the mineral wealth of the state and nation. For cata- logues address DR. M. E. WADSWORTH, President. BRInOEToN. Ivy Hall. Home and College-preparatory School for Gir]s. Estab. lished 1861. Certificate admits to Smith. MRS. J. ALLEN MAXWELL, Principal. Morristown, New Jersey. Exceptionally broad curriculum, with ample equipment and thorough instruction. Certificate admits to four leading col- leges. Music and Art. Suburban to New York. Boarding pupils, ~7oo. NEW YORK. The Peebles & Thompson School. Boarding and Day School for Girls. 30, 32, 34 EAsT 57TH STREET. Opens October 5th. NEW YORK (continued) New YORK CITY, 280 Seventy-first St. and West End Ave. Van Norman Institute. (Founded 5857.) MME. VAN NOkMAN, Principal. MRS. J. L. MATTHEWS, Vice-Principal. TAsmYTOwse-ON-HuosON. Miss Bulkleys School for Girls. MISS H. L. BULKLEY, Principals MISS E. C. PLUMLEY, UTICA. Mrs. Piatts School for Girls. Applications for Fall, 1898, should be made early. Peiuw~pIbanrn OoOaTz Scnooa P. 0. Ogontz School for Young Ladies. Twenty minutes from Philadelphia, two hours from New York. Mr. Jay Cookes fine property; an ideal location for a school. Miss FRANcEs E. BENNETT and Miss SYLVIA J. EASTMAN continue the educational supervision of the school. For circulars, address Ogonts School P. 0., Pa. EAST GRRENwScIs. East Greenwich Academy. Founded 1802. Both sexes. On Narragasisett Bay. Cot- tages. Electric light. Elegantuew dining hall. Endowed. Twelve courses. Illustr. ted Catalogue. F. D. BLAKESLEE, D. D., Principal. ZcacI~r~V ~eiitxc~ BOSTON. The Teachers Cooperative Asso- dat ion, F. B. SpAuannee, Mgr., 36 Bromfleld St., sup- plies schools with teachers, teachers with positions. 3000 positions filled. Send for manual. BOSTON. The TEACHERS EXCHANGE OF BOSTON. 258 Waslsingtosa St. Telephone 2192. Recommends Teachers, Tutors, and Private Schools, fur. nishing ~ull and reliable information. SYRACUSE. An Agency that Recommends ~ valn. able in proportion to its influence. If it merely hears of vacancies and tells you about them, that is something; but if it is asked to recommend a teacher, and recommends you, that is more. Ours recousmends. C. W. BARDEEN. SEND FOR A Forty Years History of the Atlantic. Sent free upon application. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Boston. ERIC PAPE SCHOOL OF ART READ INSTRUCTOR AND DIRECTOR, ERIC PAVE. Drawing and Painting from Nude and Costume models, Portraiture, Still-life Painting, Water-color, Pastel and Illus- Ration in its various branches, Pen, Wash and Gouache drawing, etc. MRS. ERIC PAPE will instruct the Antique, Still-life, Pyrograviire, Wood-carving, and Composition classes EVENING LIFE AND ILLUSTRATION CLASS FOR MEN. Five nights a week, 7 to 10 P. M. For circulars address Miss S. M. Hilton, Secretary. FARRAGUT BUILDING, Corner Massachusetts Avenue and Boylaton Street, Bo ton 62 Educational Directory THE MANHATTAN PRESS- CLIPPING BUREAU, ARTHUR CASSOT, Manager, NEW YORK, LONDON, (Knickerbocker Building,) COR. 5TH AVE. & 14TH ST., NEW YORK, Will snpply you syith all personal reference and clippings on any subject from all the papers and periodicals published here and abroad. Our large staff of readers can gather for you core valuable material on any current subject than you can get in a life-time. TERMS: 100 clippIngs, ~5 .00; ~50 clippings, $1~.OO; 504) clippings, $~2.00; 1000 clippings, ~40.00. Special rates quoted to Trade Journals and large orders. I ~ Full I ~ Line ~ ~ STEREOPTICON SLIDES FOR CHURCHES AND SUNDAY SCHOOLS. Seed for Catalogue. SELLING AGENT FOR T. H. McALLISTER LECTURES ILLUSTRATED. JOHN H. THURSTON, 50 Bromfield St., Boston. TIME AND THE HOUR THE CHARACTERISTIC LITERARY WEEKLY OF BOSTON WITH FREE AND CANDID NOTE AND COMMENT ON MEN AND AFFAIRS. IN A BRIEFER AND MORE AMERICAN FASHION, PLANNED SOMEWHAT ALONG THE LINES OF THE ENGLISH WEEKLY REVIEWS. It is wise, witty, and philosophic, with a keen lance for the piercing of shams, and a sharp eye always open to the truth that guides a pen devoted to the conservation of the public wealSpring- field Republican. Its distinctive and refreshing features are its indomitable truthfulness and courage, its literary flavor, and its downright cleverness. The (Viurcie. TIME AND THE HOUR CO., Subscription, $2.00 per year. No. 6 BEACON STREET, BOSTON. TITlE OLD WORLD IN TITlE NEW. Eight new ie fets just issued: The Founding of St. Augustine, by MeNnozA; Vespuccis Third Voyage; The Founding of Quebec, by CHAMPLAIN; First Voyage to the Roanoke, by BA RLOWE; Settlement of Londonderry, N. Ii., by PARKER; The Discovery of the Hudson, by JuRT; Description of Pennsylvania, by PAsToRIus; The Founding of New Sweden, by AcRELses. Bound in tu,ler, ~o cents; single leaflets, .~ cents each. $4.00 ~5er ioo. Seudjor cono~llete lists. DIRECTORS OLD SOUTH WORK, Old South Meeting House, Boston, Mass. P.c~ers. H ELPS FOR AUTHORS. a Minute. .-~ to We read, criticise, and correct manuscript. We dir us. advise as to the proper publications for which stories and special articles are adapted. If desired we fell manuscript for authors. For full information write MANUSCRIPT BURBAU, Madison Sq. Br., N. Y. City. 17 E ~ Original ~ Bright ~ Interesting $ Constant ~ Improvements ~$ One~SampIe.~Free WUNLU ~3 ~s ASTOR ~ PLACE ~ 8th Year. NEW ~ YORK ~ CITY ~ JOSEPH GILLOTTS STEEL PENS. THE MOST PERFECT OF PENS. Gold Medal, 1?aris E~posltlon, 1889, AND THE AWARD AT THE WORLDS COLUMBIAN EXPOSITION. CHICAGO. 63 Tile Atlantic Monthly Advertiser P,& sr~, CA1~.~ G R. Li QUID A Brilliant Polish wilbout Labor Dust or Odor. ~i. L. FI~ESC cXTT~ & .. C ~., N EW ~ ~ rosb ~ Vitalized hospliite~ for the relie and prevention of all weaknesses resulting from over-work and anxiety It gives active brain and nerves exactly what they need for their nntri ion and normal action, and will help any case of mental or nervous exhaustion. Shall we send yon a descriptive pamphlet? Vitalized Phosphites is a concentrated whi e powder from the phosphoid principle of the ox- brain and wh at ge in, formulated by Professor Percy thi ty years ago. Formula on each label. Prepared 56W. 25th St. New York. If no found at Druggists, sen by mail, 0.00, CROSBYS COLD A D CATARRH CURE. The best remedy known for cold in the head, intineuza, and sore throat. It does not contain cocaine, morphine, nor narcotics of any description. By mail 50 cents. (Registered.) A MODEL GLOVE! Distinguished for e fineness of Skins, Satisfactory Fit and Artistic Finish, Sold only by NEW YORK Whooping Cough, Croup Asthma, Coldt Hundreds of t ousand of mothers use Vapo-Cresolene. Do yo. Cresolene cures Whooping Cough every time; stops Croup almo immedi tely, and if u ed at once will cure a Cold hefore any coo jolications can arise. I. N Love, M.D., o~ St. Louis, says: I hax instruc ed ev ry family under my direction to secure it. Mrs. Ba lington Booth, say ~: I recommend that no family where there a young children should be without it W. H. Chichester, M.D. of Ne York, says: As a vehicle for disinfecting purposes Cresolene is i me lafely succes ful. Anthon, Comstock,says: MalignantDip theria in my house; Cresolene used~ cases recovered in two week nootherswerea e ted. Descriptive booklet with testimonials free. Sold by all drnggisl VAPO=CRE5OLEN~ CO., 69 Wall St., New York. Schieffelin & Co., New York, U. S. Ag..nts 64 THE COPLEY PRINTS. Hz~hest quality reproductions of the notable paintings in America. THE most distinguished artistsamong them LA FARGE,VEDDER, ST. GATJDEN5, ABBEYchoose these prints for reproductions of their own works. Sold at art stores everywhere. Also hy mail. Prices from ~o cents to $10.00. New cata~ logue, dainty and fully illustrated, to any address, Ia cents in stamps. 