THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY: ~ %)iaagapne of ILiterature, ~cience, art, anb 1~oUtic~. VOL. LXVI JULY, 1890. No. CCCXCIII. FELICIA. I. THE Reverend Robert Raymond prided himself, in a seemly and cleri- cal fashion, on his tact. So innocent and candid was this endowment as he possessed it that it was distinctly ap- parent, and the disaffected of the con- gregation construed him as a scheming man, unduly versed in the ways of the world for a clergyman. Among the persons who interpreted him more just- ly was a young girl, who sat near him, one summer morning, in a large parlor on the shady side of the house. The welcome watering-carts rumbled up and down the street, giving to the air the taste of sudden showers; the breeze waved the curtains, stirred the plants in the balcony, and wafted freshly into the room the odors of heliotrope and gera- nium. Mr. Raymond looked with some ad- miration at the brilliant face, with its background of fluttering lace and flow- ers. He was one of those men whose attitude toward women is something of the paternal, at once protective and in- dulgent; he found a certain charm in their caprices, and just now the evident petulance of his wifes young cousin induced not so much tolerance as ap- proval. Oh, it s all very well for you to preach, cousin Robert she cried. So some people think, he interpo- lated, with a laugh. about duty and obedience, and all that; but what is my duty? that s what I want to know. If he had told her the exact truth, he would have said that in his opinion it was her duty to be charming, like the blue sky, the sunshine, the tints on that rosebud against the gray stone there. But it will not do even for a clergy- man always to speak his whole mind, so he sedately replied that her duties would probably define themselves dis- tinctly enough as the years went by, and he did not doubt she would be very faithful in their performance. I do hope I shall know what they are, she declared, with animation. Now, what am I to do? Nothing pleases papa. He was determined, he said, that his only daughter should have all the advantages that money could com- mand, and he gave them to me, and I fully availed myself of them. Now, culminatively, he is not satisfied. The Reverend Robert Raymond said to himself that the old Judge must be hard to please if he were indeed dis- satisfied with the result of his invest- ment. To speak disrespectfully of the Chancellor behind his back was a priv- ilege claimed by many people besides the lawyers whom a hard fate com- pelled to practice in his court. A no- table metropolitan school, the regimen of regular hours, diet, and exercise, and a carefully devised curriculum had returned to him, as a finished product of feminine education, this young wo- .man of twenty-two, of fine mind, man- 2 Felicia. [July, ners, health, and morals, sufficiently well grounded in useful branches, mod- erately accomplished in the modern lan- guages, music, and painting, with an ex- ceedingly lively and cultivated imagi- nation, and with keen appreciation and consummate tact in all matters pertaining to dress and personal adornment. The possession of this last talent was mani- fest in her fresh and well-chosen morn- ing toilette, white, sparsely trimmed with delicately fine embroideries and a few knots of purple ribbon. There was a distinct arrogation of simplicity, but the minuteness and perfection of detail showed that a taste for the or- nate in decoration was only held in sub- jection by the laws of the appropriate. She was very pretty. A flush on her face accented the fairness of her com- plexion; her eyes, so deeply blue that they were almost purple, were downcast and shaded by dark lashes; her parted lips the upper one particularly deli- cate, sensitive, and well cut, curving downward showed a line of small white teeth; her nose was straight and noticeably narrow from the point to the line of the nostril, this, with the oval of her face, gave her a look of much refinement; her hair, a red-brown, al- most auburn, was brushed back, but close about her brow the heat had curled sundry tendrils that had a tinge of gold; when she looked up and laughed, dim- ples were apparent in the soft rose of each cheek. I am growing very cynical, she cried. I am sour and disappointed. Then she looked down again and pout- ed. She understood human nature well enough to know that she might pout as much as she chose in cousin Roberts presence. In what, may I ask, are you disap- pointed? he demanded, with due grav- ity. In life, replied Miss Felicia Hamil- ton, sententiously. That s sad, said cousin Robert. In life, she repeated, this time vivaciously. It promises one thing, and it offers another. I am educated to one set of views, and when I have developed what mind I have according to them, suddenly I am expected to con- form to another set, entirely different. This was the way of it, cousin Robert. She bent upon him a smile calculated to win to partisanship a more obdurate heart than his, and continued with a delightful show of confidence You see, when I was young quite young, I mean, ten years ago I was a little bookworm; very intellectual, I assure you, though you might not think it now. I read everything; I was very precocious. I cared nothing for the other young girls and their amuse- inents, or pretty things to wear, or music, only for books, books. Papa said that was all wrong. He did not want me to grow up shy, and ab- sorbed, and awkward. He wanted me to shine in society, to be elaborately educated, and have fine manners. So he sent me to Madame Sevier, and there I remained ten years, even during the vacations. She and the rest of them did their duty, and I tried to do mine. Now, what do you think papa says? That I am frivolous and spoiled; that I care too much for dress and so- ciety, and am not domestic at all! with much exclamatory emphasis of pretty eyes and lips, and dont love home. Frivolous, that s what lie calls me! Two tears rose to the violet eyes that rested on cousin Roberts face, and his heam~t was hot within him against the absent Judge. Your father expects you to be do- mestic after ten years with Madame Sevier? sarcastically commented this wise clerical confidant and spiritual pastor. And we saw a great deal of very fashionable society with Madame Se- vier, resumed the young lady suddenly, 1890.] Jielicia. 3 and with much vivacity. And in summer she had directions to take me to the mountains and the seashore, Newport, Saratoga, the White Moun- tains. We went everywhere. She knew everybody; that is, everybody worth knowing. Now, is that the kind of training to fit a girl for a sleepy lit- tle Southern country town like Blank- burg? Any young men? inquired cousin Robert, demurely. She looked at him expressively. Such sticks! she said, concisely. Cousin Roberts face betrayed no amusement. It was a long, thin face, with bright gray eyes, a booked nose, some premature wrinkles, a straggling mustache, fine teeth, a large mouth, and occasionally a brilliant smile. His lank figure was disposed in a comfortable at- titude in an easy-chair, and his white hands, with their slim, nervous fingers, rested on its arms. His hat and cane ornamented a table near by, and his wifes parasol was on the sofa. This was not a pastoral call, merely a pro- longed cousinly visit. Why are they sticks? he asked. Divinity students, she replied, with a certain scorn. Then, with an abrupt resumption of her smooth manner, Dont you think, cousin Robert, that such men are very young? I dont mean in years, some of them are not very young in years, but in experi- ence. They are rather well, raw, you know, or perhaps crude. I think raw is the word you want, he said. They are apt to be raw till some such young lady as you takes them in hand, when they gener- ally get done very brown indeed. She did not reply directly to this. Men like cousin Robert have only them- selves to thank if their feminine ac- quaintance regard them as chiefly useful in preventing conversation from degen- crating into monologue. Papa considers it very unseemly that I do not rate those young men more highly. He says they are well read, and cultivated, and all that. Of course they are. It is their m~tier to be cultivated. But they know books, and nothing else. They dont know life; they dont know human nature. Those young men talk books until I am ready to perish: Herbert Spencer, and systems, and refutations, and every- thing in books, from Pliny up and down. Now, I am tired of Pliny. I have heard all I want to hear about Pliny. I used to read about Pliny myself, a long time ago, when I was young. Papa cant understand all that. He thinks a town with a flourishing theological school is the very place to please a young woman with a cultivated understanding. And among them all I find it dull in Blank- burg, dull as the grave. I hope you do not find society in this city so dull as in Blankburg, said cousin Robert, sympathetically. So far as I can judge, being a stranger, she replied, demurely, her manner conveying an intimation that a visitors verdict must of necessity be favorable, society here may be very pleasant. Now, you must understand, cousin Robert, she added, with a sud- den return of liveliness, and bending upon him convincing eyes, I am not a miss- ish young woman, eager to meet an - Adonis with a dark mustache. I dont want to fall in love, and I dont want to marry any one Very, very magnanimous, mur- mured cousin Robert. but I want to see some interesting people; men who know life, and politics, and the world, and society. She seemed conscious of a little vagueness, for she added, after a moments reflection, I cant explain exactly what I mean. I think I mean men who are intellectual and not eager to display the fact, and polished but not priggish, and who ob- serve instead of expecting others to ob- serve them. I dont care if they are 4 Fe licia. [July, young or old, married or single, Amer- A jean or foreign. I only want them to be interesting. That does nt seem too much to ask of human nature, does it? Cousin Robert admitted that it did not, and added that if the congregation of St. Pauls offered any of the material she approved as entertainment, he might venture to promise that it was at her disposal. She glanced at him archly. Will you warrant them ignorant of Pliny? she asked, mischievously. Then she turned again to the window. Her companion had observed that her attention had very slightly wandered during the last few seconds, as her eyes had rested on some object apparently advancing down the sidewalk. He leaned forward, looked out, and suddenly drew back, with palpable annoyance expressed on his face. Two ladies, who had been discussing in the back parlor a supposed cabal of the disaffected against the Reverend Roberts tenure of office, their conference gain- irig much of confidential effect from the employment of a mysterious undertone and acquiescent nods when words failed, now entered the front room. Mrs. John Hamilton. a plump little lady, with a brilliant complexion and round, intent eyes, might have seemed always listen- ing, so serious was her expression and so marked her general air of attention and responsibility. Mrs. Raymond, on the contrary, seemed irresponsible, in- attentive, and inconsequent. She was much younger than her husband, and was fair-haired, blue-eyed, and childish and indefinite in manner. She looked about vaguely for her parasol, and when she had secured it strolled to her hus- bands armchair, and leaned against it, with her elbows on its back. Is nt it time for us to go home, dear? she suggested. And now came the emergency which drew on cousin Roberts store of tact. Her attitude gave her a glimpse of the street, and of a gentleman at this moment traversing the crossing. Why, Robert, there is Hugh Ken- nett! she exclaimed, suddenly. The gentleman on the crossing raised his eyes; they gravely met those of Miss Hamilton; in another instant lie had passed out of sight, and she looked back into the room. Mr. Raymond had at length relinquished the armchair, and was standing with his back to the win- dow, in such a position that, as he rose to his feet, he must have prevented the passer from recognizing either him or his wife. This fact, his neglect of Mrs. Raymonds question, and a swift, significant glance ho gave her did not escape the attention of our observant young lady; she recognized cousin Rob- erts adroitness. She speculated a little on the subject. Did he want me not to see that they know that gentleman? she said to herself. Cousin Robert was not the sort of man to man~uvre cause- lessly in trifling social emergencies; yet he had clumsily attempted to ignoi~e the existence of his friend. That was an odd thing, thought Felicia, puzzled. Shortly after this the visitors took their departure, and as they walked up the street Mr. Raymond gave his wife a little warning. Amy, be careful how you mention Kennett before your cousin. She is very young and impressionable, and it is undesirable that she should become in- terested in him. She knows very few pleasant people here, and he is an ex- tremely agreeable sort of fellow, and That is an excellent reason why he should be mentioned, said little Mrs. Amy,. with the air of seeing both sides of a question. Oh, good gracious! exclaimed the Reverend Mr. Raymond, like any other exclamatory miserable sinner, think of the old Judge. I forgot the Judge, said Amy, quickly and apprehensively. I will be careful. 1890.] Pelicia. 5 People thus unexpectedly reminded of the Judge were apt to hurriedly con- cede the point, and to wear for some time an anxious and depressed air. II. For a number of mornings previous to the one herein commemorated, Miss Hamilton, whose habit it was to sit, with some slight resource in the way of fancy-work, near one of the windows which looked out upon the quiet sub- urban avenue, had observed a tall, se- date stranger advance along the opposite sidewalk, cross the street, and disappear irom view. Perhaps her attention was attracted because of the regularity of this episode; perhaps because his ap- pearance approximated her somewhat exacting ideal; perhaps because the first time she saw him he was looking at the window with a certain expectancy. Among the accomplishments she had acquired under Madame Seviers tute- lage was not the grace of humility. The idea was instantly suggested that he had before seen her here, and was on the lookout for her. This flattered her and piqued her curiosity, all the more because of the regular recurrence about the same hour of the phenome- non. He was a grave man, twenty-five or thirty years of age; handsome in a certain sense, but not in the style that usually attracts the favorable regards of young girls. He had deeply set gray eyes, an aquillne nose, a large, firm chin, a finely chiseled mouth with flexible lips, about which were lines that showed a capacity for varying expression. The heavy lower jaw and broad, high fore- head gave the face a certain squareness. He was clean - shaven, and his light brown hair was clipped close to a mas- sive head. He wore a well-fitting suit of light cloth and a straw hat. He was tall, well proportioned, and, an experi- enced observer could easily have seen, in good training from the standpoint of athletics. He walked slowly, but at an even pace, looking neither to the right nor the left; and there was noth- ing, apparently, which broke the mo- notony of his methodical progress down the street except the momentary interest with which he glanced at the front win- dow of the corner house. Now, if there had been any recogniz- able betrayal of such interest at this stage of the affair, or any attempt to inaugurate an acquaintance, the matter would have abruptly terminated, and Mr. Hugh Kennett would have had only the view of John Hamiltons closed win- dow-blinds for his pains; for the young lady, with all her caprice, her some- what exaggerated self-esteem, to put it mildly, and her love of excitement, was fastidious, and a devotee to exter- nals. It pleased her that he should look with covert eagerness toward the house, that he should distantly and re- spectfully admire her, and that she should subtly divine his admiration. Since, however, the vanity which re- ceives homage as due is more exacting than the vanity which asserts a claim, the affair was not likely to go further but for the interposition of accident. The accident was of an obvious and simple nature, merely an afternoon call. I think I should like to take the phaeton and go over to see Amy, re- marked Miss Hamilton to her sister-in- law, one day, provided I can secure the society of the festive Frederick. It was the habit in the Hamilton family to allude to the eight-year-old son of the house with a sort of caressing mockery, in phrases of doubtful value as witticisms, but of humorous intent. Mrs. Hamilton replied that it was a pleasant day for the trip, and that the horse and phaeton were entirely at their service. The festive Frederick was four feet high and fractious. To find him was 6 ]Ielicia. [July, a matter of difficulty. When found, he declared tumultuously that he had rather die than go to call at cousin Amys, a reckless assertion, since he was mounted on a bicycle, and destruc- tion seemed to menace him in every yard of his tottering progress. There was a swift exchange of argument and counter-argument. The nephew deftly reclined on his tall steed against a con- venient tree-box, his distorted shadow stretching along the sidewalk among the dappling simulacra of the maple leaves. A golden haze was in the air; down the vista of the street might be seen a vast spread of clustering roofs; spires caught the light and glittered. Very well, said Felicia at last. I dare say I can go alone. Sometimes there are cows on the streets; probably I shall meet some; and if cousin Robert is not at his house, or too busy to drive me home, I may have to come back by myself. There was a pause. The boy on the bicycle wore a troubled and thoughtful air. They have a good many fires in this city, continued the young lady, discursively, and when the engines bang a gong and tear along they al- ways frighten me. However, perhaps I can take care of myself. She turned away resignedly. The heart that beat so ambitiously on the giddy mount was a chivalric heart enough, after all. There was a short scuffle of descent, and the two set out in amity. The Reverend Robert Raymond lived in a portion of the city so secluded that it had a village-like aspect. Farther west were miles of staring, new, red brick dwellings and corner groceries, drug stores, livery stables, all important and busy with neighborhood trade; but this retired region the march of improve- ment, in some inexplicable freak, had spared. Grass and trees surrounded most of the houses, which were old- fashioned, ro~ny, not altogether con- venient according to exacting modern standards, but sufficiently comfortable. Among them was a large, square, two- story brick dwelling, with a wide veranda in front. The shadows were long on the grass, streaked with the yellow rays of the afternoon sun, as Miss Hamilton and her youthful escort took their way up the gravel walk. A man like the rector of St. Pauls usually has some hobby. His hobby was the art of gardening. He never accomplished anything very remarkable; the aid of professionals was the sole reliance before the season was well ad- vanced. But when he pridefully sur- veyed the result of their joint efforts, his calm arrogation to himself singly of the entire merit of his garden was a thing to behold; and every spring his faith that his own work would supply the family with green peas and Hub- bard squash was as consummate as his faith in the Creed. Experience taught him nothing, for cousin Robert was one of those lucky souls who believe the thing that they wish to believe. Felicia saw him now in the kitchen garden at the side of the house, plying his rake among the lettuce; apparently a painful operation, for he was a long man, and the rake was a particularly short rake, being, in fact, his wifes implement for use among the verbenas. Felicias was not a temperament to sympathize with this sort of pursuit. Always potter- ing, she said to herself, with half-affec- tionate, half-contemptuous indignation. And if he must potter, why will ht~ break his back with Amys little old rake? Her disapproval was not, however, sufficient to mar the cordiality of her look and gesture, for she was fond of cousin Robert, as she passed through the garden gate and went swiftly toward him, both hands outstretched and a gay greeting on her lips. Those dewy red lips were smiling; her eyes were softly 1890.] Felicia. 7 bright; a rich bloom mantled her deli- cate cheek; her musical laughter rang out. To the man lounging on the green bench in the grape-arbor near at hand. half concealed by the swaying branches, she seemed the embodiment of the gra- cious season; as joyous, as brilliant, as expressive of life and light, hope and promise, as the early summer-time it- self. For, serious and unimpressionable as he looked, Hugh Kennett had an imagination. His Pegasus had, to be sure, been bitted, and bridled, and trained to run for the cup, but on oc- casion it might bolt like many a less experienced racer. Thus it was that Mr. Kennett evolved a personation in- stead of seeing merely a beautiful young woman, moving with ease and grace, speaking with a refined accent, and dressed, with a certain individuality of taste, in a light gray costume, embroi- dered elaborately and delicately with purple pansies that matched well her dark eyes. Being a man of taste as well as imagination, and particularly alert as to the minutia~ of effect, her attitude, the harmonies of the colors she wore, the dainty details, appealed as strongly, though less poetically, to his cultivated perceptions. At the sound of her voice, Mr. Ray- mond turned, with a start. She was a little chilled by a suggestion of constraint in his tones and manner, apparent when he greeted her, and still more when he introduced his companion, whom until now she had not seen. Hugh Kennett had risen; he had a cigar in his hand. He was looking at her with attention; their eyes met. Madame Seviers training did not comprehend every emergency. Notwith- standing her habit of society, the young lady was for a moment embarrassed; she flushed deeply, and her perceptible timidity contrasted agreeably with her manner an instant ago. You are always busy, cousin Rob- ert, she said, glancing down at the lettuce, and conscious of the extreme flatness of her remark. Say, cousin Robert, exclaimed Fred, who had delayed, to exchange greetings with a very old, very fat, very dignified pointer on the portico, and who now came up with the eagerness of the small boy to participate in the conversation, say, why nt ye sen yer peas, an squashes, an apples, ter the fair, nex fall? I jus know yer d git the prize. Say, wont yer sen some ov em this year? Well, I dont know about that, said cousin Robert, leading the way to the house. Oh, you bet I would, if I was a man an~ had a garden ~ cried the boy, attempting to possess himself of the rake of the reverend gentleman, who in turn attempted to playfully elude him, and succeeded in making it apparent that no juvenile amateur gardening was de- sired. By the time the party reached the portico, where two ladies in white dresses were profuse in hospitable greetings and offers of the cane chairs that were grouped about in the shadow of the vines, Felicias unwonted embar- rassment had worn away, and she was mischievously amused by the look of anxious inquiry which Amy cast upon Robert and the shade of discomfort on his face. In her youthful self-suffi- ciency she suddenly arrived, as she f an- cied, at an explanation of their disquiet. Cousin Robert seemed to find the in- troduction a trial, she reflected, rapid- ly. And the other day he wished to prevent me from seeing that they know his friend, whom he apparently desires to keep in jewelers cotton. Does he consider me so dangerous as all that, such an ogre that they are afraid for their precious Hugh Kennett? I think, I really think, Felicia, she concluded, gleefully apostrophizing herself, you must give your cousin Robert some- thing to be uneasy about. 8 Pelicia. [July, By way of accomplishing this pur- pose she proceeded per ambages. Mr. Raymond, accustomed to her vivacity, it may even be admitted her loquacity, was thrown off his guard. Madame Sevier, a very xvise person in a certain sense, had numerous theories as to the elements which go to make that finished expres- sion of society, a charming woman, and one of these was apropos of the unlove- liness of talk. Talk, she would de- clare, is not conversation. The great- est enemy a woman of mind must con- tend against is her own tongue. It is not what she has to say that matters; it is what she is. If a beautiful girls faculties are absorbed in expressing her ideas, which in the nature of things are not valuable, she loses what is both val- uable and artistic, the charm of her individuality. A certain phase of intel- lectual adolescence is interesting because of its possibilities and its divinations, but this must disappear as soon as the as- sumptions of the thinker come to be con- sidered, especially when they are urged with the fatally didactic manner which seems to be inseparable from every woman who has views. Perhaps her favorite pupil had pro- fited by these axioms; perhaps she was silent only because she had become in- terested in the talk of the others; cer- tainly, to those who knew her best she had never appeared to such advantage. She was a conspicuous figure in her circle, and it was the habit of her friends to discuss her much, comparing her to herself on different occasions, what she wore, how she looked, what she said. This afternoon there was a sort of still brilliance upon her; though she spoke seldom, her smile held ~the charm of an indefinite, delightful promise; a certain eloquence of expression shone in her bright, dark eyes. Sundry theories were not included in cousin Roberts philosophy. It did not occur to him that the young lady talked to him much because she considered him little; he took heart of grace. A dashing girl like Felicia would never give a second thought to such a sedate fellow as Kennett, he assured himself. Deprived of Miss Hamiltons con- versational aptitude, the party on Mr. Raymonds portico presented, however, no aspect of Carthusian or Trappist gathering. His mother - in - law, Mrs. Emily Stanley-Brant, was visiting the young couple, and she had no theories as to the unloveliness of talk. She kindly entertained the company. Now, everybody knows, or ought to know, that it was a great blessing to have been born one of the Stanleys. The reasons why this was a blessing are so apparent as to need no explanation; the Stanleys being so highly reputable and estimable a family, well endowed with this worlds goods, and holding ad- ditional prominence because possessing certain political and legal magnates. It was particularly appropriate that this representative of the Stanleys should have added lustre to the family by her marriage to a certain notable Ex-Gov- ernor Brant. Although he was greatly her senior, it seemed as much a love- match as so ambitious a woman might achieve. A man who had gone so often to Congress, and who had sat for many years on the judicial bench, fulfilled the most exacting ideal of which she could conceive, even had his personal charac- ter been less valuable than that of the unexceptionable but prosaic old gentle- man she survived. He had been long since gathered to his fathers, but still lived in the reverential, if discursive, reminiscences of his relict. How he rose by degrees to eminence; how he was elected by overwhelming majorities to the state legislature, to Congress, to the United States Senate; his friends, his enemies, the causes he espoused, the policies he deprecated, Mrs. Emily Stanley-Brants acquaintances sometimes heard of these things. The gentleman 1890.] Felicia. 9 whose triumphs were thus celebrated had been a respectable enough politician of the old school, and it is very credita- ble to human nature that it was possi- ble for wifely pride to transform him into a hero. Her faith in him served the double purpose of keeping his memory green, and of warding off from the endan- gered company cousin Roberts account which he was aching to give of the steps he had taken last autumn with the strawberries, and the extreme- ly satisfactory result attained by plant-~ ing in hills and ruthlessly cutting away all runners. The nethermost abysses were not immediately reached. The conversation was not agricultural, and the worst that the party was called upon for a time to endure were the mel- low contralto and the reminiscences of Mrs. Brant. The ex-governor as a theme was not forced upon the company. She was not malapropos; indeed, he was merely in- troduced en jpassant, in an allusion to Hugh Kennetts father, in a tributary manner, as it were, to the personal con- versation. Your name is very familiar to me, Mr. Kennett, she said, smiling upon him across the portico, as she sat by Felicias side. I remember your fa- ther well. I saw him a number of times when I was first in Washington. He was quite a young man, but aheady notable in his profession. My husband had then just been elected to Congress on the Whig ticket, ah, such a bard- fought contest, Mr. Kennett! Party feeling ran high in those times. People had no lukewarm blood in their veins then. Only Governor Brants personal popularity carried him through. He had his own views of political measures, and the event justified him, yes, in- deed, always justified him. She spoke in an even, agreeable voice; the very tone embodied so en- tire a faith in her own words that it imposed concurrence. She had a hand- some face, of a somewhat imperial type: dark, expressive eyes; a small, finely shaped head, held well back; glossy~ chestnut hair, showing an occasional gleam of gray in its abundance, which was brushed in waving masses on each side of her broad, high brow, and ar- ranged in a heavy coil at the back of her head. She was tall and imposing, and moved with a majestic grace; her manner expressed kindness, considera- tion, even deference, and yet instilled, in some brilliant, subtle way, the idea that she could well afford to be so po- lite, being Mrs. Emily Stanley-Brant. Some very thin-skinned people inter- preted this manner of conciliation and subcurrent of satisfaction as condescen- sion, which Felicia Hamilton, in the exercise of a talent that she possessed, the talent of vicariously experiencing, divined that this stranger in especial must find rather marked. Mrs. Brant was almost offensively gracious to Mr. Kennett: she selected him to the exclu- sion of the others as the recipient of her remarks; she bent upon him her most amiable smile. You resemble your father, she said; yes, very much. And I am told you inherit his talents. The tones of your voice in speaking remind me of him. Very remarkable man, and very suc- cessful, yes, indeed. My husband at once predicted his success. Emily, he said to me, that young man, that young Kennett, will rise high, mark my words. And the prediction was veri- fied, yes, indeed. Your father held a high place in his calling, no doubt about that. Her politeness was so extreme that it was flavored with the sentiment of noblesse oblige. How does our gentle- man like to be patted on the back in that style? thought Felicia, in secret amusement. She glanced at him, but his face told her nothing. It seemed now a singularly inexpressive face, or 10 J?elieia. [July, he held it in singularly strong control. His gray eyes were fixed on Mrs. Brants handsome countenance, he made the , proper murmur of assent and reply, and this was all, and it baffled Felicia. Per- haps he is only stupid, she thought, in disgust. Your father had a very full, rotund voice, pursued Mrs. Brant. I should judge that he sang well. He only sang a little for his own pleasure, answered the visitor. He never studied. The talent for music should always be cultivated, continued Mrs. Brant, never dropping that soup~on of conde- scension. A beautiful art, Mr. Ken- nett. And it is such a pity that so much money is spent upon it to so little pur- pose. Now, there s my Amy. I said, Now, my child, Nature has done her part, a lovely natural voice, Mr. Ken- nett, high and sweet; you would be sur- prised. I sent her North, I secured the best professors. And the result is she held up her soft white hands ex- pressively, palms outward, as if to show the company that nothing was in them the result is all wasted! She has nt opened a piano a dozen times since her marriage! Four pairs of eyes turned upon the abashed Amy, who seemed very youth- ful as she looked deprecatingly up from under her fair hair. Mr. Kennetts voice took on something of the reassur- ing tone with which one encourages a timid child. Why do you give up your singing, cousin Amy? he asked. Oh, she hesitated, Robert does nt care for music. He glanced at Raymond with a smile. Then his eyes met Felicias. You and Amy are cousins? she asked, in surprise. I did nt know that. Robert and I are cousins, he ex- plained. Oh! she said. Was it inadvertence, was it coquetry? While his eyes were still on her face, her lips curved softly into a smile; those dainty dimples appeared on her cheeks; her purple eyes, so dark, yet so bright, were smiling, too. She looked straight at him. Do I understand this? she said, innocently. If you are Roberts cou- sin, of course you are Amys cousin, and Amy is my cousin, and are you my cousin, too? She raised her deli- cate black eyebrows inquiringly. Mrs. Stanley-Brant gasped a little. Mr. Raymond frowned. Amy had the air of cowering back into the recesses of her big cane armchair. Hugh Kennetts eyes were steadily fixed on Miss Ham- iltons face. He did not quite interpret her. He was not sure if this were na- ivet6 or intention. He only knew that a very beautiful woman was looking at him with the most delightful expression he had ever seen. He had had a wide experience of life, sometimes sordid, sometimes imbued with a certain bril- liance; he thought he had forgotten, among more tangible aims and emotions, the thrill and vague complexity of feel- ing which stirred him for an instant. A dark flush mounted slowly to his face. He said gravely that to he even a distant relative of hers would he a great privilege. The training of Madame Seviers pupil, if nothing more, made her abun- dantly aware that her freak was inex- cusable, but it must be confessed that she experienced no penitence. She was pleased with the stiffness of his reply; she was mischievously delighted with the discomfiture of the others, although it had begun to greatly puzzle her. Cousin Robert was not destined to remain in disastrous eclipse. In the somewhat awkward pause that ensued, it chanced that the breeze stirred sud- denly with an audible murmur the fo- liage about the portico. It seemed to him very adroit to call attention to the 1890.] honeysuckle vines intertwined in cables about t~e posts, and tell how they should be planted, pruned, and trained. This led, by one of those easy digressions which come so deftly to men of his pro- fession, to the subject of horticulture generally, and he elaborated at some length his theory of the proper sys- tem in the case of the tomato plant: that it should be trained against trellises, carefully fertilized with the best South American guano; that the principal stalk should be allowed to branch out laterally; that all other branches should be ruthlessly suppressed; that half the blooms should be pinched off while yet in the bud, what did cousin Robert care for Irishisms on a theme like this? that it should be sprinkled generously before sunrise and after sunset in dry weather. And in six weeks, he declared, tri- umphantly, I shall be able to give you tomatoes, cultivated on this principle, luscious as strawberries, red as blood, and big as my hat. And while he thus held forth, the twilight advanced apace. The after- glow of the sunset sifted through the leaves on Felicia Hamiltons face, all etherealized by the poetic light, and touched with a soft gleam her violet eyes, as they rested on the shadow- flecked turf outside. Far away, the rumbllng of an occasional horse-car, or the lighter roll of buggies carrying sub- urban residents homeward, invaded the stillness. There was a lakelet, or per- haps only a miasmatic pool, in the neigh- borhood, from which frogs croaked in strophe and antistrophe, the sound mellowed by the distance. The air was imbued with that primal enchantment of summer which belittles all coming later, the delicious fragrance of honey- suckle; it seemed to have lured two humming-birds from their downy domi- ciles, and they were evidently gayly bent upon making a night of it, as they quaffed the sweet wine of the flowers in the lingering flush of the red sunset. Felicia. 11 Them humn-birds aint no good, remarked Fred. They cant sing, an they re so little an teen-ty. He gazed up at the fluttering things, as airy, as alluring, as vaguely glancing, as a fancy, a fascination, a dream, the impulse of a poem yet unwritten. Swans! he continued, enthusias- tically, the.y re the fellers fur my money. Them swans at the Pawk, eh, aunt Flish? He rolled over on his side, as he lay at her feet on the floor, and changed the position of his head, which he had pil- lowed on the old pointer, who moaned and wheezed in meek objection. It is my privilege, said Miss Hamilton, rising, to drive with this young man to the Park every Saturday afternoon, the one meagre holiday that falls to his toilsome scholastic lot. If he does nt go home and get some sleep, he may not be able to make the trip to-morrow. So we must tear ourselves away.~~ Fred rose nimbly. An we have most bully drives ter the Pawk, you bet! he exclaimed, vivaciously. An we aint missed a Satday since she s been in town. Mr. Raymond accompanied them to the gate, and assisted Felicia into the phaeton. Soon the clatter of hoofs and the roll of wheels arose, as they disap- peared down the street into the purple shadows of the coming twilight. I- About four oclock on warm after- noons, there was an interval of quiet, almost of somnolence, in the Lawrence Hotel. The rush of lunch was over; that of dinner had not begun; no trains were due or departing; the glare was tempered to a cool half-light; decorous officials lounged behind their desks. When a voice fell upon the air from the direction of the bar-room, it seemed 12 Pelicia. [July, peculiarly loud and assertive, being ro- tund and penetrating in quality, and invading the stillness argumentatively. It was interrupted by another, a deep bass, embroidered, so to speak, by sev- eral bursts of rich laughter. Then the marble floor resounded with rapid foot- falls, and the sleepy clerks roused them- selves. One of the men who entered hurriedly was a slim, wiry, active fel- low, perhaps thirty-five years of age; he was much flushed, his steps were unsteady, and he betrayed a tendency to emphatic gesticulation. His features were irregular and very mobile; his eyes were gray and deep-set; heavy wrinkles about his mouth and brow made him seem older than he was. His suit of blue flannel needed brushing, and his straw hat, set far back on his head, also gave evidence of careless wear. His companion was younger, tall, bru- nette, slim, debonair, point-device as to his perfectly fitting light gray suit, and joyous as to spirits. These two emerged into the office as Hugh Kennett entered from the street. At sight of him the younger pushed in advance of his com- panion. Hello, Kennett! he cried, in his deep, gay voice. You re just in time. Look at Abbott; he s trying to shirk his just obligations in the shabbiest way, and his full, rich laughter vibrated on the air. It s all right! exclaimed Abbott, coming to a sudden stop, and confront- ing Kennett with a grave, flushed face and an argumentative eye. Fellr dont want t be swindled, ye know. Dont propose to pay more n ought to pay, matter princple, ye see. A clerk from the bar-room, a fresh- faced young man, evidently inexperi- enced and oppressed by a sense of con- flicting duties, the propitiation of patrons and the responsibility to his employers, had followed the two with hesitation. He also quickened his steps at sight of Kennett, and, addressing him by name, explained, with some vague effort to make light of the matter, that this gen- tleman had treated a number of his friends the previous evening, and now complained of the amount of his bill. Could nt have drunk all that cham- pagne, Kennett, declared Abbott, look- ing with tipsy solemnity into the others eyes, if wed all been damned fishes, wales, ye know; give y m word we could nt. The young man in the gray suit again burst into laughter; it was rather loud. He was contradictorily gentleman- ly and prononce; he was too dashing for good style, yet he had ease and smoothness. He made a comical gri- mace, which was at once irresistible and reprehensible. The thing s impossible. They re trying to swindle you, he said. Dont you think, Preston, you carry a joke to extremes? demanded Ken- nett, glancing with annoyance at the group attracted by the loud voices, and wearing faces in which curiosity and contemptuous amusement were blended. Then he turned to Abbott. You will be late, if you dont look out. Nevr fear, old fellr. Made a hit last night; goin t make a ten strike to- night, see f I dont. Goin t fly high, bet all ye re worth on that. Goin t float with wind an tide, see f I dont. Goin t make my fortune. He uttered this string of incompatible similes with an airy wave of the hand ~vhich, if he had been sober, might have been eminently graceful. You have made your fortune already. You had better take a carriage now and go home. He is not fit for any- thing, Preston. Why dont you get him away? But Abbott laid his hand on Kennetts shoulder. You re my bes friend, Ken- nett, he declared. You saw what I could do. You understood me. You pushed me. Old Hoaxem never would have found out what was in me if you 1890.] Fe licia. 13 had nt put him up to it. You re my bes bes friend. He began to show alarming lachry- inose symptoms. There was a touch of real feeling in his voice, but also no little of the pathos of alcohol in various forms. Tke spectators grinned. Ken- nett shook him off impatiently. Preston again burst into laughter, and, catching Abbotts arm, dragged him to the door, while Kennett walked back to the bar- room with the custodian of liquid trea- sures. Sorry to trouble you, sir, said the anxious, fresh-faced young clerk, as Ken- nett paid the residue of the bill, which Abbott, in his wisdom, had seen fit to eliminate. It will be all right when he gets sober.~~ That fellow seems considerable of a scamp, observed an old gentleman standing near, who took his straight. Kennett loyally denied it. He is a good fellow and very talented, he de- clared, but he has some friends who like to see him make a fool of himself. By the time he returned to the office it had resumed the normal quiet of the hour. He threw himself into one of the red velvet armchairs, lighted a ci- gar, and took up a newspaper. He glanced at it a few moments, then let it fall on his knee. The noises on the street were languid and intermittent; nobody came or went. He took his ci- gar from his lips, eyed it meditatively, then, suddenly, Why not? he said, why not? and rose to his feet. He replaced his cigar, threw aside his paper, and walked, not briskly, he never walked briskly, but with a certain definiteness of intention, to the door. The jangling of an approaching street- car bell grew momently louder, as he waited under the striped awning. He walked out into the blinding sunshine, stepped upon the platform, and was borne with sufficient expedition toward the suburbs. In the week that had elapsed since he met Miss Hamilton he had seen her once or twice at the windows of her brothers house, and once in the per- spective of the side yard, where, among the ornament~tl shrubbery, there were garden-seats and a hammock that swung in the shade. A lady was with her, and several children. He recognized Freds voice, half unintelligible because of overweening enthusiasm. It seemed a vivacious family group. For the past day or so, however, she had not been visible. He thought she had probably left town. Last evening this conjecture was disproved. He passed the house about eleven oclock. It was brilliantly lighted, but the blinds were drawn, ex- cept in one of the parlor windows. He heard the murmur of voices and laugh- ter. For one instant there were visible, through the square of the window, the head and shoulders of the young lady as she crossed the room. In the swift transit something pink which she was wearing poetically took on the similitude of a rosy cloud, from which her face shone like a star. A gentleman was beside her blonde, handsome, young. They made a pretty picture for the in- stant that they might be seen. She is having a fine time, said Hugh Kennett. I suppose that s the favored suitor. He laughed at himself, a moment later. I seem to have a grudge against that youngster, he said, because she sits at the window sometimes. And he went on in the light of the summer moon. To paraphrase a well-known apothegm, if you do not entertain your frivolous young lady, she will entertain herself. Up to this time Miss Hamilton had had every faculty of an alert, receptive, re- tentive intellect trained to its utmost possibility in an entirely personal direc- tion. Affairs of general moment, every phase of outside life, of thought, of cul- ture, had been presented to her intellec- tual consciousness as instinct with but one vital element, their effect upon Fe- 14 Pelicia. [July, licia Hamiltons identity. She had ac- quired habits of industry and an eager mental activity which, so far, had found scope enough in the scheme of acquisi- tion devised for her, and which, now that the limits of this scheme were reached, gave a certain poignancy to this moment, while her life stood ex- pectant, and demanded of the future, What next? There seemed a vagueness in all possible reply. Her mental disci- pline had tended to no practical end; her carefully cultivated social qualifica- tions had no field. If so intense a na- ture and so alert an intellect had been in the passionate possession of a defi- nite ambition; if, on the other hand, so worldly a woman had commanded a full measure of worldly interests and absorp- tions, there could have ensued no sense of vacuity. In either case, she would not probably have given as yet half a dozen moments to the thought of Hugh Kennett. The episode of casually meet- ing him would have slipped into the past with many slight episodes. But in the simply ordered routine of her days there was little to occupy her attention; she was strangely lonely, one would say, seeing her surrounded by the family group. That was the trouble. It was eminently the domestic atmosphere she was called upon to breathe, and her lungs were not trained to this air. She found a certain monotony in a life of which the most lively incidents were preserving fruit or putting away blan- kets in camphor for the summer, espe- cially as her interest in the matter was that of the entirely disinterested specta- tor. She was fond of her sister-in-law and the children; their society, however, did not absorb all her faculties. To be sure, this was very objectionable. A wo- man of fine mind and feeling should be able to discover resources in simple plea- sures and an uneventful routine; but que voulez-vous? Promise a richly spiced diet of daily excitement, and does not the nutritious oatmeal become insipid? John Hamilton and his wife were hap- pily and sturdily unaware how limited were their resources for entertainment as measured from their visitors stand- point. They accorded, as they supposed, all due consideration to the amusement of their young guest. They took her several times to the theatre; they drove her through the parks; they showed her the notable pictures; they gave her an evening. This evening bored IFe licia to the verge of coma. John Hamilton would have laughed to scorn the idea that society could be anything of a serious affair; that the best results are attained by experts who pursue it with acumen and diligence, and with mental exercises that have some analogy to the careful vaticina- tions of chances and of elements which a man of business gives to the stock fluctuations on Change. Social life he regarded with that peculiar sort of half- amused nonchalance characteristic of a rural magnate, who had found it an ex- ceedingly simple matter in his village home and in the large provincial city contiguous, where he and his family were as well known as the court-house or the university at which he had re- ceived his collegiate education. To his mind, people who were not aware that this favored region was the most de- lightful on earth, its educational facili- ties were the most superior, and its so- ciety was the most agreeable, were people much to be pitied. He was a man of inherited fortune, independent of his ex- pectations from his father. He had of late years greatly increased his business ventures, and, having nerve and money and luck on his side, he was rapidly making a large fortune. In extending his operations, the advantageous field offered by Chilounatti had been pressed upon his attention, and some six months earlier he had removed thither; taking with him a certain dash and an en- terprise that instantly began to make it- self felt in financial circles, and taking 1890.] Felicia. 