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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 47, Note on Digital Production 0047 000
The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 47, Note on Digital Production A-B

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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 47, Issue 279 Galaxy, Atlantic Atlantic Monthly Co. Boston January 1881 0047 279
The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 47, Issue 279, miscellaneous front pages i-iv

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY A MAGAZINE OF iLaternture, ~cicnce, art, anti VOLUME XLVII ~J3ouitw~ BOSTON HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY (Zfw ~ibcr~ibc Prt~, CamI~rib~je 1881 A~A ELI (CORN UNIVERSITY \ LIBRARY / CoPYRIGHT, 1881, BY HOUGIJTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY H. 0. ROUGHTON AND COMPANY. C ONTENTS. American Shipping, The Future of Aryans, Who are the? Aryan Words, What we Learn from Old . Bergen Days Books for Young People Boston to Florence British Philistine The . Carlyle, Some Personal Recollections of. Carlyles Reminiscences Century of Dishonor, A Challoners history of Music Colorado, A Winter Journey in Correspondence with a British Critic Credit-Unions, German Cobperative - Dexters Congregationalism Eleventh Hour. The England, Random Recollection of English Whiggery, The Last State of Essays, Recent French and German Eughne Scribe Five American Novels Friends: A Duet Genesis of Genius, The German Novels, Two Getting Married in Germany Gilchrists Blake, The New Edition of Head of Medusa, The, and other Novels Horace Bushnell Illustrated Books Indoor Pauper, The: A Study Is Anything Lost? Johnsons Garrison, and other Biographies Lawn Planting for Winter Effect London Again, In Look Ahead, A Martyrdom of an Empire, The New Sunday, The New York Theatres Over on the Tother Mounting Politi 1 Novels, Some Portrait of a Lady, The Recent Volumes of Short Stories Religion, The Origin of Renaissance in France, The Saint-Victor, Lee Deux Masques of Sara Bernhardt Smith Sociology and Hero-Worship Southern Borough, Study of an Old Spell-Bound Fiddler, The Spring Opening, A Story of a Great Monopoly Symposium of Sixty Years Ago, A Taste of Maine Birch, A Tennysons New Volume, and other Poetry Tiltons Pictures, Mr PAGE Henry Hall 166 Jades Fiske 224 .Tolses Fiske 478 H.H 770 122 Oliver We deli Hoinses . . . . 412 Richard Grant White 548 Henry James 593 863 672 431 N. S. S/cater 46 Richard Grant White 697 Richard T. Ely 207 277 Katherine Carrin,,ton 412 Richard Grant White 401 567 418 J. Brander Matthews 678 860 Elizabeth Stuart Phelps . 56, 145, 305, 490, 666, 536 Grant Allen 371 575 36 717 707 . . 126 109 Octave Thanet 749 Fanny Albert Doughty . . . . 262 558 Samuel Parsons, Jr 690 Richard Grant White 252 103 N. H. House 610 Julius H. Ward 526 362 Charles Egbert Graddock . . . . 737 119 Henry James,Jr. . . 1,176,335,449, 623, 800 280 130 866 288 Richard Grant Wh,te 95 Thomas Bailey Aldrich . . 29 John Fiske 75 Walter H. Page 648 .1 285 Edith Thomas 764 H. D. Lloyd 317 Harriet W. Preston 65 John Burroughs 844 425 290 iv Contents. Tragedy, French Voltaires School Days Waterloo, Who lost War, The End of the War-Ships and Navies Washington, Reminiscences of Whittiers Kings Missive, and other Recent Poetry Wives of Poets The Zolas Essays Richard Grasst White James ParSon. John C. Ropes Theodore Bacon William M. Rossetti 827 507 785 391 423 234, 535, 658 855 55, 155, 382, 518 116 POETRY. Arachne, Rose Terry Cooke 334 Before Dawn, Maurice Thompson 351 Chance 826 Chaucer, Ye Tombs of ye Poet, Edmund Clarence Stedman 27 Concerning Dead Love, Rose Terry Cooke . . . 477 Demeters Search,~ Edith Thomas 696 Felicissima, Eliza Calrert Hall 784 Her Ghost, Louise Chandler Moulton 525 Long Dream, The, Will Wallace Homey . . . . 105 Longing of Circe, The, Cameron Mann . . . . 489 Night on the Ocklawaha C E S Rabbi Ishmasi, John Greenleaf Whittier Rising of the Curtain, The, Henry A. Beers Secrets, Ella lVheeler Seven Days, The, Frances L. Mace Sonnet, Frances M. Brown Three Sonnets: I. Nativity; II. Circumstances; Ill. Providence, J. T. Trowirids~e Within the Gate, John Greenleaf Whittier Wizard Poet, The, S. V. Cole Auf Wiedersehen: In Memory of J. T. F. CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. A Character, 433; A Chinese Novel, 725; A Ladys Club, 298; A Memorable Chance of Travel, 133; An Amer ican Accent on Surnames, 299; An Americanism in Job, 134; An Injustice to Mr. White, 581; An Insincere Word, 728; Another Town-Crier Unearthed, 872; A Question in the Catechism, 872; A Sailors Sweetheart, 445; A Story of Ancient Egyptian Life, 589; A Town Furnace, 438; Bad Rhymes of Mrs. Drowning, 584; ]lernhardts Want of Dramatic Instinct, 580; Brookes Shelley, 441; Carlyle among Philistines, 721; Car- lyles Eye for Number One, 720; Certain Detestable Words, 137; Chromo-Proselytiom, 135; Confusion of Hes, 578; Correct Accent, 732; Curse of Cheap Libraries, 585; Education of Women in the Renaissance, 722; Enemies of Books, 586; English Hospitality, 140; Epitaph on Erotion, 873; Fiskes Lectures, 583; French Original of Lucile, 136; George Eliots Dramatic Art, 724; Household Art School of Poetry, 720; How the Jackknife came by its Name, 584; Improvements in English Manners, 444; Inborn Wickedness of Blondes, 137; Japanese Poets, 731; Known and Unknown in Magazine Work, 581; Labiches Admission to the Acad emy, 729; Lack of American Philosophers, 442; Maple-Seed, A Fantasy, 727; Mr. James and the London Spectator, 871; Need of Financial Education for Women, 138; Old Wives and Young husbands, 138; On a Certain Remark of Mr. Thackerays, 725; One Left, 732; Origin of some Western Names, 733; Owen Merediths Plagiarisms, 577; Points of Mademoiselle Bernhardts Acting, 296; Q. P. Index, The Readers Friend, 294; Realism in Art, 730; Revival of Quakerism, 440; Shakespeare a Racker of Orthography, 438; Shirlaws Pict- ures, 295; Slipshod Style of Endymion, 445; Some Memories of Aliston, 292; Style in Literature, 443; Tauchnitzs Liberality, 141; The First Advocate of Womans Rights, 868; The Head of Medusa, 587; Cses of Stupid People, 587; Vice of Confidential Comment, 585; Vulgar Abuse of Flowers, 578. Boosts or rust MoNrn 141, 300, 446, 589, 734, 873 165 609 206 547 359 537 647 84 250 876

Henry James, Jr. James, Henry, Jr. The Portrait of a Lady 1-27

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: a ~1a~saPne of Uterature, ~ci~nce, art, auI~ ~ohiti~. VOL. XL TAIL JANUARY, 1881. No. CCLXXIX. THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. XI. RALPH took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words, even when Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the per- sonal note most strongly. He bethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneous organisms, and that he, for his own part, was too per- verted a representative of human nat- ure to have a right to deal with her in strict reciprocity. He carried out his re- solve with a great deal of tact, and the young lady found in her relations with him no obstacle to the exercise of that somewhat aggressive frankness which was the social expression of her nature. Her situation at Gardencourt, therefore, appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel, and full of appreciation her- self of that fine freedom of composition which to her sense rendered Isabels character a sister spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr. Touchett, whose general tone, as she said, met with her full approval, her situation at Garden- court would have been perfectly com- fortable, had she not conceived an ir- resistible mistrust of the little lady to whom she had at first supposed herself obliged to pay a certain deference as mistress of the house. But she pres- ently discovered that this obligation was of the lightest, and thab Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole behaved. Mrs. Touchett had spoken of her to Isabel as a newspaper-woman, and expressed surprise at her nieces hav- ing selected such a friend; but she had immediately added that she knew Isa- bels friends were her own affair, and that she never undertook to like them all, or to restrict the girl to t~Jiose she liked. If you could see none but the peo- ple I like, my dear, you would have a very small society, Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; and I dont think I like any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When it comes to recommending, it is a serious affair. I dont like Miss Stackpole, I dont like her tone. She talks too loud, and she looks at one too hard. I am sure she has lived all her life in a boarding- house, and I detest the style of manners that such a way of living produces. If you ask me if I prefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I will tell you that I prefer them immense ly. Miss Stackpole knows that I detest boarding-house civilization, and she de- tests me for detesting it, because she thinks it is the highest in the world. She would like Gardencourt a great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almost too much of one! We shall never get on together, therefore, and there is no use trying. Copyright, 1880, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co. 2 The Portrait of a Lady. [January, Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her, but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after Miss Stack- poles arrival she had made some in- vidious reflections on American hotels which excited a vein of counter-argu- inent on the part of the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of her profession had acquired a large familiarity with the technical hospitality of her country. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels were the best in the world, and Mrs.. Touchett recorded a conviction that they were the worst. Ralph, with his experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healing the breach, that the truth lay between the two extremes, and that the establish- ments in question ought to be described as fair middling. This contribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stack- pole rejected with. scorn. Middling, in- deed! If they were not the best in the world, they were the worst, but there was nothing middling about an Amer- ican hotel. We judge from different points of view, evidently, said Mrs. Touchett. I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a party. I dont know what you mean, Hen- rietta replied. I like to be treated as an American lady. Poor American ladies! cried Mrs. Touchett, with a laugh. They are the slaves of slaves. They are the companions of free- men, Henrietta rejoined. They are the companions of their servants, the Irish chambermaid and the negro waiter. They share their work. Do you call the domestics in an American household slaves? Miss Stackpole inquired. If that s the way you desire to treat them, no wonder you dont like America. If you have not good servants, you are miserable, Mrs. Touchett said, so- renely. They are very bad in Amer- ica, but I have five perfect ones in Flor- ence. I dont see what you want with five, Henrietta could not help observing. I dont think I should like to see five per- sons surrounding me in that menial po- sition. I like them in that position better than in some others, cried Mrs. Touch- ett, with a laugh. Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear? her husband asked. I dont think I should; you would make a very poor butler. The companions of freemen, I like that, Miss Stackpole, said Ralph. It s a beautiful description. When I said freemen, I did nt mean you, sir! And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss Stackpole was baffled. She evidently thought there was something treason- able in Mrs. Touchetts appreciation of a class which she privately suspected of beiug a mysterious survival of feudal- ism. It was perhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered some days to elapse before she said to Isabel, in the morning, while they were alone together, My dear friend, I wonder whether you are growing faithless! Faithless? Faithless to you, Hen- rietta? No, that would be a great pain; but it is not that. Faithless to my country, then? Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool, I said I had something particular to tell you. You have never asked me what it is. Is it because you have suspect- Suspected what? As a rule, I dont think I suspect, said Isabel. I re- member now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had forgotten it. What have you to tell me? 1881.1 The Portrait of a Lady. 3 Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed her. You dont ask that right, as if you thought it important. You are changed, you are thinking of other things. Tell me what you mean, and I will think of that. Will you really think of it? That is what I wish to be sure of. I have not much control of my thoughts, but I will do my best, said Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her in silence for a period of time which tried Isabels patience, so that our heroine said at last, Do you mean that you are going to be married? Not till I have seen Europe! said Miss Stackpole. What are you laugh- ing at? she went on. What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in the steamer with me. Ah! Isabel exclaimed quickly. You say right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come after you! Did he tell you so No, he told me nothing; thatshow I knew it, said Henrietta, cleverly. He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good deal. Isabel was silent a moment. At the mention of Mr. Goodwoods name she had colored a little, and now her blush was slowly fading. I am very sorry you did that, she observed at last. It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; he drank it all in. What did you say about me? Isa- bel asked. I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know. I am very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he ought not to be encouraged. He is dying for a little encourage- ment. I see his face now, and his ear- nest, absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look so hand- some! lIe is very simple - minded, said Isabel. And he is not so ugly. There is nothing so simple as a great passion. It is not a great passion; I am very sure it is ndt that. You dont say that as if you were sure. Isabel gave rather a cold smile. I shall say it better to Mr. Good- wood himself! He will soon give you a chance, said henrietta. Isabel offered no answer to this as- sertion, which her companion made with an air of great confidence. He will find you changed, the lat- ter pursued. You have been affected by your new surroundings. Very likely. Jam affected by every- thino~ By everything but Mr. Goodwood! Miss Stackpole exclaimed, with a laugh. Isabel failed even to smile in reply; and in a moment she said, Did he ask you to speak to me? Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it, and his hand-shake, when he bade me good-by. Thank you for doing so. And Isabel turned away. Yes, you are changed; you have got new ideas over here, her friend continued. I hope so, said Isabel ; one should get as many new ideas as possible. Yes, but they should nt interfere with the old ones.~~ Isabel turned about again. If you mean that I had any idea with regard to Mr. Goodwood And then she paused; Henriettas bright eyes seemed to her to grow enormous. My dear child, you certainly en- couraged him, said Miss Stackpole. 4 like Portrait Isabel appeared for the moment to be on the point of denying this charge, but instead of this she presently an- swered, It is very true; I did en- courage him. And then she inquired whether her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood what he intended to do. This inquiry was a concession to curi- osity, for she did not enjoy discussing the gentleman with Henrietta Stackpole, and she thought that in her treatment of the subject this faithful friend lacked delicacy. I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing, Miss Stackpole answered. But I dont believe that; he s not a man to do nothing. He is a man of action. Whatever happens to him, he will always do something, and what- ever he does will be right. I quite believe that, said Isabel. Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy; but it touched the girl, all the same, to hear this rich assertion made. Ah, you do care for him, Henrietta murmured. Whatever he does will be right, Isabel repeated. When a man is of that supernatural mould, what does it matter to him whether one cares for him? It may not matter to him, but it matters to some ones self. Ah, what it matters to me, that is not what we are discussing, said Isabel, smiling a little. This time her companion was grave. Well, I dont care; you have changed, she replied. You are not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr. Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day. I hope lie will hate me, then, said Isabel. I believe that you hope it about as much as I believe that he is capable of it! To this observation our heroine made no rejoinder; she was absorbed in the feeling of alarm given her by Henri- of a Lady. [January, ettas intimation that Caspar Goodwood would present himself at Gardencourt. Alarm is perhaps a violent term to ap- ply to the uneasiness with which she regarded this contingency; but her un- easiness was keen, and there were vari- ous good reasons for it. She pretended to herself that she thought the event im- possible, and, later, she communicated her disbelief to her friend; but for the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless, she stood prepared to hear the young mans name announced. The feeling was op- pressive ; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a change of weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so agreeable during Isabels stay at Gardencourt that any change would be for the worse. Her suspense, how- ever, was dissipated on the second day. She had walked into the park, in com- pany with the sociable Bunchie, and after strolling about for some time, in a manner at once listless and restless, had seated herself on a garden bench, within sight of the house, beneath a spreading beech, where, in a white dress ornamented with black ribbons, she formed, among the flickering shadows, a very graceful and harmonious image. She entertained herself for some mo- ments with talking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an owner- ship divided with her cousin had been applied as impartially as possible, as impartially as Bunchies own somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies would allow. But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion, of the finite character of Bunchies intellect; hitherto she had been mainly struck with its ex- tent. It seemed to her at last that she would do well to take a book; formerly, when she felt heavy-hearted, she had been able, with the help of some well- chosen volume, to transfer the seat of consciousness to the organ of pure rea- son. Of late, however, it was not to be denied, literature had a less absorb- ing force, and even after she had re 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 5 minded herself that her uncles library was provided with a complete set of those authors which no gentlemans col- lection should be without, she sat mo- tionless and empty-handed, with her eyes fixed upon the cool green turf of the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by the arrival of a servant, who handed her a letter. The letter bore the London postmark, and was ad- dressed in a hand that she knew, that she seemed to know all the better, indeed, as the writer had been present to her mind when the letter was de- livered. This document proved to be .short, and I may give it entire Mv DEAR Miss ARCHER, I dont know whether you will have heard of my coming to England, but even if you have not, it will scarcely be a surprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal at Albany, three month ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it. You in fact ap- peared to accept my protest, and to nd- mit that I had the right on my side. I had come to see you with the hope that you would let me bring you over to my conviction; my reasons for entertaining this hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed, and you were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted that you were unreasonable, and it was the only concession you would make; but it was a very cheap one, because you are not unreasonable. No, you are not, and you never will be. Therefore it is that I believe you will let me see you again. You told me that I am not disagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I dont see why that should be. I shall always think of you. I shall never think of any one else. I came to England sim- ply because you are here. I could nt stay at home after you had gone; I hated the country because you were not in it. If I like this one at present, it is only because yon are here. I have been to England before, but I have never en- joyed it much. May I not come and see you for half an hour? This at pres- ent is the dearest wish of, yours faith fully, CASPAR GooDwooD. Isabel read Mr. Goodwoods letter with such profound attention that she had not perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however, as she mechanically folded the paper, she saw Lord Warburton standing be- fore her. XII. She put the letter into her pocket, and offered her visitor a smile of wel- come, exhibiting no trace of discom- posure, and half surprised at her self- possession. They told me you were out here,~~ said Lord Warburton; and as there was no one in the drawing-room, and it is really you that I wish to see, I came out with no more ado. Isahel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that he should not sit down beside her. I was just going in-doors, she said. Please dont do that; it is much pleasanter here. I have ridden over from Lockleigh. It s a lovely day. His smile was peculiarly friendly and pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emit that radiance of good feeling and well-being which had formed the charm of the girls first impression of him. It surrounded him like a zone of fine June weather. We will walk about a little, then, said Isabel, who could not divest herself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visitor, and who wished both to elude the intention a~d to satisfy her curiosity regarding it. It had flashed upon her vision once before, and it had given her on that occasion, as we know, a certain alarm. This alarm was com- posed of several elements, not all of 6 The Portrait of a Lad~y. [January, which were disagreeable; she had, in- deed, spent some days in analyzing them, and had succeeded in separating the pleasant part of this idea of Lord War- burtons making love to her from the painful. It may appear to some readers that the young lady was both precipitate and unduly fastidious; but the latter of these facts, if the charge be true, may serve to exonerate her from the discredit of the former. She was not eager to convince herself that a territorial mag- nate, as she had heard Lord Warburton called, was smitten with her charms; because a declaration from such a source would arouse more questions than it would answer. She had received a strong impression of Lord Warburton~s being a personage, and she had occupied herself in examining the idea. At the risk of making the reader smile, it must be said that there had been moments when the intimation that she was ad- mired by a personage struck her as an aggression which she would rather have been spared. She had never known a personage before; there were no per- sonages in her native land. When she had thought of such matters as this, she had done so on the basis of character, of what one liked in a gentlemans mind and in his talk. She herself was a char- acter, she could not help being aware of that; and hitherto her visions of a completed life had concerned themselves largely with moral images, things as to which the question would be whether they pleased her soul. Lord Warburton loomed up before her, largely and bright- ly, as a collection of attributes and pow- ers which were not to be measured by this simple rule, but which demanded a different sort of appreciation, an ap- preciation which the girl, with her habit of judging quickly and freely, felt that she lacked the patience to bestow. Of course, there would be a short cut to it, and as Lord Warburton was evidently a very fine fellow it would probably also be a safe cut. Isabel was able to say all this to herself, but she was unable to feel the force of it. What she felt was that a territorial, a political, a social magnate had conceived the design of drawing her into the system in which he lived and moved. A certain instinct, not imperious, but persuasive, told her to resist, it murmured to her that vir- tually she had a system and an orbit of her own. It told her other things be- sides, things which both contradicted and confirmed each other: that a girl might do much worse than trust herself to such a man as Lord Warburton, and that it would be very interesting to see something of his system from his own point of view; that, on the other hand, however, there was evidently a great deal of it which she should regard only as an incumbrance, and that even in the whole there was something heavy and rigid which would make it unacceptable. Furthermore, there was a your~ g man lately come from America who had no system at all, but who had a character of which it was useless for her to try to persuade herself that the impression on her mind had been light. The letter that she carried in her pocket sufficiently reminded her of the contrary. Smile not, however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young lady from Albany, who debated whether she should accept a brilliant English viscount before he had offered himself, and who was dis- posed to believe that on the whole she could do better. She was a person of great good faith, and if there was a great deal of folly in her wisdom, those who judge her severely may have the satis- faction of finding that, later, she became consistently wise only at the cost of an amount of folly which will constitute al- most a direct appeal to charity. Lord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit, or to do anything that Isabel should propose, and he gave her this assurance with his usual air of be- ing particularly pleased to exercise a social virtue. But he was, nevertheless, 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. not in command of his emotions, and as he strolled beside her for a moment in silence, looking at her without letting her know it, there was something em- barras~ed in his glance and his misdirect- ed laughter. Yes, assuredly, as we have touched on the point, we may re- turn to it for a moment again, the English are the most romantic people in the world, and Lord Warburton was about to give an example of it. He was about to take a step which would aston- ish all his friends and displease a great many of them, and which, superficially, had nothing to recommend it. The young lady who trod the turf beside him had come from a queer country across the sea, which he knew a good deal about; her antecedents, her associations, were very vague to his mind, except in so far as they were generic, and in this sense they occurred to him with a cer- taii~ vividness. Miss Archer had neither a fortune nor the sort of beauty that justifies a man to the multitude, and he calculated that he had spent about twen- ty-six hours in her company. He had summed up all this, the perversity of the impulse, which had declined to avail itself of the most liberal opportunities to subside, and the judgment of mankind, as exemplified particularly in the more quickly-judging half of it; he had looked these things well in the face, and then he had dismissed them from his thoughts. He cared no more for them than for the rosebud in his button-hole. It is the good fortune of a man who for the great- er part of a life-time has abstained with- out effort from making himself disagree- able to his friends that, when the need comes for such a course, it is not discred- ited by irritating associations. I hope you had a pleasant ride, said Isabel, who observed her compan- ion~ s hesitancy. It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that it brought me here, Lord Warburton answered. Are you so fond of Gardencourt? the girl asked, more and more sure that he meant to make some demand of her; wishing not to challenge him if he hesi- tated, and yet to keep all the quietness of her reason if he proceeded. It sud- denly came upon her that her situation was one which a few weeks ago she would have deemed deeply romantic: the park of an old English country- house, with the foreground embellished by a local nobleman in the act of mak- ing love to a young lady who, on care- ful inspection, should be found to pre- sent remarkable analogies with herself. But if she were now the heroine of the situation, she succeeded scarcely the less in looking at it from the outcide. I care nothing for Gardencourt, said Lord Warburton. I care only for you. You have known me too short a time to have a right to say that, and I cannot believe you are serious. These words of Isabels were not per- fectly sincere, for she had no doubt whatever that he was serious. They were simply a tribute to the fact, of which she was perfectly aware, that those he himself had just uttered would have excited surprise on the part of the public at large. And, moreover, if any- thing beside the sense she had already acquired that Lord Warburton was not a frivolous person had been needed to convince her, the tone in which he re- plied to her would quite have served the purpose. Ones right in such a matter is not measured by the time, Miss Archer; it is measured by the feeling itself. If I were to wait three months, it would make no difference; I should not be more sure of what I mean than I am to-day. Of course I have seen you very little; but my impression dates from the very first hour we met. I lost no time; I fell in love with you then. It was at first sight, as the novels say; I know now that it is not a fancy phrase, and I shall think better of novels forever- 8 The Portrait of a Lady. [January, more. Those two days I spent here settled it. I dont know whether you suspected I was doing so, but I paid mentally speaking, I mean the great- est possible attention to you. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was lost upon me. When you came to Lockleigh, the other day, or rather when you went away, I was perfectly sure. Never- theless, I made up my mind to think it over, and to question myself narrowly. I have done so; all these days I have thought of nothing else. I dont make mistakes about such things; I am a very judicious fellow. I dont go off easily, but when I am touched it s for life. Its for life, Miss Archer, it s for life, Lord Warburton repeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice Isabel had ever heard, and looking at her with eyes that shone with the light of a passion that had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion, the heat, the violence, the unreason, and which burned as steadily as a lamp in a wind- less place. By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more slowly, and at last they stopped, and he took her hand. Ah, Lord Warburton, how little you know me! Isabel said, very gently; gently, too, she drew her hand away. Dont taunt me with that: that I dont know you better makes me unhap- py enough already; it s all my loss. But that is what I want, and it seems to me I am taking the best way. If you will be my wife, then I shall know you, and when I tell you all the good I think of you, you will not be able to say it is from ignorance.~~ If you know me little, I know you even less, said Isabel. You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on acquaintance? Ah, of course, that is very possible. But think, to speak to you as I do, how de- termined I must be to try and give sat- isfaction! You do like me, rather, dont you? I like you very much, Lord War- burton, the girl answered; and at this moment she liked him immensely. I thank you for saying that; it shows you dont regard me as a stranger. I really believe I have filled all the other relations of life very creditably, and I dont see why I should not fill this one, in which I offer myself to you, seeing that I care so much more about it. Ask the people who know me well; I have friends who will speak for me. I dont need the recommendations of your friends, said Isabel. Ah, now, that is delightful of you. You believe in me yourself. Completely, Isabel declared; and it was the truth. The light in her companions eyes turned into a smile, and he gave a long murmur of satisfaction. If you are mistaken, Miss Archer, let me lose all I possess ! She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was rich, and, on the instant, felt sure that he did not. He was sinking that, as he would have said himself; and indeed he might safe- ly leave it to the memory of any inter- locutor, especially of one to whom he was offering his hand. Isabel had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind was tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what it was best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism. What she should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wish was to say something as nearly as possible as kind as what he had said to her. His words had carried perfect conviction with them; she felt that he loved her. I thank you more than I can say for your offer, she rejoined at last; it does me great honor. Ah, dont say that! Lord War- burton broke out. I was afraid you would say something like that. I dont see what you have to do with that sort 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 9 of thing. I dont see why you should thank rue; it is I who ought to thank you, for listening to me, a man whom you know so little, coining down on you with such a thumping demand. Of course its a great question; I must tell you that I would rather ask it than have it to answer myself. But the way you have listened or at least your having listened at all gives me some hope. Dont hope too much, Isabel said. Oh, Miss Archer! her companion murmured, smiling again in his serious- ness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the play of high spirits, the coquetry of elation. Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope at all? Isabel asked. Surprised? I dont know what you mean by surprise. It would nt be that; it would be a feeling very much worse. Isabel walked on again; she was si- lent for some minutes. Jam very sure that, highly as I al- ready think of you, my opinion of you, if I should know you well, would only rise. But I am by no means sure that you would not be disappointed. And I say that not in the least out of conven- tional modesty; it is perfectly sincere. I am willing to risk it, Miss Archer, her compani& n answered. It s a great question, as you say; it s a very difficult question. I dont expect you, of course, to an- swer it outright. Think it over as long as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting, I will gladly wait a long time. Only remember that in the end my dear- est happiness depends upon your an- swer. I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense, said Isabel. Oh, dont mind. I would much rather have a good answer six months hence than a bad one to-day. But it is very probable that even six months hence I should not be able to give you one that you would think good. Why not, since you really like me? Ah, you must never doubt of that, said Isabel. Well, then, I dont see what more you ask! It is not what I ask; it is what I can give. I dont think I should suit you; I really dont think I should. You need nt bother about that; that s my affair. You need nt be a better royalist than the kino It is not only that, said Isabel but I am not sure I wish to marry any one. Very likely you dont. I have no doubt a great many women begin that way, said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the least believe in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. But they are frequently persuaded. Ah, that is because they want to be! And Isabel lightly laughed. Tier suitors countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in silence. Im afraid its my being an Eng- lishman that makes you hesitate, he said, presently. I know your uncle thinks you ought to marry in your own country. Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest. It had never occurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her matrimonial prospects with Lord Warburton. Has he told you that? she asked. I remember his making the remark; he spoke, perhaps, of Americans gener- ally. lie appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in England, said Isabel, in a manner that might have seemed a little perverse, but which expressed both her constant perception of her uncles picturesque circumstances and her general disposition to elude any obligation to take a restricted view. 10 The Portrait of a Lad1i. [January, It gave her companion hope, and he immediately exclaimed, warmly, Ah, my dear Miss Archer, old Eng- land is a very good sort of country, you know! And it will be still better when we have furbished it up a little. Oh, dont furbish it, Lord Warbur- ton; leave it alone I like it this way. Well, then, if you like it, I am more and more unable to see your ob- jection to what I propose. I am afraid I cant make you un- derstand. You ought at least to try; I have got a fair intelligence. Are you afraid afraid of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, you know. You can pick out your climate, the whole world over! These words were uttered with a ten- der eagerness which went to Isabels heart, and she would have given her little finger at that moment to feel, strongly and simply, the impulse to an- swer, Lord Warburton, it is impossi- ble for a woman to do better in this world than to commit herself to your loyalty. But though she could con- ceive the impulse, she could not let it operate; her imagination was charmed, but it was not led captive. What she finally bethought herself of saying was something very different, something which altogether deferred the need of answering: Dout think me unkind if I ask you to say no more about this to- day. Certainly, certainly! cried Lord Warburton. I would nt pain you for the world. You have given me a great deal to think about, and I promise you I will do it justice. That s all I ask of you, of course, and that you will remember that my happiness is in your hands. Isabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, but she said after a minute, I must tell you that what I shall think about is some way of letting you know that what von ask is impossi- ble, without making you miserable. There is no way to do that, Miss Archer. I wont say that, if you refuse me, you will kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall do worse: I shall live to no purpose. You will live to marry a better womaii than I. Dont say that, please, said Lord ~Tarbnrton, very gravely. That is fair to neither of us. To marry a worse one, then. If there are better women than you, then I prefer the bad ones; that s all I can say! he went on, with the same gravity. There is no account- ing for tastes. His gravity made her feel equally grave, and she attested it by again re- questing him to drop the subject for the present. I will speak to you myself, very soon, she said. Perhaps I will write to you. At your convenience, yes, be an- swered. Whatever time you take, it must seem to me long, and I suppose I must make the best of that. I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind a little. He gave a melancholy sigh, and stood looking at her a moment, with his hands behind him, giving short, nervous shakes to his hunting-whip. Do you know I am very much afraid of it of that mind of yours? Our heroines biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question made her start, and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She returned his look a moment, and then, with a note in her voice that might almost have appealed to his compassion, So am I, my lord! she exclaimed. His compassion was not stirred, how- ever; all that he possessed of the facul- ty of pity was needed at home. Ali! be merciful, be merciful ! he murmured. I think you had better go, said Isabel. I will write to you. 1881.] The Portrait of a Lad~~. 11 Very good; but whatever you write, I will come and see you. And then he stood reflecting, with his eyes fixed on the observant countenance of Bunchie, who had the air of having understood all that had been said, and of pretend- ing to carry off the indiscretion by a stimulated fit of curiosity as to the roots of an ancient heech. There is one thing more, said Lord Warburton. You know, if you dont like Lockleigh, if you think its damp, or anything of that sort, you need never go within fifty miles of it. It is not damp, by the way; I have had the house thoroughly examined; it is perfectly sanitary. But if you should nt fancy it, you need nt dream of living in it. There is no diffi- culty whatever about that; there are plenty of houses. I thought I would just mention it; some people dont like a moat, you know. Good-by. I delight in a moat, said Isabel. Good-by. He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment, a moment long enough for him to bend his head and kiss it. Then, shaking his hunting-whip with little quick strokes, he walked rapidly away. He was evidently much excited. Isabel herself was excited, but she was not agitated, as she would have ex- pected beforehand to be. What she felt was not a great responsibility, a great difficulty of choice; for it appeared to her that there was no choice in the question. She could not marry Lord Warburton; the idea failed to corre- spond to any vision of happiness that she had hitherto entertained, or was now capable of entertaining. She must write this to him, she must convince him, and this duty was comparatively simple. But what excited her, in the sense that it struck her with wonderment, was this very fact that it cost her so little to re- fuse a great opportunity. With what- ever qualifications one would, Lord War- burton had offered her a great oppor- tunity; the situation might have dis comforts, might contain elements that would displease her, but she did her sex no injustice in believing that nineteen women out of twenty would accommo- date themselves to it with extreme zeal. Why, then, upon her also should it not impose itself? Who was she, what was she, that she should hold herself supe- rior? What view of life, what design upon fate, what conception of happiness, had she that pretended to he larger than this large occasion? If she would not do this, then she must do great things, she must do something greater. Poor Isabel found occasion to remind herself from time to time that she must not be too proud, and nothing could be more sincere than her prayer to be delivered from such a danger; for the isolation and loneliness of pride had for her mind the horror of a desert place. If it were pride that interfered with her accepting Lord Warburton, it was singularly mis- placed; and she was so conscious of lik- ing him that she ventured to assure her- self it was not. She liked him toQ much to marry him, that was the point; something told her that she should not be satisfied, and to inflict upon a man who offered so much a wife with a tend- ency to criticise would be a peculiarly discreditable act. She had promised him that she would consider his pro- posal, and when, after he had left her, she wandered back to the bench where he had found her, and lost herself in meditation, it might have seemed that she was keeping her word. But this was not the case; she was wondering whether she were not a cold, hard girl; and when at last she got up and rather quickly went back to the house it was because, as she had said to Lord War- burton, she was really frightened at herself. XIII. It was this feeling, and not the wish to ask advice, she had no desire what- 12 The Portrait of a Lady. [January, ever for that, that led her to speak to her uncle of what Lord Warburton had said to her. She wished to speak to some one; she should feel more natural, more human; and her uncle, for this purpose, presented himself in a more attractive light than either her aunt or her friend Henrietta. Her cousin, of course, was a possible confidant; but it would have been disagreeable to her to confide this particular matter to Ralph. So, the next day, after breakfast, she sought her occasion. Her uncle never left his apartment till the afternoon; but he received his cronies, as he said, in his dressing-room. Isabel had quite taken her place in the class so desig- nated, which, for the rest, included the old mans son, his physician, his per- sonal servant, and even Miss Stackpole. Mrs. Touchett did not figure in the list, and this was an obstacle the less to Isa- bels finding her uncle alone. He sat in a complicated mechanical chair, at the open window of his room, looking west- ward over the park and the river, with his newspapers and letters piled up be- side him, his toilet freshly and minutely made, and his smooth, fine face com- posed to benevolent expectation. Isabel approached her point very di- rectly: I think I ought to let you know that Lord Warburton has asked me to marry him. I suppose I ought to tell my aunt; but it seems best to tell you first. The old man expressed no surprise, but thanked her for the confidence she showed him. Do you mind telling me whether you accepted him? he added. I have not answered him definitely, yet; I have taken a little time to think of it, because that seems more respect- ful. But I shall not accept him. Mr. Touchett made no comment upon this; lie had the air of thinking that, whatever interest he rni~ht take in the matter from the point of view of sod- ability, he had no active voice in it, Well, I told you you would be a suc- cess over here. Americans are highly appreciated. Very highly indeed, said Isabel. But at the cost of seeming ungrateful, I dont think I can marry Lord War- burton. Well, her uncle went on, of course an old man cant judge for a young lady. I am glad you did nt ask me before you made up your mind. I suppose I ought to tell you, he added slowly, but as if it were not of much consequence, that I have known all about it these three days. About Lord Warburtons state of mind? About his intentions, as they say here. He wrote me a very pleasant let- ter, telling me all about them. Should you like to see it? the old man asked, obligingly. Thank you; I dont think I care about that. But I am glad he wrote to you; 5t was right that be should, and he would be certain to do what was right. Ah, well, I guess you do like him! Mr. rrouchett declared. You need nt pretend you dont. I like him extremely; I am very free to admit that. But I dont wish to marry any one just now. You think some one may come along whom you may like better. Well, thats very likely, said Mr. Touchett, who appeared to wish to show his kindness to the girl by easing off her decision, as it were, and finding cheerful reasons for it. I dont care if I dont meet any one else; I I ke Lord Warhurton quite well enough, said Isabel, with that appear~ ance of a sudden change of point of view with which she sometimes startled and even displensed her interlocutors. Her uncle, however, seemed proot against either of these sensations. He s a very fine man, he resumed, in a tone which might have passed for 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 13 that of encouragement. His letter was one of the pleasantest letters I have re- ceived in some weeks. I suppose one of the reasons I liked it was that it was all about you; that is, all except the part which was about himself. I sup- pose he told you all that. He would have told me everything I wished to ask him, Isabel said. But you did nt feel curious? My curiosity would have been idle, once I had determined to decline his offer. You did nt find it sufficiently at- tractive? Mr. Touchett inquired. The girl was silent a moment. I suppose it was that, she present- ly admitted. But I dont know why. Fortunately, ladies are not obliged to give reasons, said her uncle. There is a great deal that s attractive about such an idea; but I dont see why the English should want to entice us away from our native land. 1 know that we try to attract them over there; but that is because our population is insufficient. Here, you know, they are rather crowd- ed. However, I suppose there is room for charming young ladies everywhere. There seems to have been room here for you, said Isabel, whose eyes had been wandering over the large pleasure-spaces of the park. Mr. Touchett gave a shrewd, con- scious smile. There is room everywhere, my dear, if you will pay for it. I sometimes think I have paid too much for this. Per- haps you also might have to pay too much. Perhaps I might, the girl replied. This suggestion gave her something more definite to rest upon than she had found in her own thoughts, and the fact of her uncles genial shrewdness being associated with her dilemma seemed to prove to her that she was concerned with the natural and reasonable emo- tions of life, and not altogether a victim to intellectual eagerness and vague am- bitions, ambitions reacbingbeyond the copious honors of Lord Warburtons pe- tition to something indefinable and pos- sibly not commendable. In so far as the indefinable had an influence upon Isabels behavior at this juncture, it was not the conception, however unformulat- ed, of a union with Caspar Goodwood; for, however little she might have felt warranted in lending a receptive ear to her En lish suitor, she was at least as far removed from the disposition to let the young man from Boston take com- plete possession of her. The sentiment in which she ultimately took refuge, after reading his letter, was a suppressed irritation at his having come abroad; for it was part of the influence he had upon her that he seemed to take from her the sense of freedom. There was something too sensible, something op- pressive and restrictive, in the manner in which he presented himself. She had been haunted at moments by the image of his disapproval, and she had won- dered a consideration she had never paid in an equal degree to any one else whether he would like what she did. The difficulty was that more than any man she had ever known, more than poor Lord Warburton (she had begun now to give his lordship the benefit of this epithet), Caspar Goodwood gave her an impression of strength. She might like it or not, but at any rate there was something very firm about him; even in ones usual contact with him one had to reckon with it. The idea of a diminished liberty was particu- larly disagreeable to Isabel at present, because it seemed to her that she had just given a sort of personal accent to her independence by making up her mind to refuse Lord Warhurton. Some- times Caspar Goodwood had seemed to range himself on the side of her destiny, to be the stubbornest fact she knew; she said to herself at each moment that she might evade him for a time, bat that she must make terms with him at The Portrait of a Lady. last, terms which would be certain to be favorable to himself. Her impulse had been to avail herself of the things that helVed her to resist such an ob1i~a- tion; and this impulse had been much concerned in her eager acceptance of her aunts invitation, which had come to her at a time when she expected from day to day to see Mr. Goodwood, and when she was glad to have an answer ready for something she was sure he would say to her. When she had told him at Albany, on the evening of Mrs. Touchetts visit, that she could not now discuss difficult questions, because she was preoccupied with the idea of going to Europe with her aunt, he declared that this was no answer at all; and it was to obtain a better one that he fol- lowed her across the seas. To say to herself that he was a kind of fate was well enough for a fanciful young wom- an, who was able to take much for grant- ed in him; but the reader has a right to demand a description less metaphysical. lie was the son of a proprietor of certain well-known cotton-mills in Mas- sachusetts, a gentleman who had ac- cumulated a considerable fortune in the exercise of this industry. Caspar now managed the establishment, with a judg- ment and an energy which, in spite of keen competition and languid years, had kept its prosperity from dwindling. He had received the better part of his ed- ucation at Harvard University, where, however, he had gained more renown as a gymnast and an oarsman than as a votary of culture. Later, he had be- come reconciled to culture, and though he was still fond of sport he was capa- ble of showing an excellent understand- ing of other matters. He had a remark- able aptitude for mechanics, and had in- vented an imprQvement in the cotton- spinning process, which was now large- ly used and was known by his name. You might have seen his name in the papers in connection with this fruitful contrivance; assurance of which he had given to Isabel by showing her in the columns of the New York Interviewer an exhaustive article on the Goodwood Vatent.3 a~n artiole ttQt ~re te4h~ ~ii~ Stackpole, friendly as she had proved herself to his more sentimental interests. He had great talent for business, for administration, and for making people execute his purpose and carry out his views, for managing men, as the phrase was; and to give its complete value to this faculty he had an insatiable, an al- most fierce, ambition. It always struck people who knew him that he might do greater things than carry on a cotton- factory; there was nothing cottony about Caspar Goodwood, and his friends took for granted that he would not always content himself with that. He had once said to Isabel that, if the United States were only not such a confoundedly peace- ful nation, he would find his proper place in the army. He keenly regretted that the civil war should have terminated just as he had grown old enough to wear shoulder-straps, and was sure that if something of the same kind would only occur again he would make a display of striking military talent. It pleased Isa- bel to believe that he had the qualities of a famous captain, and she answered that, if it would help him along, she should nt object to a war, a speech which ranked among the three or four most encouraging ones he had elicited from her, and of which the value was not diminished by her subsequent regret at having said anything so heartless, in- asmuch as she never communicated this regret to him. She liked, at any rate, this idea of his being potentially a coin- mander of men, liked it much better than some other points in his character and appearance. She cared nothing about his cotton-mill, and the Goodwood patent left her imagination absolutely cold. She wished him not an inch less a man than he was; but she sometimes thought he would be rather nicer if he looked, for instance, a little different. 14 [January, 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 15 His jaw was too square and grim, and his figure too straight and stiff; these things suggested a want of easy adapta- bility to some of the occasions of life. Then she viewed with disfavor a habit he had of dressing always in the same manner. It was not, apparently, that he wore the same clothes continually, for, on the contrary, his garments had a way of looking rather too new. But they all seemed to be made of the same piece; the pattern, the cut, was in every case identical. She had reminded herself more than once that this was a frivolous objection to a man of Mr. Goodwood~s importance; and then she had amended the rebuke by saying that it would be a frivolous objection if she were in love with him. She was not in love with him, and therefore she might criticise his small defects as well as his great ones, which latter consisted in the col- lective reproach of his being too serious; or, rather, not of his being too serious, for one could never be that, but of his seeming so. Lie showed his serious- ness too simply, too artlessly; when one was alone with him he talked too much about the same subject, and when other people were present he talked too little about anything. And yet he was the strongest man she had ever known, and she believed that at bottom he was the cleverest. It was very strange; she was far from understanding the contra- dictions among her own impressions. Caspar Goodwood had never correspond- ed to her idea of a delightful person, and she supposed that this was why he was so unsatisfactory. When, however, Lord Warburton, who not only did cor- respond with it, but gave an extension to the term, appealed to her approval, she found herself still unsatisfied. it was certainly strange. Such incongruities were not a help to answering Mr. Goodwoods letter, and Isabel determined to leave it a while un- answered. If he had determined to persecute her, he must take the conse quences, foremost among which was his being left to perceix~e that she did not approve of his coming to Garden- court. She was already liable to the incursions of one suitor at this place, and, though it might be pleasant to .be appreciated in opposite quarters, Isabel had a personal shrinking from entertain- ing two lovers at once, even in a case where the entertainment should consist of dismissing them. She sent no answer to Mr. Goodwood; but at the end of three days she wrote to Lord Warbur- ton, and the letter belongs to our histo- ry. It ran as follows DEAR LORD WARBURTON, A great deal of careful reflection has not led me to change my mind about the suggestion you were so kind as to make me the other day. I do not find myself able to regard you in the light of a hus- band, or to regard your home your various homes in the light of my own. These things cannot be reasoned about, and I very earnestly entreat you not to return to the suhject we discussed so exhaustively. We see our lives from our own point of view; that is the privilege of the weakest and the humblest of us; and I shall never be able to see mine in the manner you proposed. Kindly let this suffice you, and do me the justice to believe that I have given your pro- posal the deeply respectful considera- tion it deserves. It is with this feeling of respect that I remain very truly yours, ISABEL ARCHER. While the author of this missive was making up her mind to dispatch it, Hen- rietta Stackpole formed a resolution which was accompanied by no hesitation. She invited Ralph Touchett to take a walk with her in the garden, and when he had assented with that alacrity which seemed constantly to testify to his high expectations she informed him that she had a favor to ask of him. it may be confided to the reader that at this infer- 16 The Portrait of a Lady. [January,~ mation the young man flinched; for we know that Miss Stackpole had struck him as indiscreet. The movement was unreasonable, however; for he had measured the limits of her discretion as little as he had explored its extent; and he made a very civil profession of the desire to serve her. lie was afraid of her, and he presently told her so. When you look at me in a certain way, he said, my knees knock to- gether, my faculties desert me; I am filled with trepidation, and I ask only for strength to execute your commands. You have a look which I have never en- countered in any woman. Well, Henrietta replied, good-hu- moredly, if I had not known before that you were trying to turn me into ridicule, I should know it now. Of course I am easy game, I was brought up with such different customs and ideas. I am not used to your arbitrary stand- ards, and I have never been spoken to in America as you have spoken to me. If a gentleman, conversing with me, over there, were to speak to me like that, I should nt know what to make of it. We take everything more naturally over there, and, after all, we are a great deal more simple. I admit that; I ant very simple myself. Of course, if you choose to laugh at me for that, you are very welcome; hut I think, on the whole, I would rather be myself than you. I am quite content to he myself; I dont want to change. There are plenty of people that appreciate me just as I am; it is true they are only Americans ! Hen- rietta had lately taken up the tone of helpless innocence and large concession. I want you to assist me a little, she went on. I dont care in the least whether I amuse you while you do so; or, rather, I am perfectly willing that your amusement should be your re- ward. I want you to help me about Isabel. Has she injured you? Ralph asked. If she had I should nt mind, and I should never tell you. What I am afraid of is that she will injure herself. I think that is very possible, said Ralph. His companion stopped in the garden walk, fixing on him a gaze which may perhaps have contained the quality that caused his knees to knock together. That, too, would amuse you, I sup- pose! The way you do say things! I never heard any one so indifferent. # To Isabel? Never in the world. Well, you are not ia love with her, I hope. How can that be, when I am in love with another? You are in love with yourself, that is the other! Miss Stackpole declared. Much good may it do you! But if you wish to be serious once in your life, here is a chance; and if you really care for your cousin here is an opportunity to prove it. I dont expect you to un- derstand her; that s too much to ask. But you need nt do that to grant my favor. I will supply the necessary in- telligence. I shall enjoy that immensely! Ralph exclaimed. I will be Caliban, and you shall be Ariel. You are not at all like Caliban, be- cause you are sophisticated, and Caliban was not. But I am not talking about imaginary characters; I am talking about Isabel. Isabel is intensely real. What I wish to tell you is that I find her fearfully changed. Since you came, do you mean? Since I came, and before 1 came. She is not the same as she was. As she was in America? Yes, in America. I suppose you know that she comes from there. She cant help it, but she does. Do you want to change her hack again? Of course I do; and I want you to help me. Ab, said Ralph, I am only Call- ban; I am not Prospero. 1881.1 The Portrait of a LacZ~. 17 You were Prospero enough to make her what she has become. You have acted on Isabel Archer since she came here, Mr. Touchett. I, my dear Miss Stackpole? Never in the world. Isabel Archer has acted on me, yes; she acts on every one. But I have been absolutely passive. You are too passive, then. You had better stir yourself, and be careful. Is- abel is changing every day; she is drift- ing away, right out to sea. I have watched her, and I can see it. She is not the bright American girl she was. She is taking different views, and turn- ing away from her old ideals. I want to save those ideals, Mr. Touchett, and that is where you come in! Not surely as an ideal ? Well, I hope not, Henrietta re- plied, promptly. I have got a fear in my heart that she is going to marry one of these Europeans, and I want to pre- vent it. Ah, I see! cried Ralph. And to prevent it you want me to step in and marry her? Not quite; that remedy would be as bad as the disease, for you are the typ- ical European from whom I wish to res- cue her. No; I wish you to take an in- terest in another person, a young man to whom she once gave great encourage- ment, and whom she now does nt seem to think good enough. He s a noble fellow and a very dear friend of mine, and I wish very much you would invite him to pay a visit here. Ralph was much puzzled by this ap- peal, and it is perhaps not to the credit of his purity of mind that he failed to look at it at first in the simplest light. It wore, to his eyes, a tortuous air; his fault was that he was not quite sure that anything in the world could really be as candid as this request of Miss Stack- poles appeared. That a young woman should demand that a gentleman whom she described as her very dear friend should be furnished with an opportunity VOL. XLVII. NO. 279. 2 to make himself agreeable to another young woman, whose attention had wan- dered, and whose charms were greater, this was an anomaly which for the moment challenged all his ingenuity of interpretation. To read between the lines was easier than to follow the text, and to suppose that Miss Stackpole wished the gentleman invited to Gar- dencourt on her own account was the sign not so much of a vulgar as of an embarrassed mind. Even from this venial act of vulgarity, however, Ralph was saved, and saved by a force that I can scarcely call anything less than in- spiration. With no more outward light on the subject than he already possessed, he suddenly acquired the conviction that it would be a sovereign injustice to the correspondent of the Interviewer to as- sign a dishonorable motive to any act of hers. This conviction passed into his mind with extreme rapidity; it was per- haps kindled by the pure radiance of the young ladys imperturbable gaze. He returned this gaze a moment, con- sciously resisting an inclination to frown, as one frowns in the presence of larger luminaries. Who is the gentleman you speak of? Mr. Caspar Goodwood, from Bos- ton. He has been extremely attentive to Isabel, just as devoted to her as he can live. He has followed her out here, and he is at present in London. I dont know his address, but I guess I can ob- tain it. I have never heard of him, said Ralph. Well, I suppose you have nt heard of every one. I dont believe he has ever heard of you; but that is no rea- son why Isabel should nt marry him. Ralph gave a little laugh. What a rage you have for marrying people! Do you remember how you wanted to marry me the oth& r day? I have got over that. You dont know how to take such ideas. Mr. Good- wood does, however; and that s what I 18 The Portrait of a LacI~~. [January, like about him. He s a splendid man and a perfect gentleman; and Isabel knows it. Is she very fond of him? If she is nt, she ought to be. He is simply wrapped up in her. And you wish me to ask him here, said Ralph, reflectively. It would be an act of true hospital- ity. Caspar Goodwood, Ralph contin- ued, it s rather a striking name. I dont care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel Jenkins, and I should say the same. He is the only man I have ever seen whom I think worthy of Isabel. You are a very devoted friend, said Ralph. Of course I am. If you say that to laugh at me, I dont care. I dont say it to laugh at you; I am very much struck with it. You are laughing worse than ever; but I advise you not to laugh at Mr. Goodwood. I assure you I am very serious; you ought to understand that, said Ralph. In a moment his companion under- stood it. I believe you are; now you are too serious. You are difficult to please. Oh, you are very serious indeed. You wont invite Mr. Goodwood. I dont know, said Ralph. I am capable of strange things. Tell me a little about Mr. Goodwood. What is he like? He is just the opposite of you. He is at the head of a cotton-factory, a very fine one.~~ Has he pleasant manners? asked Ralph. Splendid manners, in the Ameri- can style. Would he be an agreeable member of our little circle? I dont think he would care much about our little circle. He would con- centrate on Isabel. And how would my cousin like that? Very possibly, not at all. But it will be good for her. It will call back her thoughts. Call them back, from where? From foreign parts and other un- natural places. Three months ago she gave Mr. Goodwood every reason to suppose that he was acceptable to her, and it is not worthy of Isabel to turn her back upon a real friend simply be- cause she has changed the scene. I have changed the scene, too, and the ef- fect of it has been to make me care more for my old associations than ever. It s my belief that the sooner Isabel changes it back again the better. 1 know her well enough to know that she would never be truly happy here, and I wish her to form some strong American tie that will act as a preservative. Are you not a little too much in a hurry? Ralph inquired. Dont you think you ought to give her more of a chance in poor old England? A chance to ruin her bright young life? One is never too much in a hur- ry to save a precious human creature from drowning. As I understand it, then, said Ralph, you wish me to push Mr. Good- wood overboard after her. Do you know, he added, that I have never heard her mention his name? Henrietta Stackpole gave a brilliant smile. I am delighted to hear that; it proves how much she thinks of him. Ralph appeared to admit that there was a good deal in this, and he surren- dered himself to meditation, while his companion watched him askance. If I should invite Mr. Goodwood, he said, it would be to quarrel with him. Dont do that; he would prove the better man.~~ You certainly are doing your best to make me hate him I I really dont think I can ask him. I should be afraid of being rude to him. 1881.] The Portrait of a Lac1~,. 19 It s just as you please, said Hen- rietta. I had no idea you were in love with her yourself. Do you really believe that? the young man asked, with lifted eyebrows. That s the most natural speech I have ever heard you make! Of course I believe it, Miss Stackpole answered, bgeniously. Well, said Ralph, to prove to you that you are wrong, I will invite him. It must be, of course, as a friend of yours.~~ It will not be as a friend of mine that he will come; and it will not be to prove to me that I am wrong that you will ask him, but to prove it to your- self! These last words of Miss Stackpoles (on which the two presently separated) contained an amount of truth which Ralph Touchett was obliged to recog- nize; but it took tbe edge from too sharp a recognition that, in spite of his suspecting that it would be rather more indiscreet to keep his promise than it would be to break it, be wrote Mr. Goodwood a note of six lines, express- ing the pleasure it would give Mr. Touchett the elder that he should join a little party at Gardencourt, of which Miss Stackpole was a valued member. Having sent his letter (to the care of a banker whom Henrietta suggested), he waited in some suspense. He had heard of Mr. Caspar Goodwood by name for the first time; for when his mother mentioned to him, on her arrival, that there was a story about the girls having an admirer at home, the idea seemed deficient in reality, and Ralph took no pains to ask questions the an- swers to which would suggest only the vague or the disagreeable. Now, how- ever the native admiration of which his cousin was the object had become more concrete: it took the form of a young man who had followed her to London; who was interested in a cotton-mill, and had manners in the American style. Ralph had two theories about this young man. Either his passion was a sen- timental fiction of Miss Stackpoles (there was always a sort of tacit under- standing among women, born of the sol- idarity of the sex, that they should dis- cover or invent lovers for each other), in which case he was not to be feared, and would probably not accept the invi- tation; or else he would accept the in- vitation, and in this event would prove himself a creature too irrational to de- mand further consideration. The latter clause of Ralphs argument might have seemed incoherent; but it embodied his conviction that if Mr. Goodwood were interested in Isabel, in the serious man- ner described by Miss Stackpole, he would not care to present himself at Gardencourt on a summons from the latter lady. On this supposition, said Ralph, he must regard her as a thorn on the stem of his rose; as an interces- sor he must find her wanting in tact. Two days after he had sent his invi- tation he received a very short note from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regretting that other engagements made a visit to Gardencourt impossible, and presenting many compliments to Miss Stackpole. Ralph handed the note to Henrietta, who, when she had read it, exclaimed, Well, I never have heard of any- thing so stiff I am afraid He does nt care so much about my cousin as you suppose, Ralph observed. No, it s not that; it s some deeper motive. His nature is very deep. But I am determined to fathom it, and I will write to him to know what he means.~~ His refusal of Ralphs overtures made this young man vaguely uncomfortable; from the moment he declined to come to Gardencourt Ralph began to think him of importance. He asked himself what it signified to him whether Isabels admirers should be desperadoes or lag- 20 like Portrait of a Lady. [January, gards; they were not rivals of his, and were perfectly welcome to act according to their peculiar temperaments. Never- theless, he felt much curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpoles promised in- quiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwoods stiffness, a curiosity for the present ungratified, inasmuch as when he asked her, three days later, whether she had written to London, she was obliged to confess that she had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood had not answered her. I suppose he is thinking it over, she said; he thinks everything over; he is not at all impulsive. But I am ac- customed to having my letters answered the same day.~~ NXThether it was to pursue her investi- gations, or whether it was in compliance with still larger interests, is a point which remains somewhat uncertain; at all events, she presently proposed to Is- abel that they should make an excursion to London together. If I must tell the truth, she said, I am not seeing much at this place, and I should nt think you were, either. I have not even seen. that aristocrat, what s his name ? Lord Washburton. He seems to let you severely alone. Lord Warburton is coming to-mor- row, I happen to know, replied Isabel, who had received a note from the mas- ter of Lockleigh in answer to her own letter. You will have every opportu- nity of examining him. Well, he may do for one letter; hut what is one letter, when you want to write fifty? I have described all the scenery in this vicinity, and raved about all the old women and donkeys. You may say what you please, scenery makes a thin letter. I must go hack to Lon- don and get some impressions of real life. I was there but three days before I came away, and that is hardly time to get started. As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had seen even less of the metropolis than this, it appeared a happy suggestion of Henriettas that the two should go thither on a visit of pleasure. The idea struck Isabel as charming; she had a great desire to see something of London, which had always been the city of her imagination. They turned over their scheme together, and indulged in visions of aesthetic hours. They would stay at some picturesque old inn, one of the inns described by Dickens, and drive over the town in those delightful hansoms. Henrietta was a literary woman, and the great ad- vantage of being a literary woman was that you could go everywhere and do everything. They would dine at a coffee- house, and go afterwards to the play; they would frequent the Abbey and the British Museum, and find out where Dr. Johnson had lived, and Goldsmith and Addison. Isabel grew eager, and pres- ently mentioned these bright intentions to Ralph, who burst into a fit of laugh- ter which did not express the sympathy she had desired. It s a delightful plan, he said. I advise you to go to the Tavistock Hotel, Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fashioned place, and I will have you put down at my club. Do you mean it s improper? Isa- bel asked. Dear me, is nt anything proper here? With Henrietta, surely I may go anywhere; she is nt hampered in that way. She has traveled over the whole American continent, and she can surely find her way about this simple little island. Ah, then, said Ralph, let me take advantage of her protection to go up to town as well. I may never have a chance to travel so safely! XIV. Miss Stackpole would have prepared to start for London immediately; but Isabel, as we have seen, had been noti- fied that Lord Warburton would come 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 21 again to Gardencourt, and she believed it to be her duty to remain there and see him. For four or five days he had made no answer to her letter; then he had written, very briefly, to say that he would come to lunch two days later. There was something in these delays and postponements that touched the girl, and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate and patient, not to ap- pear to urge her too grossly, a dis- cretion the more striking that she was so sure he really liked her. Isabel told her uncle that she had written to him, and let Mr. Touchett know of Lord Warburtons intention of coming; and the old man, in consequence, left his room earlier than usual, and made his appearance at the lunch - table. This was by no means an act of vigilance on his part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his being of the company might help to cover the visitors abstrac- tion, in case Isabel should find it need- ful to give Lord Warburton another hearing. This gentleman drove over from Lockleigh, and brought the elder of his sisters with him, a measure pre- sumably dictated by considerations of the same order as Mr. Touchetts. The two visitors were introduced to Miss Stackpole, who, at luncheon, occupied a seat adjoining Lord Warburtons. Isa- bel, who was nervous, and had no relish for the prospect of again arguing the question he had so precipitately opened, could not help admiring his good-hu- mored self-possession, which quite dis- guised the symptoms of that admiration it was natural she should suppose him to feel. He neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only sign of his emotion was that he avoided meeting her eye. He had plenty of talk for the others, however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon with discrimination and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth, nun - like forehead, and wore a large silver cross suspended from her neck, was evidently preoccupied with Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her eyes constantly rested in a manner which seemed to denote a conflict be- tween attention and alienation. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh, she was the one that Isabel had liked best; there was such a world of hereditary quiet in her. Isabel was sure, moreover, that her mild forehead and silver cross meant something, that she was a member of a High Church sisterhood, or was versed in works of charity and piety. She wondered what Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had refused her brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would never know, that Lord Warburtoa never told her such things. He was fond of her and kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at least, was Isabels theory: when, at table, she was not occupied in conversation, she was usually occupied in forming theories about her neighbors. According to Isa- bel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn what had passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton, she would proba- bly be shocked at the young ladys in- difference to such an opportunity; or no, rather (this was our heroines last impres- sion) she would credit the young Ameri- can with a high sense of general fitness. Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which she now found herself immersed. Do you know you are the first lord I have ever seen? she said, very promptly, to her neighbor. I suppose you think I am awfully benighted. You have escaped seeing some very ugly men, Lord Warburton answered, looking vaguely about the table, and laughing a little. Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that they are all handsome and magnificent, and that they wear wonderful robes and crowns. 22 The Portrait of a Lady. [January, Ali, the robes and crowns have gone out of fashion, said Lord Warbur- ton, like your tomahawks and revolv- ers. I am sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid, Hen- rietta declared. li it is not that, what is it? Oh, you know, it is nt much, at the best, Lord Warburton answered. Wont you have a potato? I dont care much for these Euro- pean potatoes. I should nt know you from an ordinary American gentleman. Do talk to me as if I were ~ said Lord Warburton. I dont see how you manage to get on without po- tatoes; you must find so few things to eat over here. Henrietta was silent a moment; there was a chance that hi~ was not sincere. I have had hardly any a )petite since I have been here, she went on at last; so it does nt much matter. I dont approve of you, you know; I feel as if I ought to tell you that. Dont approve of me? Yes; I dont suppose any one ever said such a thing to you before, did they? I dont approve of lords, as an institution. I think the world has got beyond that, far beyond. Oh, so do I. I dont approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it comes over me, how I should object to my- self if I were not myself, dont you know? But that s rather good, by the way, not to be vainglorious. Why dont you give it up, then? Miss Stackpole inquired. Give up a asked Lord War- burton, meeting her harsh inflection with a very soft one. Give up being a lord. Oh, I am so little of one! One would really forget all about it, if you wretched Americans were not constant- ly reminding one. However, I do think of giving up the little there is left of it one of these days. I should like to see you do it! Henrietta exclaimed, rather grimly. I will invite you to the ceremony; we will have a supper and a dance. Well, said Miss Stackpole, I like to see all sides. I dont approve of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have got to say for themselves. Mighty little, as you see I should like to draw you out a little more, Henrietta continued. But you are always looking away. You are afraid of meeting my eye. I see you want to escape me. No, I aim only looking for those de- spised potatoes. Please explain about that young lady, your sister, then. I dont un- derstand about her. Is she a Lady? She s a capital good girl. I dont like the way you say that, as if you wanted to change the sub- ject. Is her positioa inferior to yours? We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she is better off than I, because she has none of the both- er. Yes, she does nt look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as little bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever you may do. Ah, you see, one takes life easily, on the whole, said Lord Warburton. And then, you know, we are very duji. Ah, we can be dull when we try! I should advise you to try some- thing else. I should nt know what to talk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver cross a badge? A badge? A sign of rank. Lord Warburtons glance had wan- dered a good deal, but at this it met the gaze of his neighbor. Oh, yes, he answered, in a mo- ment; the women go in for those things. The silver cross is worn by the elder daughters of viscounts. This was his harmless revenge for ~1881.] The Portrait of a Lads. 23 having occasionally had his credulity too easily engaged in America. After lunch he proposed to Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though she knew that he had seen the pictures twenty times she complied without criticising this pre- text. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since she sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He walked slowly to the end of the gallery, looking at the paintings and saying nothing; and then he suddenly broke out, I hoped you would nt write to me that way.~~ It was the only way, Lord War- burton, said the girl. Do try and believe that. If I could believe it, of course I should let you alone. But we cant be- lieve by willing it; and I confess I dont understand. I could understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you should admit what you do What have I admitted? Isabel in- terrupted, blushing a little. That you think me a good fellow; is nt that it? She said nothing, and he went on: You dont seem to have any reason, and that gives me a sense of injustice. I have a reason, Lord Warburton, said the girl; and she said it in a tone that made his heart contract. I should like very much to know it. I will tell you some day when there is more to show for it. Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it. You make me very unhappy, said Isabel. I am not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you kindly answer me a question? Isabel made no audible assent, but he appar- ently saw something in her eyes which gave him courage to go on. Do you prefer~ some, one else? That s a question I would rather not answer. Ah, you do then! her suitor mur inured, with bitterness. The bitterness touched her, and she cried out, You are mistaken! I don t. He sat down on a bench, unceremoni- ously, doggedly, like a man in trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. I cant even be glad of that, he said, at last, throwing himself back against the wall, for that would be an excuse. Isabel raised her eyebrows, with a certain eagerness. An excuse? Must I excuse my- self? He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into his head. Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far? I cant object to your political opinions, Lord Warburton, said the girl, because I dont understand them. You dont care what I think! he cried, getting up. It s all the same to you. Isabel walked away, to the other side of the gallery, and stood there, showing him her charming back, her light, slim figure, the length of her white neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She stopped in front of a small picture, as if for the purpose of examining it; and there was some- thing young and flexible in her move- ment, which her companion noticed. Isabels eyes, however, saw nothing; they had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round her face was pale, and the expression of her eyes was strange. That reason that I would nt tell you, she said, I will tell it you, after all. It is that I cant escape my fate. 24 The Portrait of a Lady. [January, Your fate? I should try to escape it if I should marry you.~~ I dont understand. Why should not that be your fate, as well as any- thing else? Because it is not, said Isabel, fem- ininely. I know it is not. It s not my fate to give up, I know it cant be. Poor Lord Warburton stared, with an interrogative point in either eye. Do you call marrying me giving up? Not in the usual sense. It is get- ting getting getting a great deal. But it is giving up other chances. Other chances? Lord Warburton repeated, more and more puzzled. I dont mean chances to marry,~~ said Isabel, her color rapidly coming back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear. I dont think it is presumptuous in me to say that I think you will gain more than you will lose, Lord Warbur- ton observed. I cant escape unhappiness, said Isabel. In marrying you, I shall be trying to. I dont know whether you would try to, but you certainly would: that I must in candor admit! Lord War- burton exclaimed, with an anxious laugh. I must not, I cant! cried the girl. Well, if you are bent on being mis- erable, I dont see why you should make me so. Whatever charms unhappiness may have for you, it has none for me. I am not hent on being miserable, said Isabel. I have always been in- tensely determined to be happy, and I have often believed I should be. I have told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me, every now and then, that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by turn- ing away, by separating myself. By separating yourself from what? From life: from the usual chances and dangers; from what most people know and suffer. Lord Warhurton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. Why, my dear Miss Archer, he be. gan to explain, with the most consider- ate eagerness, I dont offer you any exoneration from life, or from any chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it, I would! For what do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I am not the Emperor of China! All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfort- able sort of way. The common lot? ~Thy, I am devoted to the common lot! Strike an alliance with me, and I prom- ise you that you shall have plenty of it. You shall separate from nothing what- ever, not even from your friend Miss Stackpole. She would never approve of it, said Isabel, trying to smile and take ad- vantage of this side-issue; despising her- self, too, not a little, for doing so. Are we speaking of Miss Stack- pole? Lord Warhurton, asked impa- tiently. I never saw a person judge things on such strange, such theoretic grounds. Now I suppose you are speaking of me, said Isabel, with humility; and she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery, accompa- nied by Henrietta and by Ralph. Lord Warburtons sister addressed him with a certaln timidity, and re- minded him that she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was ex- pecting some company. He made no answer, apparently not having heard her; he was preoccupied, with good reason. Miss Molyneux looked lady-like and patient, and awaited his pleasure. Well, I never, Miss Molyneux! said Henrietta Stackpole. li I wanted 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. to go, he would have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing, he would have to do it. Oh, Warhurton does everything one wants, Miss Molyneux answered, with a quick, shy laugh. How very many pictures you have! she went on, turn- ing to Ralph. They look a good many, because they are all put together, said Ralph. But it s really a bad way. Oh, I think it s so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I am so very fond of pictures, Miss Moly- neux went on, persistently, to Ralph, as if she were afraid that Miss Stack- pole would address her again. Henri- etta appeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her. Oh, yes, pictures are very indispen- sable, said Ralph, who appeared to know better what style of reflection was acceptable to her. They are so very pleasant when it rains, the young lady continued. It rains so very often. I am sorry you are going away, Lord Warburton, said Henrietta. I wanted to get a great deal more out of you.~~ I am not going away, Lord War- burton answered. Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the la- dies. TI am afraid we have got some peo- ple to tea, said Miss Molyneux, look- ing at her brother. Very good, my dear. We 11 go. I hoped you would resist! Henri- etta exclaimed. I wanted to see what Miss Molyneux would do. I never do anything, said this young lady. I suppose in your position it s suffi- cient for you to exist! Miss Stackpole rejoined. I should like very much to see you at home. You must come to Lockleigh again, said Miss Molyneux, very sweetly, to Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabels friend. Isabel looked into her quiet eyes-a moment, and for that moment seemed to see in their gray depths the reflect~ion of everything she had rejected in re- jecting Lord Warburton, the peace, the kindness, the honor, the possessions, a deep security, and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux, and then she said, I am afraid I can never come again. Never again? I am afraid I am going away. Oh, I am so very sorry, said Miss Molyneux. I think that s so very wrong of you.~~ Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away and stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the picture, with his hands in his pockets, had for the mo- ment been watching him. I should like to see you at home,~~ said Henrietta, whom Lord Warbur- ton found beside him. I should like an hours talk with you; there are a great many questions I wish to ask you. I shall be delighted to see you, the proprietor of Lockleigh answered; but I am certain not to be able to answer many of your questions. When will you come? Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We are thinking of going to Lon- don, but we will go and see you first. I am determined to get some satisfac- tion out of you. If it depends upon Miss Archer, I am afraid you wont get much. She will not come to Lockleigh; she does nt like the place. She told me it was lovely! said Henrietta. Lord Warburton hesitated a moment. She wont come, all the same. You had better come alone, he added. Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded. Would you make that remark to 26 TI~e Portrait of a Lady. [January, an English lady? she inquired, with soft asperity. Lord Warburton stared. Yes, if I liked her enough. You would be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer wont visit your place again, it s because she does nt want to take me. I know what she thinks of me, and I suppose you think the same, that I ought nt to bring in individuals. Lord Warburton was at a loss; he had not been4 made acquainted with Miss Stackpoles professional character, and did not catch her allusion. Miss Archer has been warning you! she went on. Warning me? Is nt that why she came off alone with you here, to put you on your guard? Oh, dear, no, said Lord Warbur- ton, blushing; our talk had no such solemn character as that. Well, you have been on your guard, intensely. I suppose it s natural to you; that s just what I wanted to ob- serve. And so, too, has Miss Molyneux, she would nt commit herself. You have been warned, any way, Henri- etta contiii ued, addressing this young lady; but for you it was nt necessa- ry. I hope not, said Miss Molyneux, vaguely. Miss Stackpole takes notes, Ralph explained, humorously. She is a great satirist; she sees through us all, and she works us up. Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of bad material Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord Warburton, and from this noble- man to his sister and to Ralph. There is something the matter with you all; you are as dismal as if you had got a bad telegram. You do see through us, Miss Stack- pole, said Ralph, in a low tone, giving her a little intelligent nod, as he led the party out of the gallery. There is something the matter with us all. Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly liked her im- mensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her over the polished floor. Lord Warburton strolled on the other side, with his hands behind him and his eyes lowered. For some moments he said nothing; and then, Is it true that you are going to Lon- don? he asked. I believe it has been arranged. And when shall you come back? In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I am going to Paris with my aunt. When, then, shall I see you again? Not for a good while, said Isabel; but some day or other, I hope. Do you really hope it? Very much. He went a few steps in silence; then be stopped, and put out his hand. Good-by. Good-by, said Isabel. Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart; after which, without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room. In this apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs. Touchett, who had stopped on her way to the drawing- room. I may as well tell you, said her aunt, that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord Warbur- ton. Isabel hesitated an instant. Relations? They are hardly rela- tions. That is the strange part of it; he has seen me but three or four times. Why did you tell your uncle rather than me? Mrs. Touchett inquired, dry- ly but dispassionately. Again Isabel hesitated. Because he knows Lord Warbux- ton better. Yes, but I know you better. ~~ye Tombe of y~ Poet Chaucer. 2~T 1881.] I am not sure of that, said Isabel, suppose that when you refuse an offer smiling, like Warburtons it s because you ex- Neither am I, after all; especially pect to do something better. when you smile that way. One would Ab, my uncle did nt say that! thiiik you had carried off a prize! I cried Isabel, smiling still. Henry James, Jr. Y TOMBE OF ~E POET CHAUCER. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. ABBOT and monks of Westminster Here placed his tomb, in all mens view. Our Chaucer dead? King Harry said, A mass for him, and burial due! This very aisle his footsteps knew; Here Gowers benediction fell, Brother thou were and minstral trewe; Now slepe thou well There died with that old centurys death, I wot, five hundred years ago, One whose blithe heart, whose morning art, Made Englands Castaly to flow. He in whose song that fount we know, With every tale the sky-larks tell, Had right, Saint Bennets wall below, To slumber well. Eftsoons his master piously In Surrey hied him to his rest; The Thames, between their closes green, Parted these warblers breast from breast, The gravest from the joyfulest Whose notes the matin chorus swell: A league divided, east and west, They slumber well. Is there no care in holy ground The worlds deep undertone to hear? Can this strong sleep our Chaucer keep When May-time buds and blossoms peer? Less strange that many a sceptred year, While the twin houses towered and fell, Alike through Englands pride and fear, He slumbered well.

Edmund Clarence Stedman Stedman, Edmund Clarence Ye Tombe of ye Poet Chaucer 27-29

~~ye Tombe of y~ Poet Chaucer. 2~T 1881.] I am not sure of that, said Isabel, suppose that when you refuse an offer smiling, like Warburtons it s because you ex- Neither am I, after all; especially pect to do something better. when you smile that way. One would Ab, my uncle did nt say that! thiiik you had carried off a prize! I cried Isabel, smiling still. Henry James, Jr. Y TOMBE OF ~E POET CHAUCER. WESTMINSTER ABBEY. ABBOT and monks of Westminster Here placed his tomb, in all mens view. Our Chaucer dead? King Harry said, A mass for him, and burial due! This very aisle his footsteps knew; Here Gowers benediction fell, Brother thou were and minstral trewe; Now slepe thou well There died with that old centurys death, I wot, five hundred years ago, One whose blithe heart, whose morning art, Made Englands Castaly to flow. He in whose song that fount we know, With every tale the sky-larks tell, Had right, Saint Bennets wall below, To slumber well. Eftsoons his master piously In Surrey hied him to his rest; The Thames, between their closes green, Parted these warblers breast from breast, The gravest from the joyfulest Whose notes the matin chorus swell: A league divided, east and west, They slumber well. Is there no care in holy ground The worlds deep undertone to hear? Can this strong sleep our Chaucer keep When May-time buds and blossoms peer? Less strange that many a sceptred year, While the twin houses towered and fell, Alike through Englands pride and fear, He slumbered well. 28 ~~ye Tombe of ~e Poet Chaucer. [January, The envious Roses woefully By turns a bleeding kingdom sway; Thrones topple down, to robe and crown Who comes at last must hew his way. No sound of all that piteous fray, Nor of its ceasing, breaks the spell; Still on, to great Elizas day, He slumbers well. Methinks, had Shakespeare lightly walked Anear him in the minster old, He would have heard, his sleep had stirred With dreams of wonders manifold; Even though no sad vibration told His ear when sounded Marys knell, Though, when the Mask on Charles laid hold, He slumbered well. In climes beyond his calendar The latest centurys splendors grow; London is great, the Abbeys state A young worlds eager wanderers know; New songs, new minstrels, come arid go; Naught as of old outside his cell, Just as of old, within it low, He slumbers well. And now, when hawthorn is in flower, And throstles sing as once sang he, In this last age, on pilgrimage Like mine from lands that distant be, Come youths and maidens, summer-free, Where shades of bards and warriors dwell, And say, The sire of minstrelsy Here slumbers well ; And say, While Londons Abbey stands No less shall Englands strength endure! Ay, though its old wall crumbling fall, Shall last her songs sweet overture; Some purling stream shall flow, be sure, From out the ivied heap, to tell That here the fount of English pure Long slumbered well. Edmund Clarence Stedman. 1881.] Smit It. 29 SMITH. AN old acquaintance of mine, who has gone away into the dark with all his mirthful sayings, once described an English servant as the valet of the Shadow of Death. The mot was said not to be original with my friend, hut I have heard so many brilliant things from those same lips that I do not care to go further in search of an owner for what is sufficiently characteristic of him to be his. Whoever first said it gave us in a single phrase the most perfect cro- quis that ever was made of the English serving-man. We all know him in the English novel of the period, and some of us know him in the flesh. I chance my- self to be familiar with a mild form of him. I speak of him ns if he were a disease: in his most aggravated type I should say he might be considered as an affliction. Thackeray the satirist and biographer, the Pope and Plutarch, of Jeemes frankly admitted he was afraid of the creature. That kindly keen blue eye, which saw through the shams and follies of Mayfair, was wont to droop under the stony stare of his hosts butler. I hasten to confess to only a limited personal knowledge of the august being in plush small-clothes and pink silk stockings who presides over the grand houses in England, for I carried my pilgrims wallet into few grand houses there; but I have had more or less to do with certain humble brothers of his, who are leading lives of highly respectable gloom in sundry Eng- lish taverns and hotels. It is one of these less dazzling brothers who furnishes me with the motif of this brief study. More fortunate than that Roman emperor who vainly longed to have all his enemies consolidated into a single neck, I have secured in a per- son named Smith the epitome of an en- tire class, not, indeed, with the cruel intent of dispatching him, but of photo- graphing him. I should decline to take Smiths head by any less gentle method. In London there is a kind of hotel of which we have no counterpart in the United States. This hotel is usually located in some semi-aristocratic side street, and wears no badge of its servi- tude beyond a large, well-kept brass door-plate, bearing the legend Joness 1-lotel or Browns 1-Jotel, as the case may be; but be it Brown or Jones, he has been dead at least fifty years, and the establishment is conducted by Robinson. There is no coffee-room or public din- ing-room, or even office, in this hotel; the commercial traveler is an unknown quantity there; your meals are served in your apartments; the furniture is solid and comfortable, the attendance admira- ble, the cuisine unexceptionable, and the bill abominable. But for ease, quiet- ness, and a sort of 1812 odor of respect- ability, this hotel has nothing to com- pare with it in the wide world. It is here that the intermittent homesickness you contracted on the Continent will be lifted out of your bosom; it is here will be unfolded to you alluring vistas of the substantial comforts that surround the private lives of prosperous Britons ; it is here, above all, that you will be brought in contact with Smith. It was on our arrival in London, one April afternoon, that the door of what looked like a private mansion, in D Street, was thrown open to us by a boy broken out all over with buttons. Be- hind this boy stood Smith. I call him simply Smith for two reasons: in the first place because it is convenient to do so, and in the second place because that is what he called himself. I wish it were as facile a matter to explain how this seemingly unobtrusive person instantly took possession of us, bullied

Thomas Bailey Aldrich Aldrich, Thomas Bailey Smith 29-36

1881.] Smit It. 29 SMITH. AN old acquaintance of mine, who has gone away into the dark with all his mirthful sayings, once described an English servant as the valet of the Shadow of Death. The mot was said not to be original with my friend, hut I have heard so many brilliant things from those same lips that I do not care to go further in search of an owner for what is sufficiently characteristic of him to be his. Whoever first said it gave us in a single phrase the most perfect cro- quis that ever was made of the English serving-man. We all know him in the English novel of the period, and some of us know him in the flesh. I chance my- self to be familiar with a mild form of him. I speak of him ns if he were a disease: in his most aggravated type I should say he might be considered as an affliction. Thackeray the satirist and biographer, the Pope and Plutarch, of Jeemes frankly admitted he was afraid of the creature. That kindly keen blue eye, which saw through the shams and follies of Mayfair, was wont to droop under the stony stare of his hosts butler. I hasten to confess to only a limited personal knowledge of the august being in plush small-clothes and pink silk stockings who presides over the grand houses in England, for I carried my pilgrims wallet into few grand houses there; but I have had more or less to do with certain humble brothers of his, who are leading lives of highly respectable gloom in sundry Eng- lish taverns and hotels. It is one of these less dazzling brothers who furnishes me with the motif of this brief study. More fortunate than that Roman emperor who vainly longed to have all his enemies consolidated into a single neck, I have secured in a per- son named Smith the epitome of an en- tire class, not, indeed, with the cruel intent of dispatching him, but of photo- graphing him. I should decline to take Smiths head by any less gentle method. In London there is a kind of hotel of which we have no counterpart in the United States. This hotel is usually located in some semi-aristocratic side street, and wears no badge of its servi- tude beyond a large, well-kept brass door-plate, bearing the legend Joness 1-lotel or Browns 1-Jotel, as the case may be; but be it Brown or Jones, he has been dead at least fifty years, and the establishment is conducted by Robinson. There is no coffee-room or public din- ing-room, or even office, in this hotel; the commercial traveler is an unknown quantity there; your meals are served in your apartments; the furniture is solid and comfortable, the attendance admira- ble, the cuisine unexceptionable, and the bill abominable. But for ease, quiet- ness, and a sort of 1812 odor of respect- ability, this hotel has nothing to com- pare with it in the wide world. It is here that the intermittent homesickness you contracted on the Continent will be lifted out of your bosom; it is here will be unfolded to you alluring vistas of the substantial comforts that surround the private lives of prosperous Britons ; it is here, above all, that you will be brought in contact with Smith. It was on our arrival in London, one April afternoon, that the door of what looked like a private mansion, in D Street, was thrown open to us by a boy broken out all over with buttons. Be- hind this boy stood Smith. I call him simply Smith for two reasons: in the first place because it is convenient to do so, and in the second place because that is what he called himself. I wish it were as facile a matter to explain how this seemingly unobtrusive person instantly took possession of us, bullied 30 SmitA. [January, us with his usefulness, and knocked us down with his urbanity. From the mo- ment he stepped forward to relieve us of our hand-luggage, we were his, and remained his until that other mo- ment, some weeks later, when he handed us our parcels again, and stood statu- esque on the door-step, with one finger lifted to his forehead in decorous salute, as we drove away. Ah, what soft des- potism was that which was exercised for no other end than to anticipate our re- quirements, to invent new wants for us only to satisfy them! If I anywhere speak lightly of Smith, if I take excep- tion to his preternatural gravity (of which I would not have him moult a feather), jf I allude invidiously to his life-long struggle with certain rebellious letters of the alphabet, it is out of sheer envy and regretthat we have noth- ing like him in America. We have Niagara, and the Yosemite, and Edi- sons Electric Light (or shall have it, when we get it), but we have no trained serving-men like Smith. He is the re- sult of older and vastly more complex social conditions than ours. His train- ing began in the feudal ages. An at- mosphere charged with machicolated bat- tlements and cathedral spires was neces- sary to his perfect development, that, and generation after generation of lords and princes and wealthy country-gentle- men for him to practice on. He is not possible in New England. The very cut of his features is unknown among us. It has been remarked that each trade and profession has its physiognomy, its own proper face. If you look closely you will detect a family likeness running through the portraits of Garrick and Kean and Booth and Irving. There s the self-same sabre-like flash in the eye of Marlborough and Bonaparte, the same resolute labial expression. Every lackey in London might be the son or brother of any other lackey. Smiths father, and his fathers father, and so on hack to the gray dawn of England, were serving-men, and each in turn has been stamped with the immutable trade-mark of his class. Waiters (like poets) are born, not made; and they have not had time to be born in America. As a shell that has the care of in- closing a pearl like Smith, Joness Hotel demands a word or two of more par- ticular description. The narrow little street in which it is situated branches off from a turbulent thoroughfare, and is quite packed with historical, social, and literary traditions. Here at the close of his days, dwelt the learned and sweet- minded philosopher, John Evelyn, the contemporary and friend of everybodys friend, Mr. Samuel Pepys, of the ad- miralty. I like to think of Evelyn turn- ing out of busy Piccadilly into this more quiet precinct, accompanied, perhaps, by the obsequious Samuel himself. Accord- ing to Jesse, the witty Dr. Arbuthnot also resided here, after the death of his royal patroness, Queen Anne, had driven him from his snug quarters in St. Jamess Palace. Hither caine Pope, Swift, Gray, Parnell, Prior, and a flock of other sing- ing-birds and brilliant wits to visit the worthy doctor. As I sit of an evening in our parlor, which is on a level with the sidewalk, the ghostly echo of those long-silent footfalls is more distinct to my ear than the tread of the living passers- by. The earthly abiding places of ob- solete notabilities are very thick in this neighborhood. A few minutes walk takes you to the ugly walled mansion that once held the beauty, but could not hold all the radiance, of Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire, and a little further on is Apsley House. But we need not wander. D Street still has high pretensions of its own. I take it that several families whose consequence is to be found in De- bretts Peerage have their town-houses here Over the sculptured door-way of a sombre edifice which sets somewhat back behind a towering iron grille with gilded spear - heads, I have noticed a 1881.] Smitk. 31 recently hung hatchment, an intima- tion that death is no respecter of Eng- lish nobility. At the curb-stone of a spacious, much - curtained mansion di- rectly opposite the hotel, there is a con- stant arrival and departure of landaus and broughams, with armorial blazons and powdered footmen. From these car- riages descend bewitching slips of Eng- lish maidenhood with peach-bloom com- plexions, and richly - dressed, portly dowagers shod with perfectly flat-soled shoes. But I confess that the period- ical rattling by of a little glazed cart let- tered Scarlet the Butcher interests me more; for no mortal reason, I sup- pose, excep& that Scarlet seems a phe- nomenally appropriate name for a gen- tleman in his line of business. I am afraid my description of Joness Hotel is very like one of those old Spanish comedies, In which you see, As Lope says, the history of the world Brought down from Genesis to the Day of Jndg- bent. The building itself, arguing from the thickness of the walls and the antiquated style of the interior wood-work, must have stood its ground a great many years. I do not know how long it has been a hotel; perhaps for the better part of a century. In the first instance it was doubtless the home of some titled family. I indulge the fancy that there was a lot of lovely, high-bred daughters, who drew gay company here. The large, lofty-studded rooms were meant for an opulent, hospitable kind of life to in- habit them. Opening on the wide hall where Buttons is always sitting, a perfect young Cerberus, waiting for the door-bell to ring is a small dressing- cabinet, in which, I make no question, his lordship, has many a time sworn like a pirate over the extravagance of the girls. I know he has discharged the butler there. A fitful, evasive odor, as of faded rose-leaves in a forgotten drawer, seems to linger in these chambers, and I think there are hints in the air of old- time laughter and of sobs that have long since hushed themselves into silence. The parlor is full of suggestions to me, especially at twilight, before the candles are brought in. Sometimes I can al- most hear a muffled, agitated voice mur- muring out of the Past, Leave me, Bellamore! and I have an impression that he did nt leave her. How could he, with those neat diamond buckles glistening at her instep, and her pretty brown hair frosted with silver powder, and that distracting dot of court-plaster stuck near the left corner of her rosy mouth! The old walls are very dis- creet, not to say incommunicative, on this subject; it is not for them to be- tray the joys and sorrows and sins of yesterday, and I have to evolve these matters out of my own synthetic imag- ination. But I am certain that Bella- more did nt leave her! Overhead there are suites of apart. ments identical with our own, and I be- lieve they are occupied by serious- minded families of phantoms; they come and go so softly. There is no loud talk- ing on the staircase, no slamming of doors, no levity of any description among the inmates of this hostelry. Whoever comes here finds his nature subdued to the color of his surroundings, like the dyers hand. The wildest guest shortly succumbs to the soothing influence of Smith. He pervades the place like an atmosphere, and fits it so perfectly that, without jarring on the present, he seems a figure projected out of that dusky past which has lured me too long, and will catch me again before we get through. Smith is a man of about forty, but so unassuming that I do not think he would assume to be so old or so young as that: tall and straight, with scant, faded brown hair parted in the middle, and a def- erential cough; clammy blue eyes, thin lips, a sedentary complexion, and care- ful side - whiskers. He is always in evening dress, and wears white cotton Smit1~. [January, gloves, which set your teeth on edge, during dinner service. He is a p2rson whose gravity of deportment is such as to lend seriousness to the coal-scuttle when he replenishes the parlor fire, a ceremony which the English April makes imperative, the English April being as raw as an American February. Smiths respect for you, at least its outward manifestation, is accompanied by a deep, unexpressed respect for him- self. He not only knows hi~ own place, but he knows yours, and holds you to it. He is incapable of venturing on a familiarity, or of submitting to one. He can wrap up more pitying disapproba- tion in a scarcely perceptible curl of his nether lip than another man could ex- press in a torrent of words. I have gone about London a whole forenoon with one of Smiths thin smiles clinging like a blister to my consciousness. He is not taciturn, but he gives you the impres- sion of unconquerable reserve. Though he seldom speaks, except to answer an inquiry, he has managed in some occult fashion to permeate us with a knowledge of his domestic environment. For the soul of me, I cannot say how I came by the information that Smith married Lady Hadelaide Scarboroughs first maid twelve years ago, nor in what manner I got bold of the idea that Lady Hade- laide Scarboroughs first maid rather stooped from her social status when she formed a matrimonial alliance with him. Yet these facts are undeniably in my possession. I also understand that Smith regards Mrs. Smith who quitted serv- ice at the time of this mdsalliance as a sort of fragment (a little finger-joint, if that will help convey my meaning) of Lady Hadelaide herself. There s an air of very good society about Smith. He evidently has connecting tendrils with beings who, if they are not roses themselves, have the privilege of con.. stituting the dust at the roses feet. If Smith were to make any statement to me concerning the movements of Roy- alty, I should believe him. If he were to confide to me that Her Majesty, ac- companied by the Princess Beatrice, walked for a few seconds yesterday aft- ernoon on the terrace at Windsor, I should know it was so, even if I failed to see the, event recorded in The Times. Smith has been very near to Royalty. To be sure, it was fallen royalty, so I shall waste no capital letters on it. It fell at Sedan, and picked itself up in a manner, and came over to London, where Smith had the bliss of waiting upon it. The Hemperor was a very civil-spoken gentleman, observed Smith, detailing the circumstances with an air of respect- ful patronage, and showing that he had a nice sense of the difference between an English sovereign and an uncurrent Napoleon. The plain truth is that Smith is an arrant gossip about himself without in the least having the appearance of it. He so ingeniously embroiders bits of his autobiography on alien textures that one is apt to get a detail or two quite unawares. I do not know how or when six little Smiths glided into my intelli- gence (they cost me a shilling a head), but I think it was in connection with an inquiry on my part as to what hour the morning train left Paddington Station for Stratford-upon-Avon. Two nights out of the week Smith retires to his do- mestic domicile; situated, I infer, in some remote suburb of London, for he always takes a bag with him, a re- spectable, drab-colored hand-bag, with a monogram on it. At a little distance the twisted initials, in raised worsted, resemble a reduced copy of the Laocodn, the prominent serpentine S having, I suspect, no small share in producing that effect. I somehow pose and mix up the six little Smiths ia this mono- gram. I have said that Smith took posses- sion of our party immediately on its ar- rival at Joness Hotel, but we were not at once conscious of the fact. We had 1881.1 Smith. 33 arrived there in high spirits, glad to have left a tedious sea-voyage behind us, and rejoiced to find ourselves in London, the London we had dreamed of these ten or twenty years. But pres- ently we felt there was something in the temperature that chilled our vivaci- ty. We were a thousand miles from suspecting what it was. Our purpose in London was to see the sights, to visit all those historic buildings and monu- ments and galleries which were wrest- ed from us by the war of 1776. Our wanderings through the day were often long and always fatiguing; we returned jaded to the hotel, frequently after the dinner hour, and in no mood to under- take radical changes in our costume. There stood Smith in his crisp neck-tie and claw-hammer coat and immaculate gloves. The dinner was elegant in its appointments, and exquisitely served. The dressing of the salad was rivaled only by the dressing of Smith. Yet something was wrong. We were some- how repressed, and for three days we did not know what it was that repressed us. On the fourth day I resolved to give our party a little surprise by ap- pearing at dinner in conventional broad- cloth and white breastplate. Each of the other two members of the coterie insensibly under the magnetismofSmith had planned a like surprise. When we met at table and surveyed each oth- er, we laughed aloud, for the first time in three days in Smiths presence. It was plain to see that Smith approved of an elaborate dinner toilette, and hence- forth we adopted it. Presently we were struck, and then began to be appalled, by the accuracy, minuteness, and comprehensiveness of Smiths knowledge of London. It was encyclopaAic. He was a vitalized time- table of railways and coaches and steam- boats, a walking, breathing d~irectory to all the shops, parks, churches, museums, and theatres of the bewildering capital. He had stamped on his brain a map of VOL. XLVII. No. 279. 8 all the tangled omnibus routes; he knew the best seats in every place of amuse- ment, the exact moment the perform- ance began in each, and could put his finger without hesitating a second on the very virtuosos collection you wanted to examine. This is not the half of his accomplishments. I despair of stating them. I do not see how he ever had the leisure to collect such a mass of de- tail. It seems to substantiate a theory I have that Smith has existed, with pe-. riodic renewals of his superficial struct- ure, from the time of the Norman Con- quest. Before we discovered his almost wicked amplitude of information, we used to consult him touching intended pilgrimages, but shortly gave it up, fin& ing that our provincial plans generally fell cold upon him. He was almost amused, one day, at our desire to ascer. tam the whereabouts of that insignifi- cant house in Cheapside it is No. 17, if I remember in which Keats wrote his sonnet on Chapmans Homer. Our New World curiosity as to certain locali- ties which possess no interest whatever to the Londoner must often have struck Smith as puerile. His protest or his dis- approval I do not know how to name it was always so delicate and shadowy that he cannot be said to have expressed it; it was something in his manner, and not in his words, something as vague as a fleeting breath on a window-glass;~ hut it dampened us. There is a singular puissance in a grave, chilling demeanor, though it may be backed by no solid quality whatever. Nothing so imposes on the world. Ii have known persons to attain very high: social and public distinction by no other means than a guarded solemnity of man- ner. Even when we see through its shallowness, we are still impressed by it, just as childreh are paralyzed by a sheeted comrade, though they know all the while it is only one of themselves playing ghost. I suppose it was in the course of nat- 84 Smith. [January, ure that we should have fallen under the domination of Smith, and have come, to accept him with a degree of serious- ness which seems rather abject to me in retrospect. Without acknowledging it to ourselves, we were affected by his in- tangible criticism. I would not have had it come to his ears for a five-pound note that I had a habit of eating a chop in a certain snuffy old coffee - house near Temple Bar, whenever lunch-time chanced to catch me in that vicinity. 0 plump head-waiter at The Cock, to which I most resorted, I should have been ashamed to have Smith know that I had the slightest acquaintance with you, though Tennyson himself has sung your praises! Nor would I have had Smith get wind of the low-bred excur- sion I made, one day, up the Thames, in a squalid steamer crowded with grimy workingmen and their frouzy wives and children. I hid in my heart the guilty joy I took in two damaged musicians aboard, a violin and a flageolet. The flageolet I am speaking of the per- fornwr had such a delightfully disrep- utable patch over his right eye! By the way, I wonder why it is that vagrant players of wind-instruments in England usually have a patch over one eye. Are they combative as a class, or is it that they now and then blow out a visual organ with too assiduous practice in ear- ly youth? The violin-man, on the other hand, perhaps I ought to say on the other leg, was lame. Altogether the pair looked like the remains of a band that had been blown up by a steam- boiler explosion on some previous trip on the river. They played a very dole- ful tune; full of unaccountable gruff- nesses and shrilluesses, which it was my mood to accept as the ghostly replica- tion of the cries and complaints of their late comrades on the occasion suggested. There was a rough crowd on board, with a sprinkling of small shop-keepers, and here and there a group of gaudily-dressed young women, not to be set down in the category of doubtful characters. These people were off on a holiday, and it was curious to observe the heavy, brutal way they took their pleasure, turning it into a hardship. I got a near view of a phase of English life not to be met with in the rarefied atmosphere of D Street, and I regret to admit that I have many a time enjoyed myself less in bet- ter company. When I returned to the hotel that night, Smith stood rebukefully drying The Pall Mall Gazette for me before the parlor fire, A year or two of Smith would make it difficult for a man to dispense with him. With Smith for a valet, one would have no distinct wants to perplex one, for Smiths intuition would head them off and supply them before they were formulated. He was, as I have more than hinted, an invaluable servant. Some- times, as I looked at him, and reflected on his unmurmuring acceptance of a life of servitude, and the kind of sober grace he threw about its indignity, I used to call to mind that disgruntled, truculent waiter described by John Hay in his charming Castilian Days. I know a gentleman in the West, says Mr. Hay, whose circumstances had forcdd him to become a waiter in a backwoods restaurant. He bore a dead- ly grudge at the profession that kept him from starving, and asserted his un- conquered nobility of soul by scowling at his customers and swearing at the viands he dispensed. I remember the deep sense of wrong with which he would growl, Two buckwheats, be gawd! As to Smiths chronic gloom, it re- ally had nothing of moroseness in it, only an habitual melancholy, a crystal- lized patience. We doubtless put it to some crucial tests with our American ideas and idioms. The earlier part of our acquaintanceship was fraught with mutual perplexities. It was the longest time before we discovered that ay ill meant Hay Hill Street, Smith making 1881.] Smith. 85 a single mouthful of it, thus, ayill. One morning he staggered us by asking if we would like a hapricot freeze for dessert. We assented, and would have assented if he had proposed iced hippopotamus; but the nature of the dish was a mystery to us, and perhaps never, since the world took shape out of chaos, was there simple mould of apri- cot jelly looked forward to in such poig- nant suspense. It is scarcely permissi- ble in so light a paper as this to touch on anything so heavy as philology; but I cannot forbear wondering what malign spirit has bewitched the vowels of the lower-class Englishman. When he finds it impossible to elide the vowel at the beginning of a word, he invariably cov- ers it with an h, the very letter that plays the deuce with him under ordina- ry circumstances. An Oxford scholar once informed me that this peculiarity was the result of imperfect education, and left me to settle it for myself why the peculiarity was confined to England. Illiterate Americans if there are any do not drop their hs. But as I have said, this is too heavy a text. It seems almost an Irish bull to say that one can be in London only once for the first time. In other plac5es you may renew first impressions. A city on the Continent always remains a for- eign city to you, no matter how often you visit it; but that first time in Lon- don is an experience which can never be made to repeat itself. Whatever is alien to you fades away under your ear- liest glances; the place suddenly takes home-like aspects; certain streets and courts where you never set foot before strike you familiarly. It is a place where you might have lived, this great seething metropolis, where perhaps you once did live, in hose and doublet or knightly harness, in some immemorial century. I doubt if an American ever visited England without feeling in his bosom the vibration, more or less dis- tmct, of these invisible threads of attach- ment. Everywhere in the lucid prose of Hawthornes English Note-Books and Our Old Home this sentiment lies im- bedded, like a spray of fossilized fern. The architecture, the language, and the customs are yours, or must have been yours long ago. Smith himself dawns upon you as a former acquaint- ance. Possibly he was one of your retainers in the time of Henry VIII. (You like to picture yourself with re- tainers; for to be an Englishman, and not be a duke or an earl, is to miss four fifths of the good luck.) Your im- agination gives you a long lease of ex- istence when you fall into reveries of this nature; you fancy yourself extant at various interesting periods of Eng- lish history; it costs you no effort, while you are about it, to have a hand in a dozen different reigns. What a pictur- esque, highly decorative, household-art sort of life you may lead from the era of the Black Prince down to the Vic- torian age! How lightly you assume the responsibility of prolonging Smith through all this! He holds the bridle of an extra horse for you at Poitiers, and also at that other bloody field of Agincourt; and then, somewhat later, sits on the box of your glass coach (which Mr. Samuel Pepys, surveying it from his chamber window, pronounces mightily fine ), as you drive through the shrewish winter morning to the Palace of Whitehall to witness the re- moval of Charles the Firsts head. It; is easy to shape any kind of chimera out of that yellowish London fog. Im- mediately after this epoch, however, your impressions of having been person- ally associated with the events of Eng- lish history become dimmer, if not alto- gether confused; possibly your spirit was about that time undergoing certain organic changes, necessary to the me- tempsychosis which befell you later. You break from your abstraction to the consciousness that you are a stran- ger in your native land. The genius 36 Getting Jilarried in Germany. [January, loci does not recogniz.e you; you are an altered man. You are an American. Yet a little while ago the past of Eng- land was as much your past as it is Smiths, or that of any Briton of them all. But you have altercd, and forfeited it. Smith has not altered: he is the same tall, efficient serving-man he was in the time of the Plantagenets. He has that air of having been carefully handed down which stamps so many things in England. (If this has been said before, I beg somebodys pardon; I am treading on much-walked-over ground.) There, indeed, Nature seems careful of the type. The wretched woman who murders Kathleen Mavour- neen in the street under your window shares this quality of permanency with Smith. She, or one precisely like her, has been singing ballads for ages, and will go on doing it. Endless gener ations of American tourists, lodging temporarily at Joness perpetual Hotel, will give her inexhaustible shillings, and Smith will carry them out to her on his indestructible waiter. The individual Smith may occasionally die, but not the type, not the essence. My mind can take in Macaulays picture of the New Zealander sitting on a broken buttress of London Brid~,e, and cynically con- templating the d~bris, a landscape with figure, as the catalogues would put it, but I am unable to grasp the idea of the annihilation of anything so firmly established by precedent as Smith. I fancy that even out of the splintered masonry his respectful, well-modulated chest voice wonld be heard saying (through sheer force of habit), Will you ave a look at the hevening paper, sir? or, If you please, sir, the ansom is at the door! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. GETTING MARRIED IN GERMANY. MARY and I had been engaged nearly a year and a half, so that our story be- gins where most others end. We had both been in Europe several years: I had been working for my degree at Ber- lin and Heidelberg, and she had been liv- ing quietly with her mother at Munich, Florence, and finally at Dresden, study- ing the languages, and painting a little in water-colors. Mary thought it would be nice to be married in Paris, but there were rumors of so many formalities and possible delays that we had given it up and agreed that Germany should be the favored land; and, as each of us chanced to have either friends or relatives in Berlin, it was decided that that should be the place, and that June should be the happy month. Let it be the 1st, I had pleaded, and she bad consented. We planned to go quietly in the morning to some little church, or to some clergy- mans study, and afterwards, perhaps, to ask our friends to a lunch or breakfast in a private parlor in some hotel, such as I had once been invited to by a friend- ly Docent in the university, who married on an income of five hundred dollars a year. One lovely morning early in May, two weeks before my final examination, I received a letter from Mary saying she had heard that I could not possibly be married without a passport. Her friend, Miss Allen, had a cousin whose chum, an American, had been married in Ger- many, two years before, to a German lady, and it had first to be done at a common police office, she wrote, and there a passport was required. Now Mary knew that I had criminally evaded the German law, and this was the way