5oT OF BAsILBY JOHN VV. ALEXANDER. From a Copley Print, copyright, 1898, by Curtis & Cameron, CURTIS & CAMERON, Publishers, 19 Pierce Bldg., Boston. The Atlantic Monthly Advertiser Produces the same results as the other famous models of the GENUINE EDISON PHONOGRAPH. Makes records; reproduces records. - Equipped with EDISON NEW STANDARD, $20.00, Home Phonogr ph, 30.00. shaving device. spring Motor 75.00. Simplest, Electric 75.00. most ALL ENUINE PHONO RAPES hear durable, and this signature: cheapest talking- machine ...~ TRADE Send for free Catalogue ~ r~ No. 15, our latest LV?IOflW* Lk L.~I~fl~ edit on. MARK NATIONAL PIIONOORAPH Co., St. James Building, Broadway & 26th St., ~ew York. Edison records 50 cents each, $5.00 per dozea~ For Fall and Winter use: Pure Wool Underwear, Stockings, Taffeta and Flannel Shirts, Sweaters, Plaid Shawls, Abdominal Bandages,Blankets,Sleep- ing Bags, etc. write for Illustrated catalogue giving name of our agento in your city. D1~. JAEGERS WOOLEN SYSTEM Co. NEW YOI~N MAiN RETAIL 5TORE BRANCHES. Ii& w. Z3~$TI~~Y Bigelow Ken nard & ~Co. ONE OLLARS wi/i purchase a GENTLEMANS WATCH which we guarantee to be the best time keeper for the money. It is made in eighteen karat ease, adjusted, with parts interchange- able, is man fact red espec ally for us, a dbears o r ame 5 Washington St. BOSTON 66 The Atlantic Monthly Advertiser ASK YOUR FAMILY PhYSICIAN. Malt-Nutrine is a wonderfully strengthening tonic, which insures an immediate gain in flesh. For thin, debilitated people there is no medicine half so helpful. It enriches the blood and gives it power to nourish aids digestion, sharpens the appetite and tones up the entire system. Malt-Nutrine is an invaluable aid dur- ing convalescence. Fever patients and others who find it slow work picking up strength will be benefited by Malt-Nutrine. Any physician will tell you so. Malt. Nutrine is prepared by the Anheuser.Busch Brewing Assn, which fact guarantees the purity, excellence and merit claimed for it. An interesting Booklet mailed for the asking. Anheuser-Buseli Brewing Assa, St. Louis, U. S. A. ~ All who have guessed about I W L~ life insurance may be wrong. I If you wish to know the truth, send for How and POST Why, issued by the PENN G ~ MUTUAL LIFE, 925-35 Chest- I~.4. nut Street, Philadelphia. Parties leave NEW YORK HOLY LAND and EGYPT, Jan. 4; Feb. is, s8: March ~. EUROPE (Riviera, Italy, etc.), Dec. in, 35. CRUISES to the TROPICS, Jan. sa; Feb. 4, s6, 2~ Mar. iS. TOURS to BERMUDA, Jan. 7, Mar. 25. CHINA, MANILA, and JAPAN, Feb. v~, Mar. i6. HAWAIIAN ISLANDS (from San Francisco), Jan. 25; Feb. 8, 22; Mar. 8, 22; April 5. Tickets only for individual travel- lers to all WINTER RESORTS at home and abroad at best rates. Send for Illustrated Programmes (stating which required) to THOMAS COOK & SON 261 & 1225 Broadway, New York or 332 Washington St., Boston - ACCOUNTANTS who use the Comptometer - have no trouble with their trial balance. Has it ever oc- curred to you that by getting one you might save lots of time, avoid mistakes and not ruin your nerves? ~ Write for Pamphlet. CO~4PT~---EIER F~LT& TARRANT MFG CO. CHICAGO. For: r For the holidays your pasto1 or any other Interlinear Scriptures, the latest and most at- tractive andpraelieatnoveltyfor every-day useon the clergymans desk. $4.00 to $12.00. New-Testamcst Lexicon. $1.00. y our teacher Teachers Aids, of many kinds. 50 cis. to $2.00. your boys and girls Speakers, piays. debates, dictionaries, transla- tions, and schoolbooks of alt the ubtishers. I your parents Complete alphabetical cata.~ogue of the school- books of all the publishers--seeosd-hand as welt as new- enabling a marked reduc- tion in the expense for schoolbooks. This catalogue nsaitedfreeif you mention thisad. HINDS & NOBLE, Publishers 4-3-13-14 Cooper Institute N. Y. City Sehootboo s of atlp ushers atone store. Cooks Tours and Tickets The Atlantic Monthly Advertiser 67 A Trifle Mannish STYLE 515. THE FAMOUS Queen Quality Shoe P01? WO]JIEN The Most Wonderful Value Ever Offered for $3.00. HIGHEST QUALITY of Material and Workmanship. Imported des4~ners of rare ability have produced a revelation to the wearer. For stylish effect, retaining its shape, and fitting where others fail, it has no equal. We are the largest makers of womens fine shoes in the world. This explains how so good a shoe can be made for $3 .00. For your pockets sake, and your continuous coujorts sake, insist on having the genuine trade-ma~ked shoe. Send for artistic illustrated catalogue FREE, giving full description and how to order. MADE IN THIRTY STYLES. TIiOS.G.PLANTCO. = = = = = = = BOSTON, MASS. Dull Mat Kid Top STYLE 522. STYLE 524. shoe which is a on Every Pair. FOERDERERS VICI KID USED EXCLUSIVELY. 68 ~J7ae Atlantic Monthly Advertiser VL IN MAGAZINE FORM. REDUCTION IN PRICE. The Independent prints more contributions from the ablest writers than any other paper in the United States. A few of the contributors during the past four months: Hon. James Bryce, M.P., A. Conan Doyle, Rebecca Harding Davis, Senator Morgan, Maj -Gen. 0. 0. [Inward, New Zealand Commissioner of Labor, Henry Newbolt, Hon. Simeon E. Baldwin, Margaret E. Sangster, The Countess von Krockow, Maurice Thompson, Thomas Dunn Englisb, Justin McCarthy, M.P., Tbeo. L. Cuyler, D.D., Sarab Grand Rosamund Marriot Watson, Hon. W. T. harris, St. Clair McKclway, LL.D., etc. A few contributors for the immediate future: Lord Brassey, Gov.-Gen. of Victoria, Margaret Deland, Harriet Prescott Spofford, Park Benjamin, Bliss Carman, Cbas. H. Parkhurst, D.D., Prince Peter Kropotkin, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps, etc. 52 Issues. 5 Sir Walter Besant, Senator Hoar, Captain Crowninshield. U.S.N., Richard Henry Stoddard. The late John G. Whittier, Murat Haistead, Rt. Hon. L. H. Courtenay, M.P., Hon. Carl Schurz, W. E. H. Lecky, M.P., Andrew Lang, Richard S. Storrs, D.D LL D Bret Harte, Agnes Repplier. $2.00 a Year. Cents a Copy Send Postal Card for Free Specimen Copy. TIlE INDEPENDENT. - . - 130 FULTON STREET, NEW YORK. The Atlantic Monthly Advertiser 69 Actual Visible Writing and Direct Inking The Williams Typewriter has ho th COMBINES Speed, Simplicity, Portability, Durability. Thoroughly up-to-date and strictly high grade. Guaranteed all over. Does everything expected of a writing machine. The use of a pad instead of rihhon saves hother, is cleaner, produces hetter work, ill iiliiiidifl and reduces cost of maintaining one-half ~ KULERYRY~JAA Investigation Solicited. Trials Freely Given. Rememher this is an age of progress. The heat of yesterday gives way to the hetter of to-day. Catalogue on application. Communications cheerfully answered. CALL OR WRITE TO The WILLIAMS TYPEWRITER CO., Derby, Conn. Chicago, 104 La Salle St. New Terk, 273 Broadway. Boston, t63 Washington St. Buffalo, 106 Seneca St. San Francisco, 308 Clay St. Cleveland, 133-3-7 Euclid Ave. Atlanta, 16 North Pryor St. Dallas, 283 Main St. St. Louis, 306 North Third St. Cincinnati, 409 Walnut St. Philadelphia, 1019 Market St. Beading, 608 Court St. Washington, 913 0- St., N. W. Baltimore, 120 E. Baltimore St. London, 104 Newgate St. Montreal, 200 Mountain St. The Densmore The Worlds Greateat Typewriter ONLY MAKE WITH BALL-BEARING TYPE-BARS EASIEST TOUCH OF KEYS (Where the operatorts work comes) FASTEST THE MOST CONVENIENT B~llslllor~ Typgwritor Co., 316 Broadway, N~w York Broughams. 