15 also his imperative personality, his bree- zy, good-humored manner, and his dis- regard of conventionality in its more exacting sense. It was owing to vari- ous cumulative and ramifying effects of some of these circumstances and traits of character that the evening pre- sented some features which might distin- guish it from many similar entertain- ments. A new-coiner into any society, with the definite claims of money and family, is apt to be the recipient of its respect- ful attentions, and when Hamilton de- sired to ask a few people to meet his sister he was at no loss for material. He cast about and invited somewhat at haphazard among various families who had been especially polite to him and his wife. It did not occur to him, how- ever, that while his guests were heavy weights financially and socially, most of them were equally ponderous mentally, and that he had not secured a sufficient quantity of a lighter and more vivacious element to leaven the entertainment, and render it altogether congenial to a person of the fair beneficiarys age and temperament. The majority of the com- pany, substantial business potentates, stolidly partook of the conversation and the viands, and lent as much of anima- tion to the occasion as did their wives or the armchairs. There was a sprin- kling of beaux: a young lawyer, heavy and monosyllabic, with an unresponsive and suspicious eye; a rising architect, whose reputation for talent he was ap- parently conscious needed constant vin- dication; he vindicated it by a haughty inclination to silence, and when he did speak as much of covert sarcasm as was admissible. There were also two young collegians, Seniors in a locally celebrated university, one blonde and rather shy, the other a trifle flippant. Both of these seemed very distrustful of Felicia; indeed, all the unmarried m~n apparently thought it necessary to be on their guard against her, perhaps as vaguely dangerous, perhaps lest a chance word of theirs might minister, contrary to their intention, to her self-approval, which they divined and irrationally re- sented. The married men regarded her with mild indifference. The young la- dies, who were somewhat mature (it is a recognized anomaly that while the mar- ried lady is still young, her compeer, yet unmarried, is distinctly pass6e), these ladies appreciated her sparkle, her grace, her poise, her gracious little coquetry, which they had the insight to perceive she wore like her flowers, as embellishment to herself and in com- pliment to the guests and the festivity; not by way of tribute to her interlocu- tor, as the young architect, the lawyer, and the collegians fancied one moment, and half angrily doubted the next. These young men had the touchy vanity peculiar to immature years and inexperience, when, unfortunately, it is not neutralized by geniality or frivolity. They took themselves, Felicia, and the occasion with the utmost seriousness, not to say tragically~ Mrs. Hamiltons friends had heard much of her sister-in-law, who was, in her way, something of a social celebrity. It was with very genuine curiosity that they looked at the young lady dressed in faint pink, with a Wonderful contrast of darkly red roses on her bosom and in her hand. She held a large pink fan with a full-blown rose and bud painted with such realism that she seemed to have robbed her dress for it; she waved it slowly back and forth; occasionally she opened and shut it. She had great ease of manner. However many were about her, she bestowed some words on each, and a gracious smile; she listened with an appearance of deep interest to whatever was said, and replied aptly and spiritedly. More than one of our young gentlemen esteemed this uncandid, she could nt be so pleased as that with bald-headed old Harcourt, you know, or that blushing fool, young Osborne. She 16 Felicia. [July, looked at them softly and brightly. The mature young ladies thought she made eyes at the gentlemen; it must be ad- mitted she made them very impartially. The burden of the entertainment de- volved upon the guest of the evening, and the manner in which she acquitted herself of the responsibility extorted more appreciation than she supposed. She had her reward, however, such as it was, when the guests took leave, to see that there was a trifle of animation and even gayety among them, and in the approval of John Hamilton and his wife. What a brilliant, brilliant evening! cried Mrs. Hamilton; as the door shut on the last guest. Oh, Felicia, how exquisite you look, and how delightfully you made it go off! What pleasure it is going to give me to entertain often in this lovely way! Felicia hardly knew whether to laugh or to cry. After she shut herself into her own room she decided upon the latter course, and shed a few tears of vexation and fatigue. How was it, she asked herself, that she could not come across any agreeable people? Were she and cousin Robert the only conversable human beings in this great city? Per- haps it was because she knew so few, so very few. Perhaps she had not no- ticed before it is necessary to meet two or three hundred people in order to winnow the mass, and extract the in- frequent half dozen or so pleasant friends who make life endurable. How dull the whole affair had been, this evening, and how unendurable was life! With her temperament and at her age one has no future; the temporary disappointment curtained her horizon with as distinct a cloud as a real sorrow. What better could John have done? she said. He could not help it if he knew nobody interesting. She believed there was no- body that was interesting in the place. She could not remember a face with a spark of intelligence, except that of the silent man she met at cousin Roberts. She supposed he had some brains; he looked as if he had. With his face the last image in her mind, she fell asleep. The next morning she again remem- bered Hugh Kennett, and at breakfast, after a full discussion of the festivity of the previous evening, she asked her brother if he knew a cousin of cousin Roberts, a man named Kennett. Never heard of him, said John Hamilton, buttering his roll with quick strokes. He was eating in a hurry, for breakfast was late, as is meet after a party. He was in a good humor, how- ever: the evening had gone off very well, his wife was pleased, and he sup- posed his sister was delighted. He passes here every day, about eleven, persisted Felicia. A tall man, who has no mustache or beard, and usually wears a sort of fawn-col- ored suit, sometimes blue, sometimes a gray suit. Dont recognize the description, passes here every day at eleven? He brushed away with his napkin the crumbs adhering to the long, fair mus- tache that swept across his full, florid cheek, and fixed his blue eyes on his sisters face. Felicia, he said, with mock gravity, dont have anything to say to any fellow even if he is Ray- monds cousin who does nt go down town till eleven oclock. He must be president of a bank, a faro-bank. He burst into a loud laugh at his own witticism, and catching up his Derby hat put it on his head, where it for- tunately concealed an expanse of pre- mature baldness, and revealed only a fringe of close-clipped brown hair. He was light on his feet for a heavy man, and in another instant his rapid step resounded down the hall; the door closed with a bang; he dashed into a passing car, and was instantly absorbed in abstruse calculations concerning the possible corner in wheat, as oblivious to the fact of a girls vague and delicate complications of feeling as though no 1890.] Felicia. 17 such subtle and imperative force were in existence. When Fred reminded his aunt, that afternoon, of her promise to drive with him to the Park, he was disgusted to perceive that she seemed disposed to shirk her obligation. She was tired, she said; she felt languid, perhaps it was a touch of malaria. Besides, did nt he see what she was doing? This was the. babys flannel petticoat she was em- broidering as a surprise for his mother. Would nt he be pleased to see his little sister wear a petticoat with such deep embroidery? And what a pretty design! roses and lilies, so appropriate. But Fred said he would nt be pleased at all. I aint goin ter let you off fur nothin, just trine ter cheat me outn my trip, because you know mamma wont lemme go by myself, when ther aint one bit of danger, nohow, whined Fred. He raised his stormy freckled face, almost as red with to-days varied ex- periences as if it had been parboiled. Expostulation, surly disfavor, impend- ing outbreak, and entreaty were oddly blended in his eloquent blue eyes; his hat was pushed far back on his dishev- eled flaxen hair, which was beaded with moisture, and stood upright from his brow in damp wisps. His complica- tion of expressions moved Felicia; she began to fold her work. An I think a smart girl like you, continued Fred, with his own inimitable patronage, might find somethin nicer ter do than workin old flowrs in an old babys petticoat, when she dont know a rose from a tadpole. No doubt you are right about that, said Felicia, with a laugh. She might have had for her drive more improving and intellectual com- panionship, but it would have been difficult to surpass Fred on the score of animation. He chatted without cessa- tion, in high feather; now and again his cackling juvenile laughter split the VOL. txvi. ~o. 393. 2 air. Felicia, too, was well pleased. The afternoon was soft, yet fresh; the horse was gentle and spirited, and very fast; the roads were excellent; from the crests of the many slight elevations were fine views of purple hills and green and yellow fields; now and then were visible the silver curves of the river, all softened by the distance and the transmuting afternoon sunshine. She appreciated intensely that quaint combination of ingenuousness, conceit, generosity, and selfishness which char. acterizes callow male human nature, and she had not been sufficiently long an intimate of Freds to wear thread- bare the interest she took in his pecu- liarities. It was her habit to conduct herself toward him with a certain Ca- maraderie, serious or mirthful accord- ing to circumstances; and he accepted her tone in all good faith, nothing doubting that his consequence was as definite as her manner implied. Thus they bowled cheerily along the broad thoroughfare, overtaking and passing many other pleasure-seekers in vehicles and on horseback; past hand. some suburban residences, with lawns and gardens, growing gradually more extensive; past vacant lots, with big placards inscribed For Sale conspic- uously displayed; past now and then a field, which was some day to be di- vided into lots and also placarded, and perhaps in the good time coming to be built up, when the City of Splendid Promises should redeem some of its pledges to futurity and extend thus far; past here and there sparse strips of woodland. And all at once more houses, although it seemed a nioment ago that the country was almost reached, plenty of them, too; city houses, showy, expensive, and modern. And here was the broad, impressive entrance to the Park, crowded with vehicles com- ing and going, presided over by mem- bers of the Park police, and by a great equestrian statue, looking down silent 18 lielicia. [July, and inscrutable. It was not disagree- able, after a time, to turn from the wide, much-frequented graveled drives down one of the quiet woodland ways. The sunshine and shadows flecked the road before them; vistas of greenery, upon which were imposed the brown boles of oak and hickory trees, stretched on each side; now and again the ground fell away in gentle grassy slopes; here they caught sight of a great burst of yellow sunshine flooding an open space in the distance, and here were steep banks and a stream gliding far below; the shadows were thick; the vegetation crowded close about the water; the horses hoofs fell with a hollow sound as they pulled him into a walk, and they crossed the bridge slowly; and now on the opposite banks and away, the ground flying beneath the feet of the good Kentucky trotter. In this portion of the Park little in the way of landscape gardening had been done, the attractions of the place be- ing judiciously entrusted to well-tended smooth dirt roads, and forest trees growing as Nature chose along the hill- sides and about the levels. But upon emerging suddenly from the shaded ways into the sunshine, the more con- ventional aspect of flower-beds, foun- tains, lakelets, grottoes, and fanciful pa- goda-like structures was presented. A stone basin by the roadside, through which a stream of water was flowing, all at once reminded Fred that he might introduce the element of variety into the expedition. We aint give Henry Clay one drop of water since we started! he exclaimed, reining up suddenly. He cant be thirsty. Dont stop, protested Felicia. If, however, one makes it a habit to place a boy of eight on a plane of con- sequence and dignity, it is not improb- able that he will indorse the status in a manner and to a degree not always convenient. Fred, willful under all cir cumstances, was particularly resentful of authority where Felicia was con- cerned. She had herself to blame for the state of mind in which he composedly descended, paying not the slightest at- tention to her words, stood on tiptoe, laboriously unfastened the check-rein, and led the horse to the trough. The animal was evidently not thirsty, but he thrust his nozzle into the water and went through the motions of drinking, now and then turning his intelligent eyes contemplatively on the round, rosy face of the boy at his head. The sunshine was bright on his glossy bay coat that shone like satin; the wind whispered through the leaves; a thrush was sing- ing in the clump of lilacs near by; some few belated blooms sent up on the air their delicate fragrance. Felicia sat in the phaeton waiting, the reins in her hands. At this moment, unluckily, a boy, a year or two older than Fred, came can- tering down the road on a black pony. He stopped upon seeing the party at the trough, and the two boys greeted each other as Damon and Pythias might have done after a separation of years, if both had been suffering from the in- firmity of deafness. Fred dropped the check-rein which he had been holding, and ran to the side of the pony. Sud- denly, to Felicias amazement and hor- ror, she saw him, after a short confer- ence, loud enough, but unintelligible to her, put his foot into the stirrup and scramble up behind his friend. In reply to her eager remonstrance, he turned upon her an excited eye and a grave, sunburned face. You just wait here for me, he said, peremptorily. I ye got to go to this boys an see his new rabbit-house. He lives just outside the Pawk. I ll be back drecly. You just wait. Objection was useless. Felicia had merely time to open her lips for the purpose, when the two equestrians were off like the wind, clattering toward the 1890.] Felicia. 19 southern gates, leaving the wratliful young lady sitting in the phaeton, and Henry Clay looking after them in dig- nified surprise, until he bethought him- self of the trough and occupied himself with pretending to drink. The moments passed wearily. Now and again, Felicia, hearing the sound of rapid hoof-beats, would turn her head expectantly, to see only strangers gallop by. At length, tired and restless, she descended from the phaeton, slipped the hitching-rein through a ring on a post that stood in convenient proximity, and addressed herself to systematically wait- ing for the truant rabbit-fancier. She strolled up and down the walks; she gathered a few clover blooms and offered them to Henry Clay, who accepted them languidly, looking at her, she fancied, with a touch of contemptuous commiser- ation; she bethought herself of a book which had been placed in the phaeton, in order that she and Fred could take it, on their way home, to a friend of Mrs. Hamiltons. She returned to the phae- ton, secured the volume, and placed her- self on one of the benches that stood on the grassy margin of the lake. She did not read, however; the breeze fluttered the leaves, and brought to her many per- fumes from the fantastically shaped beds of flowers near by; the expanse of water dimpled in the sunshine; a boat, filled with children and with its pennons fly- ing, was making its way toward the island; some swans, slowly sailing about, arched their necks, and approached, and receded, until one, bolder than the rest, waddled up the bank toward the young lady, with sharp, unmusical cries of in- sistence. It seemed all at once to real- ize that it had mistaken her for some human friend in the habit of bringing a supply of cake or cracker; it paused, gazed at her intently, its head inquir- ingly on one side, its long neck stretched laterally toward her; it turned as sud- denly, waddled off, glided into the water, and gracefully floated away. Felicias smile was still on her lips, when, observing that a shadow had fallen across her page, she looked up. That seemed a case of mistaken identity, said Hugh Kennett, referring to the birds noticeable manoeuvre. He was lifting his hat; the gesture was cere- monious, but he was smiling as he looked at her, smiling like an old friend. It was disappointed, said Felicia. I believe you drive out to this park rather frequently with your little bro- ther. My little nephew, corrected Fe- licia. Yes, every Saturday. He does nt deserve to come again. I can am preciate Ariadnes despair. He left me here, while he has gone to look at an- other boys rabbit-house. She was in the habit of being much attended, and she deprecated that she should be sitting here alone, seeming, she fancied, rather forlorn, but she at- tempted to carry off the matter as jaunti- ly as possible. I am very angry with him, but I suppose I shall forgive him before his next holiday. He considers me pledged for Saturdays. They have music here on some of the other afternoons. But there is such a crowd. You dislike a crowd? It is not an interesting sort of crowd, said Miss Hamilton, exactingly; it is a rabble, with a few nice people sprinkled in. After all, human nature is human nature, said Hugh Kennett. So far he had been standing in the middle of the wide walk. He had re- placed his straw hat; he held a little cane motionless with both hands behind him. The attitude showed his sinewy and admirably proportioned figure to much advantage. The fawn-colored suit he wore fitted well, and its soft tone ac- corded with his peculiar coloring. His complexion, neither noticeably fair nor dark, had a certain warmth, and its del- icacy of texture suggested an indoor 20 Pelicia. [July, pursuit. He had the look of a man who conserves an enviable physical trim. Well in health, well fed, well dressed, with nerves, mind, and heart under full control, this was the impression given by his personal appearance. His eye, now that she saw it close and in a bright light, was full and clear; there were coIn- posure and strength in its expression. Before Felicia replied she hesitated a moment. That moment meant a great deal to her. She was about many things somewhat exacting. Matters of social usage and form were important in her eyes; perhaps she even exaggerated the importance of her own dignity. She knew that he desired her to ask him to take the vacant place beside her, it was what he was waiting for. She knew that to do so would confer upon him the favor of her acquaintance. She would not confer it merely because he desired it. She deliberately weighed, in that short pause, the reasons for and against this course. That he was Rob- erts cousin, and that she had met him, a guest, at the Rectory, on friendly terms with the clergyman and his wife, to say nothing of Mrs. Emily Stan- ley-Brant, went a good way, to be sure. But the meeting was accidental, and not necessarily an official indorsement, so to speak. Mr. Raymond had not intro- duced him to her brother or his wife, and had not brought him to call. On the other hand, the Raymonds were not very ceremonious about such matters, and this omission might have been mere- ly negligence, not intention. Perhaps he was himself a stranger in Chilounatti; and again she was reminded how very little she knew of him personally. Al- though by no means so thoroughly versed in the ways of the world as she deemed herself, she had experience enough to understand the difficulty in gracefully getting rid of superfluous acquaintances. But was she justified, she argued, in relegating to this circle of the excluded a man whom the most punctilious of men received on intimate terms into his own family, and whose manners and ap- pearance were evidently those of a gen- tleman? She said to herself that she was as competent to judge a gentle- man as her brother, who was dense in some respects, or cousin Robert, who was flighty. This reflection turned the scale. She raised her eyes to his. Will you sit down? she said, gravely. Thank you, he returned, as grave- ly, and placed himself beside her on the painted bench. It had been a momentous pause; each realized it, and each knew that the oth- er realized it. There was silence for a moment; then she replied to what he had said. Human nature may be human na- ture, she admitted, but all people are not human. I know a terrier who has a tailor, an excellent one, and eye- glasses, and a mustache. Did you never see a woman like a bird, hopping and perching about, and surprising you every time she handles a fan or a parasol be- cause her fingers are not claws? Why, a moment ago a man passed here whose fat little eyes were exactly like a pigs. Oh, no, some human beings are not ex- actly human, I m sure of that. I had no idea you were such a cynic, he said, looking at her with a half laugh. It was the glance and laugh of an old friend. She was disposed for a moment to resent this, to consider it a liberty that there should be so distinct an under- current of sympathy, already glimpsed, or rather felt, through the crust of for- mality which characterized their sh6rt acquaintance. She arrogated to herself the privilege of any lapse from conven- tion. As she glanced at him in uncer- tainty, she met his fine, calm eye; it had so evident a reliance on a reciprocity of feelings, whatever they might be, so simple and candid an enjoyment of the moment, that she was disarmed. 1890.] Pelicia. 21 A little cynicism is not a bad thing, he suggested; it prevents one from wearing ones heart on ones sleeve. If one has a heart, she returned, with a little laugh. I am afraid we are all provided with that discomfort. Even the rabble, who have such bad manners. Bad manners are wicked, said Fe- licia, with that willful air which cousin Robert could never resist, and which Hugh Kennett also seemed to approve. In these cities that have such a rapid g~wth, other matters take prece- dence, he remarked. Many people make money too fast here to care much about manners. Manners are more important than money, quoth the pupil of Madame Sevier. He laughed at this. Just as the people about us are more important than the things about us, she persisted. I should never have thought you would feel that, he said, suddenly se- rious. I supposed environment meant a great deal to you. He spoke with evident interest; he looked at her expectantly as to what she might reply. He seemed determined to make the conversation very personal. This time she did not relent. I was speaking merely abstractly, she declared, indifferently, turning her eyes with a casual glance upon the scintillating surface of the lake, already enriched with gleams of gold and lines of crimson beneath the red and gilded brilliance deepening athwart the soft azure sky. He was slightly taken aback for a moment. Ah, well, he said, an ab- stract truth merges itself sooner or later into a personal application. In my case, I admit environment means very little. A few close friends, an object in life, good health, and a quiet conscience, that is a world a man can carry about with him as a snail carries its world. A man can do that, said Felicia. And a woman cannot? Why not? For several reasons. We have no close friends; we cant go into the world and select those that suit us. And we have no object in life, no definite ob- ject, I mean. And health, you men- tioned health, did nt you ? if we have health our occupation is gone; we cant coddle ourselves. As to conscience, she laughed gleefully, we have nt that, either! Kennett laughed, too. I am well aware of that fact, he replied; I dis- covered long ago that you have no con- sciences. She looked very arch and pretty at this moment: her eyes were bright; her parted scarlet lips showed her milk- white teeth; she had flushed a little. Her toilette, always so felicitously de- vised as to convey the impression that it was the most becoming she had yet worn, was noticeably simple; to-day she seemed to owe nothing to the embellish- ments of art. Her white dress was very fine in texture and very plainly fash- ioned; long black kid gloves, that fitted conscientiously, so to speak, gave her lit- tle hands additional daintiness; a straw hat demurely shaded her delicately tint- ed, brilliant face: she might have stepped from the frame of some old picture, but for the anachronism of a very modern lace-covered parasol with a long amber handle, which she revolved upon her shoulder as she talked. He was a man whom no detail escaped. He noticed, when she raised her eyes, that the iris was a veritable purple; that the whites were clear and tinged with blue; that the gold-tipped brown lashes were long and curled upward. The wind stirred the leaves; the wa- ter of the fountain, falling, falling, in the midst of the rippling lake, was mo- notonously agreeable; the closely clipped turf was vividly green with the welcome brilliance of the season; striking athwart 22 Felicia. [July, the emerald expanse was a wide bar of yellow sunshine, and as a trio of young girls in light dresses passed through the gilded radiance, the red feather which one of them wore in her hat had a sud- denly splendid effect, it was a mo- ment for enchantments. The trill of a lettuce bird vibrated on the air; the swans floated, and paused, and floated again, their snowy plumage gleaming in the sun. Do you read a great deal? asked Mr. Kennett, glancing at the volume open on her knee. Very little. You dont care for reading? he pursued, with the accent of surprise. Very much. And that is why I rarely indulge myself. Again he looked at her, with that smile which, beneath its geniality, was charged with a more definite sympa- thetic quality. What unexpected material for mar- tyrdom! he exclaimed. I am not so heroic, she returned, with a laugh. It seems to me I have no time to read. I had an idea to be sure, I may be mistaken but I had an idea that people like you have all the time. She explained. Once I read a great deal, long ago, when I was young; and it became impressed upon me that I had no time to spend upon any books but text-books. One who intends to live has no time to read. He gave this a moment of cogitation. I cannot say I am quite ready to ac- cept that doctrine, he declared. If you read, you take the views of the writers; you think their thoughts; you live a life made up of their theories mixed with your own circumstances. It is all incoherent. You want to conserve originality, I see, he remarked. Cousin Robert says Amy and I never look at a newspaper because we are afraid of learning something about politics, she said, with her sudden laugh- ter. And he is right, we detest them. Robert does not show his usual acu- men in attributing the same views to you and his wife. You are not at all like your cousin. I dont know that you are at all like your cousin, remarked Felicia. We used to be considered alike, he returned, not so much in appear- ance, perhaps, as in temperament and character, and all that. The influences have been so different of late y~rs that we may have drifted apart. Certainly the talk had become very personal, but she said to herself that, under the circumstances, it was hardly matter for surprise. You have known him always, then? she asked. Always. In fact, he was from his early childhood a member of my f a- thers family, until he took tbat well, excuse me that freak to make a clergyman of himself. I must say I regret his choosing the ministry. You see, I am not much of a churchman, he added, deprecatingly, as her face grew grave. Among the privileges she arrogated to herself was that of any depreciation of religious matters, and she was severe in condemnation of similar dereliction in others. He saw that he was in deep water, but was not sufficiently adroit to know exactly how to emerge. I think it does not altogether suit Robert to be a clergyman, he went on, uncertainly. He is a very valuable and useful one, she said, stiffly. Oh, no doubt, he rejoined, hum- bly. And very eloquent, continued Fe- licia. He has a great advantage in his voice and his fine elocution. He owes much of that to my father. She was interested, remembering what 1890.] Richard Henry Lee. 23 Mrs. Stanley-Brant had said about Mr. Kennetts father. Was he too a clergy- man? she wondered. My father was very fond of Robert, continued Kennett, and looked after his education with great attention; but he did that for all of us, my sisters and I received our most valuable train- ing from him. He had untiring pa- tience and gentleness, and the most complete sympathy. Only those who knew him well could realize how fully he could enter into the ineffectual little efforts of others. He spoke very simply and naturally, always with that candid confidence in her sympathy, as if to an old friend. His quiet gray eyes were fixed absently on the party-colored flower-beds that in the distance suggested huge bouquets; his face held an expression not so much of grief as of remembrance from which the bitterness of sorrow has been re- fined away, a sort of calm and tender reflectiveness. Felicia divined that in the years that had passed the dead had come at last to seem only gone from sight and hearing, and not cruelly and incomprehensibly swept out of existence. She did not know exactly what to say; it was strange to be thus taken into the confidence of a man who was three hours ago so far removed from her by all those strong conventions. which she felt were so important; yet his evident unconsciousness of anything unusual in his words made them seem more a matter of course. He thinks cousin Robert has talked of him and of his father also, was her conclusion. The western sky was crimson now; the surface of the lake was richly aglow. The red gold of the sunset was sifting through the air. The shadows were growing long. The breeze freshened. Suddenly the distant peal of the An- gelus that apotheosis of eventide ef- fects rang out, caught and tossed from side to side, as many a church and chapel repeated the mellow clang. Adown the leafy vista of the road Fred and several of his friends might be seen advancing on foot, apparently engaged in some commercial transac- tion. One of them was holding out temptingly a big pocket-knife, which Fred evidently declined to receive; he had two strips of leather in his hand; their voices were loud in argument. Felicia rose, and joined her nephew. Kennett assisted her into the phaeton. As Fred jrove off, she bowed in adieu to her new acquaintance, and she was again impressed by the formality, even the ceremoniousness, of his salutation, and its singular contrast with his ex- treme frankness. Fanny N. D. Murfree. RICHARD HENRY LEE. THIS country has never seen a more interesting form of aristocracy than that which existed in Virginia at the middle of the eighteenth century. The colony had drawn its ruling class mainly from the English gentry. Many such, eager for gold and adventure, had come in the beginning with Dale and Captain Smith; while others, royalist refugees, had found here an obscure retreat after the over- throw of Charles I. Purchasing for a trifle large tracts of the rich lowlands along the picturesque river-banks, they gradually assumed many of the condi- tions and modes of life to which they had been accustomed in England. They built spacious, imposing manor-houses, kept large numbers of servants, affected

1890.] Richard Henry Lee. 23 Mrs. Stanley-Brant had said about Mr. Kennetts father. Was he too a clergy- man? she wondered. My father was very fond of Robert, continued Kennett, and looked after his education with great attention; but he did that for all of us, my sisters and I received our most valuable train- ing from him. He had untiring pa- tience and gentleness, and the most complete sympathy. Only those who knew him well could realize how fully he could enter into the ineffectual little efforts of others. He spoke very simply and naturally, always with that candid confidence in her sympathy, as if to an old friend. His quiet gray eyes were fixed absently on the party-colored flower-beds that in the distance suggested huge bouquets; his face held an expression not so much of grief as of remembrance from which the bitterness of sorrow has been re- fined away, a sort of calm and tender reflectiveness. Felicia divined that in the years that had passed the dead had come at last to seem only gone from sight and hearing, and not cruelly and incomprehensibly swept out of existence. She did not know exactly what to say; it was strange to be thus taken into the confidence of a man who was three hours ago so far removed from her by all those strong conventions. which she felt were so important; yet his evident unconsciousness of anything unusual in his words made them seem more a matter of course. He thinks cousin Robert has talked of him and of his father also, was her conclusion. The western sky was crimson now; the surface of the lake was richly aglow. The red gold of the sunset was sifting through the air. The shadows were growing long. The breeze freshened. Suddenly the distant peal of the An- gelus that apotheosis of eventide ef- fects rang out, caught and tossed from side to side, as many a church and chapel repeated the mellow clang. Adown the leafy vista of the road Fred and several of his friends might be seen advancing on foot, apparently engaged in some commercial transac- tion. One of them was holding out temptingly a big pocket-knife, which Fred evidently declined to receive; he had two strips of leather in his hand; their voices were loud in argument. Felicia rose, and joined her nephew. Kennett assisted her into the phaeton. As Fred jrove off, she bowed in adieu to her new acquaintance, and she was again impressed by the formality, even the ceremoniousness, of his salutation, and its singular contrast with his ex- treme frankness. Fanny N. D. Murfree. RICHARD HENRY LEE. THIS country has never seen a more interesting form of aristocracy than that which existed in Virginia at the middle of the eighteenth century. The colony had drawn its ruling class mainly from the English gentry. Many such, eager for gold and adventure, had come in the beginning with Dale and Captain Smith; while others, royalist refugees, had found here an obscure retreat after the over- throw of Charles I. Purchasing for a trifle large tracts of the rich lowlands along the picturesque river-banks, they gradually assumed many of the condi- tions and modes of life to which they had been accustomed in England. They built spacious, imposing manor-houses, kept large numbers of servants, affected 24 Richard Henr& Lee. [July, ceremony, luxury, and ease, and ruled their wide and separated domains with a mild but arbitrary sway. Establish- ing the English Church, they made it the medium of their power as well as of their worship; for through its vestries they directed not only the religious ser- vices, but also the local government. In- deed, their influence controlled the State as fully as it did the household and the Church; for, occupying the magistracies, and monopolizing the governors Coun- cil and even the popular House of Bur- gesses, they gathered into their ready hands all the reins of political power. And the better to maintain their position an~l to perpetuate their names, they trans- planted and nourished that taproot of aristocracy, the rule of primogeniture, controlling the descent and securing the integrity of the family estate and pres- tige. From this dominant, conservative aris- tocracy came the greater part of that generation of Virginian statesmen who left so deep an impress on the history of the world; and among them no one traced a longer lineage or inherited a stronger taste for politics than did Rich- ard Henry Lee. His family was estab- lished on the rich tract of lowland known as the Northern Neck, between the Rappahannock and the Potomac, and at a point not far from the present city of Washington. Its history ran back nearly to the founding of the colony, and was interwoven with its most stir- ring and important events. Lees great- grandfather, Richard Lee, came to Vir- ginia in the reign of Charles I., and dur- ing that kings struggle with Parliament was secretary, and next in prominence, to Sir William Berkeley, then governor of Virginia. Together, these two kept the colony loyal, so strong was its roy- alist sentiment. Even after they were forced by Cromwells ships to acknow- ledge the Commonwealth, they still plot- ted for the restoration, Richard Lee himself visiting Charles II. in Flanders, and inviting him to Virginia; and when royalty was restored, their fidelity and zeal were rewarded by a renewal of their control of Virginian affairs. The prestige thus acquired by Berke- leys secretary was maintained in the Lee family. A son, Richard Lee, was a member of the kings Council; and a grandson, Thomas Lee, father of Rich- ard Henry Lee, after serving many years as president of the Council, was commissioned governor of Virginia just before his death. Equally distinguished in the public service were the Ludwells of Greenspring, to whom the mother of Richard Henry Lee belonged. Both her father and her brother were members of the Council, and her grandfather had been governor of North Carolina. With these continuous and eminent examples among his ancestors, his fa- ther being the president, his uncle and grandfather having been members, of the kings Council, naturally Richard Henry Lee early contemplated a public career. Indeed, this was about the only future then open to a young man of his class in Virginia. To engage in trade or in manual labor was deemed un- worthy of a gentleman. In fact, there was no trade, even as there were no municipalities. The plantations, each constituting a little community by itself, usually had their own artisans and han- dicraftsmen among their indentured ser- vants or their slaves; and, generally bor- dering upon tidal bays or upon rivers, they had their separate wharves, from which they loaded English ships with their sole important product, tobacco, and at which they received in return nearly all fabrics, tools, utensils, furni- .ture, and even food required for their use or consumption. Of the professions, the clergymen, such as they were, came mainly from England, and the physicians scarcely constituted a class by them- selves; the law alone began to attract young men from the first families. Its practice not only afforded scope and op 1890.] Richard Henry Lee. 25 portunity for the highest talent, but also furnished a thorough preparation for the Council and the House of Burgesses. But Lee was not attracted to the law as a profession, and he chose a more direct way to these goals of youthful ambition and battlefields of Virginian politics. In 1757, at the age of twenty-five years, he was chosen to represent his native coun- ty of Westmoreland in the House of Burgesses. This assembly was surpassed by no other in the colonies for dignity, influ- ence, and ability. It was the oldest le- gislative body in America, having sat for the first time June 30,1619. It was also one of the most free and spirited. As early as 1624 it had voted that the Governor shall not lay any taxes or yin- positions, upon the colony, their lands or comodoties, other way than by the authority of the General Assembly, to be levyed and ymployed as the said As- sembly shall appoynt. The spirit and the principle then manifested were uni- formly maintained during the century and a half which followed, so that at the approach of the Revolution few po- litical bodies more independent or more resolute existed in the world. In this generous, animating school was acquired the political training of the planter aristocracy; for the House of Burgesses was mainly a patrician as- sembly. To be sure, its members were elected by the freemen; but as they re- ceived no pay, few but wealthy land- owners could afford to serve, and those few often owed their election to the pre- dominant influence of the local mag- nates. Its prevailing spirit, therefore, was aristocratic, and its conduct was correspondingly dignified. Its sessions were held in the stately old Capitol at Williamsburg, and were attended with ceremonies more or less copied from those of the House of Commons. The Speaker sat upon a high dais under a canopy supported by a gilded rod; just beneath sat the clerk, his mace upon the table before him .to show that the House was in session; while in front, in long rows, their hats upon their heads, sat the honorable Burgesses, represent- ing the wealth, culture, and pride of Vir- ginia. Doubtless there was much in this dig- nified body to abash and repress a young man just admitted to it; and apparently such was its effect at first upon Richard Henry Lee. Diffident by nature, and deferential to the experience and abili- ties of his associates, he remained for several sessions a silent member. It re- quired first a strong conviction of duty, and then a sudden prompting of affec- tion, fully to discover to himself and to the House his remarkable gift of speech. The first occasion here alluded to was a debate upon a motion to lay so heavy a duty on the importation of slaves as effectually to put an end to that iniqui- tous and disgraceful traffic within the colony of Virginia. At this time there were in Virginia over one hundred and twenty thousand slaves, nearly four tenths of the whole population, with that number fast increasing; and the re- sulting evils, social and economic, were already arousing discussion and solici- tude. Evidently they had long weighed on Lees mind, for in this debate he was at last moved to speak. In a brief but pointed and earnest speech he set forth the impolitic, unjust, and cruel aspects of the slave-trade. Imputing to it the inferior economic development of Vir- ginia as compared with other colonies, he declared that, with their whites, they import arts and agriculture, whilst we, with our blacks, exclude both. Final- ly, he openly denounced his countrymen as participants in the nefarious traffic: We encourage those poor, ignorant peo- ple to wage eternal war against each oth- er; not nation against nation, but father against son, children against parents, and brothers against brothers, . . . that by war, stealth, or surprise we Chris- 26 Richard Henry Lee. [July, tians may be furnished with our fellow- creatures. For a maiden speech this was indeed a bold one. It must have angered many of his hearers, themselves slave-owners. Of course it did not avail, so strongly was slavery linked with aristocracy; yet its keen insight and elevated tone, at that early day, are worthy of admira- tion. In other respects the speech was not noteworthy. At the most, it un- sealed Lees lips, and made him avail- able shortly afterward in a cause that appealed even more strongly to his sym- pathy and indignation. His brother, Thomas Lee, also a Burgess, having been selected to bring forward a motion that was obnoxious to the Speaker and to a large part of the House, performed the duty in an able and effective speech, but at the same time neglected to ob- serve the rule requiring all motions to be presented in writing. The Speaker quickly perceived the oversight, and gladly took advantage of it. Adminis- tering a severe rebuke at the omission, he so disconcerted the mover that the latter could not recover from his con- fusion. Thereupon Richard Henry Lee sprang to his feet, and presented the motion in writing, in a speech of great force and eloquence, completely retriev- ing the discomfiture of his brother. It is recorded that the elder brother never again ventured to address the House, but the younger from that hour became one of its acknowledged leaders. The nature of his leadership, assumed at this time, will be evident from a mem- orable incident of 1766. The Speaker just mentioned was John Robinson, one of the most wealthy and aristocratic of the Virginia planters. He had been Speaker of the House for twenty-five years, and for several years Treasurer of the colony, also; and, using his offi- cial position with tact and ability, he had acquired great power and popular- ity. Suddenly, in 1766, his death oc- curred, and at once rumors arose of se rious defalcations in the office of Trea- surer, involving many of the Burgesses. An inquiry was imperative; but all shrank from taking the initiative. Lee, when convinced that there was ground for suspicion, had the courage to move that a committee be appointed to in- quire into the state of the treasury. As was expected, his motion met bitter and determined opposition; but he did not flinch, and it finally prevailed. In the investigation that followed the worst suspicions were reallzed. It had been the duty of Robinson, as Treasurer, to cancel all government bills paid to him for redemption; but instead of destroying them, he had been in the habit of loan- ing them secretly to importunate Bur- gesses and other friends, relying on his own property, together with what secu- rity he could obtain, to prevent loss to the colony. The union of these two offices had given opp4rtunity for this misconduct; and, obviously, their separation might prevent its recurrence. Accordingly, Lee followed up his advantage by mov- ing that the office of Treasurer be sep- arated from that of Speaker; and again he antagonized most of the older and more influential planters. Nevertheless, with the aid of Patrick Henry and oth- er kindred spirits, he carried his point, and effected an important reform. The incident just narrated clearly re- veals the existence of two parties in the House of Burgesses. One party, the aristocratic or conservative, was drawn chiefly from the oldest and wealthiest families of Virginia, and was devoted to the maintenance of the power and privilege they had so long possessed, even at the expense of some abuses in the government and in society. At its head was Edmund Pendleton, an able lawyer, a shrewd politician, and a self- made man. Early in life, he was left, penniless and uneducated, to make his way; and by his industry, integrity, and ability he rose from the position of a 1890.] Richard Henry Lee. 27 plougliboy to that of the conservative leader. From his entry into politics he was the prot~g6 of Speaker Robinson, and with him strove to resist innovation and revolution. Among the other able and distinguished conservatives were Peyton Randolph, Richard Bland, and George Wythe. The other, the radical or popular par- ty, was determined to break up abuses, wherever they might be, and to bring the colony into a more progressive pol- icy; and its number was made up from the sturdy yeomanry, or middle class, to- gether with a few earnest recruits from the principal families. Foremost among these last, strange to say, was Richard Henry Lee. From the antecedents of his family, he should, on the contrary, have been first among the conservatives. From his great-grandfather, the valiant secretary of Berkeley, down to his fa- ther, the president of the Council, the family had been, without exception, up- holders of royalty and aristocracy. But he, cutting loose from family ties and traditions, became a determined radical, denouncing the injustice and inexpedi- ency of slavery, and exposing the greed, pride, and excesses of the aristocracy. The explanation of this is to be found largely in his moral and intellectual de- velopment. In his education he had been left much to himself, his mother bestowing her care chiefly on the eldest son, the heir to the estate. Yet the younger sons, of whom there were four, were not overlooked. In their earlier years they had a private tutor, and sub- sequently at least three of~ them were sent to England. Thus Richard Henry Lee spent several years abroad in study and travel. Returning in 1750, at the age of eighteen, shortly after his fathers death, he resided for some years with an elder brother; and it would seem, in an- ticipation of a public career, he devoted himself during this time to the study of history, law, politics, and literature. Evidently these were the chief formative years of his life. In his fathers library, a large and valuable one for the time, he found, among many other works, those of Locke, Hooker, and Grotius, Homer, Virgil, Milton, and Shakespeare. Be- coming familiar with the best in politics and belles-lettres, he not only refined and informed his taste and style, but exam- ined the fundamental principles of free government. He studied especially the history and constitution of England and her colonies, tracing the development and embodiment of English freedom, and following with deep interest the careers of Pelham, Sydney, and Hamp- den. Withal he acquired that habit of bold and independent thinking in poli- tics which later led him, far in advance of his fellow-planters, to discern the evil designs of the British ministry, and to devise means of thwarting them. Under such a well-trained and vigilant director, it is no wonder that the Vir- ginia radicals performed so well their part in opening the drama of the Rev- olution. In March, 1764, Grenvilles Declaratory Act was passed, asserting a right and a determination in Parliament to tax America. Lee saw the dan- gerous scope and intent of this mea- sure, and resolved to arouse his fellow- Burgesses against it. Soon after the meeting of the House, he brought the subject forward; and, after full discus- sion, a special committee was appointed, consisting of Landon Carter, Richard Henry Lee, George Wythe, Edmund Pendleton, Benjamin Harrison, Richard Bland, and Peyton Randolph. They re- ported an address to the king, a memo- rial to the House of Lords, and a re- monstrance to the House of Commons. These papers, of which the first two were written by Lee, denied, in clear and decided terms, the claim asserted by Parliament; and their adoption by the Virginia House of Burgesses consti- tuted almost the earliest legislative op- position in America to the designs of Great Britain. 