Getting Married to Germany 36-46

36 Getting Jilarried in Germany. [January, loci does not recogniz.e you; you are an altered man. You are an American. Yet a little while ago the past of Eng- land was as much your past as it is Smiths, or that of any Briton of them all. But you have altercd, and forfeited it. Smith has not altered: he is the same tall, efficient serving-man he was in the time of the Plantagenets. He has that air of having been carefully handed down which stamps so many things in England. (If this has been said before, I beg somebodys pardon; I am treading on much-walked-over ground.) There, indeed, Nature seems careful of the type. The wretched woman who murders Kathleen Mavour- neen in the street under your window shares this quality of permanency with Smith. She, or one precisely like her, has been singing ballads for ages, and will go on doing it. Endless gener ations of American tourists, lodging temporarily at Joness perpetual Hotel, will give her inexhaustible shillings, and Smith will carry them out to her on his indestructible waiter. The individual Smith may occasionally die, but not the type, not the essence. My mind can take in Macaulays picture of the New Zealander sitting on a broken buttress of London Brid~,e, and cynically con- templating the d~bris, a landscape with figure, as the catalogues would put it, but I am unable to grasp the idea of the annihilation of anything so firmly established by precedent as Smith. I fancy that even out of the splintered masonry his respectful, well-modulated chest voice wonld be heard saying (through sheer force of habit), Will you ave a look at the hevening paper, sir? or, If you please, sir, the ansom is at the door! Thomas Bailey Aldrich. GETTING MARRIED IN GERMANY. MARY and I had been engaged nearly a year and a half, so that our story be- gins where most others end. We had both been in Europe several years: I had been working for my degree at Ber- lin and Heidelberg, and she had been liv- ing quietly with her mother at Munich, Florence, and finally at Dresden, study- ing the languages, and painting a little in water-colors. Mary thought it would be nice to be married in Paris, but there were rumors of so many formalities and possible delays that we had given it up and agreed that Germany should be the favored land; and, as each of us chanced to have either friends or relatives in Berlin, it was decided that that should be the place, and that June should be the happy month. Let it be the 1st, I had pleaded, and she bad consented. We planned to go quietly in the morning to some little church, or to some clergy- mans study, and afterwards, perhaps, to ask our friends to a lunch or breakfast in a private parlor in some hotel, such as I had once been invited to by a friend- ly Docent in the university, who married on an income of five hundred dollars a year. One lovely morning early in May, two weeks before my final examination, I received a letter from Mary saying she had heard that I could not possibly be married without a passport. Her friend, Miss Allen, had a cousin whose chum, an American, had been married in Ger- many, two years before, to a German lady, and it had first to be done at a common police office, she wrote, and there a passport was required. Now Mary knew that I had criminally evaded the German law, and this was the way 1881.] aetting lJliarried in aermany. 87 it came about: Before I had been settled two days in Berlin my kind-hearted land- lady took occasion to explain to me that I must be announced at the police office, and that there a passport would be de- manded within ten days. A passport would cost twenty-eight marks, she in- formed me, at the office of the American legation; and if I cared to save money, and would give her ten marks, she would risk the penalty (as she had done before for my countrymen, for whom she had a great liking), and not announce me at all, and I could remain unmolested and unrecorded as long as I wished. I had paltered with the temptation, and finally, with the aid of an extemporized theory about the relations of natural and legal justice, villainously capitulated, and saved eighteen marks. Here seemed, at first sight, a dilemma which was not to be evaded without a plump lie. If I obtained and presented a passport now, I should be asked how long I had been in the city, and if it were more than two weeks I might pos- sibly be ordered to leave it for violating the city ordinances, as an unfortunate ac- quaintance of mine had been six months before. My landlady would certainly be heavily fined for not announcing me, and possibly, if her other delinquencies in that line should come to light, she might be also deprived of her pension license. If, on the other hand, I de- dared that I had just arrived, my an- swers to the long cross-questioning to which I was liable to be subjected at the bureau might excite surprise, and a single inquiry at the post-office or of the letter-carrier would be sure to involve us both in far deeper complication. I promptly remembered the Trinkgeld I had so long forgotten to give the post- man, and sought counsel of my landlady. She at first seemed quite dismayed at the situation, but at length reminded me that a few days before I had made a trip to Potsdam. Give me your passport, she said, and remember, you arrived in Berlin last Tuesday evening. Precisely what she did with it, or told the police, my conscience never let me inquire; but a few days later I was summoned to the police office, where, in answer to many interrogations, I explained that I had been in the city something more than a week; did not know preciselj~r how long I might stay, but would give informa- tion when I decided; that I was there to study, and what; that when I did leave I might go home, and might travel, and where; and at last left with a light heart, feeling that my answers had been so transparent that if there had been any suspicion that I meditated another attempt upon the venerable Kaisers life it had been effectually allayed. The next morning I was waked at daybreak by a call from a magnificent police offi- cer, who politely explained that the bu- reau had some trouble in deciphering the middle name of my honored Frau mother. Foreign names were sometimes very hard, he added. I wrote it out (in my robe de nuit, upon the back of my visiting-card, in the steadiest hand I could command, Cymantha ), and handed it to him in the corridor through the peep-hole in the door. He apologized again, saluted, retired, and came no more. A week later my passport was returned with a number of official stamps upon it. I carried it thenceforth always with me, as we never fail to carry our legitimation cards after matriculation; feeling that in the big green seal of the legation and the fair round hand of our ambassador I possessed not only a sort of warrant of citizenship in two countries, but a key to the adytum of Hymens tem- ple. My examination was now to occur in a week. I had paid my preliminary fee, almost finished my thesis, and was cramming at my very best pace with a team of three other Rep etents. Still I had found time to order my wedding suit and get the bridal ring, with June 38 Getting Married in Germany. [January, 1st and my initials engraved on it, and one morning I ran into the house of our American clergyman, long resident in Berlin, to ask him to perform the cere- mony. What was my consternation to be told that the laws of Germany would not allow him to marry us! But, I pleaded, we are Ameri- cans. It might be done quietly, and the authorities here need not know it. I am sure it is none of their business. There is a new international ar- rangement, I dqnt know precisely what; but I am positive it would not be safe for either of us to attempt it, he said. I retired, meditating that the rever- end gentleman had no fine feeling for the delicacy of a situation like ours, to say the least. After losing several hours, now very precious for study, in puzzling over the matter, I resolved to call upon our am- bassador himself. Ill though he was, he received me very kindly. Are American citizens ever married in this office? I inquired. It has been done once only, I think, under one of my predecessors; but there were some very exceptional reasons. Well and good; that is my case. Can you marry me here next Wednesday? The lady is not ill, I hope? Not in the least. Then your best way is to go to Eng- land. If you choose the simplest form, and are married by an independent cler- gyman, it is only necessary that one of the parties should reside there two weeks before the ceremony can be performed. But that is really impossible in this ~case, I replied. My Miss that is, the lady is rather High Church, and I have an examination just ahead. Be- sides, we have made all the arrangements for here and the 1st of June. I think I may say you will find that out of the question. Then you refuse, you really can- not do it? I asked, with a strange, un steady feeling about the corners of my mouth. Is not this office construed by international law as American soil? I added, bringing out the grand stra- tegic point of all my mornings medita- tion. So far from it under the new arrange- ment, if it were done here and knowl- edge of the fact should come to the ears of the authorities, not only should I be myself seriously compromised for igno- rant or willful violation of the laws I am here to see observed, but the officiating clergyman would be arrested at the door, and the marriage would be declared void even in an American court, and even though the case be first tested years hence. A marriage must now be valid according to the laws of the place where it is celebrated, or it is null and void, he explained. I made an ill-disguised attempt to smother something in my throat, and I am ashamed to say I retired awkwardly, abruptly, ungratefully. What a fool I had been not to learn this before; and Mary would of course think so, too, how- ever much I might plead intense pre- occupation with my studies ! It could never be concealed, and it would be a joke which my acquaintances would never forget. Besides, her dresses were probably all ordered or ready, and every- thing would be out of fashion, perhaps, long before the German authorities whom I knew to be very fussy about such matters would let us get married. Marys father had left his driving busi- ness for six weeks to see the ceremony, and was now upon the sea, and I knew must go back with his wife in July. My old chum, Will Murrey, who had been spending the winter in Italy, was to be in Berlin in time to act best man for me so far as was needful, and I knew Mary h~d asked Miss Punto to sustain her in whatever sense might be needful during the ceremony. Besides, early June was the best time, so everybody said, to start on a trip through the prov 1881.] Getting Married in Germany. 39 inces along the Danube, where I had planned to make our wedding tour. It was in no very happy frame of mind that I sat down that night to write the result of my days investigation to Mary. What I wrote I no longer re- member, nor will she aid me to do so. It must have been, to say the least, queer, for when I pressed her after- wards to let me see that letter she seemed very serious, and confessed at last that she had made a note on the margin of it which she did not wish me to see, but kindly searched the letter out and burned it before my eyes. I waited nearly two days for an an- swer, during which I was of course in no mood for work. After all, she wrote, it was perhaps just as well. She would prefer to wait rather than to go to Eng- land, unless her father. should very strongly urge it. It would be nice and funny, as well as probably very impress- ive, to take the Lutheran forms, she thought, and ended by exhorting me not to let trifles like that interfere with needful preparation for my degree, be- cause when she did marry me she had her heart set on being a Fra?t Doctor. This time I was bound to make sure work, and so, with the best information I could procure, started off for the civil bureau (Standes Mint) to ascertain pre- cisely what was required. Upon what business do you come? demanded the pompous servant at the door. I am an American citizen, and want to know how to get married in Ger- many, I faltered. He opened the door of the main office, and shouted, Em Herr Amen- kanner wishes to marry himself! and then showed me into a large and well- filled waiting - room to take my turn, every occupant of whieh gazed fixedly at me without winking for some minutes. One thin, dark, wiry man in soiled linen, and bright yellow kid gloves, had dropped in to announce the death of his third wife. A trembling young mother was sharply reprimanded for letting the legal third day pass before announcing the death of her child. A somewhat seedy clerk had come, with a radiant face, to announce the birth of a boy fourteen hours old, and to be called Johannes Conrade Hermaun Degener- meister. A servant-girl and her lover were waiting in one corner, she red and giggling, he erect, dignified, and taci- turn as a head-waiter, to be made man and wife. I had plenty of time to ob- serve, for nearly an hour passed before my turn came. At length I was shown into a long room, with half a dozen clerks at one end, who twisted their necks, adjusted their glasses, and gazed and listened with open-mouthed wonder. I wish to get married in the very simplest and quickest way, I said, pre- senting my passport. Will you please tell me how to do it? It is extremely simple, said the officer. We must have a certificate of your birth [Geburtsscliein] signed by the burgomaster of the town in which you were born, and with its seal, and wit- nessed in due form. Your certificate of baptism [Taufschein] should also be sent, to guard against all error, sealed and witnessed by the present pastor or the proper church officers. These must be presented here by each of the con- tracting parties, with their passports, as the first step. I carefully noted this, and he pro- ceeded: The parents, if living, should certify to their knowledge and approval of the marriage. We must also be satisfied that there is no obstacle, legal, moral, or otherwise, to it; whether either of you have been married before, and if so whether there are children, and if so their names and ages. The parents names should be in full; also their resi- dence, occupation, age, and place of birth should of course be given for rec- ord here. 40 Getting Jlifarried in Germany. [January, I begged for another scrap of paper and made further notes. When we have these here in this desk, he continued, patting fondly that piece of furniture, then either we can publish the bans [Aufgebot] by post- ing a notice of your intention in the J?at/ikaus for fourteen days, or else you can have it printed in the journal of the place where you reside in America, and bring us a copy here as evidence that it has actually appeared. After the expiration of this time you can be married in this office. Must it be here? I queried. Of course, he said. This is the only place which the law now recog- nizes. Poor people are content with civil marriage only, but all who move in good society go from here to the church for a religious ceremony. Is it not possible to shorten the time? I timidly ventured to inquire. We had made all the arrangements for an earlier day, and are seriously in- commoded by the delay. I did not know the requirements. It takes four weeks to hear from America, and then two weeks more here, and You do not, perhaps, exactly understand, and yet I hardly know how to explain. But there is really haste. r~Ve are pressed for time. Haste? Pressed for time? he repeated. Perhaps I do not under- stand. I am sorry, but it cannot possibly be sooner. You think we are slow in Germany. True, but we are sure. We require our people to take time to think over the matter beforehand, and divorce with us is far from being the easy mat- ter J have heard it is in America. I was in no mood for opening a dis- cussion of the statutes of Indiana, and so demurely withdrew, feeling that it was no use to try to wriggle into matri- mony through such mazy meshes of red tape, and that Mary would of course now consent to England. This was nat- urally implied throughout the letter I dispatched that evening. But I was mis- taken. She could not think of England for a moment now. It would be so in- teresting in Berlin, she wrote. We could be very comfortable for six weeks. The middle of July was not very late, after all, in that latitude. I must write at once the details of the requirements, and she would send for her papers. I complied, and sat down to write for mine. Now I happened to be born in a lit- tle, remote Western hamlet, where I did not at present know a soul, nor in all probability did my parents. How to get the certificate of my birth, or, in other words, how to prove at the civil bureau that I had been really and le- gally born, was no trivial matter. I final- ly addressed a detailed n~nd courteous letter to the mayor of Hornersville, beg- ging him to have thefact and date of my birth from the town sent me, wit- nessed and over the town seal; and in order to inclose two dollars in United States postage-stamps, I ran at random into the nearest bank. I was counting out my German money, and the first clerk had gone to the back office for the stamps, when the brisk junior principal stepped up and asked me if my head was in any way diseased. I thanked him heartily, hut not without some sur- prise, and assured him that it had never been better. Because, he continued, it is customary in our country to re- move the hat in all offices of this impor- tance. I doffed it instantly, and begged pardon, I am sorry to say, before I thought; and, although I had been taught the same lesson once before in a little shoe-store, regretted passionately half the way home that I had not thoroughly wrung his impertinent nose, in honor of the American eagle. I next passed to the consideration of the baptismal question, the precise re- lations of which to the natal problem I have not been able to this day precisely to understand. The least forgery or evasion was of course not to be thought 1881.] Getting Married in Germany. 41 of, however justifiable in a moral point of view I might deem it under the cruel circumstances, because that would make the marriage itself null and void. This I clearly inferred from my interview at the civil bureau. Moreover, no certifi- cate whatever could have the least value unless it was stamped with an official seal; and, again, every error would ne- cessitate an additional delay of four weeks; and, lastly, it was better to do too much than too little. These ground categories, I reflected, must never be lost sight of. Now the fact was I had never been baptized. My father, although a good church member, entertained, twenty years ago, some rather independent views on the question of infant baptism, and so, despite my mothers wishes, the matter lingered until I was too big. In Germany, where every boy baby must be either baptized or circumcised, I was a monster, for whom her law made no provision. Marys parents held no lat- itudinarian scruples, and she had been baptized thoroughly as an infant, and again later by immersion. Why had no one hinted to me, when I left home, that it might be convenient to take a Tauf- schein along with my passport! After instituting inquiries, I ascer- tained that, among several other obsta- des, I was now too old to be baptized in Germany, and that an English bap- tism would not help me. I could not think of leaving my examination and crossing the ocean, to be sprinkled in the normal way. Only one thing re- mained, namely, to get my parents pas- tor and parish clerk to certify amply and strongly, under oath and seal and before witnesses, that, although duly born, I had never been duly baptized, and that such omissions, unfortunately, were not unfrequent in the United States, and were attended there by no civil or temporal disabilities. In my letter I begged my parents to send a certificate of their consent to my mar- riage, giving them a fa~,orable descrip- tion of Mary, inclosing her photograph, and gently hinting at the end that if they withheld their approval it would simply necessitate our running over to England. Another letter to my uncle, who happened to be a district judge, begging him to certify that I had never been married before, and that, according to his and my families best knowledge and belief, there was no obstacle, legal, moral, or otherwise, to my marriage with Miss Mary Adelaide Prout, of New York, seemed to me to complete the business. Yet, no: it would be best to have the bans printed in our little home paper, strange as it would look there, and have a copy or better two, in case a steamer should be sunk at sea sent me. That might save two weeks And again, it might be well to copy all these letters, and send a duplicate of each a week later, to make assurance doubly sure. If there should he any additional delay by error, there would be some consolation in having the fault on Marys side, I reflected. I now had thirty-six hours for cramming before my exami- nation, and at it I went. Here were the lecture notes of five semesters and two small shelves of text- books which ought to be reviewed. As the case seemed desperate, I resolved to concentrate myself on anatomy and chemistry, where I was weakest, and risk the seven other ample sciences which a doctor is required to know. Two of my examiners were aware that I had been a diligent student, and I would get a cer- tain good friend of mine to call on an- other of them and hint that I had been distracted by family troubles, and per- haps, in case of need, they would advo- cate tempering justice with mercy, and letting me through easily, as it is said is often done with American students. I worked well all day and till about one oclock at night, and then fell asleep over the group of peptones. At nine in the morning, while I was 42 Getting Jiiliarried in German~y. [January, taking my coffee, a letter came from Mary requesting more detailed directions for ordering her papers, and when it was an- swered I realized that I was in a mood which made study impossible. I took a bath, and ran into the gymnasium, but was no better; drank a glass of beer, and read the American papers at the bank, but grew worse; then started off for a ~long walk in the Thiergarten, and came back only in time to make my toilet for the dread ordeal. In evening dress, I was ushered into a long room and seated at one end, while my examiners were discussing a comfortable spread at the other, paid for, I knew, out of the two hundred thalers I had given for being admitted to examination. Of the three hours of mental anguish I here endured I will attempt no description. I was passed from one inquisitor to another, and at last, after waiting ten minutes in an anteroom, recalled to learn that, not- withstanding the excellence of my theme, and my diligence, good conduct, etc., my oral examination had not been in all respects entirely satisfactory; and I was advised to take advantage of the new regulations, and present myself again as a Repetent in the autumn. I retired, scarce knowing what I did, and walked bareheaded in the cool night air a couple of hours, overwhelmed with shame, wondering over and over again what Mary, what my pareuts and friends, would think of me; aud at last returned, jaded and haggard, designing to slip into my room unobserved and seek the ob- livion of sleep. What should I find, how- ever, on opening my door, but my host- ess and several friends festively drink- ing wine around my table, on which was a magnificent piece of confectionery like a skeleton Gothic tower. It had turrets and minarets and festoons, and was wreathed in flowers, and a ginger-snap banner high above all was done off on one side in stripes and stars with red, white, ard blue candy-work, and on the other side stood Herr Doctor above my initials. Herr Studiosus Ottfried Wil~ helm Griesebach, my best German friend, sprung up and hugged and kissed me in spite of myself, and the congratulations of the others were so loud and given with such beery impetuosity that it was some time before I could make them compr& hend the awful truth that I had fallen through. They were really silenced then for an instant, during which I caught a glimpse of my hostess, with real delicacy of feeling, stealthily break- ing off the candied, doctored ginger-snap banner and slipping it slyly into her pocket. It was but for an instant, however, and it was J-Ierr Griesebacb, to my sur- prise, who first attempted to meet what he considered the demands of the occa- sion. Springing again to his feet, and, I actually believe, brushing away a tear, he thumped upon the table, and cried Silentia! in true convivial German-stu- dent style, though it was just then as still as the grave. Honored 1lerren, he began glibly enough, love and science are jealous rivals, but thrice, four times happy the man who is favored by either. Our dear friend was going to become a doctor one week and wed a beautiful girl the next. The bride lebe koch! shouted one of my visitors, and all rose, clinked their glasses, and drank deeply, nodding and smiling to me. The gods were envious, and in their councils it was ordained that instead of completing a four years~ course of medicine then, as he intended, he should pause for a short course on the German marriage law. In his native land, Americans leben hock! was shouted and drank to as before, they say, I have heard, that time is money. [These words in English, all he knew, I believe; but he graciously repeated them sotto voce in German, with a benev- olent glance at my hostess.] Well, slowly shrugging his shoulders and rais- ing his eye-brows, our friends faculty has given him four months time, lay- 1881.] Getting Alarried in aermany. 48 ing his forefinger aside his nose at the word four, and tapping it again at the word time. This was execrable and exasperating enough, it will be con- fessed, and I suppose my face fell still more and that my convivial friend no- ticed it; at any rate, he stepped to my side, grasped an,d wrung my hand, and added in changed and almost tender ac- cents, I have been in the university eight years. My head is mossy enough, but of many American students I have known our friend is the only one with true German Cemiith; and before I say dixi I propose that we rub a vigorous salamander to the Herr Br~iutigam. Let him live high, high, high! he cried, raising his glass and drinking long and deep, as did the rest, after which all rat- tled their glasses noisily at his command till he gave the usual signal for silence, and then sat down. He had done his awkward best, and so did all the rest in more informal words of consolation, but it was of no use. It only revealed to me how great and life- long in German eyes was the disaster which had overtaken me. When they had gone I sank back in my chair (a rocking-chair, by the way, which I had got made only with infinite pains, after satisfying myself that I could not obtain one otherwise in all the city; indeed, it was the only one I ever saw in all Germany), and tried to think things over calmly and gather courage; but the longer I sat the more completely unmanned I became. I could think of nothing, in fact; but the words, I have failed! I have failed! kept repeating themselves in my mind over and over again, like the inexpugnable Punch, brothers, punch with care, etc., which Mark Twain has described. I sat there for hours, benumbed, in a sort of Orient- al trance. I had no wish, no strength even, to go to bed, though I knew dream- ily that my condition was morbid. I re- member thinking, on the whole, rather favorably of the project of going back to the Thiergarten and shooting myself, as an American student had done in the autumn before, without a quarter of my provocation, I was sure. But that would require too much effort. Many other absurd things flitted through my mind, while the day dawned and the sun- shine stole in at my feet. I wished for half an hour that the window of my room was open; I knew the air was not the best, but I could not summon the reso- lution to get up and open it. At length I was roused by the knock and entrance of my hostess, who informed me that my usual breakfast hour was considerably passed. I ate mechanically, and came back to my chair in a room with fresh- ened atmosphere, and slowly began to realize that I was suffering from a nerv- ous reaction which might become in- definitely serious. I will not here pause to go into professional details. Suffice it to say that, following the best medical advice, it was several weeks before I at all recovered my health and spirits. During the first few days I had been too listless to do more than glance over Marys letters as they came, arid deferred answering them, always only for an hour or two at a time, till at length, on the fourth day, becoming really alarmed at hearing nothing from me, she had come on to Berlin with her mother, and sur- prised me at dinner. She seemed to un- derstand the situation at once; found out Heaven knows how the regimen that had been prescribed for me, and kept me up to it. She got me out on long walks, astonished me by her own endur- ance as my companion, and did her best to amuse and keep me cheerful. It must have been a dreary task, for I was so blas6 to every intellectual interest, so in- different to every enthusiasm or even to my own future, that only true love could have made my companionship endurable. And yet she brought me slowly out of my trouble back again to life. Four weeks had meanwhile elapsed. Marys father had come and returned 44 Getting Married in German~y. [January, alone without her mother, and I began to hear from my home letters. First came my parents consent to my mar- riage to Miss Front, drawn up in state- ly and formal terms; for my father was a country squire, and knew some- thing about how a legal period should be stuffed. At the bottom of this my sister bad roguishly imprinted the motto of her class in the seminary, of which, as secretary that year, she chanced to have the metallic stamp. It was a Greek translation of the phrase, I will find a way or make one. It was as big as an English penny, and with a bit of red ribbon affixed looked so imposingly of- ficial that I thought it best to let it stand; and good service it did me in the end. My uncle, the judge, promptly de- clared that to the best of his knowledge there was no obstacle to my marriage, and affixed the stamp of the county to his certificate that I had never been mar- ried before. Then came the baptismal paper, and a most lame and beggarly document it was. First came the statement of the pastor. He had good-heartedly taken it upon himself to instruct the German government all too elaborately that, much as it was to be regretted, it was nevertheless a fact that scarcely one half of the native-born Americans were now- adays baptized, as the ceremony was not here re(juired bylaw. After some expati- ation upon this point, he graciously added that he had always seen much to com- mend in the German practice in the mat- ter. His declaration was accompanied by my fathers apologetic statement of his earlier scruples about infant baptism. From my letter and inclosure to the mayor of Hornersville I have never heard to this day. I had, however, antici- pated ads possibility, and as, fortunately for me, all four of my grandparents were living, asked them to certify to the dates of my parents marriage and of my birth. This they did, and as the town where they resided possessed no stamp or seal, the town clerk good-naturedly pasted round pieces of green paper and a few inches of red ribbon at the bot- tom of each declaration. These docu- ments, making with my passport seven in all, were carefully laid aside. Within a week Mary had the same number of papers, and, without stopping to exam- ine them, I made them into a formidable budget, and again visited the civil bureau, only to learn that they must all be offi- cially translated, and that each paper must bear the two-dollar stamp of the American legation in witness of the ac- curacy of the translation. As the office was then quite full of business, five or six days elapsed before this was accom- plished. Upon returning to the German bureau, carrying now twenty-eight doc- uments instead of fourteen (some of which, however, proved eventually to be useless or superfluous), it was promptly found that Marys papers certified to her two baptisms, but failed to make out that there was no legal or pecuniary ob- stacle to her marriage. I had heard of the tedious litigations about inheritances which, under the former laxer laws, had grown out of carelessness about this point, but supposed Marys mother, who had remained with her, could satisfy the authorities upon that point. Therefore I waited in silence for my own papers to be examined, hoping that if my irregu- lar baptismal certificate was challenged, Marys supererogatory baptism might be somehow vicariously credited to me. Mine, however, was accepted, but nothing which Marys mother could do or say was sufficient to satisfy the German law that I might not be capturing an heiress by methods which it deems inadmissi- ble. There was therefore no way but for Mary to cable her father in New York, Certify consent and no pecuniary ob- stacle to marriage, and for us to wait two weeks more for the documents. A delay of another fortnight was needful for the bans, or Aufgebot. Mary herself began to be impatient. It was August, 1881.] Getting Married in Germany. 45 and the heat was intense; all our friends had left the city, and both my hest man, Will Murrey, and Marys friend, Miss Punto, had returned to America, and were eventually married hefore we were. The dresses were getting out of season and out of fashion, and it was too late to travel anywhere but in Russia, Sweden, or Scotland, and we were not as enthu- siastic about any of those countries as we had been about the Danube. But the day long sighed for, long de- layed, came at last. As I had to he my own hest man, and attend to all the thousand and one little unexpected jobs that turned up, I had hired a faithful man-servant for a week, to whom I en- trusted the arrangements at the church, the preparation of the spread, the care about carriages, getting off the baggage, etc. Before I escaped in the morning, the house porter, three servants, the wash- er-woman, coal man, two servants from the laboratory, and a tailoress called, most of them in their best attire, and several bringing flowers or bouquets, to give me their parting Cliickwunsch, expressed in all the pretty phrases for such occasions in which the German lan- guage abounds. They were all mod- erately feed, but were happy. Some of them almost wept so I fancied as I drove off with Johann mounted beside the driver. Mary was ready, and with a half dozen friends we were soon in the little back parlor of the civil bureau. Here again was a long delay. One of the two witnesses required by German law was six months too young, and not one of our friends had the requisite pa- pers of legitimation with them to take her place. One of the latter was person- ally known to the officiating squire, and another was the wife of a well-known public man, hut this was not regular. Even my servant had no paper with a stamp about him, and none of the idlers in the office, who are sometimes called in for a shilling in such emergen- cies, was any more fortunate. One of Marys friends became indignant, and began a caustic history of our vexatious delays in broken German to the officer, until at length he turned his back upon her, tore off his swallow-tail coat, which had been donned for the ceremony, put on an inky gown, and retired to his desk, leaving us to find a way out of the fuss as best we could. None of the party lived nearer than two miles away, but luckily one of them remembered a lady acquaintance upon the next street, and went forth to find her. Although she was ill, she rose, dressed, took her pa- pers, and drove to our rescue. The marriage service was rather long, and under other circumstances might have been impressive. When it was done we signed our names, I took a few more papers for use at the church, tipped four bobbing ushers who had opened four doors for us, left orders for a marriage certificate, which is not necessary in Germany, but which we thought might be interesting to our friends at home, and got into the carriage. Mary, I said, we are really and truly married already, and let s cut the church. It is an hour and a half late; our friends will all have been tired wait- ing, and have gone home. Besides, I have stood about enough of this. I have kept patient during two months of this rigmarole, but I am afraid a reaction is coming, and that I shall knock the min- ister down. She replied only by pressing my arm more closely with her own as we stopped at the church door. A carpet was laid, and the organ struck up as we were ushered up the main aisle and seated in front of the altar in velvet-cushioned chairs. The clergyman had become tired waiting for us and had gone home to lunch, and we sat there ten minutes until he came in, out of breath, in a black robe and skull-cap. The length of this service depends somewhat upon the fee which he expects, and we found it very long. To me, at least, it was not partic 46 A Winter Journey in Colorado. [January, ularly solemn. He whispered to us in broken English what responses to make, and where to kneel, stand, join hands, etc., as if he feared we did not under- stand German. When it was all over there were extra fees: one for the fine chairs we sat in, one for opening the church, another for the carpet on the sidewalk, and one each for the organist and bellows-boy. We were invited at the door to buy photographs of the church and clergyman, and his pamphlet discourses, and a printed copy of the Lutheran marriage service. We did so, and drove off to our spread. The thing was done at last. Here, too, my story ends. It is my first, and will be the last I ever write. Marriage ceremonies and preliminaries were never made so complex, it is said, as the civil marriage law the compul- sory clause of which was repealed, I be- lieve, last spring made it in Germany for foreigners; and therefore only the eight or ten American couples who passed the same ordeal during its full operation are as thoroughly married as we. A WINTER JOURNEY IN COLORADO. THE journey from the Atlantic sea- coast to the foot of the Rocky Mount- ains is singularly well adapted to pre- pare the mind to appreciate their no- ble features. From the hills of the Ap- palachian system westward for three days of railway journey, the earth is in its quietest mood. The .rocks lie in the attitudes given them when they were built on the old sea-floors; neither gla- cial frosts nor volcanic fires have done much to assail them, and so the great rolling plains stay as they were made, substantial images of the oceans that long surged above them; with their mo- notonous horizons they fit the eye for the strong outlines beyond, as a journey over the sea prepares it for rejoicing in the beauties of the land. In its human aspect, too, the west- ward journey towards the great Ameri- can mountains is a good preparation for the end. Out of the diversified lands of the Atlantic coast, where strips and patches of fertility lie mixed with the desert places of the worn rocks, where men have a scanty, poor relations share of earth, the road slips quickly away into the prairies of the central part of the continent, lands that love the plow, or at least submit to it, as the ox gives himself to the yoke. From the mouth of the Mohawk on, for fifteen hundred miles, there is not an acre of land to be seen that does not invite tillage and is not capable of sustaining a human life. There is an almost painful monotony in this utter giving up of the earth to the profitable uses of man. The soil grows fatter and more fertile as we go nearer the centre of the Mississippi Valley, until in Illinois it seems a perfect desert of tall, withered corn-stalks and wheat stub- ble that stretches to the horizon. The towns have a look of squalid plenty. Corn is trodden under foot, and about the stations its grains often are as thick in the mud as are pebbles in New Eng- land. The wealth of the soil has not yet gone into buildings. Here and there over the wide fields a little rectangular patch of snow shows the roof of the master of a domain big enough for a lord. The sky, too, is prairie-like in its uniformity; it is a vacuous expanse of clearness or cloud, without the diversity that a varied sur- face alone can give to it. Undoubtedly, the energy that men

N. S. Shaler Shaler, N. S. A Winter Journey in Colorado 46-55

46 A Winter Journey in Colorado. [January, ularly solemn. He whispered to us in broken English what responses to make, and where to kneel, stand, join hands, etc., as if he feared we did not under- stand German. When it was all over there were extra fees: one for the fine chairs we sat in, one for opening the church, another for the carpet on the sidewalk, and one each for the organist and bellows-boy. We were invited at the door to buy photographs of the church and clergyman, and his pamphlet discourses, and a printed copy of the Lutheran marriage service. We did so, and drove off to our spread. The thing was done at last. Here, too, my story ends. It is my first, and will be the last I ever write. Marriage ceremonies and preliminaries were never made so complex, it is said, as the civil marriage law the compul- sory clause of which was repealed, I be- lieve, last spring made it in Germany for foreigners; and therefore only the eight or ten American couples who passed the same ordeal during its full operation are as thoroughly married as we. A WINTER JOURNEY IN COLORADO. THE journey from the Atlantic sea- coast to the foot of the Rocky Mount- ains is singularly well adapted to pre- pare the mind to appreciate their no- ble features. From the hills of the Ap- palachian system westward for three days of railway journey, the earth is in its quietest mood. The .rocks lie in the attitudes given them when they were built on the old sea-floors; neither gla- cial frosts nor volcanic fires have done much to assail them, and so the great rolling plains stay as they were made, substantial images of the oceans that long surged above them; with their mo- notonous horizons they fit the eye for the strong outlines beyond, as a journey over the sea prepares it for rejoicing in the beauties of the land. In its human aspect, too, the west- ward journey towards the great Ameri- can mountains is a good preparation for the end. Out of the diversified lands of the Atlantic coast, where strips and patches of fertility lie mixed with the desert places of the worn rocks, where men have a scanty, poor relations share of earth, the road slips quickly away into the prairies of the central part of the continent, lands that love the plow, or at least submit to it, as the ox gives himself to the yoke. From the mouth of the Mohawk on, for fifteen hundred miles, there is not an acre of land to be seen that does not invite tillage and is not capable of sustaining a human life. There is an almost painful monotony in this utter giving up of the earth to the profitable uses of man. The soil grows fatter and more fertile as we go nearer the centre of the Mississippi Valley, until in Illinois it seems a perfect desert of tall, withered corn-stalks and wheat stub- ble that stretches to the horizon. The towns have a look of squalid plenty. Corn is trodden under foot, and about the stations its grains often are as thick in the mud as are pebbles in New Eng- land. The wealth of the soil has not yet gone into buildings. Here and there over the wide fields a little rectangular patch of snow shows the roof of the master of a domain big enough for a lord. The sky, too, is prairie-like in its uniformity; it is a vacuous expanse of clearness or cloud, without the diversity that a varied sur- face alone can give to it. Undoubtedly, the energy that men 1881.] A Winter Journey in Colorado. 47 bring with them to this land of monot- onous fertility, together with the pro- tective influences of institutions, litera- ture, and travel, will secure them from the effects which the stranger feels there, and in time art will come to diversify that which nature has so dismally uniformed. The rich bottom of the Mississippi Valley begins to diminish in its fertili- ty as we enter the high-lying valley of the Kaw or jKansas River. There the ridges which border the alluvial valley already feel the shrinkage of the rain- fall, caused by the great mountain wall that rises six hundred miles to the west. We see the perennial drought first in the dwindling forest trees. In the Eastern prairies there are here and there humid spots along the borders of the streams, or in the bottoms of the swales of the plain, where the trees have been made safe against the sweep of the autumn fires, and there the forest shows its strength again; but as we go up the Kansas Val- ley the familiar Eastern forms drop out one by one, until a few shrunken cotton- woods and one or two species of elms, shorn of all their fair proportions, make a low fringe close along the river banks, or at the foot of the steep escarpments of the valley, where the springs dampen the ground. The valley of the Kansas shows us the front of the battle that man is mak- ing with this wilderness. Until we pass Topeka, the result is an easy victory. The settlers seem to have earth and air in their favor, and the farms and men wear the look of confidence that comes with swift success. Beyond them, though there is much fertile land, we see that the settlements are crowded nearer and nearer to the streams, and there are now and then wide spaces where the desert gains on the valley. The river shrinks; the sands are hea~ed~ in its bed, and the stream crawls slowly and uncertainly through them. The houses are more and more temporary and experimental. We see that men are making a trial with their tillage, and that they half ex- pect failure. The earth is rich; each little stream shows high banks of deep soil, tbat the ages have been gathering from the decay of the rocks below, but the rains of heaven forget their share of the task of making a fertile land. These changes from fertility to barrenness are slowly made; two hundred miles of the river valley go by in the gradual shad- owing of the rich land into the waste of the upper plains. At Wallace Station we have definitely passed beyond the line of the plow, and the slow-rising valley has lifted us three thousand feet above the sea into the great table-land of our Western plains. The shrunken river, which is now only lazy pools among the lines of sand that mark its course, no longer has a distinct valley, but from its border the seared plains stretch away to a billowy horizon of low hills. In the early morning and at sunset the light gives the surface a rich glow, and under the quiet skies of night there is a maj- esty about its lifeless immensity, but in full day it is inexpressibly cheerless. In winter there is a light powder of dust-strewed snow drifting along through the grass tufts, snow that looks as if it might have journeyed all the way from the Arctic circle, so worn and dirty is it. With the sun comes a fierce wind that blows as steadily as upon the sea, and with a power that holds the train on a slant as it runs along. The ranchers houses are mostly half underground, and are a sort of gopher holes, generally with sod roofs, and with a heap of empty tin cans excreted at the only opening of the den. Although the thermometer is at zero, the cattle pasture under the lee of the low escarpments of the hills, and droves of antelopes trot away in# long In- dian files, as the train interrupts their feeding. Now and then they seem to herd among the cattle, as if their mis- ery required sympathy. At Hugo I left the train, and walked for an hour across the plain. It repays close observation. 48 A Winter Journey in Colorado. [January, The surface is as hard as a well-beaten street, and almost as smooth. Bushes of greasewood and scattered tufts of buffalo grass, with one or two other grasses, give a sparse covering, but be- tween the tufts of grass there are often yards of smooth ground, whitened by the thin crust of alkalies. Here and there are seen little bunches of gopher mounds, with the openings closed, for the creatures sleep through the long win- ter, or at least limit their movements to their underground ways. Each of these heaps is composed of pebbles, the waste of the rocks in the mountains which are still beyond the horizon. A little further on, the road passes over the headland or divide of the Kansas waters at a height of over five thousand feet above the sea, and we get the first fair view of the Western mountain world. Pikes Peak is the first to greet us. It rises far away in the southwest, a hit of darkened earth cloud, around which the storm clouds whirl, as about an ir- rupting volcano. It is the most isolated and the lowest based of all the Rocky Mountain peaks, and is the stateliest, though by no means among the highest. Next, Longs Peak shows on the north- west, only less noble than its fellow-sen- tinel on the south, and then, as the road crosses the divide, two hundred miles of mountain front wall in the western horizon. At first the line is seen from seventy miles away, across a valley a thousand feet deep. The plain is in sunshine, but the mountain tops are in swift succession wrapped in driving snow-storms. In no other region have I ever seen such rapidity in the develop- ment of storms. From the time when the peaks begin to grow dim in the gath- ering vapor, it will be but a few min- utes until the mountains for a stretch of fifty miles are all wrapped in black cloud. In a little while the storm is dis- charged; the sunlight pierces through it, showing the peaks with their robe of fresh snow; the storm rack rolls off in great billows over the plain, and melts away in the dry air. After a few min- utes of calm, the wind rages again over the new snow, whirling it in banners from the peaks through the clear air, until it lodges in the gorges below. As we come nearer the mountains their wall - like aspect grows stronger. here and there a sharp cone juts above the rampart, but the whole is of singular steepness and uniformity. The plain flows in against it as a quiet sea against the land. There are no outlying hills to make a prelude to the change, but the line is drawn like an old-fashioned front of battle, close-set and continuous. There is probably no other region where the two great earth types, plains and mountains, have such unqualified contact as here. This suddenness of meeting is a gain to the grandeur of the mount- ains, but is a loss to their beauty. The plain holds its unaltered desert look close up to the hills. The small rain-fall, due to the barrier that the heights make between the plains of the sea, is not a bit mitigated as we come near the foot of the mountains. Buffalo grass and greasewood, a feathering of cotton-woods and willows next the slender streams, is all their vegetation. Art will in time give fertility to the belt of land next the mountains; already there are great proj ects for taking th& head-waters of the Platte where they escape from their caiions, and leading them off on to the plains in canals for irrigation purposes. Although the amount of water in these streams is at best small, there is no doubt that a million or so acres can be made exceedingly fruitful in this way. The soil is a deep store of the fatness that the ages of drought have allowed to ac- cumulate in them, unwasted by vege- tation of any amount. A little water during the growing months of May and June, when the mountain streams are swollen by the melting snows, will give wonderful crops of wheat and other quick-ripening grains. 1881.] A Winter Journey in Colorado. 49 The city of Denver ends the plain travel. After the long journey through a region where the waves of civiliza- tion seem to die away among the alkali plains and antelopes, it is a strange sen- sation to find ones self once again in a full-grown and prosperous town, with Paris fashions in homes and people, and the look of thrift that usually comes only with time. It needs the iron wall on the west to persuade one that he is on the very front of civilization, and that what he sees about him has been scarce a score of years in its making. Except that the town is sqaared, and not close knit, it might belong in Ohio, or even in New England. There are shops that would do credit to Broadway, and houses that would fit in our oldest towns. In the people there is no more of the front- ier than one may find in all the towns west of the Alleghanies. The laboring miner has been called to the mountains, and except that he comes here to spend his gains, or to show his prospects to men of capital, Denver is out of his range. Probably no other American city has such a noble site. The eastern slope of the Platte rises evenly and gradually from its sandy bed, until in a mile it gains a height of two or three hundred feet. From any house-top and all the streets one gets majestic views out over the va~t eastern plain or over the mountains. A canal brought on to the ridges of the plain from the Platte cafion supplies ditches, through which, in summer, water finds its way along the street, and by little sluice gates into the gardens that surround every house. For the time the irrigation of this long- parched soil has brought about much sickness, so that the town seems to be temporarily unwholesome; but this con- dition must soon pass, and leave the city with almost ideal conditions of sa- lubrity. Free from parching heats and withering cold, nearly snowless, with the sweet, dry air of the mountains and the oasis -like fertility that irrigation will in VOL. XLVII. No. 279. 4 time give to its surroundings, it may hope for a noble future. At Denver the railways abandon their ordinary size, and in the shape of narrow-gauge ways begin a wonderful struggle with the difficulties that abound in the contracted gorges and steep slopes. The only train that goes to the end of the road in the direction of Leadville leaves Denver at nine ~. lvi., and passes the night in its journey of one hundred miles. We first see the signs of the wilderness people in the train ; the little sleeping-cars are crammed with a motley lot of humanity, supercivilized and sav- age in all degrees. The moon is full, and the mountains show almost as well as by day. Night quiets the winds here and settles the mists and drifting snows, so that for see- ing the time is almost as good as day. The road quickly crosses the strip of plain between the town and the hills, and enters the deep caiion of the Platte as it would a door in a wall. These mountain streams all pass out of the hills through deep and narrow gorges. Their upper waters are in broad, trough- like valleys, sometimes in wide, mount- ain-high plains, hut when they get near the edge of the hill country they sud- denly plunge into deep rifts that let them quickly down some thousands of feet to the level of the plains below; out of such a rift comes the Platte from its gathering ground in the South Park. Its lower fifty miles of mountain journey is as tortuous as a canon s windings alone can be, and the path of the railway through it is a marvel of daring engineering. The walls of the gorge are generally from a few score to two or three hun- dred feet wide at the base, and they stand as steep as cliffs can, with their fantastic, spired battlements a thousand feet above the stream that winds through their ruins below. All the moods oI ruined architecture, spires, castle towers, and city walls, are mimicked in their infinite variations of shape~ The moon 50 A Winter Journey in Colorado. [January, flies along the ragged southern crest ton, a village that was just a month old and throws a flood of light upon the when we saw it, and destined to have north wall, so that half of the scene is but another month of life; for then the in shadow and half in light. For four railway would have its terminus twenty hours, with throttle-valve wide open and miles further on, and its season for liv- a steady, panting breath, the engine toils ing would have passed. All along the up the steep and crooked way, gaining tracks of these Western roads we can about five thousand feet in height, es- see the slender foundations of temporary caping from the gorge into the vast towns that encamp themselves for a day mountain plain called the South Park. or two while they are at the edge of The South Park is one of the many civilization, and move on as the border high-walled plains which characterize line advances. A hundred or so houses, the geography of the eastern part of the sheds, and tents, all rattling in the strong Cordilleras of North America. It is in wind that seems never to be quiet in the structure a great basin, about nine thou- day-time, a horde of sturdy camp fol- sand feet above the sea, and bordered lowers of this frontier army, squalid by a rim of varied mountains which lift dram shops, and shanties with the signs their heads three to five thousand feet of famous hotels upon them make up above its level. In size jt is about sixty the huddle of a town. miles in length by thirty in width, or The train discharges its freight into nearly one fifth the area of iMlassachu- a dozen coaches, which set oft for the setts. Its surface, though generally a mountain pass that lies between Norton vast rolling plain, is diversified by out- and Leadville; they rattle off through lying hills that rise up like islands from the whirling snows towards the range of its sea of snow. We left a mild, easy mountains, which is already thick with winter air at Denver, but the five thou- storms. Our own way lies across the sand feet of altitude has taken us to an South Park towards a lower part of the arctic climate, where the cold and scant Arkansas Valley; for ten miles the four atmosphere makes every step a task. horses hurry the light open wagon over At the end of the railroad the traveler the snow - covered plain, through the sees the unmistakable frontier. First blinding snow that flies before the blasts there is a great stretch of platforms rushing down from the mountain ravines. heaped with the motley supplies that are Then we find our way upon the regular to begin their wagon journeys to the freighting road that leads in a devious many camps beyond the mountains; course through the mountain gorges to quantities of horse feed make the largest Leadville. It is a way for which little element of the stores; next, mining ma- has been done except by the wheels of ehinery; and last, the provisions for the the endless trains of wagons; but nature vagarious animal whose strange hunger meant this land for roads; the scant causes all this disorder in the wilderness, foliage and slight rain-fall leave each of There are other broad platforms stacked the ravines a natural road, and the frost up with bars of bullion, dull-looking has now bound mud and stones together. heaps, where each piece is so heavy with Every mile of this trail is occupied by lead that it would seem no temptation a long caravan of the freighting teams to thieves. Hundreds of wagons are that carry in provisions and take out unloading this bullion, or storing their bullion. The ordinary train consists of return loads. Over the wide, billowy many teams, each composed of two plain caravans of them creep on their . wagons, the hinder one being without a ways out or in. tongue, and the two coupled together as The road ended in the town of Wes- closely as two railway cars. Sometimes 1881.] A Winter Journey in Colorado. 51 the fire, in the low-walled, turf-covered ranches, they are perfectly mute; they sit on the benches as still as mummies, until they slip down upon the floor and snore until morning. They seem wrapped up in their own thoughts, or in the place where their thoughts ought to be. They often camp alone by the roadside; in- deed, many of them seem to prefer the absolute isolation that they find in biv- ouacking in the scrub woods ten miles from neighbors. One night I sought directions from one of these solitary men. He was a huge, grizzle-bearded fellow, whom I surprised cooking his supper by a little fire in a niche in the rocks near his team. His ugly visage stood out in the blaze of his bacon, which he was toasting pn a stick. He gave me sufficient answers without looking up to see who it was shouting at him out of the darkness. Out of the South Park a low pass leads into the waters of Trout Creek, a tributary of the Arkansas. The de- scent is rapid, so that we are soon below the nearly treeless heights of the Park, down among steep mountain slopes, cov- ered by the close-set yellow pine, or by the orchard4ike growths of the Pignole, one of the characteristic pines of the Rocky Mountains. As in all the stream gorges of this region, the rocks are cut into forms of the most singular variety. As the snow veil blows aside with the changing storm, the time-worn, pinnacled mountains on either side loom out in simulation of gigantic castles, with all sorts of fantastic ornaments in walls and towers. Gradually we creep down be- neath the storm line, and turn out into the valley of the Arkansas. Although the wandering snow-storms wrapped the summits of the majestic mountains that wall in this river, the view we had of the valley was wonderfully fine. There is a magnificent simplicity and directnes8 tons Satan, and then, subsiding like a in the architecture of the Rocky Mount- geyser, remain silent for the rest of the ains that is nowhere better shown than day. At night, when they gather around here. The valley itself is a trough, near- there are three wagons in the string. Eight or ten mules and a single driver supply the motive power. With this outfit one dexterous driver will drag about ten thousand pounds of freight at the rate of twenty-five miles a day. Some of the trains are individual ventures, but commonly a dozen teams are under one wagon-master, who fixes the marches and determines the places where the train shall halt to pass the tides of wag- ons that set the other way. These car- avans give us the most picturesque as- pects of this mountain life; the drivers are a strange selection from the vigorous frontiermen. The labor is extremely arduous and the life of the rudest, but the profits are very large, many of these teams earning from thirty to fifty dol- lars per day net for a half year at a time. The men live and generally sleep with their animals, even in this fierce cold. rrhey are silent, indefatigable fel- lows, brutal in every outward aspect, yet withal singularly patient with their difficulties and helpful of each other, unless the other is a greaser. A courteous word or two will always get their aid in passing through the perplex- ing blockade, where trains going in op- posite directions meet in a narrow de- file. Their life is one of trials. We are rarely out of sight of dead horses or mules which have broken their legs or died of overwork, and every precipice along the road shows the wreck of wag- ons that have slipped over the edge into the gorge below. In two hundred miles travel with them I did not hear a brutal word from one man to another, and I was indebted to them for many consid- erate acts. They are a marvelously profane lot, but their swearing has a curiously impersonal character. In his difficulties with the teams a man will lift up his voice and address the Infinite in diabolic homily that would befit Mil 52 A Winter Journei,i in Colorado. [January, ly direct in its course for one hundred miles, ending below where the river falls down to the plain in a -cafion of won- derful depth and sheerness of walls. As we ascend the stream there is a gradual widening of the valley, until in its mid- dle part it is a noble sweep of slopes from the base of the hills, which are several miles apart, down to the swift stream. On either side the mountains rise in one great step to meet higher re- gions. On the west their crests are about fourteen thousand feet above the sea, as solid as a wall, with a few commanding peaks at the heads of the valleys. As the cloud of snow sways aside we look up through those gorges of gray rock to the vast snow fields of their summits, now all aglow in the evening sun that is struggling through the subsiding storm. The road up the valley lies over the long slopes and ridges of the moraines left here by the last glacial period. These mountains of waste are more massive and less diversified than those of Switzer- land. The valley seems to have long been a glacial lake, in which the waste was much sorted and reduced to uniformity of outline. All along the stream of the Arkansas we see workings in the gravel where miners have sought gold. The mountains on the west from Mount Har- vard northward are full of lodes bearing gold quartz. The grinding action of the ice during the glacial period has worn down hundreds of feet of this auriferous mass, and left the gravels made in the process rich in gold. Almost anywhere over the surface of these gravel beds the miners test-pan shows a grain or two of gold in each twenty pounds of gravel. When the streams have washed over this gravel, bearing away the lighter waste, the gold is concentrated into a less bulk of matter, and then the gold hunter makes a rich winning with his sluices and rockers. The bed rock is in such cases strewn with the little nug- gets. From one of these side streams, known as California Gulch, where Lead- ville now stands, not less than six mill. ions of dollars were taken in a few years by the modest methods of washing the gravel, and in time it is likely that all the streams hereabouts will yield large- ly to the miners labor. At present the discoveries of silver have drawn away the interest from these slower and surer sources of profit, but here and there a man who prefers small certainties to the exciting risks of other mining is still winning moderate fortunes out of the border-lands of these streams. At Buena Vista we encounter the first of the hamlets of the Arkansas Valley. It is curious to notice the perfect for- lornness of these mountain settlements; it is a distinctly higher order of misera- bleness than any other regions can af- ford. A wide range of experience in the backwoods of lower levels does not prepare one for the utterly groveling look that hangs over these shanty towns. It is perhaps the contrast between the enduring architecture of the hills and the pitiful congregation of sheds that makes the impression the more painful. There is a grand lithographed plan of Buena Vista with public squares and avenues of metropolitan length, but there is many a Pennsylvania farmers barn that contains more timber in it than the town. Whenever we get among the mining camps of this region, there is a sense of utility and thrift about the structures and of dauntless energy in the men that makes one overlook all else; but in the cross-roads hamlets, that depend upon the small chances of travel and trade, we find the camp-follower element in all its debasement. At the edge of night-fall we set out on our road up the valley. With the set. ting sun came the calm in the atmospher- ic torment that night-fall seems always to bring in these mountains. The peaks disrobe themselves one by one, and stand out in the evening light as god- like as the ancient statues of gold and ivory in their temples of the upper air 1881.] A Winter Journey in Colorado. 53 The teamsters gather their wagons into parks on the roadside, and are resting about their fires of pitch pine, that per- fume the still air of the valley and cast a glow of ruddy light over the crowded wagons, massed to make a wall against the wind. The road is hemmed by rocks close to the river that winds its way about in a maze of great bowlders. The ice had stilled the stream, so that the gorges were as silent as caverns. On the west the vast snow fields of Mount Harvard rose to the great dome.like summit now lit by the full moon. Late in the evening we made the ham- let of Granite, the oldest settlement in this region, once the busy centre of a gold-mining interest that has now fallen to decay. The dilapidation that comes to these hut towns is very rapid; soon nothing remains but a modern kitchen midding of broken bottles and crushed tin cans. But a decent inn has survived the ruin of Granite, in which we gladly found shelter from the intense cold. About the fire was a grim crowd of way- farers, none of whom answered the greet- ing we gave them except by a look of a questioning sort. The town has a bad name for lawlessness, even the judge on the bench having made acquaintance with the bullet argument. Our guide had been promised a warm reception on account of an old feud, and spent some time looking around for it; but except a belated fellow who insisted that we had his room and seemed disposed to assert his rights, we had nothing to mar the night. The morning dawned in the perfec- tion of stillness. The mercury was ten degrees below zero, but the air had a cu- rious softness, and save for the short breath caused by the height, life in it was delightful. Nothing can exceed the beauty of the white mountains against the purple blue of the western sky at dawn. When the sun strikes their sum- mits the winds at once awake, and wave the snow banners to and fro. In an hour or two the winds gain strength enough to sweep down into the valley, and we are again in the torrent of snow driving before the northern gales. We tried to get away before the benumbed freighters had thawed themselves out and sworn their blood into circulation. For a few miles we have the road free, but from every sheltered place the trains stream out and block the roads already gorged with snow-drifts. The twenty miles to Leadville were trying to ones blood. The road rises all the way fifty feet for every mile; the snow deepens and the mercury crawls down. The Arkansas Valley widens above Granite, as all these mount- ain valleys do in their upper regions. It is no longer a gorge, but a wide, park- like expanse walled about by mountains. The old gla~iers did great work here, where they survived longest, enduring after they had shrunk away on the lower ground. Turning sharply to the east from the main valley, which is a wild, open-looking country, we find ourselves on the skirts of Leadville: a scattering of wooden huts among the bushy pines; then a grimy smelting furnace with its slag heaps, where the waste is still glow- ing with the fire or sputtering as the snow drifts over it; then more huts and more smelters, and we are at once in the streets of this the swiftest grown of all American towns. Although haste, incompleteness, and the disorder of overgrowth are upon every line of the towns shape, Leadville has a look of decency and thrift that is surprising. Thirty months ago the lit- tle towns of Oreville and Malta, that had grown up while this gulch was yield- ing its millions of gold from the gravel washings, had rotted away, until the rem- nants were reduced to the name of Slab- town. Then it happened that a man skilled in such matters passed this way, and recognized ores rich in silver in the waste of the washings, a heavy, fer- ruginous-looking stuff, that the placer miners had called iron ore, and much be- 54 A Winter Journey in Colorado. [January, rated because it filled their sluices and spoiled their work. A little prospecting gave him the lead, and the new life of the camp began. In the two years there- aI~er five thousand shafts had been driv- en at random into the hills about this gulch, and from ten to twenty thousand men were after the new-found treasure. Perhaps fifty of the shafts have paid and as many miners found fortunes, but the prizes have been large, and who cares for blanks in the worlds lottery! Once a month some one strikes big pay,~~ and the rest of the herd dig the harder and strive to make their last pound of bacon carry them deeper in their holes, that they may have the next chance. Capital has come in scores of millions to organize the work, and the prospecter is drifting away over the hills to find fresh fields and new underground pastures, glad if he is a little ahead in money to carry him to new regions. Those who remain mostly work for grub stakes, that is, they are fed by small capitalists, who get half what they find by their labor. The miner is anNnveterate hoper; nothing dampens his ardor, and very few things enrage him. He knows that his temporal salvation is awaiting him some- where underground, and is content to bide his time. All summer long, with his blanket, tools, and small stores, he is content to crawl about through these wild hills, utterly alone, demanding ad- mittance to the earths stores of precious metals. Not until the snows grow deep is he driven to the towns. Then miners swarm in the streets of Leadville, trying to find some Eastern capitalist to buy their claims; for though a miner rather hates the tenderfoot, as he calls him, he must use him if he is to develop the fortune that he has found over the divide. Every new-coiner he scans with a hun- gry look, for he may be his man. Be- side the work of this floating population there are the regular mines, great busi- ness enterprises, among the best con- di& ted and the most prosperous of such works in the world, yielding fortunes each month, and some of them likely to live for a score of years. They give a solid basis to the community, and their enduring success is giving char- acter to the town. The permanent ele- ment of the population probably has no equal for intelligence and the other marks of power in a place of equal size. They hold the vice and crime of the swarm of wild folk who crowd into the place in an iron grip, a grip so stroNg that it does not need to be harsh. The vigilantes, as the constables of Judge Lynch are called, have needed to sit on only one or two occasions. A year ago they hanged two men to lamp-posts, and on their backs placarded the names of others whom they meant next to hang. The men took the warning, and left the country. In another year civilization, with its strange penetrating power, will have subdued the little of barbarism that is left. The hills rise steeply above Leadville. Upon those on the south of the gulch are the principal mines; Carbonate Hill and Freyer Hill have upon them all the great mines contained within the space of a few hundred acres. About thprn in every direction there are hundreds of small huts, where men are at work in their search for the great deposits of sil- ver. The vein lies upon a slope so gradual that it can be attacked from a very wide horizontal field, and can be made to yield its treasures a hundred times as fast as a deposit that stood at a steep angle. The traveler is fortunate if he can make sure Qf the hospitality of some of the great mines upon these hills, for he is then lifted out of the noisy and narrow valley in which Leadville lies, where there are no views of the hills, to a level in an upper and~ refined air where, with the amenities of life about him, he may enjoy the majestic pros- pect over the mountains that divide the waters of the two great oceans. In the :1881.] The Wives of Poets. 55 dawn of a winters morning, while the night stays over the western heavens, the vast Sierra of the continent, snow white down to its forest slopes, lies in a calm immensity that transcends any mountain view the Alps afford. The scene can never have anything of the gracious- ness or the human interest that lends beauty to the Alps, but it has a grandeur all its own. It is calm, serene, and cast in a large mould, as are all the feature lines of this rather grim continent. Our fierce American life may beat against this upper land as long as it will, but it will never be marred by its doings; to the last these hills will remain with the same invincible look they now wear. When the well-selected ra~e that is now gathering here shall have been shaped to the country, this strong nature will surely stamp itself upon it. We may then expect to find here the most dis- tinctly American of our peoples, a race that will, we may hope, be cast in the large mould of the nature that surrounds it. The fierce, eager mood that is now upon this people will in time pass away, and they will lose restlessness and gain strength in contact with the great strong land where their lot is cast. N. S. Skder. THE WIVES OF POETS. I. THE subject which I propose to treat in these articles, The Wives of Poets, is one which might be dealt with from several points of view. There might be a biographical treatment, and this more or less affecting either mere mat- ter of fact or an anecdotical method; or a sentimental treatment; or a specula- tive or theoretic one. A writer might come ready prepared with some scheme into which he fitted all the details, well matching or ill matching, as so many illustrative examples. iNow this is not what I propose to do. I propose to deal with our subject mainly in its bio- graphical aspect; to collect together a number of facts, and present them in such order as I can; and then to re- consider them, and draw from them whatever inference they shall seem to warrant. At the same time it should be understood that I do not regard the details as merely miscellaneous and un- connected: I gather and scan them with a certain object in view, but without any desire to make them subserve that object, only to use them as a fair basis for a reasoned opinion. Let me state what this object is. It has often been alleged, and with consid- erable strength of assertion, that poets are not well suited for married life; that the very constitution of their minds pre- disposes them to disappointment and dis- content if they commit the imprudence of matrimony; and that, as a matter of fact, the married poets have very gen- erally been unhappy family men. Their intellectual subtilty, their ideal aspira- tions, we are told, will not comport with the commonplace conditions of conjugal life; they dream of goddesses, and thei find their spouses to be not goddesses, but women, and sometimes very or- dinary women, too. But I will not de- fine this opinion merely in my own words, but will quote from two authors who have given it a decided and efficient expression. The first of the two is Trelawny, in his interesting book, Rec- ords of Shelley, Byron, and the Author; and the second is Karl Elze, the writer of a valuable life of Byron in German, which has been translated into English.

William M. Rossetti Rossetti, William M. The Wives of Poets 55-65

:1881.] The Wives of Poets. 55 dawn of a winters morning, while the night stays over the western heavens, the vast Sierra of the continent, snow white down to its forest slopes, lies in a calm immensity that transcends any mountain view the Alps afford. The scene can never have anything of the gracious- ness or the human interest that lends beauty to the Alps, but it has a grandeur all its own. It is calm, serene, and cast in a large mould, as are all the feature lines of this rather grim continent. Our fierce American life may beat against this upper land as long as it will, but it will never be marred by its doings; to the last these hills will remain with the same invincible look they now wear. When the well-selected ra~e that is now gathering here shall have been shaped to the country, this strong nature will surely stamp itself upon it. We may then expect to find here the most dis- tinctly American of our peoples, a race that will, we may hope, be cast in the large mould of the nature that surrounds it. The fierce, eager mood that is now upon this people will in time pass away, and they will lose restlessness and gain strength in contact with the great strong land where their lot is cast. N. S. Skder. THE WIVES OF POETS. I. THE subject which I propose to treat in these articles, The Wives of Poets, is one which might be dealt with from several points of view. There might be a biographical treatment, and this more or less affecting either mere mat- ter of fact or an anecdotical method; or a sentimental treatment; or a specula- tive or theoretic one. A writer might come ready prepared with some scheme into which he fitted all the details, well matching or ill matching, as so many illustrative examples. iNow this is not what I propose to do. I propose to deal with our subject mainly in its bio- graphical aspect; to collect together a number of facts, and present them in such order as I can; and then to re- consider them, and draw from them whatever inference they shall seem to warrant. At the same time it should be understood that I do not regard the details as merely miscellaneous and un- connected: I gather and scan them with a certain object in view, but without any desire to make them subserve that object, only to use them as a fair basis for a reasoned opinion. Let me state what this object is. It has often been alleged, and with consid- erable strength of assertion, that poets are not well suited for married life; that the very constitution of their minds pre- disposes them to disappointment and dis- content if they commit the imprudence of matrimony; and that, as a matter of fact, the married poets have very gen- erally been unhappy family men. Their intellectual subtilty, their ideal aspira- tions, we are told, will not comport with the commonplace conditions of conjugal life; they dream of goddesses, and thei find their spouses to be not goddesses, but women, and sometimes very or- dinary women, too. But I will not de- fine this opinion merely in my own words, but will quote from two authors who have given it a decided and efficient expression. The first of the two is Trelawny, in his interesting book, Rec- ords of Shelley, Byron, and the Author; and the second is Karl Elze, the writer of a valuable life of Byron in German, which has been translated into English. 56 The Wives of Poets. [January, And now for Trelawny, who not only gives us his own opinion, but cites from Byron (in Don Juan), Shelley (in Ep- ipsychidion), Milton (in Paradise Lost), and Shakespeare (in Antony and Cleo- patra),in confirmation. He says Poets, like priests, have hosts of communicants, and should be sworn to celibacy. A catalogue of the domestic grievances of the poets and their wives, from the omniscient Shakespeare and solemn Milton to scoffing Byron and the martyr Shelley, would show that men of imagination all compact are devoid of what women call domestic virtues; that is, propriety of conduct and submission to the conventional customs of the time. Byron says But 0 ye lords of ladies intellectual, Inform us truly, have they not henpecked you all? Shelley: With one chained friend, perhaps a jealous foe, The dreariest and the longest journey go. Milton Thus they in mutual accusation spent The fruitless hours, but neither self-condemn- ing: And of their vain contest appeared no end! Shakespeare : As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another. The third o the world is yours; which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife! So far Trelawny. Next Elze : Genius, living in its own ideal world, is not inclined to adapt itself to every- day life, or to tolerate its defects and an- noyances; and the poet, to whom Joves heaven ever stands open, discovers the incompatibility of the fetters and clogs of prosaic common life with his divine as- pirations. Genius, in accordance with its nature, withdraws into its own inner life; it tends to become self-sufficing and self- absorbed. What other mind, compared with his own, could have value to By- ron, ~or excite interest in him? These defects, to use the fine expression of Moore, are the shadow which genius casts. The fancy, too, of the poet or artist is a foundation far too loose for so solid a building as marriage, and Pegasus fastened to the yoke never be- comes a useful plow-horse. In fact, al- most all great poets, artists, or scholars have led a more or less unhappy domes- tic life, and it is an ascertained result of experience that no woman has been happy with a man of genius, nor, con- versely, any woman unhappy because of the narrowness of her husbands in- tellect. Moore mentions the cases of Dante, Petrarch, and Pope; he might have added Shakespeare, Milton, Dry- den, Burns, Mozart, BUrger, Goethe, and a hundred others. This, then, is the point I wish to as- certain, whether the general view of the matter taken by Trelawny and Elze is or is not a fair deduction from an ad- equate amount of evidence; and indeed I may say that thinking over the pas- sage from Trelawny was my main in- centive to attempting the subject at all. To put the thing to the proof, I know of no better means than to take as many married poets as I conveniently can, and inquire, one by one, whether the records show the man to have been a happy or unhappy husband, and what sort of a person his wife was, and what his own marital conduct, and, if un- happy, why he was unhappy. I take only a certain number of the good poets, be it understood, including all those mentioned by Trelawny and Elze, ex- cept Petrarch and Pope, who never were married, and Mozart, who was a musi- cian; the bad ones, as I would rather not read their poetry, so I lay no stress upon their matrimonial fortunes, fair or foul. But, of the good poets, I have not at all attempted to pick and choose such as might subserve one or other theory, but I take them as they happen to come, and look without parti jpris into their domestic interiors. I shall arrange my poets according to their nationality, and then in order of date, ending with our own English au 1881.] Tite Wives of Poets. 57 thors; and I shall give a few biographical particulars in each case, and as many details as I can cull and as my space allows regarding the wi~res and the mutual relation of wife and husband. After coming to the end of these several cases, I shall see whether any and what general conclusion can be formed, and shall ask my readers attention to the results. I must of course be very brief about many points which would properly invite amplification; otherwise I should never, in the course of a few magazine- articles, get to the end of my rather ex- tensive and multiform subject matter. Among the poets of antiquity I am aware of only two who can be cited in the present inquiry, one Greek and one Latin. Of the others, some are known not to have been married, and as to such as were married I know of no apposite details. The Grecian poet is the great tra- gedian Euripides, born of Athenian par- entage in Salamis towards 480 B. C., perhaps on the very day (September 23d) when the ever-memorable battle of Salamis cleared the seas of the invad- ing fleet of the Persian despot iXlerxes. He is said to have written his first trag- edy at the age of eighteen, and he ex- hibited plays up to the seventy-third year of his life, which terminated two years afterwards, in 406. Euripides nas been numbered in the ranks of the mat- rimonial unfortunates, not only his first wife, it is alleged, but also his sec- ond, having played him false. Modern criticism, however, has scrutinized the grounds of these assertions, and finds them very defective, so defective that we are left wholly in doubt as to the facts; and when in doubt the only safe and candid course is to confess that we know not how the truth really stood. The old story was that Euripides mar- ried a certain Chmrilla; that her unfaith- fulness induced him to write the tragedy of Hippolytus, wherein the incestuous passion of Pha~dra for the youthful hero reflects disgrace upon the female sex; and that he proceeded to divorce Chcer- illa. But looking to the dates, we find that Hippolytus was acted in the year 428; that Euripides was still, to all ap- pearance, domesticated with Chmrilla, fourteen years later, in 414; and that at this later date she must have been fifty years of age, or thereabouts, and hard- ly likely to go astray. After Chcerilla he is said to have espoused Melitto, who intrigued with one Cephisophon; and the chagrin hence accruing to Euripides, aggravated by the gibes which comic poets vented against him, induced him, we are told, at the advanced age of seventy-two, to abandon Athens for the court of King Archelaus of Macedon. But here again we are encountered by an awkward fact, namely, that the tragedian continued up to the date of his death on good terms with Cephiso- phon. And so we must either white- wash the tarnished reputations of both the wives of Euripides, or confess that the circumstances are too mysterious to be reconciled, or, which comes to much the same thing, simply suspend our judgment. One other alternative statement only tends further to confuse us, namely, that he had two wives at once. But under all this smoke there may not improbably have been some fire: in other words, Euripides may have been a not particularly happy husband. his own character has been much can- vassed. Some say that he was profli- gate and a confirmed misogynist; but the former allegation appears to be a mere calumny, and the latter is more than disputable. According to others, he was a serious and unmirthful man; which we may believe without attrib- uting to him anything amiss. His de- tractors say that he was at last killed by some women, when going out at night to keep a criminal assignation; perhaps his age, seventy-four or seven- ty - five, may be deemed a sufficient an- swer to this imputation. The ordinary 58 The Wives of Poets. [January, account of his death sounds legendary, and yet it is generally accepted as true. Two rival poets, Arrhida~us and Crati- nus, are branded to eternal infamy as having set the dogs of King Archelans upon the aged tragedian, and by these brute auxiliaries of hellish envy he is reputed to havb been torn to death. Our Latin poet is Lucretius, Titus Lucretins Carus, the author of the austere philosophic poem De Rerum Natura, or On the Nature of Things; epicurean in its physical and moral doc- trines, expounding the Infinite of An- aximander and the Atoms of Democri- tus; one of those monumental works which bridge the centuries across, and form the wonder of the last as of the first generation of students. There is a curious old tradition about Lucretius and his wife which our Tennyson has made the occasion of an eloquent poem; and I am content to go astray with Tennyson, if astray it is. The tradition is this: that Lucilia, the wife of Lu- cretius, being piqued at the philosoph- ical abstraction of her husband, and pos- sessed with jealous imaginings, gave him a love potion, in the hope of recall- ing his affection to herself; hut the po- tion unhinged his reason, and henceforth he had only intervals of calm sense. At last, in a fit of frenzy, he killed himself, aged only forty-three the day of his death, in the year B. c. 52, being the very day when Virgil assumed the adult toga. Tennyson, on the scent of a moral purpose, gives a rather different turn to this story : his Lucretius, beset by carnal ideas under the influence of the potion, and hence lowered in his own eyes, stabs himself in an interval of sanity. This is very nearly all that we know about the career of Lucretius, either as a married man or otherwise; and even this we are far from believing. The story is a legend, an unauthenti- cated legend, which, even in the most credulous mood, one does not seriously allow to pass muster as a fact. We now stride from the antique to the media~val world, but remain still in Italy. I shall speak of two Italian poets, Dante and Alfieri. Dante Alighieri, one of the most vast minds and of the greatest poets that ever lived, of all poets whatsoever cer- tainly the most intense and awful, was born in Florence on May 14, 1265, and died an exile in Ravenna on Sep- tember 14, 1321. At the age of nine, if we may trust his own account, sup- plemented by some nearly contempora- ry writers, hut it has often been ques- tioned whether the statements are to be construed literally or symbolically, lie fell deeply in love with a girl of much the same age, Beatrice Portinari. She, however, at the age of twenty-one, mar- ried another man, Timon de Bardi, and less than three years afterwards, June, 1290, she died, leaving Dante in an anguish of grief. His friends, seeing his excessive misery, pressed him to marry, and after a contest he yielded, in 1292; the lady selected being Gemma de Donati, a daughter of Manetto and a connection of Corso de Donati, the latter of whom eventually became one of Dantes bitterest political enemies. The family was of the most ancient and important in Florence, and Dante him- self was of correspondingly high birth. There is considerable controversy as to Dantes lot in married life. No one brings any grave charge against Gem- ma, hut it is said (and Boccaccio, the most important of the poets early biog- raphers, is our chief authority for these statements) that she had a harsh, vehe- ment temper, and would have her hus- band account to her for every sigh which he heaved, and interfered with his studying and doing what he liked; and in especial Boccaccio affirms that Dante, whea once divided from her by political storms, would never either go where she was, or suffer that she should come where he was. This leads us to a few details regarding his public career. 1881.] Tite Wives of Poets. 59 Dante was one of the six priori, or chief magistrates, of Florence for two months in the year 1300. The great contest of that age was between the Ghihellines and Guelfs, or partisans re- spectively of the holy Roman Empire and of the Pope. Florence was entire- ly Guelf; but in our poets time she was vexed with a subdivision between the so-called Black party and White party, the Blacks being Guelfs of the ex- tremer kind, and the Whites Guelfs of a milder and more tolerant tone. Dante and the other priori of his day saw fit to banish the heads of both these factions from Florence; but after a time the Whites were recalled, while the Blacks remained in exile, and the poet, though then no longer in office, was thought to have connived at this measure. Party spirit ran high. Corso Donati, the kins- man of Gemma, returned to Florence in arms; Dante, with many others, was heavily fined and banished, and in March, 1302, he was actually sentenced to be burned alive if he returned. His houses had already been fired, and his lands laid waste. The proud and illus- trious exile, who now took part with the Ghibelline cause, might at one time have gone home, if he would have con- sented to humble himself and do public penance; but this he loftily refused, and during his nineteen years residue of life he remained a banished man, roaming from city to city as necessity and party interests dictated. In exile he wrote the great majority of his Divine Comedy. Dante and Gemma had a family of seven. Tie did not need to feel any anxiety about the material interests of his wife, for her connections were of the triumphant faction; and she suc- ceeded in saving a part of his property as dowry, and used it discreetly for her- self and her children. In the scantiness of records of events and the impossi- bility of judging of motives beyond a certain point, these facts must give us pause before we conclude that the bus- band and wife remained apart voluntari- ly, because of dislike or indifference on either side or on both; for it is clear that there were strong family interests pleading with Gemma to continue in Florence. Nevertheless, after all that can be urged on her hehaif, both in this matter and generally, the profoundest Dantesque scholar of our day, Karl Witte, adheres to the opinion, and has lately expressed it in an elaborate paper, that the complaints against her are true, and that the poet was really unhappy in his married life. Dante was of middle stature, long face, aquiline nose, large eyes, project- ing under jaw, dark complexion, hair black and curled, his expression that of profound thoughtfulness chastened by fierce fortune, with a fixed, sad severity; his gait was composed, his garb decorous, his manners grave and sedate, his ad- dress courteous, though reserved, and not free from haughtiness and caustic rigidity when he liked. He was tem- perate, and had the absence of mind in- cidental to constant study. Of Gemma I cannot give any portrait. Dante, it is generally considered, never once men- tioned her in his writings; although, in- deed, there is one rather long section of his autobiographic love story, the Vita Nuova, in which he refers to a certain lady of the window, who used to gaze upon him with deep sympathy during his passions of grief for the dead Bea- trice, and it has sometimes been thought that this was Gemma de Donati. He speaks of her as a gentle lady, young and very beautiful, looking very pitiful- ly, so that all pity seemed to be summed up in her. As the houses of the All- ghieri and the Donati faced in the rear, there is the more plausibility in suppos- ing that this lady who eyed Dante from a window may have been Gemma. Cer- tain it is, however, that Dante, in one of the most abstruse of his writings, de- clares the lady in question to have been a very impersonal personage, namely, 60 The Wives of Poets. [January, Philosophy; but whether this symbol- ical interpretation entirely excluded some natural one as well is a question which must be left to those most di- verse-minded of mortals, the Dantesque commentators. On the chance that the lady of the window may have been Gemma de Donati, I give, in the translation made by my brother, one of the sonnets to her contained in the Vita INuova Mine eyes beheld the blessed pity spring Into thy countenance immediately, Awhile agone when thou heheldst in me The sickness only hidden grief can bring; And then I knew thou ~vast considering How abject and forlorn my life must be. And I became afraid that thou shouldst see My weeping, and account it a base thing. Therefore, I went out from thee; feeling now The tears were straightway loosened at my heart Beneath thine eyes compassionate control. And afterwards I said within my soul: Lo! with this lady dwells the counterpart Of the same love who holds me weeping now. There is nothing to show that Dante was in any way unfaithful to his mar- riage vow so long as he lived with his wife; but he is stated to have been of a very amorous temperament, and evi- dence exists I will not say conclusive evidence that after his exile he had some love affairs with other ladies. As many as five have been named, and careful inquirers are inclined to assent at any rate to two, Gentucca, a noble Lucchese lady, who afterwards married one of the Altelminelli family, and the Montanina (mountain damsel) of Casen- tino. Let me add that two of Dantes sons were among the earliest of his commen- tators;, that a daughter, Beatrice, be- came a nun in Ravenna; and that his direct line was extinct in 1509, but the blood of Dante and Gemma still runs in the Marquises Serego Alighieri of Ve- rona. About Dante Alighieri everybody knows something ;. but English-speaking people in general do not know much about my next Italian poet, the Count Vittorio Alfieri, the most famous trage dian of his country. He was born at Asti, in Piedmont, in January, 1749, of a noble and wealthy family; was in youth impetuous, unscholarly, a rapid and somewhat extensive traveler, and extraordinarily fond of horses; he was a man of gallantry, and had some curi- ous love adventures, more particularly in English high life. He began writing drama towards 1773, but did not publish anything till 1781: altogether he coin- posed, besides other works, twenty-four tragedies, remarkable for severe dignity and passionate laconism. All the inci- dents connected with his marriage are of uncommon interest; and as he xvrote a detaijed autobiography, an admirable book, we know a great deal about them. A very small German sovereign, the last reigning prince of Stolberg-Gedern, had a cousin, Louisa Maria Caroline, born in 1753, who at the age of nineteen, having theretofore been a canoness, married no less a personage than Charles Edward Stuart, whom we call the young Pretender, but who, in the eyes of his adherents, the men of the 45, was king of England, Scotland, and Ireland. At this time, 1772, bonny Prince Charlie, the hero of Waverley, was aged fifty- two, and was a confirmed drunkard. He soon treated his consort, commonly known as the Countess of Albany, with brutish indifference, and at times with brutal violence. The marriage was a childless one. In 1776, Alfieri met this royal lady for the first time in Florence, and in the autumn of 1777 he was pre- sented to her in her own house, and very soon fell in love with her, a love, he says, of the mind as well as heart, which incited him to increased intellectual ex- ertion. In 1780, resolved to bear her husbands outrages no longer, the count- ess quitted him; and in May, 1781, she settled in Rome, keeping up a handsome establishment, for which she had ample means. Alfieri was with her in Rome, but not in the same house; their inti- macy, however, caused some scandal, and 1881.] The Wives of Poets. 61 in subsequent years, from 1784 till 1788, they joined company in Colmar and in Paris, always dwelling apart, and at times separated for some months, dur- ing which he wrote her very long and ardent letters. It was towards Febru- ary, 1788, in Paris, that the countess received the news that her husband had died in Rome. She was genuinely dis- tressed, Alfieri says; adding that no artifice ever entered into that most can- did and most unmatchable disposition. From this time forth they were com- pletely united. Whether the tie which had undoubt- edly already for some while existed be- tween Allen and the Countess of Al- bany was ever confirmed by an actual marriage is a question not yet solved by any positive evidence; but it is generally assumed that this was so, and as no mo- tive is apparent for the contrary we may reasonably accept it as a fact. It would seem that no two people could be hap- pier together than they. No stripling in the fervor of a first love for an un- attainable beauty could write of her more enthusiastically than did this high- ly distinguished author and man of soci- ety of his countess, my lady, as he invariably terms her, when he had attained the age of about forty-one and she of thirty-seven, and again when, shortly before his death, at the age of fifty-four, he completed his autobiog- raphy. He speaks of a sweet fire in her very black eyes, coupled (which is rare) with an exceedingly white skin and blonde hair; of her golden temper and her many other excellences, includ- ing a knowledge of languages and liter- ature sufficient to enable her husband- lover to talk to her of all his work. In 1791, when chance had led to his re- encountering one of his early Ilames, a lady who partly by his means had for- feited an eminent place in English soci- ety, he narrated the whole affair to the Countess of Albany, and he remarks, a crucial point, indeed, to test a mar- ned couples happiness, Between us there was never any feigning, nor mistrust, nor disesteem, nor bickering. He composed in her honor many son- nets and other pieces; and he wrote her epitaph along with his own, in Latin, terming her pre~minent in birth, beau- ty, character, incomparable candor of soul; beloved by Vittorio Alfieri beyond all things, and by him constantly held and served as a mortal deity. They lie buried together in the famous church of Santa Croce in Florence, under a monument for which the countess com- missioned Canova: Allen having died in October, 1803, of gout telling upon a constitution lowered by continual appli- cation and the most sparing diet, and she having, after many years, followed him to the tomb in January, 1824. She had continued dwelling in Florence, in active intercourse with persons of dis- tinction in literature, art, and society; and the praises which her husband had lavished upon her were generally, how- ever faintly, echoed by others. There is some idea, but it remains only a con- jecture, that, many years after Allens death, she married a French historical painter named Fabre, who was, at all events, left her general legatee. Allen was an honorable man and con- stant friend; prond, irascible; a great hater of the French, especially after he had been disappointed in the course of the French Revolution, and had suffered some considerable personal troubles therein; tall, thin, pallid, with red hair and a very powerful voice; a contemner of money, an aristocrat, and a republic- an. By none despised unless it were by himself is the haughty phrase which he embodied in his own epitaph. Thus far of the Italian poets, and next of the Spanish. Here again I shall take two, and these contemporaries in the greatest period of Spanish literature, Cervantes and Lope de Vega. Cervantes as the author of Don Quix- ote is known to all; as a poet to few of 62 The Wives of Poets. [January, us. He was, however, a poet of very considerable note in his time and coun- try, and still is so, with a difference of degree, to his compatriots. He wrote some twenty or thirty plays, of which only two, along with some comedies and interludes, still survive, the Numancia and the Trato de Argel, or Algerine Dealings. The former, on the memora- ble siege of Numancia by the Romans, has a stern, heroic terribleness which makes it very impressive, though not in like measure poetic. There was also, near the end of his life, the Journey to Parnassus, a semi-burlesque poem, which is accounted his most decided -success in the form of verse; likewise other works which I need not here mention. That the Numancia tragedy should be heroic is no wonder; for Miguel de Cer- mutes Sanvedra, born at Alcahi de He- nares, in New Castile, in the autumn of 1547, of a dignified if not noble family in straitened circumstances, was as gen- uine a hero as ever breathed, as gen- uine as his own Don Quixote (and that is saying a good deal), without having so loud buzzing a bee in his bonnet. At the age of twenty-three he became a private soldier; fought splendidly against the Turks in the glorious sea-fight of Lepanto, and there had his left hand maimed for life; was in 15745 captured at sea by the Moors, and kept five years a slave in Algiers, displaying the most noble powers of endurance, enterprise, and self-sacrifice in the interest of his fellow-captives. At last a large ransom was paid for him, and he returned to soldiering and eventually to authorship. Subordinate official government, neglect, poverty, and temporary imprisonment, made Cervantes one of the most ill- starred of literary geniuses; he met all his trials with rare sweetness and buoy- ancy of spirit. One of the few defects attributed to him is a habit of unthrift and restlessness. At last, in 1603, when he was fifty-five years of age, he brought out his Don Quixote, Part I., and in 1615 Part II. Both were received with transcendent applause, and the work ob- tained more readers than any other which had appeared since the invention of printing. Yet an almost unac- countable instance of ill-luck he made little by it. Still poverty-stricken, he died in Madrid of dropsy, on April 23, 1616, not properly the same day, though it is generally spoken of as the same, on which Shakespeare expired. In December, 1584, Cervantes had married a young lady (as it has been said) of apparently very limited fortune and unlimited respectability, Doiia Catalina de Palacios Salazar y Yozmedi- ano, living in Esquivias, near Madrid. His prose pastoral of Galaten, published in the preceding year, is interspersed with lyrics inspired by his love for this lady, who is indeed the Galaten of the story, and himself the Elisio. From a~ pastoral no real knowledge of anybody is to be gathered; and of Doila Catalina next to nothing is known otherwise. It is surmised that the couple lived at first upon her dowry. In 1603 they were dwelling in Yalladolid: he drudging at the humblest literary employments, and she eking out tbeir income by needle- work, in which she was assisted by a natural daughter of her husband and by three other ladies of the family, all housed together. One of these ladies, with Dofia Catalina herself, assumed the habit of St. Francis in 1609, thus bind- ing themselves to certain acts of piety. The daughter, Isabel, who shared all her fathers troubles and was the object of his deep affection, had been borne to him by a noble Portuguese lady about two years before his marriage; there were no children by his wife. About four years before the death of Cervan- tes Isabel became a nun; and five months after he was laid in his grave a license was granted to his widow and executrix to print for her own benefit his last ro- mance, The Sorrows of Persiles and Sig- ismunda, probably the only property 1881.] The TVives of Poets. 63 he had to leave her. Of her person I find no description, nor anythingbeyond a general inference that the pair were mutually helpful and attached. Cervan- tes was a man of ordinary stature, stain- mering speech, and aquiline features, with a small mouth and chestnut hair. From the step-son of fortune we pass to her spoiled child, from Miguel Cer- vantes de Saavedra to Lope Felix de Vega Carpio, or Lope de Vega, as he is commonly called, who was born in Ma- drid of a noble but not wealthy family, in 1562, fifteen years later than the au- thor of Don Quixote. Apart from his literary work he led a sufficiently active life: spent some time in travel; served as a soldier in the Spanish Armada, Invincible, so called; married twice; was private secretary to the Duke of Alva and the Count of Lemos; entered holy orders as a priest and honorary mem- ber of the brotherhood of St. Francis; showed hot religious zeal; and amassed great riches, and spent them largely, being a man hoth of display and of char- ity. But all this is as nothing to his literary labors, in comparison with which the labors of Hercules would hardly seem exhausting. Suppose a man, in something less than seventy-three years of life, the span allotted to Lope, were to write a million verses; would my reader think that a large number? I should, a barely credible number. But Lope is said to have written and printed 21,300,000, among which are in- cluded 1800 plays actually performed on the stage. This is the estimate of a pan- egyrist, and must, I suppose, be reject- ed as an absolute impossibility. But it is certain that he wrote comedies, tragi- comedies, tragedies, sacred dramas, epics, and verse of every other sort, besides a mass of prose: 518 of his plays are still extant in print, and several of them con- tinue to be acted; of his epics, one is a ecutinuation of the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto (he wrote this when shipped in the Armada), and another, named La Diagontea, is on the death of Sir Fran- cis Drake, the b~te noire of all Spaniards. He himself says he had written more than 1500 plays, 100 of them being done in as many days. With such miraculous facility, it cannot be expected that the compositions should be of a profound or monumental character, taken individual- ly; flowing abundance and the faculty of treating any and every story dramat- ically are the generally admitted merits. Lope was, and indeed he deserved to be~ enormously popular: he wrote for pop- ularity, conscious that he had it in him to do something of a more solid and per- manent kind. He was rightly called the prodigy of nature, and his name became such a synonym for excellence that his contemporaries would speak of a Lope diamond, a Lope afternoon, and so on. In personal character he is said to have been kindly and vivacious: we cannot conceive of his being otherwise, any more than we could imagine a fer- tile soil which brings forth hundred fold to look as if it were arid and grudging. He had a firm, well moulded countenance, with dark eyes, large, slightly aquiline nose, and very short upper lip, dis- cerning, clear-headed. As I have said, Lope de Vega was twice married. In early youth he wed- ded Dofia Isabel de Urbino, a lady of rank. He loved her tenderly, but had to quit her in consequence of a duel, re- turning to his family and his native Madrid after some years. 11e had not been back long when his wife died, and his joining the Armada, which was in 1588, is said to have been prompted by his wish to escape the pain of mem- ory. his second nuptials, at the a~e of twenty-eight~, were with Dofia Juana de Guardia, a Madrid lady; with her also he was happy. She died after ten years or so of wedded life, following to the grave a son on whom the poet doted, and leaving behind~ her two daughters. As he had sought to assuage his first grief in the clash of arms, so he retreated 64 The Wives of Poets. [January, from the second into the ecclesiastical life. After the statistics I have given of his poems, I need not say that he still continued writing when he had en- tered the priesthood. His Autos Sac- ramentales, or sacred dramas, ixumber at least four hundred. Such, in scanty outline, was the father of the Spanish drama, and the most prodigal and co- lossal of all examples of literary produc- tiveness. We will next take the French poets, four of them, all men of the seven- teenth century. Pierre Corneille the great Cor- neille, as his countrymen call him, not undeservedly was born at Rouen, in June, 1606, his father being a lawyer and official, ennobled during the poets youth. The son was also a lawyer, but did next to nothing in his profession. His first drama, M~lite, was produced when he was aged twenty-three; two years afterwards came his early master- piece, The Cid, the success of which was altogether vast and unprecedented; then in later years Les braces, Polyeucte, and several others; the latest of high celebrity was the ~3Edipus, written at the age of fifty-three; others succeeded, tes- tifying to declining powers. In 1663 Corneille was pensioned by the king, Louis XIV., with two thousand livres per annum, an amount which was not always punctually paid, and in these in- tervals the poet was not well off. He died in Paris in September, 1684. A stern magnanimity, a stress of lofty char- acter which lapses into the bombastic if it overshoots the heroic, mark the great but very unequal genius of Corneille. The details of his courtsbip and mar- ried life are pretty well known to us. Love is said to have been his first in- spirer to the drama. A friend of his, who was paying his addresses to a young lady, introduced Corneille to her, and she soon showed a preference for The new-coiner. This led him to write his first play, M6lite, which deals with a similar incident, and found favor with the public. If I understand the narra- tors aright, this was the same lady whom he afterwards married, Mademoiselle Marie de Lamp~ri~re, daughter of the lieutenant-g~n6ral des Andelys, in Nor- mandy. In this case the engagement must have been a decidedly long one, for M~lite was written in 1629, and the marriage did not take place till about 1640. The ladys father did not approve of having Corneille as a son-in-law. The young dramatist was at first one of the so-called Five Poets of the all-pow- erful Cardinal de Richelieu; their busi- ness being to work up into plays the ideas which the cardinal threw out, but for the execution of which he had nei- ther the leisure nor perhaps the faculty. Corneille did not altogether please Riche- lieu in this employ, and he ceased to be one of the five poets towards 1637. Richelieu however, continued to allow him five hundred crowns a year, and also befriended him in his suit; for it is said that the poet having called on the cardinal, one day, sadder than usual, and being asked whether he was writ- ing anything, he replied that he was too much harassed by love, being passionate- ly enamored of Mademoiselle de Lamp& . ri~re, whose father would not let him have her; and Richelieu thereupon sent for the father to Paris. He attended, in no small trepidation at receiving so sudden and mysterious a summons from the terrible minister; and, on hearing what it was all about, was only too glad to consent to the match, and so return to his province. The ladys dowry was trifling, and the patrimony of Corneille the like. Married, and in course of time the father of six children, the dramatist found all his pleasure in his family; and, allowing for a melancholic temperament in the man, gruff manners, quick self- esteem without the anodyne of vanity, and a great inaptitude for business af- fairs, he seems to have had a substantial- ly happy home. Of his brusquerie and 1881.] A Symposium of Sixty Years Ago. 65 indifference we have the anecdote that Corneille having engaged one of his daughters to a suitor whose money mat- ters went amiss, the young man called on him one day, explaining that unfort- unate circumstances compelled him to break off the match, and the poet re- plied, Pray speak about it to my wife, without interrupting me. I know noth- ing about such affairs. He lived in the same household, practically speak- ing, with his brother, Thomas Corneille, also a poet of recognized, though infe- rior meritt Their harmonious bonhomie was conspicuous. Thomas, twenty years younger than Pierre, was married to a sister of Pierres wife, also twenty years younger than that lady. They had the same number of children, and they held all things so much in common that, in twenty-five years of joint marriage, they never partitioned the properties of their wives; and this was done only after the death of Pierre, who lived without expense and died without goods. His family is still extant. One of his daugh. ters was an ancestress of the too cele- brated Charlotte Corday, and the phi- losopher Fontenelle was his nephew. This writer has given us some valu- able details about his illustrious relative. Corneille, he says, was somewhat tall and stout; his air very simple and very ordinary; always negligent, and unconcerned about appearances. His visage was sufficiently agreeable: nose large, mouth fine, eyes full of fire. He spoke hut little. He was in essentials very easy to live with; a good husband, good relative, tender, and full of kindli- ness. His temperament was somewhat inclinable to love, never to libertinism, and seldom to powerful attachments. His spirit was lofty and independent; no suppleness, no finessing. And to this let me add the terse phrase of the mighty Napoleon: If Corneille were alive, I would make him a prince. William AL Rossetti. A SYMPOSIUM OF SIXTY YEARS AGO. WE had occasion, not long since, in speaking of the somewhat affected and ambiguous attitude of Mr. Mallock to- ward the faith which he has undertaken to defend, to contrast him with those valiant sons of the churchs own body who have carried her banner most gal- lantly in recent times, and especially with that most memorable and chivalric of them all, Count Joseph de Maistre. It is only incidentally, of course, that two men, as yet so widely separated in intellectual ranks, can be compared at all. Mr. Mallock has apparently suffered too severely from that wasting malady of the modern mind whose chief symp- toms of spiritual unrest, moral bewilder- ment, and enervating melancholy are un- happily so familiar to us all, to be able VOL. XLVII. No. 279. 5 wholly to recover from it, though never so willing to take the most heroic treat- ment. From invalidism of this descrip- tion, at least, the great writer named above was always and absolutely free, and it is his & uperb mental health, his endurance and virility, his humor and high spirit, and the soldierly enthusiasm with which he fought out to its calm close the long, hard battle of his life, which especially fascinate us with his memory. It is not, therefore, as a con- troversialist, and as little as possible as a Catholic, but rather as a profound, courageous, and often most consolatory thinker on the perpetual problems of existence, that we propose to consider him to-day, and to glean a little from the abundant riches of his latest and