98 & 99 Styles NOW READY. All far ahead of previous efforts. _______________ ORIGINAL AND CATCHY IN DE 1898 & 99 BROUGHAM. TAIL AND FINISH. Inspection and Comparison Earnestly Requested. Styles Rpckoways. 98 & 99 NOW READY. 4 weights and sizes for Single or Double Horse hitch. Our new idea, large windows, plenty of light. All handsome and suitable. MORE DESIRABLE THAN EVER. KIMBALL BROS. COMPANY, 110-111 Sudbury St~reet, BOSTON. The Right Idea i8g8 & 99 FIXTENSION ROCKOWAY. ~fhe Atlantic Monthly Advertiser 70 50AP5 rAR IN THE LARKIN PLAN saves you half the regular prices, half the cost, You pay but the usual retail value of V the soaps after thirty days trial and all middlemens profits are yours in a premium, itself of equal value. Our Great Combination Box. Enough to Last an Average Family One Full Year. This L st of Contents C an ed as Desired. 100 Bars Sweet Bone Soap, . . $5.00 For all laundry and household pur- poses it has no superior. Large Bars. 10 Bars White Woollen Soap,... .70 A perfect soap for flannels. 12 Packages Boraxine Soap Powder, 1.20 Full lhs. An unequalled laundry luxury. 4 Bars boor Bright Scouring Soap, Doz.Modieska Complexion Soap, Perfume exquisite. A matchless beautifier. A Doz. Old English Castile Soap, .30 ~/4 Doz. Creme Oatmeal Toilet Soap, .25 5/~ Doz. Elite Glycerine Toilet Soap, .25 A Dna. Larkins Tar Soap, 30 Unequalled for washing the hair. A Doz. Sulphur Soap 30 1 Bottle, I oz., Modjeska Perfume, . .30 Delicate,refined,popular, lasting. I Jar, 2 ozs., Modjeska Cold Cream, . .25 Soothing. Cures chapped hands. I Bottle Modjeska Tooth Powder, . . .25 Preserves the teeth, hardens the gui s, sweetens the breath. I Stick Witch ilazel Shaving Soap . .10 The Contents, Bought at Retail, Cost $10.00 The Premium, Worth at Retail . 10.00 All for $19. $20 Fan get the rem am you select, gratis. The LdrI~ifl Plan GIVES You the Bc~iuIifUl LJest~ The Whole Family Supplied with Laundry and Toilet Soaps for a Year at Half Price. Sent Subject to Approval and Payment alter Thirty Days Trial. throughout. Hand- EEL ChAUTAUQUA D[SK. bed finish. Very handsome carvings. Beveled plate mirror. Desk is 5 feet high, 2% feet wide, writing bed 24 inches deep. Drop leaf closes and locks. Brass curtain rod. It is Wise Economy to Use Good Soap. Our Soaps are sold entirely on their merits, with our guarantee of purity. Thousands of Families Use Them, and have for many years, in every locality, many in your vicinity. Ask us for your neighbors testimonials. After Thirty Days Trial, if the purchaser finds all the Soaps, etc., of excellent quality and the premium entirely satisfactory and as represented, remit $10; if not, notify us goods are subject to our order. We make no charge for what you have used. If you remit a advance, you will receive in addition a nice present for the lady of the house, and shi meat da after order is received. Money refunded promptly if the Bo~ a ~ nsisem does not race all expected. afe delivery yuaranteed. Ike transaction is not complete until you are satisfied. i~ Many youths and maidens easily earn a Chautauqua Desk or other premium free, by dividing the con- tesits of a Combination Box among a few neighhors who readily pay the listed retail prices. This provides the $10.00 needful to pay our bill, and gives the young folks the premium as a middlemans profit. The wide success of this plan confirms all our claims. Booklet Handsomely Illustrating 20 Premiums sent on request. TIlE LARKIN SOAP MFG. CO., Larkin St., Buffalo, N. Y. Bee Notes Below. Established 1875. Capital, $500,000. We cheerfully recommend our readers to accept the offer made hy the Larkin Soap Mfg. Co. of Buffalo, N. v. Memhers of t Observe a stiff hive personally tested the Soap made hv this Company, and they know too that the extra value in premiums is ver3 generow Ne York Observer. The Atlantic Monthly Advertiser 7 13u FFALO LITHIA WATER In Diseases of Women The late J. Marion Sims, M. D., LL.D., the Father of Gyncecology, a short while be- fore his death wrote. I have used in my practice the Water of Spring No. 2 of the BUFFALO LImIA SPRINGS, of Meck- lenhurg County, Va., for several years past, and have in many cases found it highly ~enefjcjal~~ Dr. Win. T. Howard, Professor of Diseases of Women and Children in the University of Maryland, endorses these Waters in the highest terms: In all the affections peculiar to women that are remedial at all by mineral waters. Dr. Thomas P. Atkinson, ex-President of the Medical Society of Virginia.~ In many of the Diseases of Women, especially in disturbed conditions of the Monthly Function where unconnected BUFFALO LITHIA WATER may be regarded as well-nigh a specific. with organic disease George Haisted Boyland, M. A., M. D., Paris, France, Member of the Academy of Medicine of Paris: My expe- ALO LurHIA WATER convinces me that it is perhaps more than any rience with the .F~ILE other water in the world a specific for dis eases of female pelvic organs. As a regulator of disturbed conditions of the monthly function, I know of nothing at all comparable to it. Dr. William B. Towles, Professor of Anatomy and Materia Medica in the Medical Dc- y5artment of the Univ4rsity of Virginia: In the irregular ~w ities of young women DU FFALO my experience has shown special and LIrHIA WATER ~ ppy adaptation. I have witnessed some very remarkable results from its use in this class of cases where the most approved treatment of the profession had proved unavailing.~~ Dr. John H. Tucker, of Henderson, N C., President of the Medical Society of North Carolina, says.~ In many of the diseases peculiar to women monthly irregularities and the many functional derange- ments resulting from Chloro-An~mic conditions, I prescribed this water with almost the same con- fidence that I do quinine in Chills and Fever. is sold by Druggists and Grocers generally. It is an undoubted positive remedy for BUFFALO LITHIA WATER many of that afflict mankind. An the most serious and most com- trated book can be procured on request, containing the testimony of the most famous physicians of this country and Europe as to the wonderful power of BUFFALO LITHIA WATER in Gout, Rheumatism, Bright~s Disease. Gravel, Indigestion, Nervous Dyspepsia, Nervous Exhaustion, Malaria, Alcoholism, Eczema and Blood Disorders, Diseases of Women, etc. Send for she book and judge for yourself. Address PROPRIETOR, BUFFALO LITHIA SPRINGS, VIRGINIA The At/antic Monthly Advertiser FITCHBURG RAILROAD SCENERY. THE PACIFIC COAST LIMITED FOR THE WINTER VIA The True Southern Route The Pacific Coast Limited, the new Califor- nia train, will leave Chicago at 2.00 P. M., and St. Louis 10.30 P. M., every Tuesday and Saturday, arriving at Los Angeles third day at 4.00 i. M., and San Francisco fourth day noon, and will run via Chicago & Alton, St. louis, Iron Mountain & Southern, Texas & Pacific, and Southern Pacific Railways. This luxurious train consists of a com- posite car containing reading, writing, smok- ing room, buffet, barber-shop, and bathroom; a compartment car containing seven private com- partments and double drawing-rooms; twelve section sleeping-cars with state and drawing rooms; also dining-car, in which all meals will be served a Za carte, and traverses a region of per- petual sunshine, where snow blockades, blizzards, or high altitudes are unknown. In addition to our weekly tourist car line via the scenic route, we will operate a weekly tourist car via The True Southern Route, leaving Chicago every Tuesday and from St. Louis every Friday morn- ing. For illustrated and descriptive literature, time-tables, very lowest rate of fare to all points west and southwest, address L. W. Ewald. New England Passenger Agent, 592 Washington St., Boston, Mass., Or W. E. Hoyt, Genl Eastern Passenger Agent, 391 Broadway, New York. ...goto,.. Bermuda FROM NEW YORK, Eorty.