28 Richard Henry Lee. [July, In this step it had not been difficult to enlist the leading conservatives, of whom chiefly the above committee was composed. Thus far they were willing to go, exercising their undisputed right of petition. But when their petitions were disregarded, and Parliament, in the execution of its programme, enacted the Stamp Act, the Virginia aristocrats were inclined to acquiesce. Fortunate- ly, at this point, the radicals received a potent~accession to their number through the election of Patrick Henry to the House of Burgesses; and, aided by his unexpected and irresistible eloquence, they barely secured the adoption of his famous resolves. On this occasion, Lee, though a mem- ber of the House, was temporarily ab- sent. But he was quite in accord with Henry; and from this time these two men worked together to keep Virginia in the front rank of colonial resistance. Yet their functions and methods were very different. To Patrick Henry poli- tics was more an avocation, to which, in- deed, at times, he gave his whole mind and soul. But his profession was the law, and in its pursuit he was regularly engaged. Lee, however, had no profession. He was devoted to the welfare of his coun- try. For its sake he had made extensive, earnest preparation, and to this cause he henceforth gave almost undivided atten- tion. He endeavored in every way to enlarge his field of observation. He kept himself informed of public opinion in England, and of the course of the ministry and Parliament, through an ac- tive correspondence with his brother, Ar- thur Lee. The latter, having taken a degree in medicine at Edinburgh, was then studying law at the Temple; and, being in the confidence of Lord Shel- burne, Burke, Colonel Barr~, and other Whig leaders, possessed an intimate knowledge of public affairs. Keeping thus a close watch upon Eng- lish politics, Richard Henry Lee was one of the first to become convinced that a serious struggle with Great Britain was inevitable; and, spurred by this convic- tion, he eagerly strove to impart his in- formation and anxiety to other patriots, and to consult with them for the com- mon safety. For this purpose, in 1768, he endeavored to institute a private cor- respondence society among the leading men of the colonies, addressing, among others, Christopher Gadsden, of South Carolina, and John Dickinson, of Penn- sylvania. In his letter to Dickinson, he suggested also that, well to under- stand each other, and timely to be in- formed of what passes, both here and in Great Britain, . . . select committees should be appointed by all the colonies. Here, it seems, is the first suggestion of those select committees of correspon- dence which became so formidable to the British authorities and so potent in the American colonies. It did not satisfy Lee to suggest the plan. He followed it up to its execu- tion. Not far from the old Capitol, on Gloucester Street, the broad thorough- fare of Williamsburg, was the quaint old Raleigh Tavern, named from Sir Walter Raleigh, whose bust stood over the main doorway. During the session of the Burgesses, this was the meeting- place for the gay and polished society of the town; and in the Apollo Room, the large apartment of the tavern, Jefferson and his fellow-students from the neigh- boring College of William and Mary often danced with the handsome and accomplished belles of Virginia. Here, also, later, ~Vere accustomed to meet, in a private room, a knot of zealous patriots, including Thomas Jefferson, Patrick Henry, and Richard Henry Lee. At one of these conferences Lee advocated his scheme. Being approved by his fellow-radicals, it was presented to the House, and on March 12, 1773, the first general committee of correspondence was appointed. It consisted of the ablest members of the Burgesses, and included 1890.] Richard Henry Lee. 29 Bland, Lee, Harrison, Pendleton, Henry, and Jefferson. The new governor, Lord iDunmore, taking affront at these proceedings, dis- solved the house. But he could not change the effect or importance of their action. Already, in Massachusetts, Sam- uel Adams had organized local commit- tees in many towns; and now the exam- ple of the two oldest colonies was fol- lowed by the others, and the general committees of correspondence thence- forth secured an authoritative and ex- peditious exchange of information and sentiment. No more important step had yet been taken toward union, and hence it caused great alarm and apprehension in the British ministry. They foresaw what soon took place. A rapid assimi- lation of public opinion into a determi- nation to resist aggression was followed within a year by a general and growing demand for concerted public action. In meeting this demand Lee was hardly less active than he had been in arousing it. Immediately upon hearing of the passage of the Boston Port Bill, he drew a series of resolutions denoun- cing that measure, and proposing an in- tercolonial congress; but before he could bring them to the attention of the House it was dissolved by the governor, in the hope of checking the rising tide of pop- ular indignation. Nevertheless, the Bur- gesses assembled, the next morning, in the Apollo Room of the Raleigh Tavern, and took the momentous step on which at last they were resolved. They di- rected the committee of correspondence to propose a general congress of the colonies. Shortly afterward, led by Samuel and John Adams, Massachusetts took similar action. Again the example of these trusted leaders was followed by the other colonies, and on September 4, 1774, in Carpenters Hall, Philadelphia, an intercolonial union became a fact. The men sent by Virginia to this first Continental Congress were, in the order of their selection, Peyton Ran- dolph, Richard Henry Lee, George Washington, Patrick Henry, Richard Bland, Benjamin Harrison, and Ed- mund Pendleton; and in character, abil- ity, and influence they were not sur- passed by any other delegation. The impression that they made, on arriving at Philadelphia, may be inferred from the words of Joseph Reed, a contempo- rary Philadelphian: We are so taken up with the Congress that we hardly think or talk of anything else. About fifty have come to town, and more are expected. There are some fine fellows from Virginia, but they are very high. We understand they are the capi- tal men of the colony, both in fortune and understanding. In the Congress itself, the precedence that Virginia had hitherto taken was at once recognized. Peyton Randolph, formerly the attorney-general of Vir- ginia and Speaker of the House of Burgesses, the chairman of the Virginia delegation, was made the presiding offi- cer; and Patrick Henry and Richard Henry Lee were soon acknowledged to be the greatest orators. The eloquence of the former has become famous. In- tense, dramatic, or constrained, accord- ing to mood or occasion, he could at will charm, melt, or subdue. He lives, and will live, in American history for his wonderful mastery over human pas- sion. But in chasteness and purity of diction, in grace of manner, in melody of voice, and in culture of mind he did not equal his friend and associate, Rich- ard Henry Lee. Of the latter, John Adams, that keen and unsparing critic of his contemporaries, wrote, toward the close of his life, As a public speaker, he had a fluency as easy and graceful as it was melodious, which his classical education enabled him to decorate with frequent allusion to some of the finest passages of antiquity. Lees personal appearance was strik- ing. His form was tall and spare, but well proportioned, and his face was of 30 Richard Henry Lee. the Roman type. His manners were easy, cordial, and elegant. He had lost the use of one hand, through an acci- dent while shooting swans on the Po- tomac, and kept the wound concealed by a black silk bandage; yet his ges- tures were so graceful as to give the im- pression of having been practiced before a mirror. He was sometimes called the gentleman of the silver hand. It was not without reason that the Vir- ginians spoke in raptures of Richard Henry Lee as the Cicero, and of Patrick Henry as the Demosthenes, of the age. Nevertheless, it was not the form and manner of Lees utterances so much as their spirit that made them impressive and weighty. They displayed a breadth of view, a variety and richness of know- ledge, and an elevation of mind remark- able even in that era of great statesmen. Yet their tone seemed too bold to the Congress of 1774. The great majority of this body were cautious and conser- vative, and for this reason the New England delegates deemed it expedient, in the interest of harmony, to refrain from any decided expression of their radical views. As John Adams said subsequently, Because they had been suspected from the beginning of hav- ing independence in contemplation, they were restrained from the appearance of promoting any great measures by their own discretion, as well as by the general sense of Congress.~~ Not the same restraint was imposed or observed in the case of the Southern radicals, like Lee, Henry, and Gadsden. For the first two a fair hearing was insured, both from the prestige enjoyed by Virginia and from their own preemi- nence as orators. Their temperament impelled them to speak, and they made the most of their opportunities. Gov- eminent is dissolved, declared Patrick Henry at the opening of the Congress; and in his Address to the People of the Colonies, Lee warned them to extend their views to mournful events. [July, The Congress did not possess the spirit that animated these bold and en- ergetic minds. Lee thought that the op- position of the colonies had been so fee- ble and incompetent hithert~ that it was time to make vigorous exertions. A resolute unanimous resistance, he wrote to Washington, and the king and his ministers will give way. Accordingly, he moved that the Congress do most earnestly recommend to the several col- onies that a militia be forthwith ap- pointed and well disciplined, and that it be well provided with ammunition and proper arms; and later, on hearing of the investment of Boston by General Gage, he moved in a similar temper for prompt and decided action. But these motions were either rejected or modi- fied to suit the conciliatory policy of the conservatives. The hour for revolution and independence was not yet come. Just how early the more ardent pa- triots began to contemplate indepen- dence it is impossible to determine. The Adamses were suspected of entertaining such a project considerably before 1774, and early in 1775 the suspicion became a certainty by the interception and pub- lication of a letter written by John Ad- ams, savoring of the spirit of indepen- dence. There is some reason to think that Lee secretly cherished the idea at a date even earlier; for in 1764, im- mediately after hearing of the passage of the Declaratory Act, he wrote to a friend, Possibly this step of the mo- ther country, though intended to oppress and keep us low, in order to secure our dependence, may be subversive of this end. At any rate, it was the conviction alike of Samuel and John Adams, and of Patrick Henry and Richard Henry Lee, that the conciliatory measures of the first Congress would not move Brit- ain, and that, in the words of Joseph Hawley, after all, we must fight. This conviction once reached, the de- sire and effort to bring it home to the people naturally followed. In Virginia, 1890.] Richard Henry Lee. at a convention held in St. Johns Church, Richmond, March 20, 1775, a resolution for arming the militia, similar to that rejected by the recent Congress, was brought forward by Patrick Henry, and supported by Richard Henry Lee. Against them rallied the forces of Vir- ginian aristocracy and conservatism, led again by Edmund Pendleton; and long and heated was the struggle that ensued. Lee presented a masterly review of the resources of the colonies and of the avail- able force of Great Britain; while Pat- rick Henry, roused to a frenzy by the persistence of the opposition, poured forth that torrent of eloquence which has fixed the attention and elicited the admiration of subsequent generations. Of course the resolution was adopted. Its two chief advocates were the first ones named on the committee for its exe- cution. The aggressive spirit here manifested rapidly spread throughout the colonies; mens minds turned toward war and in- dependence. And when, shortly after- ward, the second Congress met, that spirit speedily permeated and controlled its councils and conduct. At last the times were ripe for the radical revolu- tionists, and they pushed their scheme with gathering momentum and assurance of success. Disregarding the warnings and expostulations, and disarming or overpowering the resistance of the con- servatives, they secured a large majority, both of the people and of the Con- gress, in favor of declaring independence. The night of doubt, contention, and un- certainty was past, and the birthday of American nationality was at hand. At this point the question arose as to who should move the declaration. All circumstances pointed to Richard Henry Lee. To the Congress it seemed fitting that Virginia, hitherto the foremost col- ony in nearly all the more important advances toward union and resistance, should also be the leader in this final, momentous step; and of the Virginia delegates (George Wythe, Richard Hen- ry Lee, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Francis Light- foot Lee, and Carter Braxton) no one was better known or more acceptable than Richard Henry Lee. He was chosen, doubtless, for his pre~minence as a debater, and for his long and zeal- ous advocacy of independence. Similar reasons influenced the selection of John Adams, of Massachusetts, to second the motion. They were well mated, the bold and polished Cavalier with the fertile, argu- mentative Puritan. No duty more try- ing or more honorable had ever fallen to their lot. In American politics, few debates have been more persistently or more evenly contested; never was there such a momentous issue. Though the words have been but meagrely re- ported, both men are known to have ac- quitted themselves as became the em- inence of their talents and the signifi- cance of their cause. With magnanimous faith and courage, looking beyond the perils and discouragements of the time, they pleaded for the preservation of re- publican institutions for themselves and for all mankind. While the debate was in progress, Congress, anticipating the result, chose a committee of five to prepare a declara- tion of independence. Of this committee Lee, being the mover of the resolution, should have been made chairman, in accordance with parliamentary usage. But on the eve of its selection he was summoned to Virginia, on account of the serious illness of his wife; and his ab- sence was used to his disadvantage by his enemies. The animosities that he had early aroused in the Virginia aristocrats by his reforms in the House of Burgesses, and the antagonisms that he had subse- quently excited in Dickinson, Jay, and other conservatives through his radical course in Congress, now worked together to deprive him of his right. Even John Adams, his professed friend and sympa 32 Richard Henry Lee. [July, thizer, on this occasion turned against him. The youthful Jefferson, being made chairman, enjoyed the fruit that Lee should have gathered, the signal honor of being the author of the Declaration of Independence. However great and memorable was Lees service in that event, on which all Americans delight to dwell, an even greater claim to the remembrance and gratitude of his countrymen lies in his conspicuous devotion to the ordinary business of government, and that, too, during the most critical years of the Revolutionary struggle, when so many statesmen deemed it honorable to for- sake the halls of Congress for their state legislatures. As an example of his ac- tivity and readiness, it may be said that, during the years 1774 to 1778 inclusive, he was a member of ex~ery military and naval committee, and of nearly every committee on finance and foreign af- fairs. His brother-in-law, Dr. Shippen, at whose house he lodged in Philadel- phia, declared that there was a con- stant procession of members repairing to his chamber, to consult about their reports. His services as a writer, also, were in frequent demand; and he drew many state papers, from the Address to the Inhabitants of Great Britain down to the commission of Washington as - commander-in-chief. Yet his mind was not absorbed in de- tails; nor was it narrowed by local pre- judice. Studying the interests of the United States as a whole, he delighted to forecast and to contemplate its great future. In this spirit, when in 1779 the conditions of peace were discussed by Congress, he demanded for New Eng- land fishermen the same rights enjoyed by the French in British North Ameri- can waters, and for the future pioneers of the great West the unrestricted navi- gation of the Mississippi. His views re- ceived then but little support from the delegates of the Middle and Southern States, but were ultimately embodied in the treaty of peace, and soon became impo~rtant principles of national policy. But Lee had not the strength to per- form the arduous tasks to which he was called by his associates and impelled by his zeal. Under such a prolonged, in- cessant strain his health was impaired; and for several years his attendance upon Congress was intermittent. Yet even from his retirement at his coun- try-seat, Chantilly, on the Potomac, he eagerly followed the course of public affairs. In 1784, his health being im- proved, he resumed his seat in Con- gress; and almost immediately he was elected president of that body, the most honorable position under the Confedera- tion. He retired from this office at the end of the year, but continued to take a prominent part in Congress. In partic- ular as a member of the committee that reported the famous Ordinance for the government of the Northwest Territory, he was able at last to embody and enforce those views regarding slavery which he had vainly presented in his maiden speech to the Burgesses. In view of his pure and exalted character, it was eminently fitting that the cause of the bondmen should engage the close, as it had enlisted the opening, of his polit- ical career. There remained, however, one service for Richard Henry Lee to render his country; and it was the most remarkable, if not the most important, of all. Strange to say, it was to oppose the Constitution of the United States. Lee had no part in the framing of this instrument, nor did he share officially in its ratification. As a private citizen, he objected to it from the first, and attacked it earnestly in the press and in correspondence; and in this course, singularly enough, he had the sympathy and support of his old- time friends and associates, Samuel Adanis and Patrick Henry. The rad- ical revolutionists of 1776 had become, it would seem, ultra - conservatives in 1787. 1890.] Richard Henry Lee. 33 From their standpoint only is it possi- ble to reconcile the two positions. To them the Declaration of Independence secured the liberty of the individual, the autonomy of the community; it assert- ed the rights of the person and of the State as opposed to the claims of society as a whole. Upon this theory carried to an extreme the Confederation had been erected and had gone to pieces; and the framing of the Constitution re- sulted from a decided reaction toward the recognition of the unity and inter- dependence of the political divisions of society. But this reaction had gone too far, in the opinion of Lee, Henry, and Adams. They believed that, in the eagerness to escape from the evils of the Confederation by strengthening the general government, the rights of the individual had been neglected and the authority of the State diminished. Like many other devoted and distinguished Revolutionary statesmen, they leaned toward those political convictions which subsequently led to the doctrine of state rights. Lee, expressing their common sentiment, declared that the first max- im of a man who loves liberty should be, never to grant to rulers an atom of power that is not most clearly and indis- pensably necessary for the safety and well-being of society. The most es- sential danger from the present system arises, in my opinion, from its tenden- cy to a consolidated government, in- stead of a union of confederated States. They therefore viewed with suspicion and anxiety the extraordinary grants contained in the Constitution. They saw in it, moreover, a deficiency equally as great, it lacked that cherished English birthright, a bill of rights, securing trial by jury and freedom of conscience and of the press; and so vital did Lee deem this deficiency that when finally the Con- stitution was adopted without change, he resolved, notwithstanding his infirmity, to reenter public life for the purpose of securing its amendment. In 1789, he VOL. LXVI. NO. 393. 3 was nominated by Patrick Henry, and elected by the Virginia legislature, one of the first Senators of the United States. Soon after taking his seat in the Sen- ate, Lee moved several amendments to the Constitution, embodying the views held by his party; and at the same time similar action was taken by the Virginia delegates in the House of Rep- resentatives. So great and persistent was the pressure which they brought to bear that the Federalists under Madison were soon obliged to yield; and by the adoption of the first ten amendments a bill of rights was added to the Constitu- tion of the United States. Having at- tained his object to a large extent, Lee soon resigned his seat in the Senate, and definitely retired from public life. Over- come at last by the disease from which he had so long suffered, he died at Chan- tilly, the same month in which, eighteen years before, he had moved that these united colonies are and of right ought to be free and independent States. Throughout his political career, as in its concluding episode, Richard Henry Lee was filled with a constant care of the public liberty. Apprehensive of the unvarying progress of power in the hands of frail men, he was loath to concede to individual or to legislature the exercise of any power not clearly and strictly defined and carefully guarded. In this attitude, as well as in tempera- ment, he much resembled Samuel Ad- ams. Early drawn together by common convictions and purposes, they became firm friends and close allies; and their correspondence, covering almost their whole political careers, is replete with interest and instruction. With a com- mon intolerance of superimposed author- ity and usurped privilege, they boldly and persistently advocated the rights of the people. From early manhood to old age they were radical democrats. Not only toward New Englands lead- ers, but also toward her spirit and insti- tutions, Lee felt a strong attraction. At 34 Richard Henry Lee. [July, one time he went so far as to consider a change of residence; for in 1779 he wrote to John Adams, I feel myself in- terested in the establishment of a wise and free government in Massachusetts, where yet I hope to finish the remainder of my days. The hasty, unpersevering, aristocratic genius of the South suits not my disposition, and is inconsistent with my views of what must constitute social happiness and security. Not being in harmony with the genius, he could the better promote the reforma- tion, of Virginian society. His aristo- cratic birth and training did not fetter his bold, independent spirit. Sympa- thizing with the masses, and indignant at wrong and abuse, he stood forth from his class, first and alone, denouncing its excesses and checking its arrogance. He roused animosities and suffered ostra- cism; but he received the support of the yeomanry; and later, in company with Patrick Henry, securing control of the House of Burgesses, he placed Virginia beside Massachusetts in the front of co- lonial resistance. As a reformer, Lee was a co-worker with Henry, and the predecessor of Jef- ferson. Less forceful than Henry, but more steady and intelligent, he broke the soil that Jefferson cultivated; and all three together introduced in Vir- ginian society a republican leaven that finally worked a thorough reformation. They were at the South the early apos- tles of democracy. Lees radicalism did not warp his judgment. While intolerant of, and out- spoken against, the excesses and abuses of aristocracy, he agreed with Jefferson that, in organizing resistance to Great Britain, it was wise, by a charitable and conciliatory attitude toward the con- servatives, to advance slowly, keeping front and rear together. Thus public sentiment progressed toward separation from Great Britain with less friction and contention in Virginia than in any other colony. When radicalism contended with his convictions of private justice or public morality, Lee adhered to the latter, even at the hazard of friendship. For ex- ample, while a member of the Virginia Assembly in the sessions of 178182, he found himself in constant opposition to his old friend and associate, Patrick Henry. The latter was in favor of mak- ing the depreciated paper money a legal tender for debts contracted on the faith of specie payment, and of impeding or confiscating debts due British merchants and contracted before the war. Both these measures Lee earnestly opposed, on the ground that they violated honesty and good faith. He declared that it would have been better to remain the honest slaves of Great Britain than to become dishonest freemen. It is possi- ble that his indignaiion was intensified by the memory of his own pecuniary losses through the depreciation of paper currency. In 1779, he had written to Jefferson, This year, sir, the rents of four thousand acres of fine land will not buy me twenty barrels of corn. But it is more likely that his early studies in social and political problems, followed by his experience and reflection, re- vealed the inexpediency as well as the enormity of such schemes. In fact, his liberal culture, with his aristocratic breeding, gave a temper and balance to his radical sympathies and impulses. As a result, he had a breadth of view and of interest unusual in his time. His alert and eager gaze swept the political horizon, comprehending Eu- ropean as well as American affairs. Thus it was that he was among the first to per- ceive the gathering storm and to pre- pare to break its force. So when the shock had been met and overcome, and a nation had sprung from the impact, he comprehended its wide extent and foresaw its greaf future. Toward the realization of that future much was done by the radicals of the Revolutionary era. Against aggressive 1890.] Wendell Phillips. 35 foes and indifferent friends they asserted by eloquent voice and tireless pen, a the rights of the person and the corn- timid, reluctant people to revolution and munity, and finally fixed them secure independence. They were the motive in our political system. Far-seeing, vigi- force in effecting the political franchise- lant, bold, and energetic, they urged on, ment of America. Frank Gaylord Cook. WENDELL PHILLIPS. TEACH me, dread boughs, Where from your twigs the sad Muse culls her leaves, When she a long-neglected garland weaves To bind great brows. Give no leaf less Than his unlaureled temples should have worn: So may his spirit pass me not in scorn, But turn and bless. I fondly dream! How could my crown, though rich with crust and stain From tears of sacred sorrow, win such gain .That smile supreme? Short-stemmed and curt His wreath should be, and braided by strong hands, Hindered with sword-hilt, while the braider stands With loin upgirt. Too late to urge Thy tardy crown. Draw back, 0 Norfhern blond! Let black hands take, to bind the Southern frond, A severed scourge! Haughty and high, And deaf to all the thunders of the throng, He heard the lowest whisper of his wrong The slave could sigh. In some pent street, 0 prophet-slaying city of. his care, Pour out thine eyes, loose thy repentant hair, And kiss his feet! Little it is That thou canst pay, yet pay this recompense: All tongues henceforth shall give thine ears offense, Remembering his;

1890.] Wendell Phillips. 35 foes and indifferent friends they asserted by eloquent voice and tireless pen, a the rights of the person and the corn- timid, reluctant people to revolution and munity, and finally fixed them secure independence. They were the motive in our political system. Far-seeing, vigi- force in effecting the political franchise- lant, bold, and energetic, they urged on, ment of America. Frank Gaylord Cook. WENDELL PHILLIPS. TEACH me, dread boughs, Where from your twigs the sad Muse culls her leaves, When she a long-neglected garland weaves To bind great brows. Give no leaf less Than his unlaureled temples should have worn: So may his spirit pass me not in scorn, But turn and bless. I fondly dream! How could my crown, though rich with crust and stain From tears of sacred sorrow, win such gain .That smile supreme? Short-stemmed and curt His wreath should be, and braided by strong hands, Hindered with sword-hilt, while the braider stands With loin upgirt. Too late to urge Thy tardy crown. Draw back, 0 Norfhern blond! Let black hands take, to bind the Southern frond, A severed scourge! Haughty and high, And deaf to all the thunders of the throng, He heard the lowest whisper of his wrong The slave could sigh. In some pent street, 0 prophet-slaying city of. his care, Pour out thine eyes, loose thy repentant hair, And kiss his feet! Little it is That thou canst pay, yet pay this recompense: All tongues henceforth shall give thine ears offense, Remembering his; 36 Science and the African Problem. [July, All grace shall tease The flush of shame to thine averted cheek; Best Greek shall mind thee of one greater Greek, More godlike ease Blessing and blight, A bitter drop beneath the bee-kissed lips, Hyperions anger passing to eclipse And arrow-flight! Thou didst not spare: Thy foot is on his violated door; Therefore the mantle that his shoulders wore None hence shall wear. Above thy choice, This Coriolanus of the peoples wars Could never strip his brawn and show his scars To beg thy voice. Struck by deaths dart, (In all the strain of conflict unconfessed,) He carried through the years that wounded breast, That poignant heart. Last from the fight, So moves the lion, with unhasting stride, Dragging the slant spear, broken in his side And gains the height! Wendell P. Stafford. SCIENCE AND THE AFRICAN PROBLEM. IT is easy to see that in the genera- tions to come the history of the negro race in America will be much studied. Considered from a scientific point of view, the African in America affords the most remarkable experiment ever made in transplanting a tropical variety of man to regions having a very differ- ent climate, and offering a totally dif- ferent set of associations from those in which it originated. It is doubtful if human history will ever again offer an- other such chance of testing the influ- ence of a new environment on a strongly marked though lowly variety of man. The results of this vast essay will, in time, throw a flood of light on the ques- tion of the improvability of the lower races of mankind. But it is not only as an experiment in practical anthropology that this trans- plantation of the negro in America will interest our successors. They will find in it an economic problem of the utmost importance. Their task will be so to combine these millions of the African people in a social order to which inher- itance has not accustomed them, that

36 Science and the African Problem. [July, All grace shall tease The flush of shame to thine averted cheek; Best Greek shall mind thee of one greater Greek, More godlike ease Blessing and blight, A bitter drop beneath the bee-kissed lips, Hyperions anger passing to eclipse And arrow-flight! Thou didst not spare: Thy foot is on his violated door; Therefore the mantle that his shoulders wore None hence shall wear. Above thy choice, This Coriolanus of the peoples wars Could never strip his brawn and show his scars To beg thy voice. Struck by deaths dart, (In all the strain of conflict unconfessed,) He carried through the years that wounded breast, That poignant heart. Last from the fight, So moves the lion, with unhasting stride, Dragging the slant spear, broken in his side And gains the height! Wendell P. Stafford. SCIENCE AND THE AFRICAN PROBLEM. IT is easy to see that in the genera- tions to come the history of the negro race in America will be much studied. Considered from a scientific point of view, the African in America affords the most remarkable experiment ever made in transplanting a tropical variety of man to regions having a very differ- ent climate, and offering a totally dif- ferent set of associations from those in which it originated. It is doubtful if human history will ever again offer an- other such chance of testing the influ- ence of a new environment on a strongly marked though lowly variety of man. The results of this vast essay will, in time, throw a flood of light on the ques- tion of the improvability of the lower races of mankind. But it is not only as an experiment in practical anthropology that this trans- plantation of the negro in America will interest our successors. They will find in it an economic problem of the utmost importance. Their task will be so to combine these millions of the African people in a social order to which inher- itance has not accustomed them, that 1890.] Science and the African Problem. 37 the state may receive no evil influence from their presence; if possible, that it may gain some advantage from the pe- culiarities which the new and varied mo- tives of this people may afford. The most hopeful friend of the negro, if he temper his hope with reason, must have much anxiety as to the final result of this unprecedented trial to which the race is being subjected. He must feel that all the other difficulties which beset the future of our people on the continent of North America are small compared with that which the negro problem pre- sents. It has been the lot of the United States to encounter a wide range of so- cial and political dangers. All these seem in a fair way of solution, at least in as fair a way as in any European country, except this which comes from the presence of the children of Africa on our soil. The problem of the pro- letariat, of the distribution of wealth and education, the dangers arising from the great social congestions in our cities, the difficulty of uniting in one social order diverse branches of the Aryan peoples, are trials which we share with every important state in the civilized world. The African question is pecu- liarly our own. We can see how Eng- lish, Irish, French, Germans, and Ital- ians may, after a time of trouble, min- gle their blood and their motives in a common race, which may be as strong, or even stronger, for the blending of these diversities. We cannot hope for such a result with the negro, for an overwhelming body of experience shows that the third something which comes from the union of the European with the African is not as good material as either of the original stocks; that it has not the vital energy and the character required for the uses of the state. The African and European races must re- main distinct in blood, and at the same time they must, if possible, be kept from becoming separate castes; there must be a perfect civil union without a perfect social accord; they must both march forward with entire equality of privi- lege as far as the state is concerned, yet without the bond of kinship in blood to unite them in the work of life, in- deed, with a sense that it is their duty to remain apart. To bring about this peculiar social order is the task which is before us. By what means shall it be begun, in what ways shall our efforts be directed, with some hope of a fair issue from the grave perils which we must encounter? These are questions of the utmost mo- ment to any American who wishes to do his duty by the difficulties of his time. At present we are doing little or noth- ing which appears likely to contribute much to the solution of the questions which are connected with the future of the African race in this country. After the exertions of the civil war, which was the first step in the real discussion of the African question, it seems natural that our people should be wearied of it, and determine to abandon all further care of the matter to the States which are naturally concerned therewith. We must protest, however, against the idea that the negro question is a purely local problem, and that the right to consider it is limited to those who dwell where the blacks abound. It was doubtless a very wise thing for the federal government to cease its efforts to help the negro by congressional enactments and federal authority. The stages of the so-called reconstruction were really steps towards a more fatal disunion than that which was rendered impossible by the civil war. These steps were leading to a total sepa- ration between the whites and blacks of this country; towards the destruction of the sympathy and understanding between the races, which was a heritage of great value to the old slave-holding States. But it should not be supposed that the peop]e of the whole country have aban- doned all share in the discussion of this question of the future of the negro with 38 their relinquishment of the unconstitu- tional and futile effort to determine del- icate social and civil relations by the rude inachinery of legislation. Such an abnegation of a natural interest in a problem which profoundly concerns the future well-being of the nation and the race would be more unfortunate than the old selfish indifference of the mass of the people to the evils of slavery. In large part, the present indifference to the negro problem arises from a fail- ure to perceive its importance. Few per- sons see the magnitude of the dangers it presents, for the reason that few can conceive the amazing intricacy and del- icacy of the civil and social order by which the life of the individual is built into the larger life of the state. But there are many who do discern the true importance of the African question, who remain silent because they cannot see what is to be done, and who prefer in- action to rash experiment. The follow- ing pages are intended as an essay towards a method of determining what shall be done at the outset of our effort to grapple with the difficulties which the presence of our African brethren has brought upon the state. First of all, it seems to be evident that we need in this task the combined action of all those who recognize the magnitude and importance of the work, and are willing to labor for its solution. Experience shows that, with a large field of inquiry such as this question presents, good work is most easily done by a well- constituted society, containing a large number of students who are willing to plan their researches so that each divi- sion of the subject may come into the hands of those best fitted to attend to it. As will be seen at a later point in this writing, the variety of inquiries which should be prosecuted is very great; equally great is the need that they be prosecuted under some central control. Before we proceed to indicate the meth- ods by which such a society should be [July, organized, it will be proper to consider the lines on which it could appropriately begin its work. The inquiries which would properly fall within the purview of such a society divide themselves into three main divi- sions, namely: first, the history of the negro race; second, the present condi- tion of the race from the point of view of anthropology, including psychology; and, third, the social and civic quality of the race both in itself and in relation to the white people. As we shall see, these inquiries are much entangled, but this separation of the questions will at least aid us to a better presentation of the work which seems to be appointed for such an association of students. We will now proceed to discuss the method of inquiry which may be followed. A study of the history of the negro rage will necessarily open a wide field of research, one in which the facts will be hard to gather. It is the least promis- ing of all the departments into which the work of the society should be divided, yet we may be sure that it will give val- uable results, at least from a scientific point of view, and these will have an im- portant bearing on the other and more immediate questions. The history of the African slave-trade has yet to be writ- ten; there is a great mass of scattered material, from which a tolerably good account of it can be made. In prepar- ing this history, the first object should be to determine, if possible, whence came the Africans who were the forefathers of the blacks in this country. It is er- roneously assumed that our negro folk came altogether from the Guinea coast, and that they were entirely from the low-grade tribes who now inhabit that part of Africa. A preliminary survey of the evidence makes it appear proba- ble that the American Africans repre- sent a great variety of peoples from that jumble of races which have in some unknown way been brought together in central Africa. It is not unlikely that Science and the African Problem. 1890.] Science and the African Problem. 39 we shall find that, although our blacks are principally descended from the peo- ples who inhabit the Guinea coast, still there is in them a considerable admix- ture of other and nobler blood. If an intelligent observer travels in the old slave States, he will remark the great di- versity in the form of body and outline of face among the negroes. For a time the dark skin may mask these differ- ences; but as soon as the first impression of uniformity has worn off, he will per- ceive that the negroes vary in their phys- ical configuration as much as the whites, if indeed they are not even more varied in aspect. If we can trust the reports of travelers, no such wide variation is found among the blacks of the Guinea coast, or indeed among any of the distinct races of Africa. If the result of the pro- posed inquiry should be to show that our negroes are not of the Niger and Congo types alone, but are an admix- ture of many different peoples, having little in common except their dermal uniform of the tropics, it would be a most satisfactory conclusion, for it would show us that we have among the negroes something comparable to the variety of blood and motive which is probably the basis of much of the success which our own race has achieved. If it should be found that among our negroes there ex- ists a large share of the vigorous life of the Zulu group of Africans; even more, if it were, as seems to me probable, dis- covered that a considerable part of their ancestors were from the Zanzibar and Mozambique coasts, we should have to conclude that our American Africans have a far greater variety of origin than we have commonly supposed. This hypothesis as to the composite nature of the American negro receives support from the aspect of many indi- viduals in the South. It is not uncom- mon to find there faces and limbs which depart widely from the Guinea coast type, and closely approach the aspect of the Arab. Assuming, however, that the result of the proposed inquiry is that our negroes are mainly of one blood, that of the Congo group of tribes, we should then turn our attention to the history and con- dition of these peoples. It is important that skilled observers should visit that region, and make a careful inquiry into the conditions and history of these folk. We should acquaint ourselves with their arts and their social order, that we may know the motives which inheritance has supplied in our African fellow-citizens. Although this is a large and difficult inquiry, much will remain to be done. Besides the African in Africa, there is the African in various parts of Amer- ica, as well as on the continents of Eu- rope and Asia, the wide field into which the enforced migrations of slavery have brought the race. It is of great impor- tance that the history of the people un- der these diverse conditions should be well known. The range of moral and physical condition to which the Africans have been exposed has been very great. In many regions they have amalgamated with the native dominant races; there the effects of miscegenation can be traced. We know enough of the results of this process to make it tolerably clear that it is destructive to the best interests of both varieties of men; but we need a more extended study of the phenom- ena. Then, too, the influences of envi- ronment are of great interest. In this country~ we have some data for the study of the effects of climate upon those of African blood. But the question is one of exceeding difficulty, for the reason that it is complicated with matters of race prejudice. By taking a broad sta- tistical view of the field, it will be pos- sible to found our conclusions on much surer ground than can be obtained in this country alone. Such data might in large measure be secured by the proper organization of the census of 1900. Besides the study of the many scat- tered fragments of the African race now 40 Science and the existing in various parts of the world, there are cases where small bodies of this people, which have once existed in Europe and elsewhere, have blended with the stronger race or altogether dis- appeared. At one time African slaves were common in parts of Europe; it seems likely that they were held in con- siderable masses, as at certain times dur- ing the Roman Empire, as well as in the more recent centuries. What has be- come of these people? Have they mere- ly died out, or have they merged with the dominant race? In connection with this latter division of the inquiry, some study should be given to the cases in which the negro has blended with the remnants of the aborigines of this coun- try. It is frequently asserted that the remnants of the New England Indians as well as of other Indian tribes have been extensively mixed with African blood. It is likely that in New England, at least, this opinion is well founded, though it is doubtful if the mixture is as great as is commonly assumed to have been the case. The dark color of these Indians, which leads many to suppose that they may have a large inheritance of negro blood, is probably in many cases the native hue of the Indian race. The moral and physical result of this blending of two extremely diverse bloods is a matter of the utmost interest. It may be studied to great advantage in the New England Indians, for among them there has been little in the way of civil or social proscription to effect the result. It is evident that this series of in- quiries, which we have termed historical, will necessarily be much commingled with those which concern the anthropo- logical section of the work. The matter of their relation is one of details, and need not trouble us in this speculative presentation of the subject. It is clear, however, that there is enough in this field for the consideration of the his- torian, properly so called. If it is de African Problem. [July, sired to extend this side of the work of the society, there is much to be done in the political and economic history of slavery so far as that relates to the African races. The dark slave age of civilized man is substantially at an end, and the half century which sees its ter- mination should see also the beginning of a learned inquiry into its history and its effects. It may well be that this in- quiry is of too wide a scope to be con- sidered by a society which has a special end in view. We turn now to the mat- ter of the second division of the work which we have devised for our associa- tion. The section of the association which concerns the study of the negroes by the methods of modern anthropology has a more definite and at the same time a more difficult task than that which per- tains to the historical aspects of the problem. In large part, the anthropolo- gical questions which have to be consid- ered will be discerned only as the inquiry proceeds, but enough are already ascer- tained to show certain very important lines of research. The first of these con- cerns the existing mental and physical condition of the negro race in this coun- try, and a comparison of their state with that of their kindred who dwell in Africa. It hardly need be said that this study should be based upon a careful applica- tion of anthropometry to the peoples in both regions. Difficult as such an exten- sive work would be, it is quite within the limits of accomplishment, and would give more results than a polar expedition, at a relatively trifling expense. Even a careful study of the crania secured in the two regions would, if the inquiry rested on a sufficiently large basis, give a begin- ning for the discussion; but this inquiry in its widest form can be so easily ac- complished, compared with many of the great researches of modern days, that we can fairly look forward to its execu- tion in the more extended way. There is a less extended and there- 1890.] Science and the African Problem. 41 fore easier part of this investigation which can be carried on upon our own continent. This is as to the relative physical condition of the blacks in the different climatic conditions afforded by the various parts of the continent be- tween Virginia and Florida, or, better, between New England and Jamaica. There are in this range of conditions differences gre~ enough to show, in a statistical way, whether the Africans are sensitive to the influence of climatic va- riations, and in what manner these va- riations affect them. To make these physical examinations in the best way, the study should extend to the matter of disease and longevity. It seems clear that the negro is relative- ly less liable to certain forms of disease than the whites, and that he is more open to invasions of other maladies than the European races. A study of the pathol- ogy of the race in different positions is a matter of great interest. In this connection there is a curious but unnoticed problem before the in- quirer, namely, Is there any change in the color of the blacks who have been long in high latitudes? The prevailing dark hue of the tropical peoples (though it must be said that sonic hyperboreans are also rather dark colored) makes it seem as if this hue were the effect of a vertical sun. If this be true, there might well be some reverse action in the case of the negroes whose ancestors for cen- turies have dwelt in temperate climates. In any large body of American negroes, we find a wide range of hue, some being relatively quite light colored, though the other African marks are very strong, the hair closely kinked, the face prog- nathous, lips thick, nose flat, and feet splayed. These light tints of skin may be due to an admixture of white blood, but it may indicate a tendency to ac- quire what we may call the normal tint of the country. This is seen to be the more possible when we remember that the effect of climate in directly produ cing considerable changes of hue has beeR remarked in many of the lower animals as well as in man. Although the darken- ing of Europeans under the tropics is not to be compared to the permanent bleaching of the negro race, it seems to show that such changes are not impos- sible. The anthropological inquiry should not end with the study of the physical system; it should be extended to the mental parts as well. It would be inter- esting to know, as we well might expect to from this investigation, whether the brain of the American African is larger than that of his African prototypes; but it would be still more interesting to know whether his capacity for education is greater than that of his savage kins- men. It may be doubted if the data for this inquiry are accessible, or that they are worth searching for. Still, as a good deal of missionary work is now under- taken among the African negroes, it may be possible to determine if the two cen- turies of enforced labor and civilizing influences to which our American blacks have been exposed have had any effect on their mental development. It should be remembered that the main problem with reference to the negro is as to his sen- sitiveness to influences which make for advance. Any evidence of real, deep- seated organic advance under his Ameri- can condition would be most welcome to all those who have his future and that of the state, which is a large part his, at heart. We now turn to the third division of the inquiry, that which concerns the civil and social condition and possi- bilities of the negro. At this point we must repeat a warning as to the danger of misapprehending the real status of the negro as he is seen in our American life. Leaving out of view the exception- al instances where they have risen to a higher estate, the negroes appear much like the poorer people of the domi- nant race. Their dark skins excepted, 42 Science and the African Pro6lem. [July, they seem essentially Europeans, if we may use that term to designate their white fellow-citizens. We can hardly conceive that if they were put by them- selves they would be otherwise than we now see them, a simple, easy-go- ing, kindly, Christian people, sharers in all the more essential qualities of our race. But experience shows us that if we could insulate a single county in the South, and give it over to negroes alone, we should in a few decades find that this European clothing, woven by generations of education, had fallen away, and the race gone down to a much lower state of being than that it now occupies. In other words, the negro is not as yet in- tellectually so far up in the scale of de- velopinent as he appears to be; in him the great virtues of the superior race, though implanted, have not yet taken firm root, and are in need of constant tillage, lest the old savage weeds overcome the ten- der shoots of the new and unnatural cul- ture. To those who believe that the negro is only a black white man, who only needs a fair chance to become all that the white man is, these pages are not addressed; it seems to me, with all respect for their individuality, that they do not understand the question which is before us. Looking upon the negro as a man in incessant need of care and of considera- tion, that he may have his chance with us, it is necessary to see what can be done for his advancement. First of all, we must know what education can do for him. It will by no means serve our purpose to assume that his needs are just the same as our own. It is not rea- sonable to conclude, because reading, writing, and arithmetic, with more or less other expanding branches of learn- ing, are the most immediate needs in the education of the children of our own race, that they are the most immediate necessities of the black. These elements of the race education serve a very good purpose in the case of children who inherit from a hundred generations a training in the essential motives of the white race. We must find out what are the possibilities of the negro; in what way his peculiar ancestral training plus his education as an American slave has turned his mind. This is a very difficult inquiry. Though the state of American slavery gave the negro certain valu- able elements of an education, in that it trained him in obedience to authority and in orderly consecutive labor, it de- nied him nearly all chance of showing the peculiar capacities which he may have. On the great philosophical prin- ciple of Study what you most affect, we must order the deeper and more im- portant education of this people. The training of the school bench has its mea- sure of importance in the matter, but the training at the work bench is often, for the savage, the more necessary of the two. Therefore the first object should per- haps be to find in what way the negro can most immediately achieve success in some departments of educative craft- work; on what line or lines of higher employment he can be lifted above the level of a tiller of the soil. For him to continue in the place of a menial farm laborer or domestic servant means that, so far as the educative effect of employ- ment is concerned, he is to be no better off than before his emancipation. Ad- script to the field the greater part of his race must always be; but if even a few per cent. of the whole can be drawn to and succeed in other employments, the advance of the race will be greatly facilitated. Menial labor in the field is a valuable department of the races schooling, but the negro has probably already won all the profit that is to be gained from it. It is certain that he has been long at that school. It seems to me that the South, in its present condition, must afford great op- portunities for the study of the question as to the iitness of the negro for various 1890.] Science and the African Problem. 