Harriet W. Preston Preston, Harriet W. A Symposium of Sixty Years Ago 65-75

1881.] A Symposium of Sixty Years Ago. 65 indifference we have the anecdote that Corneille having engaged one of his daughters to a suitor whose money mat- ters went amiss, the young man called on him one day, explaining that unfort- unate circumstances compelled him to break off the match, and the poet re- plied, Pray speak about it to my wife, without interrupting me. I know noth- ing about such affairs. He lived in the same household, practically speak- ing, with his brother, Thomas Corneille, also a poet of recognized, though infe- rior meritt Their harmonious bonhomie was conspicuous. Thomas, twenty years younger than Pierre, was married to a sister of Pierres wife, also twenty years younger than that lady. They had the same number of children, and they held all things so much in common that, in twenty-five years of joint marriage, they never partitioned the properties of their wives; and this was done only after the death of Pierre, who lived without expense and died without goods. His family is still extant. One of his daugh. ters was an ancestress of the too cele- brated Charlotte Corday, and the phi- losopher Fontenelle was his nephew. This writer has given us some valu- able details about his illustrious relative. Corneille, he says, was somewhat tall and stout; his air very simple and very ordinary; always negligent, and unconcerned about appearances. His visage was sufficiently agreeable: nose large, mouth fine, eyes full of fire. He spoke hut little. He was in essentials very easy to live with; a good husband, good relative, tender, and full of kindli- ness. His temperament was somewhat inclinable to love, never to libertinism, and seldom to powerful attachments. His spirit was lofty and independent; no suppleness, no finessing. And to this let me add the terse phrase of the mighty Napoleon: If Corneille were alive, I would make him a prince. William AL Rossetti. A SYMPOSIUM OF SIXTY YEARS AGO. WE had occasion, not long since, in speaking of the somewhat affected and ambiguous attitude of Mr. Mallock to- ward the faith which he has undertaken to defend, to contrast him with those valiant sons of the churchs own body who have carried her banner most gal- lantly in recent times, and especially with that most memorable and chivalric of them all, Count Joseph de Maistre. It is only incidentally, of course, that two men, as yet so widely separated in intellectual ranks, can be compared at all. Mr. Mallock has apparently suffered too severely from that wasting malady of the modern mind whose chief symp- toms of spiritual unrest, moral bewilder- ment, and enervating melancholy are un- happily so familiar to us all, to be able VOL. XLVII. No. 279. 5 wholly to recover from it, though never so willing to take the most heroic treat- ment. From invalidism of this descrip- tion, at least, the great writer named above was always and absolutely free, and it is his & uperb mental health, his endurance and virility, his humor and high spirit, and the soldierly enthusiasm with which he fought out to its calm close the long, hard battle of his life, which especially fascinate us with his memory. It is not, therefore, as a con- troversialist, and as little as possible as a Catholic, but rather as a profound, courageous, and often most consolatory thinker on the perpetual problems of existence, that we propose to consider him to-day, and to glean a little from the abundant riches of his latest and 66 A Symposium of Sixty Years Ago. [January, most popular work, his own favorite, also, and that into which he himself tells us that he had put his whole soul, the Soir~es de Saint P6tersbourg. A brief outline of Count de Maistres story may serve to explain to those who are not freshly famlliar with his life and work the circumstances under which the book was prepared. Joseph de Maistre was born at Chain- b~ry in the year 1758, of one of the oldest and most honorable families in Savoy. Voltaire, says Sainte-Beuve, as he gazed upon Mont Blanc from Ferney, little dreamed that there was growing up under the shadow of the mountain, and would one day issue thence, his own most formidable enemy and keenest satirist. Both Joseph and his brother Xavier, the future author of the enchanting Tour Round my Cham- ber, received a careful and severe early training, especially in classical studies; and the story is told, to illustrate the ex- cellence of Josephs memory, that he once repeated off-hand and without miss- ing a word an entire book of Virgil, on a challenge from a college classmate. Being reminded of this feat nearly forty years afterward, M. de Maistre said, And, if you will believe me, I can re- peat that book of Virgil still. The first thirty years of his life were prosperous and uneventful. He was elected to the senate of Savoy at the age of twenty-two; he was made a magistrate at twenty-four. He married, and enjoyed for some years a singularly complete domestic happiness. He was an enthusiastic student still, always pos- sessed by some literary predilection, which he followed up with ardor in his leisure hours; but he wrote little, and published nothing save a few pamphlets and memorial addresses. 1-Je accumu- lated a great body of notes at this time, many of which perished in the revolu- tionary catastrophe which was at hand; but their results remained in the con- ~stant growth and enrichment of the eager and exuberant mind. It was the outbreak of the great French Revolu- tion which suddenly formed the author and determined his vocation. Sainte- Beuve, who has devoted to the imperial character of Count de Maistre one of his most elaborate and consummate studies, thinks that he finds traces, among the scant records of those quiet years, of the fact l~hat the great ortho- dox champion who was to be. had once his leanings toward liberal opinions and the philosophism of his youthful day. He indulged in some rathei towering rhetoric about the American Revolution: Freedom, insulted in Europe, has winged her way to another hemisphere. She floats above the snows of Canada. She is arming the peaceful Pennsyl- vanian, and from the heart of Philadel- phia she cries to the English, Why have you outraged me, you who were wont to boast that to me you owe your greatness? etc. But then it is so easy to enjoy the fire-works of a rev- olution at a distance of three thousand miles! By birth, breeding, and divine foreordination M. de Maistre was, in the finest sense of the word, an aristocrat, loyal, martial, and devout; and 1792, which dazed so many brains, cleared his. It dispelled his dreams, and brought him to the full command of his senses. Even then, before the clang of the first tocsin had died away, and with all the tremendous force of his nature, he re- volted from the Revolution, lie saw in it the sum of all political and social iniquity. He saw also, as a matter of course, the inevitable result of Prot- estantism. To him the genius of the whole movement was simply to use his own strong word satanic; and he engaged instantly and single-handed in a warfare against it, which was des- tined to cease not, day or night, till he was called to his final rest, nearly thirty years afterward. When the French troops invaded Savoy, in September, 1792, M. do 1881.] A Symposium of Sixty Years Ago. 67 Maistre followed the flight of his king. He returned in January, 1793, under an amnesty offered to the 6migr6s, but could bear the new r~girne no more than three months. In April of the same year he retired to Lausanne, where the presence of many distinguished refugees made a most brilliant society just then, despite the pecuniary straits of most of its members. It was there that M. de Maistre first met Madame de Stahl, whom he saw later at St. Petersburg, and later yet in her own house at Paris, after the Restoration. They were always good friends and warm antagonists. The lady graciously allowed that the gentle- man possessed genius, but his judgment of her was expressed in more piquant terms. I never knew, he wrote to a friend at this time, a mind more utter- ly perverted. Such is the infallible effect of modern philosophy on any wom- an whatever. Yet her heart is by no means bad. As for wit, she is extraor- dinarily brilliant when she is not try- ing to be so. Our studies in religion and politics had been utterly unlike, and scenes occurred between us in Switzer- land fit to make one die of laughter. Yet we never lost temper. These years at Lausanne were the first and by far the most cheerful of an exile which was to last a quarter of a century. Later, when M. de Maistre had followed his dethroned sovereign to Venice, though still accompanied by his beloved family, he was harassed by ex- treme poverty. He lived in a small suite of rooms on the first floor of the Austrian embassy, but would accept no further assistance from a foreign gov- ernment. Nevertheless, he bated not one jot of heart or hope concerning the ultimate triumph of those principles of religious and political order to which he was devoted, and which appeared, on all hands, to be sinking or submerged. All this, he used to say, is but the motion of the wave. To-morrow it may bear us only too high, and then, indeed, it will be hard to steer. And while loathing the excesses of the Rev- olution, as only one fiery and tender as himself could do, he yet saw in those very excesses the surest hope for the future. It is these horrors them- selves, he triumphantly exclaimed, which will yet preserve for us the in- tegrity of the first of all kingdoms after the kingdom of heaven! For France was in truth the fatherland of his soul, and he loved her no less passionately than he hated and mourned her crimes. At length, in 1802, he was sent by the restored king of Sardinia, Charles Eman- uel IV., as minister plenipotentiary to St. Petersburg. It was a barren honor indeed, in the way of emoluments: for his impoverished sovereign could pay him no salary; he could not have his family with him; and he continued so poor during the greater part of his h~ng stay in the Northern capital that he dined most frequently, when at home, on bread and tea, and received among his friends as we learn from his spir- itual daughter, Madame Swetchine the affectionate sobriquet, out of Walter Scott, of the Caleb of d~plomacy. His official duties were, however, hardly more than nominal, and he had abundant leisure, during his fourteen years residence, for the studies in which he reveled, and for the chief literary labors of his life: his works on the au- thority of the Pope and on the Genera- tive Principle of Political Constitutions, his translation of Plutarchs essay on the Delays of Divine Justice, and the greater part of his Conversations on the Providence of God in the Government of the World, first published in the year after the authors death under the leading title of the Soir6es de Saint P6tersbourg. The interlocutors in these conversa- tions are represented as three: the sen- ator, a Russian statesman and devout Greek Christian; the chevalier, a young French Fmigr~ of fair mind and open 68 A 8~ymposium of Sixty Years Ago. [January, nature slightly tinged by the philoso- phism of the time; and the count him- self, the noblest Roman of the Holy Fathers sons. But in truth they are all the count, and we hardly think of the speakers as individuals, but rather as voices representing different phases of the one vehement and positive yet versatile mind. The first of the great and universally interesting questions broached by this trinity of thinkers is that of the distri- bution of happiness and misery in the world, or, in the words of the senator, that grand scandale do la raison /iu- maine, the prosperity of the bad and the sufferings of the good. The count starts as to a trumpet-call at the reproach im- plied in this statement of the question, and replies, with the buoyant intrepidity which usually animates him at the point where other men are disheartened, that there is no subject on which he feels himself stronger than this. It is with perfect conviction, he says, nay, with delicious satisfaction, that I shall proceed to expound to two men whom I tenderly love the thoughts on this theme which have been gather- ing in my mind during what is already a long life. He questions, in the first place, the good faith of most of the com- plainants. They mistake the sophisms of a rebellious heart for genuine doubts of the understanding. If oftentimes, he adds, in his epigrammatic way, sn- perstition, according to the common reproach, undertakes to believe [croit croire], far oftener, rest assured, pride undertakes to disbelieve. But even those who are honestly perplexed have needlessly confused the question. That crime in general prospers in this world while virtue suffers is palpably false. On the contrary, the proof is overwhelming that the goods and ills of life are a sort of lottery, where any person whatever may draw either a prize or a blank. It is necessary, then, to change the ques- tion, and to inquire why, in the temporal order, the just man is not exempt from the ills which afflict the guilty, and why the sinner is not denied the happiness which the good man is able to enjoy. But this question is entirely different from the other, and I shall be much sur- prised if its very statement does not demonstrate to you its absurdity. If the good man suffered because he was good, and the bad prospered by reason of his badness, this eternal objection against Providence might be unanswer- able. It falls to the ground if only we suppose that joy and sorrow are distrib- uted indifferently to all. . . . But false opinions are like bad money: struck in the first instance by great rascals, and then passed by honest men, who perpet- uate the crime, not knowing what they do. It was impiety which first brnited abroad this objection. Levity and good nature have repeated it. . . . A good man is killed in battle; is this an injus- tice? No, it is a misfortune. If he have the gout or the stone, if his friend be- trays him, if he is crushed by a falling building, it is still a misfortune, but no more, because all men, without distinc- tion, are subject to these disgraces. Never lose sight of this great truth: that if a general law be just for all it cannot be unjust for the individual. You did not have a given disease, but you might have had it. You had it, but you might have been exempt. He who fell in the battle might have escaped. He who returned might have remained. All have not died, but all were there to die. The just law is not that which is execut- ed upon all, but that which is made for all. To find difficulties in such an order of things, one must love them. Alas, they are loved; they are sought. The human heart, in its perpetual revolt against the authority that galls it, tells tales to the credulous mind. We accuse Providence that we may avoid accusing ourselves; raising difficulties which we should blush to raise against a human sovereign or simple administrator in 1881.] A Symposium of Sixty Years Ago. 69 whose wisdom we confided. Strange that we should find it easier to be just to men than to God! All have not died, but all were there to die, this is the heroic note which the reader will hear struck again and again by the controlling voice in this com- prehensive and searching colloquy, the tonic to which all the solutions lead. We are here in this world to face the worst. For this cause were we horn. Shame on us if we do it not bravely! I know not if I am wrong, says the modest young chevalier in another place, but it seems to me as if there could be nothing so unfortunate for a man as never to have experienced misfortune. For how could such a man be sure of himself, or understand his own worth? Sufferings are to the righteous man what battles are to the soldi~r. They perfect him and accumulate his deserts. Does the brave man complain to the army be- cause he is chosen for the most perilous expeditions? iNay, rather he covets them, he glories in them! For him suffering is an occupation and death an advent- ure. This high military spirit finds occa- sion for yet more explicit utterance when the whole subject of war comes up for discussion, in the seventh conver- sation. Why, the question is propound- ed, should war be held so great an evil, so dark a mystery? The busi- ness of war does not, as one might ex- pect or fear, if not taught by experience, tend in the least to degrade, to render hard and ferocious, him who exercises it. Rather it tends to perfect the man. The honorable soldier is the most hon- orable of men; and for my own part Fit is the senator who speaks now] I have always set a special value upon military good sense. I prefer it infinite- ly to the roundabout methods of busi- ness men. In the ordinary intercourse of life, military men are more amiable, more facile, nay, even, I think, more conciliatory than others. Amid polit ical storms they are usually the intrepid defenders of antique maxims, and the most dazzling sophisms vanish before their rectitude. . . . Religion with them is often allied to honor in a remarkable manner, and those who have most deep- ly offended her in matters of conduct will draw the sword for her in case of need. . . . Much has been said of the license of camps. It is great, no doubt; but the soldier seldom finds his vices in camp. He carries them there. A mor- al and austere people always furnishes an excellent soldiery, terrible upon the battle-field, if nowhere else. Vir- tue and even piety are closely linked with military courage. Far from en- feebling the warrior, they ennoble him. The haz~r shirt of Saint Louis did not gall him under his shirt of mail. Oh, yes, gentlemen, the soldiers func- tions are terrible, but it must needs be that they are connected with a great spiritual law; and it is no marvel that all the nations of the earth have united to see in the scourge of war something more especially divine than in all others. It is not without good and deep reason, believe me, that the title God of battles flashes from every page of holy writ. Seven distinct reasons are then formally adduced for believing in the divine ap- pointment of war: It is divine because it is a law of the world. It is divine in its supernatural consequences, both gen- eral and personal (and among these last is unhesitatingly reckoned the priv- ilege of dying in the field, that great prize of death in battle of which one of our own poets has sung in the most thrilling of his strains). It is divine in the mysterious glory, the inexplicable attraction, which invests it; divine in the protection so strangely accorded to its great captains; divine in the mode of its declaration; divine in its results, which absolutely escape the calculations of human reason; divine in the inde- finable forces which determine its suc- cess. 70 A Symposium of Sixty Years Ago. [January, Inconsistent as all this appears with the recited creed of modern philanthro- py, it undoubtedly appeals to an instinct deeply implanted in the breast of some of the purest and most peaceable of mankind. And, at all events, it is easy to comprehend how a brave and relig- ions man wbo had seen the French Rev- olution, and twice, in his own words, been stricken by its lightnings, yet survived to witness the Napoleonic wars, should have arrived at this point of view. We can perfectly understand also the sharp contrast in tbe mind of such a man between the functions of those two slayers by profession, the soldier and the executioner. They occupy the two extremes of the social scale. No man is nobler than the first; none more abject than the second. I employ no mere play upon words when I say that their functions approach one another through their remoteness only, as the first degree of the circle touches the three hundred and sixtieth, precisely because they are as far apart as possi- ble. We can even read the counts own celebrated but positively blood- curdling picture of the headsman, in the first conversation, with a kind of shud- dering acceptance, when we remember what manner of men they must have been who served the guillotine. But it is not altogether so easy for persons whose youth sublime has been nourished on theories of evolu- tion to hearken with submission and edification to our dear philosophers elo- quent harangues on the supernatural origin of language, the fall of man from a state both of moral innocence and mental illumination such as never can be regained, and the hopeless degrada- tion of the savage nations. M. de Maistre candidly admits that the subject of original sin seems at the outset to present some difficulties, but he assures us that these will~ vanish before a close and honest scrutiny. Nay, we shall find, in the end, that this dogma explains everything, and that without it nothing can be explained. There are, indeed, two orders of original sin. As the sick man differs from the sickly man, so does the guilty differ from the vicious. The acute malady is not transmissible, but that which vitiates the humors be- comes an original malady, capable of ruining a whole race. So it is with moral maladies. Some belong to the common state of human imperfection, but there are sins, or consequences of sin, which degrade a man beyond recovery. Hence come savages, concerning whom so much nonsense has been uttered, and who have served especially as an un- failing text to J. J. Rousseau, who per- sists in mistaking the savage for the primitive man, whereas he is and can be but the descendant of a man detached from the tree of civilization in conse- quence of some crime. . . . The es- sence of every intelligence is to know and to love. The bounds of his knowl- edge are the bounds of his nature. The immortal being learns nothing. He knows of his very essence all which he ought to know. On the other hand, it is inconceivable that an intelligent being should love evil naturally, that is, by virtue of his essence; for in that case God must have made him bad, which is impossible. If, then, man is subject to ignorance and to evil, he can be so only by reason of some accidental degradation, which must needs be the consequence of a crime. That need, that greed of knowledge which agitates him, is but the natural tendency of his being toward its primitive state, and shoxvs him what he is. He gravitates, if I may say so, toward the re0ions of light. A whole cloud of heathen witnesses, ancient and modern, are called to attest the cor- ruption of man, his degeneracy from a lost ideal, Hippocrates, Plato, Cicero, Virgil, Ovid, Seneca. Even Greece, mendacious creece, who has dared all in history, confesses to the age of gold. Even Voltaire is betrayed into saying, 1881.] Lage dor le premier se montra sur la terre. But will you not, says the young chevalier, explain yourself a little more fully about the savages ? That I will, responds the count, for on that subject I am, like Job, full of matter. If all men come from the three pairs who repeopled the world (after the flood), and if the human race began by kno~vledge, the savage can only be, as I have said, a bough severed from the social tree. Now it matters not at what period any given bough may have been cut off. It is so. That is enough. . - The chief of some tribe, having changed the moral principle within him- self by one of those transgressions which are apparently no longer possible in our day, since, happily, we no longer know enough to incur the same degre~ of guilt, this chief, I say, transmits the anathema to his posterity; and every constant force being by its very nature cumulative, this degradation, weighing incessantly upon his descendants, has finally made of them what w~e call sav- ages. This is that lowest degree of brutalization which Rousseau and the likes of him [ses pareils] call the state of nature. Two totally different causes have contributed to shed a deceitful glamour over this abominable savage state. The one is old; the other apper- tains to our century. The one is the immense charity of the Catholic priest- hood, which, in speaking of those men, has often put its own desires in place of the reality; . - . the other is to be found in the philosophy of our time, which has made use of the savage to support its vain and guilty declamations against the social order. But the slight- est attention will suffice to protect us against the errors both of charity and bad faith. One cannot fix his eye upon the savage for one instant without read- ing the anathema written not merely upon his soul, but upon his outward frame. He is a deformed child, robust and ferocious, in whom the fire of in- A Symposium of Si~sty Years Ago. 71 telligence sheds but a pale and inter- mittent light. A terrible hand, laid heavily upon these devoted races, has effaced in them the distinctive charac- teristics of our greatness, foresight and perfecti!dlity. The savage cuts down the tree to gather its fruit. He unharnesses the ox which the mission- aries have bestowed upon him, and cooks it with the wood of the cart. For three centuries the savage has been gazing at ourselves, desiring nothing of us except powder to kill his fellows and brandy to kill himself. He has never dreamed of manufacturing these commodities. He relies on our avarice, which will never fail him. And as the lowest and most revolting substances are still sus- ceptible of a certain deterioration, so the vices of humanity are vitiated in the savage. He is thievish, cruel, and disso- lute, but he is so after a fashion different from ours. In order to be criminal, we surmount our nature. The savage fol- lows his. He thirsts for crime and is incapable of remorse. How would some of our Poncaphiles have liked listening to this? It is cer- tain, however, that their presence in Count de Maistres circle would have stimnlated rather than checked the tide of his sonorous denunciation. He would have called in his reserves of damnatory adjectives with the same resolute voice, yet humorous gleam of the eye, with which, long afterward, when arranging the material for the Soim4es, he used to say of some of his more savage thrusts at the iconoclasm of his time, Let us leave that in; it will make them so furious over there [meaning in Paris] Laissez leur cet os ~ ronger! And however amazing severally, and even repugnant, the fierce ultramonta- nisms of count de Maistre may sound to the languid and indifferent esprits forts. of the present day, no one who loves logical consistency can fail to admire the intricate beauty of their interdepend- ence, the manner in which they im 72 A Symposium of Sixty Years Ago. [January, ply and necessitate one another. Life, thought, language, the direct gifts of God to man; the forfeit and the re- demption; the divine deposit of truth in the church, and its paramount authority to that of the Scripture; hierarchy in the church and in its secular image the state; reversibility, or the obvious neces- sity that one should suffer for another, and hence the sweet reasonableness that one should intercede and atone for another; purgatory, the doctrine of com- mon sense, all these dogmas unite to form a flawless and symmetrical structure of faith. They have a unity like that of those consummate Greek temples whose several blocks of marble have become fused by a sort of crystalline accom- modation hardly distinguishable from a vital process. As we look up at the rock-founded citadel (supra hanc pe- tram), along whose ramparts we follow the glancing of this bold champions ar- mor, we own that to the eye at ]~east the position is impregnable. We fancy that if we were stationed at his side we could smile at Satans rage no less iron- ically than he, and face a frowning world with equal confidence and cheer. Of the splendors and terrors of Count de IMaistres tacti~s in personal onset we have three notable instances in the Soirees his attack on Voltaire, his arraignment of Lord Bacon, and his dis- memberment of Locke. The first is matchless as a piece of impassioned in- vective, and very interesting from hav- ing been one of the latest additions ever made to the manuscript of the Soir~es, but in spite of the importance assigned to it by Sainte-Beuve, it seems to us little more. The second is but a frag- ment as we have it here, but was sub- sequently expanded into a weighty crit- ical essay. The third is less towering in tone and tremendous in import than either of the others; but it is radiant with wit, one might almost say fun, and altogether delightful. The reader will easily divine what an offensive savor Lockes bourgeois doctrine of the sensible origin of all ideas must have had in the quivering no~tri1g of our haughty Platonist; but it is perhaps a feeling akin to that confessed by the chevalier the joy of being avenged, though late, for the tedium endured in the attempt to read Lockes Essay which gives its keenest edge to our relish of this critique. Tell me on your honor, says the count to his young friend, did you ever read Locke? There is no reason why I should lie about it, replies that debonair person. I never did. I do recollect opening the book one rainy day in the country, but it was only an attitude. Really, rejoins the count, you are sometimes very felicitous in your ex- pressions. In effect that book of Lockes is seldom opened except par attitude. It is the least read of all serious books. A great desire of mine, but one which can never be gratified, is to know how many men there are in Paris who have read from beginning to end the Essay on the Human Understanding. [It should be borne in mind that Locke was in high fashion in Paris at that time.] It is often mentioned, often quoted, but al- ways from memory. For my own part, I used to talk of it without having read it as glibly as another. At last, wishing to acquire the right of speaking consci- entiously, that is to say, with full knowledge of cause, I did read it delib- erately, pen in hand, from the first word to the last. But I was fifty years old at the time, and in all my life I never swallowed such ennui. You know, too, my hardihood in this direction. Indeed, I do, says the chevalier. Did I not see you last year reading a mortal German octavo on the Apoca- lypse? I remember that when I saw you close that book in full health and vigor I told you that you were like a cannon which had sustained a double charge. 1881.] A Symposium of Nevertheless, I can assure you that, compared to the Essay on the Human Understanding, that German book is a light pamphlet, a mere literary pas- time, etc. The linked malice long drawn out of the examination which follows should be read in connection by all those people of taste who take an unselfish pleasure in the artistic dissection of their fellow- men. But we must not be too much captivated by the vivacity of M. de Maistre in his maliga and aggressive moods, for with him these were never lasting. More natural to his noble mind, and ever more habitual as his years de- clined, was the exalted frame which called forth his eulogy on tbe Psalms of David, in the seventh conversation, that beautiful mosaic from tbe grand Vulgate, an ode in all but measure; the moving fervor of the various exhor- tations to prayer; and the magnificent defense, in the tenth, of the doctrine of reversibility on the ground of the unity of the human race in God. The conversations were to have been twelve. They are only ten and a frag- ment. The unfinished eleventh is, per- haps, the most keenly interesting of all to readers of the present day. It begins with a discussion of those wide-spre ad presentiments which M. de Maistre, with his rich and ready learning, shows to have been the forerunners of all the great events of history. He descants con amare upon the Pollio of Virgil, refusing, with characteristic scorn, to admit a doubt of its Messianic meaning. He owns that he is himself possessed even now by such a presentiment, the vague forecast of a great spiritual crisis, which some- times takes the form of a terrific judg- ment of infidelity, and again of some glorious revival; a third Revelation, which shall arrest and dispel the fast- deepening dusk of faith by an unprece- dented illumination. He dwells with sorrowful eloquence on the seeming de- cline of Christianity (would his loyal Sixty Years Ago. 73 heart have been lightened had he lived till now?); he will expound more fully than he has done as yet the responsibil- ity of the so-called Reformation for that decline, showing it to be the inevitable result of that insensate yet fundament- al doctrine of Protestantism first pro. claimed during the imbroglio of the six- teenth century, the right of private judgment. But the pen drops here; the in~perious voice is hushed; the rest is never said. Shall we, with Paul de Saint Victor, lament this particular loss as one of the saddest and most irreparable which could have befallen us, or shall we rejoice that words which might well have been harsh and unfair were never spoken? Count de Maistre had already said in his day things frightful for Protestants to hear, as, for instance, when he loudly defend- ed that salutary institution the Span- ish Inquisition, or cut short Madame de Sta~ls voluble enthusiasm over the English church by informing her that the English church was, among Protest- ant churches, like the orang - outang among apes. But be had likewise said upon the same subject most generous and tender things; like this: We be- lieve in the Word, while our dear en- emies believe in the Scripture only. But if the Scripture be not vivified by the eternal life of the Word, it can never become word that is life. Let others, then, invoke the dumb word, if they will. We may smile secure at that false god of theirs, while yet we await with lov- ing impatience the moment when its partisans, undeceived, shall fall into the open arms which for three centuries have beeft extended toward them. And it is certain that amid his ardent po- lemics he was ofttimes haunted by the vision of an all-embracing spiritual uni- ty. To the unfinished paragraph which closes the eleventh conversation is ap- pended the suggestive note, Cetera de- sideranter. Like those earlier seers of 74 A S,yrnposium of Sixty Years Ago. [January, whose kindred he was and whose tone he unconsciously adopted, M. de Maistre died with vast desires unfulfilled, straining his fading eyes in vain to dis- cern the daybreak. But his faith in the providential order was so secure, his heart so staunch, his submission so ha- bitual and sincere, that we need no writ- ten testimony to his having borne his last disappointment bravely. He had embraced the spirit, if not the letter, of that Talmudic saying from which the prophetic soul of Emanuel Deutsch derived a solemn consolation: It is not incumbent upon thee to complete the work. If sometimes he cried out in a moment- ary sadness of spirit, We were born out of due time. We have endured all the horrors of the storm, but we shall never rejoice in the sunlight which will shine over our graves, oftener, far oft- ener, he could have repeated from his heart the beautiful words with which he had sought long before to console the bereaved mother of Eugene Costa: There is no pain which does not puri- fy, no violence which the principle of evil does not turn against itself. It is sweet to catch amid universal ruin a pre- sentiment of the divine plan. 1 We like to dwell upon the bright side of his latest days. He died at home, the exile of so many years, from whom the pang of separation from his nearest and dearest had wrung this heart-rend- ing expression : At the close of my monotonous days I fall upon my bed, and the sleep which I invoke will not come at my call. I toss and turn, saying like Hezekiah, From day even unto night wilt. thou make an end of me. My heart is torn with poignant thoughts of my family. Ithink I hear them weep- ing at Turin. He found the dear cir- cle unbroken by death. His king hon- 1 Here, says Sainte-Beuve, is a suave man magno which breathes the true unction of Chris- tianity! To attempt writing briefly on a theme on which Sainte-Beuve has written fully is to ored him; Paris hailed and feted him, the danghter whom he had never seen when she was twelve years old, and to whom he had written from St. Pe- tersburg, The idea of leaving the world without knowing thee is the most terrible I can conceive, was his constant companion and minister. But it was a brief reunion. The poverty-plagued am- bassador had after all lived lavishly. The brain was worn out with superhu- man labor; the high heart spent with its violent pulsations. Count de Maistre died of old age at sixty-eight; that is to say, he died as good men with whom nature has her gentle way die oftener at eighty-five, suddenly, painlessly, by the mere failure of the bodys works, but with the eye of the mind undimmed and its force unabated. He is like our ]Etna, said a Sicilian who saw him first when the end was very near, snow on his head, and fire upon his lips. It is impossible in a cursory sketch, like the present, to do anything like jus- tice to more than one phase of so com- plex and overshadowing a character as Joseph de Maistres. We have desired chiefly to illustrate his valor as a son of the church militant; the chivalrous and manful quality of his Christianity; that superb spirit by virtue of which he informed once more with fire and force the disused and faded titles of Soldier of the Cross and Defender of the Faith. Regarding him thus, and his contrast with the weary and futile apol- ogists for belief by whom he has been succeeded, we forget the sting of the wounds he dealt in action, and salute his great shade with reyerential regret. He passed, a soul of nobler tone; My spirit loved and loves him yet, Like some poor girl whose heart is set On one whose rank exceeds her own. Harriet W~ Preston. be distracted by a perpetual desire for quotation. But to quote without acknowledgment would be in this case too obvious and insensate a felony. 1881.] Sociolog~q and Hero- Worship. SOCIOLOGY AND HEROWORSHIP. AN EVOLUTIONISTS REPLY TO DR. JAMES. IN his interesting article entitled Great Men, Great Thoughts, and the Environment, published in The Atlan- tic Monthly for October last, Dr. Will- iam James calls attention to the strik- ing analogy between geniuses and what are known to modern zodlo~,ists as spontaneous variations. Nothing could be more satisfactory than the man- ner in which (on pages 444447) Dr. James expounds the nature of this anal- ogy, and emphasizes the truly phulo- sophic character of Mr. Darwins meth- od of dealing with so-called spontaneous variations. The analogy between those variations, on the one hand, of which the zodlogist takes cognizance, and on the other hand those sociological vari- ations known as geniuses or great men, consists essentially in the similar- ity of causal relations in the two cases. Both kinds of variations may be de- scribed as deviations from an average which are severally unaccountable. Every species of animals or plants con- sists of a great number of individuals, which are nearly but not exactly alike. Each individual varies slightly in one characteristic or another from a certain type which expresses the average among all the individuals of the species. Thus, if one inch be the average length of the proboscis of a certain species of moth, it may well be that of the million individ- uals which make up the species the great majority have the proboscis a lit- tle shorter or a little longer than an inch: in most instances the deviation may not exceed a hundredth or a thou- sandth part of an inch; but there may be half a dozen individuals in the species which have the proboscis as long as two inches or as short as half an inch. So, the average height of men in the United States may be about five feet and eight inches, very few men being shorter than five feet and four inches, or taller than six feet; yet in the side-tents which ac- company that great moral exhibition, the circus, one may, for a quarter of a dollar, see giants eight feet in height, or dwarfs like General Tom Thumb. It is just the same with mens intellect- ual capacities as with their physical di- mensions, though the one cannot exact- ly, like the other, be measured with a foot-rule. In every community of men and women there is a certain average standard of mental capacity; which, in the case of a progressive race like ours, maybe roughly described as that degree of ability to meet the complicated exi- gencies of civilized life which will leave the next generation somewhat better equipped than their parents for meeting these exigencies. Those men whom we regard as conspicuously successful in life using the term successful in no narrow and mercantile, but in the broadest possible sense are the men, more or less numerous, whose mental capacity rises somexvhat above this aver- age standard. A like number of men, through various kinds and degrees of ill-success, reveal a mental capacity that is more or less below the average. And along with these numerous moderate variations from the common level we meet in every age with a few extreme variations, men of giant intelligence, such as Darwin or Helmholtz, who rise as far above the average of the race as idiots and cretins sink below it. Now the moth with his proboscis twice as long as the average, or the man eight feet in height, is what we call a spontaneous variation, and the Darwin or the Helmholtz is what we

John Fiske Fiske, John Sociology and Hero-Worship 75-84

1881.] Sociolog~q and Hero- Worship. SOCIOLOGY AND HEROWORSHIP. AN EVOLUTIONISTS REPLY TO DR. JAMES. IN his interesting article entitled Great Men, Great Thoughts, and the Environment, published in The Atlan- tic Monthly for October last, Dr. Will- iam James calls attention to the strik- ing analogy between geniuses and what are known to modern zodlo~,ists as spontaneous variations. Nothing could be more satisfactory than the man- ner in which (on pages 444447) Dr. James expounds the nature of this anal- ogy, and emphasizes the truly phulo- sophic character of Mr. Darwins meth- od of dealing with so-called spontaneous variations. The analogy between those variations, on the one hand, of which the zodlogist takes cognizance, and on the other hand those sociological vari- ations known as geniuses or great men, consists essentially in the similar- ity of causal relations in the two cases. Both kinds of variations may be de- scribed as deviations from an average which are severally unaccountable. Every species of animals or plants con- sists of a great number of individuals, which are nearly but not exactly alike. Each individual varies slightly in one characteristic or another from a certain type which expresses the average among all the individuals of the species. Thus, if one inch be the average length of the proboscis of a certain species of moth, it may well be that of the million individ- uals which make up the species the great majority have the proboscis a lit- tle shorter or a little longer than an inch: in most instances the deviation may not exceed a hundredth or a thou- sandth part of an inch; but there may be half a dozen individuals in the species which have the proboscis as long as two inches or as short as half an inch. So, the average height of men in the United States may be about five feet and eight inches, very few men being shorter than five feet and four inches, or taller than six feet; yet in the side-tents which ac- company that great moral exhibition, the circus, one may, for a quarter of a dollar, see giants eight feet in height, or dwarfs like General Tom Thumb. It is just the same with mens intellect- ual capacities as with their physical di- mensions, though the one cannot exact- ly, like the other, be measured with a foot-rule. In every community of men and women there is a certain average standard of mental capacity; which, in the case of a progressive race like ours, maybe roughly described as that degree of ability to meet the complicated exi- gencies of civilized life which will leave the next generation somewhat better equipped than their parents for meeting these exigencies. Those men whom we regard as conspicuously successful in life using the term successful in no narrow and mercantile, but in the broadest possible sense are the men, more or less numerous, whose mental capacity rises somexvhat above this aver- age standard. A like number of men, through various kinds and degrees of ill-success, reveal a mental capacity that is more or less below the average. And along with these numerous moderate variations from the common level we meet in every age with a few extreme variations, men of giant intelligence, such as Darwin or Helmholtz, who rise as far above the average of the race as idiots and cretins sink below it. Now the moth with his proboscis twice as long as the average, or the man eight feet in height, is what we call a spontaneous variation, and the Darwin or the Helmholtz is what we 116 Sociology and Hero-Worship. call a genius; and the analogy be- tween the two kinds of deviation is ob- vious enough. But obviously, too, the individual which we single out as a spontaneous variation is in no wise essentially different from his fellow-in- dividuals. If five feet and eight inches be the normal height of a race of men, the man who measures six feet is a va- riation as much as he who measures eight, only the one instance does not attract our attention, and the other does. In any species whatever, the greater number of individuals are no doubt variations, either in one respect or in another. Throughout nature, where a great number of mutually-balancing forces codperate to produce a set of re- sults, we are likely to find the results distributed about a certain average, very much like the shots at a target. A lit- tle way from the centre there is a spot where the shots are thickly gathered; some few have hit the bulls-eye; some have been caught away out on the rim; some have perhaps flown by without hitting at all. It is just the same with the distribution of sizes, strengths, forms, or any attributes, physical or mental, in a species of animals, or in a race of men. These things all differ, according to the general laws of deviation from an aver- age; and the forces concerned in the re- sult are so hopelessly complicated it is so utterly beyond our power to unravel them that this is all we know about the matter. We cannot tell why a given moth has a proboscis exactly an inch and a quarter in length any more than we can tell why Shakespeare was a great dramatist. I agree, therefore, with Dr. James, that the causes of production of great men lie in a sphere wholly inaccessible to the social philosopher. He must simply accept geniuses as data, just as Darwin accepts his spontaneous varia- tions. The problem of the social phi- losopher, undoubtedly, so far as he spec- ulates about the influence of great men, is to take them for granted, and inquire how far they affect the environment, and how far or in what ways the environ- ment affects them. Dr. James goes on to assert, with entire justice, that the re- lation of the environment to the gen- ius in sociology is strictly analogous to the relation of the environment to the variation in biology: it chiefly adopts or rejects, preserves or destroys, in short selects him. If environing cir- cumstances are such as to render an ex- tra quarter of an inch of proboscis ad- vantageous to our species of moths, then the tendency will be for the variations in excess of length of proboscis to sur- vive and leave offspring, while the va- riations in the opposite direction are starved out; so that by and by the average in the length of proboscis will have been shifted by a quarter of an inch. It may be truly said, in a certain sense, that these moths which have va- ried in the right direction have, by be- ing preserved, changed the character of the moth society to which they belong. Similarly with the preservation of the great man, save that, in the immensely greater complexity of the s4ocial problem, the effects are immeasurably more mul- tifarious.~ For the great man, says Dr. James, acts as a powerful ferment, un- locking vast reservoirs of force in va- rious directions, and thus alters the whole character of his environment, very much as the introduction of a new species may alter the characters and re- lations of the fauna and flora through- out a whole neighborhood. Dr. James concludes, then, that the mutations of societies from gene ration to generation are in the main due directly or indirect- ly to the acts or the example of individ- uals whose genius was so adapted to the receptivities of the moment, or whose accidental position of authority was so critical, that they became ferments, in- itiators of movement, setters of preced- ent or fashion, centres of corruption, or destroyers of other persons, whose gifts, [January, 1881.] Sociology and Hero- Worship. 7,7 had they had free play, would have led society in another direction. I am careful to emphasize these con- clusions of Dr. James, hecause, as far as they go, they are my own, and, I be- lieve, are in general the views of that Spencerian or evolutionist school toward which Dr. James seems to cher- ish such an intense antipathy. Perhaps I may not be quite clear as to what the Spencerian school may be. One characteristic of thinkers of such calibre as Mr. Spencer is that they do not so much found schools as bring about a shifting of the intellectual stand-point and an enlarging of the intellectual hori- zon for the whole contemporary world. The ideas of which Mr. Spencer is the greatest living exponent are to-day run- ning like the weft through all the warp of modern thought, and - out from their abundant suggestiveness have come the opinions of many who do not profess any especial allegiance to Mr. Spen- cer, of many, even, who are inclined to scoff at the teacher, while all uncon- scious of the debt they owe him. But while I cannot undertake to make con- fident assertions as to the views of a Spencerian school, I think I may vent- ure to speak with some confidence as to the attitude of Mr. Spencer himself to- ward the present question. So far is Dr. James from realizing how closely he has been following in Mr. Spencers own line of thought that he begins his paper by seeking to use a certain alleged opinion of Mr. Spencer as a foil whereby to set off and illus- trate the truth of his own statements. The problem before us is, What are the causes that make communities change from generation to generation, that make the England of Queen Anne so different from the England of Elizabeth, the Harvard College of to- day so different from that of thirty years ago? Dr. James replies, The differ- ence is due to the accumulated influences of individuals, of their examples, their initiatives, their decisions. Very good. When taken with the proper qualifica- tion which I shall presently specify there is nothing in this reply to which Mr. Spencer need offer an objec- tion. But according to Dr. James the Spencerian school holds that the changes go on irrespective of persons, and are independent of individual con- trol. They are due to the environm~p~t, to the circumstances, the physical geog- raphy, the ancestral conditions, the in- creasing experience of outer relations to everything, in fact, except the Grants and the Bismarcks, the Joneses and the Smiths. Now if Mr. Herbert Spencer and his disciples really maintain any such astonishing proposition as this, it must be difficult to acquit them of the charge of over-hasty theorizing, to say the least; if they do not hold any such view, it will be difficult to avoid the conclusion that somebody has been guilty of over-hasty assertion. To ascertain Mr. Spencers own opinion, one cannot do better than to read carefully the third chapter of the little book on the Study of Sociolo- gy. The subject of this chapter is the Nature of the Social Science, and the first general conclusion arrived at is that this science has in every case for its subject matter the growth, develop- ment, structure, and functions of the social aggregate, as brought about by the mutual actions of individuals, whose natures are partly like those of all men, partly like those of kindred races, partly distinctive. After this lucid statement, which in its triple specification seems comprehensive enough to include the Grants and Bismareks, as well as the Joneses and Smiths, Mr. Spencer goes on to say, These phenomena of social evolution have of course to be explained with due reference to the conditions each society is exposed to, the con- ditions furnished by its locality, and by its relations to neighboring societies. .Yoting this merely to prevent possible 78 Sociology and Hero- WorslPp. [January, misapprehensions, the fact which here concerns us is that . . . given men having certain properties, and an aggre- gate of such men must have certain de- rivative properties which form the sub- ject matter of a science. A deliberate and methodical statement like this, forming the burden of half the chapter in which Mr. Spencer lays out the ground for his work, must of course be received as an authoritative expression of his opinion. It will be observed that Mr. Spencer takes precisely the same position as that which is taken by Dr. James when he says that the changes which go on in society are due to the accumulated influences of individuals, of their examples, their initiatives, their decisions. So decidedly does Mr. Spencer put himself in this position that it occurs to him that he may possibly be misinterpreted as ignoring the influence of environing conditions, and he there- fore adds the qualification that in inter- preting social changes we must make due reference to the outward condi- tions to which society is exposed. iNot even Mr. Spencers wide experience of the infinite possibilities of misconception could have led him to suspect that in this instance he might be charged with ignoring the individual Smiths and Joneses of whom society is composed! This due reference to surrounding conditions is the qualification to which I alluded a moment ago as necessary to give completeness to Dr. Jamess state- ment. When we say that the differ- ence between the England of Queen Anne and the England of Queen Eliza- beth is due to the accumulated influence of the initiatives and decisions of indi- viduals, to what initiatives and decisions do we refer? Certainly not to the abor- tive ones; not to those initiatives and decisions that had been promptly crushed out or held in check, but to those that had been allowed to develop and fruc- tify in the great events which make up the English history of the seventeenth century. In other words, we refer to those individual initiatives and decisions which had been selected for preservation by the aggregate of the conditions in which English society at that time was placed. So that, even in stating the case as Dr. James states it, we find our- selves unable to get along without tacit reference to the environment. It is true that in regarding the changes of society from age to age as due to the cumulative effect of individual actions in relation to environing conditions, one may nevertheless deal with the sub- ject practically in more than one way. One writer may turn his attention chiefly to the consideration of those individual variations in opinion and conduct which, in our ignorance concerning their com- plex modes of genesis, we call spon- taneous variations. Another writer may be more deeply interested in point- ing out such circumstances as those of geographical position, of commercial in- tercourse, of political cohesiveness, by which the broad outlines of history have been more or less determined. The two points of view seem to me comple- mentary rather than opposed to each other, though it is a common fault among speculative writers to ignore the exist- ence of all the doors that cannot be un- locked with their own particular little key. Mr. Bagehot in that golden little book which I admire as much as Dr. James does deals more especially with the interior or psychical aspects of the causes of changes in society. Mr. Grant Allen, on the other hand, is deep- ly impressed with the manifold and re- markable ways in which the histories of nations have been affected by their geo- graphical position; though by geo- graphical position he means something far more considerable than that house- hold drudge of superficial writers, the climate: he means the entire situation of a nation, strategic, industrial, com- mercial, and literary, in relation to other nations. Mr. Allen attaches so much 1881.] Sociology and Hero- TVorship. value to considerations of this kind that he is led to stigmatize Mr. Bagehots method as unscientific and unfruitful in good result. Mr. Bagehot, as a thinker of more catholic mind, would hardly, I believe, have been equally ready to un- dervalue Mr. Allens work. As expla- nations after the fact which are pretty much the only kind of explanations we can expect to have where the concrete & ients of history are concerned specu- lations like those of Mr. Allen are ex- tremely interesting and suggestive. I agree in the main, however, with Dr. James in his views as to the inadequacy of Mr. Allens method. It is no doubt true that no geographical environment can produce a given type of mind; it can only foster and further certain types, and thwart and frustrate others. No doubt, too, Mr. Allen makes a very extravaoant statement when he says that if the people who went to Ham- burg had gone to Timbuctoo they would now be indistinguishable from the semi- barbarian negroes who inhabit that cen- tral African metropolis; and if the peo- ple who went to Timbuctoo had gone to Hamburg they would now have been white-skinned merchants driving a roar- ing trade in imitation sherry and indi- gestible port. In reading such a state- ment as this, one seems, indeed, to have fallen upon pre-Darwinian days; nay, more, one wonders whether Mr. Allen has ever stndied as carefully as he ought to have done the biological teachings of Mr. Spencer, whose opinions Dr. James quotes him as representing! Mr. Allen has brilliantly illustrated several points in connection with the doctrine of evolution, more especially in the department of psychology; but there is no good reason why he should be se- lected for quotation as the representa- tive of all Spencerian evolutionists, or why all Spencerian evolutionists should be held responsible for Mr. Allens pe- culiar opinions. The only connected outline of Spencerian sociology as yet in existence (save what has been pub- lished by Mr. Spencer himself) is that which is contained in the second vol- ume of my Outlines of Cosmic Pitilos- ophy. That the opinions therein ex- pressed harmonize in the main with Mr. Spencers I have the strongest possible reasons for asserting. Yet the line of thought followed in this part of my work, and especially in the chapter on Conditions of Progress, is far more closely parallel with Mr. Bagehots line of thought than with Mr. Allens. Sepa- rate passages might be cited to the same effect; as, for example, where it is said (vol. ii. p. 199) that the ecclesiastical reforms of Gregory VII. have in their remote results, of course had more influence upon American history than the direction of the Rocky Mount- ains or the position of the Great Lakes. On the next page, alluding to Mr. Buckles theory that the difference in Arabian civilization before and after the time of Mohammed was due to the dif- ference between the soil of Arabia and that of Spain, Persia, and India, I say, To exhibit the utter superficiality of this explanation, we have only to ask two questions: First, if the Arabs be- came civilized only because they ex- changed their native deserts for Spain, Persia, and India, why did not the same hold true of the Turks when they ex- changed their barren steppes for the rich empire of Constantinople? Though they have held for four centuries what is perhaps the finest geographical posi- tion on the earths surface, the Turks have never directly aided the progress of civilization. Secondly, how was it that the Arabs ever came to leave their native deserts, and to conquer the re- gion between the Pyrenees and the Gan- ges? Was it because of a geologic con- vulsion? Was it because the soil, the climate, the food, or the general aspect of nature had undergone any sudden change? One need not be a profound student of history to see the absurdity 80 Sociology and Hero- Worship. [January, of such a suggestion. It was because their minds had been greatly wrought upon by new ideas; because their con- ceptions of life, its duties, its aims, its possibilities, had been revolutionized by the genius of Mohammed. The whole phenomenon requires a psychological, not a physical, explanation. And again (vol. ii. p. 237), in speaking of Comte, a writer whose views of history were often profound, though his phil- osophic position was diametrically op- posite to that of Mr. Spencer and the evolutionists, I say, He did not fall into the error that individual genius and exertion are of little or no account in modifying the course of history. He did not forget that history is made by individual men, as much as a coral reef is made by individual polyps. Each contributes his infinitesimal share of effort; nor is the share of effort always so trifling. Considering the course of history merely as the resultant of the play of moral forces, is there not in a Julius Caesar or a Themistokles as large a manifestation of the forces which go to make history as in thousands of com- mon men? These views of mine, as being the opinions of a disciple of Mr. Spen- cer, may perhaps be set off against those which Dr. James quotes from Mr. Allen. They seem to me to be quite in har- mony with the whole spirit of Mr. Spen- cers philosophy, but it would be very difficult to find, anywhere in Mr. Spen- cers writings, anything that would serve as a justification for Mr. Allens extraor- dinary statement about the Timbuctoo negroes and the merchants of Hamburg. Dr. James, however, does quote from Mr. Spencer one passage which seems to him to ignore or to underrate the im- portance of individual initiative as an agent in the production of social changes. But when carefully considered in con- nection with its context, this passage does not appear to be responsible for the direful corollaries which Dr. James has deduced from it. Commenting on the great-man theory of history, es- pecially as held by Carlyle, Mr. Spen- cer reiterates in his peculiar language the familiar criticism that after all the great man is a product of the age. The genesis of the great man, says he, depends on the long series of com- plex influences which has produced the race in which he appears, and the social state into which that race has slowly grown.. . . All those changes of which he is the proximate initiator have their chief causes in the generations he de- scended from. In saying this, Mr. Spencer does not imply that the indi- vidual initiative of the great man is of no account; nor does he imply that in order to interpret the social phenomena of a given epoch it is needful to seek for the causes of the production of its great men in that physiological sphere which is wholly inaccessible to the social philosopher; nor does he imply that it was owing to any convergence of sociological pressures in the Eng- land of 1564 that a W. Shakespeare, with all his mental peculiarities, hap- pened to be born at Stratford-on-Avon, in that year. Jn some of those omitted sentences of the passage cited which Dr. James represents by dots, Mr. Spen- cer indicates very clearly what he means. He reminds us that by no possibility could a Newton be born of Hottentot parents, or an Aristotle come from a father and mother with facial angles of fifty degrees; and further that, even supposing it possible for a Watt to be born in a tribe unacquainted with the use of iron, his inventive genius would be likely to effect but little. Dr. James himself alleges parallel truths: as that after a Voltaire you cannot have a Peter the Hermit, or that under the social conditions of the tenth century a John Stuart Mill would have been impossible. INow the bearing of these considera- tions upon the question which Mr. Spen- cer is discussing is obvious. If it be 1881.] Sociology and Hero- Worship. 81 true that a genius of a given kind can appear under certain social conditions, and not under others, as a Newton among civilized Englishmen, but not among Hottentots; or if it be true that a given genius can work out its re- sults under certain social conditions, and not under others, as a Mill in the nine- teenth century, but not in the tenth, then it follows that in order to under- stand the course of history from age to age the mere study of the personal characteristics and achievements of great men is not sufficient. Carlyles method of dealing with history, making it a mere series of prose epics, has many merits, but it is nevertheless, from a scientific point of view, inadequate; it does not explain the course of events. History is something more than biography. With- out the least disrespect to the memories of the great statesmen of Greece and Rome, it may safely be said that one might learn all of Plutarchs Lives by heart, and still have made very little progress toward comprehending the rea- sons why the Greek states were never able to form a coherent political aggre- gate, or why the establishment of des- potism at Rome was involved in the conquest of the Mediterranean world. The true way to approach such historic- al problems as these is not to speculate about the personal characteristics of Ly- sanderor C. Gracehus, but to consider the popular assemblies of the Greeks and Romans in their points of likeness and unlikeness to the folkmotes and par- liaments of England and the town-meet- ings of Massachusetts. Since the mid- dle of the nineteenth century the revo- lution which has taken place in the study of history is as great and as thorough as the similar revolution which, under Mr. Darwins guidance, has been effected in the study of biology. The interval in knowledge which separates a Freeman in 1880 from a Macaulay in 1850 is as great as the interval which separated Dalton and Davy from the believers in VOL. XLVII. NO. 279. 6 phlogiston. Yet in the principal works by which this immense change has been brought about such as the works of Maine and Stubbs, Coulanges and Man- rer biography plays either an utterly subordinate part or no part at all. Now the passage on the great-man theory, which Dr. James quotes from Mr. Spencer, is a protest against the al- leged adequacy of the method of Car- lyle. Important as the great man may be, it is not his individual thoughts and actions which primarily concern the sociologist. The truths with which so- ciology primarily concerns itself are gen- eral truths relating to the structure of society and the functions of its various parts; and they are obtained from a comparative and analytical survey of the actions of great masses of men, consid- ered on a scale where all matters of in- dividual idiosyncrasy are averaged, and for the purposes of the inquiry elimi- -- nated. Such questions as relate to the structure of the family in different stages of civilization, to the relations of the various classes of society to the govern- ing body, to the circumstances which hinder or favor the aggregation of tribes into nations, it is such problems as these that mainly concern the student of sociology; and into such problems bio- graphical considerations do not enter, any more than they enter into the study of political economy. Political economy deals with the actions of men in great masses in so far solely as the production and distribution of wealth are concerned, and its conclusions remain equally true, no matter whether a genius or a dunce presides over the national finances. That a protective tariff is an indirect tax levied upon an entire community, for the per- sonal benefit of a few members of the community, is an economical truth that is quite independent of the particular financial schemes or legislative acts of particular great men. So to take one from that class of facts in political history with which the student of sociology is Sociology and Hero- TForslsip. 82 especially concerned it is very clear that if a primary assembly, like the New England town-meeting, is confined with- in narrow geographical limits, so that people can easily attend to it, it will be likely to remain a folkmote, or primary assembly; but if it is spread over a wide area, so that people cannot conveniently come to the meetings, it will tend either to shrink into a ~vitana,qemote, or assem- bly of notables, or to develop into a representative assembly. This is a prop- osition derived from our general experi- ence of the way in which people behave under given conditions, and confirmed by a wide historical induction. Yet the implications of this simple proposition, when once fully unfolded, will go far- ther toward explaining the differences be- tween Greek and Roman political histo- ry, on the one band, and English polit- ical history, on the other, than would the exhaustive biography of all the Greek and Roman and English statesmen that have ever lived, from Lykurgos and Ser- vius Tullius to Gladstone. The study of sociology, in short, is primarily con- cerned with institutions rather than with individuals. The sociologist does not need to undervalue in any way the effi- ciency of individual initiative in deter- mining the concrete course of history; but the kind of propositions which he seeks to establish are general proposi- tions, relating to the way in which masses of men act under given conditions. Here, in conclusion, we may call at- tention to a broad distinction between the study of sociology and the study of history, which, whea duly considered, will throw much light upon the points in Mr. Spencers doctrine by which Dr. James seems to have been puzzled. The distinction to which I allude is one which may be most fitly illustrated by a refer- ence to the study of geology. The phil- osophical geologist assumes as data the various physical and chemical properties of the substances of which the earths surface is composed, and by reasoning [January, from these data, with the aid of all the concrete facts which observation can gather, he constructs his theory of the actual changes which the earths surface has undergone, or will undergo, under given conditions. In so far as his knowl- edge of the physical and chemical prop- erties of matter is exhaustive, and in so far as his judgment is sound, his conclu- sions with regard to the general course of geological events will be correct. lie can even foretell, in outline, what kind of effects will be likely to be produced by a given set of geological causes. But when it comes to predicting, with mi- nute and exhaustive accuracy, the geo- logical future of any particular spot on the earths surface, he is foiled, through inability to compass all the conditions of the concrete case. And likewise, if he is asked to give the precise physical his- tory of any particular spot on the earth, his conclusions, though sound in princi- ple, may be inadequate, because he may not have gained control of all the spe- cial facts required for this individual case. So, although geology is unquestionably a legitimate science, it is nevertheless a science which must deal chiefly with ex- planations after the fact; it can seldom or never be possible for the geologist to lay down general principles which will be sure to fit every case that may arise. Just so with sociology. The philo- sophical student of sociology assumes as data the general and undisputed facts of human nature, and with the aid of all such concrete facts as he can get from history he constructs his theory of the gener- al course of social evolution, of the changes which societies have undergone, or will undergo, under given conditions. If his work has been properly done, he can go so far as to foretell what kind of result is likely to be produced by a given course of political action. But when it comes to predicting the future of any particular society for the next tea years, he is sure to be foiled, through inability to take in the infinitely complex condi 1881.] Sociology and Ilero-Worsldp. 83 tions of the concrete case. And in like manner, when he is called upon to inter- pret the past history of society, he can- not expect to do more than to render explanations after the fact. In order to gain control, moreover, of all the special facts required for the interpretation of each particular case, he must take into account the personal idiosyncrasies of the great men by whom the concrete course of history has been determined. For example, given the political consti- tution of Rome in the third century be- fore Christ, and the transformation of that constitution into an imperial des- potism can be shown to have been an inevitable consequence of the conquest of a large number of surrounding na- tions by a society so constituted. It was a consequence which not even the practical genius of Caesar the great- est, no doubt, that has ever been seen on the earth could have possibly avert- ed, had all its unrivaled power been thrown in that direction. But granting that this general course of development was inevitable, the future course of Eu- ropean history was certainly very differ- ent, as initiated by Caesar, from what it would have been if initiated by Sulla or Pompeius. When once this distinc- tion between the stand-point of the soci- ologist and the stand-point of the histo- rian is thoroughly grasped, one can find no difficulty in comprehending Mr. Spen- cers attitude toward the great - man theory. If the purpose of the sociol- ogist were to construct concrete history from an a priori point of view, then he would undoubtedly need to inquire into the mode of genesis of each individual genius, and to take every one of its pe- culiarities into the account. No such science as this is possible to-day, and it is not likely that any such science will ever be possible; nothing short of om- niscience could compass its problems. As it is, the task of the sociologist is con- fined to the ascertainment of truths re- lating to the actions of men in aggre gates. It is for the historian to make use of such general truths in interpret- ing the actions of particular men; and it is the greater extent, to which recent historians have been able to employ so- ciological generalization that is making the historical writing of to-day so much more satisfactory and profound thaa the historical writing of a generation ago. This increased use of sociology, this more frequent and conscious reference to the conditions, the environment, and all that sort of thing, does not make the modern historian less mindful of the reverence due to great men. On the contrary, it enhances his appreciation of them through his more profound knowl- edge of the conditions under which they have worked. As an example I may refer to the way in which the life of Ciesar has been treated respectively by Froude and by Mommsen. To both these writers Ciesar is the greatest hero that has ever lived, and both do their best to illustrate his career. Both, too, have done their work well. But Mr. Froude has profited very little by the modern scientific study of social phe- nomena, and his method is in the main the method of Carlyle. Mommsen, on the other hand, is saturated in every fibre with science, with sociology,~~ with the comparative method, with the study of institutions. As a re- sult of this difference, we find that Mr. Froude quite fails to do justice to the very greatest part of all Ca~sars work, namely, the reconstructive measures of the last years of his life, which Moinna- sen has so admirably characterized in his profound chapter on the Old Re- public and the New Monarchy. Or, if still more striking proof be needed that the scientific study of the evolution of society is not incompatible with the high- est possible estimate of the value of in- dividual initiative, I may cite the illus- trious example of Mr. Freeman. Of all the historians now living, Mr. Free- man is the most thoroughly filled with Within the aate. 84 the scientific spirit, and he has done more than any other to raise the study of history on to a higher level than it has ever before occupied. His writings in great part read like an elaborate com- mentary on the doctrine of evolution, a commentary the more valuable, in one sense, in that Mr. Freeman owns no [January, especial allegiance to Mr. Spencer or to any general evolutionary philosophy. Yet this great historian, whose opinions are determined everywhere by the soci- ological study of institutions, turns out to be at the same time as ardent a hero- worshiper as Carlyle himself, and vastly more intelligent. John Fiske. WITHIN THE GATE. L. M. C. WE sat together, last May-day, and talked Of the dear friends who walked Beside us, sharers of our hopes and fears, For five and forty years Since first we met in Freedoms hope forlorn, And heard her battle-horn Wound through the valleys of the sleeping North, Calling her children forth, And youth pressed forward with hope-lighted eyes, And age, with forecast wise Of the long strife before the triumph won, Girded his armor on. Sadly, as name by name we called the roll, We heard the dead-bells toll For the unanswering many, and we knew The living were the few. And we, who waited our own call before The inevitable door, Listened and looked, as all have done, to win Some token from within. No sign we saw, we heard no voices call; The impenetrable wall Cast down its shadow, like an awful doubt, On all who sat without. Of many a hint of life beyond the veil, And many a ghostly tale Wherewith the ages bridged the gulf between The seen and the unseen,

John Greenleaf Whittier Whittier, John Greenleaf Within the Gate 84-86

Within the aate. 84 the scientific spirit, and he has done more than any other to raise the study of history on to a higher level than it has ever before occupied. His writings in great part read like an elaborate com- mentary on the doctrine of evolution, a commentary the more valuable, in one sense, in that Mr. Freeman owns no [January, especial allegiance to Mr. Spencer or to any general evolutionary philosophy. Yet this great historian, whose opinions are determined everywhere by the soci- ological study of institutions, turns out to be at the same time as ardent a hero- worshiper as Carlyle himself, and vastly more intelligent. John Fiske. WITHIN THE GATE. L. M. C. WE sat together, last May-day, and talked Of the dear friends who walked Beside us, sharers of our hopes and fears, For five and forty years Since first we met in Freedoms hope forlorn, And heard her battle-horn Wound through the valleys of the sleeping North, Calling her children forth, And youth pressed forward with hope-lighted eyes, And age, with forecast wise Of the long strife before the triumph won, Girded his armor on. Sadly, as name by name we called the roll, We heard the dead-bells toll For the unanswering many, and we knew The living were the few. And we, who waited our own call before The inevitable door, Listened and looked, as all have done, to win Some token from within. No sign we saw, we heard no voices call; The impenetrable wall Cast down its shadow, like an awful doubt, On all who sat without. Of many a hint of life beyond the veil, And many a ghostly tale Wherewith the ages bridged the gulf between The seen and the unseen, 1881.J TVithin the aate. 85 Seeking from omen, trance, and dream to gain Solace to doubtful pain, And touch, with groping hands, the garment hem Of truth sufficing them, We talked, and turning from the sore unrest Of an all-baffling quest, We thought of holy lives that from us passed Hopeful unto the last, As if they saw beyond the river of death, Like Him of Nazareth, The many mansions of the Eternal days Lift up their gates of praise; And, hushed to silence by a reverent awe, Methought, 0 friend, I saw In thy true life of word, and work, and thought The proof of all we sought. Did we not witness in the life of thee Immortal prophecy? And feel, when with thee in thy daily path, The power that goodness hath? Than thine was never turned a fonder heart To nature and to art In fair-formed Hellas in her golden prime, Thy Philotheas time. Yet, loving beauty, thou couldst pass it by, And for the poor deny Thyself, and see thy fresh, sweet flower of fame Wither in blight and blame. Sharing His love who holds in His embrace The lowliest of our race, Sure the Divine economy must be Conservative of thee! For truth must live with truth, self-sacrifice Seek out its great allies Good must find good by gravitation sure, And love with love endure. And so, since thou hast passed within the gate Whereby awhile I wait, I give blind grief and blinder sense the lie: Thou hast not lived to die! ..Thhn Greenleaf Whittier. 86 Friend8: A Duet. [January, FRIENDS: A DUET. Either Death or a Friend. PERSIAN PROVERB. May it be mine to keep the unwritten laws. SOPHOCLES. I. Whatever s lost, it first was won. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROwNING. IT was a February day in Boston. It was going to rain. Though only four c;clock in the afternoon, the sense of night already overpowered the sense of day on the morning side of Mt. Ver- non Street, whence the color of the sun had long since crept down the hill and lay low across Charles River and the intervening street, thrusting apart the gathering clouds with slips of light, long and pale, like slender hands. A woman thought of this. She stood at her drawing-room window, looking up and down the hill. She held the curtain back from her figure with up- lifted wrist, a delicate wrist. She had stepped between the curtain, which was lace, and the window. Looking in, there- fore, from without, as one passed through the darkening street, she showed real and human. But looking at her from within, across the warm and silent room, the curtain swaying on her outline, she made a lovely ghost. In either aspect of the watcher for she was a watcher, that was plain enough an observant person would have said of her, It is a wife, a happy watcher, a happy wife. Beyond those trifling signs of indi- viduality in household art which creep into the homes of most people of char- acter, there was nothing to distinguish this from other parlors on Mt. Vernon Street. It was not necessary to look twice to see that the lady behind the curtain had a luxurious and light-hearted home. Something was it in her attitude? was it in her expression ? would have indicated her to the sensitive eye as a woman deeply loving and deeply loved. Certainly she bore that beautiful and modest self-consciousness which belongs to no other creature and to no other condition, and which is as radiant and as regal as the look that the sea gives to the sunrise. A gentleman came over the hill, walking slowly; he came from the di- rection of the State House and Tremont Street, and therefore held his face turned towards the swiftly departing light. Drops were falling. They ran together on the window and thickened; the pave- ment was growing wet. It was a muggy night, and betokened either a prolonged thaw, or the sudden surrender of nat- ure 5 forces which precedes a deadly chill. The gentleman walked languidly, as people do in weak weather; possibly he looked pale. She had turned rapturously on hear- ing his step; then all her attitude fell. He passed beneath the window, she watching him. He glanced up once be- fore he rang the bell, and saw her, be- tween the curtain and the window, nod- ding down to him. She looked very near. She was still standing there, when he came into the room; only the pale lace now fell over her. He could but notice her contour on it, even then, with the high, fine crown of hair and the wrist turned back, a beautiful wraith! But when she came to meet him she saw how grave he was. Mr. iNordhall! I thought you were John. I mean when I heard your step at first. Sit down. I am glad to see you. But you look ill. John is late. I was watching for him. Yes, Mrs. Strong, John is late. Nordhall said this clumsily enough.

Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart Friends: A Duet 86-95

86 Friend8: A Duet. [January, FRIENDS: A DUET. Either Death or a Friend. PERSIAN PROVERB. May it be mine to keep the unwritten laws. SOPHOCLES. I. Whatever s lost, it first was won. ELIZABETH BARRETT BROwNING. IT was a February day in Boston. It was going to rain. Though only four c;clock in the afternoon, the sense of night already overpowered the sense of day on the morning side of Mt. Ver- non Street, whence the color of the sun had long since crept down the hill and lay low across Charles River and the intervening street, thrusting apart the gathering clouds with slips of light, long and pale, like slender hands. A woman thought of this. She stood at her drawing-room window, looking up and down the hill. She held the curtain back from her figure with up- lifted wrist, a delicate wrist. She had stepped between the curtain, which was lace, and the window. Looking in, there- fore, from without, as one passed through the darkening street, she showed real and human. But looking at her from within, across the warm and silent room, the curtain swaying on her outline, she made a lovely ghost. In either aspect of the watcher for she was a watcher, that was plain enough an observant person would have said of her, It is a wife, a happy watcher, a happy wife. Beyond those trifling signs of indi- viduality in household art which creep into the homes of most people of char- acter, there was nothing to distinguish this from other parlors on Mt. Vernon Street. It was not necessary to look twice to see that the lady behind the curtain had a luxurious and light-hearted home. Something was it in her attitude? was it in her expression ? would have indicated her to the sensitive eye as a woman deeply loving and deeply loved. Certainly she bore that beautiful and modest self-consciousness which belongs to no other creature and to no other condition, and which is as radiant and as regal as the look that the sea gives to the sunrise. A gentleman came over the hill, walking slowly; he came from the di- rection of the State House and Tremont Street, and therefore held his face turned towards the swiftly departing light. Drops were falling. They ran together on the window and thickened; the pave- ment was growing wet. It was a muggy night, and betokened either a prolonged thaw, or the sudden surrender of nat- ure 5 forces which precedes a deadly chill. The gentleman walked languidly, as people do in weak weather; possibly he looked pale. She had turned rapturously on hear- ing his step; then all her attitude fell. He passed beneath the window, she watching him. He glanced up once be- fore he rang the bell, and saw her, be- tween the curtain and the window, nod- ding down to him. She looked very near. She was still standing there, when he came into the room; only the pale lace now fell over her. He could but notice her contour on it, even then, with the high, fine crown of hair and the wrist turned back, a beautiful wraith! But when she came to meet him she saw how grave he was. Mr. iNordhall! I thought you were John. I mean when I heard your step at first. Sit down. I am glad to see you. But you look ill. John is late. I was watching for him. Yes, Mrs. Strong, John is late. Nordhall said this clumsily enough. 1881.1 Friends: A Duet. 81 Ho too sat down. He felt faint. But she smiled up at him fondly; she had always known Charles INordliall. You will stay to dine with us, now. John will soon be here. We were to read together this evening, early; I or- dered dinner an hour sooner. We are reading of all things, what do you think ? Paul and Virginia! We had never read it before, together. John will be in very soon. She laughed at herself, blushing a little, but thinking that it was only Charley Nordhall. She had a low and happy laugh. Yet he could see that she listened towards the pavements with the intensity by which only the very happy or the very miserable attend. It had grown dark. Servants came in. Nordhall dimly saw the gas flash, and the colors of the room leap out; the hearth-rug where the dog lay, list- ening, too. The rug was Persian; the dog a setter, brown and white. The t~te-~-t& te was of a garnet shade, and lus- trous; it was rolled towards the grate, with a generous plump hassock before it, such as a tired man likes. An old copy of Paul and Virginia lay on the cushions of the t~te-h-t~te. She sat between him and the fire, chatting in her sweet voice. Now and theii she lifted the appealing eyes, which contrasted so with the pose of her head. He did not know how to look at them. He heard her talking of the parlor lect- ures, of Thursdays concert, of the charity theatricals, of the Passion mu- sic, of what John said, of what John thought; and he saw her listening while she talked. But he did not know how to speak to her. It seemed to him that he had never seen her look so lovely. He noticed confusedly the color of the ribbon that she wore at her throat, un- der lace: it was rose-pink; it deepened, yet rendered more delicate, the flush of her cheek. He occupied himself with these details. She looked at him con- fidingly. The room began to seem stifling to him, and he asked her permission to open a window. The rain was already freezing into sleet, as he looked out. When he returned, he saw that she had risen, and stood regarding him with an expression neither of inquiry, sympathy, nor fear alone, but partaking slightly of the nature of all. Then he knew that he could defer no longer. Unconscious- ly to himself he put out his hands to touch her; would have drawn her to her chair again. But she said, You have something to tell me. You do not tell it! She hesitated. Do you know why John is late? Then he found his voice: Yes, I know why John is late. Nordhall was intoxicated by what we might call the wine of despair, at that moment, and deliriously regarding her as she stood there thought of certain words he had read, he could not for his life have said where or when : But ere the fatal stroke descended, Lifeless she fell. For though he had not spoken, she put her hands together suddenly; he felt that all her face and figure crouched be- fore him, and that the room rang to a cry which he should hear as long as he lived : 0/i, my gracious Cod! II. The king among her friends was her hus- band. This is not a tale of the fever of grief; it is not a study of the surprise of wid- owhood; nor will these pages be devot- ed to the analysis of agony. We read often of the spasm of the volcano; much less of the slow processes of adjustment by which the purple lava hardens, and rivers of fire stiffen into waves of stone; still less, perhaps, of the efforts of kind nature to fling green things hopefully over frozen flames, and 88 the blind confidence of human homes that trust and build above forgotten gulfs. We hear much of the tumult of fresh- ets in the uproar of the year; of the dash, the whirl, the shock, the watery dawn, that rises thin and cold upon pa- thetic ruin. Do we study to learn as well of the patient renewals of life that follow, the slow gathering of wasted forces, the gradual restoration of land- marks and symptoms of content, the gravely rebuilt firesides by which for- ever ears must listen for the footsteps of the flood? The story of Reliance Strong (such was her fine, Puritan inheritance of a name) is a short one and a quiet; worth telling more because it is like a great many other peoples stories than because it differs from them. She loved her hus- band, and he was dead. Let us turn a leaf, as we push away sacred letters not our own, that we can but will not read. He had been dead a year. It was a year that day. Charles Nordhall remembered, and he felt that he ought not to go to her; but his er- rand could not well wait. Since Mrs. Strong had moved out of town, these occasions would arise when he must con- sult her upon business of her own at short notice. He left the train at Salem with a cer- tain reluctance, and bade his driver travel slowly; he shrank from seeing her al- most as much as he did a year ago. She had asked his advice about mov- ing to Salem to take care of her hus- bands mother. He had been more touched by her deference to his opinion than conscious of ability to give one. To decide upon almost any course of action for a friend in extremity is like performing a surgical operation for which one has not been educated. All places were alike to her, she had said. But Nordhalls sturdy instinct re- belled, and answered that all places were not like the silent house where Pnend8: A Duet. [January, Paul and Virginia lay unread upon the unpressed cushions. He was not ill pleased when her heart turned towards the old homestead, the old mother, and the old-fashioned, pas- sionless town. It was indeed some time before he allowed himself to think that this would make her a neighbor of his own. She did not talk with him often or much. There were a few questions about her husbands affairs. What did it mean to be executrix? Must she do this, or that? Was he to be her agent, and would he teach her how to manage wise- ly? Not that she cared for the money, but she wished to be regardful of all that John had earned and left for her. Then she would sit silent, and forget that he was there. She had never required him to tell her the details of her husbands death. Having understood that there was an accident upon the railroad, she had asked no more. The circumstances were so painful that Nordhall felt a sad, abiding gratitude for the instinct by which she spared them both. The house to which Nordhall drove was a mile, perhaps, from his own, in the direction of Marblehead and the open sea. It was a large wooden house, white, with dark-green blinds. It stood behind avenues of elm-trees and horse-chestnuts, bare now, and beating about in the northeast wind. A long garden ran be- hind and around the house; straw lay bound upon the buried flowers; patches of snow melted about the syringa bushes; the stalks of the frozen hollyhocks nodded at the visitor. Over the marshes the fog was starting in from sea. It was some distance to the sea. Estab- lished Salem families did not live in the surf, like people who came in summer, and could afford only a few weeks of salt breezes. Old Mr. Strong had gone quite far enough out of town, as it was; but Win- throp L. Strong always did as he pleased, 1881.] Friends: A Duet. 89 and he did not please (like Lamb) to favor houses in streets. Of course, a gentleman would always have horses, and what did fifteen minutes to a neigh- bor signify? The two ladies therefore lived a somewhat secluded life. As Nordhall stood hesitating wheth- er to lift the heavy brass knocker, or to ring the bell, the fog stretched itself a little, and seemed to shut the world out, and to shut him in against the closed door. Mrs. Winthrop L. Strong came down with her daughter - in-law, to receive him; she always did. She spoke of the weather and the country, her pastor, her doctor, and her health, and asked if he had seen the Rollinstalls. And then she invited him to tea, and begged him to excuse her, as she found it wearisome to sit up too long at a time, and had a little matter in preparation for the church charity society, which re- quired her attention. She s knitting socks, said Reli- ance, after the door was closed. She always does. For every fair? It is nt a fair. I think church peo- ple do not call them fairs? It is a Dor- cas. They are baby socks. They are always blue. And so they all have to be given to the boy babies. I should think there might perhaps be a superfluity? Yes. Last year every Dorcas baby was a girl, added Reliance, gravely; and it was very inconvenient. For you know a girl must wear pink always. No, I did nt know, said Nordhall. But mother is good, sighed Mrs. Strong. I wish I were as useful! She paused. Thus, clumsily enough, they had got over the edge of the occa- sion. She used to be full of fun in her happy days. He inferred, of course, that she desired no allusion to the anni- versary. He began at once: I came to see you to-day be- cause I must have your signature imme diately. I think you must part with your Cicero and St. Thomas bonds. Suspicions of the management are afloat, and they have gone rapidly down. They were above par four days ago, but sell at 87~ to-day. Cicero and St. Thomas? she asked languidly. Those are factories? No; a railroad. Oh, I remember; a Southern rail- road. The road is in Ohio, said Nord- hall. I am afraid I shall never learn about money, she answered, shaking her head. But I wish to, she added, after a thought. I do not wish to make you so much trouble. I do not wish to be so stupid, either! with in- creasing emphasis, and a faint touch of spirit, a ghostly thing, like her merri- ment. Nordhall liked better to see her sad, and even her languor had the com- fort of genuineness. She subsided into this quickly enough, stooping to pat her dog with an idle and abstracted hand. The dog sat at her feet while they talked, and watched her closely. They are registered bonds, began Nordhall again. I had them registered, you remember, at your wish; we thought it safer. She did not remember in the least, but she assented idly. I regard it as always best to reg- ister when possible, for women and all cautious investors, he proceeded; though there are disadvantages. You cannot sell so quickly, in emergencies. But I do not wish to sell. Not now, no. You might. It is well to remember these things, in case you should at any time prefer to manage them for yourself. She looked up; her lips parted trem- ulously, but she only said that she had never thought about such matters, and that she thanked him for his great kind- ness to her. It will be necessary for you to in- 90 Friends: A Duet. [January, dorse all these coupons, said Nordhall, spreading the bonds upon the table. The coupons are registered also. It is one of the thoroughly protected things. There are a good many. I m sorry. The bonds run to 85. You will please to write your name here. He ~rent to bring the ink and pens from Madam Strongs old ebony desk that stood in the adjoining library; but Reliance followed him. The dog fol- lowed her. She stood at the high desk to write. 1-ler black dress and the black wood deepened the gloom of the dull room, ranged with law-books and encyclopaedias. There was only one window in the room. The sound of the surf came up. Nordhall watched her. The dog watched him. Now, come away, he said, and hurried her out. I never can forget she spoke with a shiver that Father Strong died in that room. John never could. You know it was John who went in late and found him She stopped. It was the first time she had mentioned her husbands name that day. But Nordhall only said, Come nearer to the fire. You are cold. He stirred the coals, and drew up the easiest of the stiff, old-fashioned chairs. She sank down, and put her hands out drearily, to warm them. They were purple, and had grown so thin that her wedding-ring hung to the joint. Nord- ball looked at them. His own were warm, and the rich blood ran abounding beneath his somewhat delicate and fair color. He had the sensitive complexion that flushes and pales easily. His hair had been red when he was a little boy. He had a boys eyes yet. I will go now, he said, after a diffi- cult pause. So soon? She raised her head languidly. As she did so, she glanced at the clock on the mantel, and both saw that it was twenty-five minutes of five oclock. It was at twenty-five min- utes of five that he had come into her parlor on Mt. Vernon Street, a year ago. She turned to him piteously; held up her hands, drew them down, and buried her face in them. He said in a whisper, Poor girl ! and then he went away. No one could help her. Glancing back, he saw her gently push the dog one side. Nordhall called the creature out, and stopped in the hall and looked at him with a singu- lar sense of fellowship. We re neither of us wanted, Kai- ser, he said. After a moments hesita- tion, the animal responded to this ex- pression of sympathy, and graciously followed the man out. The weather had thickened densely. Nordhall could see as far as the syringa bushes by the gate, but the road was blotted. Which way shall we go, Kaiser? he murmured, looking over. Kaiser re- garded him inquiringly. But it was with the dignity of possession that the setter turned and went back to the house. He waited on the granite steps some time, unnoticed but calm. At last Nordhall, strolling in the fog, stricken by an uncertainty of purpose of which he could not rid himself, saw the door opened and the dog admitted. It was herself. She seemed to apol- ogize to Kaiser for her neglect. She had infinite tenderness. Like a forbid- den dream, he saw her broken face, and then the door was shut. IlL We are born loyal. EMERSON. Reliance did not knit for the Dor- cas babies. She did not like to knit. And when blue socks are the final cause of existence, as in the case of Madam Strong, it seems an impertinence to in- terpose a rivalry under the family roof; as if, for instance, one should crochet 1881.] Friends: A Duet. 91 them, and of pink, and so seem either to reflect upon the taste, or to undervalue by competition the self-sacrifice of ones mother-in-law. But it has been well said that when the one creature whom the heart loves is removed, it takes the whole world to fill the place of that one. In the third year of her widowhood, Reliance Strong ioked over the syringa bushes, one day, into the street, and remembered that there was a world beyond the gate which led between horse-chestnuts and elm- trees, past the hollyhocks, up the granite steps, into the old white mansion, where two women mourned their dead. This was the way in which she hap- pened to think of it. That morning, as she came down in her veiled hat, to walk towards the marshes for a breath of air, she found one of the servants sobbing in the yes- tibule. It was Janet, the parlor-maid. She was washing the side-lights of the old hall door; her tears mingled with the soap-suds as she splashed and scoured. The keen sun peered through the dia- mond-shaped glass upon her pale hair and reddened eyes, and her pretty, round figure, with neat apron-front crossed over the grief that wrung her blue calico bosom. Mrs. Strong, feeling as if she and the sun were both intruders, stopped hesitatingly, and asked what was the matter. Janet answered evasively that it was nothing much. I should he glad to help you with your trouble, if I could, replied Mrs. Strong, with some timidity. She had never thought much about the grief of servants; or if, indeed, they had any. In her own brief, happy life as a house- holder, her people below-stairs had all been in good spirits; or if not, her own had been too fine to notice it. Once, she remembered, the cook had a tooth- ache, and the quail was burned; and she had given the house-maid things to cut over for a little sister. But witli the consummate self-absorption of joy, she had supposed that every woman who lived in the house with Mr. Strong must, in a general way, be happy. But Janet, between the dripping side- lights, stood crying. It s my father, she said. Is he dead, Janet? Maam no; he s worse than dead. Reliance had asked the question with a weary sadness, which reacted into a dull sense of surprise at Janets business- like reply. The lady had heard people talk about griefs worse than death. It had not occurred to her for a long time that there could be such. With a sense of positive intellectual curiosity, she sat down and drew Janets story gently from her. It seemed, indeed, that a drunken husband might be worse than a dead one. And Janet had twelve brothers and sisters. And her mother hurt her right arm last week. And the baby was uncommonly sick. It was usually sick; but now, Janet said, it was weaknin. And he by whom Janet meant to designate her father he was just up for thirty days. Up? asked Mrs. Strong. Taken up, Janet said. In the house. Mrs. Strong thought it must be very hard having him sick, too, and confined to the house at the same time with the rest. ~ Maam, said Janet, I meant the House of Correction. There was a pause. He was arrested, began Janet again. He broke a mans jaw, and he like to broke my mothers arm. He did nt mean to, but he was flyin round that tempestuous with the rollin-pin, our rollin-pin is rather heavy. But she wont complain on him. Father s tried to reform, thats what they call it when you stop drinkin. But he says if he had friends to help him, like some folks do, hed hold out. But he gets discour 92 Friends: A Duet. [January, aged. He says his friends are all poor. And there aint one the neighbors has twelve children. Do you think, Janet, asked her mistress, after a thoughtful silence, and still with the same timidity of manner, that your mother would mind if I should call to see her? Oh, no, maam; she s glad to see anybody, answered Janet, with the in- difference of her type and a little, per- haps, of her grief. Janets mother lived over the marshes, and the wind being live that morning Reliance walked quickly on her unusual errand. The fine air spurred her on like the approval of a friend. She had to search and inquire for the place she wanted, the houses ou the marshes looking very much alike to her, and so many of their masters being up, and, for the first time upon her lonely morning walks, she threw back from her face her long crape veil. Thus it happened that Reliance was introduced in one of the most effective, because one of the most natural, ways in the world to the griefs of other peo- ple; and those forms of neighborhood benevolence which have been the solace of widowed and idle women from gen- eration to generation, gradually attract- ing, ended by engrossing her sad atten- tion. A certain change touched her, which Nordhall watched with gratified scru- tiny. I cannot work in societies and clubs and sisterhoods and such places, she said to him one day; I quarrel with the other women. I tried it after the fire, when so many of those poor shop-girls were burned out. I was a committee for something, I forget what. One of the ladies said a hard thing about the poor girls, and I answered her; and so I hurt their feelings, and so I left. smiling. Oh, not much; only she said if those girls would do wrong, why, let them go and do it! She did nt think it was a ladys duty to consider any but worthy cases. If there s a word in the dic~ tionary I hate, it is that cases! And the girls in such peril, being left home- less all at once! And you told her? I told her I thought if I were a poor girl, left alone, and nobody cared for me, and I were burned out of home and work, and I saw a bright-looking dance-house, and it was warm, and I was cold, I thought very likely I should go in, said Reliance, quietly. So after that, she added, I thought I would nt try to work in societies. Then Id rather people did not know everything I do. I like to put shoes on a barefoot child without telling of it. You have been busy lately? he asked her, hesitating. have I? she reflected. Yes; very, I believe. I had nt thought much about it. Only I do not like to see peo- ple suffer, if I can help it. That is all. She sighed. You have he checked himself. He thought lie would not tell her that he saw a change in her. It was an in- definite thing, a delicate irradiation of the eye, a firmer settling of the lip, a keener accent in a quicker voice; yet these slight tokens were only like the alterations of color on a bays surface when the whole day is gray. Nordhall regarded her fine and unhopeful face a moment, and said no more. Presently he asked her how Mr. Janet was getting along. So then she laughed. You always call that poor girls fa- ther Mr. Janet! His name is Griggs. He is doing finely. I ye looked after him a little. He only needed friends. I saw him every day for a while. You re setting a premium on drunk- ~W~WW~A~U xk~3~ ly. He had never spoken to her just like that; and as soon as he had done 1881.1 Friends: A Duet. 93 so he hoped she would not notice it. Indeed, it seemed that she did not. She was leaning hack in her chair, musing. Her thoughts were already far away from him. She was sitting by the long, low, open window, for it was summer, and the strong salt air drove into the draw- ing-room. She had tied a white lace handkerchief at her throat, over her warm and heavy widows weeds. Out- side, Madam Strong was tending the hollyhocks: these were of gold and rose and silver; one was a rare brown or wine-color; it was taller than the rest, and nodded in the wind. Kaiser was in the garden, too; sunning himself at the feet of the gardener, who weeded indus- triously. Brisk and cheerful sounds came up; the lonely old home had mel- lowed with the genial season. Madam Strong wore her garden gloves, and a Chinese silk sun-bonnet adorned her head: this was a concession to the Cre- ator, which always filled her household with a certain responsive laxity of emo- tion; it seemed phenomenal that any- body could do anything which would in- duce so stately and benevolent a lady to forget the Dorcas babies, and dig at the roots of hollyhocks in unbecoming if expensive nankin. Even Kaiser rolled on her dress when she put on that sun- bonnet, and she said, Kaiser, Kaiser! with a dignified but tolerant bend. It is midsummer, said Nordhall, looking idly out over the head of Reli- ance. Her crown of brown hair drooped so near him that it seemed he felt rather than saw the wind stir it; the full, bright braid seemed to breathe. So idle was his mood that he was startled when she started murmuring, It is midsummer, and the hay is down!~~ But then, by a sensitive chance, he too remembered : It is midsummer, all the hay is down. Close to her bosom press I dying eyes, Praying, God shield thee till we meet in Para- dise! Neither spoke. Nordhall was sorry for her. But he thought bitterly how sub- tle were the memories of the mourning, and how hard it was for human tender- ness to wend its way among them. She seemed to him like those gorgeous and mystical sea creatures that float upon the surface of tropic waters, throbbing with nerves that stretch and strike at every colliding object; but woe to the swimmer who dares cross the purple current where they pulsate! Their lightest filaments, touching, shall cause him an exquisite agony. Who could help her? Who know where the pulse beat, when the nerve would quiver? She had a world of un- known sensations. He could not enter it; he never had. Presently she raised her head, and saw him watching her. She surprised him. She had never seen him look like that. For out of his eyes there sprang a fugitive look that bade defiance to his grave and guarded face. It was a feel- ing set free; and it was the feeling that only a man knows, and knows only for a woman, and only for her when she is pure and fair and is denied him. But it was a feeling of which the man is no more intelligently aware than he is of the look. If we wished to be metaphysical, we might call it sub-conscious. Reliance was used to the calm glances of this good man; to his kindliness and friendliness and care, to the sad affection by which he protected her. Had it been any other than he she would have said that this was the face of one who admired her: not because she was Johns wife, his friends wife, but because she was a woman and herself. She put the thought to herself in these simple words. She remembered, with bewilderment like that of a trans- migrated soul recalling its last stage of existence, other times when other looks of other men had wrought in her the same recoil and inquiry. She was too fair a woman not to be experienced in 94 Friends: A Duet. [January, reading the countenances of men. As it was, the young widow pondered, say- ing to her disturbed heart, But it is only Charley Nordkall! Yes, it was oniy Charley Nordhall, him- self now, her dead husbands friend, gravely regarding her, quietly asking, Wont y~u walk about the garden? It is too pleasant to stay in-doors. He brought her hat, which hung in the hall, he was quite at home at Madam Strongs. Reliance put it on in silence. She followed him meekly. She felt perplexed and not unashamed, as if she had assumed or presumed what no woman would who did not overvalue herself. Her shocked feeling gave way. This was Charley Nordhall: helping her in a fatherly manner out among the flowers, asking her questions about all her poor people, and stopping to assure Madam Strong that the facts she had heard about the homcuopathic doctor were quite correct. They walked down under the horse- chestnuts, and spoke of the beauty of the elms. They stood together by the gate. Nordhall talked awhile about Mr. Janet. Reliance remembered how rich and ready was his interest in all her little ways of passing life. For philanthropy was not as yet a passion with Reliance; she visited poor people because she felt it to be her duty, and she was glad to do her duty. She liked to talk about them, but had not reached the point at which she could talk of nothing else. She chatted calmly. Nordhall watched the development of her feeling for Mr. Janet and his neighbors carefully, as he would have watched the growth of other or more intense emotions. And yet, he thought, it grows upon her. He felt a vague envy. They stood among the bushes which arched over the front gate, and looked across the garden. Bees upon the blos- soms made a faint din in the vivid air. The gardener sang at his work. Madam Strong had removed her gloves, and was resting from her labors on the grape- vine settle under the elm that had been pierced by lightning, but had grown the greener ever since. Kaiser came half- way down the path as if to meet them, changed his mind, and lay down lazily, yawning ineffectually at the flies, with his head upon his white forepaws. The hollyhocks blazed in the sun, rose and gold and silver white, and the brown one taller than the rest. That one is like a baton, said Re- liance, looking about with a little cheer- ful smile. It beats time for all the others. Look! It is like seeing music that you cannot hear. It is a pleasant day! Nordhall was glad to hear her speak like this. His eyes and heart ached to see her there in her black dress, in the color and the light, among the bees and blossoms. All his soul rose and be- friended her. He tried to think if there were anything he could do to make her happy that he had forgotten; anything John would have wished him to do, did wish, perhaps, if lie were there that moment. He wanted to do what John would like. Then she, looking up, rec- ognized by an intuition the loyalty and unselfishness of his unspoken mood. Without knowing why, Reliance felt happier just then than she had all day. She felt safe. It seemed as if in almost any grave shadow of the blossom-bur- dened lawn she might look, and she should find John. When her mother-in-law sent the gar- dener out to urge Mr. Nordhall to dine, she pressed the invitation herself. The gardener was singing still. He sang Hearken, my heart, and wonder What thought in the leaf may be! Go ask of the bud, and ponder What message it brings to thee. Hearken, my heart, and greet her, Loth and late, loth and late, though she be! How shall my soul go to meet her, Who never will hasten to me? 1881.] Sara Bernharclt. 95 What are you singing, Jacobs? asked Nordhall, abruptly. Jacobs said it was a song he heard a lady sing once, a lady where he worked. She had a powerful fine voice, and she practiced at the pianner a good deal. He caught it weeding petunias. It always made him think of it to see a petunia. Petunias! Let us say a morning- glory. Sir? asked Jacobs But Reliance was walking on before, in her black straw hat, stopping to speak to Janet, who had come out to meet her. Janet looked at her affectionately while she talked. Nordhall glanced about him with a calm delight. He felt at home. It all seemed like a scene iu a cheerful German novel, where the people were so much in gardens. He thought of Goethes ladies, Lotte and Friederike. When Kaiser heard the dinner-bell and they all went in, it seemed as if they had been doing this every day just so, and would go in again to-morrow and to- morrow, past the pink and white and yellow hollyhocks, and the tall one with the wine-red heart. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. SARA BERNIIARDT. THAT comparisons are odious some one said long before Shakespeares time, although, I believe, the saying has been traced no farther back; but the fact that it was used by his contemporaries and the form in which he puts it into the mouth of Dogberry show that it must have been well known when Much Ado about Nothing was written. Such odiousness as there is in comparison springs from a consciousness that men and women should be judged simply by what they are, liked or disliked for them- selves, ai~d not because they come near or fall short of the merit of some other person. There is reason in this feeling, unless comparison is provoked by imita- tion or by pretension; and yet the very essence of criticism, itself merely the ra- tionale of appreciation, is comparison, comparison either with an ideal stand- ard or with instances of long-established merit of high order. In the criticism of literature and of art, both these comparisons are usually made and insensibly mingled. Compar- ison of this kind is inevitable, and with- in certain bounds it is fair. The temp tation to carry it beyond reasonable bounds is very great in the case of an artist like the distinguished French-Ger- man-Hebrew actress who is now visiting this country professionally, and who had a French - hebrew predecessor so emi- nent that the shadow of her great name stretches from beyond the tomb across the threshold of the Th6~tre Fran~aise. Nor has she been brought before us in such a manner as to disarm this sort of criticism. When I took my seat in Booths thea- tre to assist at Mademoiselle Sara Bern- hardts performance of Adrienne Lecon- vreur, I was as thoroughly prejudiced against her as I ever allow myself to he against anybody or anything. First, there was my memory of Rachel, as fresh and clear and sharp as if I had seen her yesterday; and although I did not forget that nature is exhaustless, and that great phenomena, including great artists, are sure to be followed by other phenomena equally great, yet I could not but remember that in all the arts there have been periods peculiar in rich production followed by periods of cor