~eight hours by elegant steamship weekly. FROST UNKNOWN. MALARIA TMPOSSIBLE. FOR WINTER CRUISES GO TO West Indies, INCLUDING PORTO RICO. Thirty=day trip; 20 days in the Tropics. For pamphlet, giving full information, apply to A. E. OUTERBRIDGE & CO., Agents for Quebec S. S. Co. Ltd. 39 Broadway N. V. A. AHERN, Secretary. Quebec, Canada, THOMAS COOK & SONS AGENCIES. 72 EARLY MORNING IN THE DEERFiELD VALLEY. J. R. WATSON, CEN. PASS. AGENT, BOSTON, MASS, The Atlantic Monthly Advertiser 73 X#e1 ~j~n i~e 0 TIlE OPuiNT By the Superb Twin=Screw Express Steamer AUGUSTE VICTORIA (CAPT. C. KAEMPFF) of the ~ ~~Ai I~a1nbur~~ Jim crican Eiuc~ Leaving New York on January 26, 1899, and returning on April 3. Madeira, Gibraltar, Algiers, Genoa, The Villefranche (Nice), Syracuse (Sicily), Malta, Alexandria (Cairo and the Pyr- Itinerary amids), Jaffa (Jerusalem, the Jordan and includes: ) Dead Sea), Smyrna, Constantinople, Athens, Palermo, Naples, Genoa, and III return to New York. Duration, 62 days. RATES OF PASSAGE FROM $450 UPWARD. There is no way of reaching these places with greater comfort and safety, avoiding innumerahie transfers, cus- toms inspections, etc. Passengers can extend their stay in Europe and retnrn to America later from Hamhurg, Soeth- ampton, or Cherhourg. For descriptive pamp/dets, rates, etc., etc., apply to IiAMBURG=AMERICAN LINE NEW YORK, CHICAGO, BOSTON, 37 Broadway. 559 Randolph St. 70 State St. PHILADELPHIA, SAN FRANCISCO, ST. LOUIS, 337 Walnut St. 400 california St. soo No. Broadway. 74 The Atlantic Monthly Advertiser Please address 239 No. Front Street AFew L/k~& 6Intar Features Carriage released in any position. Exact registration for ruled forms. An incomparably easy and elas- tic touch. Manifolding without affecting the alignment. Noise of operation reduced to the minimum, Mimeograph stencils without re- moving the ribbon. Descriptive booklet on request. A MACHINIt CO. ,s37 Broadway,N.Y. e555S5S555ssseseesssesssssess~ The At/antic Monthly Advertiser 75 The Improved ~ BOSTON GARTER the recognized ~ STANDARD for MENS WEAR. Keeps the Stocking / F ree from Wrinkles DOES NOT BIND CUShION BUTTON CLASP Lies flat to the leg. Does not tear the stock~ ing, and will not unfasten accidentally. SOLD EVERYWhERE Sample Pair Silk, 50c. by Mail Cotton 25c. GEORGE FROST CO. BOSTON, MASS. GREAT WESTERN Champagne is more acceptable to palate and stomaoh than imported wines, because of its UNQUESTIONED PURITY, Touches the pocket lightly yet fills the bill. Served at all first class Clubs, Cafes and Buffets, everywhere. _ is The vintage now marketed ~ EXT~~~it5~ especially pleasing and very dry. 5 Pleasant Valley Wine Co., 5OLE MAKERS, :;::IiiiiiiiIIIHllIFU Rheims, N. Sold by 5, 5, PIERCE CO., Boston, 76 Tke At/antic Monthly Advertiser K, / New Gadshill Edition // i5 Superb Volumes A CHRISTMAS GIFT SUGGESTION / This S~Iendid Edition of Dickens FILLS EVERY REQUIREMENT OF THE MOST EXACTING BOOK LOVER It is complete containing every one It is beautifully printed on a line of the novels, as qoalite of well as the sketches and short stories reprinted calendered paper, with large, clear type, mak- from periodicals, and also his enfinislsed novel, ing continuous or evening reading a plea- Tue i\ivsTeev OF EOwIN Deono, not in sore. many editions. It is superbly illustrated con- It is handsomely bound j so thi~t tainin~ nines are a Iserpetual delight when even glanced // C more than 150 photogravures and synod en- at in lihrary or study, every feature ol mano- gravings, from the celehrated Dickens draw- facture thoroughly hefitting a work to last a logs hy Cruikshank, Phiz, and other famous lifetime. illustrators. It is an Edition you will be proud to show your Friends. I OUR DICKENS CLUB has heeta organized so as to place one I of the special sets of tills superh Garls- I I hill edition ssith~n easy reach of every memher. I NO RISK In order to secure either the (~LOTII or HALF LEATHER style it is only necessary to send $i, and the entire set is I orsvarded at once, and inem- hers are allowed tsvo whole weeks for examination, with privilege of return if not entirely atisfactory, when payment will he promptly refunded, if you retain the set (as the Giun is sure you will), you pay the halance at the rate of ~i monthly for fonrteen months for the CLOTh style, and i.~o monthly for the HALF LEATHER. We recommend the lat- ter as more handsome, durahie, and proportionately clseaper. Offer Limited to 500 Sets. $1 Secures a Set. THE DICKENS VLIJB In ordering the Cloth, change $x~o to $i.oo. Z8 Fifth Ave. New York TIlE DICKENS CXL UB. 78 Fifth Acenue, New York. (~enttemnen: I e (lose One Dollar. Please send me a set of the 45ADSIITLL DICKENS, in 15 rots. If Satisfaetop?I, I affree to pay $1.50 per mouth for 14 months. If not satisfaetory, I will return within 15 days, and the amount paid is to be peornptly refunded. Siyned Address ATLANTIC. The At/antic Monthly Advertiser Rare Yb tins Old We will send two or A Special Offer three old violins on ap- proval nnd allow nn examination of seven days. Our new collection of old violins, owing to the depressed conditions under which it was bought, presents the Greatest Values Ever Offered. No teacher, connoisseur or student can afford to lot this opportunity pass. No parent having a child desiring a satisfactory violin should delay corres- poudiug with us. We offer fine old violins possess- ing a smooth and mellow tone, dated 1570 to 1810, from $23 upward; Artists violins from $50 to $250. Magnificent violins hy the greatest of the old masters, from $500 to $5,000. A formal Certificate of Genuineness accompanies every instrument. Our collection of over one thousand old violins is the re- sult of many years of patient search in Europe by our connoisseur and no instrument can he duplicated. Our new catalogue of Old Beautiful Violins, 272 pages, is profusely illustrated with quaint labels, Catalogue etc., and gives biographies of the id makers, besides containing Free gull description of the old violins making up our collection. To prospective purchasers we will send a copy free. Easy Dlonthly Payments Nay Be Arranged. Chicago. I~(In writing please mention this publication.) A Christmas Present of Uncommon Value This Month we Announce a New Power of the Bausch & Lomb-Zeiss AND OPERA GLASSES Siizz RIEiO HELD or Long Distances, the Theatre or Opera Incomparably Superior in POWER, RANf4E FIELD and in the BRILLIANCY ~dIARPNESS and DEPTH of the IMAf~E LIGHTER MORE COMPACT GREATER DURABILITY FINEST WORKMANShIP ELITE FINISH The unique construction of these ~lasses produces an unapproachable stereoscopic image, increases the field of view tenfold and gives many other optical advantages not possessed hy ANY OTHER GLASS. F~li particulars and prices in Booklet, mailed free~ (ate/qg e P/iete, Lcoscs. etc., il/icreseejes, etc., eiz rcgzeest. Address Dept. Q att~suex TURERS BAIJSCIL & LOMB OPTICAL CO., Rochester, N. Y. NEW YORK CHICAGO BOSTON Townsend building, Broadway and 2gth St. Stewart Building, State and Washington Ste. 32~ Washington St. 77 M Magnificent. ..a marvel.., players of moderate ability will create much admira- tion in its use. The opinion of Dr. Franz Liszt, the veteran Conposer. on the LISZT