43 employments other than agricultural la- bor, so that inquirers in this field will doubtless find many facts awaiting in- vestigation. So many efforts are now making towards the education of the ne- gro that it would probably not be diffi- cult to secure a chance for intelligent and promising experiments in such ed- ucation, experiments which could be really measured. Although the schools where whites and blacks are associated are not common in the South, they abound in the North- ern States. In these schools most valu- able inquiries could be made as to the relative progress of the children of the two races. Some hundreds of young per- sons of African descent are now com- mingled with the whites in the colleges. They are necessarily the selected persons associated with an equally selected por- tion of the European race. We should know how they compare in their achieve- ment with the white youth. Care should be taken to determine whether the indi- viduals are of pure or nearly pure Afri- can blood, for those of mixed race would not give data of value. There are reasons for believing that the negroes can readily be cultivated in certain departments of thought in which the emotions lend aid to labor; as, for instance, in music. There is hardly any doubt that they have a keener sense of rhythm than whites of the same intellec- tual grade, perhaps than of any grade whatever. The musical faculty is, per- haps, of all the so-called artistic powers, the easiest to measure in a precise way. Statistics could easily be gathered which would show whether or no this was a true racial capacity. The ability to de- termine the differences which are neces- sary to success in music can be ascer- tained with extreme accuracy and with tolerable ease. Yet I am not sure that any basis for comparison between the powers of the whites and of the blacks has ever been secured. If a culture in music can be given the negro, it may be of far more value to him than most of the apparently more solid learning of our schools. It may lead to the refining, as well as to the organization, of the powerful emotional side of his being. This culture should first take the form of vocal music, for the reason that there is an element of communal action in choral singing which will give him a chance to develop the power of accord with his fellows, which seems now to be the most undeveloped part of his nature. These considera- tions lead me to think that music may be one of the lines on which careful in- quiry may develop great possibilities for the race. Next after these elements of individ- ual culture, we need to look to the pe- culiarities of the negro character which mark themselves in the relations of the man to his fellows. Here, it seems to me, is the most serious difficulty with the race. To move onward, they must be trained to sexual continence, to ob- servance of the marriage bond, and to associated action with their fellow-men. The condition of slavery did much to strengthen, if it did not originate, the habit of steadfast labor which we see now in the Southern blacks; it doubt- less tempered their old waywardness in other things; but its whole influence was against the creation of the sense of fidel- ity to fellow men or women. It may be that the negroes will speedily come by these qualities, and that the failure of these parts to appear, after one genera- tion of freedom, is due to the lowness of their estate. We want information as to the facts and suggestions of the reme- dies. This is an unpromising part of the proposed inquiry, because it cannot be approached in a statistical way; still, something may be done with it. One of the functions of such an asso- ciation should be the careful study of the many and varied experiments which are now being carried on in the South for the betterment of the negroes con- 44 Science and the African Problem. [July, dition. Some of these fail, some have but a moderate success; unhappily, but a few attain a triumphant issue. The causes of success and failure are of the utmost consequence to the race and to the state. Each of these trials should be watched and its results analyzed. From such a study we may be sure that we shall glean a harvest of valuable conclusions. This much of the proposed inquiry might apparently find its place in the hands of a government bureau; but, unfortunately, the whole negro prob- lem is so mingled with political preju- dices that it would be almost impossible to obtain from such a department the spirit of impartial inquiry which is need- ed in this work. Among the experiments now trying or sure to be tried in the South is that of savings-banks. The disgraceful history of the Freedmans Bank has shown how unsafe it is to trust such experiments to the hands of men who have their author- ity from the government. While that bank lives in the memory of the ne- groes, it will not be easy to bring them to a habit of saving money. Yet the development of the sparing habit is of the utmost importance to this people. We may amend the statement of Dr. Johnson, that people are rarely so well employed as when or where they are making money, by saying except when they are saving it. What the negro needs above all things is the habit of postponing his pleasures. In the devel- opment of this habit consists in large part the difference between the savage and the civilized man. The best way of inculcating economy should be a matter of most careful inquiry. Nothing like the organization of the Freedmans Bank will serve the need. If this business is done by the government, it should be supported by the whole credit of the nation. It may well be doubted if this would best be done by the central au- thority, for it would lead the negro to look away into the distance for aid, while a large part of our task is to teach him to look to himself for help. It is not to be denied that the civil and social advancement of the negro in ways more or less apart from those al- ready indicated is a matter of great im- portance, but in the main his civil rights and his social privileges, so far as the distinct separation of the two races in the marriage relation will admit, will depend upon the advance of his general culture. If we can bring him to an intellectual and moral estate comparable to that of the whites, we may be sure that he will have a social status which will not be such as to weigh heavily upon his better life. So far as we can see, the two races are doomed to live separate though they may live parallel lives. To make this divided life comfortable to both and safe for the state is our immediate object. The foregoing sketch is sufficient to show some of the inquiries concerning the negro problem which appear to jus- tify systematic scientific effort. Some of the suggestions will doubtless prove to be futile; experience in the work will cer- tainly develop many others which have not occurred to me. Such is the fullness of the field that the reader, if he has paid attention to the subject, may well be able to add many things not suggest- ed in these pages. It is clear that we are in the midst of a great darkness, which can be illuminated only by patient inquiry. Concerning the composition of our ideal society it seems almost presump- tuous to speak, but it is clear that it should include all who are at once in- terested in the problem and can give anything better than words towards its solution. Especially should it contain those observers in the South who see the matter near at hand, and who are inde- pendent of the prejudices of locality. It should be guided by those who have been so disciplined by scientific methods that they can keep in its moderately safe ways. 1890.] Sidney. 45 The great dangers which such a soci- ety would meet would be from the uni- versality of the political motive. This danger can in part be avoided by a very careful selection of its members, and in part by an obstinate determination to prove at every step the scientific method. It might, unfortunately, be necessary to limit the work altogether to the collec- tion of facts, leaving the suggestion of remedy, where remedy was needed, to other agencies; it would doubtless be well to make this limitation at the out- set. Cranks do not, as a rule, like statistical associations, or even histori- cal societies. Kept within the limits of such societies, the association could fairly be secured from the danger of discords. It is a serious matter to suggest the organization of a society which is to assume so herculean a burden as that which has been proposed in the forego- ing pages, but the class of work which the negro problem makes necessary is, even in its narrow divisions, too vast for any one individual to undertake, and is beset with obstacles which take it out of the class of labors possible for the state to execute. It is to be done, if at all, by an association of those who feel an interest in these questions. It does not seem fit that we should stand idle while the fateful years move on, each making the task more difficult, each darkening the prospect of any happy so- lution of the problem. In the generation now nearly gone by, our brothers of the North and South gave their lives to the first great stage of the struggle with the African ques- tion in America; we should be willing to give something to the labor which may help their sacrifices to bear good fruit. N. S. Shaler. SIDNEY. xx. AFTER that talk with Alan, Robert Steele had no doubt as to what he should do. That he still delayed to tell Miss Sally that he did not love her was not from any uncertainty as to his duty, but simply that the crushing misery of it made him incapable of action. He went as usual to see her; listened absently to her gentle and aimless chatter, responded in his kindly way, and waited. Just one day more, he told himself, again and again. More than once, while in her presence, he had tried to nerve him- self to his duty, but her absolute trust in him made her unconscious of the direc- tion of his thoughts, and overwhelmed Robert with the terror of what he had to do. In this way more than a fort- night passed, until the dawn of a won- derful May morning, whose beauty pro- tested against the lie in his soul. Alan had started out early, meaning to drop in at the majors and look at Sidneys carving, before he went to visit a patient; so Robert waited yet an hour longer, not caring to encounter the doc- tor when he went to proclaim his own shame. Alan, meantime, was walking along in the sunshine towards the majors, absorbed in his own happy imaginings. Soon, he said to himself, surely, soon, something must awake in Sidney Lees heart to which he might address him- self; as yet there had been nothing but meaningless friendship, and to that he had been silent. He found her, that morning, in the garden. She was kneeling, with a trowel in her hand, beside a great

1890.] Sidney. 45 The great dangers which such a soci- ety would meet would be from the uni- versality of the political motive. This danger can in part be avoided by a very careful selection of its members, and in part by an obstinate determination to prove at every step the scientific method. It might, unfortunately, be necessary to limit the work altogether to the collec- tion of facts, leaving the suggestion of remedy, where remedy was needed, to other agencies; it would doubtless be well to make this limitation at the out- set. Cranks do not, as a rule, like statistical associations, or even histori- cal societies. Kept within the limits of such societies, the association could fairly be secured from the danger of discords. It is a serious matter to suggest the organization of a society which is to assume so herculean a burden as that which has been proposed in the forego- ing pages, but the class of work which the negro problem makes necessary is, even in its narrow divisions, too vast for any one individual to undertake, and is beset with obstacles which take it out of the class of labors possible for the state to execute. It is to be done, if at all, by an association of those who feel an interest in these questions. It does not seem fit that we should stand idle while the fateful years move on, each making the task more difficult, each darkening the prospect of any happy so- lution of the problem. In the generation now nearly gone by, our brothers of the North and South gave their lives to the first great stage of the struggle with the African ques- tion in America; we should be willing to give something to the labor which may help their sacrifices to bear good fruit. N. S. Shaler. SIDNEY. xx. AFTER that talk with Alan, Robert Steele had no doubt as to what he should do. That he still delayed to tell Miss Sally that he did not love her was not from any uncertainty as to his duty, but simply that the crushing misery of it made him incapable of action. He went as usual to see her; listened absently to her gentle and aimless chatter, responded in his kindly way, and waited. Just one day more, he told himself, again and again. More than once, while in her presence, he had tried to nerve him- self to his duty, but her absolute trust in him made her unconscious of the direc- tion of his thoughts, and overwhelmed Robert with the terror of what he had to do. In this way more than a fort- night passed, until the dawn of a won- derful May morning, whose beauty pro- tested against the lie in his soul. Alan had started out early, meaning to drop in at the majors and look at Sidneys carving, before he went to visit a patient; so Robert waited yet an hour longer, not caring to encounter the doc- tor when he went to proclaim his own shame. Alan, meantime, was walking along in the sunshine towards the majors, absorbed in his own happy imaginings. Soon, he said to himself, surely, soon, something must awake in Sidney Lees heart to which he might address him- self; as yet there had been nothing but meaningless friendship, and to that he had been silent. He found her, that morning, in the garden. She was kneeling, with a trowel in her hand, beside a great 46 SidneN. [July, bunch of day-lilies, looking at their broad leaves, and wondering what was the promise for August blossoming. When she saw Alan, she took him into her confidence in the frankest way in the world. I thought it would be nice if they would bloom when aunt Sally is married, she is so fond of them. Wont she be married until Au- gust? Alan inquired, looking down into her calm, upraised eyes. I think, she explained indifferent- ly, pausing to lift the bending blossom of a crown imperial, and look down into its heart at the three misty tears which gather in the scarlet bell, I think that she wants to finish most of the preserv- ing first. Oh, Sidney! he said. Her coin- plete selfishness, here among the flowers, shocked him even through the glamour of his love. Is nt it a pity to inter- fere with their happiness just for pre- serves? he demanded, laughing. She had risen, and smiled, and then her face sobered. Miss Townsend and Mr. Paul are to be married then, too. I am so glad! But I thought it was to be sooner? Sidney looked at him curiously. Do people always say that they are glad? Aunt Sally said it when she heard of Mr. Paul and Miss Townsend, and so did Mr. Steele; and Mrs. Brown said it of aunt Sally. Well, yes, I think it is a matter of course to say one is glad, Alan an- swered, lifting his eyebrows a little. I suppose it is civil to take happi- ness for granted. Sidney waited. I mean, he explained, people may not be happy at all, you know; they may quarrel awfully; but its civil to sup- pose they wont. Quarrel! Oh, they dont quarrel where they really love each other, Sidney, he de- clared; never where there is real love. This was an assertion which Alan would have been the first to find amusing if an- other man had made it. But I thought you were speaking of people who loved each other, she said simply, married people? What young man in love could resist the temptation to instruct such igno- rance? Not, certainly, Alan Crossan. And yet, despite the eloquence with which he explained, Sidney still looked a little puzzled. Oh, he cried, at last, impatiently, you are like a person from another world, you dont under- stand what I am saying! It was one of those perfect spring days, without a breath of wind to ruffle the silence of the sky, or a cloud to blur the sparkling blue in which the world was wrapped. There was the subtle fragrance of sunshine and freshly dug earth; a row of cherry-trees in Mrs. Pauls garden stood white against the blue, and now and then a breath of their aromatic sweetness wandered through the still air. The young man and young woman, the young day, the first flowers, the twitter of birds swinging in the vines upon the wall, or whirling in and out among the cherry blossoms, surely words were hardly needed! Sidney and Alan had walked along the shadowy path towards the sun-dial in the evergreen circle, and there he begged her to sit down on the crescent- shaped bench. They were silent for a moment, listening to the murmur of the busy town outside the garden walls, and then Alan said, How strange it is, this quiet spot in the middle of all that clamor! How shut off we are from it all! Sidney had taken off her hat, and was leaning back, looking up between the points of the firs at the sky. Yes, she answered, smiling. it is like your life; it is something apart, something which does not be- long to its time. It is very pleasant, I mean the garden. 1890.] Sidney. 47 But it is not very great! cried the young man. My life or the garden? she ques- tioned, with happy indifference in her face. Of course your life. It is neither happy nor unhappy, so it cannot be great. Sidney shook her head. I am per- fectly happy, she declared. As for greatness, I dont care for greatness; I only want happiness.~~ You will fail of either, he said abruptly; and then, having gone no fur- ther in his love-making than that point where a man falls readily into the vice of quotation, he began to say, his face radi- ant with the happiness of inexperience, Then welcome each rebuff That turns earths smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit uor stand, but go! Be our joys three parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain. Sidney looked at him with a sparkle of laughter in her eyes. Now, Alan, what do you know about roughness? For my part, I confess I m content with pcace. She smiled, with that serious sweetness which had always charmed him. The soft air, the sunshine, the ffick- ering white of the cherry-trees, Alans presence, in a word, youth, gave her all she needed, while she was yet unaware that she had need of anything. Such content is only ignorance; you must have infinitely more to make life great, to make it worth having! What? she asked lightly. Alan drew a quick breath. He had not meant to tell her yet; he had not meant even to generalize; he had still lingering doubts about his responsibility to the major; more than all, he had de- clared that Sidney should not know his deepest life until she had herself begun to live, he would not startle her into repulsion. But now he did not stop to say, Is it wise? still less, Is it right? What? she asked again, turning to look at him. Alans hand tightened upon his knee. Love, he said. Sidney Lee started; a slow, fine color burned across her cheek, and was gone. There was a breathless moment between them; for the first time she did not meet his eyes. But when she spoke her voice was as even as his had been shaken. Greatness at such a cost? I cannot see how any one can desire it, great- ness that grows out of unhappiness! You are wrong, he said, in a low voice. It is nt unhappiness, love. It brings unhappiness, she replied calmly. It makes life glorious! he cried. The hope which had been hidden in his face, which had baffled Sidney and tor- mented Major Lee during these last few months, challenged her from his eyes. Not knowing why, she rose, trembling, breathiess. Yes while it lasts; but it does nt last, you know. She wanted to go away; the tumult in her placid soul frightened her; there was a flying ter- ror in her eyes. But you dont think of that; the joy Forgetfulness does not cheat death, she interrupted; and the joy? I should think that would make the calamity at the end greater for its greatness. Sidney Alan began, and stopped. Some one was coming along the path towards the sun-dial. Sidney had grown very white, but now suddenly a flood of color mounted to her forehead; her eyes stung with tears. She was con- scious only of anger at this extraordinary embarrassment. Why should she want to hide her face as Robert Steele came upon them? Why should her voice tremble when she answered his greeting? She was dumfounded at herself. What did it mean? She could hear, as though at a distance, Alan laughing at Roberts anxious voice, as he asked where Miss Sally was. Alan was entirely himself, and good-naturedly matter of fact. Sid 48 Sidney. [July, neys confusion gave her a moment of positive faintness. Sidney is neglecting her carving, she heard him declare. I have re- proached her so that she vows she wont have me for an instructor. No, I m sure I dont know where Miss Sally is, Bob; probably delving in a tenement house after somebodys soul. I II I 11 wait, I think, Robert answered; and his voice seemed to grope like a blind man. Oh, will you? said Alan blankly. Robert sat down beside them in si- lence. For a moment no one spoke. Then the doctor proposed, gayly, that Sidney should let him see her work. You must not be discouraged. I 11 give you an easier design. He rose. Come! he entreated. Wont you wait for aunt Sally in the house? Sidney said, looking at Mr. Steele. Yes, he responded miserably. He would have followed them without this invitation; he had the human instinct to seek companionship in suffering. He even went into the lumber-room with them, and glanced with unseeing eyes at Sidneys work, a curious piece of deep carving, a bitter and evil face under a wreath of laurel leaves. Why dont you go and meet Miss Sally, Bob? Alan suggested, for Sid- ney had recovered her voice enough to say that her aunt had gone in to Mrs. Pauls. Robert was incapable of suspecting Alan of diplomacy, so he only repeated dully, I will wait. You need her to cheer you up, Alan commented; you look awfully down in the mouth. Sidney, hearing his careless words, was bewildered by her own questions. What had it meant, that thrill in his voice, that wonderful light in his eyes, most of all that sudden storm in her own heart? Yet now Alan was jesting .with Mr. Steele, and she, too, was apparently quite composed, although beneath the surface she was stinging with sharp an- noyance at herself. She lifted one of her tools, and saw with dismay that her hand was unsteady; she was almost ter- rified, her very body had played her false. Unreasoning anger made her an- swer Alan, shortly, that she would rather not carve that morning. She had put her hands behind her and held her head with a proud indifference; she said to herself that she hated Alan, and she wished he would go away. The doc- tor, however, had no such intention; he took up a tool, and began to praise and criticise with as much discrimination as though he were not raging at his friend, who stood silently at his elbow. Even in his annoyance he felt vaguely that this silence of Roberts was strange, and he looked at him once or twice keenly. Poor Bob! he said to himself. Con- found him! When Robert saw Miss Sally push open the door in the garden wall, he went with a heavy step into the parlor to await her. But by that time a sub- tile distance had come between Alan and the young woman. Sidneys composure made it impossible to turn the conversa- tion in the direction it had taken out in the sunshine. Those words belonged to the blue sky, and the white gleam of cherry blossoms, and the twitter of birds; here, in the gloom of the lumber-room, with the murmur of voices from the par- lor, nothing was possible but the business in hand, and so Alan talked about the carving, as long as he could endure the antagonism of Sidneys silence, and then he went away. Robert Steele only had to wait in the parlor for Miss Sally a moment or two; when he heard her light, quick step in the hall, it seemed to him he could count his heartbeats. Miss Sally had gone to Mrs. Pauls that morning, although Sidney had promised to do so. But you know I must be out in the garden, the girl had pleaded. So Miss Sally 1890.] Sidne~y. 49 had read The Independent Press, and talked, or tried to, until Mrs. Pauls pa- tience gave way over some trifling ex- actness in her mild little visitor; then she had cried sharply, Sally, you were an old maid when you were born; and I dont care how often you get married, you 11 be an old maid when you die! Miss Sally had been so earnest in her desire to be agreeable that she had laughed tremulously, which annoyed Mrs. Paul so much that she had ordered her to go home, and not be a goose. Miss Sally, still anxious to please, said, Oh, yes, I think I must go, this to keep Mrs. Paul from any consciousness of rudeness. I ll get ready at once. Oh, pray, Sally, dont get ready; be ready, for once in your life! returned the older woman. Then she had watched her impatiently while Miss Sally, with small, trembling fingers, buttoned her cloak, and wrapped her long white nu- bia round and round her face. I ye had neuralgia, she explained. Miss Sally was always experimenting with human nature; it seemed to her that Mrs. Paul must be sympathetic. On the contrary, a retort upon the inde- cency of talking of ones ailments sent the gentle soul home almost in tears. She had stopped under the cherry-trees to wipe her kind eyes, and then to bend down to smell the lilies of the valley, growing thick in the shadow of the wall; so that by the time she had reached the parlor and her lover she was her own cheerful self again. But Roberts haggard face brought an anxious look into her eyes. I hope you are very well, Mr. Steele? she said. Miss Sally had never gone beyond Mr. Steele. He lifted her hand to his lips, but made no reply. Her affection seemed to him more than he could bear. ( Love Robert called it, to himself.) Miss Sally did not dream of being hurt or surprised that he had not kissed her. If she had VOL. LXVI. NO. 393. 4 stopped to think of it at all, it would have been to wonder why he should ever kiss her: she could count upon her fin- gers the number of times that he had done so. I am so glad to see you, she said brightly, unwinding her nubia as she spoke. I want to ask you what you think would be nice to give that sweet Katherine for a wedding present. I know it is pretty far off, August; but it is so pleasant to plan things. And you know they wont have much money, un- less dear Mrs. Paul will forgive John. Dear me, she couldnt help it, if she would but consent to see Katherine. I tried to suggest it, said Miss Sally, turning pale at the memory of Mrs. Pauls fury; but you know she has such a fine mind, she does nt like to be dictated to, though I m sure I did nt mean Robert had been absently holding her hand, but he dropped it, and began to walk restlessly about the room. Miss Sally looked puzzled. Then she remem- bered that she had not removed her over- shoes, and, with a little hurried apology, ran out into the hall to take them off. When she came back, she was startled by his face. Why, is there anything the matter? Robert whitened under her kindly look. Yes, there is something the mat- ter, he almost groaned. Then he gath- ered all his manliness together: he must not think of himself, he must not even suffer, the justice of pain was almost relief, and he did not deserve that; he must only think how to spare her, how to tell her the truth as tenderly and as faithfully as his unworthy lips might ut- ter it. He came and sat down beside her on the yellow satin sofa, but he did not take her hand. There was an empty moment, in which they heard the voices in the room beyond; and then, through the open window, up out of the sunny - street, came a wandering strain from Verdi, trailing off into silence as the itinerant musician moved further away. Sidney,. [July, I have come here, Robert said slowly and distinctly, looking all the while at the portrait at the further end of the room, and noting, with that ex- traordinary faculty of the mind to ob- serve trivial things in the extremest pain, how cruel was the curve of the beautiful lip, and vaguely aware that he was asso- ciating it with the white glitter of cherry blossoms and the careless sweetness of Sidneys voice, I have come here to tell you that I am an unworthy man; to tell you that my life is yours, that all that I have or hope is yours, but I am not worthy that you should look upon me. I have come here to tell you this. Miss Sally was bewildered; there were tears in Roberts eyes, and his lips were un- steady. Jam unworthy that you should marry me, he said. Nonsense! cried Miss Sally cheer- fully. Of course you are worthy for anybody to marry. But you are not well, or you would not be so low-spirit- ed. I saw that the moment I came in. She looked at him with affectionate con- cern. His words were merely a symp- tom, in Miss Sallys mind, he had taken cold, he was overtired; and her solicitude suggested her manual, or, at the very least, Alan. She put her hand upon his arm, blushing a little at the boldness of a caress. You must be more careful of yourself. Robert stared at her blankly; his face was full of helpless despair. As for Miss Sally, she reflected, with comfort- able common sense, that when a man was in such a nervous state the only thing to do was to take his mind away from himself; and so, in her pleasant voice, she chattered of half a dozen plea- sant things, never waiting for his replies, and ending, with a womans instinctive and happy interest in a wedding, with the assertion that she and Robert must give Katherine something practical. Dear me, declared Miss Sally, I suppose it s sympathy, but I am per- fectly delighted for them! Robert had been so flung back upon himself by her failure to understand him that, during all this talk, he could only struggle dumbly towards the point at which he had begun, and when at last he said, I cannot lie to you; you must know how base I am, how dishon- orable, it was evident that he had not heard one word she had been saying. I want you to know what I am, and then, if you will trust me, if you will tell me that you will marry me, oh, I shall thank God I What else he said he never knew; only that over and over again, after the truth was told, he implored her to let him devote his mis- erable life to her, to let him atone for his terrible mistake, to be his wife. He did not look at her, but lie felt that she was drawing herself away from him. The changes in the atmosphere of the soul are as unmistakable as they are intangible. The broken and humiliated man knew, before she spoke, that it was the sister of Mortimer Lee who answered him; little kindly Miss Sally had gone out of his life forever. She rose, and stood looking down at him for a mo- ment; when she spoke, her voice was perfectly calm, though her face was pale. Robert felt, although he dared not look at her, that she even smiled slightly. Mr. Steele, he started, the tone was so like her brothers, pray do not be disturbed. Pray do not give it another thought. I honor you above any woman I have ever known; your goodness makes it easier to believe in Gods goodness. But I could not deceive you; I could not let you think I had given you what it is not in my weak, miserable nature to give to any one, love such as you ought to receive. But take all I can give, Miss Lee; take my life, and loyal- ty, and gratitude; let things be as they have been. There has never been anything, she answered, with such placid dignity 1890.] Sidney. 51 that Robert dared not entreat her, and, dont you see, there never can be. There is nothing more to be said, please. She looked at him, and then all the gentle- ness came back into her face and her eyes filled. I am so sorry for you, she said simply. Then, quietly, she left him. Robert Steele did not move, even to follow her with his eyes; he sat there upon the yellow sofa, his head sunk upon his breast, his hands hanging list- lessly between his knees. The shadows from the swinging branches of the ailan- tus-tree in the courtyard fell across a square of sunshine on the carpet at his feet; little by little the bar of light lifted and lifted, until it touched the calm eyes of Sidneys mother. He watched the silent, joyous dance of sun and shadows; he was incapable of thought. He saw Alan cross the courtyard, and heard the iron gate creak on its rusty hinges, as he went out into the lane. A little later, Major Lee came up the steps; and then he heard Sidney tell her father, carelessly, that her aunt had a headache, and would not be down to dinner. No one caught sight of him in the darker end of the parlor, half hidden by the open door. It must have been long af- ter noon when he left the house; he did not stay because he hoped to see Miss Sally again, but only because he had not the strength to go away. It was nearly five oclock when Alan Crossan entered his house. The day had been a good one to the doctor. The glory of the morning had touched every hour afterwards. He was still elate and joyous, but on the threshold of the libra- ry he stopped, appalled. In his absorp- tion, these last few weeks, he had become perfectly accustomed to what he thought of as the meaningless distress in Rob- erts face, and scarcely any accentuation of that pain could have startled him. But there was no distress in it now; only dull silence. He went over and touched him on the shoulder, in an authoritative way. You have taken morphine, he said. XXI. Mrs. Paul had not seen her son for nearly six weeks, when, the first Sunday evening that he wae in Mercer after he had received Sidneys message, he en- tered her drawing-room. During that time she had passed from rage to con- tempt, then to indifference, and now she had reached something like fright. Not that she feared losing Johns affection, it was not credible to Mrs. Paul that she could lose the affection of any one; but she had an awful glimpse of a desolate old age. Who would play at draughts with her in the long evenings? Who would listen patiently to her gibes and sneers? Scarlett might do the lat- ter, perhaps, that was what she was paid for, but there was no feeling in her silent endurance. Sidney might be summoned for the former, except that of late Mrs. Paul had found Sidney less in- teresting. Not from any change in the girl, but because her project concerning Mr. Steele had fallen through, and most- ly because her own interests and disap- pointments pressed upon her and shut Sidney out. She was in a state of trem- ulous fierceness when at last the night came on which John Paul, with new and leisurely indifference, presented himself at her door. Well, she said, rapping the little table at her side sharply, you are here, are you? I told Sidney that if you were sorry for your conduct you might come home. John raised his eyebrows. Yes, Mrs. Paul declared, I in willing to overlook your behavior. Every man has in him the capacity of absolute idiocy at some time or other in his life, and that was your opportu- nity. Well, you improved it, Johnny, 52 Sidney. [July, you improved it. I m willing to forgive and forget, she continued. XVe 11 say no more about it. Just wind up this Independent Press folly as soon as you can. Do you want any money for it? But there was something in her sons look that troubled her. In spite of her bold words, her voice shook. In the brief answer that John made, Mrs. Paul heard her defeat announced; heard, but could not realize nor accept it. She grew so angry that her son bent his eyes upon the ground, and refused to look at her. You shall not marry that woman! she cried; or, if you do, not a cent of my money shall you have, do you hear me? And she shall never enter my house, do you understand me? I will not see her. John had been standing silently all this time, frowning at the jug of lilacs in the fireplace; once he lifted from the mantelpiece a carved and fretted ball of ivory, which held another within its circling mystery, and looked at it critically; then he put it down, and waited for his mother to continue; but he glanced at the clock in an absent, indifferent way. You are a cruel and unnatural son! she said, her voice breaking into tears. John looked at her with attention. Yes, I think I am unnatural, but I cant help it now; neither of us can help it now. I am what you have made me; I suppose I am hard. I am sorry. Hard? You are stone! My only son John sighed. Human nature is as helpless to restore as to create love. But had he ever loved his mother? He had certainly never analyzed his feeling for her. Affection for ones mother is a matter of course; it is a conventionality, in a way. But now something had snapped, something had broken; he no longer took his affection for granted. No, he thought sadly, looking away from her convulsed face, I do not love you; and I shall never forgive you. He knew quite well that, no matter what gloss of reconciliation might cover that awful scene when she had accused and condoned at once, he could never forget it. Those promises of pardon which we bestow so readily are apt to be given without thought of this terrible and in- escapable power of memory. The lover. or the husband, the mother or the child, may love as deeply as before the quarrel or the crime, but the remembrance of one bad or cruel word, the color of a tone, the meaning in the glance of an eye, will too often linger in the soul; such a recollection will start up between two kisses, force itself beneath the hand that blesses, be renewed in vows of re- newed tenderness. No assertions of for- giveness or of love can blot it out; it is as immortal as the soul. Perhaps Mrs. Paul read the inexora- ble truth in her sons face; her anger was drowned in a new emotion. She looked up suddenly at Annettes picture. Oh, why did you die? she said, half aloud. It is your fault. I would have been different I must go, John was saying con- strainedly. Should you need me at any time, I will come at once. Mother, I wish you would let Katherine come to see you. But she burst out into such bitter insult to the woman he loved that, with- out another word, he left her. She did not even ring for Scarlett when he had gone, and she was won- derfully quiet all that evening. Davids noticed that she left the tea-table with- out eating, and he hazarded the remark to Scarlett that he believed she cared more for Mr. John than she had ever let on. Scarletts response of silence made him, as usual, quite angry, but left him with that sense of her wisdom which the mystery of reserve is sure to produce. Lord! said Davids. if I could 1890.] Sidney. 53 hold my tongue like her, she d think me something great! Mrs. Paul was experiencing this same fear of silence. If John had argued, if he had attempted to explain, she could have had all the solace of her own rush of angry words. She felt, unanswered, like a flying brig, left suddenly to the waves without the driving force of the hurricane. Her own fury tossed and beat her, but without Johns anger she could make no progress. She did not sleep much that night; she thought persistently of Miss Town- send. She wished, with hot resentment, that she could see her, at a distance, that she could know what sort of a per- son it was who had wroughtthis change in her son; for through the calmest in- difference she had been entirely igno- rant of Johns possibilities. Alone in the darkness of her bedroom, the slow and scanty tears burned in her eyes and dropped upon her pillow; the old grief for the dead Annette, the grief which had railed at Heaven, but had hidden itself so completely that no one knew that it existed, was sobbed out again in despair and hatred of all the world. Why did she die? Mortimer is right; it is not worth while to love any one. Oh, I wish she had never been born! The thought came to her at last, it was towards dawn, and the furniture was beginning to shape itself out of the shad- ows, as the windows grew into oblongs of gray light, the thought came to her that she might go to see this young wo- man; yes, and tell her what she thought of her, and what would be the result if she married John, which, of course, would end the matter, for all the girl wanted was money. Rage which can be expressed in action is almost pleasure. Mrs. Paul fell asleep when she had thought this all out; but Scarlett was startled by her white face and haggard eyes, when she brought in the coffee the next morning. Tell Davids, Mrs. Paul said, as she sat before the oval mirror of her dress- ing-table, and watched the woman puff her hair with delicate and gentle little fingers, tell Davids to go to the ma- jors. and say Mrs. Pauls love, and will Miss Lee step over for a few minutes after breakfast? Miss Sally? asked Scarlett, whose sense of justice always made this little protest for Miss Sallys dignity. Of course not! cried Mrs. Paul. I said Miss Lee. Sidney came, and was asked, in the most casual way in the world, where that Townsend girl lived, although the desire for such information was not explained. Mrs. Paul had ordered the carriage for two oclock, and she drove towards Red Lane with a face which tried to hide its eagerness beneath the greatest indifference. She had been full of ex- cuses all that morning, explaining to herself that this apparent weakening was only strength. Johnny should see he could not defy her; she would put a stop to his absurdities once for all. No fear that the young woman would want to marry him when she knew the facts of the case. Miss Katherine Townsend, however, was away from home, and Mrs. Pauls anger was for the moment restrained. I will wait, she said, sweeping past Maria, who was very much ~vercome by the callers rustling silks, as well as by her impatient and disdainful eyes. It was curious that the servants vacant face and the plainness of the house should have aroused in Mrs. Paul, not anger at John, but the old indignation at what, long ago, she had called the low tastes of her husband. He gets it from his father, she thought, her lip curling as she looked about at the severe but cheerful room. The walls between the windows and doors were covered with bookshelves, so that there was no room for pictures; the piano was open, and sheets of music 54 Sidney. [July, were scattered beside it; there was no carpet on the painted floor, only, said Mrs. Paul to herself, those detestable slippery rugs. On the table was a great India china bowl full of locust blossoms. The shutters were bowed, for the day was warm, and one ray of sunshine fell between them, striking white upon the flowers, but the rest of the room was shadowy; so dusky, in- deed, that Mrs. Paul did not observe Ted standing in the doorway, his grave little head on one side and his hands behind him. Who, he observed at last, are you? Oh, thought Mrs. Paul, this is the brother. Of course the child is pert and forward. Kitty says, said Ted gently, at it s polite to speak when you are spoken to. You are an impertinent boy! Mrs. Paul assured him. She put her glasses on and inspected him. No, Ted corrected her, I m not an impertinent boy. I m Kittys big brother. I am Mrs. Paul, explained his au- ditor, now you can run away, please. Oh, cried Ted, with evident delight, are you Johns sister? We love John, Kitty and Carrie, Louisa and me. Little. Ted had no knowledge of any other relationship than brother and sis- ter, so his remark had no flattery in it, but Mrs. Paul smiled involuntarily. I am his mother, she said. ( A schem- ing. ill-bred person, she added, in her own mind, teaching the children to talk about Johnny in such a way, to please him, of course.) Should you like to see the pups? Ted asked, anxious to be agreeable. John gave em to me. Oh, pray be quiet! returned Mrs. raul impatiently. When is your sister coming home? Do you mean Kitty? The child leaned his elbow confidingly on Mrs. Pauls knee, and looked into her face. You have nt got such pretty eyes as John. There was no reply. Kitty thinks his eyes are beautiful, declared Ted calmly, an she s coming home most any time. Kitty does just as she pleases, you know. Mrs. Pauls face expressed only silent endurance. Does John love you the same as I love Kitty? Ted continued, after a pause, during which he inspected the lace upon Mrs. Pauls wrap. A mo- ment later, he exclaimed gayly, There she is! Kitty, theres somebody here! For once Katherine scarcely noticed him. She had guessed whose was the carriage at the door, and she had sum- moned all her happiness and her cour- age to her aid. She entered with a smile, in which there was the faintest gleam of amusement. You are Mrs. Paul, she said, with an outstretched hand, which, as Mrs. Paul did not notice it, began to wheel an easier chair forward. How good of you to come to see me! But pray take a more comfortable seat. Words fluttered upon Mrs. Pauls lips, and left her silent. This dignified young woman was so different from her expectations that she had to take a mo- ment to adjust her anger to her circum- stances. Katherine, meanwhile, had drawn her little brother to her side. The old sofa upon which she sat, with its uncomforta- ble mahogany arms and its faded dam- ask covering, had an air of past grandeur about it which impressed Mrs. Paul, al- though she did not know it. All the furniture in the room had this same sug- gestiveness, as well as the rows of leather- covered books upon the shelves. She comes of People, Mrs. Paul thought angrily. Her conduct is in- excusable! I trust you have not had to wait 1890.] Sidney. 55 very long? Katherine was saying. And, Ted, you have not been a bore, have you? Indeed, said Mrs. Paul, he has been quite quite talkative. She was furious at herself for ending her sen- tence in that way. Had I known that you were coming, I should have been at home, said Kath- erine. But Mrs. Paul was not to be drawn into commonplace civilities. Miss Town- send, will you be so kind as to send this child away? What I wish to say per- haps he had better not hear. Certainly, answered Katherine gravely. But when Ted, with his usual reluctance, had left them, she said, with quiet dignity, that had in it a curious condescension, Mrs. Paul, I know very well that Johns engagement to me is a disappointment to you, and I appreciate with all my heart your coming here to see me. You are quite right, returned Mrs. Paul; it is a disappointment. It is for that reason that I am here. Of course my son will do what he wishes with his future, but at the same time it is only proper that you should know what that future will be if if he displeases me. Katherines slight, waiting smile, full of courteous and decent deference for her age, confounded Mrs. Paul. She was perhaps more puzzled than angry, and the sensation was so new that she was at a loss for words. Those which she had prepared for the upstart music teacher were not to be spoken to this young woman. Yes, it is a very great disappointment, I regret to say, she ended. I hope you will believe, Katherine Townsend answered, that I have re- alized perfectly that it might be so. I do not mean because I am poor, that is something which neither you nor I could consider, but I have the care of my brother and sisters, and it is a very serious thing for a man to marry when he must assume such responsibili- ties. I am glad to see that you appreciate that, said Mrs. Paul. I Yes, interposed Miss Townsend quietly, of course I know that. And yet I have felt that this very assumption would give him the strength which your strength has really withheld from him. He has had no responsibility in life, I think, has he? I am sure you under- stand me. I do not mean to reproach your love for him, which has spared him, but surely responsibility will help him, too? But I am talking too much of my own concerns. She stopped, smiling in half apology. It is such a tiresome drive over from the hill; will you not excuse me for one moment, and let me fetch you a cup of tea? She rose, ignoring Mrs. Pauls quick nega- tive. Pray let me, she said, and left the room. In the hall she drew a long breath and set her lips; then she went into the kitchen, and with an intent haste, which silenced Maria, she made the tea herself, and arranged the small tray upon which she was to carry it to her guest. It was a bold stroke, she reflected, and the risk was great in leaving Mrs. Paul alone to collect her thoughts and her objections; but it had been the only thing that had suggested itself to Katherine. The ex- citement and restraint made her eyes bright, and there was a little color in her cheeks; and when, tranquilly and with- out haste, she came back to the parlor, she was almost handsome. Mrs. Paul could not help seeing that, nor the quiet way in which Katherine seemed to dis- miss the subject of John and his engage- ment. She began, as she poured the tea, to talk, lightly, with cutting words, of this person or of that. Had Mrs. Paul heard of that absurd affair in Ashurst? What a painful thing for the family such a scandal must be! And what did she think of that ridiculous love-story that, just now, every one was reading? And 56 Sidney. [July, that gave Katherine Townsend the chance to say things as bitter and as untrue as even her guest might have done. A book, Mrs. Paul was constrained to say, which tries to denounce second marriage is silly, is immoral. Who is it that says a second mar- riage is the triumph of hope over ex- perience? queried Katherine gayly. Truly, I dont like the idea myself, but it s better than Major Lees theory. This with a slight shrug. Even as she spoke, she was excusing herself by say- ing she would confess to Sidney Lee what she had said, never for a moment realizing how incapable Sidney was of understanding the situation, or approv- ing of that temporary insincerity which is a weapon of society, and rarely im- plies a moral quality. At that suggestion of a sneer, Mrs. Paul saw her anger slipping away from her. She made an effort to recover her- self. At least, absurd as it is, Morti- mer Lees view would prevent many un- happy marriages; and I am sure you will agree with me that no marriages are so unhappy as those which are un- equal in in any way. It is of this, Miss Townsend, that I wish to speak to you.