Richard Grant White White, Richard Grant Sara Bernhardt 95-103

1881.] Sara Bernharclt. 95 What are you singing, Jacobs? asked Nordhall, abruptly. Jacobs said it was a song he heard a lady sing once, a lady where he worked. She had a powerful fine voice, and she practiced at the pianner a good deal. He caught it weeding petunias. It always made him think of it to see a petunia. Petunias! Let us say a morning- glory. Sir? asked Jacobs But Reliance was walking on before, in her black straw hat, stopping to speak to Janet, who had come out to meet her. Janet looked at her affectionately while she talked. Nordhall glanced about him with a calm delight. He felt at home. It all seemed like a scene iu a cheerful German novel, where the people were so much in gardens. He thought of Goethes ladies, Lotte and Friederike. When Kaiser heard the dinner-bell and they all went in, it seemed as if they had been doing this every day just so, and would go in again to-morrow and to- morrow, past the pink and white and yellow hollyhocks, and the tall one with the wine-red heart. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. SARA BERNIIARDT. THAT comparisons are odious some one said long before Shakespeares time, although, I believe, the saying has been traced no farther back; but the fact that it was used by his contemporaries and the form in which he puts it into the mouth of Dogberry show that it must have been well known when Much Ado about Nothing was written. Such odiousness as there is in comparison springs from a consciousness that men and women should be judged simply by what they are, liked or disliked for them- selves, ai~d not because they come near or fall short of the merit of some other person. There is reason in this feeling, unless comparison is provoked by imita- tion or by pretension; and yet the very essence of criticism, itself merely the ra- tionale of appreciation, is comparison, comparison either with an ideal stand- ard or with instances of long-established merit of high order. In the criticism of literature and of art, both these comparisons are usually made and insensibly mingled. Compar- ison of this kind is inevitable, and with- in certain bounds it is fair. The temp tation to carry it beyond reasonable bounds is very great in the case of an artist like the distinguished French-Ger- man-Hebrew actress who is now visiting this country professionally, and who had a French - hebrew predecessor so emi- nent that the shadow of her great name stretches from beyond the tomb across the threshold of the Th6~tre Fran~aise. Nor has she been brought before us in such a manner as to disarm this sort of criticism. When I took my seat in Booths thea- tre to assist at Mademoiselle Sara Bern- hardts performance of Adrienne Lecon- vreur, I was as thoroughly prejudiced against her as I ever allow myself to he against anybody or anything. First, there was my memory of Rachel, as fresh and clear and sharp as if I had seen her yesterday; and although I did not forget that nature is exhaustless, and that great phenomena, including great artists, are sure to be followed by other phenomena equally great, yet I could not but remember that in all the arts there have been periods peculiar in rich production followed by periods of cor 96 Sara Bernharclt. [January, responding barrenness, and I could not but doubt that the great mother had so soon brought forth one who was worthy to be named with Rachel, as I heard Mademoiselle Bernhardt named. Thea there were the announcements of her coming, or rather of the coming of her toilettes, of her gowns and her stock- ings, of the number and variety of which latter integuments the descriptions were instructive and hi~,hly edifying, the publication of the particulars of her con- tract, and all the gossip and tattle that was kept a-going in the press about her most trivial actions. Nor was the conduct of our British cousins toward her without its depressing effect. Surely the gen- eral public and the high society of Lon- don have rarely appeared in a less ad- mirable light than on this occasion. The extravagance of their behavior was quite equal to that of the people of New York on the first visit of Jenny Lind, with this difference: that in the latter case the object of the demonstration was not only of the highest distinction as an art- ist, but a person of estimable character and irreproachable life, and that no such attentions were offered her in New York by people of the best social position as were showered upon Mademoiselle Bern- hardt, in a kind of frenzy, by people of the highest rank in London. The pho- tograph of Mademoiselle Bernhardt et son fils has not yet, at least, proved to be a carte-de-visite that opened the doors of society in this country. Then there were the portraits them- selves, photographic and other. Surely nothing could be less likely to awaken a desire to see the original. Even the pencil of Bastien Le Page, the greatest portrait -painter of the French school, could do nothing to refine the lines and elevate the character of that face. And as I recollected in how comparatively modest and reserved a manner Rachel had made her entrance upon the Amer- ican stage, the result of the reflection was anything but favorable to the actress who was brought forward as the worthy occupant of her vacant pedestal. When, as I sat in this mood, Made- moiselle Bernhardt finally appeared, all my unfavorable impressions were deep- ened. A face which at the first glance appeared almost ignoble and quite inca- pable of lending itself to the expression of the finer and grander emotions; a figure deplorably deficient in all woman- ly beauty; a carriage equally without grace and dignity; nothing worthy of remark but a flood of wavy golden-brown hair deliberately poured down her back, this was the woman, this the trage- dian, I had come to see. Her drapery hung upon her like bunting on a flag- staff on a breezeless day. Such curves as she had curved all the wrong way; and as a mere physical phenomenon it is somewhat startling to find concavity where convexity is the order of nature. Fifteen minutes had hardly passed before I found my mental attitude to- ward the actress changing rapidly. While Mademoiselle Bernhardt remained in repose and was only herself in a some- what grotesque and ill-borne costume, she was the least attractive person on the stage; but when she began to speak and to move as Adrienne, under the in- fluence of the incidents of the scene I found myself at once interested. When she recognized Michonnet, her first manifestation of feeling, and owned to the gossiping abb6 her obligations to her humble master and adorer, I felt at once that she possessed the power both of nat- ure and of art, that she could both know and do. At each step in the progress of the scene I became more and more absorbed in watching her manifestations of thought and feeling; and before the curtain fell upon the first act I felt and heartily acknowledged that I was in the presence of one of the most charming actresses I had ever seen, and one, more- over, the nature of whose power had not been worthily nor, it seemed to me, cor- rectly set forth in any criticism of her 1881.] Sara Bern1~ardt. 97 that I had met with. This appreciation of her was heightened as the play pro- ceeded, and confirmed by subsequent opportunities of observation. Sara Bernhardt is not a great artist; and I doubt that by any study or effort of which she is capable she will ever become a great artist. Perhaps, how- ever, it would be more correct to say that she is not an artist in the grand style, and that by the limitations of her nature, moral and physical, she is inca- pable of that style. Her power, strange to say, is chiefly a personal power. Of intellectual force, or even of intellectual subtlety, she suggests but little; and her moral nature seems to he as thin and weak as her physique. You are inter- ested in the feelings and in the expe- rience of the woman: feelings which hardly rise to the dignity of emotions; experience which is hardly beyond the range of the occurrences of every-day life. Her exhibitions of love, of joy, of grief, of feminine petulance and fem- inine perplexity, of delight in life, of interest in all the little incidents which go to make up social intercourse, these it is which make the charm of her acting: and in this department of her art the present day has not seen her superior, hardly, I believe, her equal. Under the influence of these feelings her face becomes transformed, almost transfigured. I have never seen on the stage, or in real life, a countenance so changed and so elevated by passing from repose into action. The face which before seems like the faded picture of some other face, not lovely, becomes in- stinct with intelligence and charged, sur- charged, with expression. You then see that her eyes are really fine; they be- come large and brilliant, full of meaning and of light; and her mouth has a sweet expressiveness which, when compared with the character of its lines in repose, is marvelous~ No actress that I re- member is her equal in the assumption of a look of ecstatic joy. Inspired and VOL. XLVII. No. 279. 7 remoulded by the expression of this emotion, the eyes and lips of that mean and almost sordid visage, which defies the skill of painters and shames the art of photography, become angelic, worthy of Raphaels conception of a cherub. Such a radiation of purity and tender- ness, such an abandonment to simple, confiding, all - absorbing happiness, is rarely seen portrayed in any form of art, rarely even in very nature. There is almost a childish na~vet~ in her look. When, as Adrienne, she throws herself into Maurice de Saxes arms, and put- ting her hands upon his shoulders looks up into his face, it is not the love of an. actress of experiences that she expresses; it is that of a pure young girl in her first love, who in her first lover sees and wor- ships a demi-god. When, as Frou Fron,, she sits upon her fathers knee, and gives vent to her delight at the proposal of marriage that promises to remove her sister from the household in which she has usurped her place, it is less the re- lief of a jealous woman freed from the tormenting presence of her rival that we see than the delight of a nature which. seems incapable of suspicion in the an- ticipation of a coming joy. And it is this light, sweet girlishness of her emo- tional expression which makes Frou Fron the most charming and completely satisfactory of her impersonations. She is fully capable of sounding the little rippling flood of Frou Frons thin and. feeble but captivating nature, which like shallow streams, runs dimpling all the way. When she gets into deep-... er waters her plummet is too short. All through this play her action, that~ is, her movement on the stage, her gest-. nrc, the little tricks of her face, the management of her drapery, the very twisting of her wiry fingers, is full of significance. In all this detail the keep- ing of her impersonation approaches the marvelous. She charms and satisfies by doing that which a really great art- ist would not do, that which a really 98 Sara BernkarcZt. [January, great artist would be above, and which would therefore prevent a really great artist from assuming this part, which has not the boldness o~ outline, the large- ness and simplicity which are required in the subject of great histrionic art. Frou Frou is a genre picture, and there- fore properly and even necessarily de- scends to details that would be offensive- ly impertinent in a heroic composition. The peculiar fitness of Mademoiselle Bernhardt for this department of her art is shown positively and negatively in Adrienne Lecouvreur. That play, poor as it is (and indeed, except in fur- nishing opportunities to actors, most mod- ern French plays are very poor), de- mands for the representation of its prin- cipal personage a wide range of power. Adrienne is to love her hero with fervor and abandonment of self; she is to love old P& e Michonnet in a sweet, confiding, half child-like, half patronizing way, and this phase of the character Mademoiselle Bernhardt presented with a cbarmful skill which, with all my memories of the great Adrienne in mind, seemed to me quite unsurpassed, if, indeed, it were not unsurpassable; for it left nothing imag- inable to be desired. But Adrienne is also to be a great tragic actress, who sees herself robbed of her lover by a great lady, a princess, with whom she is brought into direct contact; she is to be jealous with the jealousy of Juno; she is to stand on a plane above that to which any mere grande dame can mount, and look down thence upon her princely rival; she is to use the words of Ph~dre to pour out scorn upon that rival in the presence of the husband whom she has dishonored. Here Ma- demoiselle Bernhardt, tried not by com- parison with any other actress, but by the ideal standard which is formed upon an examination of the structure of the play, falls notably short of its requirements. She has not naturally the mien of a great tragic actress, nor can sbe assume it; her jealousy is fretful and distress- ing to see; she snaps and snarls at the princess as one cat snaps and snarls at another; and in the scene from Ph~dre she raves and shrieks, and shakes her linger in the princesss face in a manner which is not only quite undignified, but which would not be tolerated; which is indeed peu convenable. There is no reserve in her action in this scene, no withering implication of more than she says, no concealment of the dagger which she means to make her rival feel; but, on the contrary, we see a screaming, impotent scold, who takes an opportunity to unpack her heart with words and give that woman a piece of her mind. To the representation of the nobler side of Adriennes character Mademoiselle Bernhardt is quite inadequate. Of the grand, the heroic, the truly tragic in general, she is incapable; not intellectually, perhaps, but morally and physically. She may have an intellect- ual perception of the heroic, but she lacks that breadth and strength and rich- ness of soul, that firm and self-poised mien, the result of a complete physical soundness and stability (for it is not necessarily accompanied by physical force), without which the grand style is impossible, without which, indeed, even dignity (not inner dignity of soul, but that dignity which impresses others) is impossible. The very same attitude which expresses dignity in the great blood-hound in Landseers well-known picture expresses impudence in the lit- tle terrier. Mademoiselle Bernhardt is over weighted by tragedy. Sharp-shoot- ing is a fine art in arms, and is deadly business; but in vain will you bombard a fortress with rifles. Mademoiselle Bernhardts constitu- tional deficiency for certain departments of her art is, it need hardly be said, much more apparent in tragedy than in mere drame (to use a French term which means a realistic dramatic com- position, not either tragedy or comedy, and which may have a serious catastro 1881.] Sara Bernhardt. 99 phe), more in the classic than in the romantic drama. Wherefore her Ph& dre, the only classic tragedy in which she has appeared here at the time of the writing of this article, is the most inade- quate of her impersonations, although it is one of the most interesting of her per- formances. It is interesting in a certain way and to certain people, because it embodies, although imperfectly, a fine conception, and is in a measure informed by the intelligence of a great histrionic genius. But as grand tragedy it is a conspicuous failure. It is Fron Frou playing PhMre; poor little Fron Fron in her private theatricals attempting the grand r6le of Rachel. I shall not cen- sure Mademoiselle Bernhardts perform- ance of this character; for it is really not her fault that she cannot play it, no more than it is her fault that she cannot put up a fifty-six-pound weight. She has not the moral breadth of nature or the physical stamina for the part, which she plays like a love-sick Mabille girl in a consumption, and yet with con- stant suggestions of her great predeces- sor. Rachel was slender, but she was not attenuated. She produced no impres- sion of ill health or of feebleness. On the contrary, she was lithe, compact, and firm, and always looked well settled where she stood. It seems as if a puff of wind would blow Mademoiselle Bern- hardt off the stage, as if a gust of anger or of derision would topple her morally in the dust. Hence chiefly her great unfitness for the impersonation of such a character as that of Ph& dre, which to sustain it requires the force of a great personality. Phredras story is not quite so well known as that of some other noted Greek women; for the poets have shunned it. Most of the readers of The Atlantic probably know the tale of law- less love and implacable revenge which Racine made the subject of this tragedy: how Phredra, the wife of Theseus, the legendary Greek hero, became enamored of Hippolytus, his son by a former mar- riage, and being repulsed by him accused him to his father of a hideous crime, and afterwards ended her own life by poison. Racine varied from the old story by making Phredras nurse ~ZEnone, instead of the queen herself, accuse Hippolytus to Theseus of the guilty passion which she alone had felt, and has thus restored some sympathy to a heroine who needed all that she could command. The undertaking of such a character as Ph~dre in the present day showed the audacity of Rachels genius; for she restored it to the modern stage. If the tragedy were played as Racine wrote it to be played arid saw it played, chains and bristling sentinels would be required to keep a modern audience in their seats during this dispensation of big-wigged tragedy. The Phbdre of Ra- cine is little less than ridiculous; yet the Ph& dre of Rachel, speaking Racines words, was terrible. The fine, smooth verse which he wove so painfully and so prettily, she used only as a canvas, which she covered from our eyes with pictured scenes of passion. Her per- formance was in truth but a series of such scenes, somewhat disconnected. It has been called statuesque ; but her country has produced one great painter whose learning, whose severe classical taste and antique grace, took form in pictures to which her impersonations might be better compared; for were the figures of Nicolas Poussin endowed with life, they would speak and move with the accents and the action of Rachel. Ph& dre is for one reason, if for no other, a character difficult and danger- ous to attempt. The play opens on a high key. The heroine makes her first appearance before us with a soul con- sumed and a body shattered by her de- vouring passion and the wrestlings of her soul and sense. As Rachel tottered upon the stage we looked wonderingly forward in vague and vain conjecture as to what could be the end of such a 100 Sara Bernliardt. [January, beginning; for it seemed as if the cli- max were already reached. And so, in truth, it was; but it was not ended. Her Ph~dre was a prolonged climax of agony, through which she revealed the stages of passion and hope and hate and despair by which she had reached it. Her Ph~dre died, indeed, but only that the tragedy might end. her poison was needless. It was because her veins were burning with a fiercer, subtler venom that the tragedy began; and she herself had begun to die before she confessed in our hearing the thought for which alone she lived. Rachel made us know and feel all this. When Rachel played characters like Lady Tartuffe, she looked like a thoroughly bad and utterly de- praved woman; when she played Pli~dre she looked like a female fiend. And this not because of any change wrought in the lines of her face by making up, but because of the expression she as- sumed. She did not look thus when she came off the stage in the course of an act, nor before she went on. This fiend- ishness of look made one near to shud- der at the hell of mortal hate that flamed into her face as she shrieked, ~iIEnone, qui leut cru; javais une rivale! 1-her cry, Aricie a son cmur, Aricie a sa foil was like the utterance of the agony of a damned soul. When she cursed ~1Enone we did not wonder that the guilty nurse cowered before her, and fled to drown her memory of all this woe in death. Of this grand, dreadful, almost pain- ful impersonation Mademoiselle Bern- hardts is a weak imitation, a pale, faded copy: whether a deliberate imitation or not I shall not say; whether direct or not I cannot tell, for I do not know Made- moiselle Bernhardts age. But the tra- ditions of Rachels PhMre live in the criticism of her day; they live in Paris in the memories of all lovers of the drama who have reached middle age; they live in sketches and in painted portraits; and above all they live in the foyer of the Th~tre Fran9aise. On those traditions Mademoiselle Bernhardt has formed her Phbdre; seeking, nevertheless, we may be sure, to give to the impersonation some individual traits of her own imag- ining. But in this respect she has been able to do very little. INor is it at all surprising, or in the least to her dis- credit, that her Ph~dre is essentially a copy of Rachels. Rachels conception and impersonation of that character was not only grand and strong and vivid beyond that of any other actress who has attempted it, but it was the result of a perception of the only ideal of the character that made it tolerable in art. A Ph~dre in whom bad passion and deadly hate were aggrandized by an intensity and sublimation of fiendish- ness that made her a demi-goddess of the infernal sort was at least terrible and wonderful; a Ph~dre with a touch of true womanly feeling would be revolt- ing. Ph~dre must not need forgiveness; she must be incapable of repentance. To admire Phbdre, to endure her, we must have no sympathy with her. This was Rachels Phbdre, and thencefor- ward there can be no other. As to Rachels Adrienne Lecouvreur, I shall ask the indulgence of my readers for repeating here a passage from an article which I wrote on the night of her first performance of the part in this country, just twenty-five years ago. It will have at least the interest of show- ing the instant impression made by her in the character upon a young and com- paratively inexperienced critic of the drama. The play is familiar in its scope and spirit, and genre painting, whether with pen or pencil, has always more admirers than falls to the lot of high art. Her impersonation of Adri- enne was no less finished and youthful than of Camille [in IRacines Les Ho- races] or of Ph~dre; but for that very reason it was less grand, less imposing, less thrilling; indeed, the part is quite unworthy of Mademoiselle Rachels tal 1881.] Sara Bernkardt. 101 ent. True, in her scenes of jealousy there were some fine tragic touches; but these were faint reflections of Ph& - dres consuming passion; and at the last, when Adrienne is dying by poison, al- though the acting was consummate, the effect was almost too dreadful to come within the legitimate aims of art, and the means were too physical and too imitative to be worthy of such an art- ist as Rachel. The bursts of jealousy and the struggles with death were, how- ever, the telling points of the imper- sonation with the large audience which her fame in this character had assembled. But to us there was a far purer and more perfect enjoyment to be found in the more delicate exhibitions of her art which were scattered freely through the play: such, for instance, as the tone and manner and expression with which, when Maurice tells her that he had said that she expected him at the theatre, she replies, Imprudent, me compro- mettre! entire forgiveness and un- utterable love being conveyed with the reproach, which yet is sadly earnest; or again, when, having knocked once in vain at the door where her unknown rival is concealed, and having repeated her sum- mons with success, att norn de JUliaurice de Saxe, she exclaims with such an out- burst of adoring love and child-like con- fidence, Je savais bien que rien resiste- rait it ce talisman! A criticism written at midnight, two miles from the writers home, to be pub- lished the next morning without revision in proof, may well be judged leniently as to its style and even as to its opin- ions. But in the latter respect I really find no reason for change or modifica- tion after this lapse of time. And here I find a censure which I made mental- ly while witnessing Mademoiselle Bern- hardts performance of the same part, quite unconscious that I had already given it utterance in my long-unseen and quite forgotten article on Rachels Adrienne: it is that upon the death scene of the poisoned actress. This is dreadful, and should exclude the play from the repertory of an artist of high aims. I know that death scenes are in high favor with certain lovers of the drama; but when they are of this pain- ful, this shocking character, they should be set apart exclusively for the enter- tainment of that sort of spectators to whom it was the crown of the evenings enjoyment to see Kirby wrap himself up in the American flag and die all over the stage at the Bowery theaytre. We cannot expect such scenes as that which ends the sufferings of Lear, Prithee, undo this button, is a grand touch of simple pathos, possible only to one hand, nor even such as those upon which the curtain falls in hamlet and Othello, the latter of which was grossly ma- terialized, and therefore degraded, by Salvini; but the exhibition of a young woman in the combined agonies of de- spair and empoisonment is simply horri- ble; and mere horror has no proper place in art. To hear this poor girl shriek- ing out, Je ne veux pas mourir! and praying at the top of her voice, and in the midst of her physical agony, that she may be allowed to live, is a scene from which it should seem that the least sensitive nature would desire to flee. INor is it truthful. There is set up for it the plea of realism; but it is no more real than it is ideal. Death does not come thus in nature. Adrienne dies screaming; and with the accents of frantic protest and entreafy and tor- ment upon her lips she suddenly drops dead into her chair. A realistic con- formity to nature would show her ex- hausted and silent for some time before sl~e breathed her last breath. Judged from any point of view the scene ought to be hissed; but the majority is against me, and it is applauded. Here, as elsewhere in this play, Ra- chel was greatly superior to Sara Bern- hardt; for she managed the scene with consummate art and delicacy. But even 102 Sara Bernhardt. [January, she could not raise it to the level of great art; it is essentially too low and too material. I am not sure, however, that in the lighter, more joyful, and more playful scenes of this drama Sara Bern- hardt is always the inferior. For Ra- chel, strong in intellect and in passion, was weakest in the expression of pure womanliness. In this she was like most French actresses, who, according to my observation, although they can be jeal- ous with both fierceness and finesse, can play the grande dame, and excel in co- quetry, fail in the portrayal of what we Anglo-Saxon folk mean by womanliness pure and simple. But, strangely enough, when we consider what she is, this is Sara Bernhardts forte. The expres- sion of confiding love, of a sweet, tender joy, of purity, of all the little charms of woman s ways which-minister so much to the daily delight and happiness of those around her, are manifestly natural, or at least easy and pleasant, to this actress. Her facial capability seems here to find its true scope and almost its limit. In the simulation of any emotion grander or stronger she falls short of a high aim. There we see that she is merely trying to do what others have done before her, and to do it more or less as it was done by them. Briefly, Mademoiselle Bernhardts art is very fine, but its elements are sim- ple and its range is narrow. In the expression of pure womanli- ness, a great actress who has recently made her exit from the stage of life, Mrs. Charles Kean, who won her repu- tation as Ellen Tree, had probably no equal. I did not see her in the first flush of her womanly charms; for she had hecome Mrs. Kean, and was on her secon(l visit to this country, before my theatre-going days began. But even then, in the expression of the beauty of womanhood, she was peerless, far be- yond any other actress that I ever saw. The woman in her was so strong that whatever she played, through such a wide range as Viola, Queen Constance, and Lady Macbeth, that was the chief feeling to which she gave expression. She excited the respectful love, the de- votion, of every man in her audience. In Twelfth Night, when as Viola, dis- guised in her pages dress, she attended on the Duke Orsini, she filled the stage with the sense of her concealed love for him. As Constance, in King John, she had hardly more than one scene, that in which the princess pours out her grief and love over her little son Prince Ar- thur; but she made (if indeed Shake- speare before her had not made) that the great scene of the play, the one around which all the others centred, and she filled the hearts of men and women alike with sweet sympathy with her great ma- ternal tenderness. And even in Lady Macbeth she managed to show per- haps I should rather say that such was her nature that she could not help show- ing that her womanly devotion to her husband, her hope for him, her ambition for him, were the springs of her action. This was more nature than art with her, more impulse than acting. When, in the - banquet scene, which is interrupted by the appearance of Banquos ghost, she begged the guests to withdraw, that they might not be too close witnesses of the kings discomfiture, she descended from her dais, and passed down among them with a look upon her face, as she turned from one to another, in which troubled love and womanly anxiety struggled sorely and strangely with queenly dig- nity. She was one of the very few act- resses that I have known personally; and I spoke to her one day about the expression of her face in this scene. She listened with evidently unfeigned surprise, and said that she did not know of it, and had not heard of it before; that the look was brought into her face unconsciously by the action of the scene. It was not what is queerly called among the actors business. When I lauded her pevsonation of Constance she re- plied, Why, I ye nothing to do but to 1881.] A Look Ahead. 103 cry over a baby. I answered that she always brought tears to my eyes. She gently laid her hand on mine (she was old enough to be my mother), and said, Im glad to hear that; for when I play that scene I always weep real tears my- self. Ta the Gamester a drama now laid aside, I suppose, forever she was the gamesters wife: and the villain of the play, who sought her ruin as well as her husbands, told her that her husband loved another woman. She turned, looked him in the face, and simply said, I dont believe it. As she did this, her expression of wifely love and con- fidence was so radiantly beautiful that a thrill of delight touched every heart, and after a just perceptible instant of silent appreciation the house exploded in such a thunder of applause that the performance was interrupted for the moment. This presentation of the greatest charm of womanly nature I have never seen in a French actress. Rachel never approached it. Perhaps she would not condescend to it, finding it too tame for the purposes of her art; possibly it was foreign to her nature and beyond her ken. But it has seemed to me that Sara Bernhardt has it in her power to compass this department of her art, and that she would do well to aban- don for it the realm of tragedy which nature has not fitted her to tread. Richard Grant White. A LOOK AHEAD. PROBABLY the uppermost thought now in the mind of the American peo- ple concerning national politics might be represented by an interrogation point. They are asking a question, and are ask- ing it of themselves, because pending the incoming and organization of the new government they cannot properly put it to anybody else. The question is, What is likely to be the course of General Garfields administration, and what results may it be expected to pro- duce? President Hayes once wisely said that every administration leaves its mark upon the institutions of the coun- try. In the interval between the elec- tion and the inauguration of the new president it is only natural that people should indulge in speculation as to what the character and direction of the next mark is going to be. No administration resembles another. Each has it own individuality. Not to go back beyond the memory of comparatively young men, think how great was the difference between the administration of Lincoln and that of Johnson, and then how marked was the change from Johnson to Grant! It is not always a change of political principles which makes the dif- ference. Mr. Hayes and his surround- ings and tendencies differ radically from General Grant and the peculiarities of his administration, though there was no break in the continuity of party ascend- ency when one went out and.the other came in. The truth is, our presidents are not mere gilded figure-heads, typify- ing executive power, like some European monarchs, but are themselves living fountains of power, and can exert a po- tent pristine influence upon legislative and public sentiment. They can be negative if they choose, and drift with the stream; but if they possess strong characters and well - defined purposes, there are few crowned heads in the world who can shape the national will and mould the national institutions to so great an extent as they. Therefore people ask, What is the new government which comes in on the

A Look Ahead 103-108

1881.] A Look Ahead. 103 cry over a baby. I answered that she always brought tears to my eyes. She gently laid her hand on mine (she was old enough to be my mother), and said, Im glad to hear that; for when I play that scene I always weep real tears my- self. Ta the Gamester a drama now laid aside, I suppose, forever she was the gamesters wife: and the villain of the play, who sought her ruin as well as her husbands, told her that her husband loved another woman. She turned, looked him in the face, and simply said, I dont believe it. As she did this, her expression of wifely love and con- fidence was so radiantly beautiful that a thrill of delight touched every heart, and after a just perceptible instant of silent appreciation the house exploded in such a thunder of applause that the performance was interrupted for the moment. This presentation of the greatest charm of womanly nature I have never seen in a French actress. Rachel never approached it. Perhaps she would not condescend to it, finding it too tame for the purposes of her art; possibly it was foreign to her nature and beyond her ken. But it has seemed to me that Sara Bernhardt has it in her power to compass this department of her art, and that she would do well to aban- don for it the realm of tragedy which nature has not fitted her to tread. Richard Grant White. A LOOK AHEAD. PROBABLY the uppermost thought now in the mind of the American peo- ple concerning national politics might be represented by an interrogation point. They are asking a question, and are ask- ing it of themselves, because pending the incoming and organization of the new government they cannot properly put it to anybody else. The question is, What is likely to be the course of General Garfields administration, and what results may it be expected to pro- duce? President Hayes once wisely said that every administration leaves its mark upon the institutions of the coun- try. In the interval between the elec- tion and the inauguration of the new president it is only natural that people should indulge in speculation as to what the character and direction of the next mark is going to be. No administration resembles another. Each has it own individuality. Not to go back beyond the memory of comparatively young men, think how great was the difference between the administration of Lincoln and that of Johnson, and then how marked was the change from Johnson to Grant! It is not always a change of political principles which makes the dif- ference. Mr. Hayes and his surround- ings and tendencies differ radically from General Grant and the peculiarities of his administration, though there was no break in the continuity of party ascend- ency when one went out and.the other came in. The truth is, our presidents are not mere gilded figure-heads, typify- ing executive power, like some European monarchs, but are themselves living fountains of power, and can exert a po- tent pristine influence upon legislative and public sentiment. They can be negative if they choose, and drift with the stream; but if they possess strong characters and well - defined purposes, there are few crowned heads in the world who can shape the national will and mould the national institutions to so great an extent as they. Therefore people ask, What is the new government which comes in on the 104 A Look Ahead. [January, 4th of March going to do? Being a young people, we are a hopeful people. We always look forward to a new ad- ministration with ardent anticipations. We think the new president is going to set the country forward a long way, and we have a right to expect a great deal of General Garfield. He is a man of real force of character, and a more thorough training in statesmanship than any previous president ever brought to the duties of his office. We know that he is a man of both thought and action, a close student of other mens ideas, and a vigorous original thinker. We remember how early he began to make a thorough study of government; how, when elected to the Ohio legislature, he set out to trace a dollar from the pocket of the taxpayer to the state treasury, and thence out into all the possible forms of public expenditure; studying the laws that authorized each transfer, and the purposes for which the money was applied. We know that he carried this method of research up to the nation- al government, and during seventeen years in Congress became thoroughly familiar with all its ramifications. He knows every pin, wheel, and lever in the government machine. He will not have to spend half his term getting ac- quainted with the apparatus he is to manage. his energies will be free from the first to give it right direction. Then, Mr. Hayes leaves no rubbish for him to clear away. The public offices are filled with trained, competent, and honorable men. The machinery is clean, well oiled, and in good working order. There are no loose screws, or rusty wheels, or clogged bearings. The most important problem which will fall to the new administration will be the Southern question, modified a good deal by Mr. Hayess course, it is true, but nevertheless essentially the same problem with which General Grant struggled for eight years, and which he received as a legacy from his predeces sor. How shall the people of the old slave States be brought fully to accept the results of the war; to look upon the black mans right to vote as just as good as the white mans; to respect the right of every man to his own judgment in politics and to the expression of his own views; to cultivate tolerance, that fine flower of a high civilization; to permit the national division of the vot- ing element into two parties, which is the only healthful and safe condition of things in a popular form of government? The state of the country cannot be re- garded as satisfactory until it is just as safe, respectable, and comfortable for a man to be a republican in the South as it is for a man to be a democrat in the North. There must be an end to all forms of proscription and unfriendliness on account of political opinion. A member of the party which saved the Union must no longer be made to feel that he is an alien in a part of the coun- try he helped rescue from destruction. It is a national disgrace if in any por- tion of the Uniou a citizen is forced to conceal his sympathy with one of the great political organizations in order to succeed in his business, or enjoy pleas- ant social relations, or enter upon a public career. This sort of thing has got to stop, and General Garfields ad- ministration will no doubt do all that it can wisely and constitutionally do to bring it to an end. It will be aided in this work by the conditions developed under President Hayes. The so-called let-alone policy of Hayes has favored the fading out of old animosities and prejudices in the South, and the growth of a desire in the more intelligent classes of the population for tolerance, honest elections, and the manly strife of well- balanced political organizations. Prob- ably it was the best possible preparation for the ultimate solution of the problem. The ground had to be left fallow for a time. Now it seems ready for plowing and sowing. A more positive policy A Look Ahead. can he tried, with hopes of success. By this I do not mean a forcing process by harsh laws. The attempt to reform the South by act of Congress was a dead failure. There are people who want to try it again, narrow-minded but per- fectly honest people, who will urge their views upon the new president with per- tinacity, but it is safe to say that General Garfield will not be moved by them. The influence he will exert for good will be persuasive rather than op- pressive. His attitude towards the South has always been friendly, sensible, and conservative, while thoroughly repub- lican. The election laws may perhaps be strengthened by making them appli- cable to country districts as well as to the towns, which would be in harmony with the principle upon which they are based; but no political legislation spe- cially aimed at the South is likely to be adopted. An Atlantic article published before the opening of the recent campaign said that the solidity of the South would be broken in one of two ways: by its suc- cess in getting control of the govern- ment, which would lead to dissatisfaction and quarrels about the distribution of patronage; or by its becoming convinced, through repeated failures, that it could never succeed in its ambitious dream of power. It now looks as if the dcfeat of the democratic party in the recent elec- tion has started the process of disinte- gration. Many of the leading Southern journals are disposed to give up the fight, and hint at the wisdom of abandoning the alliance with the Northern democ- racy. Wise politicians in every South- ern State see that a political scheme based upon the unity of the weaker sec- tion of the country is a mistake, because its inevitable result is to unify the strong- er section in opposition to it. The new administration will be able to do much towards stimulating the growth of this sentiment. First, it can let it be under- stood that there is to be complete amnes ty for past political action in the South, and that men of character who are now willing to come forward and help build up a new republican party in that sec- tion are to be treated with cordiality, and are not to be distrusted because of the former party connection. There will be trouble in taking this course, because old republicans, who have borne hostility and ostracism for their opinions sake for many years, will want to monopolize the favors of the president, and will natural- ly object to the immediate recognition of new converts; but the necessity of bringing new elements into the repub- lican party in order to create a strong opposition to democracy in the South will doubtless be fully understood by the president. Gratitude to heroic men who have been faithful to their principles in the face of personal loss and danger must not stand in the way of the accomplish- ment of the great end of bringing the South up to the Northern level of polit- ical tolerance. It may be that something more will have to be done than giving hearty wel- come and recognition to all elements willing to help in a new order of things at the South: it may be that a substan- tial earnest of Northern good-will to- wards the beaten and baffled section will have to be given in the form of internal improvements, carried on with money appropriated from the national treas- ury by republican votes. Not that the South wants to be bribed to divide into two parties, but because it is distrust- ful of Northern feeling, and needs to be convinced by some conspicuous act of generosity that the stronger section cherishes no hostile sentiments. The democrats, since they obtained the con- trol of the appropriations, have expended a great deal of money on petty river and harbor improvements in the South, but they have inaugurated no important work, like the Mississippi jetties and the Texas Pacific Railway, both of which are the fruits of republican legislation. 1881.1 105 106 It is not difficult to say what works yet remain to be undertaken, that are es- sentially national in their character, and yet would be especially beneficial to the South. One, at least, will at once occur to mind, namely, the improve- ment of the channel of the Mississippi, and the reclaiming of the vast areas of swamp land now rendered worthless by the overflow of its waters. This work would take a long period of time and cost a very large amount of money, but in the end it would enable vessels of heavy draught to go up to St. Louis, and it would gain for agriculture an area of exceedingly rich territory, capable of supporting five millions of people. To plan and carry on an undertaking of such gigantic magnitude would be a task worthy of the highest statesmanship. Another project might be mentioned, which, though not ranking in importance with the Mississippi improvement, would still be of far more than local value: it is a ship canal across the Florida penin- sula, which would save six or seven hun- dred miles of navigation between New York and New Orleans, Mobile and Galveston. Next to the Southern question, finan- cial matters are likely to be the most important subjects occupying the new administratiou. The public debt is in excellent shape now, and the policy of Secretary Sherman will no doubt be substantially the policy of his successor. Some legislation will be needed to meet loans falling due and to carry on the work of refunding, but all will be plain sailing. The principles governing the management of the debt a scrupulous fulfillment of all obligations, and a re- duction of the interest rate to as low a point as will command a market for the bonds at par have been fixed with the codperation of General Garfield as a member of Congress, and will of course suffer no change during his presidential term. The future of the greenbacks is a question not so easy to determine, and A Look Ahead. [January, one which may lead to a great deal of controversy. In the absence of other financial issues, this may come to the front of political discussion. We may be tolerably sure that the republican victory in November disposed of the project for the destruction of the banks, which was advocated by the greenback- ers and by a considerable majority of the democrats, but the question of the permanency of the present system of a mixed currency of treasury notes and bank notes is still an open one. The republican party is divided upon it. A considerable portion believes that the government should always keep afioat~ a large volume of redeemable notes, to steady the currency, as they express it. Another portion believes that treasury notes are a positive evil, and that the government should wholly retire from the business of furnishing the country with a paper circulation. General Gar- fields action in Congress has been in the direction of an ultimate withdrawal of the greenbacks, but it is very doubt- ful whether a majority can be got in Congress for the passage of any meas- ure of the sort. rrhe new administration may not be required to face the ques- tion, from the want of sufficient force in Congress, and thus it may drift over another four years period. The tariff question is not likely to be a troublesome one. The republicans made protection a leading issue in the recent canvass, and their victory is an assurance that the existing system of customs duties will undergo no radical change. Defects in it may be cor- rected, but whatever new tariff legisla- tion is adopted will be in the direction of extending the protective system and remedying its abuses, rather than in that of setting it aside. We shall see no tariff for revenue only during the next four years. So far as the influ- ence of the administration is brought to bear upon this question, it will be to favor duties high enough to protect all 1881.] A Look Ahead. 107 important national industries, but not so high as to foster monopolies. A question of very grave importance remains to be mentioned, that of mak- ing a radical change in the method of choosing the president and vice-presi- dent, so as to avoid the danger of a dis- puted election. The vices of the pres- ent system brought the country close to the brink of civil war in 1877. Awk- ward and indefinite in the first place, this system is outworn, and is wholly out of gear with our modern political methods. The electors are mere voting machines. There is no provision for settling a con- troversy as to who are really entitled to act as electors in any State. It is an open question whether the vice-presi- dent should count the electoral votes, or whether he is a mere clerk to open the returns, while the power of count- ing or rejecting rests in the two houses. If the latter position be assumed, it is an open question whether the concurrence of the two houses is necessary to count a return, or whether a rejection can be effected by the action of one of the bodies. After we had got safely over the rocks in that dangerous winter of 1877, all thoughtful men believed that the elect- oral system would be changed before an- other election came around. A number of the best minds in Congress addressed themselves to the task of maturing meas- ures for reforming a plan which every- body saw to be faulty and perilous. Several valuable bills and constitutional amendments were drawn, but nothing came of them. The reason was that the democrats, who had control of Congress, believed that the old system would work for their advantage in the election of 1880, because, having the count in their hands, by virtue of their majority in the senate and house, they could settle all disputed points in their own favor. This is not an unfair statement. Everybody who is familiar with the recent course of events in Washington knows it is true. And the democrats cannot be blamed for being peculiarly selfish and unpatri- otic. They did what most parties would have done in a like case. They wanted to win in 1880, and were not disposed to sacrifice any point in the game. If the republican majority in New York had been twenty-five hundred, instead of twenty-five thousand, they might have found reasons to satisfy their own con- sciences for throwing out the returns of that State, and declaring General Han- cock elected. Constitutional changes and legislative enactments in the direction of a less complicated, more direct, and less peril- ous system of electing the chief magis- trate and his possible successor must of course originate in Congress, but a pres- ident who is strongly convinced of the wisdom of a change can do much towards encournoing and moulding such meas- ures. We may take it for granted, from General Garfields public utterances and from the experience he gained as a mem- ber of the electoral commission, that he will do all that he can properly do to bring about this very important reform. The times are ripe for it. One house of the new Congress will be controlled by the republicans by a narrow majority, and the other by the democrats by a majority still narrower. A measure for the partisan advantage of either party will have no chance of getting through. The question of changing the method of electing presidents can therefore be treated as a non-partisan affair, and can command the attention of the most statesman-like intellects on both sides. Leaving the field of speculation about the measures likely to be favored by the new administration, let us, in con- clusion, look for a moment to its prob- able general character. General Gar- field is eminently a practical politi- cian, and we need not fear that he will make a visionary administration, reach- ing out after the impossible, or trying to take ten steps at once. He knows 108 The Long Dream. [January, the politicians perfectly, understands the temper of the people, and will neither overleap his mark nor fall short of it. He is a scholar who for thoroughness and breadth of culture has had no equal in the White House since the younger Adams. We may therefore expect a dignified, scholarly administration, which will command the cordial assistance and support of the journalists, men of letters, and institutions of learnin ~. He is a closer student of political economy than any president the country has ever had, and we may expect that the industrial and commercial interests of the country will enjoy the advantage of intelligent consideration at his hands. He is a home man, devoted to his family, and we may look for a continuation of the pleasant, wholesome, unpretentious home life which has made the White House a centre of good social influences during the presidency of Rutherford B. Hayes. THE LONG DREAM. Tflu summer will come with a fresh perfume Where all the brown leaves are lying, And the windy air with a blush and bloom, Like a shuttle blown through a silken loom, In the delicate foliage plying. The morning will gather its colors anew, As sweet as a girlish promise, Of green and golden and rose and blue, To weave fresh violets out of the dew As bright as the ones stolen from us. As I lie at ease in my last repose, All the beauty about me woven, Like the cunning of sense that inward flows, I shall feel in the blush that dyes the rose And the germ when its husk is cloven. And the rootlets find their way under-ground Through the toils of the seasons malice, Till I know how the coil of sense is wound To the far-off stars in the depths profound, Where Earth seems a golden palace. But you will not know of the watch I keep Where the flow of the senses all pass, Like a dreamer, who hears the stir and creep Of the wind, while gently I lie asleep Under the broad-leafed catalpas. Will Wallace Harney.

Will Wallace Harney Harney, Will Wallace The Long Dream 108-109

108 The Long Dream. [January, the politicians perfectly, understands the temper of the people, and will neither overleap his mark nor fall short of it. He is a scholar who for thoroughness and breadth of culture has had no equal in the White House since the younger Adams. We may therefore expect a dignified, scholarly administration, which will command the cordial assistance and support of the journalists, men of letters, and institutions of learnin ~. He is a closer student of political economy than any president the country has ever had, and we may expect that the industrial and commercial interests of the country will enjoy the advantage of intelligent consideration at his hands. He is a home man, devoted to his family, and we may look for a continuation of the pleasant, wholesome, unpretentious home life which has made the White House a centre of good social influences during the presidency of Rutherford B. Hayes. THE LONG DREAM. Tflu summer will come with a fresh perfume Where all the brown leaves are lying, And the windy air with a blush and bloom, Like a shuttle blown through a silken loom, In the delicate foliage plying. The morning will gather its colors anew, As sweet as a girlish promise, Of green and golden and rose and blue, To weave fresh violets out of the dew As bright as the ones stolen from us. As I lie at ease in my last repose, All the beauty about me woven, Like the cunning of sense that inward flows, I shall feel in the blush that dyes the rose And the germ when its husk is cloven. And the rootlets find their way under-ground Through the toils of the seasons malice, Till I know how the coil of sense is wound To the far-off stars in the depths profound, Where Earth seems a golden palace. But you will not know of the watch I keep Where the flow of the senses all pass, Like a dreamer, who hears the stir and creep Of the wind, while gently I lie asleep Under the broad-leafed catalpas. Will Wallace Harney. Illustrated Books. ILLUSTRATED BOOKS. IN considering the peculiar merits of a work of such importance as the Illus- trated Longfellow, the second volume of which is just issued, it is not the ar- tistic quality of the publication alone that deserves recognition. First of all, the original idea of producing an edition of the works of Longfellow which should be a worthy monument to his genius was as happy as it was timely. At no period in the history of the country has there been such a wide-spread, healthy inter- est in art in all its forms as during the past few years. The public apprecia- tion of good illustration was never before half so much developed as at present. The countries old in the history of art, do not produce nearly as high an aver- age degree of excellence of illustration as that found in the American publica- tions. The time is ripe, then, for the best use of the artistic talent of the country. The field for the exercise of this talent is in the publication in ques- tion certainly the most congenial one that could be selected, for it embraces a great variety of subjects, foreign and domes- tic. Those of Longfellows poems which are inspired by events in the history of the country have been familiar to the young generation of artists from their school-days on, and have doubtless lost none of their stimulating influence on the imagination, but like other poems from the same pen have grown dearer with long acquaintance. To call upon Amer- ican illustrators was to summon, then, ready assistants in the work. It is safe to say that no project of the kind ever met with more favor among artists, or found more sympathetic codperation, than this. It was talked over in the studios as a rare opportunity to place a 1 The Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Illustrated. Boston Houghton, Muffin & Co. 1880. drawing in the most attractive and fa- vorable surroundings. In much the same way that the painters look forward to the gratification of seeing their pictures in a permanent gallery in the best of company did the illustrators enjoy the prospect of seeing their work in these volumes; for it must be remembered that one of the greatest disappointments of an illustrators experience is that most of his best work is swamped, after an ephemeral popularity, in the great mass of illustrated literature. The conditions under which the artistic contributions to the volumes were conceived and execut- ed were, it is apparent, just those which assured the success of the work at the start. Upon glancing at the volumes, one feels first that a great part of the dec- orative aspect of the pages is due to the beautifully drawn titles, headings, and tail-pieces by Mr. L. S. Ipsen. Done with few variations from the same gen- eral character in the combination of forms and ornaments, they are still won- derfully free from monotonous repetition either of arrangement or of motive of design. The fertility of invention of many of the titles is indeed remarkable, and the uniform good taste shown in the adaptation of the spirit of the composi- tion to the subject of the poem which they introduce is worthy of all praise. A good example of dignified and stately design, quite in keeping with the poem, is the half title of Christus. The dec- orative border around the Epilogue is a rich and graceful combination of vines and flowers with the symbols of faith, hope, and charity. In this, as in all the rest, Mr. Ipsen depends for the deco- rative effect on the beauty of the forms and the tasteful combinations of them; not on the startling oppositions of tones, or on curious contrasts, which are the 1881.] 1o~

Illustrated Books 109-116

Illustrated Books. ILLUSTRATED BOOKS. IN considering the peculiar merits of a work of such importance as the Illus- trated Longfellow, the second volume of which is just issued, it is not the ar- tistic quality of the publication alone that deserves recognition. First of all, the original idea of producing an edition of the works of Longfellow which should be a worthy monument to his genius was as happy as it was timely. At no period in the history of the country has there been such a wide-spread, healthy inter- est in art in all its forms as during the past few years. The public apprecia- tion of good illustration was never before half so much developed as at present. The countries old in the history of art, do not produce nearly as high an aver- age degree of excellence of illustration as that found in the American publica- tions. The time is ripe, then, for the best use of the artistic talent of the country. The field for the exercise of this talent is in the publication in ques- tion certainly the most congenial one that could be selected, for it embraces a great variety of subjects, foreign and domes- tic. Those of Longfellows poems which are inspired by events in the history of the country have been familiar to the young generation of artists from their school-days on, and have doubtless lost none of their stimulating influence on the imagination, but like other poems from the same pen have grown dearer with long acquaintance. To call upon Amer- ican illustrators was to summon, then, ready assistants in the work. It is safe to say that no project of the kind ever met with more favor among artists, or found more sympathetic codperation, than this. It was talked over in the studios as a rare opportunity to place a 1 The Poetical Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Illustrated. Boston Houghton, Muffin & Co. 1880. drawing in the most attractive and fa- vorable surroundings. In much the same way that the painters look forward to the gratification of seeing their pictures in a permanent gallery in the best of company did the illustrators enjoy the prospect of seeing their work in these volumes; for it must be remembered that one of the greatest disappointments of an illustrators experience is that most of his best work is swamped, after an ephemeral popularity, in the great mass of illustrated literature. The conditions under which the artistic contributions to the volumes were conceived and execut- ed were, it is apparent, just those which assured the success of the work at the start. Upon glancing at the volumes, one feels first that a great part of the dec- orative aspect of the pages is due to the beautifully drawn titles, headings, and tail-pieces by Mr. L. S. Ipsen. Done with few variations from the same gen- eral character in the combination of forms and ornaments, they are still won- derfully free from monotonous repetition either of arrangement or of motive of design. The fertility of invention of many of the titles is indeed remarkable, and the uniform good taste shown in the adaptation of the spirit of the composi- tion to the subject of the poem which they introduce is worthy of all praise. A good example of dignified and stately design, quite in keeping with the poem, is the half title of Christus. The dec- orative border around the Epilogue is a rich and graceful combination of vines and flowers with the symbols of faith, hope, and charity. In this, as in all the rest, Mr. Ipsen depends for the deco- rative effect on the beauty of the forms and the tasteful combinations of them; not on the startling oppositions of tones, or on curious contrasts, which are the 1881.] 1o~ 110 illustrated Books. [January, sole qualifications of much of the pop- ular black-and-white decoration of the day. Mr. Ipsens decorative work has elements of lasting beauty. Probably no artist has entered more into the spirit of his work than Mr. C. S. Reinhart, whose figure of the laborer kneeling at the cathedral door is one of the finest in the book. In his drawings for the Golden Legend he has given not only variety of type, but many different methods of execution, thus adding to the interest of his contributions. He would probably be less satisfied himself with the full-page of Prince Henry and Elsie than with the figures of the prince and Lucifer, or with either of the spirited com- positions of the carousing monks. The full-page is meagre and somewhat fiat, while the others are full in form and com- position. Tbe two drawings of monks above mentioned, with another of the procession, although less studied in re- spect to tone than some of the rest, are very cleverly grouped arid faithful in ex- pression. Mr. Reinharts types are partic- ularly good. For example, it is interest- ing to compare the Barabbas in Prison with the drawings of the monks, and no- tice the.number of distinct and charac- teristic types accurately given. Next to Mr. E. A. Abbey, the absence of whose charming work is to be regretted in any collection of representative Ameri- can illustrations, Mr. Reinhart gives the best satisfaction on any subject he is called upon to interpret. Frederick Dielman introduces in al- most every one of his drawings super- abundance of incident and a multitude of accessories that recall the studied compositions of the German painters, and the habit has doubtless its reason in the German training of the artist. These accessories have the picturesque- ness of color, which is tempting to the painter, but has little real value to the illustrator. Mr. Dielmans full-page of Mary Magdelen would do very well for a study of a theatrical odalisque, but has little which harmonizes with the subject. His Daughter of 1-lerodias is open to the same objection. A common fault with Mr. Dielmans figures is the ungraceful proportion of the head to the rest of the body. Not wishing to err with those who believe they secure grace and dig- nity by the extraordinary length of the figure, Mr. Dielman often falls into the mistake of exaggerating the size of the head. Very attractive is the soaring angel in the Golden Legend. Mary at the Well looks like a pretty peasant girl of the Tyrol. The interior of the Oden- wald farm-house is a capital study. The full-page of Friar Pacificus in the Scrip- torium falls short of being very good only by the monotony of the tone. It is easy to see that the artist has sacri- ficed the simplicity of the effect to the temptation to multiply and elaborate the details of furniture and surroundings. The influence of early training is also apparent in the drawings of Mr. Will H. Low. His compositions have fre- quently a certain naivet6, no matter if the general scheme be a conventional one. The Bride, the Bride and Bride- groom, and Helen Asleep on the Balcony, in the Second Passover, are decoratively arranged, hinting of the compositions of Alma Tadema. The Two Manes has a peculiar charm, notwithstanding the ill- proportioned figures and the material character of the angel. Most of the groups of biblical subjects are by W. L. Sheppard, and are Oriental in everything but spirit. There can be no agreeable middle ground between the dignified and impressive treatment of subjects of this class and the realistic in- terpretation of the same. Mr. Sheppard has given to his work many touches of good Orientalism, and shows at times an appreciation of line in the grouping of his figures, even if it is tempered by an indifference to the laws of perspective, but for the most part his compositions are academic and undignified. It is evident from his Burns at the Plow, by 1881.] 1llust~rated Books. 111 far the best of his drawings, and from his Martin Luther, also good in its way, that he is much more at home in that range of subjects. The colonial subjects are treated in the main by three artists, Mr. A. B. Frost, Mr. F. T. Merrill, and Mr. J. W. Ehninger. The first contributes three illustrations to the Landlords Tale, and though the gay Sir Christopher looks more like a Western trapper in semi- Spanish costume than an English gen- tleman of the seventeenth century, cred- it must be given to the excellence of the drawing and the good arrangement. Mr. Ehuingers drawings for Giles Co- rey have the great merit of conscien- lions interpretation of the subject. The groups are well put together, and the compositions are always intelligent. A good example is Martha and Corey at the farm-house door. It is drawn with precision and care. The onl5r reason why these illustrations are not entirely satisfactory is that they are made with too little sympathy with the period in the history of the country. Mr. Ehnin- ger does not give us the personages of Cotton Mathers time, but rather sturdy burghers of some foreign country. Per. haps it is too much to expect that the type of face be particularly distinctive, although that may well be insisted upon in any high standard of illustration, but it is certainly not unjust to criticise such manifestly operatic groupings as Mr. Merrill has given in his illustration of John Endicott. But the drawings, how- ever theatrical, are never illegible, and it may be said in their favor that they are neither pretentious nor affected in arrangement. Among the great variety of drawings those by Mary Hallock Foote are prominent for a peculiar grace of line and delicacy of treatment. The full - page of Thalia before the Masque of Pandora is the least success- ful of the list, although there is an at- tractive sparkle in the light and shade. In the Hanging of the Crane she is seen to better advantage. The young couple seated reading together in one chair is charmingly done, and there is unusual grace in the figure of the maiden in the orchard. The treatment of both of these is very artistic. Mr. A. Fredericks, be- side the illustrations to the Masque of Pandora, furnishes several to the Kera- mos, notably a full-page of a potter at his wheel. With a good deal of spirit Mr. Fredericks joins a facility that rare- ly degenerates into conventionality. He is a skillful draughtsman, and composes with taste. Mr. W. H. Gibson, Mr. F. Hopkinson Smith, Mr. F. B. Schell, Mr. J. Appleton Brown, Mr. Ernest Long- fellow, and others contribute landscapes, many of which are exceedingly credita- ble to artist as well as to engraver. Much of the juterest in the volume is in the inviting comparison between the works of different artists and the varied treatment of the different engravers. Mr. A. V. S. Anthony, who has super- vised the arrangement of the work, has engraved several of the landscapes and figures. Friar Claus, by Reinhart, is a good rendering of tone, and J. Appleton Browns landscapes, with some smaller pieces, are cut with real feeling. Per- haps the best interpretation of textures is T. Coles engraving of Lows Bride, in which the veil thrown over head and shoulders is most skillfully cut. The same engraver has treated with equal skill the drawings for the Hanging of the Crane. A good example of Mr. Henry Marshs unequaled delicacy with the graver is the ornamental border of flowers around the short poem Delia. Mr. W. J. Lintons vigorous hand is read- ily recognized in several landscapes, and Mr. S. S. Kilburn, Mr. W. J. Dana, and other well-known engravers have assist- ed very creditably in the work. The volumes make an interesting period in the history of American art, and possess a unique value for future reference. The press-work is admirably in harmony with the character of the publication. 112 illustrated Books. [January, A History of Painting falls naturally into comparison with The History of Art, by Dr. Wilhelm Ltibke, issued from the same house two years ago. They are alike in their derivation from Ger- man sources, in liberal scale of plan and bulk of contents, and quite similar in general aspect. The house of Dodd & Mend, we should say, was entitled to special credit for its ready adventuring into expensive works of this kind for some time past. It chooses to put upon the market, instead of syllabub, some- thing of permanent interest and value, which supplies at tbe same time the charms of pictorial embellishment and ornate bindinns demanded by the holi- day season. If there be some mere makers of presents as there will be, in the genial temper of the time drawn to make purchase of this history of Art by its covers and general air of attract- iveness, in addition to those who will appreciate it intelligently upon inspec- tion of its contents, so much the better. The propaganda is of a sort one need not at all regret to have assisted by any such small favoring circumstances. It is to be hoped that the History of Paint- ing may flourish to the full measure of its deserts, beside the many pretentious volumes of little meaning with which it will come into competition. Of the work as proposed we have as yet but one half, although that is com- plete in itself. The volume received carries us from the earliest times through the medheval period. A second volume, containing the history of painting dur- ing its great age, that of the Renaissance, or, as it is here anglicized, somewhat needlessly, it would seem, since the French form has passed so fully into common use, Renascence, is promised later. It is not feasible to say what ehanges may be operated in the account 1 A if tory of Painting, Ancient, Early Citris- dan, and Mediaval. Vol. I. From the German of the late Da. ALFRED WOLTMANN, Professor at the Imperial University of Strassburg, and Da. KARL WORRMANN, Professor at the Royal Acade of this second period, where most of what we now understand as comprised in painting really had its origin; no doubt, some supplementary chapters may be devoted to techn~qete, rather in the ab- stract; but at present it is a history main- ly of paintings and painters, of the achievements of art rather than, in any special sense, of its processes. That is to say, it is a popular and really histor- ical treatise, and not a disquisition on technical methods, which a professional artist might enjoy ov find useful more than others. Professors Woltmann and Woermann deal much less in philosophic bases and remote origins than Professor Liibke Their narrative, if not more straight- forward, devotes itself less to what necessarily must have been, which gives them the fuller opportunity to dis- play what actually was. They have comparatively little to say of the over- flow of certain rivers, the trend of cer- tain uplands, as absolute causes, a tend- ency which we were inclined to note as a fault, at the time, in Dr. Liibke, since it seemed to result in concepts much too lucid and indisputable, as hu- man affairs go, and to reduce human phenomena too entirely to a matter of charts and tables of mean temperatures. Not that the philosophic tracing of situa- tions to their origins is to be disparaged; on the contrary, nothing is more digni- fied and useful; and the preoccupation of Liibke, where he deals with the de. monstrable and reasonable, is something demanding warm appreciation. Of the two, he will take the more pains, as in the pictured chronicles on the walls of the ancient Egyptian monuments, which Semper has called colossal writing-tab- lets, not only to explain what is trans- acting in the varied scenes, but the theo- ry (that of metempsychosis, for instance, my of Arts, DUsseldorf. Edited by SIDNEY CoL via, M. A., Slade Protessor of Fine Art in the University of Cambridge. With Illustrations. New York: Dodd, Mead & Co. 1880. 1881.] illustrated Books. 113 as bringing about the extraordinary con- sideration for the dead) from which the transactions arise. The History of Painting is not at all so copiously illustrated as the History of Art, but as it has, for its single depart- ment, a quantity of letterpress which was shared in the former work with two others, namely, sculpture and architect- ure, it is vastly more exhaustive in its specialty, and the proportion of illustra- tions to letterpress cannot be greatly different. The illustrations, though of no especial elegance, are of an unhack- neyed character, and the amplitude of the page, together xVith the frequent practice of setting the blocks lengthways upon it, enables them to be of large size. Rather recondite papyri and missals, as well as monuments, have been drawn upon: as in the Egyptian caricature, at page 20, where there is a ridiculous procession of animals that might have figured in the conceits of Alice in Won- derland; and the leaf from a psalter of the beginning of the tenth century at page 225, in which a surprising rem- iniscence of classic shapes, Apollo, the nymphs and satyrs, under Christian guise and of classic ease, has sprung up, or has survived, when all around are the conventional swaddled poses, the lean ribs, and woe-begone visages of ascetic mediawalism. Whether there be a shade of differ- ence in the handiwork of the two colla- borateurs, or it be only the greater nov- elty and opportunity for simple state- ment in this portion, the section de- voted to the ancient world, intending particularly the classic world, the di- vision of labor taken by Dr. Woermann, while Dr. Woltmann (who has since died and left the completion of the work to Dr. Woermann, and others) reserved the larger and probably more difficult portion of the task for himself, will probably be among those most favorably received. The story of Greek and Ro- man painting has a fascinating quality VOL. XLVII. NO. 279. 8 from its unique circumstai~ces. It might be supposed such is in fact the sup- position most prevalent, from the paucity of remains that there had been no classic painting of consequence, and that the section on this head might be pro- portionally brief. There exist, how- ever, in the works of the most reputable classic writers, found veracious in other particulars, such accounts of painters and painting of their day as to compel the belief that the art had reached a high degree of perfection, even judged by present standards; and that if exam- ples do not survive, it is only that they were overwhelmed, and perished like everything else ephemeral around them, including dwellings and almost all the belongings of domestic life, in the tre- mendous devastation by human rage and the elements. The story is gathered from classic literature. It is the busi- ness of the ingenious investigator to weigh, sift, and illustrate it by analo- gies to be found in the scanty remains so strangely preserved at Pompeii and Herculaneum, under the ashes of Ye- suvius. Dr. Woermaun, availing himself much of Brunn, who had already established his authority in this field, brings to his treatment the taste of the connoisseur in art and the erudition of the scholar.. Whoever will go to the original sources of information, in the classics, will find himself aided, by kite author with copious directions. Dr. Woermaun follows the advance of the Greek painters, from the conventional, fiat-tinted figures of the Egyptian frescoes to accurate drawing, the discovery of perspective (through the necessities of scene-painting, a point the more for panegyrists of the stage to include in their reckoning), of illusion by cidaroscuro, and of solid and realistic grounds, with the sympathy of one who knows what each of these steps means, and takes account of the groping as if it might have been of his own experience. At the end, it can hardly be doubted,. 114 illustrated Books. [January, from weight of evidence, that a point had been reached parallel to the at- tainment in the sister art of sculpture at the same time, and only falling short of~ that of the modern period by lack of the perfected method of painting in oils, since discovered. One Aresteides had prices for his pictures one hundred thousand dollars from the king of Per- gamos for his Dionysos to which the compensation of the Meissonniers and Bonguereaus is but beggarly. Kikias declared and it is a motto worth con- sideration at least, still, that the artist should not fritter away his skill on insig- nificant objects, but rather paint battles of cavalry and sea-fights. And Pliny reports of Ludius, who flourished under Augustus, that he painted villas, colon- nades, examples of landscape-gardening, woods and sacred groves, reservoirs, straits, rivers, coasts, all according to the hearts desire; and amidst them passen- gers of all kinds, on foot, in boats, driv- ing in carriages, or riding on asses to visit their country properties; further- more, fishermen, bird-catchers, hunters, vintagers. Or, again, he exhibits stately villas to which the approach is through a swamp, with men staggering under the weight of the frightened women whom they have bargained to carry on their shoulders; and many another excellent and entertaining device of the same kind. The same artist also set the fashion of painting views, and that wonderfully cheap, of sea-side towns, in broad day- light. There is no part of this first volume of the History of Painting which will not well repay perusal, and it may con- fidently be expected that the second will surpass it in interest. Prepared with the advantage of the latest discoveries in the field, excellently translated, and ably edited by Professor Colvin, occupant of the fine-art chair under the Slade foundation at Cambridge, like Ruskin at Oxford, and favorably known by his ~writmgs in The Portfolio and elsewhere, it is difficult to say why it should not take rank in English, when completed, as in the tongue from which it is derived, as the standard authority on the sub- ject. Miss Humphrey has made some fif- teen views for a poem that celebrates the charm of a mood of indolent, very slightly pensive reverie, and pulsates with sunshine and balmy airs. It is a reverie in the American manner at not too advanced an age; that is to say, the romantic young American, unless en- grossed by personal considerations, is likely in such a mood to let his fancy drift to the places he deems the most beautiful in the world, and these are pretty sure to be in the Italy of tradition. The soul of the poet, in the lines so very much quoted, Is far away, Sailing the Vesuvian Bay. Miss Humphrey follows it thither, and presents a bright view from a Neapoli- tan terrace; some cliffs, apparently at Castellamare; a glimpse of the bare, volcanic lands of Vesuvius, with the ominous smoke above; a bright Ischia, again, in which the sparkling whites of the reflections under the island and the shallop in front have a tricky effect, a certain suggestion of the drippings of sperm candle, then some miscellaneous scenery; and at the end a charming allegorical female figure (head and bust) lying among lily pads. The poem is of a superficial, descriptive sort, except for the one nice touch of pensiveness in the stanza, Yon deep bark goes Where traffic blows, From lands of sun to lands of snows; This happier one, Its course is run From lands of snow to lands of sun. The artist interprets this by two small ships going in opposite directions, done with quite the literalness of the illus- 1 Drifting. By T. BwcseANAN READ. fins- trateci from designs by Miss L. B. HuMrrnuir. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co. 1881. 1881.] Iliustrafeti Books. 116 trated paper or a cut from a spelling- book, and two appended scenes, in which a water-fall is streaming down in the Arctic regions, and the land has less an appearance of being covered with snow than that in the tropics. Miss Humphrey is unequal, but she is so good in the figure in the lily pads, and in the child with the gamboling kid on the cliffs at Capri, that one inclines to ascribe the defects elsewhere to care- less or even intentional slighting of her work. In treating Tennysons IDream of Fair Women, as it is a piece of litera- ture of a nobler and more reflective cast, a higher order of ability was demand- ed. It has been sought from twenty dif- ferent artists, among whom the thirty- eight designs are distributed, but not with uniform success, so far as the fair women themselves are concerned, the memorable figures of the worlds great- est crises, with whom the poet supposes himself to fall in, in a twilight wood. In the minor vignettes, the landscapes of Rix, J. A. Brown, Martha Simpson, and particularly a chalk-and-gray-paper morning effect by Hopkinson Smith, very freely rendered by the engraving, are all good. A nice effect of light falls on the white gown of Mary Hallock Footes Fair Rosamond, one of the large illus- trations; and Reinharts Joan of Arc, though too mature, and flustered by the nimbus of divine ordination to her mis- sion, which comes flying at her head like a dinner-plate, is a bold, nobly poised figure, probably the most artistically engraved, with its landscape background, in the series. But the Helen by J. M. Cameron she who says of herself, I had great beauty: ask thou not my name; Whereer I came I brought calamity is sufficient to carry off much more com- 1 A Dream of Fair Women. By ALFRED TEN- xlsoN. Illustrated. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co. 1880. ~ Monuments de iArt Antique. Pub1i~s sons monplaceness than there is about it. The illustrator who could do this remarka- ble head should not have been curtailed to a single effort. The draping and attitude recall the Cenci. The light- ing is beautifully limited and inclosed in a breadth of darkness, in the Rem- brandtesque manner. The woman for whom many drew swords and died turns back over her shoulder, spread with her loose hair, the star-like sor- rows of immortal eyes. A really dis- tinguished effort has been made here to realize the greatness of the character. It has succeeded, in an expression which is pathetic, subtile, penetrating, and haunting to a degree. M. Rayet is one of those, decidedly, who holds the banal, the simply pretty, in wholesome contempt. His collection,2 on this account, is not at all likely to find its market with the Philistine. The plan adopted for it allows him the great- est liberty of choice, and in the first in- stallment (of the five, in which the se- ries is to be completed) he has selected largely from very much damaged ex- amples, headless and limbless in the flg~ ures, for the just appreciation of which thorough connoisseurship is needed, and has supplemented th~se with others of a pronounced archaic sort. That his bias throughout will not be greatly different may be gathered from a few of his prefatory remarks. He says, We shall publish nothing not of interest from the point of view of art, but we find of interest all that testifies to a sincere ef- fort, a real sentiment, even when the hand is still maladroit and does not render the thought full justice. The rude and awkward na~vet6 of the primi- tive masters has nothing repulsive for us, while we find the vulgar facility of the artists of the decadence irksome. We shall have recourse to the early pe- riods often, therefore, but shall rarely la direction de M. OLIVIER RAYET, Professeur Suppliant an Colidge de France. Livraison I. Paris: A. Quantin. 1880. New York: 3. W. Bonton. 116 Zolas Essays. [January, come down very late. When we leave Greece of the fifth and fourth centuries, our preference will be for the Egypt of the Pharaohs and Assyria of the Sar- gonides, rather than the iRome of the Ca~sars. All this will give the work novelty and value. The latitude of the scheme is such that, at the end, the possessor will not have any one period or number of periods, or series, of an existing gal- lery complete, but a choice collection from many, made under the guidance of one whose able writing, in the accom- panying letterpress, shows him to pos- sess knowledge, enthusiasm, and wide- ly extended scholarship. Each plate, even, is complete in itself, with its letter- press paged for it alone, and might take its place in one part of the large folio livraison as well as another. There are mechanical facilities now and these, with the later discoveries in archa~ology, are the excuse for a repe- tition of the enterprise that Winkel- mann and MUller, when they undertook the collection of the monuments of an- cient art, could not have dreamed of. The plates are beautifully made by a heliographic process, which, besides ab- solute accuracy, reproduces the text- ure of chipped and broken marble, of bronze, and of terra cotta, in the Tana~ gra figurines, to the point of illusion. ZOLAS ESSAYS. ZOLAS new book is of the nature of an argument in defense of himself, his method of writing, and what he believes will be the method of future novelists, and to this is added a very bitter de- nunciation of his foes. If there is any subject about which men will talk with interest, it is about themselves, and this volume is but another confirmation of this already widely-known truth. His theories, as expressed in this book, illustrate the disadvantages of a rigidly logical nature, such as that which distin- guishes the French. Since the general turn of thought at the present day is in the direction of science, he joins, as a volunteer, the advanced band of scien- tific men, and boldly announces that his novels meet contemporary thought more than half-way, because they are strictly scientific. His way of proving this is certainly new: Claude Bernard, in 1865, wrote a valuable statement of the need of studying medicine in a scientific in- 1 Le Roman Exp~irimeutal. Par EMILE ZOLA. 1da: Cliarpentier. Boston: C. Sch6nhof. 1880. stead of an empirical manner, and now Zola advances the theory that what is true of medicine is necessarily true of novel-writing, and indeed of all litera- ture, and that the only thing to do is to give up treating literature as in any way an artistic thing, and to look upon it as simply a science. This theory he undertakes to prove by, as it were, hold- ing on to Claude Bernards skirts, and applying to literature what that eminent authority said about medicine. It is to be noticed, however, that Zola overlooks one possible analogy that might have occurred to another writer; for he says nothing about the fact that medicine has for its sole object the cure of bodies, and that if literature is like medicine it must concern itself with the cure of mens morals. This possible point of re- semblance he disregards, confining him- self merely to the question of method. What Claude Bernard said about the proper method of studying medicine, of investigating the action of drugs, and the countless phenomena of life in health

Zola's Essays 116-119

116 Zolas Essays. [January, come down very late. When we leave Greece of the fifth and fourth centuries, our preference will be for the Egypt of the Pharaohs and Assyria of the Sar- gonides, rather than the iRome of the Ca~sars. All this will give the work novelty and value. The latitude of the scheme is such that, at the end, the possessor will not have any one period or number of periods, or series, of an existing gal- lery complete, but a choice collection from many, made under the guidance of one whose able writing, in the accom- panying letterpress, shows him to pos- sess knowledge, enthusiasm, and wide- ly extended scholarship. Each plate, even, is complete in itself, with its letter- press paged for it alone, and might take its place in one part of the large folio livraison as well as another. There are mechanical facilities now and these, with the later discoveries in archa~ology, are the excuse for a repe- tition of the enterprise that Winkel- mann and MUller, when they undertook the collection of the monuments of an- cient art, could not have dreamed of. The plates are beautifully made by a heliographic process, which, besides ab- solute accuracy, reproduces the text- ure of chipped and broken marble, of bronze, and of terra cotta, in the Tana~ gra figurines, to the point of illusion. ZOLAS ESSAYS. ZOLAS new book is of the nature of an argument in defense of himself, his method of writing, and what he believes will be the method of future novelists, and to this is added a very bitter de- nunciation of his foes. If there is any subject about which men will talk with interest, it is about themselves, and this volume is but another confirmation of this already widely-known truth. His theories, as expressed in this book, illustrate the disadvantages of a rigidly logical nature, such as that which distin- guishes the French. Since the general turn of thought at the present day is in the direction of science, he joins, as a volunteer, the advanced band of scien- tific men, and boldly announces that his novels meet contemporary thought more than half-way, because they are strictly scientific. His way of proving this is certainly new: Claude Bernard, in 1865, wrote a valuable statement of the need of studying medicine in a scientific in- 1 Le Roman Exp~irimeutal. Par EMILE ZOLA. 1da: Cliarpentier. Boston: C. Sch6nhof. 1880. stead of an empirical manner, and now Zola advances the theory that what is true of medicine is necessarily true of novel-writing, and indeed of all litera- ture, and that the only thing to do is to give up treating literature as in any way an artistic thing, and to look upon it as simply a science. This theory he undertakes to prove by, as it were, hold- ing on to Claude Bernards skirts, and applying to literature what that eminent authority said about medicine. It is to be noticed, however, that Zola overlooks one possible analogy that might have occurred to another writer; for he says nothing about the fact that medicine has for its sole object the cure of bodies, and that if literature is like medicine it must concern itself with the cure of mens morals. This possible point of re- semblance he disregards, confining him- self merely to the question of method. What Claude Bernard said about the proper method of studying medicine, of investigating the action of drugs, and the countless phenomena of life in health 1881.] Zolas Essays. 117 and disease, is of great importance and of undoubted truth. Zola urges similar methods on the part of novel-writers. He says: We of the naturalist school submit every fact to observation and ex- periment, while the idealists acknowl- edge mysterious influences that elude analysis, and they consequently remain in the unknown, outside of the laws of nature. . . . All that we do not know, that eludes us, is the ideal: we are con- tinually endeavoring to diminish the ideal, to win truth from what is un- known. We are all idealists, if by that is meant that we busy ourselves with the ideal. Only, I call idealists those who take refuge in the unknown from the pleasure of being there; who like only the most uncertain hypotheses, and re- fuse to submit them to the test of expe- rience, under the pretext that the truth is in them and not in things. They, I repeat, do a vain and evil thing, while the observer and experimenter are the only ones who work in behalf of the power and happiness of man, by render- ing him gradually the master of nature. There is no nobility, or dignity, or beau- ty, in ignorance, in falsehood, in the pre- tension that one is greater the deeper one sinks in error and confusion. The only grand and moral works are those of truth. Again, We are not chem- ists, physicists, or physiologists; we are simply novelists who rely on the sci- ences. Certainly, we do not pretend to make discoveries in physiology; only, before studying man, we think our- selves not justified in refusing to take into account new physiological truths. Our task is the same as that of the men of science. It is impossible to es- tablish any legislation on the falsehoods of the idealists. But on the true docu- ments which the naturalists will produce in time, doubtless, it will be possible to establish a better form of society, which will live by logic and method. From the moment we are true, we are moral. These are inspiring words, and they give one a good opinion of Zolas sin- cerity, although one cannot make out in exactly what respects the novel of the future is to surpass the one with which we are already familiar. The doctrine of heredity is the most precise instance we have given us of the influ- ence that science has upon fiction, yet it is hard to see how it will be possible to enact laws from the facts that novel- writers give us. If the making of laws is to depend on statistics, novels cannot expect to count for much in compari- son with blue-books, and when novels become scientific we have reason to fear that scientific books will become works of fiction. What novels can do and novels have done is to affect enormously mens opin- ions concerning a great many impor- tant questions. Uncle Toms Cabin, for example, was of incalculable service to the cause of emancipation, Tourgu6- nieffs Hunters Sketches helped the abo- lition of serfdom, and there can be but little doubt that A Fools Errand has been a most effective campaign docu- ment during the last few months; yet science has received but little aid from the literary qualities of these books. They have rested on facts, it is true, but their influence has been on the emotions of their readers. They do something which is outside of the accomplishment of any scientific books. It is impossi- ble to collect statistics of the degrada- dation that slavery, for instance, causes. We may read the number of illiterate persons in a given country, but we form thereby as dim a sense of the gloom of ignorance as we do of the terror of bereavement from reading the tables of mortality of, say, Moscow for three years ago. The books that are mentioned above have no scientific value, but what we may call their emotional value is great; and, to take the one of the high- est literary merit, it is Tonrgu6nieffs im- agination that renders his book a piece of real artistic work, especially in corn- Zolas Essays. 118 parison with the somewhat formless texture of the other two. After all, this medication of literature which Zola advocates is only of use so far as it is an appeal in favor of realism in literature. He declares he is making the world over again, when in reality he is but knocking the legs from under the romantic school. Victor Hugo seems to him the incarnation of all that is unreal in literature, and he feels a natural crav- ing to substitute for that writers brill- iant inventions something familiar to human beings. When he says that poet- ry is to be deposed, that it is to be hence- forth only a sort of orchestra to grind out music for the naturalists who shall be working, one can but smile at the way Zolas hobby-horse has run away with him. When we think how broad and magnificent is the stream of liter- ature, we are amazed at the compl~cen- cy of this Frenchman who says it is only to work his mills in future, and not water the shores where poets like to roam. When Zola descends from these some- what vague generalities to the firmer ground of fact, it is interesting to see what he has to say about his friends who imitate him, and his enemies the critics. About these last-named gentlemen he writes with especial severity. He has been accused, it seems, of fondness for the gutter, and he defends himself from this charge by saying that his aim is to portray not merely low life, but all the strata of society; and he carries the war into the territory of the newspapers that have attacked him by giving a few short extracts illustrative of their im- proprieties. Then, too, with much clev- erness, he takes some old criticisms of Balzac, and lets the reader see how the writers of the present day do but re- peat in their denunciations of him the long-forgotten abuse of Balzac. And in speaking of Balzae he strengthens his ground that observation is of the firs)~ importance for a novelist by show- [January, ing how at times Balzaes imagination was fantastic and clumsy, while his ob- servation was, so to speak, infallible. He says, I confess that I have no ad- miration for the author of the Femme de Trente Ans, for the inventor of the type of Vautrin. . . . That is what I call Balzacs phantasmagoria. I have no greater fondness for the aristocratic society which he invented out of the whole cloth, for, with the exception of some few grand types which his genius divined, it makes the reader smile. In a word, Balzacs imagination, which led him into all sorts of exaggeration and a desire to make over the world anew, I find irritating rather than attractive. 11 that had been all his outfit, he would be only a morbid specimen and a curiosity in our literature. But, fortunately, Bal- zac had the keenest perception of real- ity that has ever been seen. His best novels prove this; the Cousine Bette, Eug6nie Grandet,. . . Pare Gori- ot, the Rabouilleuse, the Cousin Pons, and many others. This is discreet crit- icism, and so far forth as they encourage novelists in the careful study of life, words like these cannot fail to be of service. When, too, Zola shows the flimsy unreality of Victor Hugos Ruy Blas, he does good work; but he appears to stray from his beat when he blames all use of the imagination, and affirms that the novel-writer can busy himself solely with observed facts. Take, for instance, if his statements deserve dis- proof, Alfred de Mussets Caprices de Marianne, a little play which certainly is wholly a work of the imagination; how can any one, who does not trim his views of fact to suit his theories, main- tain that it belongs to an inferior order of composition, and that it would be im- proved by full realistic details? The imagination, without a substratum of truth to nature, is apt to become simply melodramatic; with truth to nature, it gives us the masterpieces of all the lit- eratures of various times. Now to assert 1881.] Some Political Novels. 1119 that the imagination is an obsolete thing is like saying that henceforth perspect- ive must never be used in pictures, be- cause it is of the nature of deception; that artists must content themselves with arranging things in different actual planes. When one sees what novels of his contemporaries Zola takes occasion to praise, one feels able to prefer old-fash- ion.ed errors to his new theories. Huys- mans, Paul Alexis, Edmond de Gon- court, are writers of considerable merit, but even if we add Zola to their num- ber we do not find that the revolution in literature is so great as has been said. Their main importance is, so to speak, a local one; they lead a school which comes in good season to teach French novelists that their artificial way of writ- ing unreal novels is a device of the past, but it is hard to escape the impression that they have a certain fondness for un- savory subjects. If it were possible for them so far to alter human nature ns to slay the imagination, they would do harm to literature, and they never will do much good to science; but their sole effect will be to encourage the study of nature, which is the ground on which the imagination must rest. Meanwhile, however, Zolas book will be found very entertaining reading. He denounces the French fondness for beau- ty of form, and he writes with a careless- ness of it that is more effective than the neatest and most polished of epigrams. He speaks from a full heart; he takes himself very seriously, and believes most thoroughly that Balzacs mantle has fall- en on his shoulders. If we could only take his word for his excellence, the matter would be very simple; but while we have his definite statement of his su- periority to every one else, we have, on the other hand, the novels themselves, and they sometimes fail to convey the same impression. Of his volume about them, however, there can hardly be but one opinion; it is entertaining and ex- ceedingly readable, but it is not full of wisdom. SOME POLITICAL NOVELS. THERE are other reasons besides weakness of will which lead people to prefer novels to congressional documents or tables of statistics, even when both have reference to the same problems. Literature has this immense advantage over official reports: that it may take into account the forces which every one knows to be efficient, but cannot reduce to figures, and there is opportunity for such selection in art as shall give one swiftly the really vital points in a great political or social situation. There is no reason in the nature of things why a novel may not be a very truthful and very cogent political argument, since man is a political animal, and the novel excludes nothing which concerns the essential elements of human society. The novelist, too, ought to be more im- partial than the political orator; it is his business to state things as they are, not to plead a cause; he gives a micro- cosm, and gives it most perfectly when he maintains the proportions, on a small- er scale, of the larger world. Judge Tourgees A Fools Errand commended~ itself by its freedom from partisanship;. even in its recital of gross outrages, it was always ready with an explanation, which was not an exculpation, but a reference back to historic causes and transmitted character. A somewhat different ac~ount must be given of Bricks.

Some Political Novels 119-122

1881.] Some Political Novels. 1119 that the imagination is an obsolete thing is like saying that henceforth perspect- ive must never be used in pictures, be- cause it is of the nature of deception; that artists must content themselves with arranging things in different actual planes. When one sees what novels of his contemporaries Zola takes occasion to praise, one feels able to prefer old-fash- ion.ed errors to his new theories. Huys- mans, Paul Alexis, Edmond de Gon- court, are writers of considerable merit, but even if we add Zola to their num- ber we do not find that the revolution in literature is so great as has been said. Their main importance is, so to speak, a local one; they lead a school which comes in good season to teach French novelists that their artificial way of writ- ing unreal novels is a device of the past, but it is hard to escape the impression that they have a certain fondness for un- savory subjects. If it were possible for them so far to alter human nature ns to slay the imagination, they would do harm to literature, and they never will do much good to science; but their sole effect will be to encourage the study of nature, which is the ground on which the imagination must rest. Meanwhile, however, Zolas book will be found very entertaining reading. He denounces the French fondness for beau- ty of form, and he writes with a careless- ness of it that is more effective than the neatest and most polished of epigrams. He speaks from a full heart; he takes himself very seriously, and believes most thoroughly that Balzacs mantle has fall- en on his shoulders. If we could only take his word for his excellence, the matter would be very simple; but while we have his definite statement of his su- periority to every one else, we have, on the other hand, the novels themselves, and they sometimes fail to convey the same impression. Of his volume about them, however, there can hardly be but one opinion; it is entertaining and ex- ceedingly readable, but it is not full of wisdom. SOME POLITICAL NOVELS. THERE are other reasons besides weakness of will which lead people to prefer novels to congressional documents or tables of statistics, even when both have reference to the same problems. Literature has this immense advantage over official reports: that it may take into account the forces which every one knows to be efficient, but cannot reduce to figures, and there is opportunity for such selection in art as shall give one swiftly the really vital points in a great political or social situation. There is no reason in the nature of things why a novel may not be a very truthful and very cogent political argument, since man is a political animal, and the novel excludes nothing which concerns the essential elements of human society. The novelist, too, ought to be more im- partial than the political orator; it is his business to state things as they are, not to plead a cause; he gives a micro- cosm, and gives it most perfectly when he maintains the proportions, on a small- er scale, of the larger world. Judge Tourgees A Fools Errand commended~ itself by its freedom from partisanship;. even in its recital of gross outrages, it was always ready with an explanation, which was not an exculpation, but a reference back to historic causes and transmitted character. A somewhat different ac~ount must be given of Bricks. 120 Some Poli/~ical Novels~ [January, without Straw, where the author seems to us to have come down from the posi- tion which he had taken, and to enter the arena as a somewhat angry and im- patient officer of justice. The title of the story intimates the moral. In his former novel he was intent on discover- ing the folly of the Northern gentleman who undertook his part of the work of reconstructing the South; in this he wishes to show the freedman hidden assert his freedom and citizenship, while yet the means of sustaining the new character is withdrawn from him. The negros sole ally, so to speak, is the North- ern school-mistress, and the author has just missed a fine opportunity for dramat- ic success and poetic justice. INimbus, with his honorable material ambition, and Eliab Hill, expressing the latent spirit- ual force of a delivered race, are both fine conceptions. If Molly Ainslie, the beautiful school-mistress, hisd been truth- fully conceived and delineated in rela- tion to these, there might have heen an exceptionally dramatic and representa- tive epitome of recent history. Unfortu- nately, Judge Tourgee felt it necessary to constitute himself a special champion of this girl, and to justify her to the South- ern gentleman, instead of recording her truthfully and unaffectedly. According- ly, besides the love passages between her and a lay figure of a young Southerner, he has given her special accomplishments to conciliate Southern tastes. He has seemed to say, See, here is a North- ern girl who can ride a splendid horse; you must nt think only Southern girls are brave and daring; and in an off- hand way, that she may not he taken as an exceptional case, he remarks, Even in her New England home she had been passionately fond of a horse, and while at school had been carefully trained in horsemanship, being a prime favorite with the old French riding-master who 1 Bricks without ~Straw. A Novel. By AL-. BION W. TOURGEE, LL. D. New York: Fords, .Howard and Hulbert. 1880. had charge of that branch of educatior in the seminary of her native town, in Berkshire, where every one knows, of course, that French Jmigres are attached in that capacity to most of the high- schools. She is made to take a daring leadership of the blacks in an impending riot, and avert the consequences in a manner calculated to fire the susceptible young Southern heart; and she has a perilous ride on a fiery steed for more specific purpose of the same kind. Final- ly, she is gifted with a lordly pride, as a match for that of the mother of her lover, and the disdain of the Southern lady is answered hy the haughtiness of the Northern. All this cheap melodra- matic business makes the novel com- monplace, and weakens ones confidence in the political tract. Nevertheless some of the scenes illus- trative of the struggles of the freedman to make his tale of bricks are very effect- ive. The acquisition of a name, the sanctification of marital relations, the effort for an education, the ill-starred assertion of manhood suffrage, these are described with much nervous and hu- morous power, which makes one regret that the author should have been, as he apparently was, more eager to make a campaign tract than a work of imagina- tion and description, which should sur- vive the presidential election of 1880. Indeed, there are glimpses of better thought. It is a pity that the authors suggestive and forcible comparison of the Northern town with the Southern fiction of the same, given at the ~end of the hook, should not have had an earlier and more component part in the story. He has left out of view, hesides, what history demands as a completion of the picture, the scenes of negro political ascendency, and the disgraceful alliance with the baser Northern element. In one of his books he complains that the North joined in the hue and cry after the carpet-bagger; but the North de- tested what was detestable, and applied 1881.] Some Political Novels. 121 that name not with the indiscriminate- ness which he charges upoa the South. Upon the whole, one will find many ad- mirable sketches of negro life in the book, some good portraitures of South- ern blood, a few earnest protests against political folly, excellent suggestions as to radical causes, but no compact and well-studied statement, in fictitious form, of a great subject, and a specimen of novel - writing which is hardly worth serious attention. There are marks of hasty writing everywhere. The strong points of A Fools Errand are repeated here with weakened force; the blemishes and structural short-comings of that book are made emphatic. The value of A Year of Wreck as a contribution to our political history is perhaps not as great as it was to the characters who survived the experience, and lived, according to the postscript, to look back fourteen years afterward with the calmness of prosperity upon an ap- parently profitless investment. It is a narrative, told without much art, of a small party from the Northwest who were allured by visions of sudden wealth to a cotton plantation on the Mississippi in 1866. All possible misadventures and discouragements seem to have been com- pressed into that year. The people among whom they lived, the soil in which they planted, the water they drank, the air they breathed, all conspired to defeat their purpose. They were attacked by innumerable foes of nature, and the civ- ilization in which they had encamped was hostile to them. The result is brief- ly summed up in arithmetical form in the preface Promise $108,000.00 Result 6,564.27 Dsficit 101,435.73 Yet the strongest impression made upon the reader is that all these obstacles com- bined scarcely equaled the difficulties raised by the ignorance and folly of the persons who engaged in the venture. The author, who sometimes writes in the first person, sometimes in the third, ap- parently has little compunction in play- ing Dogberry to the publics Conrade. The book contains, no doubt, a picture which is reflected in other mens fortunes who undertook a like experiment, but it is hard to believe that many embarked in the enterprise of Southern colonization who were so utterly disqualified by for- mer experience and training for the life they were to lead. The view of Southern anarchy here given is scarcely more val- uable as a historical contribution than the failure of these innocent cotton planters as a lesson upon the folly of expecting success without the use of the most ordinary means. The writer has not the skill to select from the multitu- dinous events of a disastrous year those which shall remain in the memory as typical and valuable, and yet has at- tempted to animate his narrative, so that we have a body of fragmentary inci- dents, with just enough attendant fiction to make us hesitate about accepting the whole as a veritable experience. Yet, after all, ungracious as it is, we are forced to think that the author could scarcely have told a story reflecting so hardly upon his wisdom, unless it had been sub- stantially true. The experience of these luckless cot- ton planters is of larger dimensions than that told by a young man and his wife in How I found it North and South.2 This can scarcely be called a political novel, but is conveniently classed with books that treat of personal experience in agriculture in the two sections. Here, the young farmer and his wife are not unused to the work. They make no sud- den and rash change from city to coun- try life, but return to farm-work in Massachusetts after a trial of city life. A Year of Wreck. A True Story. By a 2 how I found it North and South; together Victim. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1880. with Marys Statement. Boston: Lee and Shep- ard. 1880. 122 Books for Young People. [January, The larger part of the little book is taken up with the narrative of the young man, who relates in detail his experience in carrying on a milk farm, and then, discouraged at this, his attempt at win- ning a rapid fortune in a Florida orange grove. The latter part of the book is occupied by the wifes account of their first trial of farm life immediately after marriage, and before their ten years in the city. It is an odd way to make a book, and we advise readers to get a clearer chronological view of this mat- ter-of-fact couple by beginning with Marys Statement. The low key in which the whole story is pitched renders it an eminently safe book for those who know of farming and orange groves only by hearsay, and fancy that the life in either way would have great charms. The story is so homely and plain that we easily believe it to be in accordance with fact. It would not be worth any ones while to imagine anything so uneventful and dull as the life of these people. Yet the very simplicity of the narrative has a faint attraction for the reader. Occasionally a little show of humor relieves the pages, but the chief joy which the reader gets is in a contemplation of the patience and sincerity of the young farmer and his wife and children. Here is a life which thousands of families may be living to- day, honest, toilsome, hard, and to the ordinary view unlovely and hopeless; yet what a solid basis it offers for a na- tions prosperity! The contrast between the river life as shown in A Year of Wreck, and of the Florida life as hinted at in this book, with the close, scraping existence on a New England farm is very striking and suggestive. Trans- plant the stocky virtues compelled to thrive in such barren soil into the lux- uriant ground of more fertile regions, and what possibilities of national well- being are presented! BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. MR. SIDNEY LAKIER has followed his Boys Froissart of last year with an equally acceptable Boys King Arthur. The second book lacks the special his- torical basis which makes Froissart so real, and boys as well as older people will be likely to feel the vagueness and lack of form which remove King Arthur from history and place him in literature. It is in English literature, not in Eng- lish history or tradition, that these sto- ries have taken root, but for that very reason they have a value for us not so apparent in Froissarts Chronicles. It will be for philosophers hereafter to explain the sympathy which the busy 1 The Boys King Arthur. Being Sir Thomas Malorys History of King Arthur and his Knights zf the Round Table. Edited for boys, with an In- nineteenth century has with that myth- ical England, fighting not for empire but for ladies and honor: enough for us that the stories, freed from the al- loy of a too frank generation, deposit deeds of chivalry and adventure crowned by that wonderful legend of the Sanc- greal, surely the most poetical that sprang from media3val simplicity. Mr. Lanier asks the somewhat pointless question in his preface, Will the time ever come wten Hamlet will be a boys tale ? as if there were not certain eter- nal relations between youth and litera- ture which make the young, whether in age or in society, to appropriate the ad- troduction, by SIDNEY LANIER. Illustrated by Ai~- FRED KArrus. New York: Charles Scribners Sons. 1880.