ORGAN Such an opinion is not to be purchased or governed by sone one elses say-so. By snprene excellence only can it be obtained.... The LISZT Model, of the Mason & Hanlin Organs, differs na- terially finn others of its class, being so constituted as to not only prodnce a richer quality of tone, but largely in- creased power . . . . Send for special Liszt Organ catalogueit is invaluable to an intending purchaser. Boston, New York and 7$ The At/antic Monthly Advertiser THE ARENA. A MONTHLY REVIEW OF SOCIAL ADVANCE. EDITED BY PAUL TYNER. A Review that seeks to emphasize and develop the Ameri- canism which stands for advance all along the line. Radical and reasonable, progressive yet thoughtful, THE ARENA pro- vides intellectual food that shall be solid and still digestible. Its literary standard will be steadily maintained without subor- dinating force, crispness, and originality in the choice of sub- jects or their treatment to the conventional canons of criticism. Absolutely independent and untrammeled by ties of party or sect, THE ARENAS discuss ions of public questions will be found at all times fair, candid, and fearless. To those who desire to keep abreast of the forward move- ment, especially in sociology and the new science, THE ARENA will be indispensable. Send io cents for sample copy and prospectus. Subscription $2.50 a year; single copies, 25 cents. THE ARENA COMPANY, Copley Square, Boston, Mass. HUNTING ON THE MOOSE RIVER. MUSKOKA LAKES. The Muskoka Lakes are situated I 12 miles north of Toronto, Ont., and are best reached via Montreal and Grand Trunk Railway 5ystern. Write THOMAS WYNNE, Tray. Pass. Agent, 194 Washington ~,t., ~oston, for descriptive literature overing these grand vacation resorts. The Atlantic Monthly Advertiser 79 SINGER National Costume Series ITALY (FLORENCE) V LOR~NC~, La Bella, is a city of the Middle Ages, differing little today, except in the dress of its people, from the Florence beloved by Dante and the Della Robbias. it is famous for its palaces and for its collec- tions of paintings, sculpture, and the manuscripts resulting from the genius, thought and power in Florence during the time of the Medicis. Ruined by the vice and luxury of that reign, the Florentines have since made little progress. Their chief manufactures are of silk and plaited straw. Our photograph shows a Florentine woman of the industrious middle class stitching a straw hat into shape by means of a Singer Sewing Machine. Although the average woman cannot correctly judge the comparative merits of different sewing machines, so far as mechanical construction is concerned, she has a nice appreciation of the differ- ence in their work. The fact that Singer machines always turn out good work is the main reason why they are preferred by the women of all nations. THE SINGER MANUFACTURING CO. Offices all over the world. THE IRON fIOUNTAIN ROUTE IS THE ONLY LINE TO THE Famous Hot Springs of Arkansas. ilBOLIGil PULLMAN AND BUFFET SLEEPIW CARS. ST. LOUIS To I~IEMPHIS, HOT SPRINGS, DALLAS, FORT WORTH, EL PASO, SAN ANTONIO, AUSTIN, HOUSTON, GALVESTON, LAREDO. The Celebrated Pacific Coast Limited To LOS ANGELES AND SAN FRANCISCO. ~!hoice of Three Routes To the Cit?, of ]Jliexico. ~~fnrmation and pamphlets cheerfully furnished by W. EWALD, N.E. P. A. W. E. HOYT, G.E.P.A. 192 Washington St. 391 Broadway, Boston, Mass. New York, N. Y. and H. C. TOWNSEND, G. P. A., St. Louis, Mo. ADJUSTABLE SOLID COMFORT 2~O Different Positions Reading, Reclining, and Rocking Chair. Cane or perforated seats. Upholstered to suit pur- chaser. Reversihie cushions. Essential to ~.4 parlor, sick-room, or li- brary. Must he seen to he appreciated. Send for Catalogue. MARKS ADJUSTABLE CHAIR CO., 1144 Broadway, New York JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS TALES OF THE HOME FOLKS IN PEACE AND WAR. Mr. Harris is quite at his best in these stories. The (ri/ic. HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & COMPANY. TUCKNOR ,.,(T4 Telephone HOUSE 9 Park St IIf~44Vk7.... Haymarket Oor. Beacon 1020 German and Dutch Silverware, Recently collected in Earope hy Mr. Elson in person; comprising many unique and tasty pieces, suitable for holi- day remembrances. An inspection is cordially invited. 8o ~1ibe Atlantic Monthly Advertiser f~6V V V V V V V V V V V V V V V V V V V U V V V V V V V V ~.) ~.) .) ~.) I.) l.~) ~.) ~J ~J ~ IJ ij The Gift of Utility. An Everlasting Remembrance. ~ M Always ~ ~ All Write Handier than a pencil, because you dont have to sharpen it. Quicker than a regular pen, because you dont have to dip it. Cleaner than either, because it neither crocks nor spills. Better than all others, because it is ready when you are. The Best Present, because the receiver remembers you all day long for many years. Watermans Ideal Fountain Pen .4 A pocket pen and ink bottle combined, always ready for immediate use, and the most convenient writing instrument of to-day. H Oct11 on your dealer or send for a handsome holiday catalogue. Boston L. E. Waterman Co. )London Chi 155& 157Broadway,NewYork,N.Y. ci i Largest Fountain Pen Manufacturers in the World. Paris ci 2 -2) -2- -~ 2K 0 -p mingL111 indard type~ 2-I- A -p Al --2 -p -p A 2- -p A A WYCKOFF, SEAT4AIIS & BENEDICT -~ 327 Broadway, New York. - - ~c p For 9t Years. Bent & Co.s HAND-MADE Water Crackers ~ have been unequalled for excellence and their supe- rior keeping qualities SOLD BY FIRST=C[ASS GROCERS. Bents Fine Biscuits for Receptions, Teas, etc., are unsurpassed. MANUFACTURED BY NATIONAL BISCUIT CO., Milton, Mass. FREE! Be nts Cracker-Meal Receipt Book Sent Free on Request. THE ATLAN MONTHL JULY 1898 Gladstone The Essential Unity of Britain and America JAMES BRYCE 22 The American Evolution JAMES K. HOSMER 29 The Decadence of Spain HENRY CHARLES LEA 36 War and Money: Some Lessons of 1862. J. LAURENCE LAUGHLIN ~7 The Wife of his Youth CHARLES W. CHESNUTT 5~ A Souls Pilgrimage: Extracts from an Autobiography . C. F. B. MIEL 62 The Battle of the Strong. XXI.-XXIV GILBERT PARKER 78 English Historical Grammar MARK H. LIDDELL g8 In Bay Street BLISS CARMAN io8 The Youngest Son of his Fathers House ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH At Natural Bridge, Virginia. I, BRADFORD TORREY 112 New Letters by Leigh Hunt and Stevenson ETHEL ALLEY NE IRELAND 122 The Russian Jew in America ABRAHAM CAHAN 128 The Contributors Club The Heroine of the Future. Concerning Bibliornania. BOSTON HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY New York: i i East Seventeenth Street Z~je fliber~iit Prc~, ~mbribge (JoAyriglst, 1898, i;~ Ifnnglzton, AIi~97bs and (n;a~any Entered at the Post Office in Boston as second-class matter 35 cents a copy $4.00 a year Penelopes Progress BY MRS. WIGGIN BOUND IN SCOTTISH PLAID i6mo, $1.25 Her book is fairly bubbling over with a bright and irresistible humor. Chi- cago Tribune. IT will be difficult, perhaps, for the numerous admirers of Mrs. Wiggins I earlier works to grant our claim that in her latest book she has done the best bit of writing that has come from her pen, but it is so, nevertheless. Her keen observation, her innate tact and sympathy, her ready wit and con- tagious fun, the sparkle and charm of her narrative, have reached a maturity of power and expression unattained as a whole in any of her other books.... Penelopes Progress will be followed with delight by numerous readers on steamboat and rail, on hill and beach, and under the trees during the coming summer months. The Bookrnan, New York. WHERE is something in it of real history and something of serious I description, but its distinctive qualities are its rich and delicate humor and its witty dialogue. . . . Nothing more positively original has ever been penned. Bookseller, Newsdealer, and Statzoner, New York. VHE story is wonderfully bright. . . . Here is a book to enjoy by I laughing at the bright, happy humor and good humor that inform every page of the delectable narrative. Philadelphia Press. f~NE of the most charming things that this bright and sparkling author -.