~~ Then Katherine, who had given away her warm and honest heart as loyally as any woman ever did, lifted her eyebrows a little and seemed to consider. Yes, she said cynically, of course; except that the reasons for an unequal mar- riage are always so apparent. No one ought to be deceived. Regard has very little to do with it. It is invariably personal advantage which is considered; happiness is not expected. She held her breath after that; perhaps she had gone too far? Yet if it made Mrs. Paul feel that, in her own case, she acknow- ledged no inequality, much was gained, even at the expense of a slur upon love. ( This is bowing in the house of Rim- mon, she thought, with shame and ela- tion together.) But Mrs. Paul smiled. At least this young woman was no fool, there was to be no love-talk, no tears; and yet, as she tried to turn to that subject which she had come to discuss, she found such a discussion as difficult, although not as disagreeable, as though she had been an- swered by tears and protestations. She could not make her threat about money to this young person who treated money with such high-handed indifference; in- deed, so skillfully did Katherine parry the slightest hint of the disapprobation which Mrs. Paul was here to express that the older woman became aware that, although she was not to be allowed to say what was in her mind, Miss Town- send knew perfectly well all she wished to say. There are few who are not more or less impressed by cleverness; but Mrs. Paul respected it, even when it was to her cost. As for Katherine, she was exhilarated by her opportunity; to an- ticipate Mrs. Pauls sneers was like a game. That she was not sincere she was aware, but she silenced her con- science by a promise to repent as soon as her wrong-doing was ended. For the present, she must not lose the chance of assuring Mrs. Paul that, for her part, she believed that vanity was the begin- ning of most of the virtues, and expe- diency of the rest, or any such flip- pant untruth as Mrs. Pauls conversation might suggest; and Mrs. Pauls conver- sation never lacked suggestion. The older womans final reserve broke down. My dear, she cried, you are delightful. The Providence that takes care of children and fools has guided Johnny. As for your brother and sis- ters, no doubt we can find a proper boarding-school She ignored Miss Townsends laughing negative. Mrs. Paul was never half-way in anything; she was as charmed as she had been enraged. But I am afraid, Katherine said, I am afraid that I must beg you to 1890.] Sidney. 57 excuse me. I have a lesson to give in just twenty minutes, and I must go. I am so sorry! She rose as she spoke, extending her hand in very courteous and calm dismissal. It has been a plea- sure to see you, she said, with no more enthusiasm than politeness demanded. Mrs. Paul was beaming. She glanced at Katherine keenly for a moment, as she took her arm. Where have you learned to walk? she demanded. One does not expect deportment from Little Mercer. But what am I thinking of? Your mother was a Drayton, of course! I remember now: young Steele told me so, and Sidney, but I had forgotten it. So foolish in Johnny not to remind me! How could I suppose that anybody he would care for could have antecedents? But poor John, said Katherine lightly, he was more concerned with living than with dead relatives. Four Townsends are bad enough, without a dozen Draytons too. Oh, Mrs. Paul assured her, I have no doubt that they are very well, the children; I assure you I shant mind them much. They had reached the carriage, and a thought struck her. You are going out to give a lesson? (Nonsense, all nonsense; we II stop that at once!) Then just get right in with me, and I 11 take you wherever you want to go. It has begun to rain, you see. That will be delightful! Katherine assented. She had not removed her bonnet when she entered the parlor, so without any delay she took the place by Mrs. Pauls side. The enjoyment of leaning back among the carriage cush- ions, and directing the coachman to drive to one of those cheap suburban villas, which irritate the eyes and look as though they had been made with a jig- saw, was something Katherine never forgot. You are to come to see me to-mor- row morning, commanded Mrs. Paul, more pleasantly excited and interested than she had been for many a day. I shall send for Johnny, and we will wind up this nonsense of the paper. Katherine laughed and shook her head. I am so sorry, but I am occu- pied to-morrow morning. I must not disappoint a pupil for my own pleasure, you know. Under all her calm, Kath- erine was flushed with victory. She had triumphed, yet it was at the cost of her self-respect. She realized this when she stood at the carriage door saying good-by. My dear, you are a clever woman, and I congratulate you. (No one can say I have not always appreciated clever- ness.) You dont make any sentimental pretenses, I like that. As for Johnny, I dare say you will make the best of him; he s only stupid, that s all. Katherine grew hot with shame; she could scarcely control her voice to thank Mrs. Paul for having carried her to her pupils door. She had succeeded too well. Mrs. Paul, when she drove away, was in that state of radiant satisfaction which demands a spectator. So it was some- thing to come across Miss Sally trudging home in the rain, and to stop and insist that she should get into the carriage. Why in the world, she cried, did nt you tell me about Katherine Town- send? She would not drive home im- mediately, for I want to talk to you, she said. And so Miss Sally, sitting opposite, shivering a little in her damp skirts, listened with genuine pleasure to Mrs. Pauls praises of Katherine. It is really a pleasure to talk to such a young woman; and a great relief, after what I have endured these last few years. Why did nobody tell me what she was like? Of course I could not know; the fact that Johnny was in love with her made me think she could not amount to much. Johnny has no sense about women. I was always afraid he might think he was in love with you. But, thank the Lord, he never reached that state! So it was natural that I should object to her, n~t having seen her, and neither you nor Sidney having 58 Sidneii. the sense to tell me wbat kind of a woman she was. I should think, ventured Miss Sally, shivering a good deal, that you would have known she must be a sweet, good girl, just because John cared for her. Sweet? good? repeated Mrs. Paul contemptuously. That s like you, Sal ly. And it s like you to say I must have known, because Now that you are en- gaged yourself, you really are too silly. Miss Sally swallowed once or twice, and then looked out of the window. I am not engaged, Mrs. Paul. Mrs. Pauls What? was explosive. When did you break it off? What an idiot you were, Sally, to let him go! You will never get the chance again. Why did you do it? I I did nt break it off, said the other simply; he told me he had made a mistake. So there was nt anything to break off, you see. XXII. If Mrs. Paul had not been so ab- sorbed in Katherine, she would have felt in Miss Sallys broken engagement the collapse of a person who has lost a griev- ance. As it was, she thought of it only to repeat the news, two or three days later, to Roberts astounded and dismayed friend, and to rail at Sally for a fool to have let young Steele slip through her fingers. When Alan Crossan really grasped the fact that Robert had thrown Miss Sally over, it was thus Mrs. Paul expressed it, he stood in shocked silence for a moment; it was too tremen- dous for comment. Then came the in- stant rebound: it was impossible; it sim- ply could not be; by believing such a slander he again had wronged his friend. Why, it was only a week ago that Rob- ert had come to look for Miss Sally in the garden Then, like a blow, came the remembraiice of the evident return to morphine in the afternoon of that [July, day, and since then Robert had been away from home. The doctor scarcely heard Mrs. Pauls triumphant talk of Katherine; he only waited for a pause to say good-by, and then he went at once, not knowing why, to the majors. There, at first, it seemed as though this terrible news was con- firmed. Sidney met him, looking puz- zled and half annoyed. Aunt Sally is ill, I think. She has a cold. I was going to send for you, Alan, though you wont mind if she keeps on taking her little pills too, will you? Is is anything else wrong, Sid- ney? he said. Does Mr. Steele know she is ill? Has he been here to-day? Sidney shook her head. There is nothing wrong; what could be wrong? Aunt Sally is ill, and I cant tell what she wants done downstairs. She is sleepy all the time. She frowned; she was troubled, and she was impatient of all trouble. It was no time to ask questions; Alan had to forget Robert. A physicians private anxieties are out of place by the bedside of a patient, and Miss Sally was really sick. That walk in the rain, and then the long, shivering ride with Mrs. Paul, had come upon a little body which the new emotions of the last few months, and especially of the last week, had greatly taxed. Miss Sally was exhaust- ed. Her pathetic desire to appear stronger and wiser than she was had been a continual strain; but that desire had gone now, and she felt instead the old content, the old enjoyment of a nar- row life. And yet such content was a mysterious pain to Miss Sally. In the night of that day upon which Mr. Steele had told her he did not love her, she had cried as though her heart would break. She knew, vaguely, that her grief was not because she had lost her lover, yet she knew no more than that. She was incapable of finding the reason for her tears, or of understanding 1890.] Sidney. 59 that there is no bitterer pain than the knowledge that the real grievance is the lack of grief. There, in the dark, kneeling at the side of her high bed, she cried until, from weariness, she fell asleep; sinking down upon the floor, her head resting against the carved bedpost. In the morning she awoke, stiff and chilled, and in a dazed way groped about in her mind to find her sorrow. She caught a glimpse in her mirror of her small anx- ious face, stained with last nights tears, and pressed into wrinkles and creases where it had rested on the gathers of the valance. The tears were still very near the surface. She drew a little sob- bing breath for pity of herself. But per- haps at that moment she dimly under- stood that really it was relief which had come to her, and not sorrow, and that the dear and commonplace little life was hers again. There would be no more effort, no new emotions. She cried as she smoothed her hair and bathed her tired eyes, because, without understand- ing it, she knew how soon her tears would be dried. It was a little souls appreciation of how impossible for it is greatness. But no one could have guessed this cause of grief, least of all Robert Steele, drowning his misery in the old familiar dreams of opium. He had shut h~self up in a hotel in the city, and given all his thoughts to the contemplation of his own baseness; and when that grew too terrible to be borne, taking up that strange little instrument of heaven and. hell, and by a prick in his arm forgetting. There was a fitness in such sinning, he said to himself, de- liberately yielding to temptation. He had flung Miss Sallys saving love away, so he had best fall back into the misery from which she had rescued him. Per- haps no one, not even Alan, could have appreciated the sincerity of a man allow- ing himself to sin, as a punishment to himself. But the doctor, on that day, a week later, when he found Miss Sally ill, had no knowledge of Robert or his condition, and he could not spare a thought for him in concern for her. Alan looked worried when he rejoined Sidney in the library. She was reading, and it was evidently not easy for her to leave her book. Yes, he said, Miss Sally is ill; but dont be alarmed. Sidney looked surprised; evidently, nothing had been further from her thoughts than any- thing so unpleasant as alarm. So far as I can see, she has nothing on her mind. (Mrs. Paul was wrong; I knew she was.) But I dont like that room for her: there is no sunshine, and too much draught. The room across the hall would be better. I think she ought to be moved at once. But, said Sidney, in consternation, and putting her book down, that is is Your room? Alan finished. Why, Sidney! The selfishness which could admit of such a thought startled him for a moment. Sidney did not speak. To put some one else before herself required an ad- justment of ideas; but when that was done, the resulting consciousness was not altogether unpleasant. I think, said Alan slowly, I ll ask Miss Katherine Townsend to come in this afternoon, for a while. I m sure she s a capital nurse. And Miss Sally ought not to be alone. Oh! Sidney answered blankly, so plainly distressed at her duty that Alan could not be silent. Sidney, dont you care for Miss Sally? Yes, of course I care, she said; but there was no offended affection in her face, nor did she say love. In such matt5s the major had taught her to call things by their right names. Then, cried Alan, why dont you want to be with her, and to give up your room to her? 00 Sidney. [July, Because, she explained, it is nt pleasant, Alan. The doctor looked at her. But is this sort of thing pleasant, this self- ishly refusing to see what is painful ? It is nt unpleasant, she replied. But she was troubled; Alan seemed to disapprove of her, she thought. Oh, Sidney, he said, it distresses me to have you unwomanly and selfish. I cannot hear to see you selfish. This was the first time that they had been alone since that morning in the garden. She smiled. But look; why do you want me to be different? Because it is unpleasant to see whal you call selfish- ness? And it is not right, added the doc- tor. What is right? she asked. Oh, Alan, you and I act from the same mo- tive, comfort; only you are more sub- tle about it than I. You call comfort right; it s expedient to be good, you know. She laughed, and looked at him so frankly, with such entire absence of that beautiful consciousness which had filled him with hope, that Alans heart sank. Sidney, he said passionately, I told you that you needed love to make you really live. It is regeneration, as well as beauty! Do you remember what I told you? Oh, you could not be selfish if you had love in your heart! He stood close beside her; it seemed as though a wave of light quivered across his face as his eyes sought hers. Miss Sally, right and wrong, the subtle- ties of altruism and selfishness, were for- gotten; the woman he loved was looking into his face. Oh, begin to live, Sidney, begin to live, now! It was an extraordinary moment, which seemed to Alan an eternity, as, with her hand crushed in his, he de- manded life from the frightened silence of her face. The scene stamped itself upon his brain: the sunshine streaming in through the long, open windows; the murmurs of the busy street; the Virginia creeper swaying from the eaves of the west wing; the sudden sparkle of a crystal ball upon the writing - table; and through all a wandering breath of mignonette from the garden, and the ripple of a song from little Susan, sing- ing in the kitchen. Alans voice sounded strangely in his ears. His individuality was swept into that Power of which each individual is but the fleeting expression. It was Life which called to Sidney; it was the Past, it was Humanity, it was all Na- ture, nay, it was her own soul which entreated her from Alans lips. Love is more than death; it is life itself. I love you. She did not take her hand from his, nor turn her eyes away; she looked at him in absolute silence, dazed and un- comprehending. Alan had one moment of blankness, which was so intense that it seemed a physical shock; it was as though he had uttered that Come forth ! into the ears of the dead. Do you love me? His tone com- pelled an answer. Sidney, looking at him as though she could not take her eyes away from his, slowly shook her head. The spell of the moment was lifted; the sense of power was gone. The young man was no longer the creator, summoning life, but the lover, pleading, fearing, scarcely daring to hope. Oh, you are not in earnest? Think! Dont you, a little? No, she answered. Her voice was as the voice of one who dreams; but she knew, keenly and intensely, what she was doing and saying. It was this knowledge which brought the absorbed vacancy into her eyes. This, then, was love ? this look in Alans face; this strange earnestness, which was, she thought vaguely, like anger; this breath- less pain in his voice. How terrible was love! Alan, Alan, she said, 1890.] ~Sidney. 61 please do not be so unhappy, please do not love me. Not love you? Why, I should not be alive if I did not love you, Sidney. It seems as if it were my very soul, this love. Dont you care for me at all? But already he despaired; it did not need that she should answer him, trem- bling, Indeed, I do not; truly I do not, to assure him that his entreaties fell upon ears which could not under- stand them. He felt, watching the dis- may growing in her calm face, as though he had been telling his love to a mar- ble woman. For a moment he did not feel the despair of a rejected lover. It seemed to him, looking at her passion- less pity, as though the girl were inca- pable of emotion; there was something unhuman about it, which gave him, at the heart of his love, a curious sense of repulsion. I am so sorry for you, Sidney, he heard himself say; and then he burst out once more: Sidney, you dont know what I am trying to tell you, you dont know what love means! But you must learn; let me teach you? He took her hand again, with a gentleness which may come when love is great enough to forget itself. Sidney looked away, and sighed. Man, dont say anything more. Her voice was so ultimate that the young man was silenced for a moment; then he said simply, Dont you think you could learn to love me, Sidney. Truly I dont, she answered. There were tears in her eyes. Alan turned sharply away. He went over to the window, and stood with his hands behind him, star- ing into the garden. Man? Sidney said at last. Yes? he answered quietly, but he did not look at her. I I think I must go to aunt Sally she began, her voice unsteady. He turned quickly. Wait one mo- ment, he said. I want to write a pre- scription for her. The crystal ball in its ebony circle still flashed in the sunshine; the mur- mur of the bees and the scent of flowers came through the windows. Life and the day went on; little Susan was still singing in the kitchen, and, like a green and flowing arras, the woodbine wavered in the wind. All was the same, and yet, to this young man and woman, how in- finitely and eternally different! Will you have this filled, please? the doctor inquired, making queer caba- listic marks upon his prescription pa- per. He did not lift his eyes to hers; the repression of the moment made his face stern. Sidney did not answer. A s6ul had revealed itself to her in this last half hour; all her twenty - five years had brought her no such wisdom as had come in these quick moments. What had been a word to her had flashed before her eyes, a living creature. Love had looked at her, had implored her. Sidney bad that feeling of escape which comes to one who has seen another overwhelmed by a danger which he fears. Alan left her with a very brief farewell; but she sat there by the window, with the prescription paper in her hand, until long after the time her aunt should have taken her medicine, sat there, in fact, until Katherine Townsend, entering, with an anxious look upon her face, asked her how Miss Sally was. Katherine had seen Alan, and when she heard that Miss Sally was ill she said she would go to her at once. For I am afraid, she added good-naturedly, that Miss Sidney Lee is too dreamy to be of much use in a sick-room? Alan was apparently too absorbed to express an opinion. Doctors think of nothing but their patients, Katherine complained to herself. She would have been glad to talk of Sidney, who inter- ested her extremely, but Alan was silent, 62 Sidne~y. [July, and she did not pursue the subject; she had an interest and anxiety of her own. Dr. Crossan, I want to ask you something. Mrs. Paul told me that that cousin Robert had broken his en- gagement, and now you say Miss Sally is ill; and it almost seems But I would not believe Mrs. Paul! Alan came back with a start; he had forgotten Robert and Miss Sally too. Mrs. Paul told me the same thing, but it cannot be true. Miss Sallys ill- ness has nothing to do with any nervous condition. She has a cold, and she is feverish; pneumonia is what I fear. Miss Townsend, I would not believe such a thing of Robert, if he told me so himself! Katherines face brightened. I thank you for saying that. I dont think I really believed it, only Mrs. Paul said But never mind that. Then it is not broken off, you think? I dont know, Alan answered. It may be at an end; Miss Sally may have broken it off, you know. I have nt seen Bob for a week. But Mrs. Paul insinu- ated if you will pardon the word that Steele had asked to be released, and of course that is impossible. I wonder why Mrs. Paul always puts the worst construction upon everything? Then, with a comment upon the wea- ther, he left her. It is odd what atten- tion one can pay to the commonplace, with ones soul in a tumult of pain. He thought of Robert again, only to declare to himself, briefly, that this thing Mrs. Paul had said was obviously false; and then he forgot him until later in the afternoon, when he reached home. Robert Steele was waiting for him in their llbrary. He was resting his el- bows on the table, and his face was hidden in his hands. Alan, he said, how is Miss Sally? I called there, and they told me she was ill. His manner confessed him. The doc- tor was flung out of his trust and con- fidence. She is ill, he said sternly. She is very much prostrated, also. I suppose you know why that is? Yes, I know, answered the wretch- ed man before him. Alan stared at him with dismay. Steele, tell me what this means. Is your engagement broken? Yes. But it is not true that you did it? That is what is said, but but of course its a lie! It is true, returned Robert, running his finger along the carving on the edge of the table, and not lifting his head. Good heavens, Steele, what are you saying? I dont believe it! You are an honorable man. It is some piece of insane folly which you have fastened upon yourself which has made her dis.- miss you. But then, why are you so miserable? Did you he lowered his voice did you love her, after all? No, answered the other, I never loved her, and I told her so. I told her that it had been a mistake from the beginning. Alan did not speak. Robert raised his head. Do you want me to go away? Alan looked at him speechlessly. Robert had not loved Miss Sally? He had realized that he had made a mis- take? The doctor could easily believe all that, but tell her! Was it not a sufficient injury to fail in love without adding the insult of telling her so? His face grew darkly red. I am done with him, he thought. Do you want me to go away? Robert repeated, in that dull, hopeless voice. I do, said the doctor. Without a word, Robert Steele rose and left the room. Margaret Deland 1890.] The Status of Athletics in American Colleges. 63 IN A VOLUME OF SIR THOMAS BROWNE. STRANGE spoil from this weird garden Memory brings; Here, hard by Flower de Luce, the night-blast sows Moonstruck Thessalian herbs; oerhead (who knows?) Or from beneath, a sough of missioned wings; The soil, enriched with mould of Coptic kings, Bears, intertwining, substances and shows, And in the midst about their mystic rose The Muses dance, while rapt Apollo sings. All-potent Phantasy, the spell is thine; Thou layst thy careless finger on a word, And there forever shall thine effluence shine, The witchery of thy rhythmic pulse be heard; Yea, where thy foot hath left its pressure fine, Though but in passing, haunts the Attic bird. James Russell Lawell. THE STATUS OF ATHLETICS IN AMERICAN COLLEGES. ONE of the popular delusions about colleges is the notion that college stu- dents are a race apart: that they have temptations quite different from and more numerous than those met by other young men; that they have different amusements, different standards, in a word, a different human nature. Those who live among students know that they are, in the main, very llke their twin brothers at home or in business: they are not much wiser, and are as prone to do absurd things; on the other hand, they have more leisure, more command of their time, a wider range of interest, and a tickling sense of be- longing to a guild of learning; on the whole, they are more likely than other young men to avoid bad or vicious habits. The same principle applies in athletics as in more important things. College athletes are not a peculiar genus of the homo juvenis; they are only amateur athletes. College athletic clubs are gov erned by the same rules and principles as other amateur clubs. Yet there are some reasons why the interest in col- lege athletics is sharper, why abuses are more apt to creep in, and why public attention should be directed more care- fully to the manner in which college athletics are conducted. That there is a great public interest in college athletics is plain twice a year from the items and squibs of the daily press; and this is an interest which has grown up within the last thirty years. The enjoyment of sports is as old as the toys of Egyptian children, or the ball- game of Nausicaa and her maids. ~pcdpn Tcd a& p t,FaLCOV . . . ~ ~vcYcu. With the ball they played, . .. and mightily they shrieked. The contest of animal with animal, of men with animals, and still more of men with men, has excited Greek, Ro- man, and barbarian. There is no doubt that a stand-up fight between two trained

1890.] The Status of Athletics in American Colleges. 63 IN A VOLUME OF SIR THOMAS BROWNE. STRANGE spoil from this weird garden Memory brings; Here, hard by Flower de Luce, the night-blast sows Moonstruck Thessalian herbs; oerhead (who knows?) Or from beneath, a sough of missioned wings; The soil, enriched with mould of Coptic kings, Bears, intertwining, substances and shows, And in the midst about their mystic rose The Muses dance, while rapt Apollo sings. All-potent Phantasy, the spell is thine; Thou layst thy careless finger on a word, And there forever shall thine effluence shine, The witchery of thy rhythmic pulse be heard; Yea, where thy foot hath left its pressure fine, Though but in passing, haunts the Attic bird. James Russell Lawell. THE STATUS OF ATHLETICS IN AMERICAN COLLEGES. ONE of the popular delusions about colleges is the notion that college stu- dents are a race apart: that they have temptations quite different from and more numerous than those met by other young men; that they have different amusements, different standards, in a word, a different human nature. Those who live among students know that they are, in the main, very llke their twin brothers at home or in business: they are not much wiser, and are as prone to do absurd things; on the other hand, they have more leisure, more command of their time, a wider range of interest, and a tickling sense of be- longing to a guild of learning; on the whole, they are more likely than other young men to avoid bad or vicious habits. The same principle applies in athletics as in more important things. College athletes are not a peculiar genus of the homo juvenis; they are only amateur athletes. College athletic clubs are gov erned by the same rules and principles as other amateur clubs. Yet there are some reasons why the interest in col- lege athletics is sharper, why abuses are more apt to creep in, and why public attention should be directed more care- fully to the manner in which college athletics are conducted. That there is a great public interest in college athletics is plain twice a year from the items and squibs of the daily press; and this is an interest which has grown up within the last thirty years. The enjoyment of sports is as old as the toys of Egyptian children, or the ball- game of Nausicaa and her maids. ~pcdpn Tcd a& p t,FaLCOV . . . ~ ~vcYcu. With the ball they played, . .. and mightily they shrieked. The contest of animal with animal, of men with animals, and still more of men with men, has excited Greek, Ro- man, and barbarian. There is no doubt that a stand-up fight between two trained

1890.] The Status of Athletics in American Colleges. 63 IN A VOLUME OF SIR THOMAS BROWNE. STRANGE spoil from this weird garden Memory brings; Here, hard by Flower de Luce, the night-blast sows Moonstruck Thessalian herbs; oerhead (who knows?) Or from beneath, a sough of missioned wings; The soil, enriched with mould of Coptic kings, Bears, intertwining, substances and shows, And in the midst about their mystic rose The Muses dance, while rapt Apollo sings. All-potent Phantasy, the spell is thine; Thou layst thy careless finger on a word, And there forever shall thine effluence shine, The witchery of thy rhythmic pulse be heard; Yea, where thy foot hath left its pressure fine, Though but in passing, haunts the Attic bird. James Russell Lawell. THE STATUS OF ATHLETICS IN AMERICAN COLLEGES. ONE of the popular delusions about colleges is the notion that college stu- dents are a race apart: that they have temptations quite different from and more numerous than those met by other young men; that they have different amusements, different standards, in a word, a different human nature. Those who live among students know that they are, in the main, very llke their twin brothers at home or in business: they are not much wiser, and are as prone to do absurd things; on the other hand, they have more leisure, more command of their time, a wider range of interest, and a tickling sense of be- longing to a guild of learning; on the whole, they are more likely than other young men to avoid bad or vicious habits. The same principle applies in athletics as in more important things. College athletes are not a peculiar genus of the homo juvenis; they are only amateur athletes. College athletic clubs are gov erned by the same rules and principles as other amateur clubs. Yet there are some reasons why the interest in col- lege athletics is sharper, why abuses are more apt to creep in, and why public attention should be directed more care- fully to the manner in which college athletics are conducted. That there is a great public interest in college athletics is plain twice a year from the items and squibs of the daily press; and this is an interest which has grown up within the last thirty years. The enjoyment of sports is as old as the toys of Egyptian children, or the ball- game of Nausicaa and her maids. ~pcdpn Tcd a& p t,FaLCOV . . . ~ ~vcYcu. With the ball they played, . .. and mightily they shrieked. The contest of animal with animal, of men with animals, and still more of men with men, has excited Greek, Ro- man, and barbarian. There is no doubt that a stand-up fight between two trained 64 The Status of Athletics in American Colleges. [July, men or bodies of men, whether fought with fists, rapiers, Winchester rifles, or army corps, is the most absorbing of human diversions. In modern athletic sports, however, the contest is not usu- ally against a mans person; our prefer- ence is for races and competitions rather than for set-tos. This milder and manlier form of sport is due to England. While German youths still exercised with a sword and American youths with a trotting-sulky, young Englishmen ran, rowed, played cricket, and revived football and tennis. The development has been due in part to the ancient customs of the people, in part to climate, in great part to the English schools. School-boys sports have, during the past fifty years, been carried into the universities and into private life. To England, then, we owe the ex- ample followed in our outdoor sports; and in England the practice has been brought under certain generally accepted principles. In the first place, no sport among gentlemen can be directed against the life or limbs of an antagonist. To inflict bodily injury was the great object of the Greek boxer and the Roman glad- iator. Now, even in boxing, to wound is to be awkward. For better security, almost all athletic sports avoid personal contact; players strike the ball, but not one another. To carry out the principle of avoid- ing bodily injuries, and to make the game more interesting, a second princi- ple is applied: the sports are all hedged in by elaborate rules. Every complicat- ed game, especially football, seems to the uninitiated an elaborate system of how-not-to-do-it. Strength, fleetness, and agility are to be applied only in speci- fied ways. Here is an example, taken from the Intercollegiate football rules: A player may throw or pass the ball in any direction except toward oppo- nents goal. Yet the sole object of the game is somehow to move the ball precisely in the direction forbidden by throw or pass. The basis of the sport is always the tacit assumption that the game is between gentlemen who wish to win, but who accept and observe the limitations set by the rules. The prin- ciple that an umpire shall be provided has been established, but the practice is intended only to meet the case of a gentlemanly disagreement. Only under the intense competition of the last ten years has it been found necessary to provide double umpires, or to give an umpire summary powers of punishment where a player willfully breaks jules. The necessity shows that the standard of sport has fallen; it shows that a professional spirit has crept in. What is a professional? He is de- fined and set apart by the third great principle of modern sport. A sharp line is drawii between those who practice sport for their own pleasure and those who practice it for money. Here is the statement of the distinction, laid down in the rules of the Amateur Athletic Union of the United States, defining an amateur : One who has not entered in an open competition; or for either a stake, public or admission money, or entrance fee; or under a fictitious name; or has not competed with or against a profes- sional for any prize or where admission fee is charged; or who has not instruct- ed, pursued, or assisted in the pursuit of athletic exercises as a means of liveli- hood, or for gain or any emolument; or where membership of any athletic club of any kind was not brought about or does not continue because of any mu- tual understanding, express or implied, whereby his becoming or continuing a member of such club would be of any pecuniary benefit to him whatever, di- rect or indirect; and who shall in other and all respects conform to the rules and regulations of this organization. For so rigid a rule there are abun- dant reasons. A man who competes A 1890.] like Status of Athletics in American Colleges. 65 from a love of sport prefers not to com- pete with a man who has gained supe- rior skill by making his sport an occu- pation. A gentleman has no reason for concealing his name. If a man s suc- cess in his calling depends upon his winning, or if his livelihood is at stake, he is more apt to break or to strain rules; and the experience of the world has shown that a man who receives money for winning a contest may some- times, by the offer of more money, be induced to lose. Contests of profession- als, therefore, are not so sure to be car- ried through on the merits of the com- petitors. From the element of trickery, professional sports offer a field for bet- ting and for other forms of gambling. There are hundreds of perfectly honest professionals, but in accepting money for their services they give up the ele- ment of personal pleasure, and change their sport into a task. In America, boat-racing and games of ball are as old as boyhood, rivers, and town commons, but in the colleges and outside they were very simple and un- organized school-boy sports till about thirty years ago. Regular teams began in boating, and there was a race with Yale in 1852. In 1858, the present president of Harvard University was a member of the famous Harvard crew which brought the first six-oared shell in ahead of a rival Boston boat. The Civil War gave a singular impe- tus to field sports of all kinds. Perhaps the boys in blue brought home a love of fresh air and exercise from their marches and bivouacs; perhaps the German turn- vereine taught Americans the use of their muscles; perhaps gentle croquet led to more active sports. In 1863 came the first organized games of intercollegiate baseball. The sport spread throughout the country, and the college teams met on equal, sometimes on superior terms, the mighty and forgotten Lowells, Peconics, and Redstockings. The Ca- nadians taught us football and lacrosse VOL. LXVI. NO. 393. 5 about 1877. Lawn tennis and bicycling came in a little later. Amateur records in track athletics began to be taken about 1875. For the conduct of these sports there are permanent and recognized amateur organizations outside of the colleges; athletic clubs have begun to spring up, with expensive houses and apparatus; but the chief seat of amateur sport is in the colleges. Here are assemblages of young men having unusual control over their own time; here is a strong feeling of esprit de corps; here, out of the many players offering themselves, a first-rate team may easily be formed. Not one in twenty of the spectators at a professional baseball game knows one of the players personally, or ever him- self handles the bat. The athletic spirit in the colleges is greatly stimulated by the fact that the whole college feels a personal interest in the players. College authorities acknowledge, willingly or un- willingly, that athletic sports must be allowed and even encouraged. There is a growing sentiment that exercise is es- sential for the most efficient use of the mind. In the colleges are the best fa- cilities both for exercise and for coatest. No large college is now consid I com- plete without a good gymnasium and some instruction in field sports. The college athletic associations are more numerous and important than other am- ateur organizations. In the colleges, therefore, the growth and effect of ath- letics are more clearly discernible than elsewhere. The first distinct result of athletics, as seen in the colleges, is a consider- able increase in the average of bodily strength. The popular caricature of the college student is no longer the stoop- shouldered, long-haired gAnd, but a per- son of abnormal biceps and rudimentary brains. As a fact, the most popular man in any college class to-day is usu- ally a good student who can do some- thing in athletics better than anybody 66 The Status of Athletics in American Colleges. [July, else. The effect of this accepted stan- dard of complete manliness is seen on men who never take part in athletic contests. The bodily vigor and health of students in the colleges have visibly risen in twenty years: the variety of exercise is greater; a larger number take exercise. Experienced directors and trainers apply scientific methods of developing the body. Dr. Sargent states, as the result of 3537 measurements since 1879, that he has now a record of 248 men in Harvard College, each of whom is stronger than was the strongest man in 1880. Of course there is a ten- dency to admire muscle and strength for themselves instead of as a means of health or enjoyment, but the physical results of athletic sports are highly ben- eficial. An equally striking change is the great development of skill in athletics. The famous baseball teams of the six- ties could not now make a run against a good nine; the records in athletics are constantly being broken. This skill is gained, however, at the cost of increased expenditure of time. Rowing men must settle down to their work in December, if ti~ey hope to win in July. Captains of tea spend more and more thought on selecting and placing players, on training, on planning campaigns. H~nce college teams far surpass all other ama- teurs, and are but little inferior to the best professional teams. The inevitable result is that, to the participants, the ele- ment of sport is fast disappearing. It is very agreeable to be recognized as a star player and to travel with a team; but any one who watches a great contest must admit that it is play only for the excited spectators; the partici- pants find both practice and match hard, unremitting work. To suppose that this fact discourages men from trying for the teams is a mistake. Where one man gets on a team, ten try; where ten try, twenty play for the fun of the thing. The standard of skill required for enjoyment in a scrub game has not been raised. Nevertheless, the great matches, especially in football, are com- ing to have the interest of gladiatorial contests; players are not there to pass a pleasant afternoon or to show their skill, but to beat. It is magnificent, but it is war. Such elaborate contests cannot be car- ried on without great preparation and expense. In addition to gymnasium trainers, paid by the college authorities, many teams have coaches, often profes- sionals. Another great source of ex- pense is the training-tables; the board often costs double the ordinary rate, and the difference sometimes the whole is paid by the management. When- ever a team travels, it makes up a little array of players, managers, and atten- dants, whose expenses are paid by the organization. Men so solicitous to win spare no money that will insure greater comfort. The incidental expenses for such organizations are sometimes appall- ing: uniforms, accoutrements, the trav- eling expenses of managers and dele- gates, the keeping of grounds in order, these are but a part of the items. In one single year, for a campaign lasting about seven weeks, the Harvard Foot- Ball Association has paid out $6361.63, or an average of $350 for every actual player. On the other hand, the same organization has received in one year upwards of $11,400. To handle and judiciously to expend sums so consider- able might perhaps give the financial officers of athletic associations good busi- ness training; but the money is usually handled carelessly and expended lavish ly. Here is a verbatim transcript of an account rendered by the treasurer of a college organization a few years ago : REcEIPTs. Subscriptions, season tickets, and oth er sources $2917.69 Gate receipts . . . . 3291.74 $6209.43 1890.] The Status of Athletics in American Colleges. 67 EXPENDITURES. Uniforms . Yale-Amherst trip Brown-Princeton New Haven (exhibition) New York (Yale game) Umpires Printing, advertising, and sundries Balance in Bank $320.50 371.45 318.36 190.06 410.42 100.00 3443.94 $5155.72 1053.71 $6209.43 One of the most vexatious things about college athletics is the india-rub- ber inertia which makes it difficult to in- duce any treasurer or manager to keep full and lucid accounts and to take vouchers. Not very long ago, a perfect- ly honest young fellow, who had been asked to account for the magnitude of certain expenditures, explained in good faith that he was sure a particular bill had been thrice presented and paid; but he had taken no receipts. As expense has increased, various moral evils have grown, also. In all the older colleges there are men who receive from home more money than they can put to good account for their personal expenses. Among that class of men betting grows up; and the example is followed by a few who can less afford to lose. Betting on the field can be re- pressed by denying the use of grounds to the organization which permits it; outside betting cannot be controlled, save by public opinion; and, as it takes the insidious form of loyally backing up the team, college public opinion is not sufficiently pronounced against the practice. Of late years, the custom has sprung up for bodies of college men to attend the theatres in the city where the great game has that day been played, and, by cheering, the waving of flags, and the interruption of the performance, to make their preferences known. An excited, irresponsible state of mind seems to be induced by the tremendous compe- tition of the greater sports, and to be more marked in the larger cities. A similar excitement manifests itself among the general public. The colleges at Cambridge and New Haven were nearly deserted on the day of the recent Yale-Harvard game at Springfield. In New York, on Thanksgiving Day, 1889, there was paid for tickets to the Yale- Princeton game more than $25,000; and people in North Carolina mountain towns watched the telegraphic bulletin. Not even Patti can command such au- diences or take so much money for one performance. The newspapers give the public the impression that the whole in- terest of the colleges is absorbed in glad- iatorial shows. To the evils just mentioned irreg- ularity, extravagance, excitement there is added a still more serious evil, that of professionalism in college athlet- ics. The first approach to the profes- sional spirit is found in the few young men who become regular members of the college in order to develop and ex- hibit their skill as athletes. No college ought to have a place for such men. Oc- casionally they cuter late, and disappear at the end of the athletic season; more frequently they keep on, year aft~ year, preventing other possible candidates from getting on the teams. Another phase of the disposition to make sport the end rather than the means is the pressure brought to bear on athletic men, who have graduated from college, to re- turn and to go upon teams. A further advance of the same spirit is seen in those students who accept from proprie- tors of summer hotels offers of board, and sometimes of incidental expenses, as an inducement to play during the sea- son, and who thus come within the strict definition of professionals. Another step is to receive money for occasional games; and, finally, a considerable num- ber of college students or graduates have accepted summer employment from professional clubs, or have become teach- ers of athletics, and have thus separated themselves from all amateur organiza 68 The Status of Athletics in American Colleges. [July, tions, within college or outside. Some of these men have, by their sport, ac- quired the means honorably to clear off college debts, or to provide for a profes- sional education. No one can complain of their taking money for the practice of their skill ; but the element of plea- sure or of physical benefit that is, the element of sport disappears, and the purpose for which college athletics exist ceases, the moment a man begins to consider his skill a pecuniary re- source. Serious as are the evils connected with athletic sports, the writer believes that they are more than counterbalanced by the effect on the health of the students, and by the opportunity given for work- ing off youthful spirits in a harmless way. Students themselves are sensible of the evils, but the expectation that they would in their own way find a remedy has not been realized. Students or- ganizations are loose; college genera- tions are very short; traditions quickly fade; and there is lack of permanent policy. Captains usually serve a single yeav, and each feels like one of the ten Greek~generals on his day of command. It is a~Imost impossible for one college te obtain any reform without negotia- tion with other colleges, and diplomacy enough to secure an extradition treaty with Great Britain. Organizations con- trolled by graduates do better because they hold the undergraduates down to a definite policy. Those colleges in which the graduates have most influence, as Yale and Princeton, have proved upon the field and the river the excellence of graduate management. But the system is not very niuch freer than that of the untrammeled undergraduates from the evil of extravagaiice, sharp practice, and wastefulness of time. The teams are better; the morale of the sports is little improved. College Faculties have been unwill- ing to take responsibility for athletic contests, and have from the first rather tolerated them as an unavoidable evil. They begaii by legislating against broken windows and broken heads. As it was evident that athletic sports were a vig- orous growth, the next step was to make provision for exercise by building new gymnasiums. In some cases physical examinations have been required, as at Amherst, or exercise has been made ob- llgatory, as at Cornell. rrhn came a time when it was dis- covered that students were making ap- pointments which took them away from college work, or which unduly absorbed the attention of their fellows. A mild system of interference was adopted, with gentle rules as to time, place, and nuin- ber of games. Some colleges, notably Yale, have gone no further, preferring to leave the whole matter to students. Additional legislation has been difficult: any serious limitations have been resent- ed by the students; and the smaller col- leges have hesitated to take any step which might keep students away. Most of the larger colleges, however, have appointed Faculty committees on ath- letics, whose office has been to exercise moral suasion over the students, and sometimes actually to regulate. There has been little interference with student organizations; money has been collected by subscription, and it has been a del- icate matter to protect voluntary sub- scribers from their own agents. With the present large revenues from gate money a system of audit has been found indispensable. In some colleges it is exercised by graduate committees. At Harvard, by strenuous exertion, the or- ganizations have been brought to agree to the appointment of a graduate trea- surer, and to the deposit of surpluses arising from gate money, to be used for general athletic purposes. The evils incident to the keen com- petition of intercollegiate athletics have received little check from individual Faculties. The trouble is, of course, that any restriction put upon a team is 1890.] The Status of Athletics in American Colleges. 