Books for Young People 122-126

122 Books for Young People. [January, The larger part of the little book is taken up with the narrative of the young man, who relates in detail his experience in carrying on a milk farm, and then, discouraged at this, his attempt at win- ning a rapid fortune in a Florida orange grove. The latter part of the book is occupied by the wifes account of their first trial of farm life immediately after marriage, and before their ten years in the city. It is an odd way to make a book, and we advise readers to get a clearer chronological view of this mat- ter-of-fact couple by beginning with Marys Statement. The low key in which the whole story is pitched renders it an eminently safe book for those who know of farming and orange groves only by hearsay, and fancy that the life in either way would have great charms. The story is so homely and plain that we easily believe it to be in accordance with fact. It would not be worth any ones while to imagine anything so uneventful and dull as the life of these people. Yet the very simplicity of the narrative has a faint attraction for the reader. Occasionally a little show of humor relieves the pages, but the chief joy which the reader gets is in a contemplation of the patience and sincerity of the young farmer and his wife and children. Here is a life which thousands of families may be living to- day, honest, toilsome, hard, and to the ordinary view unlovely and hopeless; yet what a solid basis it offers for a na- tions prosperity! The contrast between the river life as shown in A Year of Wreck, and of the Florida life as hinted at in this book, with the close, scraping existence on a New England farm is very striking and suggestive. Trans- plant the stocky virtues compelled to thrive in such barren soil into the lux- uriant ground of more fertile regions, and what possibilities of national well- being are presented! BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. MR. SIDNEY LAKIER has followed his Boys Froissart of last year with an equally acceptable Boys King Arthur. The second book lacks the special his- torical basis which makes Froissart so real, and boys as well as older people will be likely to feel the vagueness and lack of form which remove King Arthur from history and place him in literature. It is in English literature, not in Eng- lish history or tradition, that these sto- ries have taken root, but for that very reason they have a value for us not so apparent in Froissarts Chronicles. It will be for philosophers hereafter to explain the sympathy which the busy 1 The Boys King Arthur. Being Sir Thomas Malorys History of King Arthur and his Knights zf the Round Table. Edited for boys, with an In- nineteenth century has with that myth- ical England, fighting not for empire but for ladies and honor: enough for us that the stories, freed from the al- loy of a too frank generation, deposit deeds of chivalry and adventure crowned by that wonderful legend of the Sanc- greal, surely the most poetical that sprang from media3val simplicity. Mr. Lanier asks the somewhat pointless question in his preface, Will the time ever come wten Hamlet will be a boys tale ? as if there were not certain eter- nal relations between youth and litera- ture which make the young, whether in age or in society, to appropriate the ad- troduction, by SIDNEY LANIER. Illustrated by Ai~- FRED KArrus. New York: Charles Scribners Sons. 1880. 1881.] Books for Young People. 123 venture, not the reflection, the ideal, not the speculative. It is a rare good fort- une that such stories as these should be brought within reach of children, whose hunger might otherwise be appeased by the lower forms of adventure, which are allied with insolence and mere lawless- ness. In editing the book Mr. Lanier has shown excellent judgment: for in the first place he has ordered the confused succession of Sir Thomas Malorys book, and grouped the chapters according as they relate to this or that knight; then he has carefully dropped out of sight all grossness, and he has quickened the nar- rative by the omission of episodical or dull chapters, the condensation into a paragraph of his own of what was drawn out unnecessarily, and the erasure here and there of superfluous sentences and words. Any one who has rambled through the apparently incoherent chap- ters of Malory will appreciate this serv- ice which a wise and sympathetic litt6- rateur has rendered. He has not taken liberties with the text, but has corrected the looseness of the previous editor. The illustrations are defective in point of subject. The violent is emphasized, and the gentler phases which belong to an interpretative art are disregarded. But their shadowy character is fitting to these morning twilight stories. The art in King Arthur is like tap- estry to our modern eyes, and there is plenty of photographic flatness in the ordinary art of the boys book. Here, for example, is Mr. Noah Brookss The Fairport Nine, which is a matter-of- fact story of boy life, forgotten almost before it is finished. A succession of adventures and pranks, sometimes amus- ingly told, with plenty of harmless non- sense, one gets this, and asks fairly for a little more from so frank and honest 1 The Fairport Nine. By NOAH Bnooxs. New York: Charles Scribuers Sons. 1880. 2 The Worst Boy in Town. By the Author of Helens Babies. New York: G. P. Putnams Sons. 1880. a writer. Is it quite worth while to tell so easily these rambling incidents, which seem half drawn from memory, without going just a little behind them for that recollection of life which a grown man has a right to share with his boy read- ers? What is the use of his growing up if he merely repeats in such a book his boyish experience, without casting back a little light from his manhood? It is not preachment that we want, but the help that comes from the older friend who does not efface his age when he makes companions of the boys. Mr. Habberton, we must complain, in his sympathy with the baddish boy,2 lays the blame for his misconduct on anybody but the boy himself. To ac- count for Jack being the worst boy in town he makes his father, a country doctor, to act as if he had neither recol- lection of his own boyhood nor common intelligence of character. There is one touch of humor and nature in the book in the secret determination of the boy to surprise his parents at some future day by an act of magnanimity, but the story is a caricature, and an offensive one, and its chief effect must be to sug- gest new tricks and devices to ingenu- ous youth. Miss Alcotts Jack and Jill ~ has the merits of her writing more conspicuous- ly than the faults. There is the gener- ous confidence in children which she al- ways shows, the rosy light in whichshe looks upon the hobbledehoy period, and the persistent lesson of kindness, charity, and amiable sacrifice. The scenes are lively, the incidents varied, and a cheer- fulness predominates which is justified by the unfailing success of every char- acter in the book. Yet there is nothing like real character drawing, and the air of life in the book is secured not by an endowment of the persons represented, 3 Jack and Jill. A Village Story. By LouIsA M. ALCOTT. With Illustrations. Boston: Rob- erts Brothers. 1880. j 124 Books for Young People. [January, but by the animation and cheeriness of the author. Nor can we altogether find satisfaction in the suppressed love-mak- ing of these young people. The author protests that she is only drawing the picture of a natural society of boys and girls who are soon to be young men and young women, but there is a self-con- sciousness about the book on this side which impairs its simplicity. We are, no doubt, unreasonable readers; we ob- ject to the blood-and-thunder literature, and when in place of it we have the milk-and-sugar we object again. What do we want? We get something, certainly, of the real thing in Mr. Stocktons new book for children. Here the principal char- acters are two boys and a girl, of the same age as Miss Alcotts heroes and heroines. Is it a difference of locality which makes the difference in their ways? These are from the Middle States, and we cannot see but they are quite as well bred as the children of Harmony Village, yet they have in their favor a charming unconsciousness of the future. The relation is wholesome, frank, and matter of fact; there appears not to be a suspicion of ulterior love- making, while there is the heartiest and most natural friendship. The incidents turn upon travel in the Southern waters, and once given the notion of a boy of sixteen being sent off with one just a little younger as an amateur traveling tutor, and all else follows simply and in good taste. The adventure is not highly spiced, except in one instance, and then the author shows his literary conscience by a restrained use of an exciting event; but the novelty of the situations is al- ways enough to retain the readers in- terest. Mr. Stocktons dry humor and innocent badinage make a capital ac companiment to the story, and we com- mend it heartily as a bright and honest book for both boys and girls. New Bed-Time Stories 2 is a further collection by Mrs. Moulton of short sto- iies. The title suggests their use at. the hour when children have ceased their activity and are composed for the night. They are short enough to be read by the mother or aunt before the child drops asleep, and they carry no horrors for the freighting of dreams. We doubt a little whether they would be quite as ac- ceptable at lunch-time, say, for they are rather sentimental, and lack the fresh- ness and sturdiness of a thoroughly good story. We find the same fault, too, with some of them which affects Miss Alcotts stories: the girls and boys grav- itate toward one another with unerring facility and velocity. Mr. Griffis, who has been acceptably before the public as an authority upon Japanese subjects, offers for the amuse- ment of children some Japanese fairy tales,3 which are always curious and oc- casionally pretty in their fancy. There is a singularly charming conceit in the story of The Fire-Flys Lovers, where the innumerable lovers in the insect world were promised in turn the hand of the Fire-Fly, if they would bring to her a spark of fire. Each, accordingly, rushes at candle, lamp, coal, phosphorus, or any giver of spark, but each perishes in the flames, for they are only base- born lovers, and the Prince of Fire-Flies alone succeeds, for he brings the fire on his own person. There is in most of the stories a total absence of the moral ele- ment, and one discovers a play of fancy, commonly, rather than a work of imagi- nation. There are frequent reminders iu these Japanese stories of familiar fairy tales, but it is a little difficult and 1 A Jolly Fellowship. By FRANK II. STOcK- - 8 Japanese Fairy World. Stories from the TON. Illustrated. New York: Charles Scribners Wonder-Lore of Japan. By WILLIAM ELLIOT Sons. 1880. GRIFFIS. Illustrated by OZAwA, of Tokio. Sche- 2 New Bed-Time ,Stos-ies. By LouIsE CHAND- nectady, N. Y.: James H. Barhyte. 1880. LEN MOULTON. With Illustrations. Boston: Rob- erts Brothers. 1880. 1881.] Books for Young People. 125 unsafe to institute close comparison with Western fairy tales, for much has first to be assured of the competency and the trustworthiness of the narrator. School- crafts Algic Researches illustrate well the perils of one who seeks for legends in another race. The stories are slight and unartistic in form, and rather mea- gre in suggestion. It is not a wide remove from Japan- ese fairy tales to travels in Siam and Java. Mr. Thomas W. Knox follows his volume on Japan and China with a similar one for these countries, in which the same personal apparatus is used. It has become so much a matter of course for books of travel for the young to con- tain description and narrative set in a frame-work of colloquy and personal adventure, that writers who are pro- fusely informed and properly equipped for the substantial part of the work adopt all the machinery which has be- come familiar, apparently without stop- ping to consider how qualified they are to use it. In this book, for instance, of four hundred and fifty large pages, pro- fusely illustrated, all the apparatus of Doctor Bronson and his two wards, Frank and Fred, is entirely superfluous; it only impedes the narrative, and makes besides a naturally rather stiff style more stiff by showing the author without light- ness or dramatic skill, where those qual- ities are essential to success. The boys cannot be told apart, and there is scarce- ly any difference between their speech and that of the older peoples. Some- thing more is needed than the form of such a book to make it lively, and it is a mistake to suppose that young people do not care for travel except under the fiction that they are traveling in com- 1 The Boy Travelers in the Far East. Part Second. Adventures of Two Youths in a Journey to Siam and Java, with Descriptions of Cochin China, Cambodia, Sumatra, and the Malay Archi- pelago. By THoMAs W. Knox. Illustrated. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1881. 2 ,Some Heroes of Travel; or, Chapters from the History of Geographical Discovery and En- pany with other young people. How- ever, there are enough pictures and facts to fill the most cormorant of boy read- ers, and his memory will have to do the work of selection which the author has failed to perform. The method of Mr. Davenport Adams illustrates the point we have made. Mr. Adams is an industrious book-maker, and in Some Heroes of Travel 2 he has gained space for a wide range of inci- dent by refusing to encumber himself with any fictitious ap~1aratus. He con- fines himself, with one exception, to the exploits of modern travelers, and after a digest of Marco Polo he gives a sums of the narratives of Mr. Ruxton in Mexico and the Rocky Mountains, Dr Barth in Central Africa, Mr. Atkinson in Siberia, Sir Samuel Baker at the sources of the Nile, Major Burnaby in his ride to Khiva, and other equally famous and well-known travelers. The choice might have included the Arctic regions, but the editor seems to have confined himself to books which have been less served up to boys than others no more famous. The chief value of such books is where they create a de- mand for the fuller narratives. Mr. Coffin,8 who has won a large au- dience of boys, brings them a book which is conceived with the idea of disclosing some of the forces as well as the facts of our history. He casts his eyes over the colonies, and seeks for those preg- nant incidents which are both dramatic in their action and expository of historic ideas, but it is a little unfortunate that he should present history always in a striking attitude. The book is a succes- sion of shouts, and both scenes and pict- ures are liable to be hysterical. Per- terprise. With Maps. Compiled and rewritten by W. H. DAVEnPORT ADAMS. London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge; New York: Pott, Young & Co. 1880. ~ Old Times in the Golonies. By CHARLES CARLETON Corrin. Illustrated. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1881. a 126 Horace BusAnell. [January, haps all this is hypercritical, and we should take shame at condemning a his- torical book for sensationalism, when we are always proposing to fight fire with fire, and to win boys away from very spicy fiction by offering them equally animated history. Nevertheless, we still believe that history depends for its in- terest upon other charm than declama- tion and a half-ranting style. We are a little afraid that the young people who ride Mr. Coffins galloping horse will get to the end of their journey with expe- dition, but with rather a confused recol- lection of the objects they passed on the road. It would be but a vain and futile almanac which should prophesy a new year, unless about the same time there appeared a fresh Bodley book to con- firm the promise, according to the usage now five years established; or if the new year did happen to come without the Bodley book, we do not see how the children could be expected to welcome it. We never can imagine what the Bodley avatar is to be, from autumn to autumn; but that is an affair which we confidently leave to Mr. Scudder (if we may mention his name in this connec- tion), and we are never disappointed. If Mr. Bodley had not gone abroad, this time, leaving his family to a summer of excursioning and local history in the Old Colony and the White Mountains, but had gone to~ the moon instead, and had written home letters from that little.fre- quented field of travel, we should have been equally, but no better pleased. He and they, wherever they are, are al- ways entertaining; their adventures are charmingly told and their surroundings sketched with a light and graphic hand; the stories and poems which they hap- pen to bring in show always a catholic taste and an absolute gift for divining what will please children and teach them something. How or by what right the illustrations get where they are, and whether they suggest the text, or the text suggests them, is a secret of the authors clever workmanship into which we will not too nicely inquire; it is enough that they successfully comple- ment each other, and seem always to be just what the children would naturally be interested in at the given moment. In work which is so largely and frankly one of compilation, the wonder is that the author is so well able to charac- terize and maintain the characters of his people, whose chief business is often merely to narrate, or to sing, or to read aloud, or to listen; but the integrity of each of the original group is perfectly respected, and from time to time there is a new personage added who enter- tainingly differs from all the others. Mr. Scudder makes a desperate feint of dismissing our old favorites, at the end, by speaking of the children as in the course of nature ceasing to be children; but we trust he will not so easily get rid of them. If they must grow up, we shall hope to have the Bodleys in their second childhood. HORACE BUSHNELL. FEW men have been more thoroughly the product of the soil than Horace Bushnell. The fact that he was born 1 Mr. Bodlei~ Abroad. With Illustrations. Boston: Houghton, Muffin & Co. 1881. and bred in New England, that he lived and thought upon a granite foundation, was apparent to every one who came in contact with him; and yet above and beyond this was the personality of the

Horace Bushnell 126-130

126 Horace BusAnell. [January, haps all this is hypercritical, and we should take shame at condemning a his- torical book for sensationalism, when we are always proposing to fight fire with fire, and to win boys away from very spicy fiction by offering them equally animated history. Nevertheless, we still believe that history depends for its in- terest upon other charm than declama- tion and a half-ranting style. We are a little afraid that the young people who ride Mr. Coffins galloping horse will get to the end of their journey with expe- dition, but with rather a confused recol- lection of the objects they passed on the road. It would be but a vain and futile almanac which should prophesy a new year, unless about the same time there appeared a fresh Bodley book to con- firm the promise, according to the usage now five years established; or if the new year did happen to come without the Bodley book, we do not see how the children could be expected to welcome it. We never can imagine what the Bodley avatar is to be, from autumn to autumn; but that is an affair which we confidently leave to Mr. Scudder (if we may mention his name in this connec- tion), and we are never disappointed. If Mr. Bodley had not gone abroad, this time, leaving his family to a summer of excursioning and local history in the Old Colony and the White Mountains, but had gone to~ the moon instead, and had written home letters from that little.fre- quented field of travel, we should have been equally, but no better pleased. He and they, wherever they are, are al- ways entertaining; their adventures are charmingly told and their surroundings sketched with a light and graphic hand; the stories and poems which they hap- pen to bring in show always a catholic taste and an absolute gift for divining what will please children and teach them something. How or by what right the illustrations get where they are, and whether they suggest the text, or the text suggests them, is a secret of the authors clever workmanship into which we will not too nicely inquire; it is enough that they successfully comple- ment each other, and seem always to be just what the children would naturally be interested in at the given moment. In work which is so largely and frankly one of compilation, the wonder is that the author is so well able to charac- terize and maintain the characters of his people, whose chief business is often merely to narrate, or to sing, or to read aloud, or to listen; but the integrity of each of the original group is perfectly respected, and from time to time there is a new personage added who enter- tainingly differs from all the others. Mr. Scudder makes a desperate feint of dismissing our old favorites, at the end, by speaking of the children as in the course of nature ceasing to be children; but we trust he will not so easily get rid of them. If they must grow up, we shall hope to have the Bodleys in their second childhood. HORACE BUSHNELL. FEW men have been more thoroughly the product of the soil than Horace Bushnell. The fact that he was born 1 Mr. Bodlei~ Abroad. With Illustrations. Boston: Houghton, Muffin & Co. 1881. and bred in New England, that he lived and thought upon a granite foundation, was apparent to every one who came in contact with him; and yet above and beyond this was the personality of the 1881.] Iloraoe I3us1~nell. 127 man himself, the unique way in which his vital force reached the world, and this was so marked that no one who had once met him in the free play of con- versation, or had even heard him preach, could forget his speech or his presence. This personality cropped out as decided- ly in his theological writings as in the less formal exhibition of his thought. It gave strength and power to his work. Not the head of a school of theology, not in any sense a leader, rather soli- tary among thinkers, his personality was comparatively stronger on account of this isolation, and what was peculiar to him in mind and character was thus always seen to advantage. The biography of such an indigenous man ought to open the sources of his strength and exhibit his personal and mental growth, and this has been admi- rably done hy his daughter in the Life and Letters she has edited. What is inmost in such a man always goes into his hooks. The solitude of thought be- trays him into confession to himself, and what fits him for this solitude can he traced through boyhood and youth until it takes on full proportions in ripening manhood. It is from this point of view that Dr. Bushnells biography derives its chief interest. The story is fascinating in itself. It shows how an exceptionally bright New England boy made elbow- room for himself in the wide world; but its chief value is in revealing the steps by which he became a strong and inde- pendent thinker, the hardening of the muscle and the tempering of the mind for the growing thoughts. Horace Bush- nell was born on the 14th of April, 1802, in Litchfield, Conn. His parents were religious and belonged, the father to the Methodist, the mother to the Episcopal, Church. If ever there was a child of Christian nurture, says his younger brother, he was one; nurtured, I will not say, in the formulas of theology as 1 Life and Letters of Horace Bushnell. New York: Harper and Brothers. 1880. sternly as some; . . . not nurtured in what might be called the emotional ele- ments of religion as fervently as some, but nurtured in the facts and principles of the Christian faith in their bearing upon the life and character; and if ever a man was true to the fundamental prin- ciples and the customs which prevailed in his early home, even to his latest years, he was. His mother and his grandmother had a large part in the fashioning of his mind and heart. His love of conquest was first awakened at the district school, where, as a smaller boy, he was made the butt of the school bullies. Awakening suddenly to this fact, he chose the roughest and most in- tolerable of the number, and thrashed him thoroughly in the presence of the whole school. He got education out of everything. He knew how to put ex- tortion upon common things, and press the wine of life out of them. When only a boy he had belonged to a debat- ing society, and thenceforth was always eager to be in the centre of every group of intelligent talkers. While preparing for college, he refused to be a monitor over his fellow-students, saying that he was at school not to watch other stu- dents, but to study; and, while await- ing the beginning of his freshman year at Yale, he built a solid stone dam above his fathers mill, which stands firm to this day, though the mill itself has fall- en to pieces. He was restlessly active all through the period of youth, and every day had its characteristic incident. In college he lived the life of a scholar, original, retired, peculiar, independent, who had an interior life, with which neither stranger nor friend could inter- meddle, never less alone than when alone with himself and his books. He was mature for his years, and even then had the peculiar style of writing which marked his riper work, and had put on record in a college essay his ambition to leave behind him a name that should be remembered. He was an excel1eu~ de 128 Horace Bushnell. [January, hater, a leader in all college sports, and went by the name of Bully Bush. He spent a year in the editorial charge of the Journal of Commerce after leav- ing college, remarking that he would rather lay stone-wall any time than teach school, and after passing through a season of intense religions doubt, while a tutor in college, at length reached sure ground, and entered the New Haven theological school, of which Dr. N. W. Taylor was then the head. Here he found a bracing mental atmosphere in which he felt at home. It was to him a seed-time, and some of his essays at this period became the germs of his later thought. It was characteristic of him that he attempted to prove the existence of a moral Governor of the universe in a fresh way, and that he put fresh think- ing into everything that was taught him. 1-us first and only parish was in Hart- ford, where he was ordained in May, 1833. Many of his earlier discourses were published in the volume entitled Sermons for the New Life. They were modeled essentially upon the old-school plan shorn of its Calvinistic severity, and discussed the ethical side of Christian experience from a broader and higher plane of thought than was then common; but they were in those days and since sermons which the preacher could dis- tinctly call his own, and which mnrched upon essentially the same lines as those which Newman was then preaching to wondering and delighted audiences in the pulpit of St. Marys, Oxford. They were always written out in full, and read, never extemporized, never committed to memory. He knew how to control the effect of his services so that prayers, hymns, lesson, text, and sermon con- verged to a central point, and heightened the impression of the leading thought of the hour. The earlier period of his pastorate was a seething time. He published lit- tie and thought much. It was not until 1846 that he appeared as an author, and then it was chiefly in the r6le of a theo- logical reformer, opposing the intense individualism of the prevalent theology, and emphasizing the organic life of the family, the church, and society at large, wherein no soul lives or acts alone as a unit. The church in New England had recognized no gradual growth into Chris- tianity, and his Christian Nurture was a rare and influential plea in behalf of the children of the flock. Heresy was snuffed in it, and Dr. Bushnell was soon surrounded by hostile brethren, who were destined to have plenty of work on their hands in trying to count up the heresies of an original thinker and con- fine him within the pale of orthodoxy. Two years later the commotion reached its height, when, in close succession at Cambridge, New Haven, and Andover, he quickly laid bare his opinions upon all the central issues of Christianity. The occasions came unsought, and his thought simply rose to the opportunity of utterance. For the next quarter of a century there was no peace for this theological athlete. lie never swerved from the positions which he had taken in the beginning, though he and his con- gregation found themselves almost os- tracized from their brethren; nor did he descend into the angry arena of de- bate. The body at length moved round to him, as it became leavened with his thought, not he to the body. He thought out by himself the methods by which the Calvinistic system could be supple- mented with the truth which it had ig- nored, and was simply in the vanguard of the thinkers of his day, not founding a school, not departing from his individ- uality as a Christian thinker, not doing more than scattering seed-truths abroad in his books, and yet in this way doing as effectual work for his generation as Edwards or Channing did for theirs. The book in which Nature and the Sn- pernatural, The Vicarious Sacrifice, and Forgiveness and Law were as latent 1881.] Horace Busirnell. 129 thought was God in Christ, to which he prefixed an elaborate essay on lan- guage, embodying in it peculiar views of the relation of words to thoughts, views which are in some sense the key to his opinions, though it cannot be said that they have been adopted by others. All words, in his view, are only incar- nations or insensings of thought. They are more or less inaccurate as represen- tations of thought, and hence truth is never so well expressed or rounded out as when it is presented paradoxically. Looking at theological disputes from this point of view, he reached the higher plane where spiritual truth is enfran- chised, and sought to do his own work, as it were, in the still upper air where men substantially agree. If the word may be allowed, he created a theology of his own; he lived in the atmosphere of speculative thought; his books were the outgrowth of his own spiritual ex- perience; and nothing is more valu- able in his Life and Letters than the tracing of this spiritual growth by the hand of his daughter. He stood in New England in some sense where Thomas Erskine, of Linlathen, stood in Scottish religious thought, as the prophet of a new day, as the softener of old tradi- tions, as the spiritual interpreter of the thought which men were feeling out for. lie ventured out again and again upon the ragged edge of so-called or- thodoxy~ and was ready to recognize the truths presented by the liberal thought of the time; and, if he erred, it was the error of the head, not of the heart. My hope, said he in a letter to Dr. Bartol, just before his God in Christ was pub- lished, alluding to that work, is not that it will convert anybody to me or my ways, but, what is dearer to me by far and more welcome, that it will start up inquiries of a different type, and lead to thoughts of a different character from those which have occupied the field of New England theology, and so to re- visions, recastings, new affinities, more VOL. XLVII. No. 279. 9 faith and less dogma, and, above all, to a more catholic and fraternal spirit. I expect to be set upon all round the cir- cle; and yet I have a confidence that a class of men who have heart enough to go into the testhetic side of religion, and eyes to see something besides proposi- tional wisdom, will admit that I have some truth in my representations. The book did stir up men to take issue against him, but the author kept silent, never replying to his critics, simply dropping his thoughts into the world, and leaving them to take care of them& ~elves and assert their power. All through the painful controversies of that generation, Dr. Bushnell behaved like a Christian and gentleman, and, much of the time, was too deeply absorbed in the develop- ment of his own thought to pay much heed to the contest which he had origi- nated. The year 1848the year in which he delivered the Discourses that gave the key to his theological position was the central point in his life. It was a year of great experiences, great thoughts, great labors. At its beginning he had reached one of those headlands where new discoveries open to the sight, and his own heart had been subdued by the recent death of his son. He felt that God had taken his son, and revealed to him more distinctly than ever before his own eternal Son. It was this serene faith which guided him henceforth not more through the heat of controversy than through years of ill health, brought on by overwork and continued down to the end of his life. Dr. Bushnell was a growing man to the close of his career. Book after book took shape in his busy brain; and occu- pied every hour in which he was fit for work. His speculative activity was cease- less, but it was chiefly in the direction of theology. He threw into these specu- lations his energy, his imagination, his reason. He had all the furnishings for great work in this direction, and great 130 The Origin of Religion. [January, work he did, work of its sort unequaled by any American, work veined through and through, with his peculiarities of style, and thought, and yet work unique of its kind and not more venturesome than inspiring. It is said that it takes a man of strong imagination to make a great theologian. Edwards and Chan- ning were men who curbed the imagina- tion that it might obey the dictates of reason; but it was this faculty which they used to hold up spiritual truth be- fore the eyes of men, and in a manner it created the truth by which they lived. Dr. Bushnell, with all the hamperings of his creed, had a superb imagination. It enabled him, though largely a solitary student, to enter into the intellectual and spiritual life of his time, and gather into himself its lines of thought, without be- coming a man of affairs, and it is this faculty which endows his writings with a certain amount of permanent vitality. Dr. Bushnell worked, singularly enough, along the lines of catholic truth as held in the great Christian creeds, without seeming to be aware that some of his work had been very ably done before him. He liked to be independent in his religion as in his politics, and could never bring himself to call any man mas- ter; but if he sometimes worked out con- clusions which were not new, it will be difficult to find any theological writer four time, save perhaps Maurice, and Stanley, and Jowett, who has done more to set men to thinking on~the chief prob- lems of the spiritual life. Opinions will vary as to the value of his theological ideas, but there can be but one thought in regard to the robust manliness and rich genius of the man himself. His biography reveals a man who was much alone, whose mind was mostly engaged upon religious themes, whose range of activity was within quite definite limits; but take him for the work he did, it is the story of the inner life of one of the strongest and truest men who have ever sprung out of our New England soil. THE ORIGIN OF RELIGION. TIlE enormous difficulties in the way and the costly outfit necessary to prose- cute the study will prevent any consid- erable number of men, in any genera- tion, from becoming Egyptologists. But there is evidently a great and increasing interest on the part of the reading pub- lic in the discoveries, deductions, and inferences of the learned explorers who are slowly re-creating the fabric of the Egyptian empire. The labors of Lep- sins, Brugsch, De Roug~, and others have been largely devoted to the col- lection and coordination of facts. Dr. 1 The Origin and Growth ~f Religion, as illus- trated by the Re1i~qion q/ Ancient Egypt. Br P. LE PAGE RE1~our. New York: Charles Scrib- ers Sons. 1880. Brugsch, in particular, has imitated the patience as well as the marvelous con- structive skill of the comparative anaL- omist in arranging the membra disjecta of Egyptian history. He has put kings and their edifices, statues, poets, gener.- als, and expeditions in something like chronological order, has given a back- bone to parts whose relations have been heretofore wholly conjectural. What- ever merit may be claimed for other great scholars, this is the great distine- tion of the author of Egypt under the Pharaohs. But Dr. Brugsch and most of his associates take so many things for granted that the general reader is apt to be lost for want of lucid explanations. They mention the Rosetta Stone, the

The Origin of Religion 130-133

130 The Origin of Religion. [January, work he did, work of its sort unequaled by any American, work veined through and through, with his peculiarities of style, and thought, and yet work unique of its kind and not more venturesome than inspiring. It is said that it takes a man of strong imagination to make a great theologian. Edwards and Chan- ning were men who curbed the imagina- tion that it might obey the dictates of reason; but it was this faculty which they used to hold up spiritual truth be- fore the eyes of men, and in a manner it created the truth by which they lived. Dr. Bushnell, with all the hamperings of his creed, had a superb imagination. It enabled him, though largely a solitary student, to enter into the intellectual and spiritual life of his time, and gather into himself its lines of thought, without be- coming a man of affairs, and it is this faculty which endows his writings with a certain amount of permanent vitality. Dr. Bushnell worked, singularly enough, along the lines of catholic truth as held in the great Christian creeds, without seeming to be aware that some of his work had been very ably done before him. He liked to be independent in his religion as in his politics, and could never bring himself to call any man mas- ter; but if he sometimes worked out con- clusions which were not new, it will be difficult to find any theological writer four time, save perhaps Maurice, and Stanley, and Jowett, who has done more to set men to thinking on~the chief prob- lems of the spiritual life. Opinions will vary as to the value of his theological ideas, but there can be but one thought in regard to the robust manliness and rich genius of the man himself. His biography reveals a man who was much alone, whose mind was mostly engaged upon religious themes, whose range of activity was within quite definite limits; but take him for the work he did, it is the story of the inner life of one of the strongest and truest men who have ever sprung out of our New England soil. THE ORIGIN OF RELIGION. TIlE enormous difficulties in the way and the costly outfit necessary to prose- cute the study will prevent any consid- erable number of men, in any genera- tion, from becoming Egyptologists. But there is evidently a great and increasing interest on the part of the reading pub- lic in the discoveries, deductions, and inferences of the learned explorers who are slowly re-creating the fabric of the Egyptian empire. The labors of Lep- sins, Brugsch, De Roug~, and others have been largely devoted to the col- lection and coordination of facts. Dr. 1 The Origin and Growth ~f Religion, as illus- trated by the Re1i~qion q/ Ancient Egypt. Br P. LE PAGE RE1~our. New York: Charles Scrib- ers Sons. 1880. Brugsch, in particular, has imitated the patience as well as the marvelous con- structive skill of the comparative anaL- omist in arranging the membra disjecta of Egyptian history. He has put kings and their edifices, statues, poets, gener.- als, and expeditions in something like chronological order, has given a back- bone to parts whose relations have been heretofore wholly conjectural. What- ever merit may be claimed for other great scholars, this is the great distine- tion of the author of Egypt under the Pharaohs. But Dr. Brugsch and most of his associates take so many things for granted that the general reader is apt to be lost for want of lucid explanations. They mention the Rosetta Stone, the 1881.] The Origh~ of Religion. 131 fragments of Manetho, and the Tables of Abydos, as if no one could be igno- rant of them. Professor Renouf is kindly consider- ate. He begins by detailing the sources of our knowledge of Egypt in the classic authors and the patristic writings. He tells us of the general ignorance that prevailed and of the tomb-like silence of the monuments before Champollion found the key to their interpretation. Then we see the Rosetta Stone, a tab- let of black granite, on which an in- scription in three languages is engraved, in the sacred characters, in the ver- nacular, and in Greek. He shows that the glory of the discovery which has opened to us the history of the most ancient civilized kingdom is Champol- lions alone. The sacred characters are the hieroglyphics, and the vernac- ular are the cursive modifications in common use by scribes, and commonly called demotic. The key once found, the work of interpretation went on rap- idly. Many volumes have been pub- lished, and still there are great numbers of mural inscriptions as yet undeci- phered. In a similarly clear manner Professor Renouf deals with the intricate ques- tions of chronology, lie asks his audit- ors whether they would not ordinarily accept the evidence of a head-stone in an English church-yard as to the date of its erection and (prima facie) as to the age of the rerson commemorated. He points out the apparent trustworthiness of the stones which were erected to per- petuate the names and deeds of kings. He shows how different inscriptions in different localities and in widely differ- ing times confirm each other, or supply words and sentences destroyed by acci- dent or violence. Like all other persons competent to form an opinion, Professor Renouf ac- cepts without hesitation the direct and irrefragable testimony of the monuments as to the extreme antiquity of the king- dom, evidently considering that the high- est figures n. c., given to Mena the founder, will come nearest the true date. His observations upon the evidence of the royal list of Abydos are sensible and convincing. It would be impossible in a brief no- tice to summarize his account of the gods of Egypt. It is evident, however, that in his opinion there was, in the time of the early dynasties, a purer concep- tion of a First Cause, as well as a purer code of morals, than prevailed later. The sublime precepts so often quoted from the Book of the Dead had their origin probably not later than the reign of Men-kau-ra, builder of the third pyra- mid. The highest ethics are observable in the oldest literary performances, as in that of Ptah-hotep. As time went by, there was an increasing tone of epi- cureanism. We pass by the vague and conflicting myths which finally took form in so many deities, and observe that the older writings appear to teach something very like the doctrine of one God. Observe the directness and force of the ascriptions The great God, Lord of heaven and of earth, who made all things which are. 0 my God and Lord, who hast made me and formed n~e, give me an eye to see and an ear to hear thy glo- ries! He judges the world according te his will; heaven and earth are in sub- jection to him. Every one glorifieth his goodness; his tenderness encircles our hearts; great is his love in all bosoms. When I open my eyes, there i light; when I close them, there is dark- ness. I am yesterday, I am to-day, I ai~ tomorrow. It does not matter that such adoration is addressed now to Amon, now to Ptah, and now to Osiris; for it is evident 132 The Origin of Religion. [January, from the italicized line following that each name in the mind of the worship- er was only a symbol for the creative and sustaining Power, of which the tit- ular deity was a representative That which persisteth in all things is Amon. This lordly god was from the very beginning. Lie is Ptah, the greatest of the gods. . . . Each god hath assumed thy aspect. . . . Thine is the kingdom of heaven, and the earth is at thy will. Thou art youth and age. Thou art heaven, thou art earth, thou art fire, thou art water, thou art air, and whatever is in the midst of them. Professor Renouf calls this Panthe- ism. Evidently there was a time when the Egyptian mind conceived the idea of a great Original, and set it forth in as clear terms as was possible in the un- scientific language they had to use. Dia- lectics began with the Greeks. After- wards, traits and attributes were differ- entiated, named, and worshiped; but still the primal ideas of the oneness of the great force of the universe remained. It is the same sun that rises and sets, but the Egyptians adored him as Ra at his rising and Tum at his setting. (Tmu is the form Renouf gives it.) As an illustration of the same tend- ency in modern times, we can see that the position of the mother of Jesus in the Catholic church to-day is quite differ- ent from the regard entertained for her in the early Christian centuries. The real Mary was a sorrowing mother. The Blessed Virgin is a quasi deity. Most reflecting persons will question, and, we believe, will wholly reject, the sweeping statement in the concluding lecture, that neither the Jews nor the Greeks derived any of their ideas of re- ligion from Egypt. The professor is a shade too positive to retain our confi dence. The Greek Pantheon, we know, was quite unlike the assembly of the gods of the Nile Valley; but why not insist that the art of Egypt was not the parent or precursor of Greek art? That the alphabet was not a development of the hieratic characters, but was invented by Cadmus? As to the Jews, although there are remarkable exceptions, the re- semblances of the noblest passages of their sacred writings to those of the un- known Egyptian sages and psalmists are too many and too striking to be dis- posed of by an ipse dixit. The names and attributes of God, to go no further, prove clearly the intimate relation be- tween the thought of Judea and that of Egypt. The mass of evidence collected by Dr. Brugsch and the authentic doc- uments printed in the Records of the Past will outweigh a great many pas~ sionate negations. Even if there were no such direct evidence, it is contrary to all we know of human development to suppose that an empire like Egypt, with such art and architecture, such philosophy and poetry, and other fruits of intellectual effort, should for long ages certainly for more than three thousand years dominate over the whole known world, and yet leave no perceptible trace of its ideas upon a people so near its sea-coast as the Greeks, or upon the small tribe of desert-born slaves which it held in its service for four hundred years. The supposition is unreasonable. The history of ideas is the most im- portant part of our heritage from the past, and that there has been, in the main, a gradual development is the sur- est part of our knowledge. After all, one finds it necessary to be self-poised, and not to be upset by every new dogmatist. Recognizing this, the reader will derive a great deal of pleas- ure from the book. 1881.] The Contributors Club. 188 THE CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. LONGER ago than it is important to state, we found ourselves, after our first trip on the Rhine and a pleasant visit to ~Tiesbaden (that was before it was con- verted and died), in the station at Frank- fort, on our way to Baden-Baden. There were four of us in the com- partment of the railway carriage, the other two being French. Looking out upon the platform on which people who were late comers were running about anxiously hunting for seats, I thought I saw a face that could not be mistaken. Stepping to the door, it seemed only an act of politeness to say to the person who had drawn my attention, If you are looking for a seat, you will find room in here. With a hearty Thank you! he at once got into our compart- ment, and made himself comfortable in two seats. Our last comer was not of a partic- ularly remarkable appearance, per se. Rather heavy and massively built, well up in years, of a ruddy complexion and a knowing look, he foreshadowed that he might not be an unpleasant traveling companion. Excepting his defective nose, he strongly reminded me of that genial and whole-souled man and writer, Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh, author of Rab and His Friends, upon whom I once had the impudence to call, unpro- vided with a letter of introduction. The defective nose of our last comer was a blemish on his fine face, but if it could have been re-formed or mended the world would have been dissatisfied, for it was one of the marks by which it knew William Makepeace Thackeray. Some English writer has remarked that he found Americans in their own coun- try and on their travels inclined to be taciturn. I have seen it repeated in- definitely that the English traveler on the Continent is worse than taciturn. I have not found it so, whether it be in Russia or Africa. Still, it might be said that there was some risk in inviting any Englishman, possibly Thackeray, to a t~te-~-t~te, for that s what my action amounted to. If I had known what I afterwards learned from a friend, that Thackeray, in crossing the Atlantic, held everybody at arms-length, probably my alacrity in attempting something like an interview would have been very much less. But on that score there was nothing to regret. I really dont know what is said about Thackerays moods. He had a life-long sorrow, and was fre- quently, like Balzac, driven to write to distract his mind. At this time, in auy event, we were in luck. With a cour- age (if it was not something else) that we have never ceased to wonder at, we suppressed (perhaps did not feel) any movement indicating that we felt over- shadowed by the presence of a greater than a king. Perhaps his behavior was a direct recognition of the civility shown him; at any rate, a capital lunch, ample for two, and an Englishman be- sides, completed his conquest ad Hoc- Heimer. When I saw Mr. Thackeray pass our carriage door I knew him, and there- fore captured him. Desirous of making way for him, I remarked to my fellow- travelers, a Frenchman and his wife, I would like to make a place for Mr. Thackeray. The fact that I named Mr. Thackeray made no impression, ap- parently, upon my French friends. I annotated my remark by saying, Mr. Thackeray, the celebrated English au- thor. Same, indifference. Having hailed Mr. Thackeray and got him in- stalled, as a preliminary remark I re- ferred to my effort to explain his status to my neighbors, and to the impression I had made. He laughed, and said,

Contributor's Club Contributor's Club 133-141

1881.] The Contributors Club. 188 THE CONTRIBUTORS CLUB. LONGER ago than it is important to state, we found ourselves, after our first trip on the Rhine and a pleasant visit to ~Tiesbaden (that was before it was con- verted and died), in the station at Frank- fort, on our way to Baden-Baden. There were four of us in the com- partment of the railway carriage, the other two being French. Looking out upon the platform on which people who were late comers were running about anxiously hunting for seats, I thought I saw a face that could not be mistaken. Stepping to the door, it seemed only an act of politeness to say to the person who had drawn my attention, If you are looking for a seat, you will find room in here. With a hearty Thank you! he at once got into our compart- ment, and made himself comfortable in two seats. Our last comer was not of a partic- ularly remarkable appearance, per se. Rather heavy and massively built, well up in years, of a ruddy complexion and a knowing look, he foreshadowed that he might not be an unpleasant traveling companion. Excepting his defective nose, he strongly reminded me of that genial and whole-souled man and writer, Dr. John Brown, of Edinburgh, author of Rab and His Friends, upon whom I once had the impudence to call, unpro- vided with a letter of introduction. The defective nose of our last comer was a blemish on his fine face, but if it could have been re-formed or mended the world would have been dissatisfied, for it was one of the marks by which it knew William Makepeace Thackeray. Some English writer has remarked that he found Americans in their own coun- try and on their travels inclined to be taciturn. I have seen it repeated in- definitely that the English traveler on the Continent is worse than taciturn. I have not found it so, whether it be in Russia or Africa. Still, it might be said that there was some risk in inviting any Englishman, possibly Thackeray, to a t~te-~-t~te, for that s what my action amounted to. If I had known what I afterwards learned from a friend, that Thackeray, in crossing the Atlantic, held everybody at arms-length, probably my alacrity in attempting something like an interview would have been very much less. But on that score there was nothing to regret. I really dont know what is said about Thackerays moods. He had a life-long sorrow, and was fre- quently, like Balzac, driven to write to distract his mind. At this time, in auy event, we were in luck. With a cour- age (if it was not something else) that we have never ceased to wonder at, we suppressed (perhaps did not feel) any movement indicating that we felt over- shadowed by the presence of a greater than a king. Perhaps his behavior was a direct recognition of the civility shown him; at any rate, a capital lunch, ample for two, and an Englishman be- sides, completed his conquest ad Hoc- Heimer. When I saw Mr. Thackeray pass our carriage door I knew him, and there- fore captured him. Desirous of making way for him, I remarked to my fellow- travelers, a Frenchman and his wife, I would like to make a place for Mr. Thackeray. The fact that I named Mr. Thackeray made no impression, ap- parently, upon my French friends. I annotated my remark by saying, Mr. Thackeray, the celebrated English au- thor. Same, indifference. Having hailed Mr. Thackeray and got him in- stalled, as a preliminary remark I re- ferred to my effort to explain his status to my neighbors, and to the impression I had made. He laughed, and said, 134 The Contributo~ns Club. [January, Oh, it takes fifty years for an Eng- lish reputation to travel to France. (Indeed, something strongly confirming that view happened only last year. To a congress of literary men called to meet in Paris, invitations were sent out to foreign authors of distinction to be present, and among them to Thackeray and Dickens!) He discussed the reasons for the American Revolution, claim- ing that the resistance of our ancestors to the Stamp Act. was unjustifiable. I am afraid the case for the defense was weak, for at that time, being a college graduate, I think I had studied almost everything a man ought to know for his literary salvation except American history. The interest of the conversa- tion centred on his treatment of women in his works. It being represented that he took a low view of female character, his reply literally was, Would you have me describe them other than they are? That of course provoked a dis- cussion as to the facts. He became communicative about himself; he spoke of his candidacy for Parliament, what it cost him, a large amount of money, which he named. He stood for the Uni- versity of Oxford, and was beaten by Sir Robert Walter Cardwell. who was afterwards, I believe, unseated for brib- cry. I asked him how they took his treatment of the Georges in England, in those killing lectures. 1-le said the aristocracy had cut him. He spoke par- ticularly of Lord Wensleydale, the Baron Parke of the lawyers. He and Wens- leydale had long been friends, but after the lectures, said. Thackeray, he cut me completely. It may be recol- lected that Wensleydale was of obscure origin, and was made a law lord. An attempt was made to make him a ife peer only; but that step raised an out- cry on account of the innovation. The matter was bridged over by making him a full peer, and as he had only a daughter it amounted to about the same thing. I remarked to Mr. Thackeray that he had ventured no criticisms upon our peo- ple after his return home; and that I should be glad to know what displeased him most in our ways. 1-Je replied promptly, The abuse heaped by the newspapers on one another; and it was nt cleverly done, with the exception of a Philadelphia editor, and I told them to keep watch on him. If Mr. Thackeray could come again,what would he say? The remarks which were, perhaps, of the deepest interest related to the style of authors. One sentence can never be forgotten: If I were to write as I would like, I would adopt the style of Fielding and Smollett; but society would not tolerate it. lie went on to say that Sir Walter Scott had done much to vitiate public taste by his romantic style. The discussion now going on between realism or naturalism and sentimental- ism or idealism is here foreshadowed. Of course we have to condemn much that Fielding and Smollett wrote, and what Zola writes, because they speak too plainly, grossly, if you like; but it remains essentially true that their style, as a style, is now fighting for recogni- tion with some chance of success. Thackeray has, to my mind, not only been influenced in his style by his mod- els, Fielding and Smollett, but by the style in which fiction is treated by the best French authors. The condensed, incisive, epigrammatic, and natural style of Thackeray is clearly characteristic of the modern French school of fic- tion. When the time came for us to change cars, he going south, we stopping at Baden-Baden, Mr. Thackeray was kind enough to say that he regretted the separation, and that he would be glad to meet us again. What shall we say of the much behandled Bartlett, who includes among his Americanisms by the skin of his teeth? Connecting it with the Book of 1881.] The Contributors Club. 135 Job, may we not call it rather an Uzism ~ Dont indulge in slang, my dear, I re- cently heard a careful mother say to her daughter, as the young lady expressed her satisfaction in having escaped an evil by the skiis of her teeth. A peculiar feature has appeared in various retail trades which may be regarded as an encouraging symptom of the artistic growth of the country. Formerly, when a frugal housewife bought a pound of tea, she had nothing in view save carnal gratification and the stimulation of sisterly good-fellowship. A tea- store at the present day offers an aspect widely different from that of similar establishments in by-gone years. You will see chests and Chinese para- phernalia if you examine closely; but these vulgar details are eclipsed by pict- ures flaring with color, framed as sam- ples, and unframed for customers. The frugal housewife of A. D. 1880 buys her tea by the quantity, and sweetens it with a chromo. This is a familiar illus- tration, aud undoubtedly the fact will be conceded that the average retail dealer studies not so much how to procure the best wares, but, subordinating earthy considerations, strives only to tickle the a~sthetic palate of the community. The tendency is, however, still confined with- in retail limits. Probably it will ascend into the wholesale departments, and in time commercial quotations will be given not in commodities, but in chromos. None but stubborn conservatives will have any misgivings concerning this new phase of business activity. Taking it for a text, an essayist with the true German spirit in his soul might show how we are rapfdly approaching a state of general culture which, in popular reverence for beauty, shall surpass that of the Athenians. Perhaps it was from analogy that a sin~ilar innovation gave a new impulse to one branch of religious work. Time was when canvassers for Sunday-schools led a hard and bitter life. Fortunately their compensation was in no wise de- pendent uponper capita results, but was fixed and as certain as many worldly things. Nevertheless, they toiled and took little. Vainly they threw out scraps of Hebrew history as bait; the scatter~. ino of crumbs broadcast instilled no ap- b petite for the rest of the loaf. The skilled missionary of the present day in the first place chooses his season. He does not address himself to the in- born craving for the marvelous, but is content with a single, forcible argument. Upon the distended retina of juvenile imagination he imprints an intoxicating vision, a tree, tall and green and fra- grant, that blossoms with light and bears strange fruit in late December! The energetic preaching of this ar- gument has met with great success, and, if one selects the proper time to happen into one or two of our mission Sunday- schools, he will be convinced that they are in a very healthy and vigorous con- dition. It is true, the story is related that of a class of eight boys who had been studying the biography of Jezebel during the month of December, and left her at the height of her success, only one was in at her death early in Janu- ary, when she got her deserts. The other seven probably never heard what became of her. Perhaps they formed an erroneous and harmful impression that that wicked woman lived peace- fully to a good old age. But with those whose function ends with the actual gathering in, facts of this nature have no significance, and the only question is one of intrinsic morality. In the subject first alluded to this question, happily, does not arise. It is certainly unobjectionable to appeal to the higher instincts of mankind as a persuasion to proper regard for more homely wants and desires. But, when you come to the converse of the opera- tion, tender consciences may well pause and hesitate in the decision. It might even be said that the offering of sensual The Contributors Club. allurements as an inducement to relig- ions observance is essentially Moham- medanism. But perhaps a sufficient an- swer is that such inducements are the only ones that will avail with Arabs of all nationalities. A few days ago I happened to pick np an old and well-nigh forgotten tale by George Sand, entitled Lavinia. It opened in a very spirited fashion, but had somehow a curiously familiar air. I could not rid myself of the impression that I had read it all before, and yet I was positive that the story under its present title had never come to my no- tice. I had not progressed far, how- ever, before the mystery was solved: it was Owen Merediths Lucile in French prose. The names, to be sure, had been metamorphosed, but the char- acters, whom they served as thin and ineffectual disguises, were essentially the same. Lord Alfred Vargrave in Lavinia is named Lionel, and his be- trothed, whom he is just about to marry, Miss Margaret Ellis instead of Miss Darcey. The convenient cousin John is with George Sand the cousin of the heroine, and not of Lionel, but he is the same easy-going, devil-may-care fellow, though he is masked with the name of Henry. Even the situations are, with few exceptions, conscientiously copied and whole pages of the most animated epigrammatic dialogue are plagiarized, word for word, except where the exi- gencies of rhyme or metre require a de- viation from the French original. The first chapter in both books opens with a letter from the heroine, who has formerly been engaged to the hero, de- manding that her letters be returned. In both cases ten years have elapsed since their last meeting, and it is need- less to add that the result of the peril- ous rendezious is the same. To convince the reader how daring the plagiarism is, I choose at random the scene in which Lord Alfred comes to fulfill Luciles de- mand in regard to the old love-letters, and print side by side George Sands French and Owen Merediths English text: LAvINIA. Cette chambrette blan- che et parfuimie avait, en v~riti, et comme is son inso, on air de rendez- vous; mais elle seinblait aussi le sanctuaire dun amour virginal et por. Les bougies jetaient nne clartd timide; les fleurs semblajent fermer mo- destement leur sein is la lumidre; aucun vote- ment de femme, aucun vestige de coquetterie ne s~tait oublifi is trainer sur les meubles; senle- ment un bouquet de pen- sfies fletries et on gant blanc decoosu gisaient c6te is cdte sur Ia die- minle. Lionel, pouss~ par un mouvement irr~sistible, prit le gant et le froissa dans ses mains. C6tait comme l~treinte con- vulsive et froide dun dernier adieu. Ii prit le bouquet sans parfum, le contempla on instant, fit one allusion amire aux fleurs que le composai- ent, et le rejets bins- quement loin de mi. Lavinia avait-elle posd lii ce bouquet avec le dessein quil fftt corn- meotfi par son ancien amant? Lionel sapprocha de Ia fen& re, et ~carta les rideaux poor faire diver- sion, par le spectacle de la nature, is lhumeur qui le gagnait de plus en plus. LUCILE. vi. This white little fra- grant apartment, t is true Seemed unconsciously fashioned for some ren- dezvous; But you felt by the sense of its beauty reposed, T was the shrine of a life chaste and calm. Half unclosed In the light slept the flowers; all was pure and at rest; All peaceful; all mod- est; all seemed self-pos- sessed, And aware of the si- lence. No vestige nor trace Of a young womans coquetry troubled the place; Not a scarf; not a shawl; On the mantel - piece merely A nosegay of flowers, all withered, or nearly, And a little white glove that was torn at the wrist. Impelled by an impulse too strong to resist, Lord Alfred caoght, with a feverish grasp, The torn glove, and flung it aside with a gasp; It seemed like the thrill of a final farewell. He took op the nose- gay, without bloom or smell, And inaudibly, bitterly muttered or sighed Some rebuke to the flow- ers ere be laid it aside. Had Lucile by design left the dead flowers there? The torn glove? I know nothing. I cannot de- clare. vii. He turned to the win- dow. A cloud passed the sun; The breeze lifted itself, etc. II flattered myself that I had been the 136 [January, 1881.] The Contrdiutors Club. 137 first to discover this unacknowledged relationship between Lucile and La- vinia; and I was duly conscious of my importance at the thought that I held the fate of so exalted a personage as the late viceroy of India in my hands. A friend, however, who is crammed with bibliographical l9re, relieved me of this dread resp6nsibility hy informing me that the discovery had already been made in England, several years ago, but had for some reason failed to make a sensa- t,ion. The public and the press seemed rather anxious to hush up the affair; perhaps because it impeached the honor of a British peer, and thus reflected re- motely upon the national character. At all events, I have ascertained that on this side of the ocean Lucile is yet gen- erally admired as an original production. Among the many to whom I have com- municated my discovery not one was aware that it had been previously made; and some were even inclined to question the correctness of my conclusions, al- leging that in all probability the resem- blance was only remote and accidental. It is said to be a matter of specula- tion with naturalists why a turkey flies at a red rag, and bulls are inspired with fury at that splendid color. When they explain this fact, perhaps I shall find out why certain words exasperate me to an equal extent with these weak - minded animals when they see the tint I love best of all. I am supposed to be ami- able to the point of folly, but when I en- counter the expression boyhood days my amiability vanishes; olden days has the same effect; and if ever I com- mit murder it will be on some news- paper editor who persists in saying an enjoyable time, and talking of mine host or Mr. Smith and lady. In the November Atlantic, some- where in one of those delightful Letters and Notes from England, Mr. White is surprised to find Madame de Pompa- dours picture with blue eyes and fair hair. lie says, I had always thought of the haughty, brilliant, scheming favor- ite of Louis XV. as a tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed woman. A rather long ob- servation of human beings has driven me to another conclusion. I have found the worst feminine qualities almost invari- ably allied to the blonde style; not the green or gray eyed blonde, with straight, abundant hair and fresh coloring, but the sallow or pallid being, with light blue eyes and limp or waving hair, an innocent-looking creature, with fe- line manners, patte de velours, and such claws! These are the women who de- lude and destroy mcii; who never for- give an injury or forget a slight; who smile and talk sweetly, and put on airs of meek piety or high art and refine- ment, but under all are scheming, un- principled, false to the core. Did not Lucrezia Borgia have golden hair? Was not Lady Macbeth a Scottish woman, presumably with lint-white locks? Two of the worst and most brilliant women I ever knew had this style of complexion, and the lovely being whose picture was my childish adoration, who sat simper- ing over the library shelf in dear old uncle W.s house, robed in satin and sa- bles, her gold hair curling like a childs, her sapphire eyes as inscrutable as a deep spring, her rosebud lips soft and fresh as a babys, and her taper white fingers crossed in her lap, was a virago, a drunkard, a woman without a symp- tom of principle, the mystery and the curse of the old and honorable family she married into. Black-haired and dark- eyed women are quick-tempered, electric, generous, jealous probably, but full of relenting, and capable of being coaxed into or out of anything. Weak as to their affections, snappy as to their tem- per, warm of heart and hot of head, they are never very bad or very good, and are the delightful torment of every man who loves them and whom they do not love too much; but love makes slaves and fools of them, and they are ridiculously constant. It is the clear The Contributors Club. gray eye, the thick, soft hair of flaxen or brown tint, the bloom of a tea-rose on a delicate skin, that inscribe the certificate of womanly perfection, a sweet assurance given in looks that here is the real and ideal wife and mother. As to men marrying women older than themselves, are not modern story- writers a little responsible for this? I believe Dickenss Dora, to begin with, and a thousand repetitions of the same type, scare young men from giving their lives and homes into the hands of Un- tanght girls, who have no idea of econ- omy or comfort. Perhaps, again, the solution lies in the remark of a certain wicked deacon, who advised one of his friends to marry an old maid because she would always be so grateful! After all, there is another point age is not a matter of years altogether, any more than fascination is necessarily beauty; there are some people who never grow old. I have seen one of them, well over sixty, dancing a jig in the nursery, to the screaming delight of her grand-children; and I have seen, too, a young person of twelve with the~ forecast and management of sixty even about her paper dolls. The masculine world has been racked of late by the breaking of a finan- cial bubble in Boston. It is not, of course, that misplaced confidence and culpable gullibility have never before fallen vic- tim to fraudulent schemers, for mans inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn, and those who most loudly bewail this latest development can hardly have escaped in person some experience of pecuniary loss from such sources, to say nothing of the countless thousands of sufferers within their knowledge. In this case the special sting seems to be that the fraud emanated from and entrapped women. It is to be hoped that this legitimate, if some- what disproportioned, horror will work reform of a pestilent evil in our. house- holds. The Nation, in one of the best articles called forth by the Boston catas- trophe, makes the schools responsible for the ignorance of these recent sufferers. This is just, so far as the schools go or can be made to go, but is there not back of the schools a certain responsibility so inwrought with the very essence of paternity that it can never be righteous- ly cast off upon our teachers, or clergy- men, or statesmen? In this matter of financial educa- tion (as in those other weighty mat- ters of morals and manners which we are glad to see begin to insist on their rightful place in the curriculum of our schools) the uttermost that can be done by the most skillful teacher will be dis- appointing in its results unless backed and supplemented by home - teaching and home-practice. How our common schools, with their twenty minutes reci- tations, can meet the obvious deficiencies of our common homes, in these particu- lars, is not an easy although an indis.. pensable question for decision in this our day. Many a boy and girl recites glib- ly in the school-room not alone the Es- sentials of Grammar, but its most eccen- tric vagaries, who at home uniformly doubles negatives and divorces ~ubstan- tive and verb. Perhaps nothing short of genius in the teacher and special in- spiration in the pupil can suffice to reveal to a child who hears only incorrect and rude speech at home that the rules of his grammar and rhetoric have the remot- est connection with the language of his own daily life; and it would be passing strange if a similar obtuseness as to the practical application of manuals of mor- als, manners, and finance should not prevail were these to be added to the list of text-books. But it is in behalf of the better half of our households that this plan is offered, better in wealth and intelligence and moral sense. I am amazed at the presumption of parents, cried the principal of a famous young ladies boarding-school. They 188 [January, 1881.] The Uontributor8 01u1. 139 send me their children again and again with the cool demand, Make my daugh- ter orderly, or truthful, or gentle; requiring from me during six months or a year of less intimate association and hampered opportunity what they have failed to accomplish for her in sixteen years or more of closest contact, and with every advantage of supreme author- ity and interest! But confining ourselves to the subject of financial education among our better families, where can it be so safely and thoroughly taught as at home arid by the father, who, either as the custodian of in- herited wealth, or the alert maker of his own fortune, has hourly opportunity not only to instruct theoretically, but also to point the moral and adorn the tale? It will require thoughtfulness and long patience to impart trustworthy theories, and much anxiety and occasional loss in subjecting them to the test of illustrative experiment, but surely the result will more than justify the outlay. It is easi- er for the husband and father not only to withhold this effort, but to confide all his business affairs solely to the grim silence of his safe and bank-book, and to lavish or dole (according to his natural disposi- tion or passing mood) money for family bills without any word of instruction therewith; but he often purchases with this momentary ease to himself sad com- plications for his unenlightened family after his death, if not for himself through their ignorance beforehand. A man has no right to bring into such a world as this, and leave behind him when his own life ends, beings to whom money will be a necessity, without doing his uttermost to assure to them not only a competence, but the requisite knowledge and practice to keep and expend it wise]y. Yet from thoughtlessness, misapprehension, or de- liberate design the majority of men act all their lives on the plan of conceal- ing from wife and children their true financial condition, and cherishing igno- rance of money matters in these limp dependents, as if that very ignorance were the Palladium of their safety! Surely a man should not dare to make any woman his wife and the mother and trainer of his children who, though she may come to him ignorant through her parents neglect, has not sufficient capac- ity to receive and profitably exercise his wise instructions in regard to the in- trinsic value and proper use of money. if she be too dull or too treacherous to share his confidence in pecuniary affairs, alas for him and for those who shall be born of them in every graver concern of their joint lives! What boots it at one gate to make defense, And at another to let in the foe? But not a few men who would not think of affirming that a mare could not be taught to pace, and do not really doubt womans capacity and loyalty, yet act as if they so doubted in money matters at least. Their own families know less than the merest acquaintance of the amount and disposition of their property until death or financial ruin reveals all the past, and thrusts upon wife and child frightful, because unfamiliar, duties in the present and dread responsibilities for the future, for all of which they are utterly unfitted by previous education and habit. Not seldom in these last years of multiplied bankruptcy and defalca- tion has the bitter cry been wrung from the women of the stricken household, If I had only known that we were liv- ing beyond our rightful income! and again and again have these women, who were not trusted nor instructed finan- cially in prosperity, taught themselves speedily, in adversity, lessons of thrift and the wise exercise of talents which if earlier learned and employed might have saved husbands and homes. Sometimes through arbitrariness, the determination to keep the reins of power in his own hands, but often- er through mere short-sightedness and thoughtlessness, the majority of well-to- do men seem to go on through life ridi. 140 The Contributors Club. [January, culing the stupidity and recklessness of women in business concerns, and yet never vouchsafing the least effort to make the women of their own house- holds otherwise minded in these vital particulars. Suddenly death or hope- less insanity snatches the head of the family away, and the wife whom he had never allowed the least independent action in the investment or expenditure of funds, nor taught even how to draw a check or balance accounts, has thrust upon her, at a time when she is bewildered and broken by the loss of her husband, the entire burden of his property and liabil- ities. It seems at best a cruel kindness for one deliberately to make his wife ex- ecutrix of property in regard to which, during their long life together, he has not made her the intelligent confidant and well-advised partner. If your wife is incapable or incorrigi- ble in money matters, it may or may not be your fault, but you cannot shirk the responsibility of your childrens educa- tion to better opinions and practice. Better for your beloved daughter will it be to learn (even at the cost of some fortune and comfort on your part, and of much blundering and loss on hers), by practice under your watchful eye, how to expend a fixed income, with wise ad- justment of all claims, personal, social, and charitable, than to let her go blindly on into a far more lavish inheritance withoUt such instruction and practice- Let our schools teach the forms and minute technicalities of finance as indis- pensably as the multiplication-table, but let every able and loving father make sure, as the prosperous days go on, that his heirs thoroughly understand this wis- dom of the schools, and most of all his own object-teaching at home. One of the most curious transfor- mations which have come over the spirit of English fiction is the change in its attitude toward Americans. Time was when an American who ventured into an English novel did so only to be sneered at, or at best to cut a grotesque figure: he was welcome in a low-come- dy character to make fun, but as the he- roic leading man making love he would be insupportable. This is all done away with, and the comic American has been thrust into the background, although he has not yet wholly disappeared. The favorite American now in English fic- tion is an American lady, and she is an example to all her British sisters. She is young and lovely and clever and highly cultivated and exquisitely dressed and immensely rich, and altogether charming. In Mr. Trollopes latest novel she plays a chief part; in Miss Amelia B. Edwardss Lord Bracken- bury, where she is less important, she triumphs over the ill-mannered and an- tiquated representative of the English aristocracy; she has even come for- ward on the stage in Mr. 1-1. J. Byrons slight but amusing comedy, An Ameri- can Lady, and in an English adaptation of M. Sardons Rabagas. Curiously enough, the coming of this amiability of the English novelist toward the Ameri- can lady has been almost simultaneous with an extreme and growing discourte- sy on the part of the American novelist toward the English gentleman. In Mr. Howellss novels and Mr. Jamess, and even in the photographic Confessions of a Frivolous Girl, the Englishman is pil- loried for his ill-breeding. This is one of the sore points which Mrs. Suther- land Orr dwelt upon in her essay in the Contemporary Review on Mr. Howells and the International Novelists. From a study of the current fiction of the two countries, one might almost think that an English author describes an American whenever he wishes to evoke a charm- ing vision, and that an American au- thor, whenever he has need of a charac- ter without manners or with bad man- ners, unconsciously makes him an Eng- lishman. The especial charge against the English traveler here seems to be that while he is here he makes him- 1881.] Boo/cs of the Month. 141 self at home, doing things, indeed, that he would hesitate to do at home; and that when he is at home, and his Ameri- can host happens to he in England also, he is forgetful of his obligations and scarcely courteous. This accusation, that the traveling Briton, when once he gets him home again, is careless about requiting the hospitality shown him when abroad, is nothing new; I fancy that dozens of instances could be found scattered throughout the pages of Eng- lish literature during the past century; but we doubt if the accusation has ever been more plainly presented than it is in Smolletts Humphry Clinker, which, it may be well to recall, was originally published in 1771. The passage is as follows Certain it is, we are generally looked upon by foreigners as a people totally destitute of this virtue [hospitality]; and I never was in any country abroad where I did not meet with persons of distinc- tion who complained of having been unhospitably used in Great Britain. A gentleman of France, Italy, or Germany who has entertained and lodged an Eng- lishman at his house, when he after- wards meets his guest in London, is asked to dinner at the Saracens Head, the Turks Head, the Boars Head, or the Bear, eats raw beef and butter, drinks execrable port, and is allowed to pay his share of the reckoning. Surely here is a frank confession, and a century old, too; even the English- man we are told of in the International Episode did not behave worse than this. Several of my books are in the Tauchnitz Series, and this remark has more than once been made to me: Does the law leave you helpless in this mat- ter? Is there no way to keep Tauch- nitz from pirating your books? Cant he be compelled to pay for them ? And when I reply, Baron Tauchnitz never pirates anybodys books; never publishes a book without first getting the consent of the author or the authors heir; and publishes nobodys book with- out paying for it, the inquirer always seems surprised, and generally a little incredulous. But he has heard nothing but the truth, nevertheless. Tauchnitz is rigid about paying for every book he uses, and about having consent to pub- lish. And more, the great German publisher not only pays for a book once, but gird up the loins of your credu- lity, and prepare, for I am going to ap- ply a good deal of a strain to it there have been occasions when he has asked leave to pay for it a second time! Try to conceive of that, now, in this cast- iron commercial age! I received a let- ter from him lately, in which he says, Your last book having sold more large- ly than I had calculated upon, I have the pleasure of forwarding to you my check for an additional amount. He had bought the book six or eight months before, and paid for it: in adding fifty per cent. to the original amount, he was paying what he conceived to be a moral debt. Legally, he owed me nothing. This is a man who should be spared harsh names and hasty conclusions. BOOKS OF THE MONTH. Geography and Trave?. The most important Jr. (Harpers), is a collection chiefly of illustrated recent publication in this department is the new papers published recently in Harpers Monthly. edition of Lippincotts A Complete Pronouncing Mr. Hayes prefixes the word New to his title as a Gazetteer of the World, which has been thoroughly reminder that the Colorado of Taylor and Bowles revised, rewritten, and greatly enlarged. New is already old. The book is a record of personal Colorado and the Santa Pd Trail, by A. A. Hayes, experience and observation, and professes to be

Books of the Month 141-144

1881.] Boo/cs of the Month. 141 self at home, doing things, indeed, that he would hesitate to do at home; and that when he is at home, and his Ameri- can host happens to he in England also, he is forgetful of his obligations and scarcely courteous. This accusation, that the traveling Briton, when once he gets him home again, is careless about requiting the hospitality shown him when abroad, is nothing new; I fancy that dozens of instances could be found scattered throughout the pages of Eng- lish literature during the past century; but we doubt if the accusation has ever been more plainly presented than it is in Smolletts Humphry Clinker, which, it may be well to recall, was originally published in 1771. The passage is as follows Certain it is, we are generally looked upon by foreigners as a people totally destitute of this virtue [hospitality]; and I never was in any country abroad where I did not meet with persons of distinc- tion who complained of having been unhospitably used in Great Britain. A gentleman of France, Italy, or Germany who has entertained and lodged an Eng- lishman at his house, when he after- wards meets his guest in London, is asked to dinner at the Saracens Head, the Turks Head, the Boars Head, or the Bear, eats raw beef and butter, drinks execrable port, and is allowed to pay his share of the reckoning. Surely here is a frank confession, and a century old, too; even the English- man we are told of in the International Episode did not behave worse than this. Several of my books are in the Tauchnitz Series, and this remark has more than once been made to me: Does the law leave you helpless in this mat- ter? Is there no way to keep Tauch- nitz from pirating your books? Cant he be compelled to pay for them ? And when I reply, Baron Tauchnitz never pirates anybodys books; never publishes a book without first getting the consent of the author or the authors heir; and publishes nobodys book with- out paying for it, the inquirer always seems surprised, and generally a little incredulous. But he has heard nothing but the truth, nevertheless. Tauchnitz is rigid about paying for every book he uses, and about having consent to pub- lish. And more, the great German publisher not only pays for a book once, but gird up the loins of your credu- lity, and prepare, for I am going to ap- ply a good deal of a strain to it there have been occasions when he has asked leave to pay for it a second time! Try to conceive of that, now, in this cast- iron commercial age! I received a let- ter from him lately, in which he says, Your last book having sold more large- ly than I had calculated upon, I have the pleasure of forwarding to you my check for an additional amount. He had bought the book six or eight months before, and paid for it: in adding fifty per cent. to the original amount, he was paying what he conceived to be a moral debt. Legally, he owed me nothing. This is a man who should be spared harsh names and hasty conclusions. BOOKS OF THE MONTH. Geography and Trave?. The most important Jr. (Harpers), is a collection chiefly of illustrated recent publication in this department is the new papers published recently in Harpers Monthly. edition of Lippincotts A Complete Pronouncing Mr. Hayes prefixes the word New to his title as a Gazetteer of the World, which has been thoroughly reminder that the Colorado of Taylor and Bowles revised, rewritten, and greatly enlarged. New is already old. The book is a record of personal Colorado and the Santa Pd Trail, by A. A. Hayes, experience and observation, and professes to be Books of the ]Jfonth. independent of any individual or associated inter- ests. It is provided with a clew map. Summer- land Sketches, by Felix L. Oswald (Lippincotts), is further described by its sub-title, Rambles in the J3ackwoods of Mexico and Central America. It is an illustrated and picturesque account of extended excursions in the alturas, where vast tracts of woodland still remain. The reader is shown a Mexico which has scarcely known the Spaniard. The Scribners have issued the second volume of Jules Vernes The Exploration of the World. It deals with the great navigators of the eighteenth century, and a generation which has grown up in ignorance of Captain Cooks voyages may here read the tales which once divided interest with Robinson Crusoe. Mr. Oswald Crawfurds Por- tugal, Old and New (Putnams), is neither an itinerary, a history, dissertation, nor diary, but gives in an agreeable style the impression pro- duced on an intelligent traveler who was already fortified by an acquaintance with the history, lan- guage, and literature of the country. A similar, but more formal work presents Holland and its People (Putnams). The author is Edinondo de Amicis, already known by his Constantinople, and he has given the results of his travel and study, freed from the accidents of his personal adventure. Current Views and Notes of Forty Days in France and England, by John Swinton (Carleton), is a pamphlet in which the authors individuality is conspicuous. Only a liberal construction per- mits us to class here Ladies and Officers of the United States Army, or American Aristocracy, by Duane Merritt Greene (Chicago: Central Publish- ing Company): a sketch of the social life and character of the army, which takes the writer es- pecially among the frontier posts. Dr. J. F. Clarkes sensible paper On Giving Names to Towns and Streets has been reprinted in a little pam- phlet by Lockwood, Brooks & Co. Poetry and the Drama. Mr. Edwin Arnolds The Light of Asia has been followed by a volume of Poems (Roberts), which find their inspiration largely in Oriental and Greek themes. The Flight into E~ypt, a narrative poem, occupies the most of a volume by Thomas E. Van Bebber (A. L. Ban- croft & Co., Printers, San Francisco), and is pre- ceded by a small collection of minor poems in the same volume. The bicycle, besides its journal and various hand-books, has begun to give rise to a literature of its own: Lyra Bh yclica, Forty Poets on the Wheel, by J. G. Dalton (Boston: published for the author), is the clever title of a volume of parodies and imitations. Rayniond, Lord of Ver (London: Provost & Co.), is a drama of niediuval life in Normandy. Mr. XV. J. Rolfe continues his edition of Shakespeare with King Lear. We can- not find it in our heart to relegate these admirable little books to the department of education. They belong here as well as there. The Dramatic Works of Bayard Taylor (Houghton, Muffin & Co.) have been collected into a single volume, including The Prophet, The Masque of the Gods, and Prince Deukalion, with notes by Mrs. Taylor. A volume of Songs and Poems from the Ger- man, by Ella Heath, has been issued by the Put- nams; the translations are principally from Rilek ert, Uhland, and Heine. The lady who writes under the pseudonym of E. Foxton has brought to- gether a volume of her poems under the title of The Chapel and Other Poems (Putnams). Readers of Sir Pavon and St. Pavon will not be slow to look for this volume. Echos et Reflets, by E. Aubert (Paris: Boulanger; New York: Christern), is a volume of poetry by a Frenchman long resi- dent in America, and drawing many of his themes from American life and history. Mrs. Annie Fields volume, Under the Olive (Houghton, Mif- fin & Co.), draws its inspiration chiefly from the olive groves of the Ilissus. Mr. James T. Fields has collected his recent poems into a volume of Ballads and Other Verses (Houghton, Muffin & Co.). Miss Lucy Larcom gives the title of Wild Roses of Cape Ann to a volume of verse, which will increase the legendary and poetical fame of that rocky coast (Houghton, Muffin & Co.). Biography. The Life of Charles lodge, D .D., LL. D., Professor in the Theological Seminary, Princeton, N. J., by his son, A. A. Hodge (Scrib- ners), presents a man, chiefly through his autobi- ography, diaries, and letters, who has held perhaps the most conspicuous place of any theologian in the Presbyterian church in America. V he Life, Times, and Correspondence of the Right Rev. Dr. Doyle, Bishop of Kildare and Leightin, by W. J. Fitz-Patrick, LL. D. (Dublin: James Duffy and Sons) is a reissue in enlarged form of the work which appeared about twenty years ago, and an impor- tant contribution to the history of Catholic emanci- pation. Wrecked Lives, or Men who have Failed (London: S. P. C. K.; New York: Pott, Young & Co.), is the title of two volumes by W. H. Daven- port Adams, in which the careers of eminent men, as Rienzi, Wolsey, Swift, Savage, Chatterton, Robespierre, Heine. and others, are treated quite exclusively from the moralists view. Poe is the only American who appears to have been found Worthy to be classed with them. Henry Boyntom Smith, his Life and Work (Armstrongs), is a wel- come record of the career of one of the greatest scholars in theology and history whom America has known. Fiction. Tamenaga Shunsui was the Dickens of Japan. and like his Western parallel published his novels serially. Out of one which rambled through eighteen volumes, Shinichiro Saito and Edward Greey have constructed The Loyal Reruns, a Historical Romance (Putnams ~. It is a direct translation, adapted, however, to the reader who asks to be interested rather than treated to a liter- al rendering. It professes to be more tree to Jap- anese life than Mitfords Tales. Auerbachs two recent stories appear simultaneously: Brigitta, in bIts Leisure Hour Series, and the Foresters, in Appletons New Handy-Volume Series. Mother Molly (Putnams), by Frances M. Peard, author of the Rose Garden, is a historical romance in auto- biographic form, the time being the latter part of the last century, and the scene on the west coast of England. An anonymous novel, published by Roberts Brothers, bears the title My Marriage. Magdalen Fdrat is Zolas latest story (Peter- sons). It is only less offensive than his previous books. The latest novels in Harpers Franklin 142 [January, Books of the Z*Iontk. Square Library are Just as I Am, by Miss Brad- don, who shows poor taste in using a title half sacred in many peoples eyes; A Sailors Sweet- heart, by W. Clark Russell, author of The Wreck of the Grosvenor, and like that book an argument in Plimsolls hands; and Three Recruits and The Girls they left Behind Them, by Joseph Hatton. In Harpers Half-Hour Series is a pathetic little story, Missing, by Mary Cecil Hay. A new edi- tion has been published of Mrs. Stowes Sam Lawsons Old Town Fireside Stories, with addi- tions (Houghton, Muffin & Co.). A new novel by Henry Grdville, The 6Princess Oghdrof, trans- lated by Mary Neal Sherwood (Petersons), will be welcomed. The Stranglers of Paris, by Adolphe Belot, is followed by a sequel, La Grande Florine, translated by George D. Cox (Petersons). The Osego Chronicles, or, The Knylers and their Friends, by Mary B. Sleight (Randolph), is a pleas- ing domestic tale. The Danbury Boom, with a full account of Mrs. Cobleighs action therein, by James M. Bailey (Lee and Shepard), is the latest of this special brand of American humor. We wish we could be more sure that Who is Your Wife? is to be included in fiction. It is a little book, by Waldorf H. Phillips, LL. B. (New York: E. J. Hale and Son), which under the guise of col- loquial sketches undertakes to illustrate the incon- gruities of the several divorce systems in the United States. The author seems more impressed by this than by the immorality involved. Domestic Economy. A new edition has ap- peared of Marion Harlands Common Sense in tIme Household (Scribners), a book which has been worn out by excessive printing, and now reappears with additions and improvements. Education. Mr. John Swett, principal of the San Francisco Girls Hi~h School and Normal Class, has prepared Methods of Teaching (Harpers), a hand-book intended for those who propose or are en~aged in common-school teaching, and deal- ing practically with their work. Methods in the whole range of teaching are described in detail. Mrs. Farrars The Young Ladys Friend, a book well known to our mothers before they were moth- ers, has been brought out anew by Porter and Coates of Philadelphia, with an Introduction by Mrs. H. 0. Ward. The punctuation of the title- page, the scrupulous omission of Mm.s. Farrars name, and the ingenious composition of the intro- duction give the reader before unacqnainted with the book an impression that the whole work is Mrs. Wards. That lady is mentioned on the titlepage as compiler of Sensible Etiquette. We know no sensible etiquette which justifies such atreatmnent of Mrs. Farrar. Rev. Henry N. Hudson, the well- known Shakespeare scholar, has begun the reissue of his Schol Shakespeare, but as an entirely new work. Three volumes have been published, A Mid- sununer Nights Dream, Much Ado about Nothing, and As You Like It (Giun and Heath), the first containing a general preface on English in schools, the second one on Shakespeare as a text-book, and the third one of suggestions on teaching Shakespeare. This last indicates well the editors temper and his views as to Shakespeare for the young. It is strongly commended to those whom it concerns, and the general reader will profit by an attentive consideration. A curious likeness to Mr. Ruskins mind is discoverable in this expres- sion of Mr. Hudsons. The volumes are very at- tractive in appearance. A New School Physiolo- gy, illustrated and furnished with questions, by Richard J. Dunglison, A. M., M. D., has been published by Porter and Coates. A useful book for teachers rather than for the class room is School and Industrial Hygiene, by D. F. Lincoln,. M. D. (Blakiston, Philadelphia), one of the little series of American health Primers, issued under supervision of Dr. W. W. Keen. History. Old Paris, its Court and Literary Sa- lons, by Catherine Charlotte, Lady Jackson (Holt), is a sketch of the Paris of the Seventeenth Century, that brilliant and classic period of French litera- ture and society. Rev. Joseph Henry Allen, lect- urer on ecclesiastical history in Harvard Univer- sity, has followed his Hebrew Men and Times with a somewhat similar book treating of the genesis of Christianity, under the title Fragments of Chris- tian History to the Foundation of the Holy Roman Empire (Roberts). A chronological order is main- tained in the papers, but they treat the general subject topically. The second and final volume has appeared of Justin McCarthys A History of our own Times (Harpers). It begins with a nar- rative of t.he Chinese troubles just before the Sepoy rebellion, and ends with a survey of the literature of the day. Mr. Geo. H. Ellis, Boston, has brought into a neat octavo volume a report of the Proceedings of the Two Hundred and Fiftieth An- niversary of the Gathering in England, Departure for America, and Final Settlement in New Eng- land of the First Church and Parish of Dorchester, Mass., coincident with the settlement of tIme town. The anniversary was observed in the spring of 1880. The Early History of Charks James Fox, by G. 0. Trevelyan, Macaulays nephew and bi- ographer (Harpers), belongs rather to history than to biography. The subject has peculiar interest for Americans, and possibly some may even take a shame-faced comfort in a graphic picture of Eng- lish political society when most brilliant and most venal. Mr. Melville M. Bigelows History of Procedure in England (bittle, Brown & Co.) is a lawyers examination of courts and the conduct of causes in Norman times, and as such presents cer- tain phases of general constitutional history. The American edition of Epochs of Ancient His- tory (Scribners) is enlarged by a volume on Troy, its Legend, History, and Literature, by S. G. XV. Benjamin, who makes special use also of [Jr. Schliemanns investigations. The literature in- cludes a digest of the controversy respecting the unity and authorship of the Homeric poems. It is furnished with a map. TIme materials for American history have been enriched by the Rec- ollections and Opinions of an Old Settler, Peter H. Burnett, the first governor of the State of Cali- fornia (Appletons). Philosophy, Tlmeoloyy, and Religion. Professor J. P. Cookes Religion and Chemistry appears in a new edition, revised (Scribners), and the author after a lapse of twenty years finds no occasion to alter the substantial argument of the book. An- 1881.] 143 Books of the Month. other contribution to the discussion of science and religion is The Creation and the Early Develop- ments of Society, by James H. Chapin, professor of geology and mineralogy, St. Lawrence Univer- sity (Putnams). It includes an examination of the biblical account of the creation and first appear- ance of human society, and a statement of the re- sults of recent anthropological investigation. The Eden Tableau, or Bible Object Teaching, is called a study by its author, the Rev. Charles Beecher (Lee and Shepard). He proposes, he says in his preface, to attempt a more thorough and consistent application of the laws of analogic interpretation to one of the most interesting and vital portions of the Bible. The Rev. Dr. F. C. Ewer, whose vigorous tract on the failure of Prot- estantism excited attention a few years ago, has put out a volume containing Four Conferences touching the Operation of the Holy Spirit, deliv- ered at Newark, N. J. (Putnams). The author fortifies himself on the title-page behind the sanc- tion of his bishop, the request of nine clergymen and an indefinite number of laymen in Newark, and the repetition by request in Boston, Philadel- phia, and Brooklyn. All this caution leads the reader to look for Miching Mallecho. Scientific Transcendentalism, by D. M., comes to us from Williams and Norgate, London. It is an inquiry into a knowledge of the mind as regards its high- est manifestation. The Englishmans Brief on be- half of his National Church (London: S. P. C. K. New York: Pott, Young & Co.,) is a manual in- tended to cover the various questions in contro- versy. A writer calling himself John B. T. sends a pamphlet entitled Can the Air be at Rest while it is in Motion? (New York: Livesey Broth- ers), explaining that if certain conclusions which he reaches are correct, the Copernican system, so far as regards the earths rotation, is demonstrat- ed to be false. Dr. Schaffs A Popular Commen- tary of the New Testament (Scribners) has reached the second volume, containing the Gospel of John, by Professor William Milligan, of Aberdeen, and Professor William F. Moulton, of Cambridge, and the Acts of the Apostles, by Dean Howson and Canon Spence. The popular element is increased by the judicious use of illustrations and maps. The work avoids controversy, and is designed for those who ask to have the Bible explained, not defended. From the Congregational Publishing Society, Boston, we have A Pastors Counsels to Young Christians in a series of Familiar Addresses following a Revival of Religion, by Rev. A. C. Baldwin. Literature. The Harpers have issued in uni- form style with the works of Motley, Hume, Hil- dreth and others, an admirable and complete edi- tion of Macaulays Miscellaneous Works, in five volumes, edited by Lady Trevelyan. The set con- tains all of his writings except t.he History, and is furnished with an analytical index. Four Cent- uries of English Letters, edited and arranged by W. Baptiste Scoones (Harpers), is a reprint of an English book containing selections from the corre- spondence of one hundred and fifty writers from the period of the Paston Letfers to the present day, and the letters are drawn from a great vari- ety of sources: Cowper, for example, being rep- resented by only seven and Nelson and Welling- ton by about the same number; there are but four from Dickens. The great number of writers makes thus a wide range of illustration. Hints for Home Reading (Putnams) is a collection of papers by several writers upon books and their uses. They were originally published in The Christian Union, and intended to stimulate a love of good books and wisdom in the choice of books. Rev. Lyman Abbott, one of the editors of that journal, edits the book. The series of English Men of Letters has been reinforced by Mr. Fowl ers Locke (Harpers). Mr. George H. Calvert has added to his Goethe, Wordsworth, and similar stud- ies a volume entitled Coleridge, Shelley, Goethe; Biographic dEsthetic Studies (Lee and Shepard). Art. Mrs. Fanny Raymond Ritter has trans- lated, edited, and annotated a second series of Rob- ert Schumanns essays and criticisms under the title of Music and Musicians (New York: Schu- berth & Co.). The papers in this series are largely educational in their tendency, and comprehend Schumanns judgment upon a range of musical composition which extends from the opera to piano-forte music. For fifty years Mr. James E. Murdoch has been on the stage in this country and in England; he has gathered his recollections of Actors and Acting during that time into a series of Dramatic Sketches, entitled The Stage (Philadel- phia: Stoddart). The book has a portrait and also a biographical sketch of the author by another hand. Mrs. Susan N. Carter has undertaken to collect into portable and inexpensive volumes the most pregnant and useful hints upon art which have been given by artists and scholars. Her first series of Art Suggestions from the Masters (Put- nams) draws from Reynolds, Bell, Hazlitt, and Haydon, Illustrated Books. The Putnams have issued an edition here of a pretty volume containing Wash- lubton Irviuns Little Britain, Spectre Bridegroom, and Legend of Sleepy Hollow, illustrated by Charles 0. Murray. The English interpretation of the last story is closer in the figures than in the architecture. A new edition of American Poems (Houghton, Muffin & Co.) appears on larger pa- per, with a red-line border and with illustrations, taking it still further out of the range of mere text-books. Other illustrated books are reviewed elsewhere in these pages. 144 [January.

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The Atlantic monthly. / Volume 47, Issue 280 Galaxy, Atlantic Atlantic Monthly Co. Boston February 1881 0047 280
Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Phelps, Elizabeth Stuart Friends: A Duet 145-155

THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: ~ ffrn~aPne of JLitt~rature, ~ci~ncc, art, aut 1~o1itic~0. VOL. XL FIL FLBR UAR Y, 1881. No. CCLXXX. FRIENDS: A DUET. Iv.. A friend to give peace to the affections and sup- port the judgment. GOING to Europe? Reliance said this with a crescendo accent of surprise. She lived in a cir- cle of people with whom going to Eu- rope was no more a noteworthy matter than going to Boston. Everybody went abroad, at unexpected crises and for in- conceivable reasons; that was a matter of course; and they all came home again quite as soon as one looked for them, constantly exposing one to keen social dangers in respect to forgetting which neighbor spent what season in Naples, and therefore omitting to call. But when Charles Nordhall said that he was going to Paris in December, Mrs. Strong found herself unprepared for the event. There are a few of the maturer rela- tions of life upon which no warning can teach us not to impose with the seren- ity of a child upon parental loyalty. (When I say us I mean the mass of us. I am not speaking of the exception- al, either in nature or experience.) One of these relations is that between a man and woman, each free and both without thought of love or marriage. It~had never occurred to Reliance Strong that Charley Nordhall could go to Europe, now. Had she questioned herself why this was, she would have been unable to give a distinct reply. Life at best was a mist to the poor girl. She crawled a little way in it, inch by inch, like a person lost in a fog upon a cliff-side. John was dead. She had thought at first that she herself should die. This, it seemed, one could not do. Nordhall understood this. He was kind. Not that the sound of a sympa- thetic voice beside the parlor fire, or the look of grave eyes regarding her move- ments in the garden, created an object in life; they did not even make life tol- erable, but only grief more endurable. Reliance was not ungrateful. Nord- hall spared her much business concern, and brought some definite contribution to her comfort. With something of the self - assumption of the invalid or the mourner, she thought this, on the whole, rather natural. That a man should not stay at home from abroad for the pur- pose of calling once or twice a week on a woman who irrevocably loved and in- consolably mourned another man, never occurred to her. There was something simple and sincere in this selfishness, aft- er all. She had not the vain or dis- eased imagination which would have viewed the position in that slant light. Her thoughts were direct as midday. That she did irrevocably rove and in- Copyright, 1881, by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co. 146 Friends: A Duet. [February, consolably mourn was a fact assured as gravitation. Charley Nordhall would not offer to the widow of his friend the insult of intermixing a sentiment with his regard. And yet, it seemed, he could go away and leave her. It did occur to Reliance, after some thought, that the one fact accounted for the other. Hence, she added with more gravity and less agitation, Yes, of course. Why should you not? Nordhall went. He went in Decem- ber, as he had purposed. The snow was whirling about the house when he came to say good-by. She shook hands with him cheerfully, lifting her sweet face. lie wondered if she would miss him; but neither spoke of missing or of loss. They chatted quietly. Nordhall had business advice for her, to which she list- ened with submissive attention. He spoke of his return in April, of his en- gagements in Paris, of a trip he planned through Italy. Then he asked for Kai- ser, and why he was not there to say good-by. He could not talk of herself. He knew not how to assume either that she would suffer from his absence, or, on the other band, that she was quite in- different to it. The last supposition seemed a brutal one; but the first he dared not offer. He felt impatiently the undefined nature of their relation. To be the comforter of your dead friends widow seemed to him, rather bitterly just then, the most thankless position in the world. He wished, honestly enough, that John were there to do his own con- soling. Nothing in his heart would have been reluctant towards such a miracle. lie was conscious of no wish other than to see her happy. They made a matter-of-fact enough parting of it, and neither was aware of embarrassment till the final moment came. Then Reliance held out her hand, and looked at him earnestly with her honest eyes, and said, I hope you will have the best voy- age that ever was! I hope you will be well and happy all the time! She could not easily have said less. But Nordhall could not huve borne more. He looked at her, standing so h~ne1y there in the long drawing-room; he did not speak. No woman could have for- gotten such a look. Reliance felt her- self enveloped in it, as she went dreamily up-stairs to tell her mother that Mr. Nordhalls carriage stood at the door. She did not come down again. Madam Strong made her stately adieux in the hall below. Their voices came up. Re- liance stood at the hall window and looked out into the storm. She thought, How John would miss him! He used to, every time. By and by, when the sound of his car- riage wheels had died into the white silence, she turned wearily from the window. She did not think: I shall miss him, too. But she felt that the house was quiet; that the street was dull; that winter was cheerless; that life was long; that John was dead. Thea she went down-stairs and sat with her mother-in-law, who was rounding the blue toes of the twenty-first pair of baby socks whose creation Reliance had watched that autumn. They talked of the weath- er, of Mr. Nordhall, of the Cunard Line, of the church bazar, of the Heart of Mid-Lothian. Madam Strong read the Heart of Mid-Lothian once a year; in December, always. She considered Scott a great writer; she was apt to say so about the second week in December. On this afternoon she talked longer than usual. Reliance assented as usual; perhaps more languidly. Madam Strong, in her dignified way, which was at once above a suspicious and below a compel- ling scrutiny, watched Reliance that day. Nature had not gifted Mrs. Winthrop L. Strong with that perfume of charac- ter which we call imagination; but of experience of life, which is the next thing to it in practical effect and often 1881.] Friends: A Duet. 147 mistaken for it, she had her share. She was an old woman, and she had seen the world. She laid down her baby socks, and said, We shall iniss Mr. Nordhall, my dear. Yes; oh, yes, assented Reliance, vaguely. You have seen a good deal of him; he has been very kind to you, proceed- ed John Strongs mother, counting blue stitches on those consecrated wooden needles, which lent such an air of sanc- tity to the lightest occasion honored by them. He has always been kind, replied John Strongs widow earnestly. John used to depend upon him long ago, when there was anything to be done for me and he could nt do it himself. Charley Nordhall is a loyal friend. Has it never struck you, began the elder lady; but paused, oppressed by an unusual embarrassment. What in? Reliance looked at her with clear, sweet, sad eyes. Has it never struck you that Mr. Nordhall would be happier if lie were to marry? proceeded the mother-in- law. Now this was not what she had meant to say, at all. She felt a certain well - bred sense of guilt at her slight sabterfuge. Madam Strong was not ac- customed to allow herself flights of con- versation (or of anything else) in which she could not easily see her way back to her nest of silence and blue single zephyr. She seemed to herself, for a moment, like the plotting elderly wom- an in the lower class of fiction, which she never permitted herself to read, and of which she was sure Scott would not have approved. A faint color tinged her face, refined and expressionless as old white china. But Reliance an- swered, Yes in. I used to think of it very often; I have hoped he would; but lately I have been so absorbed in my own troubles, I dont know that it had occurred to me, mother, whether Mr. Nordhall was married or not. I dont know whether he would be happiest so. 1 had not thought. Men are the best judges for themselves about such mat- ters. She spoke with a gravity and direct- ness which were not to be mistaken. This young creature, standing there in her black dress, with her eyes dream- ing on the fire, belonged to those women for the classification of whom the fine old Bible phrase might have been pur- posely inspired: she was a widow in- deed. Madam Strong perceived this, one hardly knows how. She had known young women who, though abundant- ly tempted, never encouraged a second conjugal affection. Her thoughts occu- pied themselves with such well-finished sentences. It was natural that John Strongs wife should be one of these women. Madam Strong set up the stitches for her twenty-second pair, with industrious content. But Reliance put on her things, and went out to walk in the brave snow- storm. She said she must look up Kaiser, and he would go with her. They would walk towards the shore. And so the afternoon came to an end. Reliance had a relief that it was over. Without feeling any undue sentimental- ism in such matters, she hated partings and leave-takings; they jarred on nerves already worn sensitive by real grief. And Charley Nordhall had been very kind. He s gone, Kaiser, she said, with a slight sadness. Kaiser whined, and leaped upon her, barking. She had drawn off her fur glove to pat him, and the dog kissed her hand. She felt grateful for this mark of affection. It was a lonely storm. She felt like say- ing, Thank you, Kaiser.~~ When they came to the shore, she paced up and down. Kaiser followed her with grave regularity. The beach 148 Pr~ends: A Duet. [February, was slippery and glittered; it was a cold, ashen color, and the rocks had the look of iron. But the sea was a curdled, cruel blue. As she stood looking be- tween the foaming lips of the nearest breaker, thence off into the tumult of the snow that brought the borizon so ~solemnly near to the eye, she suddenly thought that this was the sea which in a few hours would dash between herself and her husbands friend. It seemed just then very wide, wider than if the curtain of the snow-flakes had been less close and dense. No distance appears so deep as that which is hidden from sight. Reliance spent a busy winter; this, the third since her bereavement, was perhaps the busiest of her life. One need not be saying much, to be sure, in saying that, for the lives of women like this young creature are not often bur- dened with care. Mrs. Strong, how- ever, did occupy herself in earnest. Nordhall occasionally wrote to ask how her parishioners got on, but she gave him no very detailed answers. She did not write often. Indeed, she found, or she gave herself, little time for desultory correspondence. She had plunged heav- ily into the Poor Relief work of the town. Even in Salem it is possible to care for the suffering with enthusiasm, individuality, and independence. Re- liance was not capable of working with- out. The discovery that a young lady as ignorant as herself of the woes of her fellow-men (and up to this point as indifferent to them) could make a so- ber man out of a drunkard, or a self- respecting citizen of a beggar, or a vir- tuous woman of a castaway, awed her; and was, at the outset, almost more of a pain than a pleasure. When she found what a light sacrifice arouses the large loyalty of the poor, and what a profuse expenditure of feeling they return for a little outlay, she became at first puzzled, then humbled, then grateful, hopeful, comforted. She trod the shores of a new world. She began to know the dangers and the delights of personal ministry to those who need. That sub- tlest, and I say without hesitation strong- est, of human passions, service to hu- manity, always ready to seek a nature made pliable and fertile by sorrow, at- tacked hers. She trembled before it, for she did not understand it nor herself. She only knew that now she could bear to live. Reliance, in short, gave herself up to the people who seemed to need her the most, and the inevitable consequence fol- lowed: her need of them became the predominant fact in her life. She yielded herself to these grave delights, an evening school her high- est dissipation, a temperance society her wildest pleasure, a mission prayer-meet- ing her keenest comfort; and times followed one another, and one day she looked, and the syringa leaves were bud- ding, and Madam Strong was sending the nankin sun-bonnet out to be pressed over, and the snow had melted from the flower-beds, and Kaiser was daily very muddy when he kissed her, and Jacobs was digging about the roots of things, and Janet was singing in the back yard with bare, bright head, and spring had come. She remembered that with the spring would come Charles Nordhall. One does not forget such things because there are drunkards or poor women ia the world. She thought of this event with less excitement than she expended on the movements of Janets father, or of a little shoe-shop girl she cared about, who had fallen into gay company. The heart holds one passion at a time; it may be love, ambition, friendship, revenge, or benevolence; but among passions, as among people, one must govern. Reliance noticed, indeed, that April had passed, and INordhall had not come; that May was going, but still he stayed; 1881.] that it was June, and yet he lingered. She thought of this with quiet interest. Had business detained him? Was he, perhaps, not well? Or he traveled for pleasure. And what was she to do about that Iowa mortgage where the in- terest had failed? One day, she sat alone with Kaiser on the grape-vine settle under the light- ning-pierced tree. It was but a short half hour after an early tea. She had a hook in her hand, hut was not reading. Her face and figure indicated expect- ancy. She looked vivid and eager in the slant light. She wore a fine, white camels-hair shawl; one end of it was hrought up across her hair and fastened there, in the pretty fashion by which women protect the head and shoulders with a single garment, on summer even- ings. The dog leaned with chin and forepaws familiarly across her foot. She was looking in the direction of the gate. It clicked while she sat there, and the bushes thrilled and swayed. A man fastened the latch, and stood a moment in the arbor before he advanced. She put down her book and came to- wards him, holding out her hand. But when they met, she stopped short. Kai- ser had bounded out. Charley Nordhall! Mr. Nordhall! I thought You thought I was somebody else. That is plain enough. He stood eager- ly looking down. Why I thought you were a drunkard! A mun might wish he had been. There, there, Kaiser! There! Yes, good fellow. It is Mr. Janet, then? Oh, yes. Dont make fun of him, poor man! He broke his pledge last week, the first time, she added ear- nestly. It must happen once in a while. But of course it was a great disappoint- ment. I have to look after him for a lit- tle while very carefully. I asked him to call and see me this evening. Janet thought he would come. You see they 149 have to be held up, held up from day to day. Somebody must care enough to do it! She spoke with intense, almost fever- ish earnestness. Somebody must care enough for most of us to hold us up, each in our different ways, said Nordhall, gravely. It ought to make us all patient with one another. They were walking together towards the house, as if he too had been calling every few days, like the drunkards, as if he too had never put the seas between himself and her sweet compassion and daily thought. He drew her aside to the seat she had left, and picked up the book that had fallen to the grass. Mother will be glad began Re- liance, coming to herself, and flushing slightly. I will see your mother presently. Let me stay here a minute. What have you been reading? He looked at the pamphlet; then laid it down without remark. It was Octavia Hills Report of Co6perative Visitation among the London Poor. You did not come home when we expected, began Reliance again. her heart smote her, she had been so anx- ious about her drunkard. She was afraid she had not met INordhall just as she should. She had given him the wrong mans welcome, and had been too con- fused to set it right. No; I was detained, said Nordhall. At least, he added frankly, I de- tained myself. I wanted to travel. I ye taken a run through Switzerland. I needed it. I should have written you, perhaps, but I had no reason to suppose you would care especially when I came. I left all the orders at the Bradburne Bank about everything that I thought you could need before I returned. This hurt her, and only her vivid cheeks, half the color of anger, half of shame, made answer to him. He did not or would not see, and per- Friends: A Duet. 150 Friends: A Duet. [February, sistently drummed away at the same note, with what may be called the mad- ness or the inspiration of his sex. I have been gone two months longer than I expected to. I confess I was self- ish enough to hope you would have cared. You could stay away two unneces- sary months, it seems! flashed Reli- ance. She had forgotten about Mr. Ja- net just then. Was there a touch of pique in her voice? An expression which only another man could have read correctly crossed Charles Nordhalls face. He looked down at her. She looked young and human, like any other beau- tiful woman. She seemed very near. He remembered how near she had looked, shut in towards him by the lace curtain, on that day in Boston. But that was long, oh, long ago. Impetuous words of joy at seeing her after their separation sprang to his lips. A masculine sense of power and defiance overtook him. Why should not a man make a woman glad to see him? You missed me! he began. You missed me At this moment the gate clicked once more and the syringa bushes trembled shyly. A tall, stooped, weak figure shuffled up the garden walk. A man with gaunt eyes and fine face writ- ten heavily with lines of shame stood hesitating there. Nordhall rose. The two men looked at the lady. There is your drunkard, said Nord- hall below his breath. He wondered if she would leave him, on this first even- ing, for that castaway. I am sorry, said Reliance, but lie needs me. Go to mother. I will come as soon as I can. She drew her white drapery about her, and stepping hastily across the now darkening lawn held out her hand to Mr. Janet. She looked to Nordhall, left alone, less woman now than ghost. The distance between them seemed, in the uncertain twilight, to be greater than it was. V. He takes us all as if we were his blood re- lations. (His poor neighbors of Walter Scotts friendships.) Something touched and startled him as he stood there, thinking bitterly how he had looked forward to this evening and what had come of it. The touch came from the dog. Kaiser lifted and thrust his nose affectionately into Nord- halls hand. Then Nordhail discovered that he had shut his hand rather hard, and that the dog was prying his fingers apart, licking them with that profound obtuseness to the fact that his methods of caress may not be as agreeable as he personally considers them which is pe- culiar to his race; though I am not sure but a similar misapprehension is shared by most lower natures as regards their expressions of attachment to a higher. Kisses enough! repeated Nord- hall, idly. lie had caught the phrase, somehow, from her. She used to dis- courage Kaisers advances in that way, once in a while. The idle words struck him oddly as he said them aloud, for he felt grateful to Kaiser for staying there with him. There were not so many people in the world to kiss him when he came home from Europe that he need criticise a dogs welcome. INordhall had no sisters, and his parents were dead. He had some cousins in Boston, he was going to see them to- morrow; but they shook hands with him. Reliance had walked on towards the house with poor Mr. Janet. INordhall and Kaiser went in, after a little while, to find Madam Strong. They passed Reliance and her drunkard, sitting on the piazza in the light from the parlor windows. The lady looked up, and smiled abstractedly. She was talking earnestly. Tears were in her eyes. The man was saying I promise you before God! But 1 1881.] Priends: A Duet. 151 promised you before. I never thought I d break a promise to a lady Madam Strong sat within, not far from the open windows, in the soft, June air. Her blue knitting-work lay across Pev- eril of the Peak upon the table. Her hands were folded. She was sleeping the peaceful sleep of age which never knew a feverish, perplexed, or rebellious youth. What subtle moral problems had ever tortured her? She woke with her fragile smile, ex- pressing no surprise at the young mans presence; she was too old to be sur- prised. She only said, Ah, Mr. iNordhall! And they fell to talking of the weather and the Cu- nard Line, the rryrol and the Roman fe- ver, the doctor, the minister, the Rollin- stalls, honucopathy, and the church ba- zar, as if he had never been away at all. But the young man was in no mood for the generous art of conversing with an old lady, and after waiting some time in vain for Reliance to come in, he bade her mother-in-law good-night, and some- what suddenly left the house. As he did so, he met Reliance. She was coming up the piazza steps, down which she had gone to say her last earnest word to the man. Nordhall knew how she did such things, intense in her humanity as in ~er love or grief. Despite his vexation, he felt a thrill of pride in her single- heartedness. You thorough woman 1 he said to himself as he looked at her. The thorough woman put up both hands to him. Her face was flushed with a beautiful pity. The strugde for 1~he conquest of a soul the finest fever that the heart knows still lingered in her eyes. iNordhall could see instantly how this fever had gained upon her since he went away. I have treated you badly, she said, like a penitent child, but how could I help it? Come back, please. He yielded, and they sat down togeth- er on the piazza. The perfumed dark- ness was around them; and the broken lights from the parlor windows served only to reveal their outlines to one an-- other. Her white shawl had fallen, and she held it across her arms; it dropped over her lap to the floor. She wore white now, too, at her throat and wrists. I think he can be saved, began Re- liance again, eagerly, but it requires constant watching. I undertook it, Mr. iNordhall. How could I bear it if I failed in my part of this hard work? How should I feel if such a poor fellow slipped back into the mud because I got impatient or tired of it all? It is easy to get impatient. It is not easy to save a soul I She spoke in a low, awed voice. Nordhall made no reply. He sat and looked at her. Suddenly he broke out, There are different kinds of souls in the world! This is an Irishmans! You mistake, said, Reliance in a matter-of-fact voice. Janet is an Eng- lish girl. Mother wont have Irish serv- ants. Mr. Griggs was a coachm n in London once.~~ X equaling the velue of a coach- mans soul, J~gan Nordhall passion- ately, -~ gentlemans, for instance, an old friends He stopped and said, Forgive me, Mrs. Strong! Reliance made no answer. He hur- ned on I took a brutal way of expressing a natural pang. I had been away a good while. A lonely man like me has not so many welcomes to look forward to that he can bear the loss of one very graciously. I beg your pardon. I am glad you are saving drunk~ixAs. It~ IA womanly, Christian work. You are do- ing it like a woman and a Christian. But it has changed you. He stopped abruptly. Changed me? You have taken philanthropy as a passion, proceeded Nordhall, still labor- ing under unusual excitement. Or, you are a woman, yes, it has taken you. A woman does not live without emotion. You have found it in saving 152 Frzencls: A Duet. [February, castaways. You needed excitem 2nt. You have it in compelling the better natures of abandoned people. You lacked oc- cupation. Charity provides you with one. You perished for love Reliance raised her beautiful head. He could see the haughty motion. Jt seemed to spur him headlong on. You perished for love, I say! We all do, in our measures. You had re- ceived and given more than one womans share. When you were left without it, when your trouble came, you needed a substitute for happi- ness. Be patient with me! We all do, in different forms. Some of us find it in study, or in trade, some in pleasure, some in sin. I have known people who could take it out in horseback-riding or household-art decoration, in a cigar or an embroidered stork. You have found it in benevolence.~~ You are severe, interrupted Re- liance gently. And yet I have tried I uxeant to be unselfish. Her head had fallen, her lip trembled. You starved for lovb, persisted he. And you have it there. lie pointed down the dark road, where the drunk- ards departing steps had ceased to echo. You have it here, waving his hand towards the hall, where, across the great lighted space left by the open door, the. figure of Janet passed, flitting and anx- ious. You have it everywhere you go. You treat poor people as if they were human and you too. That is the highest bid that can be made for their-affection. They give it. You are overwhelmed with it. You needed love. You have found it in its most alluring and its most illusive form. You have too much of it! Reliance sat perfectly still. Had she opposed any resistance to this torrent of words, it is uncertain how long it might have gone on. You have too much, it will spoil you! It intoxicates you; you are living on it as that fellow lives on his dram! Sud lenly his manner changed. And yet your motives are so pure, you are so unselfish, that you do not resent all this! And I am a brute! He got up, and restlessly paced the piazza. Reli- ance, Mrs. Strong be patient with me. I am all out of sorts to-night. I have been rude. I m only afraid you may be right, she answered, gently still. And yet if it were if I did need love, and if my poor people gave itI never thought of it so. But should I be so very much to blame? Must I stop working because I love them? God forbid! said Nordhall quick- ly. Only save a corner for some of us poor devils who are not drunkards or outcasts. We mean well. We do as well as we can to deserve your inter- est. She had risen, drawing her white shawl up, and stood regarding him per- plexedly. That old fancy of his about her came upon him, seeing her so ab- sorbed and sweet and calm, white against the dark. Wraith or woman? he said, half aloud. What did you say? I said I hoped you had a heart left for your friends. I hope so, said Reliance, earnest- ly. And for you, for Johns friend Mr. Nordhall, I was glad to see you come home. Did you not know? Yes, I am Johns friend, said Charley Nordhall more quickly, after a long pause. Let us come in to the house. The air is damp for you. He walked home that night with rest- less, reckless steps. He was thoroughly ill at ease. He knew he had been rough with her, the gentlest woman that ever breathed! He knew that he could not expect her to understand him. What was more immediately to the purpose, he perceived that he did not understand himself. He did not know, till he saw her, how he had looked forward to corn- 1881.] Friends: A Duet. 153 ing back to her. He had been a con- scientious traveler, with an occupied mind. His dead friends wife had found her place in it, of course. Had he pur- posely prolonged his journey, the better to define that place ~nd keep her in it? Had lie, not without design, increased the distance between them, the better to observe its effect on herself when they should meet? And now was he jeal- ous of her interest in her house-maids drunken father? . . . Poor girl! Despite his masculine reluctance to see a woman whom he idealized brought into contact with all the unnamed perils to which earnest work among the igno- rant and erring must expose a lady, he was perfectly conscious that she moved on a plane to which he had never aspiTed, and that her preoccupations were as much nobler as her nature was finer than his own. He acknowledged this fact to himself with stern severity. He acknowledged, too, that any move- ment of soul which he should make to- wards that level would spring not so much from a wish to approach it, as to approach her. After some moments hard walking and clear thinking, he ac- knowledged that his ill-nature sprung from an unwillingness to lose the posi- tion of comforter-in-chief to this attract- ive mourner. At this point his thoughts came to a dead-lock. Love? He shrank. Alone there in the dark road, this knightly gentleman recoiled from himself, be- cause he had admitted so much as the word to his throbbing thoughts. With love and marriage those thoughts bad nothing to do. He had been a busy man. The full years had left him no time for empty dreams. He had never wished nor expected to marry. Even if he had, this woman was his friends wife. He thanked Heaven that he was not born a scoundrel, to love an- other mans wife. True, John was what we call dead. Who knew what that meant? iNordhall lifted his face to the sky. All the stars were out. He looked up solemnly, in one of those pauses of soul which come seldom to hurried lives. What was it to be dead? Old Bible words came to him, broken- ly and confused, as he walked along with stumbling feet and skyward gaze: To live again ? rrhat was her way of thinkino She was a devout and trustful woman, Heaven help her! Where would she have been were she not? She believed that John was a live man. He expressed this to himself in just these words; drew his breath; passed his hand over his forehead with the wearied and appealing motion into which reserved people fall only when they are unobserved. lie stretched his hands a little, both of them, towards the sky. He knew he was alone. The street was still. Far in the distance the lights of the town pulsated passionately; each meant a hu- man home. Behind him the unseen sea broke steadily and strong. He stopped, and spoke aloud : John! John, old fellow! He took off his hat and held it a mo- ment. Then he bowed his bared head. It seems as if if ever a man would make himself known to another, it might be at some such time and place too as this. Perhaps he would. Per- haps he cant . . . John! . . . Are & OU alive ? He hesitated, standing still uncovered. John Strong! You trust me, dont A busy man, not often given to forays of imagination, is the more subject to them when they attack him; and Nord- hall was so possessed by his exalted mood that he was bewildered and start- led on suddenly perceiving that he was not alone upon the dark road. A man stood in the middle of it, per- fectly silent, directly in the path. 154 Friend8: A Duet. [February, Nordhalls hand instinctively sought the revolver which he sometimes carried on these lonely walks; but he found that he had left it at home. That aristocrat- ic town had her full share of social ex- tremes, and the Salem rough has acquired a more than local reputation. As Nordhall tried to pass, with such fearless indifference as the case required, the fellow laid a heavy hand upon his arm. Stand off! cried Nordhall, with a mighty shove. The man staggered and fell back. He made no effort to re- sume hostilities, but stood still. He carried a little dark-lantern with him, which now turned upon his figure. Nordhall recognized him at once. It was Mr. Janet. How did you suppose I was going to know you? cried the gentleman, by way of apology. Come, now! What is it? I m in a hurry, and no man likes being caught upon a dark road in this way. You might have got arrested for a highwayman. Have you been drink- ing so soon? Nordhalls natural irritation was slow in subsiding, and he poured the words out in his quick-blooded fashion. No! thundered the reformed man, drawing himself up. I aint so low as that, fresh from a sight of Never mind! cried Nordhall. He could not bring himself to bear hearing her name uttered in this way. You re not the man I took you for, said the other sullenly, moving away. This aroused Nordhalls curiosity, and that subdued his temper. He followed Mr. Janet, spoke more gently. What do you mean by that? Per- haps we dont either of us know what kind of man the other is. IDo me the justice to remember that you came upon me like a robber. I m no robber, said the man, and no rascal. I m a reformed man. Why dont you stay reformed, then? asked Nordhall bluntly. That s what I was trying to do, when you come up. I thought mebbe you d help me. I took you for a dif- ferent sort of man, seem you in her company. I took it for granted a feller she took to would be like herself, God bless her! It seems I was mistaken, sir. Try me and see, said Nordhall, mildly accepting the rebuke. Tell me what you thought I could do for you. Mr. Janet hesitated, standing for some moments twirling his dark-lantern round and round between his fingers. The revolving light flashing and fading on his rough face had a sad effect, like the struggles and failures of purpose which beset a shipwrecked life. His forehead was carved with the deep furrows which usually belong to men battling with the alcoholic passion. Sir, he said at last, in a changed voice, do you see that light yonder ahead of us, just to the corner where Cranbys Cut strikes down to the Mashes? I cant get by that light. No, you dont understand, I see; you aint used to us. She d understand. She d ha come with me herself ef it was fit for a lady. I cant get by alone. That s Cranbys Hell. CranbysHell? Cranbys grogg ry, sir. It s where I ye hen used to get my liquor. I m owin him. I darsent go by. Theyll coax me in. I ye got the money to pay, and he knows it. He wont let me by. And I darsent go in, I darsent go in! Sir, I ye set here half an hour, on this rock, looking at that there light. I thought mebbe you d let me seem yo~t was a friend of hers let me walk by with you, sir. That was all. But it dont matter. I wont trouble you, sir. He turned drearily, swinging his lan- tern, from sheer nervousness, in a ghast. ly way, setting his face towards Cran- bys Hell. I will go with you, said Nordhall. 1881.] The Wives of Poets. 155 Come into Cranbys and pay your debt. Ill stand by you till you re out again. Will that do? Then I 11 be clear of him! said Mr. Janet joyously. Yes, sir, thank you. That will do. The two men walked on together in silence. Neither knew how to address the other, under these circumstances. Suddenly Mr. Janet drew his breath hard and shook from head to foot. They had not quite reached the door of the groggery, but Nordhall perceived that the fumes from it struck their faces. 1-le felt a surprised sympathy with the effect of this fact upon his companion, but he did not comment upon it. They passed in, still in silence, and Mr. Janet paid his bill. INordhall stood beside him. The shop was full. The entrance or reception room in which they stood was fitted up as a little a very little grocery; adjoining it was a second smaller apartment, in and out of which a few men skulked on mysterious er- rands; a third and still smaller room opened beyond, dimly lighted, and with an ugly look. iNordhall was conscious that his pres- ence in this place attracted attention, and occupied himself with a desire to hasten the business which brought him there. A few idle words passed between Mr. Janet and the proprietor, who made no effort to detain him. They turned, and were about to leave, when out of the third and inner room a man ad- vanced towards them. His face and figure, even, seemed to smoulder, as he staggered up. The whole creature looked lurid. He was evidently far gone with the insensate rage which forms a stage of intoxication in certain lower natures, and which seizes the first convenient object on which to vent it- self, as fire seizes fuel. Griggs! he cried. You goin ter leave us? By Blank! you shant! We want your blanked company! You cannot have it to-night, said Nordhall, in his quiet, cultivated voice. Come, Mr. Griggs. He put his white hand upon the others shoulder. At the instant, through the flare and fumes of the sickening place, he was aware that riot arose; that a raving figure leaped at him; that others leaped at it; that there were cries and a blow. Then he fell, crashing, and knew no more. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. THE WIVES OF POETS. II. Oun next author is the celebrated fab- ulist, Jean Lafontaine, who was born at Chateau Thierry, in Champagne, in July, 1621, his father being an overseer of waters and forests, to which office the son succeeded. Lafontaine whose face I do not find particularly prepos- sessing, with its large, thin, prominent nose, small chin, and i~& r 9~ ekittish un- eerta4nty was an odd mixture of sim plicity, shrewdness, laxity, and right feeling; something like our own Oliver Goldsmith, but an extremer instance. His freedom from rivalry or ambition, his absence of mind, his neglectful in- capacity for attending to his own busi- ness, were altogether abnorm~A. Such a character might tarn out the most docile, easy-going, and attached of hus- bands, or the most wayward and intract- able. Lafontaine partook of both these dispositions. He got on tolerably enough