~J has ever written. The book sparkles with humor from the first page to the last. Brooklyn Eagle. MRS. WIGGINS OTHER BOOKS Marm Lisa. $i.oo. The Story of Patsy. 6o cents. The Birds Christmas Carol. 50 cents. The Village Watch - Tower. $1.00. Polly Olivers Problem. $i.oo. Nine Love Songs and a Carol. $1.25. A Summer in a Cafion. $1.25. Timothys Quest, $1.00; illus- trated edition, $1.50. A Cathedral Courtship, and Penelopes English Expe- riences. $i.oo. Sold by all Booksellers. Sent, posz~paid by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Boston; ii. E. 17th St., New York. KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN. NEVER HAS ANYTHING BEEN SO HIGIIL,Y AND SO JUSTLY PRAISED AS YIN MARIANI the FAMOUS TONIC for BODY, NERVES and BRAIN. MARIANI WINE is invaluable at this season of the year, when, owing to trying climatic conditions, the system is especially susceptible to attacks of debility and pros~ tration. flARIANI (MARIANI WINE) has stood the test of thirty=five yeat~s trial. It written endorsements from more than American physicians, in addition to received cordial recommendations from royalty, princes of the Church and of the State, and many notable personages. ARIANI WINE is a tonic prepared upon ful scientific principles. It contains ab= solutely no injurious properties. It gives power to the brain, strength to the entire nervous system, firmness and elasticity to the muscles, and richness to the blood. It has been aptly described as a promoter of good health and longevity. MARIANI WINE is specially indicated for General Debility, Weakness from whatever causes, Overwork, Profound Depression and Exhaustion, Throat and Lung Diseases, Con= sumption, Malaria and La Grippe. MARIANI WINE is an adjuvant in conva= and a powerful rejuvenator. For Overworked Men, Delicate Women, Sickly Children it Works Wonders. Taken with cracked ice, it relieves Summer Prostration quickly and effectually. It soothes, strength= ens and sustains the system. To those who will kindly write to MARIANI & CO., 52 West 15th Street, New York City, will be sent, free, book containing portraits with endorsements of Emperors, Empress, Princes, Cardinals, Archbishops, and other interesting matter. A VOID SUBSTITUTIONS. LONDON: 83 Mortirner Street. MONTREAL: 2830 Hospital Street, ALL DRUG ARIS: 41 Boulevard Haussmann. 44\ ~ ~ S k S ATEN TAP P LI ED Fo NJ rftONOUNCtD C LADINt Aumo ITI DI[1ENT AT O~cC THAD -MAR Costs Less Than ONE CENT a Cup. 4 Our Trsde-Mark on Every Package. DORCHESTER, MASS. A Little iglier in Price, UT! LA LA LA LA LA T ~ charming quality of the Ferris Hams and Bacon makes them highly appreciated hy every family whose tahie is regularly sup- plied with them. The hest grocers and markets furnish these fine enrings. Our new booklet Table flints, with many practical suggestions con- cerning smoked meats, and origin4l recipes by the fatuous Mrs. lincoln, author of the boston Cook Book, sent to any housekeepers address on receipt of five cents in stamps. Mention the Atlantic Monthly. LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA LA 0 rAcn ~ S 0 C-) 00 oq N hi It 0-a -C ci z,-I fr~ p 0 ri~ fri 1.1 ~i1 N Has stood the test ni more than one hundred years use among all classes ut people, and tor purity and JR honest worth is unequalled ~Medzeet asd Ssrgieel .losrsel. ~i(i~1Ij.x P. A. FERRIS & COMPANY 262, 264, 266, 268, 2Z0, and 2t2 Mott St., New York City. A delicious breakfast Cereal. Fifteen cents worth when cooked, provides 23 pounds of perfect food. 5199 TREMONT STREET, BOSTON. 161 FIFTH AVENUE, NE Y RK. Contains as in en flesh-forming matter a beef THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY AUGUST 1898 The Old World in the New The Trend of the Century The Proper Basis of English Culture Neglected Aspects of the Revolution Lights and Shades of Spanish Character My Friend Ah-Chy Where Angels Fear to Tread Driftwood The Tinkling Simlins The Commodore Reminiscences of an Astronomer. I. Edward Bellamy At Natural Bridge, Virginia. II. The Battle of the Strong. XXV.XXVIII. Craven Neptunian Old Broideries Democracy After the Days Business Night BENJAMIN IDE WHEELEF SETH LOW SIDNEY LAN~R 165 CHARLES KENDALL AJAMS ~ IRVING BABBITT 190 CHRISTINA RITCHIE ig~ MORGAN ROBERTSON 206 H. PHELPS WHITMARSH 221 MARY TRACY EARLE 225 JUSTINE INGERSOLL 235 SIMON NEWCOMB 244 W. D. HOWELLS 254 BRADFORD TORREY 257 GILBERT PARKER 269 HENRY NEWBOLT 284 P. H. SAVAGE 285 . JOSEPHINE PRESTON PEABODY WILLIAM PRESCOTT FOSTER RICHARD HOVEY KATHARINE COOLIDGE BOSTON HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY New York: i i East Seventeenth Street t?o~yrigJit, 1898, by Hong/don, Muffin and Com~z5any Entered at the Post Office in Boston as second.cioss matter 286 287 288 288 35 cents a copy $4.00 a year ANOTHER 10 DAYS TRIAL OF THE KOZY CAMERA ~ Ready! Push! If you like it, pay for it all cash, or a little at a Kozy time; if it does nt suit you, return it, and no harm 1 898 done. An unusual offer, truly; hut it has pushed the New Kozy to the very front in three months time, and made it the most popular pocket camera in the world. The Kozy tells its own story best; that s why we like to have you see it and test it. Many stores have Kozys now, but mail orders keep our factory running overtime and some dealers will have to wait. For the present, therefore, our special offer to send a camera ON TEN DAYS TRIAL will remain open to any ATLANTIC MoNTnL~reader who cannot readily find the Kozy in the stores. itisfied with the Work it Does. From GEO. S. PRENTICE, Brooklyn, N. Y. When zy I was favorably impressed with its appearance, and now that I have tested its qualities, I 1 more than satisfied with the work it does. io detail the pictures are very good and sufficiently 1 ting. As a sample of ingenious arrangements I think it is worthy of special mention. It seems all the newer improvements, yet all condensed in the most compact form in s marvellous osed it seems as if two parts must be occupying she same space at the same time. i am sure ing hot favorable comments from those who purchase this camera. Wishing you success, The Kozy. From W. P. GARDNER. Wakefield, Neb. I have been a camera fiend ed a great many different cameras, but none equ~sis yours (the Kozy) for beauty, simplicity, or Negatives from Twelve Snap Shets. From E. L. BARBOUR, New York, N. Y. test I have found the Kozy Camera to be as represented in every way taking a dozen snap dozen good clear sharp segatives. Will take pleasure in recommending same in my ~ 1 all appreciate the Kozy, hecause ~ at is small, light, convenient, and ~ always ready; works perfectly at all times and in any latitude, afloat or ashore. No heavy glass ~ plates or holders. Imagine a pocket camera using plates! It is like a flying squadron hampered by coal transports. Two pounds weight (Kozy and films) gives you 50 pictures enough for a long days outing ~ and it s your own fault if every one is nt perfect. You can slip the Kozy into your pocket, strap ~ it to your wheel, or pack it in your grip, and still have