69 a handicap, unless applied to its com- petitors. Half a dozen years ago, there- fore, Harvard proposed a system of gen- eral regulation by the authorities of all the principal colleges ; but it was found impossible to get an agreement. For a time Harvard forbade her teams to play against professionals. That restriction has since been withdrawn, as tending to keep up an irritation between students and Faculty: every defeat was ascribed to the want of practice with profes- sionals. The futility of the restriction was shown by the fact that in the face of it the professional spirit steadily grew at Harvard and elsewhere. Evasion of the rules became more common; men were brought into the colleges who had no serious purpose of study; the be- havior of men on the field was rough and sometimes coarse. The governing boards began to take alarm, and the Harvard Overseers, in the spring of 1888, came almost to the resolution to prohibit intercollegiate contests. At this point a committee of the Faculty made an investigation, and reported that intercollegiate contests stimulate ath- letics, stimulate general exercise, and thus favorably affect the health and moral tone of the university.. They suggested a mixed committee of mem- bers from the Faculty, graduates, and undergraduates, with adequate powers. That committee was appointed, and has formulated a policy of regulation. The difficulties of restriction have al- ready been set forth. Since the prin- cipal evils of athletics are those of ex- cess rather than of inherent wrong, they are hard to regulate by statute. In many cases, they arise from a neglect by the students to look after the details of their own contests, and such neglect cannot be supplemented by supervision. Busy Faculties have neither the ~i4ne nor the inclination to form and lvAd a con- sistent policy in regard to athletics. It is felt that athletic sporte are only a very incidental and subsidiary part of college life, and that control of them re- quires the time and interest of profes- sors who are better employed in teach- ing; and hence that they should either be unrestricted or wholly prohibited. Such is the argument of those who ad- vocate the prohibition of intercollegiate contests. It seems to furnish an easy solution to say, Let the boys attend to their studies. To solve the question in this offhand manner is impossible. If there were no athletic clubs or athletic young men outside the colleges, perhaps the matter might be one for academic discipline; if intercollegiate contests were less at- tractive to students and their friends, to graduates and men interested in the colleges, they might be relegated to the place they occupied twenty years ago, and again become simply an agreeable diversion for half holidays and vacations. If athletics had not many distinctly bracing effects on the physical and moral tone of young men, the system of con- tests might be treated as an evil per se. If there were not at bottom a healthy moral sentiment among the students, op- posed to professionalism and kindred evils, the governing boards might at- tempt to supply an artificial conscience. No votes of the Faculty or other gov- erning boards can permanently put an end to intercollegiate athletic con ~sts at the present day, because nine tenths of the students and at least seven tenths of the graduates consider them desirable. Can, then, no principles of limitation and restriction be found, which students, graduates, and governing boards will unite in thinking reasonable? Most cer- tainly there are such principles. The first husiness of every man, whether in a bank, in a law office, or in a college, is to perform his daily task: students, there- fore, will readily accommodate them- ~elves to regulations intended to bring contests out of the hours of colle~ exercises, and to restrict the number 70 The Status of Athletics in American Colleges. [July, of games played abroad. Important contests at a distance from home, or in a city not the seat of either contesting college, plainly lead to irregularities and to interference with study, and the ef- fects of the excitement thus induced ex- tend far beyond the day of the contest. The experience of the Harvard Com- mittee on the Regulation of Athletic Sports has shown that students are can- did enough to admit the necessity of re- ducing the geographical compass of their sports. The first principle of regulation is to subordinate athletics to study. The second principle is that every organization of every kind which goes before the public as emanating from a college, or bearing its name, shall pre- sent none but genuine representatives of that college, and shall do nothing dis- creditable to alma mater. The princi- ple applies as much to theatrical and musical performances as to athletic con- tests. No man ought to be permitted to sing, to act, or to contest as a member of a college organization, if he is under college censure, or if he is a student only for a few months, or if he comes only to pursue his favorite amusement. At Harvard such men are now ineligible, either by Faculty regulation or by the & ~ction of the athletic committee; and the students second the policy. It is equdly important to keep alive the feel- ing tL t the members of teams compete for the fame of their college, and not for any pecuniary gain to themselves: for this reason, students who have en- joyed a money profit from the practice of their sport must be excluded rigorous- ly, although their regular standing as members of the college may be unques- tioned. Here, again, so soon as students clearly perceive how and why profes- sionalism degrades amateur sport, they heartily join in an attempt to keep out professionals. A third principle is that of publicity. ,No organization which, from its connec- tion with a college, secures subscriptions from undergraduates and graduates, en- joys the use of college grounds or build- ings, or appears before the public under the college name has any right to con- ceal its accounts, or to refuse to the au- thorities of the college a knowledge of its methods, its system of training, and the men who are to make up its teams. The system of irresponsible handling of large funds, of irresponsible selection of players, and of irresponsible diplomacy with other colleges is one which ac- knowledges only half the principle of freedom. A boy chooses his college, but abides by its discipline. A student chooses or accepts his studies; but, in every college, his instructors require him to satisfy them that he pursues the work that he has undertaken. College ath- letic sports, as now conducted, are no longer private enterprises; much more than college societies they affect the good name and the efficiency of individ- ual colleges and of college education, and the college authorities have a right to know what goes on. In applying the three principles above specified, the subordination of ath- letics, exclusion of men not representa- tive, and publicity, the cot~peration of students is essential, and is freely given. There is no want of good will, but a plentiful lack of good business habits. Somewhere in the organization of a uni- versity there must therefore be author- ity to require the observance of rules laid down under the three principles enunciated; and the judicious applica- tion of such rules requires the expendi- ture of a great deal of time. The detail will inevitably fall into confusion if not carefully looked after, for the simple reason that college students are boyish, thoughtless, and slack, and that college generations change quickly. The time necessary for supervision is well spent, if it br1~. gs young men to see the reasons for a pu~:ctilious standard in the selec- tion and management of athletic teams. Penalties may be simple, and yet effec 71 1890.] The Town Poor. tive. To deprive a man of the privilege of taking part in athletic contests is often a memorable punishment to him and to his fellows; to deprive an organization of the use of grounds or buildings, for sufficient cause, will prevent the recur- rence of the cause. Within the limita- tions suggested, students should be left to control their own affairs and to make their own arrangements, without being troubled by successive petty enactments. Regulations should be few; conferences should be many. In whom should the authority over athletic sports primarily be vested? The Harvard Committee on the Regulation of Athletic Sports is composed of nine members: three members of the Faculty and three graduates, all six appointed for a year by the Corporation and con- firmed by the Overseers; and three un- dergraduates, chosen by representatives of athletic organizations. Its action may be subjected to revision by the governing boards. The combination has proved singularly harmonious; and the undergraduate members habitually show a spirit of open-mindedness and conser- vatism which reflects the best sentiment of the college. This is not a perfect system, but it is suggestive of methods which ought to prevail everywhere. Athletic sports and competitions and intercollegiate contests are an established part of the life of American colleges. The evils incident to them can best be met by judicious legislation, founded on a few reasonable principles, and by giving to students full freedom within these limitations. Albert Bushnell Hart. THE TOWN POOR. MRS. WILLIAM TRIMBLE and Miss Rebecca Wright were driving along Hampden east road, one afternoon in early spring- Their progress was slow. Mrs. Trimbles sorrel horse was old and stiff, and the wheels were clogged by clay mud. The frost was not yet out of the ground, although the snow was nearly gone, except in a few places on the north side of the woods, or where it had drifted all winter against a length of fence. There must be a good deal o snow to the norard of us yet, said weather- wise Mrs. Trimble. I feel it in the air; t is more than the ground-damp. We aint goin to have real nice weather till the up-country snow s all gone. I heard say yesterday that there was good sleddin yet, all up through Parsley, responded Miss Wright. I should nt like to live up in them north- ern places. My cousin Ellens husband was a Parsley man, an he was obliged, as you may have heard, to go up north to his fathers second wifes funeral; got back day before yesterday. T was about twenty-one miles, an they started on wheels; but when they 4 gone nine or ten miles, they found t was no sort o use, an left their wagon an took a sleigh. The man that owned it charged em four an six, too. I should nt have thought he would; they told him they was goin to a funeral; an they had their own buffaloes an everything. Well, I expect it s a good deal harder scratchin, up that way; they have to git money where they can; the farms is very poor as you go north, sug- gested Mrs. Trimble kindly. T aint none too rich a country where we be, but I ye always been grateful I want born up to Parsley. The old horse plodded along, and the sun, coming out from the heavy spring

71 1890.] The Town Poor. tive. To deprive a man of the privilege of taking part in athletic contests is often a memorable punishment to him and to his fellows; to deprive an organization of the use of grounds or buildings, for sufficient cause, will prevent the recur- rence of the cause. Within the limita- tions suggested, students should be left to control their own affairs and to make their own arrangements, without being troubled by successive petty enactments. Regulations should be few; conferences should be many. In whom should the authority over athletic sports primarily be vested? The Harvard Committee on the Regulation of Athletic Sports is composed of nine members: three members of the Faculty and three graduates, all six appointed for a year by the Corporation and con- firmed by the Overseers; and three un- dergraduates, chosen by representatives of athletic organizations. Its action may be subjected to revision by the governing boards. The combination has proved singularly harmonious; and the undergraduate members habitually show a spirit of open-mindedness and conser- vatism which reflects the best sentiment of the college. This is not a perfect system, but it is suggestive of methods which ought to prevail everywhere. Athletic sports and competitions and intercollegiate contests are an established part of the life of American colleges. The evils incident to them can best be met by judicious legislation, founded on a few reasonable principles, and by giving to students full freedom within these limitations. Albert Bushnell Hart. THE TOWN POOR. MRS. WILLIAM TRIMBLE and Miss Rebecca Wright were driving along Hampden east road, one afternoon in early spring- Their progress was slow. Mrs. Trimbles sorrel horse was old and stiff, and the wheels were clogged by clay mud. The frost was not yet out of the ground, although the snow was nearly gone, except in a few places on the north side of the woods, or where it had drifted all winter against a length of fence. There must be a good deal o snow to the norard of us yet, said weather- wise Mrs. Trimble. I feel it in the air; t is more than the ground-damp. We aint goin to have real nice weather till the up-country snow s all gone. I heard say yesterday that there was good sleddin yet, all up through Parsley, responded Miss Wright. I should nt like to live up in them north- ern places. My cousin Ellens husband was a Parsley man, an he was obliged, as you may have heard, to go up north to his fathers second wifes funeral; got back day before yesterday. T was about twenty-one miles, an they started on wheels; but when they 4 gone nine or ten miles, they found t was no sort o use, an left their wagon an took a sleigh. The man that owned it charged em four an six, too. I should nt have thought he would; they told him they was goin to a funeral; an they had their own buffaloes an everything. Well, I expect it s a good deal harder scratchin, up that way; they have to git money where they can; the farms is very poor as you go north, sug- gested Mrs. Trimble kindly. T aint none too rich a country where we be, but I ye always been grateful I want born up to Parsley. The old horse plodded along, and the sun, coming out from the heavy spring 72 The Town Poor. [July, clouds, sent a sudden shine of light along the muddy road. Sister Wright drew her large veil forward over the high rim of her bonnet. She was not used to driving, or to being much in the open air; but Mrs. Trimble was an active busi- ness woman, and looked after her own affairs herself, in all weathers. The late Mr. Trimble had left her a good farm, but not much ready money, and it was often said that she was better off in the end than if he had lived. She regretted his loss deeply, however; it was impossi- ble for her to speak of him, even with intimate friends, without emotion, and nobody had ever hinted that this emo- tion was insincere. She was most warm- hearted and generous, and in her limited way played the part of Lady Bountiful in the town of Hampden. Why, there s where the Bray girls lives, aint it? she exclaimed, as, be- yond a thicket of witch-hazel and scrub- oak, they came in sight of a weather- beaten, solitary farmhouse. The barn was too far away for thrift or comfort, and they could see long lines of light through the shrunken boards as they caine nearer. The fields looked both stony and sodden. Somehow, even Pars- ley itself could be hardly more forlorn. Yes in, said Miss Wright, that s where they live now, poor things. I know the place, though I aint been up here for years. You dont suppose, Mis Trimble I aint seen the girls out to meetin all winter. I ye relly been covetin Why, yes, Rebecca, of course we could stop, answered Mrs. Trimble heartily. The exercises was over ear- lier n I expected, an you re goin to remain over night long o me, you know. There wont be no tea till we git there, so we cant be late. I m in the habit o sendin a basket to the Bray girls when any o our folks is comm this way, but I aint been to see em since they moved up here. Why, it must be a good deal over a year ago. I know t was in the late winter they had to make the move. T was cruel hard, I must say, an if I had nt been down with my pleurisy fever I d have stirred round an done somethin about it. There was a good deal o sickness at the time, an well, was kind o rushed through, breakin of em up, an lots o folks blamed the selecmen; but when t was done, t was done, an nobody took holt to undo it. Ann an Mandy looked same s ever when they come to meetin, long in the summer, kind o wishful, perhaps. They ye always sent me word they was gittin on pretty comfortable. That would be their way, said Re- becca Wright. They never was any hand to complain, though Mandy s less cheerful than Ann. If Mandy d been spared such poor eyesight, an Ann had nt got her lame wrist that want set right, they d kep off the town fast enough. They both shed tears when they talked to me about havin to break up, when I went to see em before I went over to brother Asas. You see we was brought up neighbors an went to school together, the Brays an me. T was a special Providence brought us home this road, I ye been so covetin a chance to git to see em. My lameness hampers me. I m glad we come this way, my- self, said Mrs. Trimble. I d like to see just how they fare, Miss Rebecca Wright continued. They give their consent to goin on the town because they knew they d got to be de- pendent, an so they felt t would come easier for all than for a few to help em. They acted real dignified an right- minded, contrary to what most do in such cases, but they was dreadful anx- ious to see who would bid em off, town- meeting day; they did so hope t would be somebody right in the village. I just sat down an cried good when I found Abel Janess folks had got hold of em. They always had the name of bein slack an poor-spirited, an they 1890.] The Town Poor. 73 did it just for what they got out o the town. The selectmen this last year aint what we have had. I hope they ye been considerate about the Bray girls. I should have ben more consider- ate about fetchin of you up, apologized Mrs. Trimble. I ye got my horse, an you re lame-footed; t is too far for you to come. But time does slip away with busy folks, an I forgit a good deal I ought to remember. There s nobody more considerate than you be, protested Miss Rebecca Wright. Mrs. Trimble made no answer, but took out her whip and gently touched the sorrel horse, who walked consider- ably faster, but did not think it worth while to trot. It was a long, round- about way to the house, farther down the road and up a lane. I never had any opinion of the Bray girls father, leavin em as he did, said Mrs. Trimble. He was much praised in his time, though there was always some said his early life had nt been up to the mark, explained her companion. He was a great favorite of our then preacher, the Reverend Daniel Longbrother. They did a good deal for the parish, but they did it their own way. Deacon Bray was one that did his part in the repairs without urging. You know t was in his time the first repairs was made, when they got out the old soundin-board an them handsome square pews. It cost an awful sight o money, too. They had nt done payin up that debt when they set to to alter it again an git the walls frescoed. My grandmother was on~ that always spoke her mind right out, an she was dreadful opposed to breakin up the square pews where she d always set. They was countin up what t would cost in parish meetin, an she riz right up an said t would nt cost nothin to let em stay, an there want a house carpenter left in the parish that could do such nice work, an time would come when the great - grandchildren would give their eye-teeth to have the old meetin-house look just as it did then. But haul the inside to pieces they would and did. There come to be a real fight over it, did nt there? agreed Mrs. Trimble soothingly. Well, t want good taste. I remember the old house well. I come here as a child to visit a cousin o mo- thers, an Mr. Trimbles folks was neigh- bors, an we was drawed to each other then, young s we was. Mr. Trimble spoke of it many s the time, the first time he ever see me, in a leghorn hat with a feather; t was one that mother had, an pressed over. When I think of them old sermons that used to be preached in that old meetin-house of all, I m glad it s al- tered over, SO s not to remind folks, said Miss Rebecca Wright, after a suit- able pause. Them old brimstone dis- courses, you know, Mis Trimble. Preach- ers is far more reasonable, nowadays. Why, I set an thought, last Sabbath, as I listened, that if old Mr. Longbrother an Deacon Bray could hear the differ- ence they d crack the ground over em like pole beans, an come right up long- side their headstones. Mrs. Trimble laughed heartily, and shook the reins three or four times by way of emphasis. There s no gitting round you, she said, much pleased. I should think Deacon Bray would want to rise, any way, if t was so he could, an knew how his poor girls was far- in. A man ought to provide for his folks he s got to leave behind him, specially if they re women. To be sure, they had their little home; but we ye seen how, with all their industrious ways, they had nt means to keep it. I spose he thought he d got time enough to lay by, when he give so generous in collections; but he did nt lay by, an there they be. He might have took lessons from the squirrels; even them little wild creaturs makes them their 74 The Town Poor. [July, winter hoards, an men-folks ought to know enough if squirrels does. Be just before you are generous: that s what was always set for the Bs in the copy- books, when I was to school, and it often runs through my mind. As for man, his days are as grass, that was for A; the two go well to- gether, added Miss Rebecca Wright so- berly. My good gracious, aint this a starved-lookin place? It makes me ache to think them nice Bray girls has to brook it here. The sorrel horse, though somewhat puzzled by an unexpected deviation from his homeward way, willingly came to a stand by the gnawed corner of the door- yard fence, which evidently served as hitching-place. Two or three ragged old hens were picking about the yard, and at last a face appeared at the kitchen window, tied up in a handkerchief, as if it were a case of toothache. By the time our friends reached the side door next this window, Mrs. Janes came dis- consolately to open it for them, shutting it again as soon as possible, though the air felt more chilly inside the house. Take seats, said Mrs. Janes briefly. You 11 have to see me just as I be. I have been suffering these four days with the agile, and everything to do. Mr. Janes is to court, on the jury. T was inconvenient to spare him. I should be pleased to have you lay off your things. Comfortable Mrs. Trimble looked about the cheerless kitchen, and could not think of anything to say; so she smiled blandly and shook her head in answer to the invitation. We 11 just set a few minutes with you, to pass the time o day, an then we must go in an have a word with the Miss Brays, bein old acquaintance. It aint been so we could git to call on em before. I dont know s you re acquainted with Miss Rbecca Wright. She s been out of town a good deal. I heared she was stopping over to Plainfields with her brothers folks, replied Mrs. Janes, rocking herself with irregular motion, as she sat close to the stove. Got back some time in the fall, I believe? Yes in, said Miss Rebecca, with an undue sense of guilt and conviction. We ye been to the installation over to the East Parish, an thought we d stop in; we took this road home to see if t was any better. How is the Miss Brays gittin on? They re well s common, answered Mrs. Janes grudgingly. I was put out with Mr. Janes for fetchin of em here, with all I ye got to do, an I own I was kind o surly to em long to the first of it. He gits the money from the town, an it helps him out; but he bid em off for five dollars a month, an we cant do much for em at no such price as that. I went an dealt with the selec- men, an made em promise to find their firewood an some other things extra. They was glad to git rid o the matter the fourth time I went, an would ha promised most anything. But Mr. Janes dont keep me half the time in oven- wood, he s off so much; an we was cramped o room, any way. I have to store things up garrit a good deal, an that keeps me trampin right through their room. I do the best for em I call, Mis Trimble, but t aint so easy for me as t is for you, with all your means to do with. The poor woman looked pinched and miserable herself, though it was evident that she had no gift at house or home keeping. Mrs. Trimbles heart was wrung with pain, as she thought of the unwelcome inmates of such a place; but she held her peace bravely, while Miss Rebecca again gave some brief informa- tion in regard to the installation. You go right up them back stairs, the hostess directed at last. I m glad some o you church folks has seen fit to come an visit em. There aint been nobody here this long spell, an they ye aged a sight since they come. They 1890.] The Town Poor. 75 always send down a taste out of your baskets, Mis Trimble, an I relish it, I tell you. I 11 shut the door after you, if you dont object. I feel every draught o cold air. I ye always heard she was a great hand to make a poor mouth. Want she from somewheres up Parsley way? whispered Miss Rebecca, as they stum- bled in the half-light. Poor meechin body, wherever she come from, replied ~Mrs. Trimble, as she knocked at the door. There was silence for a moment af- ter this unusual sound; then one of the Bray sisters opened the door. The eager guests stared intb a small, low room, brown with age, and gray, too, as if former dust and cobwebs could not be made wholly to disappear. The two elderly women who stood there looked like captives. Their withered faces wore a look of apprehension, and the room itself was more bare and plain than was fitting to their evident refinement of character and self-respect. There was an uncovered small table in the middle of the floor, with some crackers on a plate; and, for some reason or other, this added a great deal to the general desolation. But Miss Ann Bray, the elder sister, who carried her right arm in a sling, with piteously drooping fingers, gazed at the visitors with radiant joy. She had not seen them arrive. The one window gave only the view at the back of the house, across the fields, and their coming was indeed a surprise. The next minute she was laughing and cry- ing together. Oh, sister! she said, if here aint our dear Mis Trimble! an my heart o goodness, t is Becca Wright, too! What dear good creaturs you be! I ye felt all day as if some- thin good was goin to happen, an was just sayin to myself t was most sundown now, but I would nt let on to Mandany I d give up hope quite yet. You see, the scissors stuck in the floor this very mornin, an it s always a reliable sign. There, I ye got to kiss ye both again! I dont know where we can all set, lamented sister Mandana. There aint but the one chair an the bed; tother chair s too rickety ; an we ye been promised another these ten days; but first they ye forgot it, an next Mis Janes cant spare it, one excuse an another. I m goin to git a stump o wood an nail a board on to it, when I can git outdoor again, said Mandana, in a plaintive voice. There, I aint goin to complain o nothin, now you ye come, she added; and the guests sat down, Mrs. Trimble, as was proper, in the one chair. We ye sat on the bed many s the time with you, Becca, an talked over our girl nonsense, aint we? You know where t was, in the little back bedroom we had when we was girls, an used to peek out at our beaux through the strings o mornin-glories, laughed Ann Bray delightedly, her thin face shining more and more with joy. I brought some o them mornin-glory seeds along when we come away, we d raised em so many years; an we got em started all right, but the hens found em out. I declare I chased them poor hens, foolish as t was; but the mornin- glories I d counted on a sight to remind me o home. You see, our debts was so large, after my long sickness an all, that we did nt feel was right to keep back anything we could help from the auction. It was impossible for any one to speak for a moment or two; the sisters felt their own uprooted condition afresh, and their guests for time first time really com- prehended the piteous contrast between that neat little village house, which now seemed a palace of comfort, and this cold, unpainted upper room in the remote Janes farmhouse. It was an unwel- come thought to Mrs. Trimble that the well-to-do town of Hampden could pro- vide no better for its poor than this, and her round face flushed with resentment 76 The Town Poor. [July, and the shame of personal responsibil- ity. The girls shall be well settled in the village before another winter, if I pay their board myself, she made an inward resolution, and took another al- most tearful look at the broken stove, the miserable bed, and the sisters one hair-covered trunk, on which Mandana was sitting. But the poor place was filled with a golden spirit of hospitality. Rebecca was again discoursing elo- quently of the installation; it was so much easier to speak of general subjects, and the sisters had evidently been long- ing to hear some news. Since the late summer they bad not been to church, and presently Mrs. Trimble asked the reason. Now, dont you go to pouring out our woes, Mandy! begged little old Ann, looking shy and almost girlish, and as if she insisted upon playing that life was still all before them and all plea- sure. Dont you go to spoilin their visit with our complaints! They know well s we do that changes must come, an .we d been so wonted to our home things that this come hard at first; but then they felt for us, I know just as well s can be. T will soon be summer again, an t is real pleasant right out in the fields here, when there aint too hot a spell. I ye got. to know a sight o new singin birds since we come. Give me the folks I ye always known, sighed the younger sister, who looked older than Miss Ann, and less even-tempered. You may have your birds, if you want em. I do relly long to go to meetin an see folks go by up the aisle. Now, I will speak of it, Ann, whatever you say. We need, each of us, a pair o good stout shoes an rubbers, ours are all wore out; an we ye asked an asked, an they never think to bring em, an Poor old Mandana, on the trunk, cov- ered her face with her arms and sobbed aloud. The elder sister stood over her, and patted her on the thin shoulder like a child, and tried to comfort her. It crossed Mrs. Trimbles mind that it was not the first time one had wept and the other had comforted. The sad scene must have been repeated many times in that long, drear winter. She would see them forever after in her mind as fixed as a picture, and her own tears fell fast. You did nt see Mis Janess cunning little boy, the next one to the baby, did you? asked Ann Bray, turning round quickly at last, and going cheerfully on with the conversation. Now, hush, Mandy, dear; they 11 think you re child- ish! He s a dear, friendly little crea- tur, an likes to stay with us a good deal, though we feel s if t was too cold for him, now we are waitin to get us more wood. When I think of the acres o wood- land in this town! groaned Rebecca Wright. I believe I m goin to preach next Sunday, stead o the minister, an I 11 make the sparks fly. I ye always heard the saying, Whats everybodys business is nobodys business, an I ye come to believe it. Now, dont you, Becca. You ye happened on a kind of a poor time with us, but we ye got more belongings than you see here, an a good large cluset, where we can store those things there aint room to have about. You an Miss Trimble have happened on a kind of poor day, you know. Soon s I git me some stout shoes an rubbers, as Mandy says, I can fetch home plenty o little dry boughs o pine; you remember I was always a great hand to roam in the woods? If we could only have a front room, so t we could look out on the road an see the passin, an was shod for meetin, I don know s we should com- plain. Now we re just goin to give you what we ye got, an make out with a good welcome. We make more tea n we want in the mornin, an then let the fire go down, since t has been so mild. We ye got a good cluset (aisappearing as she spoke), an I know this to be good tea, cause it s some o yourn, Mis 1890.] The Town Poor. T7 Trimble. An here are our sprigged chiny cups that Rbecca knows by sight, if Mis Trimble dont. We kep out four of em, an put the even half dozen with the rest of the auction stuff. I ye often wondered who d got cm, but I never asked, for fear t would be some- body that would distress us. They was mothers, you know. The four cups were poured, and the little table pushed to the bed, where Rebecca Wright still sat, and Mandana, wiping her eyes, came and joined her. Mrs. Trimble sat in her chair at the end, and Ann trotted about the room in pleased content for a while, and in and out of the closet, as if she still had much to do; then she came and stood opposite Mrs. Trimble. She was very short and small, and there was no painful sense of her being obliged to stand. The four cups were not quite full of cold tea, but there was a clean old tablecloth folded double, and a plate with three pairs of crackers neatly piled, and a small it must be owned, a very small piece of hard white cheese. Then, for a treat, in a glass dish, there was a little preserved peach, the last Miss Rebecca knew it instinctively of the household stores brought from their old home. It was very sugary, this bit of peach; and as she helped her guests and sister Mandy, Miss Ann Bray said, half unconsciously, as she often had said with less reason m the old days, Our preserves aint so good as usual this year; this is begin- ning to candy. Both the guests pro- tested, while Rebecca added that the taste of it carrjed her back, and made her feel young again. The Brays had always managed to keep one or two peach-trees alive in their corner of a gar- den. I ye been keeping this preserve for a treat, said her friend. I m glad to have you eat some, Becca. Last summer I often wished you was home an could come an see us, stead o be- ing away off to Plainfields. The crackers did not taste too dry. Miss Ann took the last of the peach on her own cracker; there could not have been quite a small spoonful, after the others were helped, but she asked them first if they would not have some more. Then there was a silence, and in the si- lence a wave of tender feeling rose high in the hearts of the four elderly women. At this moment the setting sun flooded the poor plain room with light; the un- painted wood was all of a golden-brown, and Ann Bray, with her gray hair and aged face, stood at the head of the table in a kind of aureole. Mrs. Trimbles face was all a-quiver as she looked at her; she thought of the text about two or three being gathered together, and was half afraid. I believe we ought to ye asked Mis Janes if she would nt come up, said Ann. She s real good feelin, but she s had it very hard, an gits discour- aged. I cant find that she s ever had anything real pleasant to look back to, as we have. There, next time we ll make a good heartenin time for her too. The sorrel horse had taken a long nap by the gnawed fence-rail, and the cool air after sundown made hini im- patient to be gone. The two friends jolted homeward in the gathering dark- ness, through the stiffening mud, and neither Mrs. Trimble nor Rebecca Wright said a word until they were out of sight as well as out of sound of the Janes house. Time must elapse before they could reach a more familiar part of the road and resume conversation on its natural level. I consider myself to blame, insisted Mrs. Trimble at last. I have nt no words of accusation for nobody else, an I aint one to take comfort in call- ing names to the board o selecmen. I make no reproaches, an I take it all on my own shoulders; but I m goin to stir about me, I tell you! I shall begin early to-morrow. They re goin back to 78 Odysseus and Yausicaa. [July, their own house, it s been standin empty all winter, an the town s goin to give em the rent an what firewood they need; it wont come to more than the board s payin out now. An you an me II take this same horse an wag- on, an ride an go afoot by turns, an git means enough together to buy back their furniture an whatever was sold at that plaguy auction; an then we 11 put it all back, an tell em they ye got to move to a new place, an just carry em right back again where they come from. An dont you never tell, Rbecca, but here I be a widow woman, layin up what I make from my farm for nobody knows who, an I m goin to do for them Bray girls all I m a mind to. I should be scat to wake up in heaven, an hear anybody there ask how the Bray girls was. Dont talk to me about the town o Hampden, an dont ever let me hear the name o town poor.! I m ashamed to go home an see what s set out for supper. I wish I d brought em right along. I was goin to ask if we could nt git the new doctor to go up an do somethin for poor Anns arm, said Miss Rebecca. They say he s very smart. If she could get 50 s to braid straw or hook rugs again, she d soon be earnin a little somethin. An may be he could do somethin for Mandys eyes. They did use to live so neat an lady- like. Somehow I could nt speak to tell em there that t was I bought them six best cups an saucers, time of the auc- tion; they went very low, as everythin else did, an I thought I could save it some other way. They shall have em back an welcome. You re real whole- hearted, Mis Trimble. I expect Ann 11 be sayin that her fathers childn want goin to be left desolate, an that all the bread he cast on the wafers s comm back through you. I dont care what she says, dear creatur! exclaimed Mrs. Trimble. I m full o regrets I took time for that installation, an set there seepin in a lot o talk this whole day long, except for its kind of bringin us to the Bray girls. I wish to my heart t was to-morrow mornin aready, an I a-startin for the selecmen. Sarah Orne Jewett. ODYSSEUS AND NAUSICAA. THE ancients had, for the most part, an unquestioning belief in one Homer, who wrote or at least composed both the Iliad and the Odyssey, and in- deed many minor poems as well, in the same literal sense that Dante constructed the most elaborate monument of the hu- man imagination, the Divina Commedia. Probably no intelligent student holds quite that belief now. All attentive read- ers, even those filled with most reverence for these songs fresh from the morning of the world, see that they are, at any rate, disfigured by some later additions from various comparatively feeble and injudicious hands. Moreover, the pre- vailing, though by no means universal, conviction of scholars is that the spirit of more than one generation breathes through each of these great works. As I have suggested elsewhere, the Iliad, in particular, perhaps resembles some ca- thedrals of the earlier medheval time, in which various portions plainly date from different ages, though all are fused into a harmonious unity far nobler, it may be, than the conception shaped even in the master mind of him who gave the first general plan to the structure. It is much more generally conceded,

78 Odysseus and Yausicaa. [July, their own house, it s been standin empty all winter, an the town s goin to give em the rent an what firewood they need; it wont come to more than the board s payin out now. An you an me II take this same horse an wag- on, an ride an go afoot by turns, an git means enough together to buy back their furniture an whatever was sold at that plaguy auction; an then we 11 put it all back, an tell em they ye got to move to a new place, an just carry em right back again where they come from. An dont you never tell, Rbecca, but here I be a widow woman, layin up what I make from my farm for nobody knows who, an I m goin to do for them Bray girls all I m a mind to. I should be scat to wake up in heaven, an hear anybody there ask how the Bray girls was. Dont talk to me about the town o Hampden, an dont ever let me hear the name o town poor.! I m ashamed to go home an see what s set out for supper. I wish I d brought em right along. I was goin to ask if we could nt git the new doctor to go up an do somethin for poor Anns arm, said Miss Rebecca. They say he s very smart. If she could get 50 s to braid straw or hook rugs again, she d soon be earnin a little somethin. An may be he could do somethin for Mandys eyes. They did use to live so neat an lady- like. Somehow I could nt speak to tell em there that t was I bought them six best cups an saucers, time of the auc- tion; they went very low, as everythin else did, an I thought I could save it some other way. They shall have em back an welcome. You re real whole- hearted, Mis Trimble. I expect Ann 11 be sayin that her fathers childn want goin to be left desolate, an that all the bread he cast on the wafers s comm back through you. I dont care what she says, dear creatur! exclaimed Mrs. Trimble. I m full o regrets I took time for that installation, an set there seepin in a lot o talk this whole day long, except for its kind of bringin us to the Bray girls. I wish to my heart t was to-morrow mornin aready, an I a-startin for the selecmen. Sarah Orne Jewett. ODYSSEUS AND NAUSICAA. THE ancients had, for the most part, an unquestioning belief in one Homer, who wrote or at least composed both the Iliad and the Odyssey, and in- deed many minor poems as well, in the same literal sense that Dante constructed the most elaborate monument of the hu- man imagination, the Divina Commedia. Probably no intelligent student holds quite that belief now. All attentive read- ers, even those filled with most reverence for these songs fresh from the morning of the world, see that they are, at any rate, disfigured by some later additions from various comparatively feeble and injudicious hands. Moreover, the pre- vailing, though by no means universal, conviction of scholars is that the spirit of more than one generation breathes through each of these great works. As I have suggested elsewhere, the Iliad, in particular, perhaps resembles some ca- thedrals of the earlier medheval time, in which various portions plainly date from different ages, though all are fused into a harmonious unity far nobler, it may be, than the conception shaped even in the master mind of him who gave the first general plan to the structure. It is much more generally conceded, 1890.] Odqsseus and Nausicaa. 79 however, that the Odyssey is apparently the creation of a later and more refined generation than the one which found ex- pression for its ideals of life in the grim- mer battle scenes of the Iliad. And so we must bid farewell to the ancient and pleasing fiction that Homer composed the Iliad for men, to be sung in the camp and the banquet-hall, the Odyssey for the gentler ears of women. Non ~ vero: ma fu ben trovato! And not women alone, but many men, lovers of peace and home, would make the same choice. Though we gaze with dazzled and admiring eyes where Athwart the sunrise of our western day The form of great Achilles high and clear Stands forth in arms, wielding the Pelian spear, nevertheless, from The sanguine tides of that immortal fray, from the brief feverish life of him who shall only win Honor, a friend, anguish, untimely death, we turn not all regretfully to the poem which appeals so much more strongly to that deep-rooted, lifelong passion of our Anglo-Saxon hearts, the love of home. Odysseus wanders widely, and gath- ers wisdom and profit, as the open-eyed traveler must. This the poet tells us in the first lines of the Odyssey Sing to me, Muse, of the man of many de- vices, who widely Wandered, when he had ruined the sacred city of Troia. Many the men whose towns he beheld, and learned of their customs. But the very next verse reminds us of the goal which the wanderer kept al- ways in view: Striving to rescue his life, and secure the re- turn of his comrades. In a council of the gods, held at the opening of the poem, Pallas Athene pleads for her favorite in words which bring out most clearly the pathos of the situation : Yet is my spirit distressed in behalf of the crafty Odysseus, Hapless man, who afar from his loved ones suffers affliction Long, in the seagirt island that lies in the midst of the waters. Covered with woods is the isle, and upon it there dwelleth a goddess, Daughter of terrible Atlas. She, his child, is detaining the hapless man in his sorrow. Ever with gentle words and wheedling she strives to beguile him, So that he may be forgetful of Ithaca: yet is Odysseus Eager to see though it were but the smoke from his country uprising, Longing for death. Seven years the loveliest and gentlest of divinities, Calypso, the Lady of the Mist, has detained him in her fair, wave- encircled isle, desiring him to be her husband. Yet, though all his compan- ions have perished amid the miseries and dangers of the former voyages, he still pines, day and night, to venture forth once more, to brave the deadliest hate of the seas lord, Poseidon, if perchance he may come, before he dies, home again to rugged, ungrateful Ithaca, to the faith- ful, prudent Penelope, who is, he well knows, no longer fair or young, and who could never have been a rival of Calypsos divine loveliness. A few lines, which refuse to take in English even the crudest approach to the hexameter form, have been graceful- ly paraphrased thus by Bryant: He wasted his sweet life In yearning for his home. Night after night He lay perforce within the hollow cave, The unwilling by the fond; and day by day He sat upon the rocks that edged the shore, And in continued weeping and in sighs And vain repinings wore the hours away, Gazing through tears upon the unresting sea.~ At last the heavenly gods have pity on the homesick exile, and Zeus orders Hermes to go to Calypsos island abode and bid her release Odysseus. It may be mentioned that the earlier portion of the poem contains two plots, imperfectly connected with one another: the for- tunes of Telemachos in Ithaca and while wandering about Greece in search of his 80 Odl,sseu8 and Nausicaa. [July, father; and the adventures of Odysseus himself, during the same days, in some far realm of fairyland beyond the sea, which I, at least, cannot locate in any region to be reached by mortal bark or travelers feet. Hence, after the brief general introduction, the first four books describe the doings of Telemachos, and in the fifth we first see Odysseus him- self, in the isle which is the centre of the sea. It is well known that a learned fel- low-townsman has written a most fasci- nating and ingenious book to prove that Homer is well aware of the sphericity of the earth, that Odysseus voyages in- clude a circumnavigation of the globe, and that the island of Calypso is, in truth, a clear reminiscence of the long- lost earthly Paradise, which was situ- ated at the North Pole. I confess with shame my own inability to grasp with firmness the details of this magnificent geometrical demonstration. In any case, however, the original Greek hearers of the poet can hardly have been aware of any such authentic foundation for what they probably regarded as only a pleas- mg myth. And so, if we err in letting fall the luminous yet impenetrable veil of romantic imagination between Ithaca and Scheria, we err with the best of good company: with him who told the tale, and those who heard and loved it first. But let us hear Zeus command to Hermes: Hermes, since thou art also on other occa- sion our herald, Tell to the nymph of the braided tresses our counsel unerring, Even the homeward return of the patient- hearted Odysseus. How he shall go, unaccompanied either of gods or of mortals: Yet on a well - bound raft, though suffering grievous disaster, On the twentieth day to the fertile land of Pineacians, Scheria, he shall come, to a people like the immortals. They shall send him by ship to his native country beloved, Giving him store of bronze and gold and rai- ment in plenty, More than ever Odysseus had won for himself out of Ilios, Though he had fared untroubled, securing his share of the booty. So is it destined that he shall see his loved ones, returning Unto his high-roofed hall and unto the land of his fathers. Donning his winged sandals and clasping his magic wand, the messenger Hermes set forth without a murmur upon his errand. He darted earthward, traversed the wide purple sea, and neared the far-off island : Journeyed until he was come where the nymph of the beautiful tresses Lived in a spacious cave; and within her dwell- ing he found her. There on the hearth was a great fire blazing, and far through the island Floated the fragrance of well-cleft cedar and sandal-wood burning. She was herself within, with sweet voice sing- ing, and meanwhile Busy was she at the loom, and with golden shuttle was weaving. Round and about her cave a luxuriant forest extended; Poplar-trees were there, and alders, and odor- ous cypress. Four springs set in order with shining water were running: Near were they to each other, yet turned in as many directions. (These four springs become, of course, in the argument above mentioned, the four rivers 6f Eden.) All about soft meadows of violets bloomed, and of parsley. Even a deathless god might therefore, hither approaching, Gaze upon what he saw, and be in spirit de- lighted. As the poets last words plainly inti- mate, such a trim, orderly scene was in truth the Greek ideal of natural beauty, rather than a wider, more varied pano- rama, with snow-capped mountains for its frame. Perhaps the struggle of man with the savage forces of Nature was still too near and well remembered for him to find delight in her wilder aspects. Odysseus and Nausicaa. Homer assures us that the immortals always know each other when they meet, no matter how widely sundered their abodes; but not even in this enchanted spot do they have the power, attained by the islanders in Mr. Bellamys ingenious sketch, of reading each others thoughts without words. Hermes, therefore, ut- ters the bidding of Zeus, though in gen- tler and less imperative form, with a frank confession of his own unwilling- ness to bring the message. The poet then continues : So did he speak, and Calypso, divine among goddesses, shuddered. Then she uttered to him these wing~d words, and made answer: Merciless are ye, 0 gods, and more than the rest are ye jealous, Ye who, when goddesses openly mate with men are indignant. Calypso relates briefly how she res- cued Odysseus when the wind and the billow drove him toward her isle, cling- ing to the keel of his wrecked vessel after all his comrades had perished. Such passing allusions to the heros pre- vious adventures are intended by the poet to arouse, rather than to gratify, the curiosity of his hearers. Odysseus, after his safe arrival at the court of the Pha~acians, will relate his fortunes since the fall of Troy, just as A~neas, at Didos banquet, tells the tale of his llfe. Calypso continues : Often I said I would make him immortal and youthful forever. Yet, for the purpose of Zeus, who is lord of the ~egis, may nowise Be by another divinity thwarted or kept from fulfillment, Let him depart, since He hath so commanded and bidden, Over the restless sea. Nor yet myself will I send him, Since no vessels equipped with oars are mine, nor companions, Who on his way might bear him across the seas broad ridges. Yet will I heartily aid him with counsel, and hide from him nothing, So that he all unscathed may come to the land of his fathers. VOL. LXVI. NO. 393. 6 This prompt and sincere submission to the inevitable parting should win our sympathy the more fully for the gentle, loving nymph, who has nothing in com- mon with capricious and cruel Circe. As Hermes hastens back to Olympos, Calypso seeks Odysseus in his favorite seat by the shore, and bids him no long- er wear out his life with weeping, but straightway build a raft for his home- ward voyage. So did she speak, but the godlike, enduring Odysseus shuddered. Then he uttered to her these winged words, and responded: Surely some other intent, not merely to aid my departure, Hsst thou, in bidding me cross on a raft you gull of the waters, Difficult, dread, that not even the well-shaped vessels may traverse, Though so swiftly they fare, in the Zeus-sent breezes exultant. Not on a raft would I set foot while thou art unwilling, If thou consent not to swear with a mighty oath that in no wise Thou wilt plot for me another and grievous disuster. Calypso, smiling and caressing him, assures him of her good faith. She can- not, however, refrain from reminding him of her own superiority in beauty to mortal women, and of the immortality which she would have bestowed upon him. The reply of Odysseus is perhaps more than any other passage the key- note of the poem: Queen and goddess, for that, pray, be not wroth, for I also Well am aware that the heedful Penelope, either in stature Or in beauty of face, is, compared with thee, less noble. She is a mortal, in truth, thou deathless and ageless forever. Yet, even so, I all my days am wishful and eager Homeward to make my way, and behold my day of returning. If yet again some god on the wine-dark waters shall wreck me, I will endure, with a heart in my brenst that is patient of trouble. Truly already I greatly have toiled and great- ly have suffered, 1890.] 