William M. Rossetti Rossetti, William M. The Wives of Poets 155-165

1881.] The Wives of Poets. 155 Come into Cranbys and pay your debt. Ill stand by you till you re out again. Will that do? Then I 11 be clear of him! said Mr. Janet joyously. Yes, sir, thank you. That will do. The two men walked on together in silence. Neither knew how to address the other, under these circumstances. Suddenly Mr. Janet drew his breath hard and shook from head to foot. They had not quite reached the door of the groggery, but Nordhall perceived that the fumes from it struck their faces. 1-le felt a surprised sympathy with the effect of this fact upon his companion, but he did not comment upon it. They passed in, still in silence, and Mr. Janet paid his bill. INordhall stood beside him. The shop was full. The entrance or reception room in which they stood was fitted up as a little a very little grocery; adjoining it was a second smaller apartment, in and out of which a few men skulked on mysterious er- rands; a third and still smaller room opened beyond, dimly lighted, and with an ugly look. iNordhall was conscious that his pres- ence in this place attracted attention, and occupied himself with a desire to hasten the business which brought him there. A few idle words passed between Mr. Janet and the proprietor, who made no effort to detain him. They turned, and were about to leave, when out of the third and inner room a man ad- vanced towards them. His face and figure, even, seemed to smoulder, as he staggered up. The whole creature looked lurid. He was evidently far gone with the insensate rage which forms a stage of intoxication in certain lower natures, and which seizes the first convenient object on which to vent it- self, as fire seizes fuel. Griggs! he cried. You goin ter leave us? By Blank! you shant! We want your blanked company! You cannot have it to-night, said Nordhall, in his quiet, cultivated voice. Come, Mr. Griggs. He put his white hand upon the others shoulder. At the instant, through the flare and fumes of the sickening place, he was aware that riot arose; that a raving figure leaped at him; that others leaped at it; that there were cries and a blow. Then he fell, crashing, and knew no more. Elizabeth Stuart Phelps. THE WIVES OF POETS. II. Oun next author is the celebrated fab- ulist, Jean Lafontaine, who was born at Chateau Thierry, in Champagne, in July, 1621, his father being an overseer of waters and forests, to which office the son succeeded. Lafontaine whose face I do not find particularly prepos- sessing, with its large, thin, prominent nose, small chin, and i~& r 9~ ekittish un- eerta4nty was an odd mixture of sim plicity, shrewdness, laxity, and right feeling; something like our own Oliver Goldsmith, but an extremer instance. His freedom from rivalry or ambition, his absence of mind, his neglectful in- capacity for attending to his own busi- ness, were altogether abnorm~A. Such a character might tarn out the most docile, easy-going, and attached of hus- bands, or the most wayward and intract- able. Lafontaine partook of both these dispositions. He got on tolerably enough 156 The Wives of Poets. [February, with his wife, and might have done the same to the end of the chapter; but at one moment he got away from her, and he never returned. At the persua- sion of his family, who saw him inclined to nothing but idle amusement, he, at the age of twenty-six, married a pretty and engaging young lady, Marie H6ri- card, daughter of the lieutenant-g~n~ral of La Fert& Milon. She had plenty of sense and spirit, and, as long as they lived together, he constantly consulted her about his writings, He had no par- ticular inclination for marrying, but he esteemed the lady both before and after their nuptials; and it is said that their tone of mind and temper was a good deal alike, and that he, though there were some quarrels from time to time, owing to his careless way of life, did not find her really difficult to agree with. Some other people did. She, like her husband, lacked orderliness, application, and firmness, and was a great reader of romances. There is an amusing story about Lafontaines being incited to jeal- ousy and a duel. A certain Captain Poignant, of the dragoons, frequented his house, and enjoyed the ladys society more especially. Lafontaines was, in- deed, not greatly enjoyable; for he was taciturn, slovenly, and commonplace. The captain, however, gave no cause for suspicion; but somebody set Lafontaine on the alert, and told him that it would behoove him to fight a duel. He called on the captain, who was comfortably asleep, and summoned him to follow to the field of honor. Here he ex- plained the cause of his proceedings, and drew his sword, which at the very first pass was knocked out of his hand by his more expert antagonist; and Poignant then took Lafontaine home, and they were reconciled over their breakfast. Some years of married life ensued, and the birth of a son; which was not, perhaps, very welcome to Lafontaine, who is recorded to have had a marked dislike to children, almost the last feel- ing one would have imputed to the fab- ulist. Then the Duchess of Bouillon, a lively lady who had prompted him to write his Contes, or narratives in verse, a work of very indecorous notoriety, took him with her to Paris. here he at once settled down: partly, it would seem, because he liked the capital and its gayeties, partly because he disliked attending to his own affairs, which were somewhat involved; not, apparently, be- cause he had any rooted intention of quitting his wife; though in fact he did quit her, and saw her henceforth only at rare intervals. His letters to her have been preserved, and they show (it is said) the same spirit of observation and discernment that we find in his Fables. He was in the habit of paying her a short visit each September, in company with a friend or two. On one occasion he had been persuaded to get thorough- ly reconciled to her, but, calling at her house, and being told by the servant that she was at her devotions, he went away again, spent a couple of days with a friend hard by, and then returned to Paris. In the capital he had at first been housed with the lavish superintend- ent of finance, Fouquet; after his fall, with the English Princess Henrietta, wife of the French kings brother; then, for twenty years, with a lady of great distinction and amiability, Madame de la Sablk~re; and after her death, in his old age, with another friend. The first set of his inimitable Fables, which were immensely popular, was published in 1668, when he was forty-seven years of age, a masterpiece of na~vet~i, spirit, sprightliness, and felicitous tact. Lafontaine had throughout his life shown the same indifferentism in relig- ion as in other matters; but near his end a priest took him in hand, and he evinced contrition for psst irregularities, and is said to have become sincerely pious. His wife and son (he had once met and liked the latter in Parisian 1881.] The Wives of Poets. 157 society, without knowing him until he was told of the relationship) do not seem, even after this change in his sen- timents and demeanor, ever to have vis- ited him. He died in March, 1 695. The wife, since her husbands disappearance, had continued living on her own inde- pendent property, which sufficed for her requirements. After his death she was pressed to pay some taxes; but the in- tendant of Soissons, DArmenonville, ordered that the family of Lafontaine, as a national benefactor, should be cx- einpted from all public burdens; and this immunity always continued, a rare instance of honor to literary services. Here is the epitaph which Lafontaine wrote for himself. I am sorry to spoil it in translation John has departed much as he had come, Eating his income, then his capital, Accounting property superfluous. As for his time, he knew to spend it well: He made two parts of it, and he would pass One sleeping, and the other doing naught. The greatest comic dramatist of France, the greatest for pure comedy, I believe, of the modern world, Jean Baptiste Poquelin, who upon going on the stage adopted the name of Molii~re, was born in Paris in January, 1622. His father was a furniture broker, who held the post of valet de chambre and up- holsterer to the king. The son showed an early inclination for the theatre; in 1641, aged nineteen, he became definite- ly an actor. Tie joined with a provin- cial actress, Madeleine Bt~jart; and they formed a company, which, in 1653, at Lyons, played his first regular comedy, LEtourdi. With Madeleine he had a tie niore than professional. In 1662, being then aged forty, and having mean- while settled in Paris, and obtained a. fine reputation as actor, author, and manager, and a post at court as well, he married a much younger sister of Made- leine, Armande Claire Elizabeth B6jart, aged at the utmost seventeen. Armande has generally been called the daughter of Madeleine; but that is a mistake. She was an actress, and attained event- ually a great success in high comedy, playing with refinement, and singing with much taste. This union of the middle-aged actor with the girlish act- ress, a marriage of affection on his part, was a perilous experiment, and proved a very unfortunate one. After three years or so of marriage, Molibre had but too good reason to suspect his wifes fidelity. lie nnderstood her to be in love with the nobleman De Lauzun; she, on being taxed with this, repelled the charge, but avowed an inclination for De Guiche, and closed the scene with tears and a fainting fit. The actor Baron seems also to have given Moli~re cause for marital disquietude about this time. The situation was all the crueler for him, as he had in his troupe both the elder sister Madeleine and another actress for whom he had had an attach- ment, Mademoiselle de Brie. A partial separation took place between the poet and his wife; and when he was shortly afterwards acting Alceste, the hero of his own Misanthrope, and she was per- forming the volatile lady of fashion, Celim?~ne, they met only in the theatre. He still loved her, however, and found the severance, which lasted for some- thing like seven years, very painful. At last, through the mediation of friends, they again came together, and another child was born to him. But the recon- ciliation was only ten months before the dramatists death. lie expired in Feb- ruary, 1673, aged fifty-two, through pul- monary disease and the rupture of a blood-vessel; having, on the previous evening, insisted, in the interest of the many poor persons whose living de- pended on the theatre, upon playing a part of his own Malade Imaginaire, in spite of th~ earnest dissuasions of his wife and of Baron. Two nuns were tending Moli~re when he died, stifled by the flow of blood; his wife, on hur- rying into the chamber, found him life- less. 158 The Wives of Poets. [February, Moli~re was kind - hearted, obliging, generous, quick in temper, observant, not talkative. He lived sumptuously in his later years, having an income of some thirty thousand livres. In person he was neither fat nor thin, rather tall, of fine carriage and a very serious air. I-us nose was large, and so was his thick- lipped mouth; his complexion brown; his eyebrows black, heavy, and very mobile; his voice somewhat hard. He had an inclination to tragic acting, and a good faculty for it, but practically he was a comedian actor, famed for the parts of intriguing servants so charac- teristic of the drama of that epoch, or for high comedy, as in Orgon in the Tartuffe, or Harpagon in the Avare. Whatever her conjugal misdoings, Madame Moli~re seems to have had a proper sense of her husbands great- ness; for, when the Archbishop of Paris refused him burial, in accordance with the priestly prejudices of those times, she exclaimed with honest indignation, They refuse a grave to one to whom Greece would have erected altars! An order from the king intervened, and Moli~re was buried with maimed rites in the cemetery of St. Joseph, Rue Montmartre. Two or three years after- wards his tombstone got damaged by a curious casualty. The winter being ex- cessively cold, his widow had a load of wood lighted on the stone to warm the poor of the district, and the slab split in the burning heat. A detailed account has been given of a long conversation held with Moli~re while he was partly separated from his wife; in the course of this he called her a person without beauty, whom people are willing to credit with some talent. It is said, also, that an exceedingly sprightly scene in the Bourgeois Gen- tilhomme, purporting to give some de- scription of the heroine Ludile, is really aimed at Armande. This informs us that her eyes were small but piercing, her mouth large and loving, her stat- nrc moderate, her demeanor nonchalant and at the same time serious, her ca- prices frequent. This is. just the sort of woman in whom a man can find much to complain of, but whom, if he has loved her once, he does not give up without a pang. Moli~res fondness for his wife is rumored to have led him into that lifelong quarrel with doctors which figures so largely in his plays. The story is that the couple were once lodg- ing in the house of a physician whose wife notified a rise of rent, whereof Ar- mande, in her free and easy way, would take no heed; and then the lodgings were let over the heads of her and her husband, who rapidly paid off the med- ical faculty at large. Madame Moli~re, only twenty-eight years of age at the date of her widow- hood, and always careful of her own person and comfort, remarried with the comedian Gressinde. She quitted the stage in 1694, and died in 1700, aged fifty-five. The last of our four French poets, the renowned dramatist Jean Racine, was born at La Fert& .Milon, in De- cember, 1639, his father holding a supe- rior post in the salt office. When bare- ly of age, the son made his mark as a poet in an ode on the kings marriage. This procured him a small pension, and he determined to adopt poetry as his profession, and came to Paris. He was appointed a gentleman in ordinary to the king, and, although not in orders, wore the ecclesiastical habit. His ear- liest tragedy, La Th6baYde, appeared in 1664; Andromaque, his first great suc- cess, and inferior, I think, to none that followed it, in 1668; Bajazet, Iphig~nie, Phedre, and others followed up to 1691, when he closed the roll with Athalie. As a poet Racine enjoyed general favor, not unembittered by envies and rival- ries; at last he mixed in politics, and this certainly in a way which entitles him to our esteem, but it proved his de- struction. Madame de Maintenon, the 1881.] The Wives of Poets. 159 second wife of Louis XIV., asked Racine to compose a memoir on the miseries endured by the people in the closing years of the century. He complied, and drew a moving picture of their dis- tresses. The king saw the manuscript, ascertained who was its author, resented the performance with the words, Be- cause he is a poet, does he think to be a minister? and forbade him the royal presence. IRacine was not strong-mind- ed enough to endure this reverse; and his chagrin, acting upon a bad state of health, he suffered from abscess of the liver, brought him to his death-bed in April, 1699. In youth Racine was long in love with the actress De Champm~le, hut she abandoned him for a more aristocratic lover. In 1677, when he was thirty-eight years of age, being disgusted at the cabals against his famous tragedy of Ph~dre, he had serious thoughts of becoming a Car- thusian monk; but his confessor recom- mended him to marry instead, and he es- poused Mademoiselle de Romanet, daugh- ter of a Tr~sorier de France for Amiens, a lady, it is said, equally handsome and virtuous, who secured his affections, and he continued exemplary in all domestic relations. There were five chil- dren of the marriage: one son, Louis, became a poet of some name; the eldest daughter entered a Carmelite convent. Several of the poets letters to another son have been preserved; they contain many references to Madame Racin e, al- ways in an affectionate, homely tone. One letter, written late in life, speaks of her great care of the poet during an ill- ness. There are also four letters from Madame Racine herself to the same son, from whi~h we can perceive that she shared in the earnest religious sentiments of her husband. One of them relates to a proposal for the sons marriage, and contains the following remarks: It ap- pears to us that the fortune which this girl would have brought you had made rather too much impression on your mind, and that you had not sufficiently reflected on what your father had mentioned to you of the temper of the person in ques- tion. I perceive, my dear son, that you are not aware of how much importance that is for the comfort of life; this, how- ever, is what has made us break off the affair. An anecdote that has been re- corded tends, like these remarks, to in- dicate that Madame Racine was not greedy of riches, and was devoted to her duties as a mother. It purports that the poet once brought home one thou- sand louis given him by the king; but he could not get his wife to pay any atten- tion to this piece of good news, as she insisted, with some iteration, upon his reprimanding one of the children, who for two days past could not be made to mind his lessons. Racine was of medium height, agree- able figure, open and lively countenance; a polite man, of soft manners, yet not free from rancor. His self-esteem was active, and easily chafed by criticism. His widow survived him many years, dying in 1732, and having enjoyed mean- while an annual pension of two thousand livres, granted, perhaps with some com- punction, by the king. Next and last the Germnn poets claim our attention. Of them I select five, beginning with Lessing, and ending with a man of our own days, Heine. Gotthold Epliraim Lessing was one of the leading pioneers and chief figures of modern German culture, poet, dram- atist, art critic, religious inquirer. He brought to bear upon whatever he did an earnest, piercing, free, enlightened mind. His dramas of Minna von Barn- helm, Emilia Galotti, Nathan the Wise, his treatises on the sculptural and dra- matic arts, his edition of the Wolfenbilt- tel Fragments, on subjects of religion and dogma, are all works of a strenuous, penetrating faculty, of the highest value to the foundation and evolution of Ger- man thought. Lessing, the son of a Lutheran minister, was born at Kamentz, 160 The Wives of Poets. [February, in Saxony, in January, 1729. He began writing early, and soon distinguished himself as an opponent of French mod- els for the literature of Germany. He moved a good deal about, Leipsic, Berlin, Wittenburg, Breslau, Hamburg, and then Brunswick and Wolfenbiittel, where he was the ducal librarian. His courtship and marriage form a very dis- tinct episode in his life, the one around which gathers most of the strictly per- sonal interest of his career. At 11am- burg, where he settled fora while in 1767, aged thirty-eight, he knew a prosperous silk manufacturer named K6nig, with his wife Eva and family of children. The husband dying, the widow and Lessing fell in love; but she had a great amount of complicated business to at- tend to in the interest of her children, and would not, therefore, entertain any proposal of early remarriage. She is de- scribed as a capable woman, of large, masculine intellect. Her intellect may have been masculine, but we are not to understand that her character was in any way disagreeably unfeminine, for all the evidence tells to a contrary ef- fect. Tn August, 1771, the pair were formally betrothed; but their nuptials were still deferred some years, until Oc- tober, 1776, part of the interval having been spent by Lessing in traveling in Italy with Prince Leopold of Bruns- wick. During this time the ladys pa- tience and confidence were put to a se- vere trial, owing to the prolonged ces- sation of letters from her betrothed; and that, again, as finally explained, was caused by the non-delivery of a whole series of her letters. At last they settled down to married life in Wolfeubjittel; Lessings debts, which had long harassed him, being finally cleared off. Four children of the first marriage lived in their house, and Lessing proved a very affectionate step-father, and altogether highly domestic. He regained cheer- fulness, to which he had long been a stranger, and writing of his wife to his brother he said, I have ever held her to be the only woman with whom I should venture to live. The house was well kept and hospitable; the husband generous, and his amiable spouse still more so. Lessing was a good talker; and we are told that he always dressed well, and would play chess with some of his friends, and affect to smoke with others who were smokers. This excep- tionally happy period of his life came to a rapid close in January, 1778, when, after little more than a year of mar- riage, his wife died in giving birth to a child which accompanied her to the tomb. A letter which he wrote at a later date says that he would gladly give up half of such life as might remain to him, could he but live the rest of it wii~h her; and elsewhere he speaks of his marriage as a single year spent with a sensible woman. In the brief period of his survival he would frequently write in the room where his Eva had died, hav- ing a favorite cat as his companion. Theological controversy, in which Lessing was a resolute advocate of free thought and full inquiry, tempered by religious sentiment, and the production of his celebrated play Nathan the Wise occupied the three years residue of his life. His eyesight failed, paralysis at- tacked him, and he died on the 15th of February, 1781. Among traits of his personal disposition, it is recorded that the author of the Laocoizin was prone to anger, self-reliant, and little sensitive to the beauties of natural scenery. His portrait shows us a good-looking face, rather ordinary, yet at the same time exceedingly intelligent, with dark eyes and an expression which combines com- posure and acuteness. My second example of a German poet, Gottfried August Burger, is scarcely of such high rank in his art that I would of my own accord have selected him; but, as Karl Elze, in the passage already quoted, cites him as a poet unfortunate in marriage, I have felt bound not to 1881.] The Wives of Poets. 161 pass him over. Burger was the author of those deservedly renowned ballads of ghostly terror, Lenore and the Wild Huntsman, translated by Walter Scott; also of numerous other poems of varied lyrical quality, not much known out of his own country. The soil of a Luther- an minister, he was born on the first day of 1748, at Wolmerswende, in Hal- berstadt. He was fond of romantic sol- itude, lax in his morals (though his face, fleshy, with round eyes, small mouth, and the other features large, looks more lymphatic than passionate or imagina- tive), and was not successful in the prac- tical affairs of life. A professorship at Gdttingen, without fixed salary, formed his principal dependence. Certainly Burger was a very luckless husband. Soon after he had, at a very early age, published Lenore, with wide-spread ap- plause, he married a Hanoverian lady named Leonhart; but scarcely had he done this when he fell in love with her younger sister, the Molly of many of his poems. Betrayed and neglected, the ill-starred wife sank into an early grave, dying in 1784, and leaving two children. BUrger forthwith married her sister; and with her, however culpable, he might perhaps have been happy, but she too died, at the beginning of 1786, in childbed. This crushed his spirit and his genius; he succeeded, however, in completing the last of his important poems, named The Song of Songs, which he had projected as a sort of nuptial hymn, and which has been described as a strange compound of passion, devotion, and bombast. After a space he thought of marry- ing for the third time. While ponder- ing this purpose, he received a letter from Stuttgart, written by a young lady in cultivated and feeling language. She professed a great enthusiasm for his po- etry, and offered to become his bride. The poet made some inquiries about the writer of this startling epistle; then he went to Stuttgart, espoused her, and VOL. XLVII. NO. 280. 11 brought her home to G5ttingen. The third wife proved the avenger of the first. She was faithless to her self-be- spoken husband, and embittered the rest of his life; and in less than three years he obtained a divorce. In great pover- ty, harassed by a bitter critique which Schiller had written, and broken down by these reiterated mishaps or retribu- tions, BUrger came to the end of his career in June, 1794, ~iged forty-six. Such is the sufficiently dismal history of the author of Lenore. I now come to one of the greatest and most comprehensive of the worlds intellects, Goethe; one, also, of its very great poets, and (if considered dispas- sionately, without reference to our own special currents of sympathy or antipa- thy) one of its most stately, self-consist- ent, self-regulating characters as well. In the limits of an article like this, it is impossible for me even to indicate the general outlines of the literary career of such a hero of letters as Goethe; let us simply remember him as the author of Faust and Wilhelm Meister, and pass on. Johann Wolfgang Goethe, or Von Goethe, as he was named when ennobled by the emperor in 1782, son of a doctor of law and imperial councilor, was born in Frankfort-on-the-Main on August 28, 1749; he died at Weimar on March 22, 1832, in his eighty-third year. He had many love affairs, which form a substantial part of his biography, and in which he showed, along with abundance of emotional susceptibility, a certain re- luctance to commit himself finally and determine his fate for life. There was Gretchen, daughter of an inn-keeper; Charitas IMleixuer, a friend of his sister; the Lotte of The Sorrows of Werther; Frederika Brion, daughter of the pas- tor of Sesenheim; Liii Schdnernauer, daughter of a banker; Charlotte von Stein, the wife of the master of the horse at Weimar. This lady was, when Goethe first knew her, thirty-three years 162 The Wives of Poets. [February, of age, and the mother of seven chil- dren. His attachment to her was ardent, especially from about 1775 to 1786, and the letters which he addressed to her cover a period of half a century. At a late date in his life (but here I am an- ticipating) he had a marked partiality for Marianne von Willemer, the bride of a Frankfort banker; she is the Zu- leika of his poems the West-Oestliche Di- van, and indeed she herself wrote some of the compositions in that series. There was also Bettine, the heroine of his so- called Letters to a Child. Goethe, after a two years stay in Italy, returned to Weimar in 1788; and in the autumn of that year he met the woman who eventually became his wife. The poet, who was at this time president of the Chamber at Weimar, was walking through the park, when a girl named Christiane Vulpius tendered him a peti- tion on behalf of her brother. She had golden curling locks, round cheeks, laughing eyes, and a neatly turned figure, presenting, it has been said, the general appearance of a young Greek Dionysus, or Bacchus. Goethe took a fancy to her, and they parted no more. It was not, however, until eighteen years afterwards, in 1806, that he married her, and thus legitimized his offspring; even then, as Christiane was a person of little educa- tion, he did not introduce her into the high society to which he belonged. The terrors of the French occupation made him, it is understood, anxious for the future position of his son; hence his immediate motive for no longer delay- ing the marriage, which, indeed, he would probably have carried into effect before but for Christianes own dissna- sions. In October, after the disastrous battle of Jena, Weimar was plundered by the French, and Goethes property and possibly his life were on this occasion saved by the firmness of his Christiane. She proved a loving wife, and in most respects a good one: her greatest fault was the taint of intemperance inherited from her father. In spite of her lack of training, her quick mother wit made her to some extent available as an in- tellectual companion even to the author of Faust. When she died, not many years later, in 1816, he felt her loss bit- terly. Others followed: Madame von Stein in 1827; the Grand Duke of Weimar in 1828. Goethes son died at Rome in October, 1830, the object of his tender affection, in spite of defects of character. The great poet outlived them all, and was not (as I have already said) laid to his rest until 1832. His daughter-in-law, Ottilie, had tended his last days. There is an interesting account, one of the few which bring before us Chris- tame and Goethe together, of how she told him of the death of his beloved friend Schiller, which occurred in 1805, more than a year before the marriage was solemnized. No one, we are in- formed, dared to tell Goethe the sad news, but he saw in the faces of those who surrounded him that Schiller must be very ill. On the morrow of Schil- lers death, when Christiane entered his rooms, he said, Is it not true that Schiller was very ill yesterday? She began to sob. He then cried, lie is dead! Thou hast spoken it thyself! she exclaimed. Once more he cried, lie is dead! and, turning aside, cov- ered his weeping eyes with his hands. 1 need not attempt any description of Goethes appearance; he was august in person as in mind. In social feeling he was a decided aristocrat. He occupied the highest political positions in the Grand Duchy of Weimar; and one reads with a smile that his official income did not exceed, at its highest, which he reached about 1816, some 450 per an- num. Leaving Goethe, we recur to Schiller; an almost inevitable transition when we are speaking of German poets. Fried- rich Schiller Johann Christoph Fried- rich was the full name was born ten 1881.] The Wives of Poets. 163 years after Goethe, on November 10, 1759, at Marbach, in the Duchy of Wiirtemberg. His father was an officer in the ducal army. Goethe, I might already have remarked, was a conspicu- ous instance of vast early success in lit- erature; for he published his drama of Gdtz von Berlichingen in his twenty- fourth year, and his novel of Werther in his twenty-fifth. Schiller was a still more extraordinary instance of the same kind; his romantic drama, The Robbers, having been begun in his nineteenth year, and produced on the stage in his twenty-second, and having rapidly over- run all Germany and all Europe with his fame. Of his other works I will mention only two, the double tragedy of Wallenstein and the Piccolomini, a late composition, and last of all the play of William Tell, published in 1804. Schiller began life as surgeon to a regi- ment; but, having been put under ar- rest at Stuttgart for going without leave to Manuheim to see The Robbers acted, and wishing generally to obtain more freedom of action, he decamped in Oc- tober, 1782, and took up his residence at Mannheim, and henceforth he adhered to the career of letters. It was towards 1788 that he became acquainted with Goethe, and a firm personal friendship and literary alliance subsisted between the two illustrious competitors. Schillers time after this was chiefly divided be- tween Weimar and a historical profess- orship which he held at Jena. He was made a noble of the German Empire and a citizen of revolutionary France. The latter was only a partially appropri- ate honor; for in fact Schiller, although ardently incited by the earlier days and prospects of the Revolution, disapproved its later developments, and hence became all the more tolerant of the old system of things. A pulmonary illness began in 1791, and finally carried him off, at Weimar, on May 11, 1805. His last words were that many things were grow- ing clear to him. Schiller had some early love affairs; but he was still a young man, about twenty-nine, when he met at Rudolstadt the lady, Friiulein Lengefeld, who wou his heart, and whom soon afterwards, in 1790, he married. His home was an entirely happy one; his means neither large nor scanty. Life, he said, is quite another thing by the side of a be- loved wife. He spent his mornings chief- ly with his wife and children, of whom he left four at his death, two sons and two daughters; and with his family he was cheerful and kind, though mostly rather shyly reserved. Madame Schiller seems to have been fully worthy of th~ distinction which befell her in becom- ing the poets wife; her character was perhaps not unlike that of the typical female impersonations in his works, gen- tle and loving, without forcible individu- ality. Schiller was a man of friendly and candid nature; somewhat eccentric in youth, and even at a maturer period, al- though he dressed plainly, and was will- ing enough to do other common things as a common man; his character un- sullied; his vehemence of spirit bound- less, yet in ordinary intercourse he was free from hastiness and from anger. He was tall, but thin, never robust; pale, with auburn hair and extreme searching keenness of countenance; impulsive, and meditative too. He was wont to com- pose by night, taking stimulants mean- while, chiefly coffee; and to retire to rest about three in the morning, sleep- ing on till ten. And now I come to the last of my German the last of my non-English poets. Heinrich Heine has been called the German Voltaire; also the Aristophanes of Germany. There was, indeed, something curiously composite in his nature and the character of his genius. He was not strictly a German. but a Jew, a Jew by race, a German by nationality; a Frenchman by later residence and by preference of mind; 104 The Wives of Poets. [February, a Jew by inherited faith, a Protestant at the age of twenty -five by worldly conformity, as the only inlet for prac- ticing at the bar; in reality a skeptic and scorner from first to last. Heine was born at Dusseldorf in December, 1799. In youth he was striking-looking, with long, auburn hair, and not of Jewish as- pect; his stature was ordinary; his tend- ency was towards fatness, which had be- come considerable in his middle age, before the break-up of his constitution. His father kept a small drapers shop; but the poet had some expectations, which were not finally realized in. full, from a millionaire uncle, Solomon Heine. He tried banking, commerce, and law, and gave them all up for literature. His first volume of poems was published with some success in 1822; his Pictures of Travel (in prose) and his Book of Songs were later, yet still early publications, and established his fame as the most remarkable and splendidly gifted writer in Germany, worthy to carry on the tradition of her literature when Goethe should be no more. That country, how- ever, in its then political condition, was not the fitting home for so daring a free- lance and democrat and scarifying a satirist as Heine, who had, moreover, from the first been an avowed Napole- onic enthusiast. In 1831 he settled in Paris, and there remained, and his works soon became as popular in France as in Germany. His later years were a deplorable martyrdom. He had always been subject to outrageous headaches. Then his sight and his muscular power became affected, and paralysis as it was commonly called, or, more strictly, softening of the spinal marrow super- vened. For eight years he was inca- pable of moving, and he might be found lying on his back, holding up an eyelid with his left hand to see, and with the other hand writing in pencil on large foolscap paper. He lay on a pile of mattresses, says one writer, a lady; his body wasted so that it seemed no bigger than a childs under the sheet which covered him, the eyes closed, and the face altogether like the most painful and wasted Ecce Homo ever painted by some old German painter. In Paris, Ileine, who (after much youthful effusion of passion for his cousin Amalie and others) had long yearned for some settled home love, formed a connection in 1834 with a simple-minded arid beautiful Parisian grisette, Crescence Matbilde Mirat, whom finally, in 1841, just before fighting a duel, he married. She made his life sweeter and his clos- ing years endurable. For eight years, he wrote in 1843, I have had a fright- ful quantity of happiness. She loved him truly and served him faithfully, and he never tired of singing her praise. Nonotte was her pet name. She was his doll, says Meissner, whom he loved to dress elegantly in silk and lace; whom he would gladly have adorned with the finest of all to be found in Paris. She was continually at his bedside by day, and sat up for him at night, lively and hopeful, always flattering herself that he must recover; and Heine on his part, with indomitable energy of soul and de- fiance of destiny, had some jest ever at his lips to keep up her spirits, and, his mental powers being unimpaired, he con- tinued writing both prose and verse, some of the most tender and pathetic of his last poems being addressed to his wife. Another very amiable trait was his affection for his mother, who sur- vived him by three years: he took every precaution to prevent her becoming at any time aware of his fearful illness. For his wife (who is still living) he did his utmost to secure an annuity after his death, and she has benefited largely, in the long run, by the sale of his works. Her education, however, was not such as to make these in any way intelligible to her: she once said, People tell me that Henri writes very clever books, but I know nothing at all about them. In 1881.] Night on the Ocklawaha. 165 the earlier period of his illness he was the object of attention from many vis- itors; but these gradually fell off, and only a very few attached friends cheered from time to time themonotonous soli- tude of Heine and his devoted Mathilde. Their means, from various sources, were moderate, never considerable. Per- fectly calm in his last hours, he expired in February, 1856. His wife had lain down at one in the morning, and at four, before she had woke up, he was asleep forever. I will relieve this painful story with a jest, one of Heines own jests, and sure, therefore, not to be a bad one. As he lay on his couch of anguish, a lady came to visit him. I was quite un- easy yesterday, he said. My wife had dressed and gone out about two oclock. She had promised to return at four. It is half past four: she does not come. It is half past five: she does not come. It is half-past six: still she does not come. It is eight oclock: my anxiety increases. Has she got tired of her sick husband, and gone off with an in- sinuating gallant? In my painful dis- tress I send the nurse into her room to ask whether Cocotte, the parrot, is still there. Yes, Cocotte is still there. Then a stone falls from my heart; I breathe again. Without Cocotte my good wife would never have gone away.~~ 1-lere I have done with the foreign poets, and in my next article I shall have to speak about those of the Eng- lish race and tongue. William 211. ]?ossetti. NIGHT ON THE OCKLAWAHA. IN the red light that from our deck-fire shines, Inflexible the plumed palmettos stand; While, at their feet, the supplicating vines Stretch now wild arms, and now a flower-filled hand. The gaunt oak broods, with air of wrong and loss, Yet regal still, among its strangled leaves; Caught in the web the livid, murderous moss Once small, sly parasite, now tyrant weaves. The shapes that peopled slimy log and limb, And filled with uncouth interest all the day, The basking alligators, sprawling grim, Turtles and cranes, have slipped and sailed away: Only some splash among the bayous still, Or strange, harsh cry that startles through the night, Suggests their lurking, presence, as we thrill With nameless apprehension and aifright! Our boat glides on. . . . The pine-knots dying glare On stream and shore a fitful radiance flings; The soft, rualarious, poison-scented air Drowses each sense with fanning vampire wings. .

C. E. S. S., C. E. Night on the Ocklawaha 165-166

1881.] Night on the Ocklawaha. 165 the earlier period of his illness he was the object of attention from many vis- itors; but these gradually fell off, and only a very few attached friends cheered from time to time themonotonous soli- tude of Heine and his devoted Mathilde. Their means, from various sources, were moderate, never considerable. Per- fectly calm in his last hours, he expired in February, 1856. His wife had lain down at one in the morning, and at four, before she had woke up, he was asleep forever. I will relieve this painful story with a jest, one of Heines own jests, and sure, therefore, not to be a bad one. As he lay on his couch of anguish, a lady came to visit him. I was quite un- easy yesterday, he said. My wife had dressed and gone out about two oclock. She had promised to return at four. It is half past four: she does not come. It is half past five: she does not come. It is half-past six: still she does not come. It is eight oclock: my anxiety increases. Has she got tired of her sick husband, and gone off with an in- sinuating gallant? In my painful dis- tress I send the nurse into her room to ask whether Cocotte, the parrot, is still there. Yes, Cocotte is still there. Then a stone falls from my heart; I breathe again. Without Cocotte my good wife would never have gone away.~~ 1-lere I have done with the foreign poets, and in my next article I shall have to speak about those of the Eng- lish race and tongue. William 211. ]?ossetti. NIGHT ON THE OCKLAWAHA. IN the red light that from our deck-fire shines, Inflexible the plumed palmettos stand; While, at their feet, the supplicating vines Stretch now wild arms, and now a flower-filled hand. The gaunt oak broods, with air of wrong and loss, Yet regal still, among its strangled leaves; Caught in the web the livid, murderous moss Once small, sly parasite, now tyrant weaves. The shapes that peopled slimy log and limb, And filled with uncouth interest all the day, The basking alligators, sprawling grim, Turtles and cranes, have slipped and sailed away: Only some splash among the bayous still, Or strange, harsh cry that startles through the night, Suggests their lurking, presence, as we thrill With nameless apprehension and aifright! Our boat glides on. . . . The pine-knots dying glare On stream and shore a fitful radiance flings; The soft, rualarious, poison-scented air Drowses each sense with fanning vampire wings. . 166 The Future of American Skipping. [February, When, crashing through th insidious spell so bland, A wild strain breaks, swells, sinks, and dies away; T is from the boatmen, a barbaric band! . Keeping, with poles, the fang~d shores at bay. Less like a hymn it sounds, as, half dismayed, The black choir, through the gloom, we dimly trace, Than some weird invocation, fitly made, To the malignant spirits of the place! U.E.S. THE FUTURE OF AMERICAN SHIPPING. THIS year the future of American shipping has become a subject of more than ordinary interest. It is now one of the gravest topics which can com- mand public consideration. The country is now happily past the larger part of the troubles which have disturbed its trade and industry for a number of years. For a year and a half it has enjoyed a period of uninter- rupted sunshine and prosperity. Nation- al finance has been so regulated as to establish the public credit and to give certainty to business transactions. A succession of large harvests has blessed the agricultural community. Railroad building has been resumed. Trade has revived. The products of the mines are in demand. The factories are busy. The railroads have all they wish to do. Labor finds ready employment. Fail- ures have decreased in number from one in every sixty-five doing business to one in every one hundred and five. These blessings have been accompanied by an expansion of our foreign com- merce, which is without a parallel in the annals of international exchanges. The dreams of our fathers are surpassed, and the imagination of the present gen- eration is kindled by the magnitude of what they have without effort achieved. Our commerce now begins to approach that colossal trade which gives England her distinctive place in the business of the world. In the year ending June 30, 1880, there were exported from the United States 18,000,000 gross tons of produce and manufactures; there were inported during the same time 3,900,000 gross tons,a total of nearly 21,900,000 tons of goods, giving cargoes to 34,000 ships, a great advance from the day of small things following the Revolutionary War, when a few hundred small sailing vessels, taking out forestry, fishery, and farm products, and bringing back manu- factures, constituted the whole foreign commerce of the young nation in the New World. Only one important American inter- est has failed to derive marked benefit from the phenomenal trade of the past year. A foreigner, reasoning from ordi- nary experience, would scarcely credit his ears if he were told that our ship- ping formed the solitary exception to the general prosperity, especially if he were aware that the settlement of the South Atlantic States, the purchase of California, and the discovery of gold in Australia had in each case been at- tended with a sudden growth of the American merchant marine; ships often earning their whole first cost in freight money in a single year, in those times. Yet such is the fact. The records show that American vessels have derived al

Henry Hall Hall, Henry The Future of American Shipping 166-176

166 The Future of American Skipping. [February, When, crashing through th insidious spell so bland, A wild strain breaks, swells, sinks, and dies away; T is from the boatmen, a barbaric band! . Keeping, with poles, the fang~d shores at bay. Less like a hymn it sounds, as, half dismayed, The black choir, through the gloom, we dimly trace, Than some weird invocation, fitly made, To the malignant spirits of the place! U.E.S. THE FUTURE OF AMERICAN SHIPPING. THIS year the future of American shipping has become a subject of more than ordinary interest. It is now one of the gravest topics which can com- mand public consideration. The country is now happily past the larger part of the troubles which have disturbed its trade and industry for a number of years. For a year and a half it has enjoyed a period of uninter- rupted sunshine and prosperity. Nation- al finance has been so regulated as to establish the public credit and to give certainty to business transactions. A succession of large harvests has blessed the agricultural community. Railroad building has been resumed. Trade has revived. The products of the mines are in demand. The factories are busy. The railroads have all they wish to do. Labor finds ready employment. Fail- ures have decreased in number from one in every sixty-five doing business to one in every one hundred and five. These blessings have been accompanied by an expansion of our foreign com- merce, which is without a parallel in the annals of international exchanges. The dreams of our fathers are surpassed, and the imagination of the present gen- eration is kindled by the magnitude of what they have without effort achieved. Our commerce now begins to approach that colossal trade which gives England her distinctive place in the business of the world. In the year ending June 30, 1880, there were exported from the United States 18,000,000 gross tons of produce and manufactures; there were inported during the same time 3,900,000 gross tons,a total of nearly 21,900,000 tons of goods, giving cargoes to 34,000 ships, a great advance from the day of small things following the Revolutionary War, when a few hundred small sailing vessels, taking out forestry, fishery, and farm products, and bringing back manu- factures, constituted the whole foreign commerce of the young nation in the New World. Only one important American inter- est has failed to derive marked benefit from the phenomenal trade of the past year. A foreigner, reasoning from ordi- nary experience, would scarcely credit his ears if he were told that our ship- ping formed the solitary exception to the general prosperity, especially if he were aware that the settlement of the South Atlantic States, the purchase of California, and the discovery of gold in Australia had in each case been at- tended with a sudden growth of the American merchant marine; ships often earning their whole first cost in freight money in a single year, in those times. Yet such is the fact. The records show that American vessels have derived al 1881.] The Future of American Shipping. 167 most no benefit from the wonderful ex- pansion of the ocean carrying trade of the last two years. Our ships actually carry less transoceanic freight than they did three years ago, and far less than at any time during the last thirty years, the period of our civil war alone ex- cepted. Tens of thousands of tons of American vessels lie idle at the wharves of our great sea-ports, while the sea is white with the sails and the sky is dark with the smoke of the great merchant fleets of other nations, which swarm to our shores and transact the great carry- ing trade that our own vessels do not seem able to take a busy part in. The carrying is secured by Europeans. Time was when it was said that an Englishman never visited any part of the world without finding a Dutchman there ahead of him. This has been all changed. The Englishman is the first on the ground now. In whatever part of the world there is an opportunity for trade, the letters of the English consuls and the cable dispatches of the English merchants report the fact at once to London or Liverpool, where the news is digested and acted upon before the rest of the world hears of it. The news being received in advance of competi- tors, goods and ships are sent to the spot promptly, and the cream of the busi- ness is secured at once. The British habit of being first in the field has given to the carrying trade to and from the United States, for the past two years, its chief peculiarity. To every point of our long coast whence the products of the soil could be advantageously ex- ported, and to every new foreign port with which a trade has sprung up, the English have established a line of freighting steamers, with sailing ships as auxiliaries. INot a month has passed without the starting of a new line. First it is to Norfolk; then it is to Mobile; then to Charleston, Savannah, Galves- ton, and other places. New lines to the old sea-ports, like that of Mr. Vanderbilt to New York and the West Hartlepool line to the Erie elevator in New Jersey, are established, and old lines are en- larged by the addition of new and more commodious ships. This has been the special characteristic of the carrying trade of the last two years; and Eng- land now enjoys in our commerce a magnificent pre~iminence, which it seems folly for any European rival to contest, and despair for America to attempt to disturb. The fleets of England trading hither are composed chiefly of vessels propelled by steam, tonnage and efficiency con- sidered. A few countries which can build cheap sailers have, however, also been the beneficiaries of the expansion of our commerce. Here, for instance, is Norway. Inspired with the true characteristic energy of the northern races of the world, inhabiting a country where fair play in the race of life and steady habits among the people are the rule, the Norwegians have been able to secure by their enterprise as large a share of our transoceanic carrying trade as we enjoy by inheritance. They build the cheapest sailers now which navigate the ocean. Thrown out of occupation by the falling off in the Russian grain trade and the competition of European steamers, they have been for a few years past cruising the whole world in the peaceful search for cargoes with all the vigor that their ancestors displayed in the conquest of empires. They have crowded every port on the whole Amer- ican coast, and they now employ as large a number of sailing vessels of the best class in our great ocean trades as we do ourselves. In fact, they dictate the terms on which the trade shall be carried on. The English steamers can secure a slightly better rate of freight than the Norwegian sailers now only be- cause of the difference of time in making a voyage. Italy, France, Belgium, and Spain have also been able to take a share in 168 The Future of American Shipping. [February, the large business opened to them by our treaties of navigation. It has long been known, more or less vaguely, that our ship-owners were not getting ahead at all, and that, so small were their profits, they were not adding to their fleets in the slightest degree. Not even were they replacing all the worn-out vessels with new ones, the worst sign of maritime decadence. The reports of the government at Washing- ton have thrown some light on the rapid decline of our navigation by exhibiting annually the percentage of imports and exports carried in American vessels. The decline was from seventy-five per cent. in 1856 to twenty-three per cent. in 187980. Information obtained for the benefit of the Maritime Exchangeof the city of New York, .however, places the present state of affairs in a far more striking light than do the government reports. There is printed weekly a pa- per called The Maritime Register, hav- ing the confidence and support of the members of the Exchange, and giving the names of all ships engaged in the whole foreign commerce of the United States, their destinations, the places of the world where last reported, and oth- er details of interest and importance to maritime circles. The following tables have been carefully prepared from the issue of August 4, 1880, showing the number and nationality of vessels en- gaged in the whole foreign trade of the United States, except to Canada, on that day SAIL: TRANSOcEANIc. British 1276 Hawalan 6 American 884 Costa Rican 4 Norwegian 882 Bolivian 2 Swedish 143 Brazilian .3 Italian 598 Argentine 5 German 395 Mexican 1 Austrian 165 Haytian .2 Dutch 49 Nicaragoan 2 Russian 64 Honduras 1 Danish 29 Belgian 2 Portu~ese 26 Greek 1 Spanish 85 French 57 Total 4682 All of large class. SAIL: TO wEST INDIES AND SOUTH AMERIcA. British 208 Dutch 2 American 1 .444 Portuguese 1 Spanish 15 French 5 ilaytian 13 Mexican .1 Norwegian 3 Costa Rican 2 Italian .1 Danish 3 Total 698 STEAM. British 447 Danish 5 American 2 46 Dutch 6 Gern~an 35 Brazilian 1 Spanish. 21 Mexican 1 Belgian 13 Costa Rican 1 French 9 Italian 5 Total 590 The writer prepared an abstract simi- lar to this last summer, taking the Mar- itime Register for June 16th as repre- senting an average week. Startled with the results obtained, he took them to a number of shipping men, and was per- mitted by General Merritt, collector of the port of New York, to make certain investigations at the custom house to confirm their accuracy. All the infor- mation obtained established the correct- ness of the exhibit. The figures are strange and eloquent. They explain more clearly than can otherwise be done why Americans who travel in Europe so seldom have their eyes gladdened by a sight of the flag of their native land among the shipping in the great harbors they visit, and why the men from our inland cities who stroll along the wharves of the bay of New York so seldom see the same broad ensign there. Who can fail to learn without astonishment that even little Belgium, a country scarce larger than an American county, has about as many ocean steamships in our trade as we have ourselves, and that Italy and Ger- many have more? Who could imagine that Italy had five hundred and ninety- eight large-class ships crossing the At- lantic and the Pacific in the trade with this part of America, and that Austria, 1 Schooners and small vessels. 2 Fourteen transoceanic, and thirty-two to West Indies and Mexico. 1881.] The Future of American Shipping. 169 a kingdom with one small seaport, had one hundred and sixty-five? Who now will wonder that tens of thousands of tons of American vessels lie idle at the wharves of New York and Boston? Yet the figures given above, striking as they are, are not unique in history. A sim- ilar showing could have been made by Italy, Portugal, Spain, and the Nether- lands, respectively, just before the ex- tinction of each as a great maritime power. An incidental fact, worth glancing at in passing, is the rapid increase of steam shipping in oceaa commerce. In 1858, when we were carrying seventy-five per cent. of our own commerce, Mr. Thomas Rainey, then a great authority on the ocean post, declared it to be the com- mon opinion that steam vessels would never carry anything except the mails, passengers, and express freights. Ad- mitting that under certain circumstances steam would be a cheaper motor than even the free winds of heaven, he stated his belief that wheat, cotton, corn, and lumber could never go in any other than the old way, because they were too bulky and too cheap. They could not be made to stand the cost of freight. This was the opinion not only of Mr. Rainey and the American shipping men of that day, but of the English author- ities also. It was, however, an errone- ous notion. A class of steam vessels, of large cargo capacity and small coal consumption, has been by the ingenuity of man devised to perform just that serv- ice; and if the course of events since 1865 be any standard for judgment, it may now be declared that the time will soon come when there will be nothing which ocean steamers will not carry. The freight steamers are already taking cattle and petroleum; and naphtha, gas- oline, dynamite, guano, nitrate, and all the other objectioniible articles are pret- ty sure to be taken in time. There will still be a demand for the sailing vessel, because goods need not always be dispatched in haste, and it is often cheaper to put grain, etc., into a slow- moving sailer than it is to send it quick- ly by steamer, and then pay a good price for storage. The sailer can always be used, too, in a variety of trades, espe- cially in long voyages, and where there is a rush of bulky goods; but that steam is gradually gaining on the sailing ves- sel, and now competes with it constant- ly, is an important fact which it will be well to bear in mind. At one time, the New York Custom House began to keep a record of the proportionate amount of trade, trans- acted by steam and sail respectively, to principal countries. The government did not require these figures, and the work was finally discontinued. Col- lector Merritt, however, has had com- piled the following statement of the ex- port business of the port of New York with principal countries for the year ending June 30, 1880, and this will give some idea Exports of New York to Sail. Steam. Total. England, $26,216,606 $130,569,396 $156,786,002 Scotland, 1,465,514 22,755,438 24,220,952 Germany, 12, 351,890 19,284,415 31,636,305 Netherlands, 3,052,579 6,731,381 9,783,960 Belginm, 7,531,932 14,325,142 21,857,074 France, 22,411,156 16,473,402 38,884,558 Totals, $73,029,677 $210,139,174 $283,168,851 France usually shows an excess of steam, but the rush of grain last year gave employment to sailers. The fig- ures for the import trade could not be obtained. It would require an act of Congress and a liberal appropriation for clerk hire to get them. The task would require three months work. However, it is known, in a general way, that at least four fifths of the import trade take8 place in steamers from the countries named above. Other custom houses along the coast would show the same general state of facts. This replace- ment of sail by steam tonnage is one of the signs of the times. Only by falling [February, 170 The Future of American Shipping. in with the current of events will the United States ever be likely to recover the ground she has been steadily losing these last twenty years. Of the new influences which promise indisputably to tell against our shipping interest hereafter, the policy of France may be first referred to. rrhe prosperi- ty of France under the republic has not only enabled that flourishing country to pay off her war debt to Germany promptly, but has given the treasury a larger amount of revenue than it has known what to do with. The govern- ment has, accordingly, occupied itself with studying how to turn the facts of the case to account, for the benefit of such industries as were not so fortunate as the others. Beginning in 1872 with the abolition of a t~x on mortgages, which netted the government 4,000,000 francs yearly, it has from time to time, up to the present fall (1880), thrown off one tax after another, until the total re- ductions have amounted to 307,000,000 francs. Among other things, it has abolished a tax of 3,000,000 francs on shipping, thus relieving that interest of a certain burden. This reduction was enacted on the 19th of last February. While taking these steps, the govern- ment has also been considering the pro- priety of lending a vigorous support to the companies who are waging a lively war with some Italian lines in the Med- iterranean, and with English lines on the Atlantic. Upon the solicitation of a large number of boards in various parts of the republic, a commission was appointed, in 1873, to study the most efficacious manner of aiding the mer- chant marine and assuring its pros- perity. The complex nature of the questions proposed for the commission to consider caused much delay, but at last, this year, the government has been presented with a project of law for aid- ing in the establishment of steamship lines by means of subsidies, and of cre- ating said tonnage by bounties, and the project has been adopted. It is not per- mitted to us to foresee the ripe fruits of a policy so recently adopted, especially since the full purpose of the French government is not yet made known. But whether the support now to be given to French shipping be extended to the vessels engaged in the Mediterra- nean trade, or in the business to South America or to this country, the new pol- icy can in no case confer a blessing upon our own shipping interest. It adds a burden instead. It creates a new and urgent competition in several branches of trade which our vessels would like to enter. Another cause for concern is the ac- tion taking by China and Japan, the governments of which countries are rap- idly becoming wide awake in matters of trade and navigation. We have never looked for competition from that quarter of the world. Yet the last hundred years have taught the people of those two empires something, and they are applying their newly acquired knowl- edge with a vigor and ingenuity worthy of Europeans. The first steamer which ever appeared in their waters was one sent thither by the English under a con~ tract with the British government, en- tered into in 1840, in which year the service to Gibraltar, established three years before, was extended to Suez, Bombay, Hong Kong, and Shanghai. The contract was transferred in 1843 to the Peninsular and Oriental Com- pany, which survives to the present day. As soon as the English had fairly entered into the navigation of Chinese waters they found a great and virgin field of enterprise opened before them. The taxes to the Chinese government were paid in grain, and the transporta- tion of this and other commodities along the rivers and coasts of that empire af- forded profitable employment to an im- mense fleet of native junks. The Eng- lish established steam lines in that part of the world, employing the capital both 1881.] The Future of American Skipping. 171 of their own and of the native Chinese merchants. In 1874, there were fifty steamers plying in the local trades in Chinese waters, exclusive of the Amer- ican, English, and French lines which ran thither from across the oceans. In 1874, Li Hung Chang memorialized the throne to establish a native company for the transportation of government grain and general merchandise, with the object of retaining the profits entirely in native hands. The project was re- ceived with favor. The China Mer- chants Steam Navigation Company was formed, with the royal consent and sup- port. During the first year the compa- ny had six steamers in operation, name- ly, the Aden, Eu-sing, Ho-chung, Yung- ching, Lee-yuen, and Hai-ching. The next year four more were added, and by 1877 the company had a fleet of sixteen vessels. It is not necessary here to re- count the war waged with the foreign companies, the extraordinary reductions of rates to from fifty to seventy per cent. of the former amount. Suffice it to say, the native company held its own, and in 1877 had become so rich and powerful as to kill the Shanghai Steam Navigation Company (foreign) entirely, and to buy its twenty-six vessels and its wharves, etc., for 2,000,000 taels cash. The year 1877 was the turning-point. Since then China has become aggress- ive. She now looks to a general navi- gation of the high seas. She begins by proposing to run ships to America, and on the 30th of Angust last (1880) the pioneer steamer entered the bay of San Francisco, and announced to the world that progress is not confined to any one clime or race of people, and that China must hereafter be regarded as an active participant in the affairs of the world. The pioneer steamer was singu- larly enough the Ho-chung, one of the original six vessels of the China Mer- chants fleet, an omen which bodes no good to the shipping interests of Chinas competitors on the Pacific Ocean. Were the kingdom of the Celestials a country in which high prices reigned, America would have less to fear from this new manifestation of Occidental enterprise. The trouble is that the lowest prices in the world reign there. China enjoys the cheapest labor on the planet. Her laborers are ingenious and docile, and should modern ship-yards be opened on her river-banks to any great extent, ves- sels would soon be produced there which would shame the rest of the world in their cheapness of first cost and expense of operation. It is no trivial circum- stance that a firm of British builders are already about to transfer their cap- ital to China to inaugurate this work~ That China is qualified by nature for iron-ship buildii~g there is no dispute. Her coal fields are of enormous extent. Already 3,000,000 tons of coal are mined there yearly, largely for the na- tive steamers. Her iron deposits are also extensive, and miners work for twelve and a half cents a day. In a re- cent report to the stockholders of the China Merchants Company, the direct- ors say, The future of the company will be such as fully to requite the love of country and affection for its people so amply displayed by the high author- ities in backing up the companys inter- ests. There can be no doubt of that. What will the future of Chinese ship- ping in general be, if the high au- thorities back up its interests in the same ample way? And what will the future of American shipping in the Pa- cific be? Japan is acting with the same vigor as China, and has already several steam lines in operation, one or more of which are strong competitors with American vessels in Japanese waters. In regulating the local affairs of our republic, we are not compelled to pay much attention to what other powers are doing. With reference to shipping, we must. The merchant who neglects to observe what his competitors are doing 172 The Future of American Shipping. [February, and the manner in which they are build- ing up their business at his expense is certain to appear in the list of bank- ruptcies sooner or later; and the same principle holds good with reference to nations engaging in foreign trade and navigation. Considering, now, the opposition which America will encounter in rebuild- ing the decayed fortunes of her mer- chant marine; considering, also, how cheaply our products are now transport- ed to foreign lands, and that we have no distant colonies to protect, our colo- nies being planted on the broad bosom of our own vast domain, within our own borders, it might almost be asked, Why concern ourselves about the future of our shipping at all? Are the pros- perity and security of our nation at all dependent, in this age, upon our ship- ping? Why not let things take their natural course? Well, there are reasons for concern. The present state of affairs is injurious, as will appear upon a moments reflec- tion. One reason is that shipping in these modern days plays a certain part with reference to periods of temporary and local over-production which good wagon roads and railways play with regard to periods of temporary and local under- production of food. Famines, ancient and modern, have generally owed their severity to the lack of good roads; there was no way to transport the bountiful harvests of one region into the heart of the locality suffering from starvation. This was true of ancient days in Eng- land and on the Continent, and is still true of modern times in Asia. On the other hand, an abundance of shipping plying direct to foreign lands serves al- ways to relieve a temporary glut of goods in the home markets. The lack of steam lines running in the interest of American merchants and manufact- urers was severely felt in this country in those years of reaction following 1873. The present American line to Brazil owes its origin to the sudden and intense desire felt in this country, in those years of depression, for a new out- let for our manufactured goods. Another reason is the loss of income to a country having as large a commerce as the United States, consequent upon its transportation being in foreign hands. The sums paid for freight money in the commerce of the United States are larger than most people suppose. The following statement of them, for the cal- endar year of 1879, has been prepared with the aid of suggestions by Dr. E. H. Walker, the old statistician of the iNew York Produce Exchange: Articles. wheat, bushel corn, bushel Other grain, bushel.. Flour, hbl Petroleum hhl coal, ton cotton, lb wood, and manufact- ures of Tobacco Naval stores bbl Oil cake Provisions, ton Alcohol and turpen- tine, hbl Miscellaneous goods, ton Average rats frem American Forts for the Year. 7 pence 7 pence 7 pence 4 shillings 4~ shillings 1 dollar ~ cent 30 shillings 80 osuts 25 shillings 20 shillings 4 shillings 20 to 30 shillings. Par- Freight Money. $20,580,000 12,240,000 460,000 3,900,000 14,710,000 600,000 13,400,000 6,000,000 640,000 789,000 920,000 5,270,000 295,000 8,500,000 $88,304,000 This is only a rough (though care- fully prepared) estimate, but it under- states the truth, if anything. On the import trade, the earnings of the ships cannot have been less than $45,000,000, which again is a safe estimate. If American ships had been enjoying the place in the trade which they used, hav- ing the long voyages and profitable part of the business, they would have earned about $110,000,000 of this total of freight money. As it is, they earned only $23,000,000 of it. The injury to the country is great. Accumulation of riches is one thing which America lacks, and every loss of income helps maintain the high rate of interest prevailing here, and aggravates the high prices resulting from protection. A third cause for concern is the evil 1881.] The Future of American Shipping. 173 to which America is exposed by the lack of sufficient shipping to export her prod- ucts, in case of war among the Euro- pean powers. Suppose that the 447 English steam vessels trading to these shores were withdrawn, in consequence of war between Great Britain and one of her powerful rivals. The United States would not then have vessels enough to transact her own commerce, even with the aid of the coasting fleet. An arrangement would perhaps be made by means of which the English vessels would be put under the protec- tion of some foreign flag, but that there would be a serious derangement of our commerce is certain, and a due regard for the future requires that that contin- gency should be provided against, if ~05 sible. But what is worse than all, in a na- tional point of view, is the weakness en- tailed by our lack of a flourishing ma- rine. America would certainly be hu- miliated in any war which should be forced upon her by a foreign power, as matters now stand. The immense dis- tances of our sea-coast expose us pecul- iarly to danger from the attacks of a naval power. There are illustrations enough in our own history. England herself was never seriously menaced ex- cept from the sea. Our situation is much like hers, only worse, on account of the greater length of coast. With not one ship in the American navy which can face a European iron-clad, and no forts to speak of in the harbors, what would be the situation of affairs in case a few European war ships, with a fleet of swift merchant steamers or auxilia- ries, were dispatched to threaten the coasts of the United States? The dam- age which might be done in one short month is inconceivable. The officers of the American navy are fully awake to this danger, and their reports to the gov- ernment and their private conversation represent it constantly. Strange as it may seem, England, with her magnifi cent naval power, apprehends the same danger to herself in case of a war with any of the great Continental powers. When Russia was causing a few rapid steamers to be converted into cruisers in American ship-yards, two or three years ago, great alarm was felt in Eng- land, not only in regard to her merchant shipping, but for the safety of the coun- try itself. The first lord of the admiral- ty only allayed this anxiety by stating in Parliament that it was proposed to arm thirty merchar~t vessels as cruisers, and require the steamship counties to build their new vessels with reference to the possibility of having to carry heavy guns and a quantity of coal large enough to remain at sea for protracted periods. In a recent address to the United Service Institution, the Marquis of Lansdowne presiding, Admiral Sir W. K. Hall went so far as to say that he regarded England as at the present time in almost a perfectly defenseless position, the plans of the admiralty not having been carried out. The admiral referred with regret to the time in 1808 when there were twenty-one admirals and captains in the House of Commons and fourteen in the House of Lords, and Parliament thus bad members who could advise what should be done. In that memorable year measures were sanc- tioned which proved in every way satis- factory to the country. The fact is, the development of the modern ocean steam- ship, swift, big, and strong, has given a new turn to naval affairs. It has ex- posed a coast nation to new perils, and made the state of its merchant shipping of the utmost importance to the nation- al security. A commissioner is now in vestigating this whole subject in Eng- land, with a view to adopting a policy which shall provide for the safety of that kingdom; and if the reader wishes to know what the sentiment of the American naval officers is on the same point, be will find it very accurately represented in the report made to the 174 In the Certosa. [February, government at Washington in the year 1877. Many other minor considerations might be adduced to show that the future of our shipping is a subject for public con- cern. Reference might be made to the private interests which would be bene- fited by a busy navigation by native ves- sels. The above will suffice, however. If, now, we turn the eye to the future altogether, we might see the United States, thirty, twenty, or perhaps even fifteen years hence, taking the place among the maritime powers of the world for which nature has fitted her, if only we were sure that an intelligent policy would be promptly adopted by the gov- ernment at Washington. Only one coun- try is equally well fitted for the first rank, and that is England. Not even China, with her immense population and cheap labor, is so well qualified as the United States to stand first. The rea- son is found in the size of the foreign commerce of the countries. Search faithfully the history of the world, and find, if the reader can, a country which ever was great upon the sea when it did not import and export a great quan- tity of goods. Find one, if possible, which failed to become great in time, after its foreign commerce became large, and after its government had framed an intelligent policy with reference to its shipping. It cannot be done. Ameri- ca is better fitted than ever was any oth- er land for possessing a large marine, because of her extensive commerce in bulky goods and the geographical posi- tion which compels her to trade across the broadest oceans and with the most distant powers. It is estimated that America would rank with England could she carry seventy-five per cent. of her trade in her own vessels, as she did in 1858. Could she carry eighty~fixTe~4er cent. she would stand first. But can and will this ever be done? There is the point. Looking abroad, one sees the low wages, the low interest, and the eager preparations of rivals to bring to bear a new competition, and one sees also the continual construction of the best and largest class of vessels out of the profits of the present trade. Look- ing at home, one observes the absorp- tion of capital in railroads to the newly occupied regions in our territory, the high cost of operating ships, the high interest, and the failure to replace all the worn-out vessels with new ones. L~t things remain as they are, and no one needs to be told what the result will be. But let there be an awakened will on the part of the United States, let there come up the same demand from the people which at different times has compelled England, France, China, and Japan to act, and no one can doubt that there will be a change. The future is almost entirely within our own hands, and the change from the present dis- couraging state of affairs will be exactly proportionate to the obstinacy of our de- termination to have things go the way we wish them to go. Henry Hall. IN THE CERTOSA. Is it less lonely now? the lady asks, Than in the old days? Ah! I cannot tell. Time speeds when meted out in hourly tasks: His feet fall soundless as one sits and basks In silence, broken only by the bell. ~L881.] in the Certosa. 175 Which was my cell? This, madame. Through that grate Three times a day they shoved my food within, Saying no word; I, wordless, took and ate. Was it not lonely? Nay, what need to prate? The tongue is like a fire, and quick to sin. What was my food? (Strange that she questions so!) Soup, madame, salad, artichokes, and such Herbs as in convent gardens wont to grow: For sickness ? well, a drop of wine or so; A little macaroni, but not much. T is very far to climb! Yes, that is true. Monks love high towers as rooks love tallest trees They like sky spaces and a wide-spread view; To sit secure above the damp and dew, And smell the moist earth and the evening breeze. Yes, all ~s changed: Fra Gian and I, and he You see there weeding in the onion bed, Alone are left of all our company. And side by side in the refectory We mutely sit and break our daily bread: For rule is rule, though order be abused, And each with each t is held and understood. We keep our vow of silence as we used Only with strangers is my tongue unloosed. Pleasure? Far from it! Pardon, I am rude. T is hard at times the new law to obey, And bitterness will mingle with the blood. was strangely peaceful in that by-gone day Time did not run, but neither did he stay; One week was like another, all were good. Slowly the years ripened from old to new; The fig-leaves budded on their bare, brown bough; Leaf-bud to leaf, flower-bud to blossom grew, And blossom to ripe fruit before we knew; It did not make me restless then as flow. For then no fluttering robes swept carelessly Down the long echoing and empty aisle; No children with sweet eyes stood wondering by, Or questioned with gay voices curiously, Following my steps with footfalls soft the while. I had forgot what m~n and women were, And what a child might be had quite forgot. 176 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, There is a sense of joyance and of stir Which frets, and makes me question and demur Whether the holy life is best or not. The saints forgive! What fiend has led me on? 1?etro, Satanas, retro, get thee hence! Grazie, Signori, t is the set of sun, The angelus must ring. Addio, each one! The poor monk thanks you for your recompense. Susan coolidge. THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. xv. IT had been arranged that the two young ladies should proceed to London under Ralphs escort, though Mrs. Touchett looked with little favor upon the plan. It was just the sort of plan, she said, that Miss Stackpole would be sure to suggest, and she inquired if the correspondent of the Interviewer was to take the party to stay at a boarding- house. I dont care where she takes us to stay, so long as there is local color, said Isabel. That is what we are going to London for. I suppose that after a girl has re- fused an English lord she may do any- thing, her aunt rejoined. After that one need nt stand on trifles. Should you have liked me to marry Lord Warburton? Isabel inquired. Of course I should. I thought you disliked the English so much. So I do; but it s all the more rea- son for making use of them. Is that your idea of marriage? And Isabel ventured to add that her aunt appeared to her to have made very little use of Mr. Touchett. Your uncle is not an English noble- man, said Mrs. Touchett, though even if he had been, I should still prob ably have taken up my residence in Florence.~~ Do you think Lord Warburton could make me any better than I am? the girl asked, with some animation. I dont mean, by that, that I am too good to improve. I mcan I mean that I dont love Lord Warburton enough to marry him. You did right to refuse him, then, said Mrs. Touchett, in her clear, sharp little voice. Only, the next great offer you get, I hope you will manage to come up to your standard. We bad better wait till the offer comes, before we talk about it. I hope very much that I may have no more offers for the present. rrhey give me more pain than pleasure. You probably wont be troubled with them if you adopt permanently the Bohemian manner of life. However, I have promised Ralph not to criticise the affair. I will do whatever Ralph says is right, Isabel said. I have unbounded confidence in Ralph. lIis mother is much obliged to you! cried this lady, with a laugh. It seems to me she ought to be, Isabel rejoined, smiling. Ralph had assured her that there would be no violation of decency in their paying a visit the little party of