rootn for ~ something else the least ~ weight, smallest space, economy of time, money and temper. The % new Bicyclists, Tourists, Canoeists, V V V Pocket KOZY weighs s6 ounces; size, ~ulded, 4~ x 5i~ inches, and ~ Camera. inches thick. It is the only ~ / pocket camera that takes large pictures (~j x 3~) on a sunlight film twelve without re- ~ loading. The Kozy is adapted for use of daylight film, and LOADS AND UNLOADS IN DAYLIGI-IT. It makes snap shots or lime exposures ~ ith equal facility; is mechanically simple a child can operate it. In a word, tl,e Kozy is all that a pocket camera ought to be MORE THAN OTHERS ARE. Dont take our word alone for this prove it by your own experience. You can have a Kozy On 10 Days trial, with ab- solutely no obligation to conclude the purchase if the camera does not prove to be exactly what you want. If it j pleases you, the Kozy will cost you $10 cash (our special introductory price), or, if you prefer, You can make ~ easy monthly payments, in which case the cost of handling and cTarrying your account will be added to the cash price named above; but in any case, WE DONT WANT TOUR MONET UNLESS TOG WANT THE KOZY. Illustrated catalogue, order forms, terms and all particulars regarding this UNPRECE- ~ DENTED OFFER mailed on request. We refer to the MEcHANtcs~ NATIONAL BANK of Boston as to our responsibility. Address at once, f ~ KOZY CAMERA CO., Dept. 55,44 Bedford St., Boston, lYlass. I 3ack of every Policy issued by THE PRUDENTIAL Is the Entire Fnanciat Strength of the Company, affording Absolute Security and Protection. ASSETS INCOME SURPLUS $23,984,569.72 $15,580,764.65 $5,240,118.36 WRITE FOR INFORMATION HE PRUDENTIAL INSURANCE COMPANY OF AMERICA JOHN F. DRYDHN, President. HOME OFFICE, Newark, N. J. A.4A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. r dmother Knows and all thrifty housewives should know the value of ger They have every advantage claimed for other machines and many additional points of excellence. The Singer Mannfactnring Co. ~xas offices in every city of the world; upon application to any of them a machine xviii be delivered to yonr home, and If chu~.,, ., o an Try etyte of cabinet. Singer Sewing Machines are sold only k~ TIlE SINGER M~INUP~~TURING ~ 4, A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. a a a a. 4~ a. Contains as much flesh-forming matter as beef. reakfast: Has stood the test of more than one hundred years use among all 4 classes of people, and for purity and honest worth is unequalled. Medical asd Surgical Journal. Costs Less Than ONE CENT a Cup. Our Trade-Mark on Every Package. Walter Baker & Co. Ltd. DORCHESTER, MASS. WIlDER PIANOS The same Intelllg-ence and Solidity of Construction, Pure Musical and Sympathetic Tone, combined wi/il Greatest Power, which have charac- terized the WEBER since its complete triumph over all competitio;~ in 1876, are marked in even a greater degree in the WEBER of To-day WAREROOMS Fifth Avenue and i6th St. New York N A The best breakfast food all the year Eix E . round. Cooks in I mm. All grocers5 - -- - ~ ~ 199 TREMONT STREET, BOSTON. - 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, 4, TRADE-MARK. 4 THE ATE MONTHLY DEVOTED TO Literature, Science, Art, and Politics SEPTEMBER, 1898 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. I. CHARLES TOWNSEND COPELAND 289 Fifty Years of American Science W J McGEE 307 New Opportunities for American Commerce WORTHINGTON C. FORD 321 The Vivisection of China ELIS1~E RECLUS 329 Prince Kropotkin . ROBERT ERSKINE ELY 338 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. I P. KROPOTKIN 346 To Those who Know HENRIETTA CHRISTIAN WRIGHT 362 A Lawyer with a Style . WOODROW WILSON 363 Sir Edward Burne-Jones WILLIAM SHARP 375 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. II SIMON NEWCOMB 384 Soil-Song JOHN B. TABB 393 The Battle of the Strong. XXIX.-XXXII. . . . GILBERT PARKER 394 Bismarck WILLIAM ROSCOB THAYER 411 Mr. Rileys Poetry BLISS CARMAN 424 The Sermon of the Rose JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 429 The End of the War, and After 430 BOSTON HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY New York: I I East Seventeenth Street ZIW ~iber~ibc ~ ~auibrib~ co/yrigk/, 1898, by Ifoug/sbon, Afifflin and ComtnnY Entered at the Bast O~ce in Boston as secondctass snatter $4.00 a year 35 cents a copy HUNTING ON THE MOOSE RIVER. MUSKOKA LAKES. The Muskoka Lakes are situated 112 miles north of Toronto, Got., and are best reached via Montreal and Grand Ttunk Railway System. Write THOMAS WYNNE, Tray. Pass. Agent, 194 Washington St., Boston, for descriptive literature covering these grand vacation resorts. BEANS NEW bEPARIURE TRUNK. These truuks are manufactured with folding lids which prevent weak locks and hinges. Every trunk is furnished with malleable iron corner pieces on dee body of Ike Irook, so that all the strain in taken from the cover, and the weight evenly distributed upon the frame. Manufactured for all purposes, they are especially adapted to Theatrical, Military, and Sporting use, as their mode of construction enables them to carry heavy weight. For forther particulars send for Catalogue A. THE NEW DEPARTURE TRUNK CO. Salesroom, Sears Bldg., l9~ Washington St. CORNER OF COURT STREET. Factory, Z3 Haverhill St., Boston, Mass. Peden~ed, Nov. a, ibqg. Warranted jorfive years. Labor, NoDu~, No Odor. NO OTHER COMPARES WITH IT. ITS TH~ BEST %J.L. PRESCOTT & CO. NEW YORK LYMAN ABBOTT, D.D. A leader both iii bi/chleetual ak/dy a;l(175ers1/asivefless (j argument. THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF PAUL THE APOSTLE. i6rno, $1.25. (I;; Press.) A book of great interest and significance, devoted to shoxving that the special gospel of Paul is the conception of God as a father who gives life freely to all xvho will accept the gift. THE EVOLUTION OF CHRISTIANITY. i6rno, $1.25. Dr. Abbott finds God working in nature, in the church, in society, and in the inrlividual soul; and in each case he recognizes that influence as a development, an evolution from lower forms and conceptions to what is higher, broader, and better. Goiirant (Hart- ford, Coun.). CHRISTIANITY AND SOCIAL PROBLEMS. i6rno, $1.25. These are not mere problems of the hour, but are subjects which concern us perma- nently ann vitally, and it is pleasant to find them discusserl so learnedly and wisely, and in the spult of Christian foibearance and love ilenie 7our;iel (New York). THE THEOLOGY OF AN EVOLUTIONIST. i6mo, $1.25. The summary of the evolutionists creed is large and generous, illuminative, eloquent, and comprehensive. lies/on Transcript. Many will welcome this book as a help in the necessary reconstruction of their religious thinking. The Kingdom (Minneapolis). Sold by all Booksellers. Se;zt postp aid by EJOUGHTON, MIFFLiN & Co., BosToN; 11 EAST 17TH ST., NEW YORK BOOKS ON JAPAN B~ LAFCADIO HEARN his well-known sympathy with Japanese ideas and sensitiveness to Japanese influ- ences have enableni him to get much deeper into the mysteiies of Japanese life than even Sir Edwin Arnold or Percival Lowell has been able to penetrate. Mr. I-learn certainly has discovered and described many of the hidden spiings by which they [the Japanese] move. The ~ipaii Ajail. His volumes form a rich storehouse of delight to the ieadei and material for the scholar. Some of the sacred places have been seen thiough foieign eyes for the first time by Mr. hlearn. He presents us a wonderful pietuie of the Japanese soul. The Litcra;y ff~o, Id (I3oston) GLIMPSES OF UNFAMILIAR KOKORO HINTS AND ECHOES OF JAPAN. 