81 82 Odysseus and Nausicaa. Both on the waves and in war; and thereto let this also be added. The next four days are spent by Odysseus in constructing the raft, which is elaborately described, and deserves rather to be called a boat. On the fifth day he sets sail, with a goodly store of wine, water, and food, provided by Ca- lypso. For seventeen days he voyages homeward, but on the eighteenth Posei- don espies him from afar. The sea- gods wrath is still hot on account of his favorite son, the Cyclops Polyphemos, who was blinded by Odysseus. A ter- rible storm is aroused, the light craft is quickly stripped of mast and sail, and Odysseus, still clinging to the wreck, is tossed about helpless among the billows. But a semi-divine sea-creature in fein- mine form comes to his aid. mo, of beautiful ankles, the daughter of Kadmos, beheld him, Leucothea, who once was of human speech and a mortal, Now hath a share in the honors of gods in the depths of the waters. The mortal mo takes the name Leu- cothea wben transformed into a sea- divinity. The epithet fair-ankled is possibly introduced to assure us that she has not the form popularly ascribed to a mermaid. She took pity on exiled Odysseus in grievous misfortune. Out of the watery deep she arose in the guise of a seagull, Seated herself on the well-joined raft, and spoke, and addressed him: Wretched one, why is Poseidon, the shaker of earth, thus embittered Fiercely, so that he raises against thee full many disasters? Yet he shall not destroy thee, although so ter- ribly wrathful. Only do thou as I bid thee: thou seemest not laching in shrewdness. Strip off thy garments, and leave thy raft for the breezes to carry, But do thou swim with thine arms, and strug- gle to win thee a landing On the PhLeacians shore, whereon thou art des- fined to save thee. Here, too, take this veil, and under thy breast shalt thou spread it, [July, It is divine, and have no fear that thou suffer or perish. Yet, so soon as thou with thy hands shalt lay hold of the mainland, Loosen it then from about thee, and into the wine-dark waters, Ere thou turnest to go, thou shalt cast it afar from the sea-beach. There is perhaps a reminiscence of this casting away of the magic veil in the tale of King Arthurs death, where Bedivere flings the sacred sword Excali- bur back into the mere. Odysseus hesitates, and is again fear- ful of treachery, as he was with Calypso. It may be that this constant dread of bad faith is the fitting penalty for his own excessive cunning and trickiness. But when a mighty billow utterly shat- ters his wrecked craft, and leaves him clinging to a single plank, the aid of the goddess is accepted. Poseidon now, with an exultant jeer, turns away, as he knows that Odysseus is not destined to perish on the sea; and Athene is per- mitted to quiet the waves and adverse winds. For two days and two nights the hero swims wearily onward, in con- stant fear of death. On the third morning, uplifted on a great wave, he sees the coast of Pha~acia near at hand. But here a new peril awaits him. Once the mighty breaker dashes him against the steep cliffs that line the shore, but, carried back by the refluent wave, he has just strength to escape again outside the line of surf. Here he swims on parallel with the shore-line, until he feels the warmer current of a river which flows into the sea. To the river-god he straightway utters a fervent prayer. Hearken, 0 lord, whosoever thou art! Unto thee, the much longed for, Now am I come, in my flight from the sea and the threats of Poseidon. Reverend even among the gods whose life is eternal He is held, who comes as a wanderer, even as I now, After my weary toil, am come to thy knees and thy current. Show thou pity, 0 lord; for truly thy suppli- ant am I. 1890.] Odysseus and Nausicaa. 83 Such passages as this make it clear that to the Homeric poets the river-god was quite as real as the stream itself. Per- haps not one even among the Greeks of later ages, save ZEschylos in the Prome- theus, is so fully possessed by a belief in this conscious personal life in forest, mountain, and stream. There is far greater power of imagination, and many- fold more poetic ingenuity, exerted in shaping such a conception as the Sabrina of Miltons Comus; but we are so much the more aware of the poets untiring efforts to convince himself and us. The singer of the Odyssey has no need to make believe. The river-god at once stays his stream, and enables the weary swimmer to reach the bank. Here, after a moment of utter exhaustion, Odysseus casts the veil seaward, and Leucotheas hands receive it: the lovely hands which lingered in Miltons memory, and so are immor- talized a second time in a famous pas- sage of Comus. After some hesitation between the chilling winds of the shore and the wild beasts of the forest, he climbs the slope to the edge of the wood, and lies down in the olive thicket, cov- ering himself with the dead leaves. And Athene Over his eyes poured slumber, that she might straightway release him From the fatigue of his grievous toil, by cbs- ixig his eyelids. Such are the final words in the fifth book of the Odyssey. These divisions of the poem are by no means so old as the time of the singer, but the scenes of this book, at any rate, have a nat- ural connection and unity, as well as a charm and beauty of detail, which are of course lost in the mere summary given here. The scene now changes to the palace of the Pha~acian king, from which is to come the aid so sorely needed by the shipwrecked exile. The sixth book opens with the following lines : So did he slumber there, the enduring, god- like Odysseus, Since he was overborne by fatigue and sleep; but Athene Went meanwhile to the city and people of the Pbieacians. These had formerly dwelt within wide-wayed Hyperela, Near to the Cyclops, a race of men exceeding- ly haughty, Who had harassed them ever, and who were in force more mighty. Then Nausithois, like to a god, transplanted and led them Unto & heria, far removed from the trafficking nations. Round their town he constructed a wall, and built habitations; Temples, too, for the gods, and divided among them the corulands. Stricken by fate, he already had passed to the dwelling of Hades; Now Alkino6s ruled; by the gods was he gift- ed with wisdom. Toward his palace proceeded the gray-eyed goddess Athene, Planning a homeward return for Odysseus, lofty of spirit. This brief historical sketch of the Plueacians need give us no fear lest Odysseus, in his eighteen days voyage from Calypsos island, may have crossed the boundary line from fairyland into prosaic reality. Hypereia, their former home, is merely Upland, a casual in- vention of the poet. Nausithots, their earlier leader, is simply He of the fleet ship; and indeed nearly all the names we meet in these Pha~acian scenes are derivatives from the Greek word naus, a ship. The whole episode in Scheria is apparently a rather sportive creation of the Homeric fancy. The allusion to the Cyclops as their former neighbors is no doubt intended to remind us that we are not yet escaped from the realm of the marvelous. The latter half of the Odyssey is of a quite different character, consisting al- most wholly of realistic scenes in Ithaca. The all-night homeward voyage of the sleeping Odysseus on the magic bark of the Plunacians, at the beginning of the thirteenth book, is the voyage from Odysseus and Nausicaa. dreamland into real life, and so the turning-point of the entire story.1 It is at the threshold of the episode in Scheria that we meet the lovable lit- tle princess Nausicaa, who is our proper subject. The frame of romance from which she steps forth to greet us enables us to enjoy the more fully the simplicity, the truthfulness to nature, and the ide- alized beauty of this slight but imperish- able sketch. Let us venture to peep discreetly over Pallas Athenes august shoulder, as she enters her favorites bower. Into a chamber most cunningly built she passed, where a maiden Sleeping lay, who in figure and face the im- mortals resembled, Named Nausicaa, child to Alkino6s, lofty of spirit. Maidens twain were beside her, with beauty endowed by the Graces; Near to the door they lay, and shut were the glimmering portals. Fleet as the breath of the wind to the couch of the maiden she darted. Athene assumes the guise of Nau- sicaas favorite girl companion as she speaks. Why did thy mother, Nausicaa, bear thee a maiden so heedless? Shining raiment is thine, which now neglected is lying; Yet is thy marriage at hand, when thou must be fairly appareled, And must garments give unto those who home- ward shall lead thee, Since thereby among men goes forth thy good reputation. Therein, too, is thy father delighted, and rev- erend mother. Come, with the dawning of day let us hasten forth to the washing, Seeing by no means long mayst thou yet tarry a virgin. Thou already art wooed by the noblest of all the Phuacians 1 It will be seen that the writer declines to accept the identification of Corcyra, the mod- em Corfu, with Scheria. In this skepticism he is emboldened by the protecting shield of the Ajax among English-speaking Hellenists. See Jebbs Homer, page 46. 2 A more exact rendering would be Papa, dear; the term of endearment being identical Everywhere, of the land wherein thou also art native. Come, now, urge at the dawning of day thy il- lustrious father Mules and a cart to make ready for thee, where- in thou wilt carry Raiment of men, and robes, and the shining coverlets also. She, thus speaking, departed, the gray-eyed goddess Athene, Unto Olympos, where we are told that the gods habitation Ever untroubled abides, nor yet by the tempests is shaken; Nor is it wet by the rain, nor reached by snow, but about it Clear is the cloudless air, and white is the sun- shine upon it. Through all ages within it the bless~d gods are rejoicing. Having admonished the maid, the gray-eyed One thither departed. Among many imitations of this pas- sage, the most familiar to us is no doubt the description of the island valley of Avilion, to which Arthur hopes to pass, and where he may heal him of his griev- ous wound. Presently morning came, enthroned in beau- ty, arousing Graceful-robed Nausicna: first at the vision she marveled, Then through her home she passed to repeat her dream to her parents, Well-loved father and mother. She found them within, for the mother Sat at the side of the hearth, in the midst of her women attendants, Spinning the sea - dyed purple yam; at the doorway her father Met her, upon his way to join the illustrious chieftains, Sitting in council, whither the noble Phmacians had called him. Standing close at his side, she addressed her father belov~,d: Father, dear,2 would you make ready for me a wagon, a high one, Strong in the wheels, that I may carry our beautiful garments, in Greek and English, as in many other lan- guages. Professor Merriam, in his most excel- lent edition of this portion of the Odyssey, The Phuacians of Homer, quotes Popes rendering of this line, as a striking example of that trans- lators method in dealing with his original: will my dread sire his ear regardful deign, And may his child the royal car ohtain? 84 [July, 1890.] Those which now are lying soiled, to be washed in the river? Ay, and for you yourself it is seemly, when in the council You with the chiefs are sitting, to have fresh raiment upon you. Five dear sons besides within your palace are living; Two of them married already, but three yet blooming and youthful. The keen observation in the next line is evidently applicable more especially to the three blooming young bachelor brothers of the willful little maid They are desirous always of having the new- washed garments When to the dance they go. Of all this in my mind am I thoughtful. Thus did she speak, for she shamed her, fruitful marriage to mention. This omission is, however, by no means the only variation between the words of Pallas and those of Nausicaa. The girls quick wit and ingenuity are abundantly indicated in this seemingly artless speech. Her innocent craft in leaving her chief motive unuttered does not trouble her indulgent parent. Yet understanding all this her affectionate father made answer: Neither the mules, my daughter, nor any- thing else do I grudge thee. So, in obedience to the kings com- mand, the mule-team is at once har- nessed in the courtyard of the palace. Meantime, the maiden brought from the chamber the shining garments. These on the polished wagon she carefully placed, and the mother Put in a basket food of all kinds, suiting her wishes. Dainties as well she packed, and into a bottle of goat-skin Poured some wine; and the maiden had mean- while mounted the wagon. Liquid olive-oil in a golden vial she gave her, After the bath to anoint herself and the women attendants. Into her hands then the whip and the reias all shining she gathered, Scourged them to run, and loud was the sound of the clattering mule-hoofs. They unceasingly hastened, and carried the maid with the garments; 85 Yet not alone, but with her there followed the women attendants. Though the goddess Athene has in- terfered in person to control the action of the princess, yet the train of events just described is so naturally and viv- idly drawn out, the meeting which is evidently to be brought about is being prepared so easily and credibly, that we ourselves seem to be glancing in eager expectation from the exhausted hero, asleep in the thicket, to the bright-eyed charioteer, followed by her troop of mer- ry companions, as she approaches the river-mouth. When tl~ey now had arrived at the beautiful stream of the river, Where were the pools unfailing, and clear and abundant the water Gashed from beneath, sufficient for cleausing the foulest of raiment, There did the girls unharness the mules from under the wagon. Then they drove them to graze by the side of the eddying river, Cropping the fragrant clover. But they them- selves from the wagon Took in their arms the garments, and carried them into the water, Trod them there in the pits, commencing a rivalry straightway. What could be more realistic than this girlish determination to make a frolic even of the most wearisome drudgery? Then, when they had washed and cleansed completely the garments, Spread them in order along by the beach of the sea, where the billow, Dashing against the shore most strongly, was washing the pebbles. When they had bathed and anointed themselves with the oil of the olive, Then by the bank of the river the noonday meal they provided, Waiting until their clothes should dry in the glow of the sunshine. Presently, when they were sated with eating, the maids and the princess Started a game of ball, first laying aside their head-dress. The elaborate comparison of Nausi- caa to Artemis, which follows, will be familiar to most readers through the close imitation, or rather translation, of Ody88eus and Nau8icaa. 86 Odysseus and Nausicaa. it by Virgil, who applies it, with less fit- ness, to Dido. Foremost in song and in dance white-armed Nausicaa led them, Even as Artemis passes, the huntress, over the mountains, She who in chasing the boar or the fleet deer taketh her pastime; With her the nymphs, the daughters of Zeus, who is lord of the mgis, Woodland-dwellers, are sporting; and Leto re- joices in spirit; Loftily over them all her head and brow she upraises. All are beautiful there, yet she is easily fore- most. So in the midst of her girls was supreme that maiden unwedded. The poet now again mentions Pallas, and describes her as intervening once more at this point to control the course of events in Odysseus interest. This passing reminder of the deus ex ma- china does not, however, prevent the simple idyllic plot from unraveling it- self in a most natural and unforced manner. Then did the princess throw their ball at one of the haudmaids. Yet she missed the girl, and it fell in the eddying river. So they screamed full loudly: and godlike Odysseus was wakened, Sat upright, and pondered within his heart and his spirit: Woe is me! What mortals are these whose land I have entered? Are they lawless, I wonder, and savage, regard- less of justice? Or are they kind unto strangers, and revrent the spirit within them? Surely a womanish cry, as of maidens, resound- ed about me. Nymphs, it may be, that dwell on the cragged peaks of the mountains, Or that live in the sources of rivers and grassy morasses. Or am I near, perchance, unto human language and mortals? Come, now, let me myself make trial thereof, and behold them. Having thus spoken, the godlike Odysseus crept from the bushes; Yet with his powerful hand he broke off a branch in the thicket, Covered with foliage, to hide his nakedness, screening his body. [July, The comparison of Odysseus to a hun- gry lion leaving his covert, which occurs here, may be omitted; its chief value being to illustrate the indebtedness of the poet who composed the Odyssey to the older Iliad. The figure is much more effective, as originally employed, in describing Sarpedon rushing eagerly to battle. Loathsome to them he appeared, by the brine of the sea disfigured. Hither and thither they fled to the jutting points of the shoreland. Only Alkino6s daughter remained; for Athene imparted Courage into her heart, and conquered the ter- ror within her. Under the circumstances, Odysseus did not venture to approach and clasp the princess knees, the regular attitude for a suppliant to assume, but, stand- ing aloof from her, he Straightway uttered to her a speech that was winning and crafty, an art in which he was above all men a master. I am thy suppliant, princess! Art thou some god or a mortal? If thou art one of the gods that have their abode in the heaveus, Unto Artemis, child of imperial Zeus, do I deem thee Likest in beauty of face, as well as in stature and bearing. But if of mortals thou rt one, that have on the earth their abidlng, Trebly bless~d in thee are thy father and rev- erend mother, Trebly bless~d thy brethren; and surely the spirit within them Glows evermore with delight for thy sake when they behold thee Entering into the dance, who art so lovely a blossom. Happy in heart is he, moreover, above all others, Who by gifts shall prevail, and unto his dwell- ing shall lead thee. Never before with mine eyes have I beheld such a mortal, Whether a woman or man. As I gaze, awe seizes upon me! Casting about in his mind for a com- parison, he can only liken her to a graceful young palm-tree which he had Odysseus and Nausicaa. 87 once seen at Delos, beside Apollos altar. The passage is of interest for two quite distinct reasons. It shows that in the poets day, at any rate, the island-sanc- tuary of Apollo was already noted, and visited by voyagers from other Greek lands; and also that the palm-tree was then a rare and much-admired novelty in the }Egean. With a brief reference to his latest voyage, in which it may be noted that he makes no allusion to the gracious creatures of her own sex who had cherished or aided him, he con- tinues Yet have mercy, 0 queen! After suffering many disasters, First unto thee am I come. I know not one of the others Whoso make their home within this city or country. But do thou show me the town, and give me some tattered garment, If perchance when thou camest some wrap thou hadst for the linen. But close upon this most humble re- quest and almost extravagant self-abase- ment, the unknown wanderer ends his appeal with noble and pathetic words. So may the gods accord thee whatever in spirit thou cravest: Husband and home may they grant, and glori- ous harmony also. Since there is nothing, in truth, more mighty than this, or more nolAe, When two dwell in a home concordant in spirit together, Husband and wife: unto foes a source of many vexations, Joy to their friends; yet they themselves most truly shall know it! Either the compliments at the begin- ning of this speech, or the tender sen- timents at the close, have already pro- duced a powerful effect upon the heart of the gentle princess. Then unto him in her turn white-armed Nausicaa answered: Stranger, thou dost not seem an ignoble man, nor a senseless; Zeus, the Olympian, himself apportious their blessings to mortals, Both to the base and the noble, to each as suiteth his pleasure; This hath he laid upon thee, and thou must in patience endure it. Yet now, since thou into our state art entered, and country, Neither of raiment shalt thou be in lack, nor of aught whatsoever Is for a hard-pressed suppliant, meeting with succor, befitting. Yes, and the town I will show thee, and tell thee the name of the people. T is the Phieaciaus who dwell in this our city and country. I myself am the child of Alkino~s, lofty of spirit, On whom all the Phieacians dominion and force are dependent. Then turning aside from him, the prin- cess recalls the fugitive maidens. Stay, my attendants! Why at beholding a man are ye fleeing? Did ye suppose him, perchance, to be of a hostile nation? Surely no man is alive, nor shall he be living hereafter, Who would venture to enter the land of the men of Pha,acia Offering harm; for we of the gods are dearly belov?~,d. Out of the way, too, we dwell, in the midst of the billowy waters, Farthest of all mankind; no others have deal- ings among us. Nay, this is some ill-fated man come wander- ing hither, Whom we must care for now, because all strangers and beggars Stand in the charge of Zeus, and a gift, though little, is welcome. Come, then, give both drink and food to the stranger, and bid him Bathe in the stream, my attendants, where from the wind there is shelter. Odysseus is accordingly provided with robe and tunic and the vial of olive-oil. After he has bathed and anointed him- self, Pallas Athene makes him far state- lier and more beautiful than before. So, as he sits resting a little apart, Nausicaa addresses her companions with truly Ho- meric frankness. Listen to me, my white-armed maids, that I something may tell you. Not without the approval of all the gods in Olympos Hath this man come hither, among the Ph~e- aciaus, the godlike. 1890.] 88 Od~ysseu s and Nauswaa. [July, T is but a brief while since that I really thought him uncomely. Now is he like to the gods who abide in the open heavens. Would that such au one as he could be called my husband, Having his dwelling here and contented among us to tarry! It will be interesting to set here, for comparison, a few lines from the great- est of living poets, who long ago, intro- ducing his earliest Arthurian verses as Weak Homeric echoes, nothing worth, intimated thereby his own consciousness of a kinship in spirit which many of his readers have recognized. Marrd as he was, he seemd the goodliest man That ever among ladies ate in hall, And noblest, when she lifted up her eyes. However marrd, of more than twice her years, Seamd with an ancient sword-cut on his cheek, And bruised and bronzed, she lifted up her eyes And loved him, with that love that was her doom. Nausicaa again orders that food and drink be set before the stranger, and the poet records that he ate ravenously; adding apologetically that he long from food had been fasting. A vigorous appetite is a constant char- acteristic of Odysseus in the Iliad and Odyssey. On one occasion, in the for- mer tale, he is employed on arduous en- terprises nearly all night, and a careful reader, if not absorbed in the loftier fea- tures of the poem, may note that thrice between sunset and morning he accepts an invitation to a hearty meal, and ap- parently on each occasion does full jus- tice to the cheer. This thoroughly hu- man trait has not escaped the attention of the poet who invented this Pkea- cian episode, and who certainly was in little danger of erring in the direction of excessive dignity and seriousness. When Odysseus, despite this breaking of his fast, makes a pathetic appeal for food to Nausicaas parents, a few hours later, it is in words whose extravagance is carried to the verge of grotesqueness. Among the heroes of the mythic age, perhaps Heracles only is more notable as a valiant trencher-knight. iNausicaa now makes preparations for her return homeward, and, having mounted the wagon, she thus addresses Odysseus Stranger, arise, and towaward fare, that I may conduct thee Unto the house of my wise father, in which I assure thee Thou shalt behold whosoever are noblest of all the Pkeacians. Yet thou must do as I say: thou seemst not lacking in shrewdness. While we are passing along by the fields and the farms of our people, So far among my maids, close after the mules and the wagon Thou mayst come, with speed, and I will be guide on the journey. But as we come to the town, round which is a high-built rampart, And upon either side of the city a beautiful harbor Nausicaa runs off into an admiring description of her home, until she is even guilty of forgetting the main clause of her original sentence! It appears that the narrow road over the isthmus into the town is the favorite resort of idlers, whose discourteous remarks the princess dreads to face in Odysseus company. With quick fancy she imagines what they would say Who is yon stranger who follows Nausicaa? Handsome and stately Is he. Where did she find him? Shell have him herself for her husband! Either she rescued him as a castaway out of his vessel, One of a far-off people, since none there are who are near us, Or some god much prayed for is down from the heavens descended At her petition, and he for his wife shall have her forever. So is it better, if she has gone and found her a husband Out of another land, for these of her folk, the Phieacians, She disdains, though many and excellent men are her suitors. 1890.] Odysseus and Nausicaa. 89 Lest we should fancy the last words to be a mere fiction of Nausicaa to raise herself in the handsome strangers es- teem, the poet has taken care to put the same assertion, in somewhat stronger form, into the mouth of Pallas Athene, when she appears in the night to the princess, at the opening of the sixth book. So would they talk, and for me it would be a disgrace! and I also Should with another girl be angry, whoever so acted; Who, in spite of her friends, while her father and mother were living, Mingled freely with men, em yet she was pub- licly wedded. It i quite possible that these very proper remarks of the kings daughter, on the duty of maidenly modesty, are prompted in part by the consciousness that her own innocent loquacity has just carried her somewhat too far. Stranger, and thou must now to my words give attention, that quickly Thou mayst obtain safe-conduct, and homeward return, from my father. Near to the road thou wilt notice a beautiful grove of Athene, Poplars: within it a fountain flows, and a meadow surrounds it. There my fathers domain is found, and his fruitful inclosure. Here, then, outside the town, Odysseus is to remain behind until the girls have had time to reach home. Then he also may pass into the city, where he will have no difficulty in finding the palace, so inferior are the ordinary Plneacian houses to the stately abode of Alki- noos. But so soon as the heros dwelling and court- yard receive thee Make thy way at once through the hail, till thou come to my mother. She has her seat at the side of the hearth, in the gleam of the firelight, Spinning her yarn, sea-purple in color, a mar- vel to look on, Leaning on one of the columns. Her hand- maids are seated behind her. The unwearied diligence of Arete, the queen, whom Odysseus will find at dusk employed as her daughter had left her in the early morning, may well remind us of Priscilla, the Puritan maiden, and Bertha, the beautiful spinner. On that selfsame pillar my fathers chair is resting. There he sits, and like an immortal his wine he is quaffing. Yet thou must pass him by, and unto the knees of my mother Stretch thy hands, that thou mayst behold thy day of returning Quickly and joyfully, though thy land is ex- ceedingly distant. The keen-witted little princess has al- ready discovered who is the real ruler in cabin and hall. The sun is setting when they reach the sacred grove of Pallas, where Odys- seus obediently tarries behind, and makes a fervent prayer to the goddess of the sanctuary. Here the sixth book closes. From the seventh book, which de- scribes the reception of Odysseus in the palace, we can cull only a few of the opening lines. There did he make his prayer, the godlike, enduring Odysseus, While on her way to the city the strong mules carried the maiden. When she now had arrived at her fathers glo- rious palace, There at the doorway she checked them. Around her were gathered her brothers, Like unto gods were they to behold, and they from the wagon Straightway unharnessed the mules, and car- ried the raiment within doors. She to her chamber passed, where an ancient dame from Apeira Lighted a fire for her, her servant Euryme- dousa; ... Lighted a fire in her room, and there made ready her supper. So Nausicaa slips quietly out of the story. Only once more do we have a glimpse of her. Odysseus meets with the kindly reception which she had prom- ised him. All the next day he is en- tertained with athletic contests, dancing, and the harpers lay. The story of this day fills the eighth book. At nightfall, 90 Odys8eu8 and Nausicaa. [July, after a luxurious bath, he is descend- ing to the banquet-hall. But Nausicaa, who by the gods was gifted with beauty, There in the well-built hail at the side of a pillar was standing. On Odysseus gazed she with wonder when she beheld him; Then these wing~d words she uttered to him and addressed him: Farewell, stranger! And in thy native country hereafter Think of me, unto whom thou first for thy life art indebted. Thus did the crafty Odysseus address her then and responded: 0 Nausicaa, noble - hearted Alkinoiis daughter, Verily so may Zeus, the Thunderer, husband of Here, Grant that I come to my home, and behold my day of returning, As, even there, unto thee as a god I would pay my devotious, All my days, evermore; for my life thou hast rescued, 0 maiden. The epithet crafty is the usual one of Odysseus, and need have no refer- ence to the situation at the moment. But surely it is a proof of consummate skill, as well as of the highest courtesy, when he thus, with magnificent hyper- bole, in his hasty words of final fare- well, elevates to the position of a god- dess, or of a patron saint as it were, the pure-hearted girl who had so frankly intimated her desire to retain him in a closer relation. What other parting words could have done so much to heal the hurt and save her pride? Tenny- son could devise none, but must needs let even courtly Lancelot ride sadly away without farewell. This was the one discourtesy that he used. And so Odysseus and Nausicaa part; for not even in merry Ph~eacia does the Greek poet venture to let his women mingle with the men in the banquet-hall. 1 One Attic drama may indeed have included among its characters a Nausicaa, drawn by a not unworthy hand. We are told that when Sophocles play The Phleacians was acted, the poet broke through his usual custom and him- self appeared as an actor, winning much ap Of the heros later fortunes all the world knows. At the banquet, the min- strel, singing of the siege of Troy, stirs the unknown guest to tears, and, being courteously questioned by his host, Odys- seus reveals his name, the most illustrious of all who survived the ftital strife in the Scamandrian plain. The next four books of the poem, from the ninth to the twelfth, contain his account of former wanderings on the homeward voyage from the Troad. After another day spent in feasting and in listening to the harper Demodocos, he is permitted at nightfall to embark for home. He straightway falls into a deep sleep, and is still slumbering heavily when the Pha~acians set him ashore, with many precious gifts, upon a remote corner of his own rugged Ithaca. The last twelve books of the poem re- late how, by craft and valor, he won his throne and wife again. Later poets, of every age and speech, have attempted to weave still farther the web of his adven- turous life. In one of the most beauti- ful cantos of the Inferno, he himself tells the tale of his last voyage and death, and Tennysons poem Ulysses is so per- fect in form and so touching in thought as to make us willingly forget, with the poet, that Odysseus faithful comrades, Who ever with a frolic welcome took The storm and sunshine, had all perished on the way, before the hero came again to his own. But of Nausicaa the Odyssey has not another word to tell; and what later singer might venture to bid her live even a single day more? Ah, who shall lift that wand of magic power, Or the lost clue regain? 1 It has been intimated more than once already that the translator sees, or fan- plause, especially by his beauty and grace in the dancing and rhythmic ball-play. This lat- ter allusion, however, is probably not to the maidens diversion on the beach, but rather to a dance of youths, with which Odysseus was entertained on the following day. 1890.] Odysseus and Nausicaa. 91 cies he sees, a clear though purely acci- dental resemblance between the stories of Nausicaa and of the lily maid of As- tolat. Each loves at first sight the most illustrious hero of her day, when he comes, unknown and unaccompanied, to her home. Each saves the life of the stranger, and proffers him a pure maid- enly love which he cannot return. Even the circumstances of the good knights final departure are not wholly unlike in the two tales; for when Odysseus, em- barking for home, bids a grateful and loving farewell to his hosts, he does not venture to mention Nausicaa by name, and it is not certain that she was pre- sent. The wanderers last words are addressed to Arete, the queen, invoking a blessing on her household and her folk. And yet, surely no one would be tempted to press the parallel farther, and to fancy that the Pha,acian maid pined away, like Elaine, for love of her lost hero. When, at the banquet, the night before his departure, the shipwrecked stranger revealed himself as Odysseus, far famed above all men, the destroyer of Ilios, the exciting news doubtless spread through the servants hall to the womens rooms, and faithful old Eurymedousa brought the tidings, perchance, even to the sequestered chamber of the princess. Nausicaas heart may have stirred with pride to think that so long as the strange story of the crafty Ithacans life should be told or sung, in after-days, she would always live in one of its brightest scenes; but the husband of heedful Penelope, the father of Telemachos, must quickly have lost the power over her heart which the unknown suppliant had so easily gained. If Telemachos wanderings had brought him to that sunny Scherian beach But let us cast no tempting suggestion in the path of any too au- dacious nineteenth-century would-be Ho- mend! Indeed, this same happy solu- tion occurred to the mind of a later Hellenic poet. And the moral? It has been uttered already in memorable words. There was a learned but inconclusive discus- sion in a famous weekly journal, not long ago, whether it was a pagan sage or a Christian saint who coined the aphorism, Maledicti qui ante nos nos- tra dixerunt. (Confusion to those who have said our good things before us.) It matters little, however, which invented the phrase, for the sentiment is one of which the church father or the hea- then philosopher alike should have been ashamed. What has really never been said had better not be said, because it is presumably false; and we never lose the privilege of trying to utter the old thought better than all others have done, and so making it our own. But, more than that, one of the greatest debts we owe to our predecessors is their simple, adequate utterance of great and inspir- ing truths, in such impressive form that they pass current like perfect and inde- structible coin, making every generation of common men so much the richer by each philosophic maxim or golden poetic phrase. And certainly, it was only with de- light that the translator, just as he was about to undertake the present sketch, welcomed in these pages a little lay ser- mon on the tale of Nausicaa,1 so brief and graceful, so full and suggestive, that it would be presumptuous indeed to add thereto, or even to attempt a summary of the essay in question. It may be permitted, however, to call attention to a single sentence in that paper: I am not recalling it (the story of Nausicaa) because it is a conspicuous instance of the true realism that is touched with the ideality of genius, which is the immor- tal element in literature, but as an illus- tration of the other necessary quality in all productions of the human mind that remain age after age, and that is sim- plicity. It is greatly to be hoped that we may yet have from the same hand 1 Simplicity, by Charles Dudley Warner. The Atlantic Monthly, March, 1889. 92 that other lesson which is thus given only passing mention; for the essayist is evidently in agreement with us that Nausicaa is as happy an example as could well be found, not only of the es- sential simplicity of the greatest artistic creations, but of the other indispensable requirements, truthfulness and beauty; or, as he apparently prefers to combine the two in one, truthfulness to the beau- tiful side of humanity or nature, which is infinitely more real and eternal than ugliness and imperfection. The episode of Nausicaa was not writ- ten, like Bekkers Charicles, to illustrate Over the Teacups. [July, the every-day life of the ancient Greeks. It cannot be used as evidence regard- ing the frequency of washing-days in the Homeric age. It is no proof that Hellenic princesses went picnicking in remote spots, unprotected and unchap- eroned. It is a romance. The whole Phieacian episode is inextricably inter- twined with marvelous and superhuman incidents and characters. But it is true, nevertheless, true to the essential laws of art and of humanity. And therefore of Nausicaa, as of Rosalind, of Perdita, or of Miranda, it may well be said, Who, pray, is alive, if she be dead? William Cranston Lawton. OVER THE TEACUPS. VIII. I HAD intended to devote this partic- ular report to an account of my replies to certain questions which have been ad- dressed to me, questions which I have a right to suppose interest the public, and which, therefore, I was justified in bringing before The Teacups, and pre- senting to the readers of these articles. Some may care for one of these ques- tions, and some for another. A good many young people think nothing about life as it presents itself in the far ho- rizon, bounded by the snowy ridges of threescore and the dim peaks beyond that remote barrier. Again, there are numbers of persons who know nothing at all about the Jews; while, on the other hand, there are those who can, or think they can, detect the Israelitish blood in many of their acquaintances who believe themselves of the purest Japhetic origin, and are full of preju- dices about the Semitic race. I do not mean to be cheated out of my intentions. I propose to answer my questioners on the two points just referred to, but I find myself so much interested in the personal affairs of The Teacups that I must deal with them be- fore attacking those less exciting sub- jects. There is no use, let me say here, in addressing to me letters marked per- sonal, private, confidential, and so forth, asking me how I came to know what happened in certain conversations of which I shall give a partial account. If there is a very sensitive phonograph lying about here and there in unsus- pected corners, that might account for some part of my revelations. If Delilah, whose hearing is of almost supernatural delicacy, reports to me what she over- hears, it might explain a part of the mystery. I do not want to accuse De- lilah, but a young person who assures me she can hear my watch ticking in my pocket, when I am in the next room, might undoubtedly tell many secrets, if so disposed. Number Five is pretty nearly omniscient, and she and I are on the best terms with each other. These are all the hints I shall give you at pro- sent. The Teacups of whom the least has

92 that other lesson which is thus given only passing mention; for the essayist is evidently in agreement with us that Nausicaa is as happy an example as could well be found, not only of the es- sential simplicity of the greatest artistic creations, but of the other indispensable requirements, truthfulness and beauty; or, as he apparently prefers to combine the two in one, truthfulness to the beau- tiful side of humanity or nature, which is infinitely more real and eternal than ugliness and imperfection. The episode of Nausicaa was not writ- ten, like Bekkers Charicles, to illustrate Over the Teacups. [July, the every-day life of the ancient Greeks. It cannot be used as evidence regard- ing the frequency of washing-days in the Homeric age. It is no proof that Hellenic princesses went picnicking in remote spots, unprotected and unchap- eroned. It is a romance. The whole Phieacian episode is inextricably inter- twined with marvelous and superhuman incidents and characters. But it is true, nevertheless, true to the essential laws of art and of humanity. And therefore of Nausicaa, as of Rosalind, of Perdita, or of Miranda, it may well be said, Who, pray, is alive, if she be dead? William Cranston Lawton. OVER THE TEACUPS. VIII. I HAD intended to devote this partic- ular report to an account of my replies to certain questions which have been ad- dressed to me, questions which I have a right to suppose interest the public, and which, therefore, I was justified in bringing before The Teacups, and pre- senting to the readers of these articles. Some may care for one of these ques- tions, and some for another. A good many young people think nothing about life as it presents itself in the far ho- rizon, bounded by the snowy ridges of threescore and the dim peaks beyond that remote barrier. Again, there are numbers of persons who know nothing at all about the Jews; while, on the other hand, there are those who can, or think they can, detect the Israelitish blood in many of their acquaintances who believe themselves of the purest Japhetic origin, and are full of preju- dices about the Semitic race. I do not mean to be cheated out of my intentions. I propose to answer my questioners on the two points just referred to, but I find myself so much interested in the personal affairs of The Teacups that I must deal with them be- fore attacking those less exciting sub- jects. There is no use, let me say here, in addressing to me letters marked per- sonal, private, confidential, and so forth, asking me how I came to know what happened in certain conversations of which I shall give a partial account. If there is a very sensitive phonograph lying about here and there in unsus- pected corners, that might account for some part of my revelations. If Delilah, whose hearing is of almost supernatural delicacy, reports to me what she over- hears, it might explain a part of the mystery. I do not want to accuse De- lilah, but a young person who assures me she can hear my watch ticking in my pocket, when I am in the next room, might undoubtedly tell many secrets, if so disposed. Number Five is pretty nearly omniscient, and she and I are on the best terms with each other. These are all the hints I shall give you at pro- sent. The Teacups of whom the least has 1890.] Over the Teacups. 93 be eii heard at our table are the Tutor and the Musician. The Tutor is a mod- est young man, kept down a little, I think, by the presence of older persons, like the Professor and myself. I have met him several times, of late, walking with different lady Teacups: once with the American Annex; twice with the English Annex; once with the two An- nexes together; once with Number Five. I have mentioned the fact that the Tutor is a poet as among his claims to our attention. I must add that I do not think any the worse of him for ex- pressing his emotions and experiences in verse. For though rhyming is often a bad sign in a young man, especially if he is already out of his teens, there are those to whom it is as natural, one might almost say as necessary, as it is to a young bird to fly. One does not care to see barnyard fowls tumbling about in trying to use their wings. They have a pair of good, stout drumsticks, and had better keep to them, for the most part. But that feeling does not apply to young eagles, or even to young swallows and sparrows. The Tutor is by no means one of those ignorant, silly, conceited phrase-tinklers, who live on the music of their own jingling syllables and the flattery of their foolish friends. I think Number Five must appreciate him. He is sincere, warm-hearted, his poetry shows that, not in haste to be famous, and he looks to me as if he only wanted love to steady him. With one of those two young girls he ought certainly to be captivated, if he is not already. Twice walking with the English Annex, I met him, and they were so deeply absorbed in conversation they hardly noticed me. He has been talking over the matter with Number Five, who is just the kind of person for a confidante. I know I feel very lonely, he was saying, and I only wish I felt sure that I could make another person happy. My life would be transfigured if I could find such a one, whom I could love well enough to give my life to her, for her, if that were needful, and who felt an affinity for me, if any one could. And why not your English maiden? said Number Five. What makes you think I care more for her than for her American friend? said the Tutor. Why, have nt I met you walking with her, and did nt you both seem greatly interested in the subject you were discussing? I thought, of course, it was something more or less sentimen- tal that you were talking about. I was explaining that enclitic de in Brownings Grammarian~ s Funeral. I dont think there was anything very sentimental about that. She is an in- quisitive creature, that English girl. She is very fond of asking me questions, in fact, both of them are. There is one curious difference between them: the English girl settles down into her an- swers and is quiet; the American girl is never satisfied with yesterdays con- clusions; she is always reopening old questions in the light of some new fact or some novel idea. I suppose that people bred from childhood to lean their backs against the wall of the Creed and the church catechism find it hard to sit up straight on the republican stool, which obliges them to stiffen their own backs. Which of these two girls would be the safest choice for a young man? I should really like to hear what answer you would make if I consulted you seriously, with a view to my own choice, on the supposition that there was a fair chance that either of them might be won. The one you are in love with, an- swered Number Five. But what if it were a case of How happy could I be with either? Which offers the best chance of happiness, a marriage between two persons of the same country, or a marriage where one of the parties is of foreign birth? Every- thing else being equal, which is best for an Anierican to marry, an American or 94 Over the Teacupe. [July, an English girl? We need not confine the question to those two young persons, but put it more generally. There are reasons on both sides, answered Number Five. I have often talked this matter over with The Dicta- tor. This is the way he speaks about it. English blood is apt to tell well on the stock upon which it is engrafted. Over and over again he has noticed fine- ly grown specimens of human beings, and on inquiry has found that one or both of the parents or grandparents were of British origin. The chances are that the descendants of the imported stock will be of a richer organization, more florid, more muscular, with mellower voices, than the native whose blood has been unmingled with that of new emi- grants since the earlier colonial times. So talks The Dictator. I myself think the American will find his English wife concentrates herself more readily and more exclusively on her husband, for the obvious reason that she is obliged to live mainly in him. I remember hear- ing an old friend of my early days say, A woman does not bear transplanting. It does not do to trust these old say- ings, and yet they almost always have some foundation in the experience of mankind, which has repeated them from generation to generation. Happy is the married woman of foreign birth who can say to her husband, as Andromache said to Hector, after enumerating all the dear relatives she had lost, Yet while my Hector still survives, I see My father, mother, brethren, all in thee! How many a sorrowing wife, exiled from her native country, dreams of the mother she shall see no more! How many a widow, in a strange land, wishes that her poor, worn-out body could be laid among her kinsfolk, in the little church- yard where she used to gather daisies in her childhood! It takes a great deal of love to keep down the climbing sor- row that swells up in a womans throat when such memories seize upon her, in her moments of desolation. But if a foreign-born woman does willingly give up all for a man, and never looks back- ward, like Lots wife, she is a prize that it is worth running a risk to gain, that is, if she has the making of a good woman in her; and a few years will go far towards naturalizing her. The Tutor listened to Number Five with much apparent interest. And now, he said, what do you think of her companion? A charming girl for a man of a quiet, easy temperament. The great trouble is with her voice. It is pitched a full note too high. It is aggressive, disturb- ing, and would wear out a nervous man without his ever knowing what was the matter with him. A good many crazy Northern people would recover their reason if they could live for a year or two among the blacks of the Southern States. But the penetrating, perturbing quality of the voices of many of our Northern women has a great deal to answer for in the way of determining love and friendship. You remember that dear friend of ours who left us not long since? If there were more voices like hers, the world would be a different place to live in. I do not believe any man or woman ever came within the range of those sweet, tranquil tones without being hushed, captivated, en- tranced I might almost say, by their calming, soothing influence. Can you not imagine the tones in which those words, Peace, be still, were spoken? Such was the effect of the voice to which but a few weeks ago we were listening. It is hard to believe that it has died out of human consciousness. Can such a voice be spared from that world of happiness to which we fondly look forward, where we love to dream, if we do not believe with assured convic- tion, that whatever is loveliest in this our mortal condition shall be with us again as an undying possession? Your Eng- lish friend has a very agreeable voice, 1890.1 Over the Teacups. 95 round, mellow, cheery, and her articu- lation is charming. Other things being equal, I think you, who are, perhaps, oversensitive, would live from two to three years longer with her than with the other. I suppose a man who lived within hearing of a murmuring brook would find his life shortened if a saw- mill were set up within earshot of his dwelling. And so you advise me to make love to the English girl, do you? asked the Tutor. Number Five laughed. It was not a loud laugh, she never laughed noisily; it was not a very hearty laugh; the idea did not seem to amuse her much. No, she said, I wont take the responsibility. Perhaps this is a case in which the true reading of Gays line would be How happy could I he with neither. There are several young women in the world besides our two Annexes.