Henry James, Jr. James, Henry, Jr. The Portrait of a Lady 176-206

176 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, There is a sense of joyance and of stir Which frets, and makes me question and demur Whether the holy life is best or not. The saints forgive! What fiend has led me on? 1?etro, Satanas, retro, get thee hence! Grazie, Signori, t is the set of sun, The angelus must ring. Addio, each one! The poor monk thanks you for your recompense. Susan coolidge. THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY. xv. IT had been arranged that the two young ladies should proceed to London under Ralphs escort, though Mrs. Touchett looked with little favor upon the plan. It was just the sort of plan, she said, that Miss Stackpole would be sure to suggest, and she inquired if the correspondent of the Interviewer was to take the party to stay at a boarding- house. I dont care where she takes us to stay, so long as there is local color, said Isabel. That is what we are going to London for. I suppose that after a girl has re- fused an English lord she may do any- thing, her aunt rejoined. After that one need nt stand on trifles. Should you have liked me to marry Lord Warburton? Isabel inquired. Of course I should. I thought you disliked the English so much. So I do; but it s all the more rea- son for making use of them. Is that your idea of marriage? And Isabel ventured to add that her aunt appeared to her to have made very little use of Mr. Touchett. Your uncle is not an English noble- man, said Mrs. Touchett, though even if he had been, I should still prob ably have taken up my residence in Florence.~~ Do you think Lord Warburton could make me any better than I am? the girl asked, with some animation. I dont mean, by that, that I am too good to improve. I mcan I mean that I dont love Lord Warburton enough to marry him. You did right to refuse him, then, said Mrs. Touchett, in her clear, sharp little voice. Only, the next great offer you get, I hope you will manage to come up to your standard. We bad better wait till the offer comes, before we talk about it. I hope very much that I may have no more offers for the present. rrhey give me more pain than pleasure. You probably wont be troubled with them if you adopt permanently the Bohemian manner of life. However, I have promised Ralph not to criticise the affair. I will do whatever Ralph says is right, Isabel said. I have unbounded confidence in Ralph. lIis mother is much obliged to you! cried this lady, with a laugh. It seems to me she ought to be, Isabel rejoined, smiling. Ralph had assured her that there would be no violation of decency in their paying a visit the little party of 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 177 three to the sights of the metropolis; hut Mrs. Touchett took a different view. Like many ladies of her country who have lived a long time in Europe, she had completely lost her native tact on such points, and in her reaction, not in itself condemnable, against the liberty allowed to young persons heyond the seas had fallen into gratuitous and ex- aggerated scruples. Ralph accompanied the two young ladies to town, and established them at a quiet inn in a street that ran at right angles to Piccadilly. His first idea had been to take them to his fathers house in Winchester Square, a large, dull man- sion, which at this period of the year was shrouded in silence and brown holland; but he bethought himself that, the cook being at Gardencourt, there was no one in the house to get them their meals; and Pratts Hotel accordingly became their resting-place. Ralph, on his side, found quarters in Winchester Square, having a den there of which he was very fond, and not being dependent on the local cuisine. He availed himself largely, in(ieed, of that of Pratts Hotel, beginning his day with an early visit to his fellow-travelers, who had Mr. Pratt in person, in a large, bulging white waistcoat, to remove their dish-covers. Ralph turned up, as he said, after break- fast, and the little party made out a scheme of entertainment for the day. As London does not wear in the month of September its most brilliant face, the youn,, man, who occasionally took an apologetic tone, was obliged to remind his companion, to Miss Stackpoles high irritation, that there was not a creature in town. J suppose you mean that the aris- tocracy are absent, Henrietta answered; but I dont think you could have a better proof that if they were absent al- together they would not be missed. It seems to me the place is about as full as it can be. There is no one here, of course, except three or four millions of VOL. XLVII. NO. 280. 12 people. What is it you call them, the lower middle class? They are only the population of London, and that is of no consequence.~~ Ralph declared that for him the ar- istocracy left no void that Miss Stack- pole herself did not fill, and that a more contented man was nowhere at that mo- ment to be found. In this he spoke the truth, for the stale September days, in the huge, half-empty town, borrowed a charm from his circumstances. When he went home at night to the empty house in Winchester Square, after a day spent with his inquisitive countrywomen, he wandered into the big, dusky dining- room, where the candle he took from the hall table, after letting himself in, constituted the only illumination. The square was still, the house was still; when he raised one of the windows of the dining-room to let in the air, he heard the stow creak of the boots of a solitary policeman. His own step in the empty room seemed loud and sono- rous; some of the carpets had been raised, and whenever he moved he roused a melancholy echo. He sat down in one of the arm-chairs; the big, dark dining- table twinkled here and there in the small candle-light; the pictures on the wall, all of them very brown, looked vague and incoherent. There was a ghostly presence in the room, as of din- ners long since digested, of table-talk that had lost its actuality. This hint of the supernatural perhaps had something to do with the fact that Ralphs imagi- nation took a flight, and that he remained in his chair a long time beyond the hour at which he should have been in bed; doing nothing, not even reading the evening paper. I say he did nothing, and I may maintain the phrase in the face of the fact that he thought at these moments of Isabel. To think of Isabel could only be for Ralph an idle pursuit, leading to nothing and profiting little to any one. Ills cousin had not yet seemed to him so charming as during these days 178 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, spent in sounding, tourist fashion, the deeps and shallows of the London art- world. Isabel was constantly interested and often excited; if she had come in search of local color, she found it every- where. She asked more questions than he could answer, and propounded theo- ries that he was equally unable to ac- cept or to refute. The party went more than once to the British Museum, and to that brighter palace of art which re- claims for antique variety so large an area of a monotonous suburb; they spent a morning in the Abbey, and went on a penny steamer to the Tower; they looked at pictures both in public and private collections, and sat on various occasions beneath the great trees in Kensington Gardens. Henrietta Stack- pole proved to be an indefatigable sight- seer, and a more good - natured critic than Ralph had ventured to hope. She had, indeed, many disappointments, and London at large suffered from her vivid remembrance of many of the cities of her native land; but she made the best of its dingy peculiarities, and only heaved an occasional sigh, and uttered a desultory Well ! which led no further, and lost itself in retrospect. The truth was that, as she said herself, she was not in her element. I have not a sympathy with inanimate objects, she remarked to Isabel at the National Gallery; and she continued to suffer from the meagreness of the glimpse that had as yet been vouchsafed to her of the inner life. Landscapes by Tur- ner and Assyrian bulls were a poor sub- stitute for the literary dinner-parties at which she had hoped to meet the gen- ius and renown of Great Britain. Where are your public men? Where are your men and women of intellect? Henrietta inquired of Ralph, standing in the middle of Trafalgar Square, as if she had supposed this to be a place where she would naturally meet a few. Thats one of them on the top of the column, you say, Lord Nelson? Was he a lord, too? Was nt he high enough, that they had to stick him a hundred feet in the air? That s the past, I dont care about the past. I want to see some of the leading minds of the present, I wont say of the future, because I dont believe much in your future. Poor Ralph had few lead- ing minds among his acquaintance, and rarely enjoyed the pleasure of button- holing a celebrity, a state of things which appeared to Miss Stackpole to indicate a deplorable want of enterprise. If I were on the other side I should call, she said, and tell the gentleman, whoever he might be, that I had heard a great deal about him and had come to see for myself. But I gather from what you say that this is not the custom here. You seem to have plenty of meaningless customs, and none of those that one really wants. We are in advance, cer- tainly. I suppose I shall have to give up the social side altogether. And Henrietta, though she went about with her guide-book and pencil, and wrote a letter to the Interviewer about the Tower (in which she described the execution of Lady Jane Grey), had a depressing sense of falling below her own stand- ard. The incident which had preceded Is- abels departure from Gardencourt left a painful trace in the girls mind; she took no pleasure in recalling Lord War- burtons handsome, bewildered face and softly reproachful tones. She could not have done less than what she did; this was certainly true. But her necessity, all the same, had been a distasteful one, and she felt no desire to take credit for her conduct. Nevertheless, mingled with this absence of an intellectual rel- ish of it was a feeling of freedom which in itself was sweet, and which, as she wandered through the great city with her ill - matched companions, occasion- ally throbbed into joyous excitement. When she walked in Kensington Gar- dens, she stopped the children (mainly 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 179 of the poorer sort) whom she saw play- ing on the grass; she asked them their names and gave them sixpence, and when they were pretty she kissed them. Ralph noticed such incidents; he noticed everything that Isabel did. One afternoon, by way of amusing his companions, he invited them to tea in Winchester Square, and he had the house set in order as much as possible, to do honor to their visit. There was another guest, also, to meet the ladies, an amiable bachelor, an old friend of Ralphs, who happened to be in town, and who got on uncommonly well with Miss Stackpole. Mr. Bantling, a stout, fair, smiling man of forty, who was ex- traordinarily well dressed, and whose contributions to the conversation were characterized by vivacity rather than continuity, laughed immoderately at everything Henrietta said, gave her sev- eral cups of tea, examined in her soci- ety the bricabrac, of which Ralph had a considerable collection, and afterwards, when the host proposed they should go out into the square and pretend it was af~te-champ~tre, walked round the lim- ited inclosure several times with her, and listened with candid interest to her remarks upon the inner life. Oh, I see, said Mr. Bantling. I dare say you found it very quiet at Gar- dencourt. Naturally, there s not much going on there when there s such a lot of illness about. Touchett s very bad, you know; the doctors have forbid his being in England at all, and he has only come hack to take care of his father. The old man, I believe, has half a doz- en things the matter with him. They call it gout, but to my certain knowledge he is dropsical as well, though he does nt look it. You may depend upon it, he has got a lot of water somewhere. Of course that ,sort of thing makes it awfully slow for people in the house; I wonder they have them, under such cir- cumstances. Then I believe Mr. Touch- ett is always squabbling with his wife; she lives away from her husband, yo~ know, in that extraordinary American way of yours. If you want a house where there is always something going on, I recommend you to go down and stay with my sister, Lady Pensil, in Bedfordshire. I 11 write to her to-mor- row, and I am sure she 11 be delighted to ask you. I know just what you want: you want a house where they go in for theatricals and picnics and that sort of thing. My sister is just that sort of woman; she is always getting up some- thing or other, and she is always glad to have the sort of people that help her. I am sure she 11 ask you down by return of post; she is tremendously fond of distinguished people and writers. She writes herself, you know; but I have nt read everything she has written. Its usually poetry, and I dont go in much for poetry, unless it s Byron. I sup- pose you think a great deal of Byron in America, Mr. Bantling continued, ex- panding in the stimulating air of Miss Stackpoles attention, bringing up his sequences promptly, and at last chang- ing his topic, with a natural eagerness t@ provide suitable conversation for so re- markable a woman. He returned, how- ever, ultimately to the idea of ileuriet- tas going to stay with Lady Pensil, in Bedfordshire. I understand what you want, he repeated: you want to see some jolly good English sport. The Touchetts are not English at all, you know; they live on a kind of foreign system; they have got some awfully queer ideas. The old man thinks it s wicked to hunt, I am told. You must get down to my sisters in time for the theatricals, and I am sure she will be glad to give you a part. I am sure you act well; I know you are very clever. My sister is forty years old, and she has seven children; but she is going to play the principal part. Of course you need nt act if you dont want to. In this manner Mr. Bantling deli~- ered himself, while they strolled over 180 The Portrait of a Lac4. [February, the grass in Winchester Square, which, although it had been peppered by the London soot, invited the tread to linger. Henrietta thought her blooming, easy- voiced bachelor, with his impressibility ~o feminine merit and his suggestiveness of allusion, a very agreeable man, and she valued the opportunity he offered her. I dont know but I would go, if your sister should ask me, she said. I think it would be my duty. What do you call her name? Pensil. It s an odd name, but it is nt a bad one. I think one name is as good as an- other. But what is her rank? Oh, she s a barons wife; a conven- ient sort of rank. You are fine enough, and you are not too fine. I dont know but what she d be too fine for me. What do you call the place she lives in, Bedfordshire? She lives away in the northern cor- ner of it. It s a hideous country, but I dire say you wont mind that. I 11 try and run down while you are there. All this was very pleasant to Miss Stackpole, and she was sorry to be obliged to separate from Lady Pensils obliging brother. But it happened that she had met the day before, in Piccadil- ly, some friends whom she had not seen for a year, the Miss Climbers, two ladies from Wilmington, Delaware, who had been traveling on the Continent, and were now preparing to re~mbark. Henrietta had a long interview with them on the Piccadilly pavement, and though the three ladies all talked at once they had not exhausted their ac- cumulated topics. It had been agreed, therefore, that Henrietta should come and dine with them in their lodgings in Jermyn Street at six oclock on the mor- row, and she now bethought herself of this engagement. She prepared to start for Jermyn Street, taking leave first of Ralph Touchett and Isabel, who, seated en garden chairs in another part of the inclosure, were occupied if the term may be used with an exchange of amenities less pointed than the practical colloquy of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling. When it had been settled between Isabel and her friend that they should be reunited at some reputable hour at Pratts Hotel, Ralph remarked that the latter must have a cab; she could not walk all the way to Jermyn Street. I suppose you mean it s improper for me to walk alone! Henrietta ex- claimed. Merciful powers! have I come to this? There is not the slightest need of your walking alone, said Mr. Bantling, in an off-hand tone, expressive of gal- lantry. I should be greatly pleased to go with you. I simply meant that you would be late for dinner, Ralph answered. Think of those poor ladies, in their impatience, waiting for you! You had better have a hansom, Hen- rietta, said Isabel. I will get you a hansom, if you will trust to me, Mr. Bantling went on. We might walk a little till we met one. I dont see why I should nt trust to him, do you? Henrietta inquired of Isabel. I dont see what Mr. Bantling could do to you, Isabel answered, smiling; but if you like, we will walk with you till you find your cab. Never mind; we will go alone. Come on, Mr. Bantling, and take care you get me a good one. Mr. Bautling promised to do his best, and the two took their departure, leav- ing Isabel and her cousin standing in the square, over which a clear Septem- ber twilight had now begun to gather. It was perfectly still; the wide quadran- gle of dusky houses showed lights in none of the windows, where the shutters and blinds were closed; the pavements were a vacant expanse, and putting aside 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 181 two small children from a neighboring slum, who, attracted by symptoms of abnormal animation in the interior, were squeezing their necks between the rusty railings of the inclosure, the most vivid object within sight was the big red pil- lar-post on the southeast corner. Henrietta will ask him to get into the cab and go with her to Jermyn Street, Ralph observed. He always spoke of Miss Stackpole as Henrietta. Very possibly, said his companion. Or rather, no, she wont, he went on. But Bantling will ask leave to get in. Very likely again. I am very glad they are such good friends. She has made a conquest. He thinks her a brilliant woman. It may go far, said Ralph. Isabel was silent a moment. I call Henrietta a very brilliant woman; but I dont think it will go far, she re- joined at last. They would never really know each other. lIe has not the least idea what she really is, and she has no just comprehension of Mr. Bantling. There is no more usual basis of matrimony than a mutual misunder- standing. But it ought not to be so difficult to understand Bob Bantling, Ralph added. He is a very simple fellow. Yes, but Henrietta is simpler still! And pray, what am I to do? Isabel asked, looking about her through the fading light, in which the limited land- scape-gardening of the square took on a large and effective appearance. I dont imagine that you will propose that you and I, for our amusement, should drive about London in a hansom.,~ There is no reason why we should not stay here, if you dont dislike it. It is very warm; there will be half an hour yet before dark; and if you per- mit it I will light a cigarette. You may do what you please, said Isabel, if you will amuse me till seven oclock. I propose at that hour to go back and partake of a simple and soli- tary repast two poached eggs and a muffin at Pratts Hotel. May I not dine with you? Ralph asked. / No; you will dine at your club. They had wandered back to their chairs in the centre of the square again, and Ralph had lighted his cigarette. It would have given him extreme pleasure to be present in person at the modest little feast she had sketched; but in de- fault of this he liked even being forbid- den. For the moment, however, he liked immensely being alone with her, in the thickening dusk, in the centre of the multitudinous town; it made her seem to depend upon him and to be in his power. This power he could exert but vaguely; the best exercise of it was to accept her decisions submissively. There was almost an emotion in do- ing so. Why wont you let me dine with you? he asked, after a pause. Because I dont care for it. I suppose you are tired of me. I shall be, an hour hence. You see I have the gift of fore-knowledge. Oh, I shall be delightful meanwhile, said Ralph. But he said nothing more, and as Isabel made no rejoinder they sat some time in silence which seemed to contradict his promise of entertain- ment. It seemed to him that she was preoccupied, and he wondered what she was thinking about; there were two or three very possible subjects. At last he spoke again: Is your objection to my society this evening caused by your ex- pectation of another visitor? She turned her head, with a glance of her clear, fair eyes. Another visitor? What visitor should I have? He had none to suggest; which made his question seem to himself silly as well as brutal. You have a great many friends that 182 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, I dont know, he said, laughing a little awkwardly. You have a whole past from which I was perversely excluded. You were reserved for my future. You must remember that my past is over there across the waters. There is none of it here in London. Very good, then, since your future is seated beside you. Capital thing to have your future so handy. And Ralph lighted another cigarette, and re- flected that Isabel probably meant that she had received news that Mr. Caspar Goodwood had crossed to Paris. After he had lighted his cigarette he puffed it a while, and then he went on: I prom- ised a while ago to be very amusing; but you see I dont come up to the mark, and the fact is there is a good deal of temerity in my undertaking to amuse a person like you. What do you care for my feeble attempts? You have grand ideas, you have a high standard in such matters. I ought at least to bring in a band of music or a company of mountebanks. One mountebank is enough, and you do very well. Pray go on, and in another ten minutes I shall begin to laugh. I assure you that I am very seri- ous, said Ralph. You do really ask a great deal. I dont know what you mean. I ask nothing. You accept nothing, said Ralph. She colored, and now suddenly it seemed to her that she guessed his meaning. But why should he speak to her of such things? He hesitated a little, and then he continued: There is something I should like very much to say to you. It s a question I wish to ask. It seems to me I have a right to ask it, because I have a kind of interest in the answer. Ask what you will, Isabel answered gently, and I will try and satisfy you.~~ Well, then, I hope you wont mind my saying that Lord Warburton has told me of something that\has passed between you.~~ Isabel started a little; then she sat looking at her open fan. Very good; I suppose it was natural he should tell you.~~ I have his leave to let you know he has done so. He has some hope still, said Ralph. Still ? He had it a few days ago. I dont believe he has any now, said the girl. I am very sorry for him, then; he is such a fine fellow. Pray, did he ask you to talk to me? No, not that. But he told me be- cause he could nt help it. We are old friends, and he was greatly disappointed. He sent me a line asking me to come and see him, and I rode over to Lock- leigh the day before he and his sister lunched with us. He was very heavy- hearted; he had just got a letter from you.,~ Did he show you the letter? asked Isabel, with momentary loftiness. By no means. But he told me it was a neat refusal. I was very sorry for him, Ralph repeated. For some moments Isabel said noth- ing; then, at last, Do you know how often he had seen me? Five or six times. That s to your glory. It s not for that I say it. What, then, do you say it for? Not to prove that poor Warburtons state of mind is superficial, because I am pretty sure you dont think that. Isabel certainly was unable to say that she thought it; but presently she said something else : If you have not been requested by Lord Warburton to argue with me, then you are doing it disinterestedly, or for the love of ar gument. I have no wish to argue with you at all. I only wish to leave you alone. 1881.] The Portrait of a LacZ~,. 183 I am simply greatly interested in your own state of mind. I am greatly obliged to you! cried Isabel, with a laugh. Of course you mean that I am meddling in what does nt concern me. But why should nt I speak to you of this matter without annoying you or em- barrassing myself? What s the use of being your cousin, if I cant have a few privileges? What is the use of adoring you without the hope of a re- ward, if I cant have a few compensa- tions? What is the use of being ill and disabled, and restricted to mere specta- torship at the game of life, if I really can t see the show when I have paid so much for my ticket? Tell me this, Ralph went on, while Isabel listened to him with quickened attention: What had you in your mind when you refused Lord Warburton? What I had in my mind? What was the logic the view of your situation that dictated so re- markable an act? I did nt wish to marry him, if that is logic. No, that is not logic, and I knew that before. What was it you said to yourself? You certainly said more than that. Isabel reflected a moment, and then she answered this inquiry with a ques- tion of her own: Why do you call it a remarkable act? That is what your mother thinks, too. Warburton is such a fine fellow; as a man I think he has hardly a fault. And then he is what they call here a swell. lie has immense possessions, and his wife would be thought a superior be- ing. He unites the intrinsic and the extrinsic advantages. Isabel watched her cousin while he spoke, as if to see how far he would go. I refused him because he was too per- fect, then. I am not perfect myself, and he is too good for me. Besides, his per- fection would irritate me. That is ingenious rather than can- did, said Ralph. As a fact, you think nothing in the world too perfect for you.~~ Do I think I am so good? No; but you are exacting, all the same, without the excuse of thinking yourself good. Nineteen women out of twenty, however, even of the most ex- acting sort, would have contented them- selves with Warburton. Perhaps you dont know how he has been run after. I dont wish to know. But it seems to me, said Isabel, that you told me of several faults that he has, one day when I spoke of him to you. Ralph looked grave. I hope that what I said then had no weight with you; for they were not faults, the things I spoke of; they were simply peculiari- ties of his position. If I had known he wished to marry you, I would never have alluded to them. I think I said that as regards that position he was rather a skeptic. It would have been in your power to make him a believer. I think not. I dont understand the matter, and I am not conscious of any mission of that sort. You are evident- ly disappointed, Isabel added, looking gently but earnestly at her cousin. You would have liked me to marry Lord Warburton. Not in the least. I am absolutely without a wish on the subject. I dont pretend to advise you, and I content myself with watching you, with the deepest interest. Isabel gave a rather conscious sigh. I wish I could be as interesting to myself as I am to you! There you are not candid, again; you are extremely interesting to your- self. Do you know, however, said Ralph, that if you have really given Lord Warburton his final answer I am rather glad it has been what it was? I dont mean I am glad for you, and still less, of course, for him. I am glad for myself. 184 The Portrait of a Lad~y. [February, Are you thinking of proposing to me? By no means. From the point of view I speak of, that would be fatal; I should overturn my own porridge. What I mean is, I shall have the enter- tainment of seeing what a young lady does who wont marry Lord Warbur- ton. That is what your mother counts upon, too, said Isabel. Ah, there will be plenty of specta- tors! We shall contemplate the rest of your career. I shall not see all of it, but I shall probably see the most in- teresting years. Of course, if you were to marry our friend, you would still have a career, a very honorable and brilliant one. But, relatively speaking, it would be a little prosaic. it would be definitively marked out in advance; it would be wanting in the unexpected. You know I am extremely fond of the unexpected, and now that you have kept the game in your hands I depend on your giving us some magnificent exam- ple of it. I dont understand you very well, said Isabel, but I do so well enough to be able to say that if you look for magnificent examples of anything, I shall disappoint you. You will do so only by disappoint- ing yourself, and that will go hard with you! To this Isabel made no direct reply; there was an amount of truth in it which would bear consideration. At last she said, abruptly, I dont see what harm there is in my wishing not to tie myself. I dont want to begin life by marry- ing. There are other things a woman can do. There is nothing she can do so well. But you are many-sided. If one is two-sided, it is enough, said Isabel. You are the most charming of poly- gons! Ralph broke out, with a laugh. At a glance from his companion, how- ever, he became grave, and to prove it he went on, You want to see life, a~ the young men say.~~ I dont think I want to see it as the young men want to see it; but I do want to look about me. You want to drain the cup of ex- perience. No, I dont wish to touch the cup of experience. It s a poisoned drink! I only want to see for myself. You want to see, but not to feel, said Ralph. I dont think that if one is a sentient being one can make the distinction, Isabel returned. I am a good deal like Henrietta. The other day, when I asked her if she wished to marry, she said, Not till I have seen Europe! I too dont wish to marry until I have seen Europe. You evidently expect that a crowned head will be struck with you. No, that would be worse than marry- ing Lord Warburton. But it is getting very dark, Isabel continued, and I must go home. She rose from her place, but Ralph sat still a moment, looking at her. As he did not follow her, she stopped, and they remained a while exchanging a gaze, full on either side, but especially on Ralphs, of utterances too vague for words. You have answered my question, said Ralph at last. You have told me what I wanted. I am greatly obliged to you. It seems to me I have told you very little. You have told me the great thing, that the world interests you, and that you want to throw yourself into it. Isabels silvery eyes shone for a mo- ment in the darkness. I never said that. I think you meant it. Dont re- pudiate it ; it s so fine! I dont know what you are trying to fasten upon me, for I am not in the 185 1881.J The Portrait of a Lady. least an adventurous spirit. Women are not like men. Ralph slowly rose from his seat, and they walked together to the gate of the square. No, he said: women rare- ly boast of their courage; men do so with a certain frequency. Men have it to boast of! Women have it, too; you have a great deal. Enough to go home in a cab to Pratts Hotel; hut not more. Ralph unlocked the gate, and after they had passed out he fastened it. We will find your cab, he said; and as they turned towards a neighbor- ing street, in which it seemed that this quest would be fruitful, he asked her again if he might not see her safely to the inn. By no means, she answered. You are very tired; you must go home and go to bed. The cab was found, and he helped her into it, standing a moment at the door. When people forget I am a sick man I am often annoyed, he said. But it s worse when they remember it. xv. Isabel had had no hidden motive in wishing her cousin not to take her home; it simply seemed to her that for some days past she had consumed aa inordi- nate quantity of his time, and the inde- pendent spirit of the American girl, who ends by regarding perpetual assistance as a sort of derogation to her sanity, had made her decide that for these few hours she must suffice to herself. She had, moreover, a great fondness for in- tervals of solitude, and since her arrival in England it had been but scantily gratified. It was a luxury she could al- ways command at home, and she had missed it. That evening, however, an incident occurred which had there been a critic to note it would have taken all color from the theory that the love of solitude had caused her to dis- pense with Ralphs attendance. She was sitting, toward nine oclock, in the dim illumination of Pratts Hotel, trying with the aid of two tall candles to lose herself in a volume she had brought from Gar- dencourt, but succeeding only to the extent of reading other words on the page than those that were printed there, words that Ralph had spoken to her in the afternoon. Suddenly the well-muffled knuckle of the waiter was applied to the door, which presently admitted him, bearing the card of a visitor. This card, duly considered, offered to Isabels startled vision the name of Mr. Caspar Goodwood. She let the servant stand before her inquir- ingly for some instants, without signify- ing her wishes. Shall I show the gentleman up, maam? he asked at last, with a slight- ly encouraging inflection. Isabel hesitated still, and while she hesitated she glanced at the mirror. He may come in, she said at last, and waited for him with some emotion. Caspar Goodwood came in, and shook hands with her. He said nothing till the servant had left the room again; then he said,- Why didnt you answer my letter? He spoke in a quick, full, slightly per- emptory tone; the tone of a man whose questions were usually pointed, and who was capable of much insistence. Isabel answered him by a question : How did you know I was here? Miss Stackpole let me know, said Caspar Goodwood. She told me that you would probably be at home alone this evening, and would be willing to see me. Where did she see you to tell you that? She did nt see me; she wrote to me. Isabel was silent. Neither of them had 186 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, seated themselves; they stood there with a certain air of defiance, or at least of resistance. Henrietta never told me that she was writing to you, Isabel said at last. This is not kind of her. is it so disagreeable to you to see me? asked the young man. I did nt expect it. I dont like such surprises. But you knew I was in town; it wa~ natural we should meet. Do you call this meeting? I hoped I hould not see you. in so large a place as London it seemed to me very Apparently it was disagreeable to y on even to write to me, said Mr. Good- wood. Isabel made no answer to this; the sense of Henrietta Stackpoles treach- ery, as she momentarily qualified it, was strong within her. Henrietta is not delicate! she ex- claimed, with a certain bitterness. It was a great liberty to take. I suppose I am not delicate, either. The fault is mine as much as hers. As Isabel looked at him it seemed to her that his jaw had never been more square. This might have displeased her; nevertheless, she rejoined inconse- quently, No, it is not your fault so much as hers. What you have done is very nat- ural. It is, indeed! cried Caspar Good- wood, with a short laugh. And now that i have come, at any rate, may I not stay? You may sit down, certainly. And isabel went back to her chair again, while her visitor took the first place that offered, in the manner of a man accustomed to pay little thought to the sort of chair he sat in. i have been hoping every day for an answer to my letter, he said. You might have written me a few lines. it was not the trouble of writing that prevented me; I could as easily have written you four pages as one. But my silence was deliberate; i thought it best. He sat with his eyes fixed on hers while she said this; then he lowered them and attached them to a spot in the carpet, as if he were making a strong effort to say nothing but what he ought to say. He was a strong man in the wrong, and he was acute enough to see that an un- compromising exhibition of his strength would only throw the falsity of his po- sition into relief. isabel was not inca- pable of finding it agreeable to have an advantage of position over a person of this calibre, and though she was not a girl to flaunt her advantage in his face, she was woman enough to enjoy being able to say, You know you ought not to have written to me yourself! and to say it with a certain air of triumph. Caspar Goodwood raised his eyes to hers again; they wore an expression of ardent remonstrance. He had a strong sense of justice, and he was ready any day in the year, over and above this, to argue the question of his rights. You said you hoped never to hear from me again; I know that. But I never accepted the prohibition. i prom- ised you that you should hear very soon. i did not say that I hoped never to hear from you, said isabel. Not for five years, then, for ten years. it is the same thing. Do you find it so? it seems to me there is a great difference. I can im- agine that at the end of ten years we might have a very pleasant correspond- ence. i expect to write a much more brilliant letter ten years hence than i do now. isabel looked away while she spoke these words, for she knew they were of a much less earnest cast than the coun- tenanci~ of her listener. Her eyes, how- ever, at last came back to him, just as he said, very irrelevantly, 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 187 Are you enjoying your visit to your uncle? Very much indeed. She hesitated, and then she broke out with even great- er irrelevance, What good do you ex- pect to get by insisting? The good of not losing you.~~ You have no right to talk about los- ing what is not yours. And even from your own point of view, Isabel added, you ought to know when to let one alone.~~ I displease you very much, said Caspar Goodwood gloomily; not as if to provoke her to compassion for a man conscious of this blighting fact, but as if to set it well before himself, so that he might endeavor to act with his eyes upon it. Yes, you displease me very much, and the worst is that it is needless. Isabel knew that his was not a soft nature, from which pin - pricks would draw blood; and from the first of her acquaintance with him, and of her hav- ing to defend herself against a certain air that he had of knowing better what was good for her than she knew herself, she had recognized the fact that perfect frankness was her best weapon. To at- tempt to spare his sensibility or make her opposition obLique, as one might do with men smaller and superficially more irritable, this, in dealing with Caspar Goodwood, who would take everything of every sort that one might give him, was superfluous diplomacy. It was not that he had not susceptibilities, but his passive surface, as well as his active, was large and firm, and he might always be trusted to dress his wounds himself. In measuring the effect of his suffering, one might always reflect that he had a sound constitution. I cant reconcile myself to that, he said. There was a dangerous magnanimity about this; for Isabel felt that it was quite open to him to say that he had not always displeased her. I cant reconcile myself to it, either, and it is not the state of things that ought to exist between us. If you would only try and banish me from your mind for a few months, we should be on good terms again. I see. If I should cease to think of you for a few months, I should find I could keep it up indefinitely. Indefinitely is more than I ask. It is more even than I should like. You know that what you ask is im- possible, said the young man, taking his adjective for granted in a manner that Isabel found irritating. Are you not capable of making an effort? she demanded. You are strong for everything else; why should nt you be strong for that? Because I am in love with you,~~ said Caspar Goodwood simply. If one is strong, one loves only the more strongly. There is a good deal in that; and indeed our young lady felt the force of it. Think of me or not, as you find most possible ; only leave me alone. Until when? Well, for a year or two. Which do you mean? Between one year and two there is a great difference. Call it two, then, said Isabel, won- dering whether a little cynicism might not be effective. And what shall I gain by that? Mr. Goodwood asked, giving no sign of wincing. You will have obliged me greatly. But what will be my reward? Do you need a reward for an act of generosity? Yes, when it involves a great sacri- fice. There is no generosity without sac- rifice. Men dont understand such things. If you make this sacrifice I shall admire you greatly. I dont care a straw for your admi- ration. Will you marry me? That is the question. 188 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, Assuredly not, if I feel as I feel at present. Then I ask again what I shall gain.~~ You will gain quite as much as by worrying me to death! Caspar Goodwood bent his eyes again, and gazed for a while into the crown of his hat. A deep flush overspread his face, and Isabel could perceive that this dart at last had struck home. To see a strong man in pain had something ter- rible for her, and she immediately felt very sorry for her visitor. Why do you make me say such things to you? she cried, in a trem- bling voice. I only want to be gentle, to be kind. It is not delightful to me to feel that I)eople care for me, and yet to have to try and reason them out of it. I think others also ought to be considerate; we have each to judge for ourselves. I know you are considerate, as much as you can be; you have good reasons for what you do. But I dont want to marry. I shall probably never marry. I have a perfect right to feel that way, and it is no kindness to a woman to urge her, to persuade her against her will. If I give you pain, I can only say I am very sorry. It is not my fault; I cant marry you simply to please you. I wont say that I shall al- ways remain your friend, because when women say that, in these circumstances, it is supposed, I believe, to be a sort of mockery. But try me some day. Caspar Goodwood, during this speech, had kept his eyes fixed upon the name of his hatter, and it was not until some time after she had ceased speaking that he raised them. When he did so, the sight of a certain rosy, lovely eagerness in Isabels face threw some confusion into his attempt to analyze what she had said. I will go home, I will go to morrow. I will leave you alone, he murmured at last. Only, he add~d in a louder tone, I hate to lose sight of you! Never fear. I will do no harm. You will marry some one else, said Caspar Goodwood. Do you think that is a generous charge? Why not? Plenty of men will ask you.~~ I told you just now that I dont wish to marry, and that I shall proW ably never do so. I know you did; but I dont be- lieve it. Thank you very much. You appear to think I am attempting to deceive you you say very delicate things. Why should I not say that? You have given me no promise that you will not marry.~~ No; that is all that would be want- inol cried Isabel, with a bitter laugh. You think you wont, but you will, her visitor went on, as if he were pre- paring himself for the worst. Very well, I will, then. Have it as you please. I dont know, however, said Gas- par Goodwood, that my keeping you in sight would prevent it. Dont you, indeed? I am, after all, very much afraid of you. Do you think I am so very easily pleased? she asked suddenly, changing her tone. No, I dont; I shall try and con sole myself witl~i that. But there are a certain number of very clever men in the world; if there were only one, it would be enough. You will be sure to take no one who is not. I dont need the aid of a clever man to teach me how to live, said Isabel. I can find it out for myself. To live alone, do you mean? I wish that when you have found that out you would teach me. Isabel glanced at him a moment; then, with a quick smile, Oh, ~,Iou ought to marry! she said. Poor Caspar may be pardoned if for an instant this exclamation seemed to him to have the infernal note, and I can- 1881.] The Portrait of a Lade,. 189 not take upon myself to say that Isabel uttered it in obedience to a strictly ce- lestial impulse. It was a fact, however, that it had always seemed to her that Caspar Goodwood, of all men, ought to enjoy the whole devotion of some ten- der woman. God forgive you! he murmured between his teeth, turning away. Tier exclamation had put her slightly in the wrong. and after a moment she felt the mind to right herself. The easiest way to do it was to put her suitor in the wrong. You do me great injustice, you say what you dont know! she broke out. I should not be an easy victim; I have proved it. Oh, to me, perfectly. I have proved it to others as well, and she paused a moment. I refused a proposal of marriage last week, what they call a brilliant one. I am very glad to hear it, said the young man, gravely. It was a proposal that many girls would have accepted. It had every- thing to recommend it. Isabel had hesitated to tell this story, but now she had begun, the satisfaction of speaking it out, and doing herself justice, as it were, took possession of her. I was offered a great position and a great fort- une, by a person whom I like ex- tremely. Caspar was gazing at her with great interest. Is he an Englishman? He is an English nobleman, said Thabel. Mr. Goodwood received this an- nouncement in silence; then, at last, he said, I am glad he is disappoint- ed. Well, then, as you have compan- ions in misfortune, make the best of it. I dont call him a companion, said Caspar, grimly. Why not, since I declined his offer absolutely? That does nt make him my com- panion. Besides, he s an Englishman. And pray, is not an Englishman a human being? Isabel inquired. Oh, no; he s superhuman. You are angry, said the girl. We have discussed this matter quite enough. Oh, yes, I am angry. I plead guilty to that! Isabel turned away from him, and walked to the open window, where she stood a moment looking into the dusky vacancy of the street, where a turbid gaslight alone represented social anima- tion. For some time neither of these two young persons spoke; Caspar lin- gered near the chimney-piece, with his eyes gloomily fixed upon our heroine. She had virtually requested him to with- draw, he knew that; but at the risk of making himself odious to her he kept his ground. She was far too dear to him to he easily forfeited, and he had sailed across the Atlantic to extract some pledge from her. Presently she left the window, and stood before him again. You do me very little justice, she said, after my telling you what I told you just now. I am sorry I told you, since it matters so little to you. .A.h, cried the young man, if you were thinking of me when you did it! And then he paused, with the fear that she might contradict so happy a thought. I was thinking of you a little, said Isabel. A little? I dont understand. If the knowledge that I love you had any weight with you at all, it must have had a good deal. Isabel shook her head impatiently, as if to carry off a blush. I have re- fused a noble gentleman. Make the most of that. I thank you, then, said Caspar Goodwood, gravely. I thank you im- mensely. And now you had better go home. May I not see you again? lie asked. 190 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, I think it is better not. You will be sure to talk of tbis, and you see it leads to nothing. I promise you not to say a word that will annoy you.~~ Isabel reflected a little, and then she said, I return in a day or two to my uncles, and I cant propose to you to come there; it would be very inconsist- ent. Caspar Goodwood, on his side, de- bated within himself. You must do me justice, too. I received an invita- tion to your uncles more than a week ago, and I declined it. From whom was your invitation? Isabel asked, surprised. From Mr. Ralph Touchett, whom I suppose to be your cousin. I declined it because I had not your authorization to accept it. The suggestion that Mr. Touchett should invite me appeared to have come from Miss Stackpole. It certainly did nt come from me. Henrietta certainly goes very far, Isa- bel added. Dont be too hard on her; that touches me. iNo; if you declined, that was very proper of you, and I thank you for it. And Isabel gave a little exhalation of dismay at the thought that Lord War- burton and Mr. Goodwood might have met at Gardencourt. It would have been so awkward for Lord Warburton! When you leave your uncle, where are you going? Caspar asked. I shall go abroad with my aunt, to Florence and other places. The serenity of this announcement struck a chill to the young mans heart; he seemed to see her whirled away into circles from which he was inexorably excluded. Nevertheless, he went on quickly with his questio~: And when shall you come back to America? Perhaps not for a long time; I am very happy here. Do you mean to give up your coun- try? Dont be an infant. Well, you will be out of my sight, indeed! said Caspar Goodxvood. I dont know, she answered, rather grandly. The world strikes me as small . It is too large for me! Caspar ex- claimed, with a simplicity which our young lady might have found touching if her face had not been set against con- cessions. This attitude was part of a system, a theory, that she had lately embraced, and to be thorough she said, after a mo- ment, Dont think me unkind if I say that it s just that being out of your sight that I like. If you were in the same place as I, I should feel as if you were watching me, and I dont like that. I like my liberty too much. If there is a thing in the world that I am fond of, Isabel went on, with a slight recurrence of the grandeur that had shown itself a moment before, it is my personal independence. But whatever there was of grandeur in this speech moved Caspar Goodwoods admiration; there was nothing that dis- pleased him in the sort of feeling it ex- pressed. This feeling not only did no violence to his way of looking at the girl he wished to make his wife, but seemed a grace the more in so ardent a spirit. To his mind she had always had wings, and this was but the flutter of those stainless pinions. He was not afraid of having a wife with a certain largeness of movement; he was a man of long steps himself. Isabels words, if they had been meant to shock him, failed of the mark, arid only made him smile with the sense that here was com- mon ground. Who would wish less to curtail your liberty than I? he asked. What can give me greater pleasure than to see you perfectly inde- pendent doing whatever you like? It is to make you independent that I want to marry you. That a a beautiful sophism, said 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 191 the girl, with a smile more beautiful still. An unmarried woman, a girl of your age, is not independent. There are all sorts of things she cant do. She is hampered at every step. That s as she looks at the question, Isabel answered, with much spirit. I am not in my first youth; I can do what I choose; I belong quite to the independent class. I have neither father nor mother; I am poor; I am of a se- rious disposition, and not pretty. I therefore am not bound to be timid and conventional; indeed, I cant afford such luxuries. Besides, I try to judge things for myself; to judge wrong, I think, is more honorable than not to judge at all. I dont wish to be a mere sheep in the flock; I wish to choose my fate, and know something of human affairs be- yond what other people think it compat- ible with propriety to tell me. She paused a moment, but not long enough for her companion to reply. He was apparently on the point of doing so, wheii she went on: Let me say this to you, Mr. Goodwood. You are so kind as to speak of being afraid of my marrying. If you should hear any ru- mor that I am on the point of doing so, girls are liable to have such things said about them, remember what I have told you about my love of liber- ty, and venture to doubt it. There was something almost passion- ately positive in the tone in which Isa- bel gave him this advice, and he ~aw a shining candor in her eyes which helped him to believe her. On the whole, he felt reassured, and you might have per- ceived it by the manner in which he said, quite eagerly, You want simply to travel for two years? I am quite willing to wait two years, and you may do what you like in the interval. If that is all you want, pray say so. I dont want you to be conventional; do I strike you as conventional myself? Do you want to improve your mind? Your mind is quite good enough for me; but if it interests you to wander about a while and see different countries, I shall be delighted to help you, in any way in my power.~~ You are very generous; that is nothing new to me. The best way to help me will be to put as many hundred miles of sea between us as possible. One would think you were going to commit a crime! said Caspar Good- wood. Perhaps I am. I wish to be free even to do that, if the fancy takes me. Well, then, he said, slowly, I will go home; and he put out his hand, trying to look contented and confident. Isabels confidence in him, however, was greater than any he could feel in her. Not that he thought her capable of committing a crime ; but, turn it over as he would, there was something ominous in the way she reserved her option. As Isabel took his hand, she felt a great respect for him; she knew how much he cared for her, and she thought him magnanimous. They stood so for a moment, looking at each other, united by a hand-clasp which was not merely passive on her side. That s right, she said, very kindly, almost ten- derly. You will lose nothing by be- ing a reasonable man. But I will come baek, wherever you are, two years hence, he returned, with characteristic grimness. We have seen that our young lady was inconsequent, and at this she sud- denly changed her note: Ah, remem- ber, I promise nothing, absolutely nothing! Then, more softly, as if to help him to leave her, she added, And remember, too, that I shall not be an easy victim! You will get very sick of your in- dependence. Perhaps I shall; it is even very probable. When that day comes, I shall be very glad to see you. 192 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, She had laid her hand on the knob of the door that led into her own room, and she waited a moment to see wheth- er her visitor would not take his depart- ure. But he appeared unable to move; there was still an immense unwilling- ness in his attitude, a deep remon- strance in his eyes. I must leave you now, said Isabel; and she opened the door, and passed into the other room. This apartment was dark, but the darkness was tempered by a vague ra- diance sent up through the window from the court of the hotel, and Isabel could make out the ma~ses of the furni- ture, the dim shining of the mirror, and the looming of the big four-posted bed. She stood still a moment, listening, and at last she heard Caspar Goodwood walk out of the sitting-room and close the door behind him. She stood still a moment longer, and then, by an ir- resistible impulse, she dropped on her knees before her bed, and hid her face in her arms. XVII. She was not praying; she was trem- bling, trembling all over. She was an excitable creature, and now she was much excited; but she wished to resist her excitement, and the attitude of prayer, which she kept for some time, seemed to help her to be still. She was extremely glad Caspar Goodwood was gone; there was something exhilarat- ing in having got rid of him. As Isa- bel became conscious of this feeling she bowed her head a little lower. The feel- ing was there, throbbing in her heart; it was a part of her emotion; but it was a thing to be ashamed of, it was pro- fane and out of place. It was not for some ten minutes that she rose from her knees, and when she came back to the sitting-room she was still trembling a little. Her agitation had two causes: part of it was to be accounted for by her long discussion with Mr. Goodwood, but it might be feared that the rest was simply the enjoyment she found in the exercise of her power. She sat down in the same chair again, and took up her book, but without going through the form of opening the volume. She leaned back, with that low, soft, aspiring mur- mur with which she often expressed her gladness in accidents of which the brighter side was not superficially ob- vious, and gave herself up to the satis- faction of having refused two ardent suitors within a fortnight. That love of liberty of which she had given Caspar Goodwood so bold a sketch was as yet almost exclusively theoretic; she had not been able to indulge it on a large scale. But it seemed to her that she had done something: she had tasted of the delight,if not of battle, at least of victory; she had done what she pre- ferred. In the midst of this agreeable sensation the image of Mr. Goodwood taking his sad walk homeward through the dingy town presented itself with a certain reproachful force; so that, as at the same moment the door of the room was opened, she rose quickly, with an apprehension that he had come back. But it was only Henrietta Stackpole re- turning from her dinner. Miss Stackpole immediately saw that something had happened to Isabel, and indeed the discovery demanded no great penetration. henrietta went straight up to her friend, who received her with- out a greeting. Isabels elation in hav- ing sent Caspar Goodwood back to Knerica presupposed her being glad that he had come to see her; but at the same time she perfectly remembered that Henrietta had had no rinht to set a trap for her. has he been here, dear? Miss Stackpole inquired, softly. isabel turned away, amid for some moments answered nothing. You acted very wrongly, she said at last. 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 193 I acted for the best, dear. I only hope you acted as well. You are not the judge. I cant trust you, said Isabel. This declaration was unflattering, but Henrietta was much too unselfish to heed the charge it conveyed; she cared only for what it intimated with regard to her friend. Isabel Archer, she declared, with equal abruptness and solemnity, if you marry one of these people, I will never speak to you again! Before making so terrible a threat, you had better wait till I am asked, Isabel replied. Never having said a word to Miss Stackpole about Lord Warburtons overtures, she had now no impulse whatever to justify herself to Henrietta by telling her that she had refused that nobleman. Oh, you 11 be asked quick enough, when once you get off on the Conti- nent. Annie Climber was asked three times in Italy, poor, plain little An- me. Well, if Annie Climber was not captured, why should I be? I dont believe Annie was pressed; but you 11 be. That s a flattering conviction, said Isabel, with a laugh. I dont flatter you, Isabel; I tell you the truth! cried her friend. I hope you dont mean to tell me that you did nt give Mr. Goodwood some hope! I dont see why I should tell you anything; as I said to you just now, I cant trust you. But since you are so much interested in Mr. Goodwood, I wont conceal from you that he returns immediately to America. You dont mean to say you have sent him off? Henrietta broke out in dismay. I asked him to leave me alone; and I ask you the same, Henrietta. Miss Stackpole stood there with ex- panded eyes, and then she went to the VOL. XLVII. No. 280. 13 mirror over the chimney-piece and took off her bonnet. I hope you have enjoyed your din- ner, Isabel remarked, lightly, as she did so. But Miss Stackpole was not to be diverted by frivolous propositions, nor bribed by the offer of autobiographic opportunities. Do you know where you are going, Isabel Archer? ,Just now I am going to bed, said Isabel, with persistent frivolity. Do you know where you are drift- ing? 1-Jenrietta went on, holding out her bonnet delicately. No, I have nt the least idea, and I find it very pleasant not to know. A swift carriage, of a dark night, rattling with four horses over roads that one cant see, that s my idea of happi- ness. Mr. Goodwood certainly did nt teach you to say such things as that, like the heroine of an immoral novel, said Miss Stackpole. You are drift- ing to some great mistake. Isabel was irritated by her friends interference, but even in the midst of her irritation she tried to think what truth this declaration could represent. She could think of nothing that diverted her from saying, You must be very fond of me, Henrietta, to be willing to be so disagreeable to me. I love you, Isabel, said Miss Stack- pole, with feeling. Well, if you love me, let me alone. I asked that of Mr. Goodwood, and I must also ask it of you. Take care you are not let alone too much. That is what Mr. Goodwood said to me. I told him T must take the risks. You are a creature of risks; you make me shudder! cried Henrietta. When does Mr. Goodwood return to America? I dont know; he did nt tell me. Perhaps you did nt inquire, said 194 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, Henrietta, with the note of righteous irony. I gave him too little satisfaction to have the right to ask questions of him.~~ This assertion seemed to Miss Stack- pole, for a moment, to hid defiance to comment; but at last she exclaimed, Well, Isabel, if I did nt know you, I might think you were heartless! Take care, said Isabel; you are spoiling me. I am afraid I have done that al- ready. I hope, at least, Miss Stack- pole added, that he may cross with Annie Climber! Isabel learncd from her the next morning that she had determined not to return to Gardencourt (where old Mr. Touchett had promised her a renewed welcome), but to await in London the arrival of the invitation that Mr. Bant- ling had promised her from his sister, Lady Pensil. Miss Stackpole related very freely her conversation with Ralph Touchetts sociable friend, and declared to Isabel that she really believed she had now got hold of something that would lead to something. On the re- ceipt of Lady Pensils letter Mr. Bantling had virtually guaranteed its arrival she would immediately depart for Bedfordshire, and if Isabel cared to look out for her impressions in the In- terviewer she would certainly find them. Henrietta was evidently going to see something of the inner life this time. Do you know where you are drift- ing, Henrietta Stackpole? Isabel asked, imitating the tone in which her friend had spoken the night before. I am drifting to a bi~ position, to being the queen of American journal- ism. If my next letter is nt copied all over the West, I 11 swallow my pen- wiper! She had arranged with her friend, Miss Annie Climber, the young lady of the Continental offers, that they should go together to make those purchases which were to constitute Miss Climbers farewell to a hemisphere in which she at least had been appreciated; and she presently repaired to Jermyn Street to pick up her companion. Shortly after her departure Ralph Touchett was an- nounced, and, as soon as he came in, Isabel saw that he had, as the phrase is, something on his mind. He very soon took his cousin into his confidence. He had received a telegram from his moth- er, telling him that his father had had a sharp attack of his old malady, that she was much alarmed, and that she begged Ralph would instantly return to 0-ardencourt. On this occasion, at least, Mrs. Touchetts devotion to the electric wire had nothing incongruous. I have judged it best to see the great doctor, Sir Matthew Hope, first, Ralph said. By great good luck, he s in town. He is to see me at half past twelve, and I shall make sure of his coming down to Gardencourt, which he will do the more readily as he has already seen my father several times, both there and in London. There is an express at 2.45, which I shall take, and you will come back with me, or re- main here a few days longer, exactly as you prefer. I will go with you! Isabel ex- claimed. I dont suppose I can be of any use to my uncle, but if he is ill I should like to be near him. I think you like him, said Ralph, with a certain shy pleasure in his eye. You appreciate him, which all the world has nt done. The quality is too fine. I think I love him, said Isabel, sim- ply. That s very well. After his son, he is your greatest admirer. Isabel welcomed this assurance, but she gave secretly a little sigh of relief at the thought that Mr. Touchett was one of those admirers who could not propose to marry her. This, however, was not what she said; she went on to inform Ralph that there were other rea 1881.] The Portrait Sons why she should not remain in Lon- don. She was tired of it, and wished to leave it; and then Henrietta was going away, going to stay in Bedfordshire. In Bedfordshire? Ralph exclaimed, with surprise. With Lady Pensil, the sister of Mr. Bantling, who has answered for an in- vitation. Ralph was feeling anxious, but at this he broke into a laugh. Suddenly, how- ever, he looked grave again. Bant- ling is a man of courage. But if the invitation should get lost on the way? I thought the British post-office was impeccable. The good Homer sometimes nods, said Ralph. However, he went on, more brightly, the good Bantling never does, and, whatever happens, he will take care of Henrietta. Ralph went to keep his appointment with Sir Matthew Hope, and Isabel made her arrangements for quitting Pratts Hotel. Her uncles danger touched her nearly, and while she stood before her open trunk, looking about her vaguely for what she should put into it, the tears suddenly rushed into her eyes. It was perhaps for this rea- son that when Ralph came back, at two o clock, to take her to the station she was not yet ready. He found Miss Stackpole, however, in the sitting-room, where she had just risen from the lunch- table, and this lady immediately ex- pressed her regret at his fathers illness. He is a grand old man, she said; he is faithful to the last. If it is real- ly to be the last, excuse my alluding to it, but you must often have thought of the possibility, I am sorry that I shall not be at Gardencourt. You will amuse yourself much more in Bedfordshire. I shall be sorry to amuse myself at such a time, said Henrietta, with much propriety. But she immediately added, I should like so to commemorate the closing scene.~~ of a Lad~i. 195 My father may live a long time, said Ralph, simply. Then, adverting to topics more cheerful, he interrogated Miss St,ackpole as to her own future. Now that Ralph was in trouble, she addressed him in a tone of larger allow- ance, and told him that she was much indebted to him for having made her acquainted with Mr. Bantling. He has told me just the things I want to know, she said; all the society items and all about the royal family. I cant make out that what he tells me about the royal family is much to their credit; but he says that s only my peculiar way of looking at it. Well, all I want is that he should give me the facts; I can put them together quick enough, when once I ye got them. And she added that Mr. Bantling had been so good as to promise to come and take her out in the afternoon. To take you where? Ralph vent- ured to inquire. To Buckingham Palace. He is go- ing to show me over it, so that I may get some idea how they live. Ab, said Ralph, we leave you in good hands. The first thing we shall hear is that you are invited to Windsor Castle. If they ask me, I shall certainly go. Once I get started I am not afraid. But for all that, Henrietta added, in a mo- ment, I am not satisfied; I am not satisfied about Isabel. What is her last misdemeanor? Well, I have told you before, and I suppose there is no harm in my go- ing on. I always finish a subject that I take up. Mr. Goodwood was here last night. Ralph opened his eyes. He even blushed a little, his blush being the sign of an emotion somewhat acute. He remembered that Isabel, in separating from him in Winchester Square, had re- pudiated his suggestion that her motive in doing so was the expectation of a vis- itor at Pratts Hotel, and it was a novel 196 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, sensation to him to have to suspect her of duplicity. On the other hand, he quickly said to himself, What concern was it of his that she should have made an appointment with a lover? Had it not been thought graceful in every age that young ladies should make a secret of such appointments? Ralph made Miss Stackpole a diplomatic answer: I should have thought that, with the views you expressed to me the other day, that would satisfy you perfectly. That he should come to see her? That was very well, as far as it went. It was a little plot of mine; I let him know that we were in London, and when it had been arranged that I should spend the evening out I just sent him a word, a word to the wise. I hoped he would find her alone; I wont pretend I did nt hope that you would he out of the way. He came to see her; hut he might as well have stayed away. Isabel was cruel? Ralph inquired, smiling, and relieved at learning that his cousin had not deceived him. I dont exactly know what passed between them. But she gave him no satisfaction, she sent him back to America. Poor Mr. Goodwood! Ralph ex- claimed. Her only idea seems to be to get rid of him, Henrietta went on. Poor Mr. Goodwood! repeated Ralph. The exclamation, it must be confessed, was somewhat mechanical. It failed exactly to express his thoughts, which were taking another line. You dont say that as if you felt it. I dont believe you care. Ali, said Ralph, you must re- member that I dont know this inter- esting young man, that I have never seen him. Well, I shall see him, and I shall tell him not to give up. If I did nt be- lieve Isabel would come round, said Miss Stackpole, well, I d give her up myself! XVIII. It had occurred to Ralph that, under the circumstances, Isabels parting with Miss Stackpole might he of a slightly embarrassed nature, and he went down to the door of the hotel in advance of his cousin, who after a slight delay fol- lowed, with the traces of an unaccepted remonstrance, as he thought, in her eye. The two made the journey to Garden- court in almost unbroken silence, and the servant who met them at the station had no better news to give them of Mr. Touchett, a fact which caused Ralph to congratulate himself afresh on Sir Matthew Elopes having promised to come down in the five-oclock train and spend the night. Mrs. Touchett, he learned, on reaching home, had been constantly with the old man, and was with him at that moment; and this fact made Ralph say to himself that, after all, what his mother wanted was simply opportunity. The finest natures were those that shone on large occasions. Isabel went to her own room, noting, throughout the house that perceptible hush which precedes a crisis. At the end of an hour, however, she came down- stairs, in search of her aunt, whom she wished to ask about Mr. Touchett. She went into the library, but Mrs. Touchett was not there, and as the day, which had been damp and chill, was now apparent- ly on the point of breaking into storm it was not probable that she had gone for her usual walk in the grounds. Isabel was on the point of ringing to send an inquiry to her room, when her attention was taken by an unexpected sound, the sound of low music, proceeding, apparently, from the drawing-room. She knew that her aunt never touched the piano, and the musician was therefore probably Ralph, who played for his own amusement. That he should have resorted to this re- creation at the present time indicated, evidently, that his anxiety about his 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 197 father had been relieved; so that Isabel took her way to the drawing-room with much alertness. The drawing-room at Gardencourt was an apartment of great distances, and as the piano was placed at the end of it furthest removed from the door at which Isabel entered, her arrival was not noticed by the person seated before the instrument. This per- son was neither Ralph nor his mother; it was a lady whom Isabel immediately saw to be a stranger to herself, although her back was presented to the door. This back an ample and well-dressed one Isabel contemplated for some mo- ments in surprise. The lady was of course a visitor, who had arrived during her absence, and who had not been men- tioned by either of the servants one of them her aunts maid of whom she had had speech since her return. Isa- bel had already learned, however, that the British domestic is not effusive, and she was particularly conscious of having been treated with dryness by her aunts maid, whose offered assistance the young lady from Albany versed, as young ladies are in Albany, in the very meta- physics of the toilet had suffered her to perceive that she deemed obstructive. The arrival of a visitor was far from disagreeable to Isabel; she had not yet divested herself of a youthful impres- sion that each new acqnaintance would exert some momentous influence upon her life. By the time she had made these reflections, she became aware that the lady at the piano played remarka- bly well. She was playing something of Beethovens, Isabel knew not what, but she recognized Beethoven, and she touched the piano softly and discreetly, but with evident skill. Her touch was that of an artist. Isabel sat down, noiselessly, on the nearest chair, and waited till the end of the piece. When it was finished she felt a strong desire to thank the player, and rose from her seat to do so, while at the same time the lady at the piano turned quickly round, as if she had be- come aware of her presence. That is very beautiful, and your playing makes it more beautiful still, said Isabel, with all the young radiance with which she usually uttered a truth- ful rapture. You dont think I disturbed Mr. Touchett, then? the musician answered as sweetly as this compliment deserved. The house is so large, and his room so far away, that I thought I might vent- ure, especially as I played just just du bout des doigts. She is a Frenchwoman, Isabel said to herself; she says that as if she were French. And this supposition made the stranger more interesting to our speculative heroine. I hope my uncle is doing well, Isabel added. I should think that to hear such lovely music as that would really make him feel better. The lady gave a discriminating smile. I am afraid there are moments in life when even Beethoven has nothing to say to us. We must admit, however, that they are our worst moments. I am not in that state now, said Isabel. On the contrary, I should be so glad if you would play something more. - If it will give you pleasure, most willingly. And this obliging person took her place again, and struck a few chords, while Isabel sat down nearer the instrument. Suddenly the stranger stopped, with her hands on the keys, half turning and looking over her shoul- der at the girl. She was forty years old, and she was not pretty; but she had a delightful expression. Excuse me, she said, but are you the niece, the young American? I am my aunts niece, said Isabel, with na~vet~. The lady at the piano sat still a mo- ment longer, looking over her shoulder with her charming smile. That s very well, she said; we are compatriots. And then she began to play. 198 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, Ah, then she is not French, Isabel murmured; and as the opposite suppo- sition had made her interesting, it might have seemed that this revelation would have diminished her effectiveness. But such was not the fact; for Isabel, as she listened to the music, found much stim- ulus to conjecture in the fact that an American should so strongly resemble a foreiga woman. Her companion played in the same manner as before, softly and solemnly, and while she played the shadows deep- ened in the room. The autumn twilight gathered in, and from her place Isabel could see the rain, which had now begun in earnest, washing the cold-looking lawn, and the wind shaking the great trees. At last, when the music had ceased, the lady got up, and, coming to her auditor, smiling, before Isabel had time to thank her again, said, Jam very glad you have come back. I have heard a great deal about you.~~ Isabel thought her a very attractive person; but she nevertheless said, with a certain abruptness, in answer to this speech, From whom have you heard about me? The stranger hesitated a single mo- ment, and then, From your uncle, she answered. I have been here three days, and the first day he let me come and pay him a visit in his room. Then he talked constantly of you. As you did nt know me, that must have bored you. It made me want to know you. All the more that since then your aunt being so much with Mr. Touchett I have been quite alone, and have got rather tired of my own society. I have not chosen a good moment for my visit. A servant had come in with lamps, and was presently followed by another, bearing the tea-tray. Of the appear- ance of this repast Mrs. Touchett had apparently been notified, for she now arrived, and addressed herself to the tea-pot. Her greeting to her niece did not differ materially from her manner of raising the lid of this receptacle in order to glance at the contents: in neither act was it becoming to make a show of avidity. Questioned about her husband, she was unable to say that he was better; but the local doctor was with him, and much light was expected from this gentlemans consultation with Sir Matthew Hope. I suppose you two ladies have made acquaintance? she said. If you have not, I recommend you to do so; for so long as we continue Ralph and I to cluster about Mr. Touchetts bed, you are not likely to have much society but each other. I know nothing about you but that you are a great musician, Isabel said to the visitor. There is a good deal more than that to know, Mrs. Touchett affirmed, in her little dry tone. A very little of it, I am sure, will content Miss Archer! the lady ex- claimed, with a light laugh. I am an old friend of your aufits; I have lived much in Florence, I am Madame Merle. She made this last announcement as if she was referring to a person of tolera- bly distinct identity. For Isabel, how- ever, it represented but little; she could only continue to feel that Madame Merle had a charming manner. She is not a foreigner, in spite of her name, said Mrs. Touchett. She was born I always forget where you were born.~~ It is hardly worth while I should tell you, then. On the contrary, said Mrs. Touch- ett, who rarely missed a logical point, if I remembered, your telling me would be quite superfluous. Madame Merle glanced at Isabel with a fine, frank smile. I was born under the shadow of the national banner.~~ She is too fond of mystery, said Mrs. Touchett; that is her great fault. 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 199 Ah, exclaimed Madame Merle, I have great faults, but I dont think that is one of them; it certainly is not the greatest! I caine into the world in the Brooklyn navy-yard. My father was a high officer in the United States navy, and had a post a post of responsibil- ity in that establishment at the time. I suppose I ought to love the sea, but I hate it. That s why I dont return to America. I love the land; the great thing is to love something. Isabel, as a dispassionate witness, had not been struck with the force of Mrs. Touchetts characterization of her visit- or, who had an expressive, communica- tive, responsive face, by no means of the sort which, to Isabels mind, suggest- ed a secretive disposition. It was a face that told of a rich nature and of quick and liberal impulses, and, though it had no regular beauty, was in the highest de- gree agreeable to contemplate. Madame Mel-le was a tall, fair, plump woman; everything in her person was round and replete, thou,~h without those accumulations which minister to indo- lence. Her features were thick, but there was a graceful harmony among them, and her complexion had a healthy clearness. She had a small gray eye, with a great deal of light in it, an eye incapable of dullness, and, accord- ing to some people, incapable of tears, and a wide, firm mouth, which, when she smiled, drew itself upward to the left side, in a manner that most people thought very odd, some very affected, and a few very graceful. Isabel inclined to range herself in the last category. Madame Merle had thick, fair hair, which was arranged with picturesque simplicity, and a large, white hand, of a perfect shape, a shape so perfect that its owner, preferring to leave it unadorned, wore no rings. Isabel had taken her at first, as we have seen, for a Frenchwoman; but extended obser- vation led her to say to herself that Madame Merle might be a German, a German of rank, a countess, a prin- cess. Isabel would never have supposed that she had been born in Brooklyn, though she could doubtless not have justified her assumption that the air of distinction, possessed by Madame Merle in so eminent a degree, was inconsistent with such a birth. It was true that the national banner had floated immediately over the spot of the ladys nativity, and the breezy freedom of the stars and stripes might have shed an influence upon the attitude which she then and there took towards life. And yet Ma- dame Merle had evidently nothing of the fluttered, flapping quality of a morsel of hunting in the wind; her deportment expressed the repose and confidence which come from a large experience. Experience, however, had not quenched her youth; it had simply made her sym- pathetic and supple. She was, in a word a woman of ardent impulses, kept in admirable order. What an ideal com- bination! thought Isabel. She made these reflections while the three ladies sat at their tea; but this ceremony was interrupted before long by the arrival of the great doctor from London, who had been immediately ushered into the drawing-room. Mrs. Touchett took him off to the library, to confer with him in private; and then Madame Merle and Isabel parted, to meet again at dinner. The idea of see- ing more of this interesting woman did much to mitigate Isabels perception of the melancholy that now hung over Gardencourt. When she came into the drawing- room, before dinner, she found the place empty; but in the course of a moment Ralph arrived. His anxiety about his father had been lightened; Sir Matthew H& pes view of his condition was less sombre than Ralphs had been. The doctor recommended that the nurse alone should remain with the old man for the next three or four hours; so that Ralph, his mother, and the great physi 200 f/ike Portrait of a Lad~i. [February, cian hjmself were free to dine at table. Mrs. Touchett and Sir Matthew came in; Madame Merle was the last to ap- pear. Before she came, Isabel spoke of her to Ralph, who was standing before the fire-place. Pray, who is Madame Merle? The cleverest woman I know, not excepting yourself, said Ralph. I thought she seemed very pleasant. I was sure you would think her pleasant, said Ralph. Is that why you invited her? I did nt invite her, and when we came back from London I did nt know she was here. No one invited her. She is a friend of my mothers, and just aft- er you and I went to town my mother got a note from her. She had arrived in England (she usually lives abroad, though she has first and last spent a good deal of time here), and she asked leave to come down for a few days. Madame Merle is a woman who can make such proposals with perfect con- fidence; she is so welcome wherever she goes. And with my mother there could be no question of hesitating; she is the one person in the world whom my mother very much admires. If she were not herself (which she after all much prefers), she would like to be Madame Merle. It would, indeed, be a great change. Well, she is very charming, said Isabel. And she plays beautifully. She does everything beautifully. She is complete. Isabel looked at her cousin a moment. You dont like her. On the contrary, I was once in love with her. And she did nt care for you, and that s why you dont like her. How can we have discussed such things? iNI. Merle was then living. Is he dead now? So she says. Dont you believe her? Yes, because the statement agrees with the probabilities. The husband of Madame Merle would be likely to die. Isabel gazed at her cousin again. I dont know what you mean. You mean something that you dont mean. What was M. Merle? The husband of madame. You are very odious. Has she any children? Not the least little child, fortu- nately. Fortunately? 1 mean fortunately for the child; she would be sure to spoil it. Isabel was apparently on the point of assuring her cousin for the second time that he was odious; but the discussion was interrupted by the arrival of the lady who was the topic of it. She came rustling in quickly, apologizing for being late, fastening a bracelet, dressed in dark blue satin, which exposed a white bosom that was ineffectually covered by a curi- ous silver necklace. Ralph offered his arm with the exaggerated alertness of a man who was no longer a lover. Even if this had still been his condi- tion, however, Ralph had other things to think about. The great doctor spent the night at Gardencourt, and, returning to London on the morrow, after another consultation with Mr. Touchetts own medical adviser, concurred in Ralphs desire that lie should see the patient again on the day following. On the day following Sir Matthew Hope reappeared at Gardencourt, and on this occasion took a less encouraging view of the old man, who had grown worse in the twen- ty-four hours. His feebleness was ex- treme, and to his son, who constantly sat by his bedside, it often seemed that his end was at hand. The local doctor, who was a very sagacious man, and in whom Ralph had secretly more con- fidence than in his distinguished col- league, was constantly in attendance, and Sir Matthew Hope returned sever- al times to Gardencourt. Mr. Touchett 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 201 was much of the time unconscious; he slept a great deal; he rarely spoke. Isabel had a great desire to be useful to him, and was allowed to watch with him several times, when his other at- tendants (of whom Mrs. Touchett was not the least regular) went to take rest. He never seemed to know her, and she always said to herself, Suppose he should die while I am sitting here, an idea which excited her and kept her awake. Once he opened his eyes for a while, and fixed them upon her intelli- gently; but when she went to him, hop- ing he would recognize her, he closed them, and relapsed into unconsciousness. The day after this, however, he revived for a longer time; but on this occasion Ralph was with him, alone. The old man began to talk, much to his sons satisfaction, who assured him that they should presently have him sitting up. No, my boy, said Mr. Touchett; not unless you bury me in a sitting posture, as some of the ancients was it the ancients? used to do. Ali, daddy, dont talk about that, Ralph murmured. You must not deny that you are getting better. There will be no need of my deny- ing it, if you dont affirm it, the old man answered. Why should we pre- varicate, just at the last? We never prevaricated before. I have got to die some time, and it s better to die when one is sick than when one is well. I am very sick, as sick as I shall ever be. I hope you dont want to prove that I shall ever be worse than this? That would be too bad. You dont? Well, then. Having made this excellent point, he became quiet; but the next time that Ralph was with him he again addressed himself to conversation. The nurse had gone to her supper, and Ralph was alone with him, having just relieved Mrs. Touchett, who had been on guard since dinner. The room was lighted only by the flickering fire, which of late had become necessary, and Ralphs tall shadow was projected upon the wall and ceiling, with an outline constantly vary- ing, but always grotesque. Who is that with me? Is it my son? the old man asked. Yes, it s your son, daddy. And is there no one else? No one else. Mr. Touchett said nothing for a while; and then, I want to talk a lit- tle, he went on. Wont it tire you? Ralph in- quired. It wont matter if it does. I shall have a long rest. I want to talk about you.~~ Ralph had drawn nearer to the bed; he sat leaning forward, with his hand on his fathers. You had better select a brighter topic, he said. You were always bright; I used to be proud of your brightness. I should like so much to think that you would do something. If you leave us, said Ralph, I shall do nothing but miss you. That is just what I dont want; it s what I want to talk about. You must get a new interest. I dont want a new interest, daddy. I have more old ones than I know what to do with. The old man lay there looking at his son; his face was the face of the dying, but his eyes were the eyes of Daniel Touchett. He seemed to be reckoning over Ralphs interest. Of course you have got your mother, he said at last. You will take care of her. My mother will always take care of herself, Ralph answered. Well, said his father, perhaps as she grows older she will need a little help. I shall not see that. She will out- live me. Very likely she will; but that s no reason Mr. Touchett let his phrase die away in a helpless but not exact- 202 The Portrait of a Lady. [February, ly querulous sigh, and remained silent again. Dont trouble yourself about ~ said his son. My mother and I get on very well together, you know. You get on by always being apart; that s not natural. If you leave us, we shall probably see more of each other. Well, the old man observed, with wandering irrelevance, it cannot be said that my death will make much dif- ference in your mothers life. It will probably make more than you think. Well, she 11 have more money, said Mr. Touchett. I have left her a good wifes portion, just as if she had been a good wife. She has heen one, daddy, according to her own theory. She has never troubled you. some trouhles are pleasant, Mr. Touchett murmured. Those you have given me, for instance. But your mother has been less less what do you call it? less theoretic since I have been ill. I presume she knows I have noticed it. I shall certainly tell her so. I am so glad you mention it. It wont make any difference to her; she did nt do it to please me. She did it to please to please And he lay a while, trying to thin k why she had done it. She did it to please herself. But that is not what I want to talk about, he added. It s about you. You will be very well off. Yes, said Ralph, I know that. But I hope you have not forgotten the talk we had a year ago, when I told you exactly what money I should need, and begged you to make some good use of the rest. Yes, yes, I remember. I made a new will in a few days. I suppose it was the first time such a thing had hap. pened, a young man trying to get a will made against him. It is not against me, said Ralph. It would be against me to have a large property to take care of. It is impossi- ble for a man in my state of health to spend much money, and enough is as good as a feast. Well, you will have enough, and something over. There will be more than enough for one, there will be enough for two. That s too much, said Ralph. Ah, dont say that. The best thing you can do, when I am gone, will be to marry. Ralph had foreseen what his father was coming to, and this suggestion was by no means novel. It had long been Mr. Touchetts most ingenious way of expressing the optimistic view of his sons health. Ralph had usually treat- ed it humorously; but present circum- stances made the humorous tone impos- sible. lie simply fell back in his chair, and returned his fathers appealing gaze in silence. If I, with a wife who has nt been very fond of me, have had a very happy life, said the old man, carrying his in- genuity further still, what a life might you not have, if you should marry a person different from Mrs. Touchett. rrhere are more different from her than there are like her. Ralph still said nothing; and after a pause his father asked softly, What do you think of your cousin? At this Ralph started, meeting the question with a rather fixed smile. Do I understand you to propose that I should marry Isabel ? Well, that s what it comes to in the end. Dont you like her? Yes, very much. And Ralph got up from his chair and wandered over to the fire. He stood before it an instant, and then he stooped and stirred it, me- chanically. I like Isabel very much, he repeated. Well, said his father, I know she likes you. She told me so. 1881.] The Portrait of a Lctc4i. 203 Did she remark that she would like to marry me? No; but she cant have anything against you. And she is the most charming young lady I have ever seen. And she would be good to you. I have thought a great deal about it. So have I, said Ralph, coming hack to the bedside again. I dont mind telling you that. You are in love with her, then? I should think you would be. It s as if she came over ou purpose. No, I am not in love with her; but I should be if if certain things were different. Ah, things are always different from what they might be, said the old man. If you wait for them to change, you never do anything. I dont know wheth- er you know, he went on, but I sup- pose there is no harm in my alluding to it in such an hour as this: there was some one wanted to marry Isabel, the other day, and she would nt have him. I know she refused Lord Warbur- ton; he told me himself. Well, that proves that there is a chance for somebody else. Somebody else took his chance, the other day, in London, and got noth- ing by it. Was it you? Mr. Touchett asked, eagerly. No, it was an older friend, a poor gentleman who came over from Amer- ica to see about it. Well, I am sorry for him. But it only proves what I say, that the way is open to you. If it is, dear father, it is all the greater pity that I am unable to tread it. I have nt many convictions, but I have three or four that I hold strongly. One is that people, on the whole, had better not marry their cousins. Another is that people in an advanced stage of pul- monary weakness had better not marry at all. The old man raised his feeble hand, and moved it to and fro a little before his face. What do you mean by that? You look at things in a way that would make everything wrong. What sort of a cousin is a cousin that you have never seen for more than twenty years of her life? We are all each others cousins, and if we stopped at that the human race would die out. It is just the same with your weak lungs. You are a great deal better than you used to be. All you want is to lead a natural life. It is a great deal more natural to marry a pretty young lady that you are in love with than it is to remain single, on false principles. I am not in love with Isabel, said Ralph. You said just now that you would be if you did nt think it was wrong. I want to prove to you that it is nt wrong. It will only tire you, dear daddy, said Ralph, who marveled at his fathers tenacity, and at his finding strength to insist. Then where shall we all be? Where shall you be if I dont pro- vide for you? You wont have any- thing to do with the bank, and you wont have me to take care of. You say you have got so many interests; but I cant make them out. Ralph leaned back in his chair, with folded arms; his eyes were fixed for some time in meditation. At last, with the air of a man fairly mustering cour- age, I take a great intere~t in my cousin, he said, but not the sort of interest you desire. I shall not live many years; but I hope I shall live long enough to see what she does with her- self. She is entirely independent of me; I can exercise very little influence upon her life. But I should like to do something for her. What should you like to do? I should like to put a little wind in her sails. What do you mean by that? I should like to put it into her power 204 The Portrait of a Lad~i. [February, to do some of the things she wants. She wants to see the world, for instance. I should like to put money in her purse. Ah, I am glad you have thought of that, said the old man. But I have thought of it, too. I have left her a leg- acy, five thousand pounds. That is capital; it is very kind of you. But I should like to do a little more. Something of that veiled acuteness with which it had been, on Daniel Touchetts part, the habit of a life-time to listen to a financial proposition, still lingered in the face in which the invalid bad not obliterated the man of business. I shall be happy to consider it, he said, softly. Isabel is poor, then. My mother tells me that she has but a few hundred dollars a year. I should like to make her rich. What do you mean by rich? I call people rich when they are able to gratify their imagination. Isa- bel has a great deal of imagination. So have you, my son, said Mr. Touchett, listening very attentively, but a little confusedly. You tell me I shall have money enough for two. What I want is that you should kindly relieve me of my su- perfluity, and give it to Isabel. Divide my inheritance into two equal halves, and give the second half to her. To do what she likes with? Absolutely what she likes. And without an equivalent? What equivalent could there be? The one I have already mentioned. Her marrying some one or other? It s just to do away with anything of that sort that I make my suggestion. li she has an easy income she will never have to marry for a support. She wishes to be free, and your bequest will make tier free. Well, you seem to have thought it out, said Mr. Touchett. But I dont see why you appeal to me. The money will be yours, and you can easily give it to her yourself. Ralph started a little. Ah, dear father, I cant offer Isabel money! The old man groaned. Dont tell me you are not in love with her! Do you want me to have the credit of it? Entirely. I should like it simply to be a clause in your will, without the slightest reference to me. Do you want me to make a new will, then? A few words will do it; you can attend to it the next time you feel a lit- tle lively. You must telegraph to Mr. Hilary, then. I will do nothing without my lawyer. You shall see Mr. Hilary to-mor- row. He will think we have quarreled, you and I, said the old man. Very probably. I shall like him to think it, said Ralph, smiling; and to carry out the idea I give you notice that I shall be very sharp with you. The humor of this appeared to touch his father; he lay a little while taking it in. I will do anything you like, he said at last; but I m not sure it s right. You say you want to put wind in her sails; but are nt you afraid of putting too much? I should like to see her going be- fore the breeze! Ralph answered. You speak as if it were for your en- tertainment. So it is, a good deal. Well, I dont think I understand, said Mr. Touchett, with a sigh. Youncr men are very different from what I was. When I cared for a girl, when I was young, I wanted to do more than look at her. You have scruples that I should nt have had, and you have ideas that I should nt have had, either. You say that Isabel wants to be free, and that her being rich will keep her from mar- rying for money. Do you think that she is a girl to do that? 1881.] The Portrait of a Lady. 205 By no means. But she has less money than she has ever had before; her father gave her everything, because he used to spend his capital. She has nothing but the crumbs of that feast to live on, and she does nt really know how meagre they are; she has yet to learn it. My mother has told me all about it. Isabel will learn it when she is thrown upon the world, and it would be painful to me to think of her coming to the consciousness of a lot of wants that she should be unable to satisfy. I have left her five thousand pounds. She can satisfy a good many wants with that. She can, indeed. But she would probably spend it in two or three years. You think she would be extrava- gant, then? Most certainly, said Ralph, smil- ing serenely. Poor Mr. Touchetts acuteness was rapidly giving place to pure confusion. It would merely be a question of time, then, her spending the larger sum? No. At first I think she would plunge into that pretty freely; she would prob- ably make over a part of it to each of her sisters. But after that she would come to her senses, remember that she had still a life-time before her, and live within her means. Well, you have worked it out, said the old man, with a sigh. You do take an interest in her, certainly. You cant consistently say I go too far. You wished me to go further. Well, I dont know, the old man answered. I dont think I enter into your spirit. It seems to me immoral. Immoral, dear daddy ? Well, I dont know that it s right to make everything so easy for a person.~~ It surely depends upon the person. When the person is good, your making things easy is all to the credit of virtue. To facilitate the execution of good im- pulses, what can be a nobler act? This was a little d:fficult to follow, and Mr. Touchett considered it for a while. At last he said, Isabel is a sweet young girl; but do you think she is as good as that? She is as good as her best opportu- nities, said Ralph. Well, Mr. Touchett declared, she ought to get a great many opportunities for sixty thousand pounds. I have no doubt she will. Of course I will do what you want, said the old man. I only want to un- derstand it a little. Well, dear daddy, dont you under- stand it now? his son asked, caress- ingly. If you dont, we wont take any more trouble about it; we will leave it alone. Mr. Touchett lay silent a long time. Ralph supposed that he had given up the attempt to understand it. But at last he began again : Tell me this, first: Does nt it occur to you that a young lady with sixty thousand pounds may fall a victim to the fortune-hunters ? She will hardly fall a victim to more than one. ~Vell, one is too many. Decidedly. That s a risk, and it has entered into my calculation. I think it s appreciable, but I think it s small, and I am prepared to take it. Poor Mr. Touchetts acuteness had passed into perplexity, and his perplex- ity now passed into admiration. Well, you have gone into it! he exclaimed. But I dont see what good you are to get of it. Ralph leaned over his fathers pillows and gently smoothed them; he was aware that their conversation had been prolonged to a dangerous point. I shall get just the good that I said just now I wished to put into Isabels reach, that of having gratified my imagina- tion. But it s scandalous, the way I have taken advantage of you! Henry James, Jr. 206 liThe Rising of the Curtain. [February, THE RISING OF THE CURTAIN. WE sit before the curtain, and we heed the pleasant bustle: The ushers hastening up the aisles, the fans and programmes rustle; The boy that cries librettos, and the soft, incessant sound Of talking and low laughter that buzzes all around. How very old the drop-scene looks! A thousand times before Ive seen that blue paint dashing on that red distemper shore; The castle and the gouacke sky, the very ilex-tree, They have been there a thousand years, a thousand more shall be. All our lives we have been waiting for that weary daub to rise; We have peeped behind its edges, as if we were Gods spies; We have listened for the signal; yet still, as in our youth, The colored screen of matter hangs between us and the truth. When in my careless childhood I dwelt beside a wood, I tired of the clearing where my fathers cabin stood; And of the wild young forest paths that lured me to explore, Then dwindled down, or led me back to where I stood before. But through the woods before our door a wagon track went by, Above whose utmost western edge there hung an open sky; And there it seemed to make a plunge, or, break off suddenly, As though beneath that open sky it met the open sea. Oh, often have I fancied, in the sunsets dreamy glow, That mine eyes had caught the welter of the ocean waves below; And the wind among the pine-tops, with its low and ceaseless roar, Was but an echo from the surf on that imagined shore. Alas! as I grew older, I found that road led down To no more fair horizon than the squalid factory town: So all lifes purple distances, when nearer them I came, Have played me still the same old cheat, the same, the same, the same! And when, 0 King, the heaven departeth as a scroll, Wilt thou once more the promise break thou madest to my soul? Shall I see thy feasting presence thronged with baron, knight, and page? Or will the curtain rise upon a dark and empty stage? For lo, quick undulations across the canvas run; The foot-lights brighten suddenly, the orchestra has done; And through the expectant silence rings loud the prompters bell; The curtain shakes, it rises. Farewell, dull world, farewell! Henry A. Beers.

Henry A. Beers Beers, Henry A. The Rising of the Curtain 206-207

206 liThe Rising of the Curtain. [February, THE RISING OF THE CURTAIN. WE sit before the curtain, and we heed the pleasant bustle: The ushers hastening up the aisles, the fans and programmes rustle; The boy that cries librettos, and the soft, incessant sound Of talking and low laughter that buzzes all around. How very old the drop-scene looks! A thousand times before Ive seen that blue paint dashing on that red distemper shore; The castle and the gouacke sky, the very ilex-tree, They have been there a thousand years, a thousand more shall be. All our lives we have been waiting for that weary daub to rise; We have peeped behind its edges, as if we were Gods spies; We have listened for the signal; yet still, as in our youth, The colored screen of matter hangs between us and the truth. When in my careless childhood I dwelt beside a wood, I tired of the clearing where my fathers cabin stood; And of the wild young forest paths that lured me to explore, Then dwindled down, or led me back to where I stood before. But through the woods before our door a wagon track went by, Above whose utmost western edge there hung an open sky; And there it seemed to make a plunge, or, break off suddenly, As though beneath that open sky it met the open sea. Oh, often have I fancied, in the sunsets dreamy glow, That mine eyes had caught the welter of the ocean waves below; And the wind among the pine-tops, with its low and ceaseless roar, Was but an echo from the surf on that imagined shore. Alas! as I grew older, I found that road led down To no more fair horizon than the squalid factory town: So all lifes purple distances, when nearer them I came, Have played me still the same old cheat, the same, the same, the same! And when, 0 King, the heaven departeth as a scroll, Wilt thou once more the promise break thou madest to my soul? Shall I see thy feasting presence thronged with baron, knight, and page? Or will the curtain rise upon a dark and empty stage? For lo, quick undulations across the canvas run; The foot-lights brighten suddenly, the orchestra has done; And through the expectant silence rings loud the prompters bell; The curtain shakes, it rises. Farewell, dull world, farewell! Henry A. Beers. 1881.] aerman C~o~perative Credit- Unions. 207 GERMAN COOPERATIVE CREDIT-UNIONS. No healthy social science ever came before the public with plans which were to render labor, energy, and mental ex- ertion unnecessary. Even if it were possible, no sound political economy would desire to make the struggle for existence less earnest. Social reforms, however, have the object of dividing ma- terial goods and the spiritual ones to which the first serve as a necessary basis more in proportion to useful intellect- ual and physical labor performed, and less in accordance to inheritance, priv- ilege, and class; of easing the contest for the means of subsistence in some places, and giving it a better prospect of suc- cess; of rendering it really earnest in others. Such is the aim of the credit-unions, founded and managed by a warm-heart- ed humanitarian for the purpose of ele- vating the moral and material welfare of entire classes of society. They are not charitable institutions. On the contra- ry, one main object is to render labor- ers and tradesmen independent; to give them such a consciousness of their own dignity as men as shall make them scorn charity. Their watch - word is self- help; the principle upon which they are based is that man has received from nature not only wants, but also powers, the proper use of which gives him the means of satisfying his wants. Schulze-Delitzsch comes repeatedly back to this fundamental proposition, and is unable to value too highly a manly self- reliance. We wish no aid from the state, cries lie, we desire no public subventions! Let us alone. Give us free- dom and the liberty of managing our own affairs, and we ask no further assist- ance. Schulze-Delitzsch does not de- cry generosity and the doctrine of hu- man brotherhood. Thes~ are no- ble principles of our nature, and useful in relieving individual cases of distress. He contends, nevertheless, that where classes of the people are concerned, charity, whether public or private, is powerless. Instead of strengthening, it weakens; instead of elevating the character of the recipients of its ben- efits, it debases it. Codperative asso- ciations, rightly understood, have a far weightier mission than that of relieving dependent poverty, namely, that of pre- venting ~t. The Schulze-Delitzsch credit-unions presuppose two economic propositions: (1.) Wealth tends to accumulate in a few hands. (2.) A proper use of credit is of assistance in operating against this tendency, politically and economically injurious. Some writers are inclined to dispute these propositions, although modern political economists of note ap- pear to be as unanimous in assenting to the first as in defending the value of credit. It would seem that the careful stu- dent of history, as well as the close ob- server of his own times, ought to have little doubt that wealth has a dangerous tendency to accumulate. From the era of Lycurgus up to our own times, legis- lators have had to occupy themselves more or less with measures to prevent this. It is certain that concentration of property in a few hands had much to do with Romes corruption and final fall. The agrarian laws did not prove suffi- cient to maintain a middle class, the stronghold of freedom, in which are generally to be found all the arts, wis- dom, and virtues of society. We must remember that that is a wrong view of political economy which confines it to the treatment of ways proper to increase national wealth. The increase of nation- al wealth is by no means necessarily a blessing. It can become also a curse to

Richard T. Ely Ely, Richard T. German Cooperative Credit Unions 207-224

1881.] aerman C~o~perative Credit- Unions. 207 GERMAN COOPERATIVE CREDIT-UNIONS. No healthy social science ever came before the public with plans which were to render labor, energy, and mental ex- ertion unnecessary. Even if it were possible, no sound political economy would desire to make the struggle for existence less earnest. Social reforms, however, have the object of dividing ma- terial goods and the spiritual ones to which the first serve as a necessary basis more in proportion to useful intellect- ual and physical labor performed, and less in accordance to inheritance, priv- ilege, and class; of easing the contest for the means of subsistence in some places, and giving it a better prospect of suc- cess; of rendering it really earnest in others. Such is the aim of the credit-unions, founded and managed by a warm-heart- ed humanitarian for the purpose of ele- vating the moral and material welfare of entire classes of society. They are not charitable institutions. On the contra- ry, one main object is to render labor- ers and tradesmen independent; to give them such a consciousness of their own dignity as men as shall make them scorn charity. Their watch - word is self- help; the principle upon which they are based is that man has received from nature not only wants, but also powers, the proper use of which gives him the means of satisfying his wants. Schulze-Delitzsch comes repeatedly back to this fundamental proposition, and is unable to value too highly a manly self- reliance. We wish no aid from the state, cries lie, we desire no public subventions! Let us alone. Give us free- dom and the liberty of managing our own affairs, and we ask no further assist- ance. Schulze-Delitzsch does not de- cry generosity and the doctrine of hu- man brotherhood. Thes~ are no- ble principles of our nature, and useful in relieving individual cases of distress. He contends, nevertheless, that where classes of the people are concerned, charity, whether public or private, is powerless. Instead of strengthening, it weakens; instead of elevating the character of the recipients of its ben- efits, it debases it. Codperative asso- ciations, rightly understood, have a far weightier mission than that of relieving dependent poverty, namely, that of pre- venting ~t. The Schulze-Delitzsch credit-unions presuppose two economic propositions: (1.) Wealth tends to accumulate in a few hands. (2.) A proper use of credit is of assistance in operating against this tendency, politically and economically injurious. Some writers are inclined to dispute these propositions, although modern political economists of note ap- pear to be as unanimous in assenting to the first as in defending the value of credit. It would seem that the careful stu- dent of history, as well as the close ob- server of his own times, ought to have little doubt that wealth has a dangerous tendency to accumulate. From the era of Lycurgus up to our own times, legis- lators have had to occupy themselves more or less with measures to prevent this. It is certain that concentration of property in a few hands had much to do with Romes corruption and final fall. The agrarian laws did not prove suffi- cient to maintain a middle class, the stronghold of freedom, in which are generally to be found all the arts, wis- dom, and virtues of society. We must remember that that is a wrong view of political economy which confines it to the treatment of ways proper to increase national wealth. The increase of nation- al wealth is by no means necessarily a blessing. It can become also a curse to 208 German Uo~perative Credit- Unions. [February, a country. By flowing into the hands of the few, it may make the rest of the citizens their dependents, and to a cer- tain extent, de facto, their slaves. Leg- islation has to be conducted with great shrewdness to operate against too vast an accumulation of wealth. This may be brought about by directly opposite causes. In England primogeniture has favored it; in WTestphalia an equal dis- tribution of property among the chil- dren. The farms in Westphalia have become so small, in a large number of cases, as to make a further division im- practicable: upon the death of the fa- ther, the land must be sold to give each child its share; the consequence is, some large proprietor rounds out his great estate by buying the little farm which formerly nourished a humble but con- tented peasant family. Other exam- ples are not difficult to be found. Let us turn our attention to the city. hack- ney coaches do a considerable business in large towns. A has five coaches and horses, B one. One of As horses dies, and a coach is smashed by a runaway. A has credit, buys a new horse and coach, his family avoid unnecessary ex- pense for six months, and he is as fortu- nate as ever. At this juncture, Bs one horse falls, breaks his leg, and must be shot. The poor man has no credit to enable him to purchase another, and is obliged to sell his hack to A in order to pay a small mortgage still remaining on it. A at once buys another horse, and B steps down into the class of day la- borers. These are not fanciful exam- ples. Any observant man sees such cases happening continually. The in- ventions and technical progress of the last few decades, though in themselves blessings, have been unfortunate in strengthening the natural tendency we have described. The means of commu- nication, the transport of goodsand pas- sengers, formerly supported in every large country thousands of independent men, too rich to become the clients of the great, too poor to domineer over others. In countries like England and America, where railroads are managed by i)rivate parties, a few men of enormous wealth and power, with an army of subalterns, have taken their place. Similar move- ments have been accomplished in nearly all industries. The tendency of our time is to con- duct all business on a large scale, and crush out the small man. Technical progress and the modern means of com- munication require increased stock in trades and commerce. A high prepara- tory education, increased skill, and large capital are now the elements of success. The credit-unions aim at preserving the independent existence of as many of the poorer classes as possible. But how is credit to accomplish this? asks some one. There are those who condemn all credit as injurious. If we are not mistaken, this was the opinion of the late Horace Greeley. His repeated advice to any and every body was, under all circumstances, to avoid debt as the pest. It caused him an inward groan to re- late that a person who should walk down Broadway, and ask the men he met if they wished a loan of ten thousand dol- lars, would receive an affirmative answer from nine out of ten. But such views result from too narrow a consideration of national and private economy. Cred- it, when rightly managed, is of immense benefit to a community, and its develop- ment is a mark of economic progress. One highly celebrated German econo- mist, the late Professor hlildebrand, was so impressed with the importance and utility of credit that he divided the economic development of a people into three stadia, as follows: In the first, bar- ter and truck prevail, barter and truck economy; in the second, payment in money, money economy; in the third, credit pushes aside, to a great extent, the employment of the precious metals as money~ the credit economy. We consider that this division contains sci 1881.] aerman CoiYperative Credit- Unions. 209 entific errors, but we will not busy our- selves with them at present. It serves to show the weight that a distinguished scientist attached to credit; which is nothing other than a commercial trans- action, in which the service or perform- ance (Leistung) of the one falls in the present, the counter-service (Gegenleis- tung) of the other in the future. We will point out the main benefits to be de- rived from a use of credit, following the order in which they are given by Pro- fessor Conrad, of Halle, in his lectures on Political Economy: (1.) Credit fur- nishes a more perfect and convenient means of payment in large sums and between distant places than the precious metals, saving time and labor. This is effected by means of notes, checks, and bills of exchange. (2.) Credit takes the place of corresponding amounts of gold and silver. This is a saving, as it enables us to employ the precious met- als for other useful purposes. (3.) Cap- ital is employed more productively. He who possesses capital, but is for any rea- son unable to make use of it, transfers it to another for a compensation, to the benefit of both, as well as that of the public economy. It is given, cceteris pan bus, to him who is ready to pay the highest price for its use; that is, in gen- eral, to him who can employ it most productively. (4.) The laborers, arti- sans, and traders, although unprovided with means of their own, may by the use of credit obtain capital to assist them in their labors, and that without sacrificing their independence. This point is to be particularly borne in mind as of especial weight in judging the credit-unions. Credit is thus of impor- tance in avoiding that separation of cap- ital and labor which excites so much bad feeling, and which forebodes danger to modern civilization. (5.) Credit gath- ers together the smallest sums, which, by means of joint-stock companies and 1 Cf. Carl Knies, Geld a. Credit, Theil ii. der Credit. Berlin. 18Th. VOL. XLVII. i~o. 280. 14 otherwise, are economically employed. Capital is concentrated, but its returns are disseminated among the people, politically, a weighty point. (6.) The possibility of employing every sum, however minute, urges people on to saving. (7.) Credit binds together the interests of those having dealings with one another. Under a highly developed system of credit economy, it is the inter- est of each to show himself worthy of trust; this can be of advantage in the moral education of a people. (8.) It enables men to save for their old age, and make provision for their families in case of their death. Were there no such thing as credit, the best one could do would be to heap up, and then con- sume afterwards, the capital gathered together. (9.) Capital, when obtained under favorable circumstances, yields a larger return than the interest. Were it otherwise, borrowing, except in case of special need and distress, would cease. The prudent and skillful laborer, who can command credit, is thus enabled tc~ obtain, besides his wages, a surplus from the use of the capital. Credit, WELL USED, is therefore economically as pro- ductive as a favorable climate, or a high education of a people. The dangers of the credit-economy are not to be underestimated. Tempta- tion to indulge in a disproportioned con- sumption and to undertake precarious speculation may be mentioned. There is also danger of the rich mans acquir- ing a still greater preponderance over the poor by a more extensive use of credit. The credit-unions are especially directed against the last-mentioned mis- fortune of the credit economy. A slight inquiry will show that banks and the other ordinary resources by means of which the rich obtain credit do not ex- ist for the poor. What does the mechan- ic, with a small shop in some little town, know of the money market and its ways? 1 No. 9 is added by the writer. 210 G~erman Co6perative Credit- Unions. [February, He is ill-acquainted with these things, and were he perfectly familiar with them would not be able to employ them for his purposes. The expenses of a jour- ney to a money centre would often equal a third or a fourth of all he needed; and on arriving there, he would find himself unprovided with security which would be accepted, even though those acquainted with his affairs might know that he was good for ten times the amount desired. This is also true, in a ~higher degree, of ordinary laborers. Generally, these little people have to get on as hest they can without the use of credit, how- ever necessary and profitable it might be to them, or have recourse to a usur- er; and in every small town, and great one too, will be found men who live by bleeding such people. Usury laws have too often proved themselves of little worth. In Germany they were abolished in 1867. Before this time, and before Dr. Schulze founded the first union in Delitzsch, in 1850, the interest which tradesmen in that town were obliged to pay was enormous, and a refutation to those who would have us think usury an unreality, an illusion! One tradesman, who had a lively little business in De- litzsch, wished to borrow fifty thalers ($37.50) for a few days, to make pur- chases at the Leipzig fair. He was obliged to pay an interest of one thaler a day, or an annual interest of seven hundred and thirty per cent. Schulze- Delitzsch reports that inquiry among small dealers and laborers has shown him that an interest of one thaler a month for a loan of twenty thalers was common enough, an interest of sixty per cent. per annum. The success of the credit-unions shows conclusively that they supply a need which was felt. Less than thirty years ago Dr. Schulze founded the first one in the provincial town of Delitzsch, in the province of Saxony. In 1851, the year after, two men, who have done much for the welfare of their fellows, Dr. Bern- hardi and the tailor Bflrmaun, founded a second in the neighboring city of Eilen- burg; the third was established in 1853, in Z6rtig; in the next two years, four more were founded in various places. These seven unions flourishing, Dr. Schuize published the first edition of his work, Vorschuss- und Creditvereine als Volksbanken, in 1856. The idea took at once, and they have been spread- ing all over Germany since that time. In his annual report for 1878, Schulze- Delitzsch was able to mention the names and the locations of 1841 credit-unions. Full reports were made to him, as the representative of their interests, by 940 unions. These unions had, at the ter- mination of the year 1878, 480,507 mem- bers, and had made loans during the same year to the amount of 1,456,003,733 marks. The want of peoples banks was so keenly felt that numbers were estab- lished, especially in the larger cities, about the year 1848, in response to the cry for such institutions. They did not prosper. Some soon closed up; others led a miserable existence, wavering be- tween life and death. The cause was the false foundation upon which they were built, namely, that of charity. Wealthy people, of good intentions, lent the money necessary for conducting the business. There was not always a suffi- cient examination into the ability of the, receiver of the loan to repay what had been lent him, nor, indeed, did he in all cases think it incumbent upon him to pay at the appointed time. Money was lost. Those who should have been grateful for assistance received found themselves often disappointed in their expectations, and demanded increased loans of their patrons, or loaded them with reproaches. In short, universal discontent reigned on all sides. Ger- manys experience has demonstrated, says Schulze-Delitzsch, that institutions 1 The mark is $O.23821. Three marks make a t~a1er. 1881.] aerman Co6perative Credit- Unions. 211 of this character which are to possess life must stand on their own feet, de- manding neither private nor public char- ity. Schulze - Delitzsch, therefore, in es- tablishing the unions which bear his name, proceeded from the stand-point that the greatest service those whose po- sition in life has given them the advan- tage of greater intellectual development can render to the laboring classes is to teach them to grasp the means of self- help which lie within their reach, and to strengthen their trust in their own pow- er (ihr Selbstgefiilil zu stdrken). These unions find their strength in the power of organization. The motto adopted is the French one: Un pour tous, tous pour un. In other words, they are founded on the principle of the full lia- bility of each and every member for all debts of the association. The security offered is a different one from that rec- ognized usually in business circles; it is in considerable degree personal. One laborer alone, have he a project never so sure of success, and be he never so skillful himself, is not able to borrow money from capitalists, least of all from banks, unless he can pledge property, easily realizable, to more than the full amount; if he does not do it, some friend is obliged to do it for him, or he must be deprived of the use of credit. If several artisans and laborers, how- ever, each having need of credit, bind themselves together in such a way as to be unitedly responsible for the debt of all, a capitalist can well afford to lend them money. He can calculate upon the theory of probabilities, as the life in- surance companies do. If they are or- dinarily clever men, and provision is made for that in the credit-unions, as we shall see hereafter, a certain per cent. are bound to succeed well enough to pay any reasonable loan made to all. Some might be inclined to smile at such an investment as dangerous, but the plan has worked brilliantly in Germany. It is doubtful if, in America, any one kind of business can show so small a pro- portionate number of failures as the co- operative German unions. Yet these unions have provided the poor and prop- ertyless with credit. Their good name has grown, and more money has often been offered them, at low rates of inter- est, they pay on an average about four and a half per cent. per annum, than they could use. In places where they have been established, the unions have made all those worthy of credit able to obtain it (creditwiirdig, creditfdhig). In- stead of charging interest varying from fifty to seven hundred per cent., they have lent money to the little man at rates varying from six to ten per cent. as for example in rare cases, to defray the expense of starting a new bank, the rate has been eleven per cent. One chief element in the organization of credit- unions is, therefore, the full liability of all members. The second is a saving and formation of capital by the mem- bers. They must become share-hold- ers. No one can become a member of a credit-union without purchasing shares in the business. A majority of those, however, for whom the associations are designed are unable to purchase their shares at once; accordingly, they are sold on part payments, each of which is so small that the ordinary laborer can spare the sum. Thus in a few years it happens that a large part of the stock of the banks belongs to the members. The calculation is that each member shall buy shares to the amount of fifty to one hundred thalers. As Germany is a poor country and wages low, the correspond- ing minimum for the United States ought to be, at least, one hundred dol- lars. This may be considered insignifi- cant, but it is not to be forgotten that a main point to encourage in saving is to create a taste for it. A large part of those who join the unions never before had so much capital in their possession; in fact, never before had any capital 212 aerman Co6~perative Credit- Unions. [February, which was yielding a revenue and accu- mulating. In cultivating a habit of providing for the future, the importance of the first step cannot be overestimated. The self- respect and importance of the laborers are raised as soon as they become, even in a small way, capitalists. The feel- lug that they are members of a large and powerful institution has been found to help wonderfully. This may be called sentiment, but as it is, like many other sentiments, a reality and a power for good, that is no objection. Very many can be led to save only by such powerful motives as the associations offer, inasmuch as the shares are made a source of gain, and credit can be ob- tained by the most only by becoming members. It is touching to read of the race in saving which sometimes takes place between the members of the credit- unions after they have become fairly started, particularly after the first divi- dends have been declared. The poor strive to keep up with those better cir- cumstanced by the most rigorous econ- omy, by cutting off every unnecessary expense. The unions thus become sav- ings-banks and render the pawn shops unnecessary for its members. The principal items to be taken ac- count of in considering the codperative credit-unions are (1.) -The seekers of loans are in gen- eral members and managers of the in- stitution which is to supply them with credit; they have a decisive voice in the administration; the profit and loss are alike shared by them. (2.) The monetary transactions are conducted on business principles, as in banks, service for counter - service; those who lend money to the union re- ceive the usual interest; those who bor- row pay the market rate for the loans; the directors and other officials receive salaries which correspond to their posi- tions. (3.) The members buy shares at once, or by means of payments in small sums from time to time. The shares furnish the standard for the distribution of the dividends; the latter are often added to the money paid for the shares. Divi- dends and shares thus build a continu- ally increasing capital stock. (4.) The money, apart from its own capital stock, which the union needs for conducting its business is borrowed. All members are fully liable for the amount. THE LEGAL REQUIREMENTS FOR ES- TABLISHING CREDIT-UNIONS IN GER- MANY. We give the legal status of the unions in Germany, because the laws have been framed with special reference to the co- operative credit-unions. Under German law co6perative unions have flourished as nowhere else, and have been followed as far as possible as models in other European countries. In any country or state, those founding such unions should first consult some honest and capable lawyer, and one interested in the codper- ative cause. It were desirable, indeed, that the leader of the movement should be an able lawyer. It is owing to Schulze-Delizschs legal knowledge and general ability that they have succeeded so well ia Germany. He was formerly what we would call a county judge, and has long been a member of the Prussian and German Imperial Parliaments. In effecting the passage of the Imperial As- sociation Law (Genossenschaftsgesetz), he is considered as having rendered one of his greatest services to his country. The chief cost and trouble is in starting the first association in each state. After one has been established, and formula- ries and statutes drawn up which cnn serve as models, the foundation of oth- ers is easy. No outside help is required. The elements for an organization are in every place. All that is necessary is earnestness. In Germany no concession from the 1881.] Uerman Cobperative Credit- Unions. 213 state is required. Private law (jus pri- vatum) is alone concerned. The pur- pose of the association is the mutual assistance of the members in their pri- vate affairs. The German courts have even decided that the unions cannot be regarded as business concerns, con- ducting a business for profit with the public, when they lend money only to members, although they may borrow money from third parties. The union furnishes its members with the means of carrying on various kinds of business. The profits and dividends come from the members themselves, and the mem- bers obtain them from their labors and trades. Legally, the dividends cannot be regarded any more as profits than the money which I take out of one pock- et and put in the other. This decision of the German courts frees the unions from the tax to which trades and banks are subjected. Unions which do not confine their loans to members, but lend to the general public for interest and commission, are, on the contrary, nat- urally regarded as business concerns, in the ordinary sense. We will best understand the legal po- sition of the unions by comparing them with various other business associations. They differ from the societas of Ger- man-Roman law inasmuch as (1) the societas is formed by a certain limited number of definite persons. The en- trance of new members and the with- drawal of old ones change its entire character, leading generally to its dis- solution, even when the remaining old members and the new-comers form a new societas. In the credit-unions an easy means of entering the association. and of quitting it is one of the funda- mental conditions. Again, the benefits of the union are not confined to a small number of partners, as in the societas, but are extended to the greatest pos- sible number. ~2.) A societas does business with the public, and stands as a unity opposed to the public. The credit- unions do business within themselves. The members are the consumers. This is also the case with the Consumers Unions~ and Raw-Material Associa- tions, which arose in Germany about the same time. If they have a larger capi- tal than the members need, they may do business with the public, but that is a secondary consideration. The product- ive associations produce for the public, and occupy a different position. Joint - stock companies answer the purposes of the unions as regards the change of members, the entrance of new- comers, the liberty of any member to quit the association, and the decision by majorities. But the full liability of the members, one of the chief considera- tions, fails. By uniting this element of ordinary partnership with the provis- ions we have named of joint-stock com- panies, we have the requirements neces- sary for establishing credit-unions. This was brought about in Germany by the federal law of 1867, which became im- perial law in 1873. There are, how- ever, other differences between the po- sition of the credit-unions and that of joint-stock companies: (1.) To become a member of a joint-stock company, one must have a certain ready capital, which shuts out poor people. (2.) The amount of the capital of joint-stock companies must be fixed beforehand and made known to everybody. The capital can- not be changed without the knowledge of the creditors. The basis of the Schulze- Delitzsch unions is eminently personal credit. The French law of July 24, 1867, calls them, on account of the changeable capital, soci~t~s i~ capi- tale variable. In societies in a healthy condition the stock usually increases, on account of the savings of the mem- bers. The unions are entered in the public registers, together with their statutes, by- laws, and officers, and gain thereby the rights of a legal and commercial person in respect of holding property, bills of 214 German Co~iperative Credit- Union8. [February, exchange, mortgages, etc. They can con- duct legal proceedings before the courts, can sue and be sued. They are obliged by law to keep books which shall show plainly at all times their assets and lia- bilities: to publish during the first six months of every business year a state- ment of their balance, also the number of members who have quitted the union and who have joined it. They are obliged to send in monthly and quarter- ly statements to the commercial court (Handeisgericlit) of the names of all new members and those who have left. Once a year an alphabetical list of all members must be sent to the court, and a notice published to the effect that at such a place it may be seen by any one desiring, as also a copy of the statutes. One very weighty provision of German association law is that all claims against members expire two years after they have left the union, either voluntarily, by death, or by the dissolution of the so- ciety. This is called the zwei,jdhrige Verjdllrungsrecht) the two - years - pre- scription law. The statutes are subscribed to by all the members, thus forming a written con- tract. An abstract of the statutes must be published by the court. By these different means tbe public is inspired with confidence. It knows with whom it is dealing. The directors of the un- ion are responsible for the correctness of the list of members, under pain of punishment. The names of the directors are published in the papers. The di- rectors represent the union before the court. Notice must always be made to the court of a change of statutes or directors; in case of dissolution, of the liquidators. CONDITIONS OF MEMBERSHIP. To demand ten or twenty dollars at once as a condition of entrance excludes the poorer class, and there is no object for doing this, even when the middle classes take an active part in the union, as frequently happens. The unions are founded on the principle of self-help, and this is the decisive point. As already emphatically remarked, the unions are not charitable institutions. He who cannot probably make use of credit, help himself by it, and return the loan when given on favorable terms cannot become a member. rrherefore, as long as a man can care for himself and his own, even though wretchedly, he is to be admitted. Otherwise, he is dead for the unions, and to be cared for by public or private charity. The test of a persons wor- thiness is his ability to pay each month even a small sum for his shares. This indicates a certain moral force and strength of will. Schulze-Delitzsch re- ports that he knows many laborers and tradesmen (Handwerker) without prop- erty who were at first refused credit, but who paid regularly their contribu- tions. As a result, they have finally obtained credit corresponding to their conditions in life, and since have been among the most regular dealers with the unions, having always a balance in their favor. If the balance amounts to but thirty or forty dollars, it is not to be de- spised. It is with such small amounts as these that the great work is done in Germany. It is evident that, on account of the liability of the members, only persons le- gally independent can join. Minors and wards are excluded, except that they can use the unions as savings-banks and thus become creditors. In Germany no mar- ried woman can join without the writ- ten consent of her husband. Admission is promised to no one and to no class of people indiscriminately, any more than admission to any other private society. Applicants have to be accepted by the directors and an admittance committee. A very important proviso is the right of appeal to the members, which any ap- plicant has who has been rejected by the directors and committee. Did not this exist, the management would have the 1881.] German Co6perative Credit- Unions. 215 power of crushing every opposition by admitting only those favorably disposed to it. Although every member has the right of leaving, he may not do so at any time. Limits must he put upon this right in order to insure solidity to the union. No one can leave except at the close of the financial year, when all accounts are arranged, and the balance and share of each one in profits and business are reckoned. This is the requirement of German law, which also requires a four- weeks warning when one intends to withdraw. The death of a member has the same legal effect as a warning, and doses his membership with the year, even if the death happens just before its close. This is of evident import- ance to the heirs. No one, after quit- ting the union, can demand his share in the business to he paid to him before the expiration of the first three months after the close of the year. This regulation is necessary for the safety of the credit- ors and the members. On leaving, no member has any claims on the reserve fund or on the property of the union as such, furniture, etc. THE FULL-LIABILITY PRINCIPLE, OR SOLIDARITY. Herr Schulze - Delitzsch is a strong advocate of this stipulation of the law, dangerous as is may seem. Without it credit-unions have not been able to thrive in Germany. In Bavaria, in 1873, the unions had the choice offered them be- tween a full-liability law and a limited- liability one, and chose the former. In Austria the law does not allow credit- unions to be formed with full liability, and their leader and attorney in that country, Herr H. Ziller, regards this re- striction as a reason why they do not flourish so well in Austria as in Ger- many. He is agitating for a full-liabil- ity law. The coilperative credit - unions teach the members the unity and identity of their interests. During the late crisis the different members have assisted one another as far as possible; the various unions have done the same. This makes them a good moral school for the mem- bers. The unions have fully stood the severe test of the crisis in Germany. The unions and the members have an interest to help one another over a hard point, as the failure of one is not a mat- ter of indifference to the others, owing to the resulting discredit brought on the whole organization. This circumstance cultivates a feeling of personal responsi- bility. Where the liability is limited, there is too much temptation to speculation, as in Austria. According to Dr. Schulze, the English law of August 7, 1862, which limited liability to the amount invested in capital stock, injured the co- operative cause in England. The law of the 24th of July, 1867, had a similar effect in France. The prudent and skillful management of the unions of Germany appears from the fact that the eighty unions which reported in 1859 lent over 4,000,000 thalers, and that of this sum only 470 thalers were lost. In Germany there are various other codperative associations, some of which we have already named. At the close of the year 1878, the number of asso- ciations of all descriptions, so far as known, was 3146. Codperative unions have existed over twenty years in Ger- many, but all the failures of importance during this time, including the voluntary liquidations, which have caused any con- siderable loss amount to, at the n~ost, 120, so far as is known. Two paragraphs of the German asso- ciation law deserve attention: (1.) The creditors must first bring to a close bankruptcy proceedings against the union before they can turn to the members. (2.) The opening of bankruptcy pro- ceedings against the union does not 216 german 0o~perative Credit- Unions. [February, place its members in a state of bank- ruptcy. Paragraph 2 is of especial weight. Since in many cases, a good part of the citizens of a town are members. to de- clare them all in a state of bankruptcy would stop business in the place, and pro- duce so much harm as to be injurious to the creditors themselves. During the bankruptcy proceedings, the directors or liquidators prepare a plan for divid- ing the deficiency among the members, and, after it has been approved by the court, it is executed summarily. MEANS OF RAISING THE MONEY FOR THE UNIONS. The unions must take the same posi- tion as other banks, and not borrow from them, but direct from the public. If they borrow from banks, the costs and dangers are increased. In times when money is tight, the other banks would be unable to satisfy their wants. The greatest care is to be taken to reserve a right of demanding a previ- ous notice (Kiindigung) before one can withdraw ones deposit. If the union borrows the money on an average on three months notice, it is clear that it cannot lend its money on an average of six months notice. Safety demands that competition should be made with other banks rather by offering a higher rate of interest than by making any concession as to the right of demand- ing notice. Thus the union in De- litzsch granted four per cent. interest, while the city savings-bank gave only three and one half per cent. In general these provisions are not needed, but they become necessary at once in a time of crisis, as a single inability to pay oc- casions bankruptcy and ruin. The right may perhaps be granted the smallest depositors to draw out their money at once. Encouragement is to be offered to de- posits for a long time by offering a high- er rate of interest, which is of course lost when the depositor withdraws his money before the expiration of the term. The writer has noticed that this regula- tion seems to be general in Switzerland. Some prominent banks there, for exam- ple, the Banque Cantonale in Neuchatel and the Comptoir dEscompte in Geneva, give only two per cent. interest for de- posits which can be drawn out at any time (disponibles), but advance it grad- ually until it reaches four or four and a half per cent. on deposits for two years. Another bank, that of Chatelain, Clan- don & Cie, in Neuch~tel, gives four per cent. on deposits which are disponibles, four and a fourth per cent. when the de- posits are on three months notice, four and a half per cent. when they are on six months notice, four and three fourths per cent. on nine months notice, five per cent. on deposits for one year. That seems to be rather high for Switzerland. The regulations of the credit-unions have to be fixed more or less by experience and special circumstances. The larger the reserve fund and the shares of the members, which cannot be drawn out like deposits, the more favorable the con- ditions which can be offered. In most of the German states and provinces the unions are organized into a whole, which has its directors. When one union has a lack of money and an- other a superfluity, the directors bring the two unions together, to their mut- ual benefit. This is also accomplished by means of advertisement in the paper which is the organ of all German co6p- erative associations, the Bliitter fur Ge- nossenschaftswesen, published in Leip- zig. The union which has a surplus lends to the union which has a want of money at the rate of five or six per cent. per annum and a small commis- sion. Monthly, quarterly, and yearly reports are made, and thus the condi- tion of each union is known. Care is to be exercised in prosperous times not to accept more money than is needed and more than corresponds to 1881.J aerman C@Yperative Credit- Unions. 217 the funds in possession of the unions. A temptation to speculate can too easily arise if the unions are not on their guard in this matter. There is a German Imperial Organi- zation, or Central Board, which stands at the head of the state and provincial organizations. This superior organiza- tion includes all codperative associations in Germany which choose to comply with the conditions required for joining it. It now embraces some 1100 unions of various kinds. As attorney (Anwalt) Schulze-Delitzsch stands at the head of it. This arrangement has been the chief promoter of the coiiperative cause in Germany. Schulze-Delitzschs repeat- ed warnings against every beginning of an unhealthy development, his watchful care, and his readiness and ability to de- fend with pen and word the interests of the unions have contributed more than anything else to their sound business basis to-day. It is undoubtedly due to him that that certainly very dangerous full-liability act has not led to great abuses. The English have tried to sup- ply the place of such a law by not al- lowing any one to withdraw the capital which he has placed in a codperative association. The share any member may have can only be sold to another. This regulation gives the unions a certain sta- bility, but would seem to be hardly suf- ficient to prevent two or three buying up all the shares, and thus defeating the purpose of the institution. FUNDS OF THE UNIONS. The first concern of a coiperative credit-union must be the formation of a capital of its own. It gives the asso- ciation a solid basis. Banks would nat- urally hesitate to lend money to an asso- ciation without capital proper, because however safe the full liability act might make such a loan, its collection, in case the union failed, would be attended with unpleasantness to say the least. The next question is, What 8hould be the proportion between the capital of the union and the borrowed money? The experience in Germany answers the question as follows: Even at the opening of a credit - union, its capital should never be less than one-tenth of the money borrowed, that is, one-elev- enth of the whole capital; after two or three years this one tenth should have increased to one fifth or one fourth; and finally to one half. The stock of the credit-unions is di- vided into two parts: (1.) The reserve (das Gesammtverm6gen des Vereines), the property of the union itself. (2.) The shares of the members (das Aftt- gliederverm6gen). -~ (1.) The reserve. The reserve gives an additional security to the union. When members quit, they can take no part of it with them. In case of disso- lution only is it divided among the then remaining members. The reserve is formed in the beginning of a union by contribution on the part of the members. Afterwards an entrance fee is charged, which ought to become larger in propor- tion as the reserve grows, since the new member would have his share of the same in case of a dissolution. The en- trance fee, at the same time, must never be so high as to shut out the poorest man. In Germany the maximum is ten marks, even when it is paid in part pay- ments, from time to time, during two years or more. The entire profits of the first year are generally added to the reserve; fifteen to twenty per cent. of those of the second or third years; after- wards five to ten per cent. The reserve should increase in proportion to the growth of business and risk. It should also have a certain fixed relation to the capital the members have invested in shares, say, ten per cent. The re- serve is not to be used to cover any loss so long as undivided profits still remain in possession of the union; after the profits are exhausted, recourse is had to the reserve; after that is gone, to 218 aerman Co~perative Credit- Unions. [February, the stock of the members. The reserve does not need to lie idle, as the credit- unions neither indulge in nor favor spec- ulation. It must, nevertheless, be in- vested in such a manner as to be per- fectly safe and to be realizable at all times. A separate account must be kept of it. (2.) The shares of the members. The monthly contribution towards the pay- ment for the shares must not be less than one half a mark in the smaller places, in the larger not less than one mark. As already stated, the ability of a laborer to save a small sum has been found by experience to be a good test of his worthiness to receive credit. When one reflects on the small wages of the laboring classes, and what saving means to them, one will be ready to avow that saving implies in them especial energy and understanding. The amount which may be invested in shares depends upon the business done. After a credit-union has been do- ing business for some time, the capital needed is to be divided by the number of members. This gives the maximum which any one person may invest. If any member were allowed to buy more than a corresponding number of shares, it would be possible for a few mem- bers to take possession of the whole con- cern, and its raison d& re would cease. Let us suppose that a credit - union is able to make use of $20,000, and is com- posed of 200 members; we find, by di- viding 20,000 by 200 that $100 is the maximum amount which any one mem- ber may invest in shares. It is, how- ever, advisalile to borrow part of the cap- ital necessary for conducting the busi- ness, as thereby the profits are divided among a smaller number of shares, and the dividends are larger. In Germany, a bank which abstains entirely from unhealthy speculation and stock gam- bling has been found to be perfectly safe when fifty per cent. of the capital be- longs to the share-holders. The profits of the other half of the capital are then divided among them in the form of div- idends. Loss and profit are divided among the share-holders in proportion to the shares which they own. The division is not made in either case in proportion to the shares for which one has subscribed; only the money actually paid into the treasury is considered. Any loss would otherwise fall hardest on the poorest, who are naturally most in arrears in their payments. The dividends have always given a sharp incentive to sav- ing. After the first dividend has been declared, it frequently happens that many members increase their savings, so as to have in a short time three and four times as large an investment in the undertaking as before. THE ORGANS OF THE CREDIT-UNIONS, AND THEIR COMPETENCY. (1.) The general assembly of all the members. The unions are grounded on self-help; the members, therefore, are not merely passive. The general assem- bly is the constituent and legislative power. Its functions are: (a) the forma- tion and change of the statutes; (b) the dissolution and liquidation of the un- ion; (c) the election of directors, offi- cials, plenipotentiaries (Bevollmdcktigte), to transact business for the unions, the board of control and administration; (d) to listen to complaints against the di- rectors and other officials of the union, and, when necessary, to order them to be tried before the court; (e) to decide in cases of dispute between the other organs of the union; (f) to dispose of the profits and to audit accounts. All matters are decided by vote, but in certain cases of particular importance more than a simple majority is required to effect a decision. (2.) The directors. The direction consists of the chief officers of the union, who represent it before the courts and public generally. Care must be taken 1881.] German Co~Yperative Credit- Unions. 219 to elect men of acknowledged probity and good sense. Security is required from these and the other employees. (3.) The board of control and admin- istration. This board is consulted in important and dimcult cases, which are prescribed by the statutes. (4.) The cashier and other officials. All employees receive full compensation for their services. FORMS IN WHICH LOANS ARE MADE. Loans are made on (1) promissory notes and (2) bills of exchange, which are preferable because they can be re- alized on without possibility of dispute or delay; (3) on account current (conto corrente). The third form comes more and more into use in Germany, on ac- count of its convenience for those desir- ing loans. It is, however, a more diffi- cult and dangerous form of making loans than the first and second methods. It presupposes a certain skill and expe- rience in banking, and no union should be hasty in beginning it. When such accounts are kept, it is necessary al- ways to have on hand bills of exchange, notes, etc., which can be realized on at once. The rules which Schulze-Delitzsch recommends to unions keeping accounts current are (1.) To pay not over two per cent. per annum for any deposits that one may make who has such an account. (2.) To begin an account current with no one who has not deposited at least fifty thalers in the unions bank. (3.) To fix the maximum of money to be lent on such an account, under all ordinary circumstances, at one thousand thalers. (4.) To pay the amounts desired on an account-current at once when they do not exceed fifty thalers, but not over one hundred thalers on one day; to reserve the right of fourteen days no- tice when five hundred thalers are re. quired, and of thirty days notice for one thousand thalers. Usually no use is made of this right, but the amount is paid at once. A commission of one eighth of one per cent. is charged. If any person has given notice that he will need five hundred thalers in fourteen days, be cannot give any further notice of a demand for money before the expi- ration of fourteen days. (5.) Interest must be paid semi-annu- ally. (6.) The union reserves the right of closing an account current by giving fourteen days notice. It is not easy to avoid the use of checks when accounts current are kept, but they are in general to be avoided, as being more suitable for large banks. AMOUNT OF CREDIT TO BE GRANTED. The peoples banks must be on their guard against persons coming with de- mands for large sums. The ordinary banks are more profitable for the bicr people (die grossen Leute), and it looks suspicious when these wish to patronize the unions. There is a danger of tempta- tion by offers of high interest and com- missions. As the directors are usually paid partly by a percentage, the maxi- mum of credit to be granted to one per- son should be fixed from time to time by the general assembly. The greater care is to be exercised, inasmuch as ruin does not come at once. Things may ap- pear to be going very well for a year or two, and high dividends may be re- peatedly declared, when all is prepar- ing for a crash. This state of things is brought about by prolongations of the loans from time to time; finally, further prolongation is impossible, accounts can- not be settled, and ruin follows. The maximum of credit to be allowed any one should always bear a certain fixed relation to the stock and property of the union, and not exceed one fifth, or at the most one fourth, of the same. By regulating the maximum in this way, a consciousness of the risk incurred is 220 aerman Co6~perative Credit- Unions. [February, kept alive in the minds of the members. In the largest and richest unions, the maximum should rarely exceed two thou- sand dollars. As already pointed out, too great prudence cannot be exercised in prolonging loans. It is advisable to demand at least a partial repayment every time a renewal is asked for. By all means, the unions must avoid ac- customing any member to live on credit, or to suppose he has a permanent loan. The credit granted by the codperative unions should be eminently a product- ive credit, to be employed in carrying on or extending ones business, and not to be eaten up in unproductive consurnp- tion. MEANS OF iNSURING THE SAFETY OF THE LOANS. The basis of all transactions is the morality of the undertaking in which the loan is to be employed. Another one of Schulzes fundamental proposi- tions is, Whatever is morally bad is in all cases economically ruinous. The credit-unions abstain entirely from stock speculations. They lend no money to assist one in gaining a living without honest labor. Like the Prussian min- ister of public works, they regard the stock-exchange as a tree which bears only poisonous fruit (Gifibaum). As the directors of the bank exercise control over the loans, they are not al- lowed in any shape, directly or indirect- ly, to borrow money from the unions. That is one condition of their employ- ment, and its violation is punished with instant dismissal. In cases where there is doubt about the advisability of granting a loan, the board of control is consulted. The points to be considered in the applicant are his financial solidity, his business ability, and his moral character. One condition of granting a loan is that the applicant should find some one to sign the note or bill with him. A clever and industrious artisan or laborer can easily obtain security among his fel lows, when his project has any reason- able prospect of success. In case of fail- ure of the debtor to pay, his share is first taken, and then recourse is had for the deficiency to the one who signed with him. In Germany a praiseworthy moral feeling exists among the ]aborers in these matters. They consider it high- ly dishonorable to bring one of their fel- lows into trouble, even when they are less conscientious in their transactions with the rich or the union itself. The shares of the members are not taken as security. If they were, one could draw out his capital without giv- ing the required warning. The shares furnish the public with a certain secu- rity, and it is dishonest to mortgage or pawn them. The union which did so would lose stability. Mortgages on real estate of any de- scription should be avoided by the un- ions. The cost of realizing on them is too great. As money is usually bor- rowed on three months notice, the secu- rities should be of a character to be realized on in the same time. Not long ago, a credit-union found itself with a coal mine on its hands, and was ruined thereby; not because the mine had been valued too highly, but because the un- ion was not able to sell it at once and did not understand managing it. The experience of the unions has exhibited so clearly the disadvantages of mort- gages on real estate that two general conventions of the coiiperative associa- tions in Germany those of 1864 and 1869 have declared against them. The interest and commission must be so reckoned as to pay all costs, divi- dends, contribution to reserve, etc.; oth- erwise, the enterprise will fail. When the unions first started, one Prussian Pfennig was charged weekly for a loan of one thaler, or three hundred and sixty Prussian pfennigs; that is, fourteen and one third per cent., inclusive of commis- sion. The cost of Starting justified this 1881.] German CoeYperative Credit- Umon8. 221 high rate. Afterwards ten per cent., and then later on eight per cent., per annum inclusive of commission, was the rule. In some towns, where the peoples banks do a large business, the interest has been reduced to five per cent., with a commission of one half per cent., which equals an annual interest of eleven per cent. on loans for one month, of seven per cent. on loans for three months. In a few large cities, where the middle classes have taken an active part in the credit-unions, the annual interest charged is five per cent., with a commission vary- ing between one sixth and one fourth per cent., about the rates which the large banks in Germany charge. The credit-unions pay an average of four and one half per cent. for the money they receive; the cost of conducting the business is usually about two per cent., making a total expense of six and one half per cent. on the capital employed. They receive an average varying be- tween eight and ten per cent. for their money, which leaves a surplus for the dividends after adding a part to the re- serve. It remains only to add a few practi- cal remarks, of importance in organiz- ing and managing credit-unions. First of all, let no one deceive himself as to the obligation imposed by the full-lia- bility principle. It is very dangerous, and were it possible it would be advisa- ble to avoid it. The Americans are not such a steady-going, careful people as the Germans. Whoever founds credit- unions should remember that they are chiefly for the poorer classes. All for- mularies should be as clear and simple as possible. In small towns, where the affairs of a union are not very extensive and it is managed by laborers or artisans, book-keeping by single entry is to be recommended, on account of its simpli- city. Unions in Germany have been founded and managed exclusively by la- borers. In larger places book-keeping by double entry is necessary, and in such towns will occasion no difficulty. Branch unions are to be avoided as far as possi- ble, since they make the business more complicated. In no place should a branch union be established where an independ- ent one is able to exist. In Germany a central credit - union bank has existed in Berlin since 1864. This connects the unions with the large banking institutions of the country. It has a capital of nine million marks, three fourths of which are owned by the various unions and their members. Such a central bank is to be recommended wherever the unions have obtained im- portance enough to justify it. The unions of the various German provinces and states have annual meet- ings, besides which the unions of all Germany hold an annual convention. At these meetings and conventions the affairs of the unions are discussed by delegates. They assist, warn, and pro- tect each other. The journal which is the organ of the co6perative cause in Germany and the annual meetings en- able each union to make use of the ex- perience which other unions have gath- ered. Schulze-Delitzsch sums up thus the benefits which the credit-union con- fers on its members (1.) It enables them to obtain at any moment ready money in amount corre- sponding to their positions, their prop- erty, the business they do, etc. (2.) It saves them the high interest they were formerly obliged to sacrifice for such loans, in case they obtained them. (3.) The profits of money dealing, formerly defacto a monopoly of capital- ists, flow into their pockets, and assist them in the formation of a capital of their own. The following table of the differ- ent credit-unions which have furnished Schulze-Delitzsch with accurate accounts of their condition gives a good idea of the progress which has been made dur- ing the last twenty years (3~erman Co6jperative Credit- UrnOfls. The per centum of the Capital of the ~ Unions to the Bor- rowed Capital: Av- erage. o CO CO 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 Co O- 0- CO Co 00 10 10 ~ 10 r~ Co 04 -~ 00 -~ Co CO 00 CO CO Co CO 00 66o6oo--o--o-- CO CO ~ CO CO CO CO Co Co Co Co Co CO CO CO CO CO CO 0- ~-l 1 CO CO 0- 00 r5 CO ~ CC a CO CO CO -~ 0 CO ~ r~ CO CO CO CO H 10 0- CO 5 00 rI CO CO ~ 00 0- 10 CO 0- ~ CO CO 1 ~0l ~-O CO Co ~ CC CC CO CO 0- CO CO CO CO CO CI Co Co ~l 10 10 CO 0- CO 0- CO CC 0- 0- rI 100 0--CO CO CO CO CO COO-CC CO CO 0-CC COO- ri Co Co 0-00O-0-0-00O-COCCCC00CO00CCCOCCCO 00CO0- The entire ~0- CC0- COCO 10O-10 CO COCC~-i CO O-~-l CO CO 10,-i0- Sum;that .Ei ~ CO 0- -~ 000010 00- COCC00 101010COCOCOCOCOCO00000- 10 ~O-0-CO is, a~b-~ .~ CO CC CO 0- CO O- CO 00 CO O- O- CO 00 ~i -~i 0C~ Q O~ CO~ 10 ~ ~0-0-CO ri I 0- CO CC 0- 0- 10 O- CO CO 0- CC100- 0-0- CCCCCC CO0-COO-CO10O-00COCOCCCCO-00000-00 000000 10COCCO-CO COCO~O-COCO0-O-O-COO-O- CO COCO sCC0-CO 1000000- 101010000-0-CC0-00 CO CO000- QSavingsfle- ~ CO CO COO-CO 1000 COCC ~ CC CO CO 0-0-COO- CO0-10 posits. ~ 000-0-0- 1000COO~-CO1OOr0 10COCC00 gCOCOCO H COCOCO 0-0-000000CCCCCC0- 000000 0- 0- 0- Money bor- rowed from ~ Banks and Unions. Money bor- rowed from Private In- dividuals. 10 CC 0- CC CO CC 0- CC ~ O- 00 0- CO 0- CO CC 0- a CO CO 00 0- .0 10 CO CO -~ H ~ O-COO-0-COCOCOO-CO10 1000CC 0-COCOCO0-COCCO-O-CO CO10O- COO-CCCOCO0-0-0-00O- 0-CO0- 44 CO1O~COO1CCCCCC0C o~ CO 0-00 COO-O-00COCO000000CO aCO0-0- COO- CO 10 CO 0-CO CC 0-00CC CO 0- 0-0-10 CO0-O- ~-~Oj~ 0-0-O- 00CC 10 0-CO100-CO00COCOCCO-000-0- 0-0000 CO0-rCCOCOO-10O-0-000-0000 CC000- ~~4CCCO CO 00 CO CO COO-CC 10 CO 100 0-CO10CO00COO-O--10C000 tCO10 0- CC CO 10 CC CO 0- 0- 00 10 a -~ 00 0- CO CC CC CO ~l CO 0 ~l CO 00 ~ CC CO CO CO & ~~~-& ~ 00CO00 ~0-COCC0-1010CO COCOCO 0- 00 00 CO CO 10 CC 00 00 0- O- CO s~ CO O- 00 00 CO 0- 0- CO 0- Average for a 0- CO 00 0- CO I O- 00 0- ~ eachUred- ~ it-Union. .0 0- ~-1 H CO CO 10 10 10 CC CO CO CO CC 0- 00 00 0- CO 0- CC CO 00 CO 0- CO 10 CO ~-l 0- 0- 00 00 CC CC CC 0- 0- 00 CO CO CC 44 CO 0- 0- a CO CO Co CO O- CC 00 CO O- 00 0- 10 O- CO O- CO CO 10 CO CC CO CC 00 0- 100-CC101010CO0010CO00CO000-O-CO COCOCO The entire ~ 15 Sum;that ~0--CO~CCCo0CCCOOOC10C0COO-CCCO10 aCOCOCC ~00t~0-. is,a+b. H ~ or3COCO 0-0-~0-COCOCOCC 000-0- 0- 0- 101000CCO-0-00000-10001000000-CCO- 0-COO- 0-0-CCCO0-COO-CO1010CCO-00CO000000 000-CO 10000 CO 00CO0-COCC COCO0-0- COO-COO-CC CO0-CO 44 ~d ~ o. 10 10CC .nlteserves. aCCCOCOCC0- COCO 10COCOO-~0CO 1000O-CO a0- CO10 .0 0-0-00000-10 CO 000-001000000-00 0CO00 H ~0-0-0-C0COCO COCOCo 0- 0- 0- Shares of the Mem- bers. r-iCO1010CCCOCOCO0-000-00COO-0-00CO COCoCO CO0-O-0-COCOO-COCCCOCO1000COCC00CC CC000- p.COCOCC100000000-CO100-0- COO-1010CC 0- 10CC a ---~ F-10~C0O10O0-0-- CO 00 0000 CC 0-CO s~ CO 1000 0 ~I CO 0000 CO 100-0-0-CO 0-0-CC 0-10 0- 00-CC 00 ~ 000- O- C-I 00000-0-00CC CO 0-101000 O- 00 COCOOC~ H 0000100 000000 0-0-0-0-000000 0000CO 0- 0000CO10CC00 00CoCCCO0010CC100-00O- 000-CO 0 Average for a -~ 0 O- CO 10~-l 000000000--CO CO CO 10000- 0-00 CO 10 10 CC CO 0- 0- 44 10 00 00 0-I ,~ eachCred- 00-CCCO~O 0C00000O-00CO100-0- ~COO010 ~ it-Union. .0 10 CO 00 00 CO CO CC 10 0- CO 0- 00 0- CC CC 10 0- H 0-0-0-0-0-000000CC0-1010CO ~O0CO1O COCOCO0-0010CC1000CC00O-0-CO100-00 COCoCo CC00COCO0-00CO0-1000CO0010CO0-00O- 0-00CC 00 0-0-COCO 000-000-0-0-0-000-CO COCC0- CO0-O- zo ~ - - - Theentire ~2~CCO-O-O-0-0-CO0-CO0-CO0-CC0-CCCO0- Sum. 00-0- 00CO000- 10COCOCOCOCOCC 10O-CO 10 ~ a .0 .~%~7C~CC CC 00 0- 10 00 000- 0-0- -~~-~oo3 ~10COCO -o H 0-00CC0-CO00COCC00CO0-100-1000 001010 o 0-0-0-0000CC0-0-0- 10100- 0-C-0- COCCCO0010Co100000O-COCOCOCO0-CC0- COCO0- O-COCOCOO-0-000-10CCO-10CC0-0-0-10 0-100 Number of Mem- CO CO 0- 00 0- CO 10 0- CC CC 0- CO CC 0- 0- 0- 00 00 CO 10 hers. ~ ~-4~O 0, ~i CC 0- CO CO CC CO 00 0- 10 CO 0- 0- 0- 00 0- 0- CC CO 00 0-0-0-0000CCCCCCCCCC0-0- 0-0-0- Number of Colipera- o CC 00 Co CO 10 00 00 CO CO 10 CO 0- 0- 0- 10 10 CO CO 00 ~ tive Credit-Unions 00 0000- which reported. 00 CO 0- 00 Co 0- 10 CO 0- 00 CO 0 0- 00 Co 0- 10 10 CO CO CO CO CO CO CO CO CO CO 0- O- 0- 0- 0- 0- 00 00 000000 00000000 00 00 00 0000 0000 00 0- 0- 0- ~ 0- 0- 0- 0- 0- 0- 0- 0- 0- 0- 0- 0- 0- 222 [February, Average for 15 each Cred- it-Union. 0- 0- 00 10 10 CO CO 0- CC CO Co Co 00 CO 0- 0 0- CO 44 CO 00 CO a 0- 0 10 a a o 0.1 a a a a 00 IC a 0 a a a 15 a a a p a u 00 00 0- 00 00 0- 00 z H 0 H 0 0 H 0 00 0 H 00 H H 00 H p.4 0 0 Financial Year. CO 0- 00 0- 0- 0- 00 00 00 0- 0- 0- 1881.] Particular attention should be given to column 7, which marks a favorable development in the proportion existing between the capital of the union and the borrowed capital. The following figures show the trades or occupations of the members of seven hundred and six unions as they existed in 1878: Number of members, 346,051. Farmers, gardeners, foresters, and fishermen having an independent busi- ness: males, 77,342; females, 3059. Assistants and laborers for the fore- going class : males, 10,154; females, 687. Manufacturers, mine - owners, and builders: males, 12,668; females, 277. Artisans and tradesmen having a busi- ness of their own: males, 107,972; fe- males, 3664. Mechanics, miners, and artisans work- ing for others: males, 16,232; females, 547. Merchants: males, 32,894; females, 2257. Clerks: males, 2374; females, 117. Carriers (Fuhrherren), ship-owners, Literature. The two works chiefly to be rec- ommended to those who wish to become further ac- quainted with the coi5perative credit-unions of Ger- many are: (1.) Vorsehuss- und Creditvereine als Volksbanken. Von Schulze-Delitzsch. Filofte viillig umgearbeitete Auflage. Leipzig. 1876. (u.) Jahresbericht fur 1878 tiher die auf Selbsthilfe Ge- griindeten Deutschen Erwerbe- und Wirthschafts- genossensehaften. Von Dr. H. Schulze-Delitzsch. Leipzig. 1879. Further information, as well as accounts of different cobperative associations in Germany, will be found in the following works : Die Raiffeisenschen Darlehuskassen in der Rheinprovinz, und die Grundcreditfrage fur den lijudlichen Kleinbesitz. Von Dr. H. Schuize-De- litzsch. Leipzig. 1875. Die Arbeitenden Kiassen und das Associations- wesen in Deutschland als Programm zu eiuem Deutschen Congress. Von H. Schulze-Delitzsch. Leipzig. 1858. Associationsbuch fur Deutsche Handwerker und Arbeiter. Von Schulze.Delitzsch. Leipzig. 1853. 223 and hotel-keepers: males, 17,377; fe- males, 884. Conductors, other railway employees, waiters in hotels and restaurants, and sailors and letter-carriers: males, 7033; females, 84. Servants and porters: males, 2449; females, 909. Physicians, public officials, artists, teachers, authors: males, 23,602; fe- males, 946. Those living without work, retired merchants, etc. : males, 10,388; females, 13,984. Summa summarum: males, 320,479; females, 27,421. Although we cannot assent to all of the economic propositions of Dr. Schulze, and although we are unable to regard the credit-unions as by any means a solution of the social problem which exists in all European countries and will soon enough make its appearance in America, we acknowledge that they have done and are still doing a good work in Germany. They assist the cleverest and strongest of the laboring classes in bettering their condition. Richard ft. Ely. Deutsche Baugenossensehaften. Von Dr. F. Schneider. Leipzig. 1875. Consumvereine. Von Eugen Richter. Berlin. 1867. Blhtter fUr das Genossensehaftawesen. Pub- lished weekly in Leipzig. Die Entwickelung des Genossenschaftswesens in Deutachiand. Von Schulze-Delitzsch. Berlin. 1870. Die Genossenschaftsgesetze im Deutschen Eci- cbs. Von Ludoif Parisius. Berlin. 1876. The best German work on credit in general is that by the distinguished professor of political economy in Heidelberg, Dr. Carl Knies, Geld u. Credit, Theil II. der Credit. For the condition of the small trades in Ger- many and the tendency towards concentration, see Die Deutschen Kleingewerbe im l9ten Jahrhun- dert. Von Gustav Sebmoller, Professor of Political Economy in Strassburg, a work so interesting that it is hard to lay it aside before finishing it. aerman CoVperative Credit- Unions. 224 W7~o are tke Aryans ~ [February, WHO ARE THE ARYANS? IN the beginning of the Vendidad, or first of the Parsi collection of sacred books, known as the Zendavesta, we are told that the supreme deity Ahura- Mazda created a country full of delights, but difficult of access, and the name of this country was Aryana Ya~jo. So charming was this primitive country that, had it not been made difficult of approach, the whole animate creation would have flocked thither and quite overwhelmed it. But this state of things did not long continue; for Ahri- man, or Anramainyus, the spirit of darkness, was the implacable adversary of Ormuzd, or Ahura-Mazda, the spirit of light, and took pleasure in spoiling all his creations. So this death-dealing enemy, with the aid of his da~vas, or demons, created a great serpent and brought ten months of winter cold upon the land, so that Aryana Va~ijo was no longer a comfortable dwelling - place. The good spirit then created a new home for his people, called Sugdha; but the adversary spoiled this by creat- ing a kind of wasp which devastated the fields and brought death to the cattle. Then Ahura-Mazda made a third habi- tat, which was called the high and holy Mum; but the dark demon now whis- pered evil reports and stirred up strife, until here, too, life became unendurable, and the beautiful land of Bakhdhi, or Baktria, was created as a fourth home for the children of light. So the war- fare went on, until no less than sixteen countries are enumerated as successively created and made uncomfortable. In the last region of all the complaint is again of cold weather and hoar-frost; but perhaps in comparison with all the other plagues this now seemed endur- able. At all events, the account here ends, with the admission that there are also other region8 and places besides those described; as much as to say that we are not here concerned, however, with the history of all mankind, but only with the worshipers of Ahura- Mazda. The book from which this legend is cited is one of the oldest in the litera- ture of the world. It belongs to a more primitive age than the Homeric poems, and may probably be regarded as con- temporary with the oldest hymns of the Veda. Written not in the court lan- guage of ancient Persia, but in the closely-related archaic dialect of Baktria, very much as the ecclesiastical serv- ices of Russia to-day are written in Old Bulgarian, the Zendavesta was, in the time of Darius Hystaspes, the sacred book of the most prominent nation in the world. For eleven hundred years afterward the worship of Ahura-Mazda retained its ascendency in the countries between the Euphrates and the Indus, until in the seventh century after Christ this whole region was overrun by Mo- hammedans, and converted to their faith. For a long time, no doubt, the Magian religion continued to survive alongside of Islam, as we see from the frequent allusions to fire-worshipers in the Arabian Nights, where they are indeed most abominably slandered. But after a while the good Ahura-Mazda, yielding to this last and gravest mischief wrought by the adversary, devised yet another abode for the remnant of his~ people, and led them to Bombay and its neighborhood, where, under the name of Parsis, or Persians, they still keep up their old ceremonies and their old faith. The legend of the sixteen countries created by the good spirit was regarded by Bunsen as a historical tradition of the migrations by which the ancestors of the Indo-Persians reached the countries