2 vols. crown Svo, $4.00. JAPANESE INNER LIFE. With a vignette. OUT OF THE EAST. REVERIES i6mo, $1.25 AND STUDIES IN NEW JAPAN. i6mo, GLEANINGS IN BUDDHA- $1.25. STRAY LEAVES FROM FIELDS. SThDIES ot HAND AND STRANGE LITERATURE. SOUL IN THE ~AR LAS i. I6mo,$J.25. i6mo, 1 50. We marvel not less at the wonderful and exquisite things which he describes than at the wonderful and exquisite manner of their description. News and Conner (Charleston, S. C.). The London Adienanm pronounces Mr. Hearn this most charming of writers on Far Eastern subjects, and the New York Evening Post says, Mr. Hearn has suc- ceeded in photographing, as it were, the Japanese soul. Sold by all Booksellers. Sent past/aid by [JOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co., BOSToN; 11 EAST 17TH ST., NEW YORK Carriages. A PJI~RF19CT F9ODas Wholesome as it is Delicious. IHE STANDARD ~ ct~ less PURITY Package. than one cent a cup ~ Our Trade-Mark on Every Walter Baker & Co. Ltd. ) DORCHESTER, ) ESTABLISHED 780. THR ~I1jjARVEX QLOVD. 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THE FRENCH CARP/AGE Co. 8 ~-8; Summer Srcet, Fcrdi,mauid F French. corner Kingston, only. BOS TOW, MASS. A Little Higher in Price, BUT! THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY DEVOTED TO Literature, Science, Art, and ~PT~31iti OCTOBER, 1898 The Anglo - American Friendship . . . . CARL ScHtTRZ 433 England and America A. V. DICEY 441 Unpublished Letters of Carlyle. II. CHARLES TOWNSEND COPELAND 445 Botching Shakespeare MARK H. LIDDELL 461 The Autobiography of a Revolutionist. II P. KROPOTKIN 472 Birds, Flowers, and People BRADFORD TORREY 489 The Battle of the Strong. XXXIII.-XXXVII. . , GILBERT PARKER 500 Reminiscences of an Astronomer. III SIMON NEWCOMB 519 A Wit and a Seer: Walter Bagehot WOODROW WILSON 52y Glamour ELIZABETH WILDER 540 At the Twelfth Hour: A Tale of a Battle . JOSEPH A. ALTSHELER 541 The Development ~f our Foreign Policy HORACE N. FISHER 552 Bismarck as a National Type KUNO FRANCKE 560 The Correspondence of George Sand IRVING BABBITT ~6g I ~ BOSTON HOUGHTON, MIEFLIN AND COMPANY New York: j i East Seventeenth Street / Z~c ~ixbcr~tbc Prc~, ~nrnbrib~e (otyrigkt, 1898, by HoagA ton, Muffin and ComA-toy / 35 cents a copy Entered at the Post Office in Boston as second.class matter $4.00 a ~ i SCRIBNERS NEWEST BOOKS ~ War Memories of an Army Chaplain. By~ try Clay Trumbull, D. D. With 14 full-page illustrations by Gilbert Gaul, Caritog Chaoman, R. F. Zogbaum, T. de Crown Svo, $2.00. Thuistrup, I. W. Taber, Alice Barber Stephens, P 1 wood, and C. 0. Weldon. As the author says in his Preface, there have been many volumes written about the movements of the armies and about the principal commanders in our Civil War, but the thoughts and feelings of the private soldier in active service are almost unknown ground to the average civilian. It is this individ- P ual human side of the army, from a standpoint of peculiar acquaintance and sympathy, with which D Trumbulls vivid reminiscences deal. The Heart of Toil. By Octave Thanet Illustrated by A. B. Frost and C. S. Reinhart. Umform wi//i A Slory Tellers Pack. I2mo, $e.~o. CONTENTS: The Non-Combatant The Way of an Election The Moment of Clear Vision The Con- science of a Business Man Johnnys Job The Scab. Miss French is not only one of the most popular of American story-writers, but one of the most thoroughly American in spirit. She has done for the Middle West what Miss Jewett and Miss Wil- kins have done for New England in faithful characterization. The stories in this volume all turn to some extent on the relation of employers and employed. They are, however, stories of men in the widest sense, and leave an extraordinarily cheery, wholesome, and optimistic impression of the men who really do Anserican work, the backbone of the Western community. The Goede Vrouw of Mana=ha=ta. By Mrs. John King Van Rensselaer ~ At Home and in Society. 16091760. Small Svo, $2.00. CONTENTS: Two Dutch Colonies In America Women of the 17th Century Prominent Pioneer Women First Settlement Homes of the Settlers Habits, Amusements, and Laws Rensselaers of the Manor Der Colonle Nleu Nederlands New York vs. New Amsterdam Passing of the Pioneers-- The Dutch and their Neighbors New York In Infancy The Pirate and his Escapades Society under the English Rule Wedding-bells and Candle-cups-James Alexander My Lady of Petticoat Lane Petticoats and Politics New York In 1732 Matches, Batches and Despatches New York in the FortiesTheLastoftheDutchMatrons. It is somewhat extraordinary that, with all the literature on the people of old New York, we hay eso little of these pioneers household affairs, of the womens influence, social ctistoms and manners. M Van Rensselaers book presents an animated and exhaustive history, in a consecutive narrative, ot the intimate side of that life, from the first settlement down to the deatls of the last Dutch Matron. Her facts have hieen gleaned from hitherto inaccessible family papers and frons many rare and curious volumes, giving the work a special personal interest to the descendants of these families as well as to he historical sttmdent. Aigone, and other Portraits of Women. By Paul Bourget Voyageuses ). Translated from the French by William Marchant. s~mo, $1.50. ~ccording to the ingenious idea which binds these stories together, they contain portraits of various vomen encotintered in the jotirneys of which the atithor is so fond. Each is the centre of a dramatic arrative. and each is drawn with the charming and sympathetic insight that M. Bourget alone brings o the study of feminine psychology. ~ Ike same author: A Tragic Idyl. s~mo, $1.50. Outre-Mer. Impressions of Amer- ca. I2m0, $1.25. ~.uses and Consequences. By John Jay Chapman Author of Emerson, and Other Essays. iemo, $1.25. Mr. Chapmans new book is a social and political essay of great penetration and is written with much pungency. It consists of an elaborate presentation, from various points of view, of the idea that man is fundamentally unselfish its deductions being thoroughly practical. The voltinse contains five chapters: Politics, Society, Education, Democracy, and Government. Already published: Emerson and Other Essays. memo, $1.25. Mr. Henry James says of the title essay in Literature: This essay is the most effective critical at- tempt made in the United States, or, I should suppose, anywhere, really to get near the philosopher of Concord. Worldly Ways and By=Ways. By Eliot Gregory ( An Idler ) I2mo, $i.5o. The Idlers papers on the philosophy of fashion, folly and foibles, as exhibited in American society at home and abroad have already attracted wide-spread attention in the colums of the Evening Post. They are now revised and united in book form, and make a volume of unique kind and flavor. A remarkable volume by a new author. ~ Life Is Life, and Other Tales and Episodes. By Zack lemo, $s.5o. Yesterdays in the Philippines. By Joseph Earle Stevens Illustrated, lemo, $z.~o. The Kings Jackal. By Richard Harding Davis Second Edition. With illustrations and a cover design by Charles Dana Gibson. e2mo, $1.25. The Girl at Cobhurst. By Frank R. Stockton I2mo, $m.~o. CHARLES SCRIBNERS SONS, 53-157 FIFTH AVE., N. Y. II T L offers the best of all that U is good in Life Insurance, under conditions suited to the requirements of the )Ie family. Write for information. E PRUDENTIAL INSURANCE COMPANY ..OF AMERICA... Dryden, President. Home Office: Newark, N. J. 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