John Fiske Fiske, John Who are the Aryans? 224-234

224 W7~o are tke Aryans ~ [February, WHO ARE THE ARYANS? IN the beginning of the Vendidad, or first of the Parsi collection of sacred books, known as the Zendavesta, we are told that the supreme deity Ahura- Mazda created a country full of delights, but difficult of access, and the name of this country was Aryana Ya~jo. So charming was this primitive country that, had it not been made difficult of approach, the whole animate creation would have flocked thither and quite overwhelmed it. But this state of things did not long continue; for Ahri- man, or Anramainyus, the spirit of darkness, was the implacable adversary of Ormuzd, or Ahura-Mazda, the spirit of light, and took pleasure in spoiling all his creations. So this death-dealing enemy, with the aid of his da~vas, or demons, created a great serpent and brought ten months of winter cold upon the land, so that Aryana Va~ijo was no longer a comfortable dwelling - place. The good spirit then created a new home for his people, called Sugdha; but the adversary spoiled this by creat- ing a kind of wasp which devastated the fields and brought death to the cattle. Then Ahura-Mazda made a third habi- tat, which was called the high and holy Mum; but the dark demon now whis- pered evil reports and stirred up strife, until here, too, life became unendurable, and the beautiful land of Bakhdhi, or Baktria, was created as a fourth home for the children of light. So the war- fare went on, until no less than sixteen countries are enumerated as successively created and made uncomfortable. In the last region of all the complaint is again of cold weather and hoar-frost; but perhaps in comparison with all the other plagues this now seemed endur- able. At all events, the account here ends, with the admission that there are also other region8 and places besides those described; as much as to say that we are not here concerned, however, with the history of all mankind, but only with the worshipers of Ahura- Mazda. The book from which this legend is cited is one of the oldest in the litera- ture of the world. It belongs to a more primitive age than the Homeric poems, and may probably be regarded as con- temporary with the oldest hymns of the Veda. Written not in the court lan- guage of ancient Persia, but in the closely-related archaic dialect of Baktria, very much as the ecclesiastical serv- ices of Russia to-day are written in Old Bulgarian, the Zendavesta was, in the time of Darius Hystaspes, the sacred book of the most prominent nation in the world. For eleven hundred years afterward the worship of Ahura-Mazda retained its ascendency in the countries between the Euphrates and the Indus, until in the seventh century after Christ this whole region was overrun by Mo- hammedans, and converted to their faith. For a long time, no doubt, the Magian religion continued to survive alongside of Islam, as we see from the frequent allusions to fire-worshipers in the Arabian Nights, where they are indeed most abominably slandered. But after a while the good Ahura-Mazda, yielding to this last and gravest mischief wrought by the adversary, devised yet another abode for the remnant of his~ people, and led them to Bombay and its neighborhood, where, under the name of Parsis, or Persians, they still keep up their old ceremonies and their old faith. The legend of the sixteen countries created by the good spirit was regarded by Bunsen as a historical tradition of the migrations by which the ancestors of the Indo-Persians reached the countries 1881.] Who are the Aryansf~ 225 where, at the beginning of authentic history, we find their descendants. But it will not do to attach too much histor- ical value to legends like this. For, however venerable may be the record, the very mist of antiquity which shrouds it prevents us from knowing how or whence it got the information which it imparts. The story before us, indeed, has neither the pretensions nor the cre- dentials of an authentic historical nar- rative. It relates long-past events as ascertained not through the sifting of previous human testimony, but by di- rect revelation from the good spirit to his prophet Zarathustra or Zoroaster. Nevertheless, the geographical succes- sion of the various places mentioned in this legend is very suggestive. With the exception of Aryana Va~jo, every one of the sixteen abodes seems to be described by a genuine geographical name, though two or three have not yet been satisfactorily determined. Thus Sugdha, the second country, is what the ancients knew as Sogdiana; Mum appears to be the modern Merv, or Margiana; and Baktria, the next in or- der, has been already mentioned. And so, curiously enough, by stringing to- gether the whole series of names, there is indicated a continuous migration from the region beyond the Oxus, at first southwesterly, and then southeasterly, down to what we now call the Punjab, or country of five rivers, but which in the Vedic hymns is somewhat more comprehensively termed the Sapta-Sind- havas, or Seven Rivers, and which in our Zend legend is described in iden- tical language as the Hapta Hendu. This larger designation is reached by including, along with the five rivers of the Punjab, the Sarasvati and the Indus, or The River, par excellence. Having thus reached the northwestern confines of flindustan, in the fifteenth country created by Ahura-Mazda, the legend here informs us that Aura- mainyus devised untimely evils and VOL. XLVII. ~o. 280. 15 unbearable heat; and thereupon we are abruptly transported, in the six- teenth region, to the cool neighborhood of the Caspian Sea, perhaps the counfry of the Medes. Now, however difficult it may be t~ accept such an account as properly his- torical, the course of migration here in- dicated is so thoroughly in accordance with all that we know of the relations between the peoples of the Persian Em- pire and the dominant race of Hindus in India that it is hard not to grant to it some tmaditionary value. It would ap- pear, at least, that when the Xfendidad was composed the worshipers of Ahura- Mazda must have believed that their ancestors came from somewhere beyond the Oxus, and traveled in the direction of Hindustan, until something occurred which turned them westward again. This would seem to be the only sound meaning that can be extracted from the legend. But this is in wonderful ac- cordance with the results of modern critical inquiry. From a minute survey of the languages and legends of this whole region, it has been well estab- lished that the dominant race in ancient Persia and in ancient India was one and the same; that it approached India from the northwest; and that a great religious schism was accompanied by the westward migration of a large part of the community, while the other part proceeded onward, and established itself in Hindustan. A comparison of the Zendavesta with the Veda so strong- ly alike as they are, both in thought and in expression shows clearly that the occasion of this schism must have been the promulgation of the worship of Ahura-Mazda. In illustration of this community of origin between the Vedic and Zenda- vestan peoples, let us refer to the name of the first country which the supreme deity created, the name of Aryana Vaejo. This, as already hinted, is not a geographical name. There is no 226 Who are the Ar~yans ~ [February, identifiable locality which has ever been called Aryana Yaejo. The name means simply the starting-place of the Ar- yans. In later Persian mythology, as represented in the Minokhired, the name came to stand for a terrestrial par- adise, where men live for three hundred years, without pain or sickness, where no lies are told, and where ten men eat of one loaf and grow fat thereon. In the Vendidad, however, Aryana Vai~jo is simply the primeval dwelling-place, whatever it may have been, from which the Aryans passed into Sogdiana. Now Aryan was the name by which the ancient Persians and the ancient Hin- dus alike described themselves. In the Vedic hymns the dominant people of India habitually speak of themselves as Aryans, in contrast with the Dasyns, or inferior races of Hindustan, whom they had subdued. Just in the same way Darius Hystaspes, in the inscrip- tion upon his tomb, declares himself to be an Aryan, of Aryan descent. The Medes are always called Aryans by Ar- menian writers; and Herodotos was also familiar with this appellation. In a more special sense the countries be- tween India and Persia, now known as Afghanistan and Cabul, were known throughout classic antiquity as Ariana. Along with this community of name there was close community of speech among these peoples. The court lan- guage of the Medes and Persians, as preserved in the cuneiform inscriptions of Darius, the Zend or Baktrian lan- guage, in which the sacred books of Zarathustra are written, and the San- skrit of the Vedic hymns are as clearly dialects of the same parental language as French, Spanish, and Italian are dia- lects of Latin. These outline facts are all that we need for the present to show how Aryan was the common name for a race which, advancing from the north, acquired supremacy over all the country between the Euphrates and the mouth of the Ganges. Whence these people originally came it would be idle to in- quire, but we may fairly conclude that they first attained to something like world-historic importance in the high- lands of Central Asia, somewhere about the sources of the Oxus and the Jaxar- tes; and this region we regard as Ar- yana Va~ijo, or the most aboriginal spot to which we are able to trace the Aryan people. We have next to inquire into the meaning of the word Aryan; and this is not a difficult matter, or one about which there is much question. In San- skrit the word arya, with a short initial a, is applied to cultivators of the soil, and it would seem to be connected ety- mologically with the Latin arare and the archaic English ear, to plow. As men who had risen to an agricultural stage of civilization, the Aryans might no doubt fairly contrast themselves with their nomadic Turanian neighbors, who as Huns, Tatars, and Turks have at different times disturbed the Indo- European world, But for the real source of the word, as applied to the race, we must look further. This word arya, a cultivator of the soil, came naturally enough in Sanskrit to mean a householder or land-owner, and hence it is not strange that we find it reoccur- ring, with a long initial a, as an adjec- tive, meaning noble or of good family. As a national appellative, whether in Sanskrit or Zend, this initial a is always long, and there can be no doubt that the Aryans gave themselves this title as being the noble, aristocratic, or ruling race, in contradistinction to the aboriginal races which they brought into servitude. In this sense of noble, the word frequently occurs in the com- position of Persian proper names, such as Ariobarzanes, Ariaramnes, and Aria- rathes; just as in old English we have the equivalent word ethel, or noble, in such names as Ethelwolf and Ethelred. As an ethnic name, therefore, the word Aryan seems to have a tinge of patri 1881.] Who are the Aryans? 227 otic or clannish self-satisfaction about it. Bht we shall find, I think, that such a shade of meaning has been more than justified by history; for we have now reached a point where we may profit- ably enlarge the scope of our discus- sion, and show how the term Aryan is properly applicable, not merely over an Indo-Persian, but over an Indo-Euro- pean area, comprehending the most dom- inant races known to history, the Greeks and Romans, Slays and Teu- tons, with the highly-composite English, whose language and civilization are now spreading themselves with unexampled rapidity over all the hitherto unoccu- pied regions of the earth, which the Vendidad did not care or did not know how to specify. In order to explain in what sense we may all properly be called Aryans, we must consider for a moment some of the striking results which have been obtained, within the present century, from the comparative study of languages. No event of modern times has exert- ed a more profound and manifold influ- ence upon the intellectual culture of mankind than the English conquest of India. The enlargement of our mental horizon which has resulted therefrom is not less remarkable than that which attended the revival of Greek studies in the fifteenth century. It is not simply that observation of India is making us acquainted with an enormous multitude of priipitive social, linguistic, and relig- ious phenomena which formerly were hidden from our notice. In contemplat- ing these phenomena, we have become possessed of a method of study which has already wrought such wonders as to vie with the ointment of the Arabian dervise, that enabled its owner to detect all the buried treasures of the earth. This mighty talisman is the Compara- tive Method, or the attempt to interpret a fact by comparing it with a series of similar facts, which different circum- stances have caused to vary in different degrees. I do not mean to imply that mankind have not always used this method more or less, both in matters of science and in matters of every-day life. Nor do I mean to claim for modern philology any exclusive title to the hon- or of having shown what can be done by studying phenomena in this way. I do not forget that the classification of liv- ing and extinct animals by Cuvier, with reference to pala~ontological epochs, was a gigantic act of comparison, which first made it possible for us to understand the past history of life on our globe. It is none the less true not only that the systematic employment of the compara- tive method on an extensive scale is the most notable philosophic achievement of the nineteenth century, but also that its first great triumph was the establishment of the Aryan, or Indo-European, family of languages. This triumph was pre- pared by the study of Sanskrit, which ensued upon the English conquest of India. Previous to this, indeed, the close resemblance between Greek and Latin had been often enough remarked, and theories had been entertained concern- ing a primeval kinship between the peo- ples of Greece and Italy. But in the case of peoples so similar in aspect and so cldsely connected with one another from time immemorial, this similarity of speech did not provoke much curiosity. It was quite otherwise when a language unmistakably akin to Greek and Latin, both in grammar and vocabulary, was discovered in such an out-of-the-way country as Hindustan, and among a peo- ple who had hitherto been generally sup- posed to be barbarians. The discovery was emphasized by the fact that no such obvious resemblances existed in Hebrew, a language much nearer geographically and historically, and from which there had been no end of futile attempts to derive Latin and Greek. Further inter- est was excited when it became known that this newly-found language contained an enormous mass of literature alleged 228 Who are the Aryans~ [February, to be the oldest in the world. All things thus combined to stimulate speculation as to the true character of the relation- ship between Sanskrit and the languages of Greece and Rome. This relationship was not one of parentage. It has been a common popular error to suppose that Latin and Greek are derived from San- skrit; but from the first no such view was countenanced by competent schol- ars. About 1790, Sir William Jones declared his opinion that the three lan- guages were sprung from some com- mon source, which perhaps no longer exists. Persian also he was inclined to attribute to the same source, and he hinted at the possibility that Gothic and Keltic might be included in the group. This was coming very near to the con- ception of an Indo-Enropean family of languages. But that conception was not clearly formed until nearly twenty years later, and then it was reached not by a great philological scholar, but by a poet and literary critic. In 1808, Friedrich Schlegel maintained that the languages of India, Persia, Greece, Italy, and Germany were connected by com- mon descent from an extinct language, just as the modern Romanic languages are connected by common descent from Latin; and for the whole family he pro- posed the name Indo-Germanic. The correctness of this view was demonstrat- ed by Bopp, in his Comparative Gram- mar, published from 1833 to 1852, in which the Zend, Armenian, Slavonic, and Lithuanian languages also were add- ed to the group. The Keltic languages were included about the same time, and the name Indo-Germanic was extended to Indo-European. Within the last fif- teen years mainly through the influ- ence of Max MUllers writings the name Aryan has come into general use as the most convenient designation of the whole family. The use of the word in this extensive sense has indeed been ob- jected to by Professor Whitney and oth- ers, who urge that it is properly appli cable only to the Indo-Persian branch of the family; and in strictness their argument seems to be sound enough. There is no evidence that any of the European peoples have ever called them- selves Aryans, and the traces of the name which MUller has sought to point out in Europe are very scanty and oh. scure. According to Stephanus of By- zantium, Aria was an old name for Thrace, and among the ancient Germans we find a tribe of Arii and such proper names as Ariovistus; but it is by no means certain that these names are in any way connected with the original Arya. Nor did Pictet meet with any better success in his attempt to find Arya in the name of Erin or Ireland, the home of the En, or Irish. This modern name is a contracted form. Its root in old Keltic seems to have been Iver, which is the same as the Sanskrit avara, western. It appears in the Latin Avernus, a famous lake on the west coast of Italy, as well as in Ivernia, or Hibernia, the western island. This old word Iver has been shortened to 1i or Er, and out of this, by putting on their own terminations, the English have made Ire-land, the home of the Ir-ish, or westerners. But in spite of the fact that we find no certain traces of the name Aryan in the European lan- guages, I believe that the modern use of the word, as descriptive of the whole family, is likely to prevail. It is a much less cumbrous term than Indo- European, and, while it is advanta- geously free from geographical restric- tions, it emphasizes, at the same time, the fundamental fact that the Aryana VaUjo, or prehistoric starting-point of the eastern members of the family, was also the starting-point of the western members. It implies what every one admits to be true that the dominant race in Europe came from Central Asia. And, still further, it serves admirably as a name for the extinct mother tongrte from which all the Judo-European lan- 1881.] Who are the Aryans ~? 229 guages have descended. By many schol- ars this primitive tongue is itself called Indo-European; hut I am unable to see any propriety in giving such a name to a language which, as being confessedly spoken north of the Oxus and east of the Caspian, was certainly neither Indi- an nor European in any sense. It seems to me much better, and more in con- formity to the general style of philol- ogists, to call this ancestral language Old Aryan, just as we say Old Norse for the primitive form of Da- nish, Swedish, and Norwegian. As we now proceed to take a brief survey of the Aryan domain, I think we shall realize the advantage of hav- ing a word that is independent of geo- graphical limits. The Aryana of the present day is much more than an Indo - Euiopean region. Its eastern boundaries have altered but little for many centuries; but on the west it has extended to the Pacific coast of Amer- ica, and on the other side of the world it has begun to annex territory in South Africa and Australia. Indeed, if we are to judge from what has been going on since the times of Drake and Fro- bisher, it seems in every way likely that men of English speech will by and by have seized upon every part of the earths surface not already covered by a well-established civilization, and will have converted them all into Aryan countries. But our linguistic term Ar- yan is independent of such changes. Since prehistoric times eight principal divisions of Aryan speech have existed, but these groups of languages have had very different careers, and some of them are rapidly becoming extinct. The first great separation of Aryan tribes was the separation between the invaders of Indo-Persia and the invaders of Europe. We have already observed how the lan- guage of the Indo-Persians became di- vided in twain. In the Indic class of languages, comprising the classical San- skrit, the Prakrit of later dramatic writ- ers, the Pali, or sacred language of the Buddhists in Ceylon, and some twenty modern dialects spoken chiefly in the northern half of Hindustan, we have the first grand division of Aryan speech. The second or Iranic class comprehends the Zend, the ancient Persian of the cunei- form inscriptions, the Parsi of Bombay, the Pushtu of Afghanistan, modern Persian, Armenian, Kurdish, and the Ossetian spoken in the Caucasus. Con- cerning these two grand divisions, we need only observe that the extreme- ly close resemblance between Sanskrit and Zend would seem to indicate that the separation of the two occurred at a comparatively late date, though it would perhaps be difficult to suppose it later than two thousand years before Christ. Long before this time western tribes of Aryans must have crossed the Volga and begun the conquest of Eu- rope. First appear to have come the Kelts, whose languages constitute the third great division. These languages diverge considerably from the common type, and were the latest to be recog- nized as Aryan in character, a fact which is quite in harmony with the opinion that they were the first to branch off from the original stock. The Kelts have always been an important race, hut their languages have not thriv- en in the world. Keltic geographical names are scattered all over Europe, and in the eastern part such words as Duieper, Don, and Danube testify to the former presence of the language, in which don was a common name for water or river. The Kelts formed a large part of the populations of Spain and North- ern Italy, and a principal part of the populations of Gaul and Britain, when these countries were subjected to Roman dominion; and as late as the Christian era they were to be found in large numbers as far east as Bohemia. Since then they have been partly conquered and partly driven westward by Roinans and Ten- tons, without ceasing to be conspicuous 280 Who are the Aryans? [February, as a race; but their languages have sunk into comparative obscurity, and are fast disappearing. The Gauls, who showed such a remarkable aptitude for taking on the manners of their conquerors that by the fourth century their country was almost as thoroughly Romanized as Italy itself, forgot their own language with wonderful ease. It was so completely trampled out by Latin that very scanty vestiges remain to show what it was, if we except geographical names. At the present day two groups of Keltic lan- guages remain: the Gaelic, still spoken in Scotland, Ireland, and the Isle of Man; and the Kymric, or old British, which survives in Welsh and in the dia- lect of Brittany. A third dialect of Kymric was formerly spoken in Corn- wall, but it died in 1770 with Dame Dolly Dentreath. Concerning the fourth and fifth grand divisions of Aryan speech the Italic and ilellenic but little need be said. These languages are too illustrious to stand in need of much description. The relationship between them is closer than in the case of any other Aryan lan- guages of different class, save the Zend and Sanskrit; and this close resemblance justifies the inference that the separation between Greeks and Italians was com- paratively recent. They would appear to have entered Europe somewhat later than the Kelts, but everything connected with their prehistoric career is extreme- ly problematical. To the Hellenic class belong only two languages, the uncul- tivated Albanian and the Greek, which was stereotyped so early and so thor- oughly by literary culture that to the Athenian school-boy of to-day the his- tory of Herodotos can hardly seem written in a foreign tongue. To the Italic class belong the ancient Umbrian and Oscan and the Latin, which ~,till survives under the variously modified forms of Italian, French, Proven9al, Spanish, Portuguese, Rumansch, and Wallachian. To the linguist the history of these Romanic dialects is peculiarly valuable, as illustrating, with the aid of plentiful documents, a process of diver- gence somewhat similar to that which previously broke up the Old Aryan into different languages. The Teutons, whose languages form our sixth grand division, seem to have entered Europe after the tribes already mentioned. About C~esars time we find Teutons driving Kelts out of Ger- many, and threatening invasions into Gaul; but during most of classic an- tiquity the centre of Teutonism seems to have been farther east than Germany. The greater part of what is now European Turkey was occupied by Goths in the time of Herodotos, and for eight centu- ries afterwards. The ancient Thracians were Goths, according to Grimm, and so were the Geta~. And since the Christian era Teutonic tribes appeared in what is now Southern Russia. The terrible ir- ruption of non-Aryan Huns from Asia, in the fifth century, drove these tribes westward, and brought them into collis- ion with the Empire. Of the Gothic language nothing remains save a portion of a translation of the Bible, made by Ulfilas in the fourth century. The oth- er branches of Teutonic speech Scan- dinavian, High German, and Low Ger- man, of which our own English is the most important dialect are too well known to require comment. The seventh and eighth grand divis- ions of Aryan language are the closely- related Lettic and Slavonic. The Let- tic languages, like the Keltic, are fast dying out. Old Prussian, which has been dead for two centuries, is only rep- resented by the Catechism of Albert of Brandenburg. Lettish and Lithuanian, of which the latter is remarkable for its strong resemblance to Sanskrit, are still spoken in the Baltic provinces of Rus- sia. As for the Shtvs, they appear in his- tory north of the Black Sea about the 1 Farrar, Families of Speech, page 104. 1881.] Who are the Arycrn8? 231 time of Trajan, and begin to be fre- quently mentioned in the sixth century. Since then they have pushed westward far into the Teutonic domain, but have nowhere, save in Russia, retained polit- ical independence. Of the fifteen or more Slavonic languages, the Old Bul- garian and the modern Russian, Polish, Bohemian, Croatian, and Serbian are of most importance. Looking thus over our modern lin- guistic Aryana, we see that in the Old World it pretty nearly covers the geo- graphical area included between the Ganges and the Atlantic Ocean. Small regions of non-Aryan speech, however, occur here and there within this area, and a brief glance at these will serve to increase the definiteness of our knowl- edge. Wherever non-Aryan languages are spoken within this Indo-European do- main, it is for either one of two reasons. Such languages are spoken either by descendants of the aboriginal tribes, whom the invading Aryans overcame, or by descendants of non-Aryan invad- ers, who have pushed in at a later date, and secured for themselves a lodgment upon Aryan soil. Of the first class we find a few sporadic instances. The lan- guage variously called the Bask, Euska- nan, or Iberian, now spoken in the As- tunas and about the Pyrenees, has no similarity whatever to the Aryan lan- guages. It is spoken by the scanty rem- nant of a people who in immemorial an- tiquity seem to have been spread all over Western Europe, but who were for the most part conquered or absorbed by the Keltic van of the Aryan invasion. The case may have been similar with the Japygian and Etruscan, which were long ago trampled out in Italy by the Latin; but on this obscure point I would hardly venture an opinion. In Northern Europe, Finnish, Esthonian, and Lap- pish are still spoken by races pushed into the corner by Teutons and Slays. A perfect Babel of aboriginal dialects still exists in the inaccessible fastuesses of the Caucasus; and many of the high. lands of India similarly shelter primi- tive non-Aryan tribes, whose forefather8 refused fo submit to Brahmanic oppres- sion. It is a characteristic of such rem- nants of conquered speech to subsist only in out-of-the-way or undesirable corners. On the other band, Turkish and Hungarian are foreign tongues brought into the Indo-European area by recent intruders. Both these languages belong to the Altaic, Turanian, or Ta- taric family, spoken by nomadic tribes all over Northern Asia, and including in Europe the Finnish and its congeners above mentioned. The Hungarian has especially strong affinities with the Fin- nish, while the nearest relatives to Turk- ish are to be found about Khiva and Bokhara, in the Tataric region which Russia is so rapidly subjugating. We have now arrived at a tolerably correct idea of what is meant by the word Aryan. But one important point must not be overlooked. - In its mod- ern sense we have seen that the word is a linguistic term. It describes com- munity of language. As we now use the word, Aryans are people who speak Aryan, or Indo - European, languages. It is only in a secondary way that this word can be used as an ethnological term, describing community of race. We are so accustomed to consider lan- guage a mark of race that it is difficult to avoid using linguistic epithets in an ethnological sense, and a good deal of confused thinking sometimes results from this. We have above alluded to the Aryans as a dominant race, which long since overran Europe and is now spread- ing over America; yet it is easy to see that we have no means of determining how far the various peoples who speak Aryan languages are of common descent. It is never safe to use language as a direct criterion of race, for speech and blood depend on different sets of circum- stances, which do not always vary to- 232 Who are the Ar~yan8? [February, gether. We of the English race have much Keltic blood in our veins, but very few Keltisms in our speech; while, on the other hand, with a vocabulary nearly half made up of Latin ~vords, we have either no Roman blood in our veins, or so little as not to be worth mentioning. During the past twenty- five years Frenchmen have had a good deal to say about the Latin race.~~ There could hardly be a more flagrant instance of the perversion of a linguis- tic name to ethnological purposes. In reality, even in Caesars time, the domi- nant tribes of Latium had become well- nigh absorbed in the non-Latin, though kindred, Italic races which had suc- cumbed to triem. After Gaul had been conquered, it learned Roman manners, hut without receiving any very large in- fusion of Roman blood. In point of race the French are Kelts, with a consider- able substratum of Iberian and super- stratum of Teutonic blood, the former chiefly in the south, the latter chiefly in t~e north. Between Frenchmen, Span- iards, and Northern Italians there is, indeed, a close ethnic affinity; but this is because they are all to a great extent Kelts, not because they have all learned to speak dialects of Latin. Now if we pursue the matter a little farther, and inquire what we mean by say- ing that these three peoples are in great part Keltic, we shall find that a similar qualification is needed. Obviously, we mean that they are Keltic in so far as they are descended from people who formerly spoke Keltic languages. Our knowledge of the prehistoric career of the Kelts is too small to admit of our meaning more than this. In just the same way, when we say that Spaniards and Englishmen and Russians are akin to each other as being Aryans, we can only mean that they, are in great part de- scended from people who spoke Aryan languages. There can be little doubt, however, that all races which have long wandered and fought have become composite to a degree past deciphering. And, how- ever mixed may have been the blood of the Aryan-speaking invaders of Europe, it remains undeniable that the posses- sion of a common language by such great multitudes of people implies a very long period of time, during which~ their careers must have been moulded by circumstances in common. It im- plies common habits of thought and a common civilization, such as it was. And this inference is fully confirmed by a comparative study of the myths and superstitions, as well as of the prim- itive legal ideas and social customs, of the various parts of the Indo-European world. For this reason I think we are justified in speaking of the Aryan race just as we speak, without error, of the English race, though we know that many race elements have combined their energies in the great work of English civilization. I do not say, either, that we may not fairly speak of a Latin race, provided we bear in mind the lim- itations of the phrase; the objection is not so much to the phrase as to the loose way in which it is customarily used and the absurd inferences which are often grounded on it. The ethnologist, who deals with skulls and statures and complexions, may vent- ure much farther, sometimes, than the linguist, though perhaps the greater length of his excursions may not always compensate for their comparative inse- curity. It is quite open to the ethnolo- gist to hold that the successive Aryan swarms which colonized Europe were like each other in physiological charac- teristics, as well as in language and gen- eral culture. Differences of complexion, when well marked, are among the most conspicuous differences which distin- guish individuals, groups, or races from one another; and they are, moreover, apt to be correlated with deep-seated physiological differences of tempera- ment. In all countries peopled by Eu- 1881.] Who are the Ar~ans .~ 2.33 ropeans there are to be found two con- trasted complexions, the blonde and brunette; endlessly complicated and va- ried by intermarriage, but nevertheless in their extreme examples so striking- ly different that a stranger might well be excused for considering them as marks of difference in race. In popula- tions that have long been stationary and isolated from foreign intrusion we do not find such differences of complexion. We do not find them in China or Japan, or among the Samoyeds, or Kafirs, or Pacific islanders, or among the Arabs. It appeurs to be only among the Indo- European nations that they occur side by side in the same community, as an every-day matter. Now we may ac- count for this coexistence and inter- mingling of contrasted complexions by supposing that the various peoples of Europe have arisen from the intermix- ing in various proportions of a race that was entirely blonde with a race that was entirely brunette. We know that the Bask or Iberian race, which once seems to have possessed a great part of Eu- rope, was, and still is, uniformly dark complexioned. We may, accordingly, suppose that the Aryan-speaking in- vaders were uniformly light. The effect of the earlier invasions of Kelts, Ital- ians, and Greeks would be to crowd the dark-skinned Iberians into the three southern peninsulas, into Western Gaul, and into the British Isles.. The next step would he the conquest of all these regions, followed by extensive inter- marriage and the general adoption of Aryan speech. In the remotest corner of all, cooped up between the Pyrenees and the Bay of Biscay, here, if any- where, a remnant of the aboriginal population might preserve its purity of race and its primitive speech. As a re- sult of these proceedings, the Aryan- 1 I think we may go somewhat farther in our discrimination between the aboriginal Iberians and the invading Aryan~. It is probable that, along with black hair, black eyes, and brnnette skins, the Iberians were distinguished by short stature, speaking peoples of Greece, Italy, Spain, Gaul, and Britain would show a mixt- ure of light and dark complexions, and wherever the invaders had been much less numerous than the aborigines the brunettes would predominate. But now, where the later swarms of Teutons and Slays came pouring in, the case would have been sQmewhat altered for them. Their conquerings and interinin glings would take place not with a pure-blooded race of dark aborigines, but with the mixed race which had resulted from the foregoing events. One consequence would be an increased percentage of fair complexions in western countries overrun by Teutons, especially in Eng- land, Northern France, and Northern Italy. Another consequence would be the partial darkening of Teutons and Slays by intermixture with Kelto-Ibe- nan predecessors in Southern Germany and Austria. Wherever, on the other hand, the new-comers were left pretty much to themselves, as in Northern Ger- many, Central Russia, and Scandinavia, we should find the auburn hair and blue eyes of the old Aryan still in the as- cendent. For my own part, I am quite inclined to accept this very ingenious hypothesis, which is defended by such a cautious ethnologist as Professor Huxley, and which makes such historic and philo- logical data as we have account remark- ably well for the actual distribution of light and dark complexions throughout Europe. It agrees so well with the facts before us that we can hardly do better than adopt it as a provisional ex- planation, subject to such revision and amendment as may turn out to be nec- essary. But if we thus admit the exist- ence of a primitive Aryan race that was physically homogeneous, it must be re- membered that we admit it on very dif- slight and compact frames, and long heads; while, on the ether hand, along with their yellow hair, bine eyes, and blonde skins, the Aryans would seem to have been distinguished by tall stature, massive frames, and broad heads. 234 Reminiscences of Washington. [February, ferent grounds from those on which were based the demonstration of a prim- itive homogeneous Aryan language. The original community of language is a point on which we have reached ab- solute certainty; the community of race, in any other sense than that of long-con- tinued community of language and cult- ure, is merely a matter of speculation. Concerning the people and the series of historic events of which Aryana Vai~jo was the legendary starting-point, we have thus obtained much interesting and trustworthy information by the aid of the comparative method of inquiry. For be it observed that the results so far set down have been reached, for the most part, by a mere comparative survey of the various regions of the linguistic and ethnical field with which we have been called upon to deal. We have in this way obtained quite an accurate con- ception of what is meant when we speak of the Aryans. But as yet we have dealt only with the veriest rudiments of the subject. Nor have we as yet gone far toward illustrating the vast and rich resources of the comparative method. To be able to depict the prehistoric culture of the Aryan-speaking people, to interpret their mythical conceptions, and to unfold the other remarkable trutbs that lie latent in the variety of their speech, this is indeed a fruitful achievement. But to show how this has been brought about requires a sep- arate and more detailed form of exposi- tion. John Fiske. REMINISCENCES OF WASHINGTON. x. THE TAYLOR ADMINISTRATION, 1849, 18b0. GENERAL TAYLOR was elected pres- ident as an available candidate. The whigs, in nominating him rather than Webster or Clay, surrendered their good repute of fidelity, threw off all pretense of principle, and supported the hero of Buena Vista as the only meansso said Mr. Winthrop of averting the present policy of the country. His defeated competitors for the nomination were naturally much chagrined, for their ambition had not been weakened by age, or disheartened by defeat, while their credulity had only been increased with their years. Mr. Clay had confidently expected to be nominated until the result came upon him like a clap of thunder in a clear sky; and he not only denounced the action of the convention, but was severe in his criticisms upon his former lieu- tenant, John J. Crittenden, for what he had done to bring it about. Mr. Webster ~was equally forcible in his de- nunciation of treacherous friends at the convention, and, while his pecuniary ne- cessities forced him to accept a consid- erable sum of money from the whig state committee of Massachusetts, in payment for one of his oracular speeches advocating the election of Taylor, he did not hesitate to say that there was no man more firmly of opinion that such a nomination was not fit to be made. General Taylor was, of all the men who have filled the presidential chair by the choice of the people, the one least competent to perform its duties. He had been placed before his country- men as a candidate, in spite of his re- peated avowals of incapacity, inexperi- ence, and repugnance to all civil duties.

Reminiscences of Washington 234-250

234 Reminiscences of Washington. [February, ferent grounds from those on which were based the demonstration of a prim- itive homogeneous Aryan language. The original community of language is a point on which we have reached ab- solute certainty; the community of race, in any other sense than that of long-con- tinued community of language and cult- ure, is merely a matter of speculation. Concerning the people and the series of historic events of which Aryana Vai~jo was the legendary starting-point, we have thus obtained much interesting and trustworthy information by the aid of the comparative method of inquiry. For be it observed that the results so far set down have been reached, for the most part, by a mere comparative survey of the various regions of the linguistic and ethnical field with which we have been called upon to deal. We have in this way obtained quite an accurate con- ception of what is meant when we speak of the Aryans. But as yet we have dealt only with the veriest rudiments of the subject. Nor have we as yet gone far toward illustrating the vast and rich resources of the comparative method. To be able to depict the prehistoric culture of the Aryan-speaking people, to interpret their mythical conceptions, and to unfold the other remarkable trutbs that lie latent in the variety of their speech, this is indeed a fruitful achievement. But to show how this has been brought about requires a sep- arate and more detailed form of exposi- tion. John Fiske. REMINISCENCES OF WASHINGTON. x. THE TAYLOR ADMINISTRATION, 1849, 18b0. GENERAL TAYLOR was elected pres- ident as an available candidate. The whigs, in nominating him rather than Webster or Clay, surrendered their good repute of fidelity, threw off all pretense of principle, and supported the hero of Buena Vista as the only meansso said Mr. Winthrop of averting the present policy of the country. His defeated competitors for the nomination were naturally much chagrined, for their ambition had not been weakened by age, or disheartened by defeat, while their credulity had only been increased with their years. Mr. Clay had confidently expected to be nominated until the result came upon him like a clap of thunder in a clear sky; and he not only denounced the action of the convention, but was severe in his criticisms upon his former lieu- tenant, John J. Crittenden, for what he had done to bring it about. Mr. Webster ~was equally forcible in his de- nunciation of treacherous friends at the convention, and, while his pecuniary ne- cessities forced him to accept a consid- erable sum of money from the whig state committee of Massachusetts, in payment for one of his oracular speeches advocating the election of Taylor, he did not hesitate to say that there was no man more firmly of opinion that such a nomination was not fit to be made. General Taylor was, of all the men who have filled the presidential chair by the choice of the people, the one least competent to perform its duties. He had been placed before his country- men as a candidate, in spite of his re- peated avowals of incapacity, inexperi- ence, and repugnance to all civil duties. 1881.] Reminiscences of Washington. 235 Although sixty-four years of age, he had never exercised the right of suffrage, and he was well aware that he was elected because of his military prowess. But no sooner did he learn that he had been chosen than he displayed the same invincible courage, practical sense, and indomitable energy of purpose in the discharge of his new and arduous civil duties which had characterized his mili- tary career. The president elect was fortunate in having as a companion, counselor, and friend Colonel William Wallace Bliss, who had served as his chief of staff in the Mexican campaign, and who became the husband of his favorite daughter, Miss Betty. Colonel Bliss was the son of Captain Bliss, of the regular army, and after having been reared in the State of New York he was graduated at West Point, where he served after- wards for some years as acting profess- or of mathematics. He thus acquired a pedagogical manner and studious hab- its, but he was sagacious and energetic, unacquainted with the crooked paths of politics, and unwilling to submit to ar- rogant Southern dictation. On his way to Washington from his Louisiana plantation, General Taylor visited Frankfort, and personally in- vited Mr. John J. Crittenden, then gov- ernor of Kentucky, to become his sec- retary of state. Governor Crittenden, embarrassed by the return of Henry Clay to the senate, declined, and Gen- eral Taylor then telegraphed to Mr. John M. Clayton, of Delaware, tender- ing him the position, which that gentle- man promptly accepted. The Southern whigs had selected Mr. William C. Rives, the man who, as Mr. Webster said, could ride with all his personal friends in an omnibus, but the presi- dent elect did not fancy his impracti- cable conservatism. Mr. Abbott Lawrence, who had con- tributed largely to the expenditures during the presidential campaign, solic ited the appointment of secretary of the treasury, and was offered the navy department, which he declined. Mr. Thomas Butler King, of Georgia, had desired this place, but Mr. Robert Toombs, supported by Representative Stephens and Senator Dawson, succeeded in having Mr. George W. Crawford, of that State, appointed secretary of war. Mr. William M. Meredith, of Penn- sylvania, was rather forced upon Gen- eral Taylor as secretary of the treasury, by Mr. Clayton and other whigs; not only on account of his acknowledged talents, but to exclude objectionable Pennsylvanians, among them Mr. Josiah Randall, the man who, more than any other, had contributed to the nomination and election of the general. A contest between Messrs. Corwin and Vinton, of Ohio, for a seat in the cabinet was set- tled by the appointment of Mr. Thomas Ewing, of that State, as secretary of the interior; and Mr. Jacob Collamer, of Vermont, who had been an unsuccessful competitor with Mr. Upham for a seat in the senate, and had been recom- mended by the legislature as attorney- general, was made postmaster-general. General Taylor had intended to ai~ point Mr. William Ballard Preston, of Virginia, as attorney-general, although several whig congressmen had expressed their disapprobation of the selection. Finally, Senator Archer, of Virginia, called and asked if there were any foun- dation for the report that his friend Prestc~n was to be made attorney-gen- eral. Yes! answered General Tay- lor. I have determined to appoint him. Are you aware, general, said the senator, that the attorney-gen- eral must represent the government in the supreme court? Of course! responded the general. But do you know that he must there meet Daniel Webster, Reverdy Johnson, and other leading lawyers? Certainly. What of that? Nothing, general, except that they will make a fool of 236 Reminiscences of Washington. [February, your attorney-general. The Virginia senator then took his leave, and the next mornings papers contained the an- nouncement that, the president had de- cided to appoint his friend Mr. Preston secretary of the navy, and Mr. Reverdy Johnson attorney-general. Ridicule had secured the desired result. Mrs. Taylor regretted the election of her husband, and came to Washington with a heavy heart. She was a native of Calvert County, Maryland, and was born on the estate where the father of Mrs. John Quincy Adams had formerly resided. Her father, Mr. Walter Smith, was an independent and highly respect- able farmer, and her brother, Major Richard Smith, of the marine corps, was well remembered at Washington for his gallant bearing and his social qualities. The eldest daughter of Gen- eral Taylor had married Mr. Jefferson Davis, of Mississippi, then a subaltern officer of dragoons, against the wishes of her father, who would not for years exchange a word with his son -in - law. After her death, Mr. Davis served in the Mexican war as colonel of a regiment of Mississippi riflemen, and his gallantry at the battle of Monterey removed the existing prejudice, and secured for him the cordial thanks of General Taylor, who was in command. General ray- brs second daughter was the wife of Dr. Wood, of the army, who was at that time stationed at Baltimore, as was Gen- eral Taylors brother, Colonel Taylor. Mrs. Taylor, with her younger daughter, Mrs. Bliss, went directly from Louisiana to Baltimore, some weeks prior to the inauguration. They broke up house- keeping at Baton Rouge before they left there, and took with them William Oldham, a faithful colored man, who had been the body-servant of General Tay- lor for many years, the parade-horse old Whitey, which he had ridden in the Mexican campaign, and a favorite dog. President Polk called upon General Taylor soon after his arrival at Wash- ington, and invited him and Mr. Fill- more to dine at the White House, an invitation which was accepted. Gen- eral Cass also called to pay his respects to his successful competitor, and as he entered the room General Taylor ad- vanced, grasped his hand, and shook it cordially. General Cass, who had not at first recoc~nized the president elect, exclaimed, You had the advantage of me! That s twice you ye had the ad- vantage of me That s true, said General Taylor; but you know the battle is not always to the strong? That s a fact, replied General Cass, and then the two had a very friendly chat. Just before General Cass left the room, a gentleman introduced himself to him, remarking, I was on the stump as a democrat, and in every State in which I spoke you had a majority. My good friend, said General Cass, I am very much obliged to you; but I wish you had stumped in two or three States more. General Taylor was inaugurated on Monday, March 5th. He was escorted from Willards Hotel by an imposing procession, headed by twelve volunteer companies. The president elect rode in an open carriage, drawn by four gray horses, and he was joined at the Irving House by President Polk, who sat at his right hand. One hundred young gentlemen; residents of the District of Columbia, formed a body-guard, and kept the crowd from pressing around the presidents carriage. Then came the aough and Ready clubs of Washington, Georgetown, Alexandria, and Baltimore, with banners, badges, and music, while the students of the Jesuits college brought up the rear. The personal appearance of General Taylor, as he read his inaugural addres8 from a platform erected in front of the eastern portico of the Capitol, was not imposing. His figure was somewhat portly, and his legs were short; his 1881.] Reminiscences of Washington. 237 thin, gray hair was unbrushed; his whiskers were of the military cut then prescribed; his features were weather- bronzed and care-furrowed; and he read almost inaudibly. It was evident, however, that he was a popular favor- ite, and when he had concluded, the vociferous cheering of the assembled thousands was echoed by the firing of cannon and the music of the bands. The inaugural message showed~ that General Taylor regarded the Union as in danger, and that he intended to use every possible exertion for its preser- vation. Mr. Calhoun had requested, through Mr. Clayton, that nothing should be said in the inaugural on this subject, which had prompted the addi- tion of a paragraph, in which the incom- ing president declared that a dissolution of the Union would be the greatest of calamities, and went on to say, What- ever dangers may threaten it, I shall stand by it, and maintain it in its integ- rity, to the full extent of the obligations imposed and the power conferred upon me by the constitution. There were three inauguration balls at night, one in a temporary building annexed to the city hall, one at Mr. Rivess Jackson Hall, and one at Carusis saloon. President Taylor, accompanied by Colonel and Mrs. Bliss, attended them all, going last to the ball at the city hall, where the diplomatic corps were present, wearing their court suits. The Count de Bodisco wore the uniform of an imperial chamberlain, with the in- signia of a number of orders of knight- hood, while his beautiful wife appeared in the dress which she had worn when she was presented to the Czar, the year previous. It was of white satin em- broidered with gold, and over it she wore a crimson velvet polonaise, with a sweeping train, also embroidered with gold, while her crimson velvet head-dress was resplendent with dia- taonds. When the bachelor ox-secretary of state came forward with a number of his fair friends, to present them to the president, General Taylor remarked, Ah, Mi~. Buchanan, you always pick out the prettiest ladies ! Why, Mr. President, was the courtly reply, I know that your tastes and mine agree in that respect. Yes, said General Taylor; but I have been so long among Indians and Mexicans that I hardly know how to behave myself, surrounded by so many lovely women.~~ President Taylor, although a South- erner by birth and a slave-owner, took prompt steps to thwart the schemes of Mr. Calhoun and his fellow conspirators. Military officers were promptly ordered to California, Utah, and New Mexico, which had no governments but lynch law; and the people of the lastnamed province, which had been settled two hundred years before Texas asserted her independence, were assured that her domain would be guaranteed by the United States against the claim of the Lone Star State. The horde of whig office - seekers which invaded Washington after the in- auguration of President Taylor recalled the saying of John Randolph, when it was asserted that the patronage of the federal government was overrated: I know, said the sarcastic Virginian, that it may be overrated; I know that we cannot give to those who apply offices equal to their expectations; and I also know that with one bone I can call five hundred dogs. The demo- cratic motto that to the victors belong the spoils was adopted by the Taylor administration. Unexceptionable men were removed from office, that their places might be filled with officers of Rough and Ready clubs, or partisan orators. Democratic collectors of cus- toms, postmasters, surveyors, marshals, tide-waiters, and even keepers of light- houses were replaced by whigs, who were thus rewarded for their fabulous services. Veterans like General Arm- 238 ReminiscenCe8 of Washington. [February, strong and even the gifted Hawthorne were rotated from the offices which they held, without mercy. In the post- office department alone, where Mr. Fitz Henry Warren, as assistant postmaster- general, worked the political guillotine, there were 3406 removals during the first year of the Taylor administration, besides many hundred clerks and em- ployees in the post-offices of the larger cities. In the dispensation of patronage there was a display of shameless nep- otism. A brother-in-law of Senator Webster was made navy agent at New York. Sons of Senators Crittenden, Clay, and Davis received important appoint- ments abroad, and the son-in-law of Sen- ator Calhoun was retained in the diplo- matic service- Two sons-in law of Sen- ator Benton were offered high places. A nephew of Senator Truman Smith was made one of the United States judges in Minnesota, and a nephew of Secretary Clayton was made purser at the Wash- ington navy yard. The pledge of the president that he had no friends to re- ward was apparently forgotten, and he was hedged in by a little circle of execu- tive councilors, who urged him to listen to no other than their suggestions. While the administration was profli- gate in its abuse of patronage, the con- duct of several of the secretaries was such as to give the president great un- easiness as he became acquainted with what was going on. It was asserted that Secretary Ewing, of the interior department, had overturned the decis- ions of his predecessors, long acquiesced in, and that he had reopened and al- lowed obsolete claims, paying large sums as principal and interest without any specific authority of law. The Bar- ron pension claim, the Chickasaw claim, the De Ia Francia claim, and others were but a part of the long catalogue of these raids upon the public treasury. The Galphin claim was, however, the most barefaced robbery of the nations funds ever made under the auspices of a cabinet officer. In 1848, on the last night of the session, a bill had been smuggled through Congress, providing for the payment of a claim brought by the heirs of George Galphin, an Indian trader, for the destruction of his prop- erty in 1773. The State of Georgia had never acknowledged the claim, but on the contrary had repudiated it in every form; nor could any good reason be given why the United States should be liable for it. Congress, however, or- dered the payment of an unnamed sum, and Secretary Walker paid the principal claimed, $43,518, leaving the de- mand for the interest as a legacy to the Taylor administration. Of this sum, Mr. Crawford, the claimants attorney, re- ceived one half; and after he became secretary of war the interest was al- lowed, amounting to $191,352, of which he also received one half, making his whole receipts for principal and interest about $115,000. The lawyers in Con- gress declared that the secretary acted professionally, but others censured him severely. Mr. James Brooks, the edit- or of the New York Express, then a whig member of the house, denounced Secretary Crawfords action as unwar- rantable. He contended that the prin.- cipal was never due from the United States, and he cited the authority of At- torneys-General Wirt, Legar6, and Crit tenden to show that the interest was il- legally paid. Judge Cartter, then a representative from Ohio, was severe in his comments on the monstrous corrup- tion of the allowance of interest, the payment of which he said that he dis.. liked, both as an exaction on the part of the capitalist, and on account of its origin with the Jews, who killed the Saviour! A commission for the payment of claims arising from the war with Mex- ico was another source of corruption. Fraudulent claims were trumped up, and forced through the commission by lead- 1881.] Reminiscences of Washington. 289 ing whigs, some of them occupants of seats in Congress. This indecent prac- tice of pressing unfounded and rejected claims before commissions or the execu- live departments by lawyers who are senators or representatives did not orig- inate with the Taylor administration, but it received an impulse under it that was a serious infliction on the country, and alarmingly detrimental to the public in- terest. When those elected to make laws are employed, for high fees, to sup- plicate secretaries, auditors, and commis- sioners for worthless claims, and when those officials require these lawyers, in their legislative capacity, to grant them improper favors, the door for collusion is flung widely open between them. No species of bribery can be more corrupt- ing than that by which the public treas- ury is made thus indirectly to pay leg- islators for bad laws and official delin- quency. President Taylor offered the place of secretary to the Mexican-claims corn- mission to Dr. Charles Davis, who had practiced his profession in Mexico for fourteen years before the war, and had joined the generals staff as interpreter, rendering important services. The cab- inet, however, decided to conciliate Sen- ator Benton by giving the place to one of his sons-in-law, who was notoriously unfit for it, and the president had to apologize to Dr. Davis for having brok- en his promise. The doctor, incensed by this treatment, revenged himself by showing that the commission was be- guiled into the allowance of a fraudu- lent claim to a dentist named Gardner, for damages to the works of a silver- mine which existed only in his imagina- tion. A commissioner sent to Mexico exposed the fraud, and Gardner was tried and convicted, but escaped punish- ment by committing suicide. The trial revealed the fact that leading Washing- ton bankers and prominent whig politi- cians had secured a large share of the proceeds of this ingenious swindle. The cabinet officers originally were confined to their legitimate duties, and as advisers were consulted only on meas- ures of importance. Nothing was heard, in those early days of the republic, of sessions of the executive board to con- sider appointments which the constitu- tion and the laws confided to the presi- dent alone. But the Taylor cabinet usurped this power, giving the president the casting vote at their meetings, where enemies were punished and friends re- warded, while the executive was trans- formed into a directory. Socially, President Taylor enjoyed himself, and he used to take morn- ing walks through the streets of Wash- ington, wearing a high black silk hat perched on the back of his head, and a suit of black broadcloth much too large for him, but made in obedience to his orders, that he might be comfortable. Mrs. Taylor used to sit patiently all day in her room, plying her knitting-needles, and occasionally, it was said, smoking her pipe. Mrs. Bliss was an excel- lent housekeeper, and the introduction of gas into the Executive Mansion, with new furniture and carpets, enabled her to give it a more creditable appearance. It was said that she did the honors of the establishment with the artlessness of a rustic belle and the grace of a duchess. The thirty-first Congress, which met on the first Monday in the December following the inauguration of President Taylor, contained many statesmen. Web- ster, Clay, Calhoun, Benton, Jeff Davis, Douglas, Dickinson, Hamlin, Hale, Cor- win, Houston, Seward, Chase, and Ber- rien were among the sixty senators, while many names of national promi- nence were to be found upon the roll of two hundred and thirty representatives. The organization of the house was a difficult task; nine free-soil or anti- slavery whigs from the North and six state-rights or pro-slavery whigs from the South refusing to vote for that ao~ 240 Reminiscences of Washington. [February, complished gentleman, Mr. Robert C. Winthrop, who was the whig candidate for speaker. On the first ballot, Howell Cobb, of Georgia, had 103 votes, against 96 votes for Robert C. Winthrop, 8 votes for David Wilmot, 6 votes for Meredith P. Gentry, 2 votes for Horace Mann, and a number of scattering votes. The tellers announced that there was no choice, and the balloting was con- tinued, day after day, amid great and increasing excitement. After the thir- ty-ninth ballot, Mr. Winthrop withdrew from the protracted contest, expressing his belief that the peace and safety of the Union demanded that an organiza- tion of some sort should be effected with- out delay. The Southern whigs who had opposed Mr. Winthrop were vehement and pas- sionate in their denunciation of the North. The time has come, said Mr. Toombs, his black, uncombed hair stand- ing out from his massive head as if charged with electricity, his eyes glow- ing like coals of fire, and his sentences rattling forth like volleys of musketry, the time has come, said he, when I shall not only utter my opinions, but make them the basis of my political action here. I do not, then, hesitate to avow before this house and the country, and in the presence of the living God, that if, by your legislation, you seek to drive us from the territories of California and New Mexico, and to abolish slavery in the District of Columbia, I am for dis- union; and if my physical courage be equal to the maintenance of my convic- tions of right and duty I will devote all I am and all I have on earth to its con- summation. These inflammatory remarks provoked replies, and after a heated debate Mr. Duer, of New York, remarked that he would never, under any circumstances, vote to put a man in the speakers chair who would, in any event, advocate or sanction a dissolution of the Union. Thi8 brought a dozen Southerners to their feet, with angry exclamations, and Mr. Bayly, of Virginia, who was near Mr. Duer, said, There are no disunionists. There are! exclaimed Mr. Duer. Name one! shouted Mr. Bayly. At that moment Mr. Meade, of Virginia, rose, and passed directly before Mr. Duer, who pointed to him and shouted, There s one! It is false! replied Mr. Meade, angrily. You lie, sir! responded Mr. Duer, in tones which rang through the hall; and, drawing himself np, he stood unmoved, while his political friends and foes clustered an- grily about him, talking and gesticulat- ing. Fortunately Mr. Nathan Sergeant, who was the sergeant-at-arms, was in his seat, and he immediately came to the side of Mr. Duer, bearing aloft the mace, which is the symbol of the au- thority of the house. Quiet was restored, and Mr. Duer then apologized to the house for having been provoked into the use of the unparliamentary expression, but justified himself by referring to a speech which Mr. Meade had just made and printed, which contained disunion sentiments. Mr. Meade promptly chal- lenged Mr. Duer, who showed no indis- position to fight; but with some difficulty friends secured an amicable settlement of the quarrel. Finally, after three weeks of angry recrimination, it was voted that a plu- rality should elect, and on the sixty-sec- ond ballot Mr. Howell Cobb, of Georgia, having received 102 votes against 100 votes for Mr. Winthrop, was declared the speaker of the house. He did not have that sense of personal dignity and importance which belonged to Sir John Falstaff by reason of his knighthood, but he displayed the same rich exu- berance of animal enjoyment, the same roguish twinkle of the eye, and the same indolence which characterized the fat knight. President Taylors first and only mes- sage to Congress was transmitted on the Monday following the organization of 1881.] Bemini8cences of Washington. 241 the house, December 24th, and the print- ed copies first distributed contained the sentence, We are at peace with all the nations of the world, and the rest of mankind. Other copies were soon printed, in which the corrected sentence read, We are at peace with all the nations of the world, and seek to main- tain our cherished relations of amity with them. The blunder caused much diversion among the democrats, and great-. ly annoyed Colonel Bliss, who, as the presidents private secretary, had super- intended the publication of the message. Meanwhile, Henry Clay had reap- peared at Washington as a senator from Kentucky, and occupied his old quarters at the National Hotel, which belonged to one of his many devoted friends, Mr. Calvert, of Maryland. Although in his seventy-third year, he was apparently hale and hearty. His head, bald on the top, was fringed with long iron-~gray hair, his lofty forehead was arched and expansive, his cheeks somewhat sunken, his nose thin, and his wide mouth wreathed in genial smiles. He always was dressed in black, and from a high black satin stock, which enveloped his long neck, emerged a huge white shirt collar, which reached to his ears. He mingled in society, generally kissing the prettiest girls wherever he went; and he enjoyed a quiet game of cards in his own room, with a glass of toddy made from Bourbon County whisky. At the commencement of the session Mr. Clay requested that he might be excused from service on any of the standing committees of the senate, and his wish was granted. It was not long, however, before he evinced a desire to re~nter the arena of debate, as a leader of the whig party, but not as a follower of President Taylor. Presenting a se- ries of resolutions which would consoli- date the settlement of the eight differ- ent questions involving slavery, then be- fore Congress, into what he expected would prove a lasting compromise, Mr. VOL. XLVII. i~o. 280. 16 Clay moved their reference to a select committee of thirteen, with instructions to report them in one bill. The commit- tee was authorized, but not without oppo- sition, and Mr. Websters vote secured for Mr. Clay the chairmanship. A gen- eral compromise bill was speedily pre- pared, and the battle of the giants was commenced; Clay, Webster, and Calhoun engaging for the last time in a gladiatorial strife, which exhibited the off-hand, genial eloquence of the Ken- tuckian, the ponderous strength of the Massachusetts senator, and the concen- trated energies of South Carolinas fa- vorite son. Mr. Clay was the leader in the debate, which extended over seven months, and during that time he was ever on the alert; sometimes delivering a long argument, sometimes eloquently replying to other seaators, and some- times suggesting points to some one who was to speak on his side. Indignant at the treatment which he had received from the whig party, he stood unsub- dued, and so far from retreating from those who had deserted him he intended to make the Taylor administration re- call its pledges, break its promises, and become national, or pro-slavery, whigs. Mr. Webster was equally grieved aad saddened by the recreancy and faithless- ness of Massachusetts men who had in years past professed friendship for him, but of whose machinations against him he had obtained proof during the preced- ing autumn. He also ascertained that, to use the words of Mr. Choate, the attention of the public mind began to be drawn a little more directly to the great question of human freedom and human slavery. If he responded to the beatings of the New England heart, and resisted the aggressions and usurpa- tions of the slave power, he would have to follow the lead of the abolitionists, for whom he had always expressed a profound contempt. Dejected and de- pressed, Mr. Webster would then have been glad to take the mission to Eng 242 Reminiscences of Washington. [February, land, and thus terminate his career of public service; but he was defeated by the claims of Mr. Abbott Lawrence, who bad recently been disappointed in not receiving the appointment of secre- tary of the treasury, and who refused to to be comforted unless he could be the successor of George Bancroft at the court of St. James. Thaddeus Stevens and Joshua R. Gid- dings asserted, after the decease of Mr. Webster, that he prepared a speech, the manuscript of which they read, which was a powerful exposition and vindica- tion of Northern sentiment upon the com- promise measures, especially the fugi- tive-slave bill. He was doubtless in- duced to change front by pledges of Southern support for the presidency, but he is reported by Theodore Parker as having said to a fellow-senator, on the morning of the 7th of March, I have my doubts that the speech I am going to make will ruin me. lie should have remembered that he had himself said of the Emperor Napoleon, His victories and his triumphs crumbled to atoms, and mouldered to dry ashes in his grasp, because he violated the general sense of justice of mankind. The truculent Mr. Benton headed the opposition in the senate to the compro- mise measures, and on one occasion he provoked Mr. Henry S. Foote, then a senator from Mississippi, into the use of some sarcastic comments in reply. At first Mr. Benton appeared somewhat surprised that any one should have the audacity thus to criticise what he had thought proper to say, but he soon manifested signs of excitement, and at last he sprang to his feet, knocked over his curule chair, and started for Mr. Footes desk. The dapper little Mis- sissippian, seeing the burly Missourian striding towards him with evidently hos- tile intentions, suspended his remarks, and retreated to the secretarys desk, where he drew a five-barreled revolver, cocked it, and stood at bay. The two Senators Dodge, father and son, endeavored to arrest Mr. Bentons progress, butt he struggled forward, shouting, Let me pass! Dont stop me! Let the assassin fire! Only cowards go armed! I have no weapon! Let the assassin fire! Vice-President Fillmore pounded his table with his mallet, and loudly called for order. A number of senators left their seats, some clustering around Mr. Foote, while others obstruct- ed the passage of Mr. Benton, who final- ly permitted his friends to lead him to his seat, exclaiming as he went, Let the assassin fire! I scorn to carry weap- ons! Mr. Dickinson, of New York, took the revolver from Mr. Foote, un- cocked it, and locked it in his desk. Then, as order had been partially re- stored, he mildly inquired of the vice- president what the question was before the senate. Up jumped Mr. Benton again, and said, in a boisterous tone, This is not going to pass off in this way. 1 ask sena- tors to take immediate action on what has happened. A pistol has been drawn, sir! It has been aimed at me, sir! I demand the immediate action of this body, sir! Mr. Mangum, to placate the excited senator, introduced a resolu- tion appointing a committee to investi- gate the occurrence, which was passed. The committee examined witnesses, and made a report, condemning the occur- rence, and expressing the hope that their censure of the attempt would be a sufficient rebuke and a warning not unheeded in the future. Mr. Calhouns health had gradually failed, and at last he was supported into the senate-chamber, wrapped in flannels like the great Chatham, and requested that his friend, Senator Mason, might read some remarks which he had pre- pared. The request was of course granted, and while Mr. Mason read the defiant pronunciamiento, its author sat wrapped in his cloak, his eyes glowing with meteor-like brilliancy, as he glanced 1881.] ~em~~i~cence8 of Washington. 243 at senators upon whom he desired to have certain passages make an impres- sion. When Mr. Mason liad conclud- ed, Mr. Calhoun was supported from the senate, and went back to his lodgings at Mr. Hills boarding-house, afterwards known as the Old Capitol, to die. An unpublished letter from Mr. H. M. T. Hunter, a Virginia senator, gives some interesting facts concerning Mr. Calhouns last moments, and the views at that time of the Southern magnates. Mr. Calhouns death, wrote Mr. Hunter, was eminently simple, calm, and unaffected, no display or pre- tension, nothing for stage effect. He knew that his mortal sickness was upon him, but he did not expect to die so soon. The evening before his death he had his mail read to him, commented upon some of the letters, and directed his son to clear up his table, as was his wont every night. In the night, when he found he was dying, he directed his son to pack up his papers and watch, and to give his pencil to his son An- drew. When speech left him he still showed consciousness by signs; and, beckoning to his son, squeezed his hand and expired, without pain and without fear. He had always said to me previ- ously and to others through his sickness that he had no apprehensions of death; that it was an event in relation to which he felt that he had no right to entertain a wish. He was a man of few quota- tions, but one which he often used to me was that there was the same Provi- dence on the fatal as the natal hour. He was not consulted as to his birth, nor did he believe that his wishes ought to weigh or even exist as to his death: such I suppose to have been his mean- ing. He had a greater faith in his ab- stractions, one and all, than any other man I ever saw, and this was his ab- straction (as I think) about death. But, Mr. Hunter went on to say, you must not whisper it to any one: I believe that he died under the firm im pression that the South was betrayed and gone. Indeed, he told me it was betrayed the last time I ever saw him. Do not mention this, however. One of the last things he ever said to Judge But- ler was, Dont despond, judge; never despond! And if we mean to fight the battle we must not despond; or, if we do, we must not let the people see it until all is manifestly useless. Clays course and Footes eternal talk about compro- mise have done more to let down the tone of Southern feeling than everything else put together. Had Clay not taken the course he did, and had Foote and every Southern man forborne to press compromises on those who talked of nothing of the sort themselves, we might have gotten, I think, a fair compromise: say, the line of 36.30 through to the Pacific, with a recognition of slavery south of that line. Such, at least, is my opinion. Buchanan would have been willing to agree to this, I believe, and I think I know others in the North who would have agreed to the same. The North would not have severed the Union sooner than submit to such a ~proposi- tion. Mr. Calhouns death elicited glowing eulogies in both houses of Congress, but the most impressive was that of Henry Clay. Evidently standing on the brink of his own grave, he went on to say, I was his senior, Mr. President, in years, in nothing else. According to the course of nature, I ought to have preceded him. It has been decreed oth- erwise; but I know that I shall linger here only a short time~ and shall soon follow him. Mr. Jefferson Davis aspired to the leadership of the South after the death of Mr. Calhoun, and talked openly of disunion. Let the sections, said he, in the senate-chamber, part, like the pa- triarchs of old, and let peace and good- will subsist among their descendants. Let no wound be inflicted which time cannot heal. Let the flag of our Union 244 Reminz8cence8 of Waskington. [February, be folded up entire, the thirteen stripes recording the original size of our fam- ily, untorn by the unholy struggles of civil war; its constellation to remain undimmed, and speaking to those who come after us of the growth and pros- perity of the family whilst it remained united. Unmutilated let it lie among the archives of the republic, until some fut- ure day, when wiser counsels shall pre- vail, when men shall have been sobered in the school of adversity, again to be unfurled over the continent-wide repub- lic. Yet when Mr. John P. Hale pre- sented a petition praying for a peaceful dissolution of the Union, Mr. Davis ob- jected to its reception. When we come into this chamber, Mr. President, said he, the first duty which the con- stitution requires of us is to go to your table, and to swear before Almighty God that we will support the constitu- tion. Well, sir, what are we called upon to do? To support that instrument, which we have sworn to support? No, sir! No, sir! We are called upon to de- stroy it, and I am not prepared for a step of that description. Mr. Hale, who, with Mr. Salmon P. Chase, was not named on any of the committees of the senate, was a con- stant target for the attacks of the South- erners; but the keenest shafts of satire made no more impression upon him than musket-balls do upon the hide of a rhi- noceros. One day, when Senator Clem- ens had asserted that the Union was vir- tually dissolved, Mr. Hale said, If this is not a matter too serious for pleas- ant illustration, let me give you one. Once in my life, in the capacity of jus- tice of the peace, for I held that of- fice before I was senator, I was called on to officiate in uniting a couple in the bonds of matrimony. They came up, and I made short work of it. I asked the man if he would take the woman whom he held by the hand to be his wedded wife; and he replied, To be sure I will. I came here to do that very thing. I then put the question to the lady whether she would have the man for her husband. And when she an- swered in the affirmative, I told them they were man and wife then. She looked up with apparent astonishment, and inquired, Is that all? Yes, said I, that is all. Well, said she, it is not such a mighty affair as I ex- pected it to be, after all! If this Union is already dissolved, it ~has pro. duced less commotion in the~ act than I expected. General Cass, then a senator from Michigan, was very restive under the sharp thrusts which Mr. Hale occasion- ally gave him; thinking, doubtless, that they would injure his chances for a nom- ination by the national democratic con- vention in 1851. The general, then ap- proaching seventy years of age, enjoyed robust health and possessed rare pow- ers of endurance, which he attributed to his never having used ardent spir- its or tobacco. His early investments in real estate at Detroit had made him a millionaire, and it was his boast that he had never foreclosed a mortgage or sued a debtor. He was always attentive to the interests of his constituents, but he never introduced a measure of nation- al importance into the senate unless it was territorial or, as Mr. Calhoun called it, squatter sovereignty. The credit of this was taken from him by Mr. Douglas, and it doubtless did more to precipitate the rebellion than any other political theory ever broached in Congress. Another total-abstinence senator was General Sam Houston, a large, im- posing-looking man, who wore a waist- coat made from the skin of some wild beast, dressed with the hair on, and who generally occupied himself during the sessions of the senate in whittling small sticks of soft pine wood, which the ser- geant-at-arms procured for him. His life had been one of romantic adventure. Reminiscences of Washington. After having served with distinction un- der General Jackson in the Creek war, he had become a lawyer, and then gov- ernor of the State of Tennessee. Soon after his inauguration he had married an accomplished young lady, to whom he one day intimated, in jest, that she ap- parently cared more for a former lover than she did for him. You are cor- rect, said she, earnestly. I love Mr. Nickersons little finger better than I do your whole body. Words ensued, and the next day Houston resigned his gov- ernorship, went into the Cherokee coun- try west of the Arkansas River, adopted Indian costume, and became an Indian trader. He was the best customer sup- plied from his own whisky-barrel until, one day, after a prolonged debauch, he heard from a Texas Indian that the Mexicans had taken up arms against their revolted province. A friend agree- ing to accompany him, he cast off his Indian attire, again dressed like a white man, and never drank a drop of any intoxicating beverage afterwards. Ar- riving in Texas at a critical moment, his gallantry was soon conspicuous, and in due time he was sent to Washington as United States senator. General Houston was very angry with those Southern senators who op- posed the passage of a resolution per- mitting Father Theobald Mathew, the apostle of temperance, to occupy a seat within the bar of the senate dur- ing the period of his sojourn at Wash- ington. The opposition was headed by Senator Jefferson Davis, who declared, and who reiterated the assertion, that, had he the power, he would exclude every abolitionist, foreign and domestic, from the senate chamber. If Father Mathew could have per- suaded some of the congressmen who were then wrangling over the compro- mise measures to take the total-absti- nence pledge, many disgraceful scenes would have been avoided. British par- liamentary history chronicles the eat- ing-room of the old House of Commons, where one Bellamy supplied chops, steaks, and port wine to manly legisla- tors at the commencement of the pres- ent century, and there had been a simi- lar refectory in the basement of the house wing of the Capitol, until Mr. Speaker Winthrop, by virtue of his prerogative, abolished the sale of liquors at its bar. Thenceforth the quality of the food served degenerated, and the refectory was not much patronized by the representatives, whose gastronomic and bibulous wants were gratuitously purveyed for by avowed lobbyists, who advanced their interests by judicious distributions of ham-and-chain. The senators retained their lunch-room, a small, circular apartment, known as the hole in the wall; and it was gen- erally understood that in some of the committee-rooms there were closets well supplied with creature comforts. Among other measures which were liberally lobbied was a bill rewarding the discoverer of the anaesthetic proper- ties of sulphuric ether, which enabled surgeons to perform operations without pain. Large sums of money were ex- pended at Washington by the agents of each of the three alleged discoverers who sought the award. The financial backer of one of these claimants, who occupied a position of trust in a Massa- chusetts railroad corporation, gradually stole some fifty thousand dollars from the company, which was disbursed in lobkying at Washington, under the de- lusive hope that an appropriation of one hundred thousand dollars would soon be carried, from which restoration could be made. The corporation, fearing that it might jeopardize the passage of the ap- propriation, did not bring the defaulter to punishment; but he had ceased to be honest, and a few years afterwards he was sentenced to the penitentiary for robbing the mails. Another hospitable and generous lob- by was at work, in Congress and out of 1881.] 245 246 Reminiscences of Washington. [February, it, advocating a renewal of the letters patent originally given in 1828 to Will- iam Woodworth, for a planing-machine. These letters patent were for fourteen years, and there had been two succes- sive renewals for seven years each, the interest of the patentee in the last one having been sold by him for one hun- dred thousand dollars. It was now pro- posed that the patent be again renewed, and as such a renewal would have been worth at least a hundred thousand dol- lars, the advocates of the measure were lavish in their expenditures. Mr. Sew- ard, who was one of the retained coun- sel for the patent, had declined to serve on the committee on patents, and he de- clared, on the floor of the senate, that he had so declined because he was not will- ing to make his public duties even seem to come in collision with any private duties that he might previously have as- sumed. Mr. Seward entered the senate when General Taylor was inaugurated as president, and soon became the directing spirit of the administration, although Colonel Bullit, who had been brought from Louisiana to edit The Republic, President Taylors recognized organ, spoke of him only with supercilious contempt. Senator Foote sought repu- tation by insulting him in public, and was himself taunted by Mr. Calhoun with the disreputable fact of intimacy with him in private. The newly elect- ed senator from New York persisted in maintaining amicable relations with his revilers, and quietly controlled the im- mense patronage of his State, none of which was shared by the friends of Vice- President Fillmore. He was not at heart a reformer; he probably cared but little whether the negro was a slave or a freeman; but he sought his own polit- ical advancement by advocating in turn anti - masonry and abolitionism, by politically coquetting with Archbishop Hughes, of the Roman Catholic church, and Henry Wilson, a leading know-noth ing. Personally he was honest, but he was always surrounded by intriguers and tricksters, some of whose nests he would aid in feathering. The most unscrupu- lous lobbyists that have ever haunted the Capitol were devoted adherents of William H. Seward. Mr. Buchanan had not shed many tears over the defeat of his rival, Gen- eral Cass, and he retired from the de- partment of state to his rural home, called Wheatland, where he began at an early day to secure strength in the national nominating convention of 1851; asserting continually that he was indif- ferent on the subject. Yet at the same time he was industriously correspond- ing with politicians in different sections of the country, and he was especially attentive to Mr. Henry A. Wise, with whose aid he hoped to secure the votes of the delegates from Virginia in the next national democratic convention. Mr. Wise, recalling the time when he was a power behind the throne of John Tyler, encouraged Mr. Buchanan to bid for Southern support, and inti- mated a readiness to coach him so as to make him a favorite in the slave States. His counsels were kindly taken, and in return Mr. Buchanan wrote to the fiery Lord of Accomac, in his most precise handwriting: Acquire more character for prudence and mod- eration, and under the blessing of Heav~ en you may be almost anything in this country which you desire. There is no man living whose success in public and in private life would afford me more sin- cere pleasure than your own. You have every advantage. All you have to do is to go straight ahead, without unnecessa- rily treading upon other peoples toes. I know you will think, if you dont say, What impudence it is for this childless old bachelor of sixty years of age to undertake to give me advice! Why dont he mind his own business? Gen- eral Jackson once told me that he knew a man in Tennessee who had got rich 1881.] Reminiscences of Washington. 247 by minding his own business; but still I urged him, and at last with success, which he never regretted. President Taylor saw General Scott on the second Sunday after his inaugu- ration, at St. Johns Episcopal church, and, not having met with him since the Mexican war, determined to evince by his reception of him that he bore no malice for what had occurred, and that, however much he might have felt when all his regular troops were taken from him, he was willing to forget it. The president, accordingly, waited after the congregation was dismissed, and then met General Scott in the most friendly manner, shaking him cordially by the hand, and inviting him to call at the White House. On the following day General Scott came, and sent up his card. Two gentlemen were with the president when it was received, and in- stead of inviting the general to climb the stairs to his office he told the mes- senger to show him into his private par- lor below, and to say that he would join him with the least possible delay. With- in five minutes the president went down; but General Scott was not in the parlor, and the messenger said that, after having waited a minute or two, he had petulant- ly left. The next day the general went to iNew York, without seeing or making another attempt to see the president. The officers of the exploring expedi- tion in the South Seas had brought home a small botanical collection, made during their voyage, which was at first kept in a greenhouse temporarily erected in the inner court of the Department of the Interior building. In 1850, an appro- priation was made for the erection of a greenhouse for the reception of this collection of plants, on a public reserva- tion near the Capitol, and this became the National Botanical Garden. The gratuitous supply, every spring, of boxes of plants to congressmen, and the dis- tribution of bouquets among their female relatives and friends during the fashion- able season, has never failed to secure the necessary annual appropriations from the treasury. The distribution of plants and seeds to congressmen for their favored con- stituents has made it an equally easy matter for the commissioner of agricult- ure to obtain liberal appropriations for his department, and the publication of enormous editions of his reports. The first of these reports was issued by Ed-. mund Burke, while he was commissioner of patents, during the Polk administra- tion. On the incoming of the Taylor administration, Mr. Burke was succeed- ed by Thomas Ewbank, of New York city, and Congress made an appropria- tion of $3500 for the collection of ag- ricultural statistics, with an additional $1000 for defraying the expenses of chemical analyses of vegetable substances produced and used for the food of man and animals in the United States. When Mr. Ewbanks report appeared, the Southern congressmen were to quote the words used by Senator Jefferson Davis in debate, amazed to find that it was preceded by what he termed an introduction by Horace Greeley, a phi- losopher and philanthropist of the strong abolition type. The very fact, he continued, that Mr. Greeley was em- ployed to write the introduction is suffi- cient to damn the work with me, and render it worthless in my estimation. Congress had been induced by Mr. Crutchett to make an appropriation for the erection of illuminating-gas works at the Capitol, from which a supply was to be furnished for lighting the interior of the building, and for a large lantern on the top of a mast planted on the dome. It was claimed that this lan- tern would light up the Capitol grounds and the avenues radiating therefrom; but it failed to do so, and high winds soon began to sway it to and fro, endan- gering the stability of the dome. Mr. Crutchett was asked to remove it, but he declined, saying that the appropria 248 Reminiscences of Washington. [February, tion had been voted to him for its erec- tion, and not for its removal; so Congress had to vote more money to have it taken down. Gas was thenceforth procured from the Washington Company for light- ing the Capitol, the public buildings, and Pennsylvania Avenue, and in order to secure the liberal appropriations nec- essary, no charge was made, for many years, for the gas used by those senators and representatives who occupied houses at Washington. The congressmen not only provided for their wants and comfort, but secured a respectable burial-place in case they should be called from life. Appropria- tions were made for the enlargement and improvement of the Washington parish burial-ground, and those senators and representatives who died during a ses- sion were honored by the erection of a monument, whether their remains were interred beneath it, or were taken to their former homes. Many great and good men are interred there, including distinguished representatives of foreign powers; and among the monuments erected by the federal government is that of Push-ma-ta-ha, a Choctaw chief, who died of croup while engaged in making a treaty with President Monroe. On its base is inscribed his last request, When I am gone, let the big guns be fired over me, which was religiously complied with. Formerly, a congressional funeral was a source of great profit to the sergeant- at-arms of the house to which the de- ceased had belonged, as the undertak- ers and livery-stable keepers divided the profits on their exorbitant charges. Each congressional mourner received a pair of black kid gloves, which he put into his pocket, and generally exchanged the next day for others more serviceable; while the officiating chaplains were decked with large black scarfs, each one of which contained silk enough to make an apron for the recipients wife. Al- though these funeral abuses have been reformed, a practice has since grown up of publishing in book form the eulogiums over departed congressmen, illustrated with portraits engraved on steel, at a cost of several thousand dollars. Beau Hickman, so called, began during the Taylor admiaistration to rank himself among the celebrities of Washington. He was a middle-aged man, who professed to belong to one of the first families of Virginia, and to have squandered a considerable estate at the gaming-table, but to have retained his fondness for dress. His attire was gen- erally somewhat threadbare, but scrupu- lously clean; his black kid gloves fitted well, although the worse for wear; an eye-glass dangled from a black ribbon around his neck; and in cold weather he sported a Spanish circular cloak, with one end thrown over his shoulder. The beau was accustomed to frequent the lobbies of the hotels, and when he saw a stranger conversing with any Washing- ton man whose name he knew, he would shamble up and say to the resident, Your friend undoubtedly desires an introduction to me? The stranger would bow assent, be introduced, and the beau would then coolly ask him to pay a dollar for the privilege of what he termed an initiation. This was thought by some to be very amusing, especially by the long - haired students from Virginia colleges. It was the beaus entire stock of wit and his only visible means of support, although it was hinted that he was always ready to pilot strangers to gambling-houses, and that the gamesters contributed to his support when he found but few vic- tims to be initiated. His face was a perfect mask, and he never betrayed any emotion, even when rudely repulsed, or made the hero of some fabulous advent- ure by a newspaper correspondent in want of a paragraph. Queen Victoria accredited as her minister plenipotentiary to President Taylor the Right Honorable Sir Henry 1881.] Be mrnzscences of Washington. 249 Lytton Buiwer, an accomplished diplo- mate, slender and apparently in ill- health. He was afterwards, for many years, the British minister at Constanti- nople, where he defeated the machina- tions of Rnssia, and held in cunning hand the tangled thread of that delicate puzzle, the Eastern question. His pri- vate secretary while he was at Washing- ton was his nephew, Mr. Robert Buiwer (a son of the novelist), who has since won renown as Lord Lytton, Viceroy of India, and as the author of charming poems signed Owen Meredith. The secretaries and attach6s of the foreign legations at Washington are an important feature in fashionable society there. Some of them, who have by their abilities and their energies risen from comparatively obscure positions at home, and who have political and diplo- matic aspirations, are hard workers, and send to their respective governments really valuable reports upon our indus- trial interests, finances, etc. But the larger and the younger portion of the members of the corps are either nov- ices who are taking their first lessons in diplomacy, or the needy scions of aris- tocratic families in search of lucrative matrimonial alliances. They have little or nothing to do, but they play their parts as gravely as if the welfare of the nations which they respectively repre- sent rested upon their individual shoul- ders, and they occupy their abundant leisure in the small cares of society. The bitter political discussions at the Capitol during the first six months of I8~O prevented much social enjoyment. There were the customary receptions at the White House and hops at the hotels, but few large parties were given. Tea-parties were numerous, at which a succession of colored waiters carried trays heaped with different varieties of home-made cakes and tarts, from which the beaux supplied the belles, and at the same time ministered to their own wants, balancing a well-loaded plate on one knee, while they held a cup and saucer, replete with fragrant decoctions from the Chinese plant which cheers, but not inebriates. The reigning belles were the queen- like widow Ashley, of Missouri, who aft- erwards married Senator Crittenden, and her beautiful daughter, who became the wife of Mr. Cabell, of Florida. Mrs. Frimont and her sisters made the home of their father, Colonel Benton, very attractive; General Casss daughter, who afterwards married the Dutch minister, had returned from Paris with many rare works of art; and the proscribed free- soilers met with a hearty welcome at the house of Dr. Bailey, the editor of The New Era, where Miss Dodge, after- wards better known as Gail Hamilton, passed her first winter in Washington. The diplomatic circles were excited by the proceedings connected with the will of General Kosciuszko, the Polish patriot, who had left an estate in the hands of ex-President Jefferson, as his trustee. Mr. Jefferson declined to ac- cept the trust, and after some litigation it was found that Kosciuszko had made a subsequent will. His heirs employed Mr. Gaspard Toehman, a Polish exile, whose home estate had been confiscated, and who was at that time a practicing lawyer in New York, to conduct the suit. M. de Bodisco, tbe Russian min- ister, unwilling that a political enemy of his imperial master should derive any pecuniary advantage from the case, wrote to Poland, advising the Koseinszko heirs to revoke the power of attorney given to Tochman, and to appoint a new agent. They did so, and sent to the United States Captain Ladislaus Wan- kowitz, a grand-nephew of Kosci~szko, to attend to the matter personally. Soon after Wankowitzs arrival at Washing- ton, he was induced to reappoint Toch- man as the attorney of the heirs, and to associate with him Mr. Reverdy John- son. For this act of contumacy, the es- tate of Wankowitz in Poland, valued at 250 like Wizard Poet. [February, $60,000, was confiscated, and he was forced to accept an $800 clerkship in one of the departments for a livelihood. On the evening of the 4th of July, a large party was given by Mr. Robert C. Winthrop to his gentlemen friends, without distinction of party or locality. At the supper-table, Mr. Winthrop had at his right hand Vice-President Fill- more, and at his left hand Mr. Speaker Cobb. Webster and Foote, Benton and Horace Mann; the members elect from California, with Clingman and Venable, who were trying to keep them out, were seen in genial companionship. Most of the cabinet and the presidents private secretary, Colonel Bliss, were there, side by side with those who proposed to im- peach them. The only drawback to the general enjoyment of the occasion was the understanding that it was the fare- well entertainment of Mr. Winthrop, who had given so many evidences of his unselfish patriotism and eminent ability, and whose large experience in public affairs should have entitled him to the continued confidence of - the people of Massachusetts. President Taylor was absent, and Colonel Bliss apologized for his non- attendance, saying that he was some- what indisposed. That day the old hero had sat in the sun at the Washington Monument, during a long address by Senator Foote, and a tedious supple- mentary harangue by George Washing- ton Parke Custis. While thus exposed to the midsummer heat for nearly three hours, he had drank freely of ice-water, and on his return to the White House he had found a basket of cherries, of which he partook heartily, drinking at the same time several goblets full of iced milk. After dinner he again feasted on cherries and iced milk, against the protestations of Dr. Witherspoon, who was his guest. When it was time to go to Mr. Winthrops he felt ill, and soon afterwards he was seized with a violent attack of cholera morbus. This was on Thursday, but he did not consider himself dangerously ill un- til Sunday, when he said to his physi- cian, In two days I shall be a dead man. Eminent physicians were called in, but they could not arrest the bilious fever which supervened. His mind was clear, and on Tuesday morning he said to one of the physicians at his bedside, You have fought a good fight, but you cannot make a stand. Soon afterwards he murmured, I have endeavored to do my duty, and peacefully breathed his last. The announcement of the sad event startled the nation, whose standard he had so often borne to victory. THE WIZARD POET. Th the dust of ages old Sleeps the legend men have told Of Virgiius and his skill: How he, wicked or divine, Wrought by secret spell and sign Many marvels to his will; How he breathed the vital flame Through a pulseless statues frame, So that when the nights eclipse

S. V. Cole Cole, S. V. The Wizard Poet 250-252

250 like Wizard Poet. [February, $60,000, was confiscated, and he was forced to accept an $800 clerkship in one of the departments for a livelihood. On the evening of the 4th of July, a large party was given by Mr. Robert C. Winthrop to his gentlemen friends, without distinction of party or locality. At the supper-table, Mr. Winthrop had at his right hand Vice-President Fill- more, and at his left hand Mr. Speaker Cobb. Webster and Foote, Benton and Horace Mann; the members elect from California, with Clingman and Venable, who were trying to keep them out, were seen in genial companionship. Most of the cabinet and the presidents private secretary, Colonel Bliss, were there, side by side with those who proposed to im- peach them. The only drawback to the general enjoyment of the occasion was the understanding that it was the fare- well entertainment of Mr. Winthrop, who had given so many evidences of his unselfish patriotism and eminent ability, and whose large experience in public affairs should have entitled him to the continued confidence of - the people of Massachusetts. President Taylor was absent, and Colonel Bliss apologized for his non- attendance, saying that he was some- what indisposed. That day the old hero had sat in the sun at the Washington Monument, during a long address by Senator Foote, and a tedious supple- mentary harangue by George Washing- ton Parke Custis. While thus exposed to the midsummer heat for nearly three hours, he had drank freely of ice-water, and on his return to the White House he had found a basket of cherries, of which he partook heartily, drinking at the same time several goblets full of iced milk. After dinner he again feasted on cherries and iced milk, against the protestations of Dr. Witherspoon, who was his guest. When it was time to go to