~~ I question whether the Tutor had asked those questions very seriously, and I doubt if Number Five thought he was very much in earnest. One of The Teacups reminded me that I had promised to say something of my answers to certain questions. So I be- gan at once I have given the name of brain-tap- pers to the literary operatives who address persons whose names are well known to the public, asking their opinions or their experiences on subjects which are at the time of general interest. They expect a literary man or a scientific expert to furnish them materials for symposia and similar articles, to be used by them for their own special purposes. Sometimes they expect to pay for the information furnished them; at other times, the lion- or of being included in a list of noted personages who have received similar requests is thought sufficient compensa- tion. The object with which the brain- tapper puts his questions may be a pure- ly benevolent and entirely disinterested one. Such are some of those which I have received and answered. There are other cases, in which the brain-tapper is acting much as those persons do who stop a physician in the street to ask him a few questions about their livers or stomachs, or other internal arrange- ments, instead of going to his office and consulting him, expecting to pay for his advice. Others are more like those busy women who, having the generous inten- tion of making a handsome present to their pastor, at as little expense as may be, send to all their neighbors and ac- quaintances for scraps of various mate- rials, out of which the imposing bed- spread or counterpane is to be elabo- rated. That is all very well so long as old pieces of stuff are all they call for, but it is a different matter to ask for clippings out of new and uncut rolls of cloth. So it is one thing to ask an author for lib- erty to use extracts from his publlshed writings, and it is a very different thing to expect him to write expressly for the editors or compilers piece of literary patchwork. I have received many questions within the last year or two, some of which I am willing to answer, but prefer to an- swer at my own time, in my own way, through my customary channel of com- munication with the public. I hope I shall not be misunderstood as implying any reproach against the inquirers who, in order to get at facts which ought to be known, apply to all whom they can reach for information. Their inquisitive- ness is not always agreeable or welcome, but we ought to be glad that there are mousing fact-hunters to worry us with queries to which, for the sake of the public, we are bound to give our atten- tion. Let me begin with my brain-tap- pers. And first, as the papers have given publicity to the fact that I, The Dictator 96 of this tea-table, have reached the age of threescore years and twenty, I am requested to give information as to how I managed to do it, and to explain just how they can go and do likewise. I think I can lay down a few rules that will help them to the desired result. There is no certainty in these biological problems, but there are reasonable proba- bilities upon which it is safe to act. The first thing to be done is, some years before birth, to advertise for a couple of parents both belonging to long-lived families. Especially let the mother come of a race in which octo- genarians and nonagenarians are very common phenomena. There are practi- cal difficulties in following out this sug- gestion, but possibly the forethought of your progenitors, or that concurrence of circumstances which we call accident, may have arranged this for you. Do not think that a robust organiza- tion is any warrant of long life, nor that a frail and slight bodily constitution ne- cessarily means scanty length of days. Many a strong-limbed young man and many a blooming young woman have I seen failing and dropping away in or before middle life, and many a delicate and slightly constituted person outliving the athletes and the beauties of their generation. Whether the excessive de- velopment of the muscular system is compatible with the best condition of general health is, I think, more than doubtful. The muscles are great sponges that suck up and make use of large quan- tities of blood, and the other organs must be liable to suffer for want of their share. One of the Seven Wise Men of Greece boiled his wisdom down into two words, tLr~3v ~yav, nothing too much. It is a rule which will apply to food, exer- cise, labor, sleep, and, in short, to every part of life. This is not so very difficult a matter if one begins in good season and forms regular habits. But what if I should lay down the rule, Be cheerful; Over the Teacups. [July, take all the troubles and trials of life with perfect equanimity and a smiling countenance ? Admirable directions Your friend, the curly - haired blonde, with florid complexion, round cheeks, the best possible digestion and respiration, the stomach of an ostrich and the lungs of a pearl-diver, finds it perfectly easy to carry them into practice. You, of leaden complexion, with black and lank hair, lean, hollow-eyed, dyspeptic, ner- vous, find it not so easy to be always hilarious and happy. The truth is that the persons of that buoyant disposition which comes always heralded by a smile, as a yacht driven by a favoring breeze carries a wreath of sparkling foam be- fore her, are born with their happiness ready made. They cannot help being cheerful any more than their saturnine fellow-mortal can help seeing everything through the cloud he carries with him. I give you the precept, then, Be cheer- ful, for just what it is worth, as I would recommend to you to be six feet, or at least five feet ten, in stature. You can- not settle that matter for yourself, but you can stand up straight, and give your five feet five its full value. You can help along a little by wearing high- heeled shoes. So you can do something to encourage yourself in serenity of as- pect and demeanor, keeping your in- firmities and troubles in the background instead of making them the staple of your conversation. This piece of ad- vice, if followed, may be worth from three to five years of the fourscore which you hope to attain. If, on the other hand, instead of going about cheerily in society, making the best of everything and as far as possible forgetting your troubles, you can make up your mind to economize all your stores of vital energy, to hoard your life as a miser hoards his money, you will stand a fair chan.t~e of living until you are tired of life, fortunate if everybody is not tired of you. One of my prescriptions for longevity 1890.] Over the Teacups. 97 may startle you somewhat. It is this: Become the subject of a mortal disease. Let half a dozen doctors thump you, and knead you, and test you in every possible way, and render their verdict that you have an internal complaint; they dont know exactly what it is, but it will cer- tainly kill you by and by. Then bid farewell to the world and shut yourself up for an invalid. If you are threescore years old when you begin this mode of life, you may very probably last twenty years, and there you are, an octoge- narian. In the mean time, your friends outside have been dropping off, one after another, until you find yourself almost alone, nursing your mortal complaint as if it were your baby, hugging it and kept alive by it, if to exist is to live. Who has not seen cases like this, a man or a woman shutting himself or herself up, visited by a doctor or a succession of doctors (I remember that once, in my earlier experience, I was the twenty-seventh physician who had been consulted), always taking medicine, until everybody was reminded of that impatient speech of a relative of one of these invalid vampires who live on the blood of tired-out attendants, I do wish she would get well or som~ethin~,? Persons who are shut up in that way, confined to their chambers, sometimes to their beds, have a very small amount of vital expenditure, and wear out very little of their living substance. They are like lamps with half their wicks picked down, and will continue to burn when other lamps have used up all their oil. An insurance office might make money by taking no risks except on lives of persons suffering from mortal disease. It is on this principle of economizing the powers of life that a very eminent American physician Dr. Weir Mitch- ell, a man of genius has founded his treatment of certain cases of nervous ex- haustion. What have I got to say about tem- perance, the use of animal food, and so VOL. LXVI. NO. 393. 7 forth? These are questions asked me. Nature has proved a wise teacher, as I think, in my own case. The older I grow, the less use I make of alcoholic stimulants. In fact, I hardly meddle with them at all, except a glass or two of champagne occasionally. I find that by far the best borne of all drinks con- taining alcohol. I do not suppose my experience can be the foundation of a universal rule. Dr. Holyoke, who lived to be a hundred, used habitually, in moderate quantities, a mixture of cider, water, and rum. I think, as one grows older, less food, especially less animal food, is required. But old people have a right to be epicures, if they can afford it. The pleasures of the palate are among the last gratifications of the senses al- lowed them. We begin life as little can- nibals, feeding on the flesh and blood of our mothers. We range through all the vegetable and animal products of na- ture, and I suppose, if the second child- hood could return to the food of the first, it might prove a wholesome diet. What do I say to smoking? I can- not grudge an old man his pipe, but I think tobacco often does a good deal of harm to the health, to the eyes espe- cially, to the nervous system generally, producing headache, palpitation, and trembling. I myself gave it up many years ago. Philosophically speaking, I think self-narcotization and self-alcohol- ization are rather ignoble substitutes for undisturbed self-consciousness and un- fettered self-control. Here is another of those brain-tapping letters, of similar character, which I have no objection to answering at my own time and in the place which best suits me. As the questions must be supposed to be asked with a purely scientific and philanthropic purpose, it can make little difference when and where they are an- swered. For myself, I prefer our own tea-table to the symposia to which I am often invited. I do not quarrel with 98 Over the Teacups. [July, those who invite their friends to a ban- quet to which many strangers are ex- pected to contribute. It is a very easy and pleasant way of giving an entertain- ment at little cost and with no responsi- bility. Somebody has been writing to me about Oatmeal and Literature, and somebody else wants to know whether I have found character influenced by diet; also whether, in my opinion, oatmeal is preferable to pie as an American na- tional food. In answer to these questions, 1 should say that I have my beliefs and preju- dices; but if I were pressed hard for my proofs of their correctness, I should make but a poor show in the witness- box. Most assuredly I do believe that body and mind are much influenced by the kind of food habitually depended upon. I am persuaded that a too exclu- sively porcine diet gives a bristly char- acter to the beard and hair, which is borrowed from the animal whose tissues these stiff-bearded compatriots of ours have too largely assimilated. I can never stray among the village people of our windy capes without now and then com- ing upon a human being who looks as if he had been split, salted, and dried, like the salt-fish which has built up his arid organism. If the body is modified by the food which nourishes it, the mind and character very certainly will be modified by it also. We know enough of their close connection with each other to be sure of that, without any statistical observations to prove it. Do you really want to know whether oatmeal is preferable to pie as an Amer- ican national food? I suppose the best answer I can give to your question is to tell you what is my own practice. Oat- meal in the morning, as an architect lays a bed of concrete to form a base for his superstructure. Pie when I can get it; that is, of the genuine sort, for I am not patriotic enough to think very highly of the article named after the Father of his Country, who was first in war, first in peace, not first in pies, according to my standard. There is a very odd prejudice against pie as an article of diet. It is com- mon to hear every form of bodily de- generacy and infirmity attributed to this particular favorite food. I see no rea- son or sense in it. Mr. Emerson be- lieved in pie, and was almost indignant when a fellow-travelier refused the slice he offered him. Why, Mr. , said he, what is pie made for I If every Green Mountain boy has not eaten a thousand times his weight in apple, pumpkin, squash, and mince pie, call me a dumpling. And Colonel Ethan Allen was one of them, Ethan Allen, who, as they used to say, could wrench off the head of a wrought nail with his teeth. If you mean to keep as well as possi- ble, the less you think about your health the better. You know enough not to eat or drink what you have found does not agree with you. You ought to know enough not to expose yourself needlessly to draughts. If you take a constitution- al, walk with the wind when you can, and take a closed car against it if you can get one. Walking against the wind is one of the most dangerous kinds of exposure, if you are sensitive to cold. But except a few simple rules such as I have just given, let your health take care of itself as long as it behaves de- cently. If you want to be sure not to reach threescore and twenty, get a little box of homnopathic pellets and a little book of homwopathic prescriptions. I had a poor friend who fell into that way, and became at last a regular Hahnema- niac. He left a box of his little jokers, which at last came into my hands. The poor fellow had cultivated symptoms as other people cultivate roses or chrysan- themums. What a luxury of choice his imagination presented to him! When one watches for symptoms, every organ in the body is ready to put in its claim. By and by a real illness attacked him, and the box of little pellets was shut 1890.] GveKthe Teacups. 99 up, to minister to his fancied evils no longer. Let me tell you one thing. I think if patients and physicians were in the habit of recognizing the fact I am going to mention, both would be gainers. The law I refer to must be familiar to all observing physicians, and to all intelli- gent persons who have observed their own bodily and mental conditions. This is the curve of health. It is a mistake to suppose that the normal state of health is represented ~y a straight hori- zontal line. Independently of the well- known causes which raise or depress the standard of vitality, there seems to be I think I may venture to say there is a rhythmic undulation in the flow of the vital force. The dynamo which fur- nishes the working powers of conscious- ness and action has its annual, its month- ly, its diurnal waves, even its momentary ripples, in the current it furnishes. There are greater and lesser curves in the movement of every days life, a series of ascending and of descending movements, a periodicity depending on the very nature of the force at work in the living organism. Thus we have our good seasons and our bad seasons, our good days and our bad days, life climb- ing and descending in long or short un- dulations, which I have called the curve of health. From this fact spring a great propor- tion of the errors of medical practice. On it are based the delusions of the various shadowy systems which impose themselves on the ignorant and half- learned public as branches or schools of science. A remedy taken at the time of the ascent in the curve of health is found successful. The same remedy taken while the curve is in its downward movement proves a failure. So long as this biological law exists, so long the charlatan will keep his hold on the ignorant public. So long as it exists, the wisest practitioner will he lia- ble to deceive himself about the effect of what he calls and loves to think are his remedies. Long-continued and sa- gacious observation will to some extent undeceive him; but were it not for the happy illusion that his useless or even deleterious drugs were doing good ser- vice, many a practitioner would give up his calling for one in which he could be more certain that he was really doing good to the subjects of his professional dealings. For myself, I should prefer a physician of a sanguine temperament, who had a firm belief in himself and his methods. I do not wonder at all that the public support a whole community of pretenders who show the portraits of the patients they have cured. The best physicians will tell you that, though many patients get well under their treat- ment, they rarely cure anybody. If you are told also that the best physician has many more patients die on his hands than the worst of his fellow-practitioners, you may add these two statements to your bundle of paradoxes, and if they puzzle you I will explain them at some future time. [I take this opportunity of correcting a statement now going the rounds of the medical and probably other periodicals. In The Journal of the American Med- ical Association, dated April 26, 1890, published at Chicago, I am reported, in quotation marks, as saying, Give inc opium, wine, and milk, and I will cure all diseases to which flesh is heir. In the first place, I never said I will cure, or can cure, or would or could cure, or had cured any disease. My venerated instructor, Dr. James Jackson, taught me never to use that expression. Curo means, I take care of, he used to say, and in that sense, if you mean noth- ing more, it is properly employed. So, in the amphitheatre of the Ecole de M~decine, I used to read the words of Ambroise Par6, Je le pansay, Dieu le guarist. (I dressed his wound, and 100 God cured him.) Next, I am not in the habit of talking about the dis- eases to which flesh is heir. The ex- pression has become rather too famil- iar for repetition, and belongs to the rhetoric of other latitudes. And, lastly, I have said some plain things, perhaps some sharp ones, about the abuse of drugs and the limited number of vitally important remedies, but I am not so ig- norantly presumptuous as to make the foolish statement falsely attributed to me.] I paused a minute or two, and as no one spoke out, I put a question to the Counsellor. Are you quite sure that you wish to live to be threescore and twenty years old? Most certainly I do. Dont they say that Theophrastus lived to his hundred and seventh, and did nt he complain of the shortness of life? At eighty a man has had just about time to get warmly settled in his nest. Do you suppose he does nt enjoy the quiet of that resting- place? No more haggard responsibility to keep him awake nights, unless he prefers to retain his hold on offices and duties from which he can be excused if he chooses. No more goading ambi- tions, he knows he has done his best. No more jealousies, if he were weak enough to feel such ignoble stirrings in his more active season. An octogena- rian with a good record, and free from annoying or distressing infirmities, ought to be the happiest of men. Everybody treats him with deference. Everybody wants to help him. He is the ward of the generations that have grown up since he was in the vigor of maturity. Yes, let me live to be fourscore years, and then I will tell you whether I should like a few more years or not. You carry the feelings of middle age, I said, in imagination, over into the period of senility, and then reason and dream about it as if its whole mode of being Over the Teacups. [July, were like that of the earlier period of life. But how many things there are in old age which you must live into if you would expect to have any realizing sense of their significance! In the first place, you have no coevals, or next to none. At fifty, your vessel is stanch, and you are on deck with the rest, in all weathers. At sixty, the vessel still floats, and you are in the cabin. At seventy, you, with a few fellow-passengers, are on a raft. At eighty, you are on a spar, to which, possibly, ene, or two, or three of your coevals are still clinging. After that, you must expect soon to find your- self alone, if you are still floating, with only a life-preserver to keep your old white-bearded chin above the water. Kindness? Yes, pitying kindness, which is a bitter sweet in which the amiable ingredient can hardly be said to predominate. How pleasant do you think it is to have an arm offered to you when you are walking on a level surface, where there is no chance to trip? How agreeable do you suppose it is to have your well-meaning friends shout and screech at you, as if you were deaf as an adder, instead of only being, as you insist, somewhat hard of hearing? I was a little over twenty years old when I wrote the lines which some of you may have met with, for they have been often reprinted The mossy marbles rest Ga the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. The world was a garden to me then; it is a churchyard now. I thought you were one of those who looked upon old age cheerfully, and welcomed it as a season of peace and contented enjoyment. I am one of those who so regard it. Those are not bitter or scalding tears that fall from my eyes upon the mossy marbles. The young who left my side 1890.] Over the Teacups. 101 early in my lifes journey are still with me in the unchanged freshness and beauty of youth. Those who have long kept company with me live on after their seeming departure, were it only by the mere force of habit; their images are all around me, as if every surface had been a sensitive film that photographed them; their voices echo about me, as if they had been recorded on those unfor- getting cylinders which bring back to us the tones and accents that have imprint- ed them, as the extinct animals left their tracks on the hardened sands: The mel- ancholy of old age has a divine tenderness in it, which only the sad experiences of life can lend a human soul. But there is a lower level, that of tranquil content- ment and easy acquiescence in the con- ditions in which we find ourselves; a lower level, in which old age trudges pa- tiently when it is not using its wings. I say its wings, for no period of life is so imaginative as that which looks to young- er people the most prosaic. The atmos- phere of memory is one in which imagi- nation flies more easily and feels itself more at home than in the thinner ether of youthful anticipation. I have told you some of the drawbacks of age; I would not have you forget its privileges. When it comes down from its aerial ex- cursions, it has much left to enjoy on the humble plane of being. And so you think you would like to become an octo- genarian? I should, said the Counsellor, now a man in the high noon of bodily and mental vigor. Four more yes, five more decades would not be too much, I think. And how much I should live to see in that time! I am glad you have laid down some rules by which a man may reasonably expect to leap the eight- barred gate. I wont promise to obey them all, though. Among the questions addressed to me, as to a large number of other persons, are the following. I take them from The American Hebrew of April 4, 1890. I cannot pretend to answer them all, but I can say something about one or two of them. I. Can you, of your own personal experience, find any justification what- ever for the entertainment of prejudice towards individuals solely because they are Jews? II. Is this prejudice not due largely to the religious instruction that is given by the church and Sunday-school? For instance, the teachings that the Jews cru- cified Jesus; that they rejected him, and can only secure salvation by a belief in him, and similar matters that are cal- culated to excite in the impressionable mind of the child an aversion, if not a loathing, for members of the despised race. III. Have you observed in the so- cial or business life of the Jew, so far as your personal experience has gone, any different standard of conduct than pre- vails among Christians of the same so- cial status? IV. Can you suggest what should be done to dispel the existing prejudice? As to the first question, I have had very slight acquaintance with the chil- dren of Israel. I shared more or less the prevailing prejudices against the persecuted race. I used to read in my hymn-book, I hope I quote correct- ly, See what a living stone The builders did refuse! Yet God has built his church thereon, In spite of envious Jews. I grew up inheriting the traditional idea that they were a race lying under a curse for their obstinacy in refusing the gospel. Like other children of New England birth, I walked in the narrow path of Puritan exclusiveness. The great historical church of Christendom was presented to me as Bunyan depicted it: one of the two giants sitting at the door of their caves, with the bones of pil- grims scattered about them, and grinning 102 at the travellers whom they could no longer devour. In the nurseries of old-fashioned Orthodoxy there was one religion in the world, one religion, and a multitude of detestable, literally damnable impositions, believed in by un- counted millions, who were doomed to perdition for so believing. The Jews were the believers in one of these false religions. It had been true once, but was now a pernicious and abominable lie. The principal use of the Jews seemed to be to lend money, and to fulfil the pre- dictions of the old prophets of their race. No doubt the individual sons of Abra- ham whom we found in our ill-favored and ill-savored streets were apt to be nnpleasing specimens of the race. It was against the most adverse influences of legislation, of religious feeling, of so- cial repugnance, that the great names of Jewish origin made themselves illustri- ous; that the philosophers, the musicians, the financiers, the statesmen, of the last centuries forced the world to recognize and accept them. Benjamin, the son of Isaac, a son of Israel, as his family name makes obvious, has shown how largely Jewish blood has been represented in the great men and women of modern days. There are two virtues which Chris- tians have found it very hard to exem- plify in practice. These are modesty and civility. The Founder of the Chris- tian religion appeared among a people accustomed to look for a Messiah, a special ambassador from heaven, with an authoritative message. They were intimately acquainted with every expres- sion having reference to this divine mes- senger. They had a religion of their own, about which Christianity agrees with Judaism in asserting that it was of di- vine origin. It is a serious fact, to which we do not give all the attention it de- serves, that this divinely instructed peo- ple were not satisfied with the evidence that the young Rabbi who came to over- throw their ancient church and found a new one was a supernatural being. We Over the Teacups. [July, think he was a great Doctor, said a Jewish companion with whom I was conversing. He meant a great Teacher, I presume, though healing the sick was one of his special offices. Instead of remembering that they were entitled to form their own judgment of the new Teacher, as they had judged of Hillel and other great instructors, Christians, as they called themselves, have insult- ed, calumniated, oppressed, abased, out- raged, the chosen race during the long succession of centuries since the Jewish contemporaries of the Founder of Christianity made up their minds that he did not meet the conditions required by the subject of the predictions of their Scriptures. The course of the argument against them is very briefly and effec- tively stated by Mr. Emerson This was Jehovah come down out of heaven. I will kill you if you say he was a man. It seems as if there should be certain laws of etiquette regulating the relation of different religions to each other. It is not civil for a follower of Mahomet to call his neighbor of another creed a Christian dog. Still more, there should be something like politeness in the bear- ing of Christian sects toward each other, and of believers in the new dispensation toward those who still adhere to the old. We are in the habit of allowing a cer- tain arrogant assumption to our Roman Catholic brethren. We have got used t6 their pretensions. They may call us heretics, if they like. They may speak of us as infidels, if they choose, espe- cially if they say it in Latin. So long as there is no inquisition, so long as there is no auto cia f6, we do not mind the hard words much; and we have as good phrases to give them back: the Man of Sin and the Scarlet Woman will serve for examples. But it is better to be civil to each other all round. I doubt if a convert to the religion of Mahomet was ever made by calling a man a Christian dog. I doubt if a Hebrew ever became 1890.] Over the Teacups. 103 a good Christian if the baptismal rite was performed by spitting on his Jewish gabardine. I have often thought of the advance in comity and true charity shown in the title of my late honored friend James Freeman Clarkes book, The Ten Great Religions. If the creeds of mankind try to understand each oth- er before attempting mutual extermina- tion, they will be sure to find a meaning in beliefs which are different from their own. The old Calvinistic spirit was almost savagely exclusive. While the author of the Ten Great Religions was growing up in Boston under the be- nignant, large-misided teachings of his grandfather, the Reverend James Free- man, the famous Dr. John M. Mason, at New York, was fiercely attacking the noble humanity of The Universal Pray- er. In preaching, says his biogra- pher, he once quoted Popes lines as to Gods being adored alike by saint, by savage, and by sage, and pronounced it (in his deepest guttural) the most damnable lie. What could the Hebrew expect when a Christian preacher could use such lan- guage about a petition breathing the very soul of humanity? Happily, the true hu- man spirit is encroaching on that arro- gant and narrow-minded form of selfish- ness which called itself Christianity. The golden rule should govern us in dealing with those whom we call unbe- lievers, with heathen, and with all who do not accept our religious views. The Jews are with us as a perpetual lesson to teach us modesty and civility. The religion we profess is not self-evident. It did not convince the people to whom it was sent. We have no claim to take it for granted that we are all right, and they are all wrong. And, therefore, in the midst of all the triumphs of Chris- tianity, it is well that the stately syna- gogue should lift its walls by the side of the aspiring cathedral, a perpetual re- minder that there are many mansions in the Fathers earthly house as well as in the heavenly one; that civilized human- ity, longer in time and broader in space than any historical form of belief, is mightier than any one institution or or- ganization it includes. Many years ago I argued with myself the proposition which my Hebrew cor- respondent has suggested. Recognizing the fact that I was born to a birthright of national and social prejudices against the chosen people, chosen as the object of contumely and abuse by the rest of the world, I pictured my own inherited feelings of aversion in all their intensity, and the strain of thought un- der the influence of which those pre- judices gave way to a more human, a more truly Christian feeling of brother- hood. I must ask your indulgence while I quote a few vemes from a poem of my own, printed long ago under the title At the Pantomime. I was crowded between two children of Israel, and gave free inward expres- sion to my feelings. All at once I hap- pened to look more closely at one of my neighbors, and saw that the youth was the very ideal of the Son of Mary. A fresh young cheek whose olive hue The mantling blood shows faintly through; Locks dark as midnight, that divide And shade the neck on either side; Soft, gentle, loving eyes that gleam Clear as a starlit mountain stream; So looked that other child of Shem, The Maidens Boy of Bethlehem! And thou couldst scorn the peerless blood That flows unmingled from the Flood, Thy scutcheon spotted with the stains Of Norman thieves and pirate Danes! The New Worlds foundling, in thy pride Scowl on the Hebrew at thy side, And lo! the very semblance there The Lord of Glory deigned to wear! I see that radiant image rise, The flowing hair, the pitying eyes, The faintly crimsoned cheek that shows The blush of Sharons opening rose, Thy hands would clasp his hallowed feet Wbose brethren soil thy Christian seat, Thy lips would press his garments hem That curl in wrathful scorn for them! 104 Over the Teacups. [July, A sudden mist, a watery screen, Dropped like a veil before the scene; The shadow floated from my soul, And to my lips a whisper stole, Thy prophets caught the Spirits flame, From thee the Son of Mary came, With thee the Father deigned to dwell, Peace be upon thee, Israel! It is not to be expected that intimate relations will be established between Jew- ish and Christian communities until both become so far rationalized and human- ized that their differences are compara- tively unimportant. But already there is an evident approximation in the extreme left of what is called liberal Christianity and the representatives of modern Ju- daism. The life of a man like the late Sir Moses Montefiore reads a lesson from the Old Testament which might well have been inspired by the noblest teachings of the Christian Gospels. Delilah, and how she got her name. Est-elle bien gentille, cette petite? I said one day to Number Five, as our pretty Delilah put her arm between us with a bunch of those tender early rad- ishes that so recall the po~o& zKrvXo~ H~, the rosy-fingered morning of Homer. The little hand which held the radishes would not have shamed Aurora. That hand has never known drudgery, I feel sure. When I spoke those French words our little Delilah gave a slight, seem- ingly involuntary start, and her cheeks grew of as bright a red as her radishes. Ab, said I to myself, does that young girl understand French? It may be worth while to be careful what one says before her. There is a mystery about this girl. She seems to know her place perfectly, except, perhaps, when she burst out crying, the other day, which was against all the rules of table-maidens etiquette, and yet she looks as if she had been born to be waited on, and not to per- form that humble service for others. We know that once in a while girls with education and well connected take it into their heads to go into service for a few weeks or months. Sometimes it is from economic motives, to procure means for their education, or to help members of their families who need as- sistance. At any rate, they undertake the lighter menial duties of some house- hold where they are not known, and, having stooped if stooping it is to be considered to lowly duties, no born and bred servants are more faithful to all their obligations. You must not sup- pose she was christened Delilah. Any of our ministers would hesitate to give such a heathen name to a Christian child. The way she came to get it was this: The Professor was going to give a lecture before an occasional audience, one evening. When he took his seat with the other Teacups, the American Annex whispered to the other Annex, His hair wants cutting, it looks like fury. Quite so, said the English An- nex. I wish you would tell him so, I do, awfully. I 11 fix it, said the American girl. So, after the teacups were eniptied and the company had left the table, she went up to the Professor. You read this lecture, dont you, Pro- fessor? she said. I do, he answered. I should think that lock of hair which falls down over your forehead would trouble you, she said. It does some- times, replied the Professor. Let our little maid trim it for you. Youre equal to that, are nt you? turning to the handmaiden. I always used to cut my fathers hair, she answered. She brought a pair of glittering shears, and before she would let the Professor go she had trimmed his hair and beard as they had not been dealt with for many a day. Everybody said the Professor looked ten years younger. After that our little handmaiden was always called Delilah, among the talking Teacups. The Mistress keeps a watchful eye on this young girl. I should not be sur 1890.] Fire Ilorse8. 105 prised to find that she was carrying out some ideal, some fancy or whim, pos- sibly nothing more, but springing from some generous, youthful impulse. Per- haps she is working for that little sis- ter at the Blind Asylum. How did she come to understand French? She did certainly blush, and betrayed every sign of understanding the words spoken about her in that language. Sometimes she sings while at her work, and we have all been struck with the pure, musical character of her voice. It is just such a voice as ought to come from that round white throat. We made a discovery about it the other evening. The Mistress keeps a piano in her room, and we have sometimes had mu- sic in the evening. One of The Teacups, to whom I have slightly referred, is an accomplished pianist, and the two An- nexes sing very sweetly together, the American girl having a clear soprano voice, the English girl a mellow con- tralto. They had sung several tunes, when the Mistress rang for Avis, for that is our Delilahs real name. She whispered to the young girl, who blushed and trembled. Dont be frightened, said the Mistress encouragingly. I have heard you singing Too Young for Love, and I will get our pianist to play it. The young ladies both know it, and you must join in. The two voices, with the accompani- ment, had hardly finished the first line when a pure, ringing, almost childlike voice joined the vocal duet. The sound of her own voice seemed to make her forget her fears, and she warbled as naturally and freely as any young bird of a May morning. Number Five came in while she was singing, and when she got through caught her in her arms and kissed her, as if she were her sister, and not Delilah, our table-maid. Num- ber Five is apt to forget herself and those social differences to which some of us attach so much importance. This is the song in which the little maid took part: TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE. Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Tell reddening rosebuds not to blow! Wait not for spring to pass away, Loves summer months begin with May! Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Too young? Too young? Ah,no! no! no! Too young for love? Ah, say not so, While daisies bloom and tulips glow! June soon will come with lengthened day To practice all love learned in May. Too young for love? Ab, say not so! Too young? Too young? Ah,no! no! no! Oliver Wendell Holmes. FIRE HORSES. EVERYBODY knows that a fire-engine horse is a large, strongly built, hand- some animal, with a broad forehead and an intelligent eye. He wears neither check nor blinders, and is never blanket- ed, except when he stands out in the street; but his coat is nicely groomed, his hoofs are well oiled; he is usually in the pink of condition; his social affec tions and faculties are highly cultivated; interested looks follow him when he takes his daily exercise; and, seen in full progress to a fire, he is an object of re- spect and admiration, almost of terror. His work is different from that of any other horse in the world, and it re- quires a peculiar combination of quali- ties. The fire steed must be able to

1890.] Fire Ilorse8. 105 prised to find that she was carrying out some ideal, some fancy or whim, pos- sibly nothing more, but springing from some generous, youthful impulse. Per- haps she is working for that little sis- ter at the Blind Asylum. How did she come to understand French? She did certainly blush, and betrayed every sign of understanding the words spoken about her in that language. Sometimes she sings while at her work, and we have all been struck with the pure, musical character of her voice. It is just such a voice as ought to come from that round white throat. We made a discovery about it the other evening. The Mistress keeps a piano in her room, and we have sometimes had mu- sic in the evening. One of The Teacups, to whom I have slightly referred, is an accomplished pianist, and the two An- nexes sing very sweetly together, the American girl having a clear soprano voice, the English girl a mellow con- tralto. They had sung several tunes, when the Mistress rang for Avis, for that is our Delilahs real name. She whispered to the young girl, who blushed and trembled. Dont be frightened, said the Mistress encouragingly. I have heard you singing Too Young for Love, and I will get our pianist to play it. The young ladies both know it, and you must join in. The two voices, with the accompani- ment, had hardly finished the first line when a pure, ringing, almost childlike voice joined the vocal duet. The sound of her own voice seemed to make her forget her fears, and she warbled as naturally and freely as any young bird of a May morning. Number Five came in while she was singing, and when she got through caught her in her arms and kissed her, as if she were her sister, and not Delilah, our table-maid. Num- ber Five is apt to forget herself and those social differences to which some of us attach so much importance. This is the song in which the little maid took part: TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE. Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Tell reddening rosebuds not to blow! Wait not for spring to pass away, Loves summer months begin with May! Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Too young? Too young? Ah,no! no! no! Too young for love? Ah, say not so, While daisies bloom and tulips glow! June soon will come with lengthened day To practice all love learned in May. Too young for love? Ab, say not so! Too young? Too young? Ah,no! no! no! Oliver Wendell Holmes. FIRE HORSES. EVERYBODY knows that a fire-engine horse is a large, strongly built, hand- some animal, with a broad forehead and an intelligent eye. He wears neither check nor blinders, and is never blanket- ed, except when he stands out in the street; but his coat is nicely groomed, his hoofs are well oiled; he is usually in the pink of condition; his social affec tions and faculties are highly cultivated; interested looks follow him when he takes his daily exercise; and, seen in full progress to a fire, he is an object of re- spect and admiration, almost of terror. His work is different from that of any other horse in the world, and it re- quires a peculiar combination of quali- ties. The fire steed must be able to

1890.] Fire Ilorse8. 105 prised to find that she was carrying out some ideal, some fancy or whim, pos- sibly nothing more, but springing from some generous, youthful impulse. Per- haps she is working for that little sis- ter at the Blind Asylum. How did she come to understand French? She did certainly blush, and betrayed every sign of understanding the words spoken about her in that language. Sometimes she sings while at her work, and we have all been struck with the pure, musical character of her voice. It is just such a voice as ought to come from that round white throat. We made a discovery about it the other evening. The Mistress keeps a piano in her room, and we have sometimes had mu- sic in the evening. One of The Teacups, to whom I have slightly referred, is an accomplished pianist, and the two An- nexes sing very sweetly together, the American girl having a clear soprano voice, the English girl a mellow con- tralto. They had sung several tunes, when the Mistress rang for Avis, for that is our Delilahs real name. She whispered to the young girl, who blushed and trembled. Dont be frightened, said the Mistress encouragingly. I have heard you singing Too Young for Love, and I will get our pianist to play it. The young ladies both know it, and you must join in. The two voices, with the accompani- ment, had hardly finished the first line when a pure, ringing, almost childlike voice joined the vocal duet. The sound of her own voice seemed to make her forget her fears, and she warbled as naturally and freely as any young bird of a May morning. Number Five came in while she was singing, and when she got through caught her in her arms and kissed her, as if she were her sister, and not Delilah, our table-maid. Num- ber Five is apt to forget herself and those social differences to which some of us attach so much importance. This is the song in which the little maid took part: TOO YOUNG FOR LOVE. Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Tell reddening rosebuds not to blow! Wait not for spring to pass away, Loves summer months begin with May! Too young for love? Ah, say not so! Too young? Too young? Ah,no! no! no! Too young for love? Ah, say not so, While daisies bloom and tulips glow! June soon will come with lengthened day To practice all love learned in May. Too young for love? Ab, say not so! Too young? Too young? Ah,no! no! no! Oliver Wendell Holmes. FIRE HORSES. EVERYBODY knows that a fire-engine horse is a large, strongly built, hand- some animal, with a broad forehead and an intelligent eye. He wears neither check nor blinders, and is never blanket- ed, except when he stands out in the street; but his coat is nicely groomed, his hoofs are well oiled; he is usually in the pink of condition; his social affec tions and faculties are highly cultivated; interested looks follow him when he takes his daily exercise; and, seen in full progress to a fire, he is an object of re- spect and admiration, almost of terror. His work is different from that of any other horse in the world, and it re- quires a peculiar combination of quali- ties. The fire steed must be able to 106 bre Ilorseg. [July, draw an extremely heavy load at a smart gallop; in short, his function is that of a running draft-horse. Engines, with the men who ride on them, usually weigh about 8000 pounds, or four tons: some are a thousand pounds lighter; others as much, or nearly as much, heavier. The chemical engines are less ponderous, varying from 2500 (this kind employs but one horse) to 7500 pounds. The hose carriages attached to the fire engines, and drawn by one horse, are, as a rule, about half the, weight of the en- gines, but sometinies much more. Two- wheel carts were formerly used for this purpose, but they have been superseded, in Boston and in most other cities, by four-wheel wagons, which, though~ not so picturesque, are much easier for the horse, inasmuch as none of the weight comes upon his back. Hook and ladder trucks, with their men, vary in weight from 4350 to 10,600 pounds, the only truck which reaches these last-mentioned figures being hauled by three horses, harnessed abreast. There is another very heavy one, weigh- ing 9535 pounds, which is kept on Har- rison Avenue, and is drawn by two huge grays, one of the largest spans in the department. The engines usually fit the horse-car tracks, which is a great ad- vantage; whereas the hook and ladder trucks are too broad for this, and they are so extremely long that a large part of the weight is far from the horses, which of course makes it harder to haul; but, again, the load is more springy,~~ not so dead as that of the engine, and the two kinds of apparatus are, on the whole, probably about equally difficult to pull. Some of the longest trucks, as most of my readers know, are provided with a sort of steering apparatus for the hind wheels, so that the helmsman, who sits immediately above the axle, is able to turn them sharply in going around a corner. By this device the necessity of a wide turn is avoided, and the driver is able to cut the corners as closely as if he had an ordinary length of vehicle behind him. Sometimes a tough spiral spring, made of steel, is in- serted in the trace of a fire horses har- ness, near the whiffietree, the object be- ing to lessen the strain at starting. This extremely ingenious device enables the horses to exert their strength against a yielding connection, instead of against a dead weight, a certain momentum be-. ing acquired by them before the whole load moves. It is on the same principle that the couplings which unite a train of loaded cars must be somewhat loose, in order that the locomotive may start the train. Motion is then communicated from the first car to the second, and so on (as the spectator may readily per- ceive) ; whereas, if all the couplings were tense, the whole train would have to start at once. In the city proper, where most of the runs are short, the whole distance is usually covered at a gallop, except where some hill or obstruction intervenes; and this performance tries the animal of whom it is required through and through, so that if there be a weak spot in him it is soon discovered. In the first place, he must be big and heavy. Boston fire horses vary from 1200 to 1600 pounds; very few, if any, quite reaching the maximum, and most of them weighing about 1400 pounds, rather less than more. But the fire horse must also be active, as well as big and strong; he must have good feet, good wind, and finally, to execute his ordinary task, he must be in hard condition. When the horses are first bought, they are almost invariably fat and soft; but they are immediately assigned to a station, with- out any training or preparation. Conse- quently, they must be humored, and, if need be, restrained somewhat, during their first months of service. Should they be driven hard at this timne, they might easily become touched in the wind, or otherwise disabled; and this sometimes happens through careless or 1890.] Fire Horses. 107 unskillful driving. The best and strong- est horse in the world, if out of condi- tion, cannot safely be called upon for an extraordinary effort. (There is a hint here, by the way, for fat or elderly people who persist in running for trains.) Elsewhere the weight of fire horses is commonly about the same as it is in Boston. In Cambridge, in Lynn (which ha~ an excellent department), and in Providence they have none over 1400 pounds; in Chicago the limit is given as 1450; but in Brooklyn comparatively light horses are used, their weight vary- ing from 1150 to 1350 pounds; and the veterinary surgeon attached to this de- partment states that he prefers those ap- proaching the minimum. As a rule, short-legged and short- backed horses are the best for drawing engines. It is indeed a general equine principle that weight-pullers should be formed in this way: they are more nimble, take shorter steps, recover them- selves more easily, than longer-legged and longer-striding animals. The trot- ters who make fast records to skeleton wagons (much heavier than sulkies) are almost invariably of such a construction. I have been told of a pair of tough roans built thus, and weighing not much more than 1200 pounds, who could pull a heavy engine at wonderful speed; but, unfortunately, the near horse had a habit of balking on the threshold of the engine house, when harnessed for a fire, which so delayed the apparatus that his subse- quent speed did not make up for the time lost, and he was retired to private life. One of the best, oldest, and lightest engine horses in Boston is also built on this model. He is a rather plain, brown fellow, weighing only about 1175 pounds, with a strong, short back, splendid shoulder, and stout limbs, with big knees and short cannon-bones. His expres- sion is extremely gentle and intelligent. At present he serves as the off horse on the chemical engine in Bulfinch Street, his mate being a handsome dapple gray, with white flowing tail. The brown horse is reckoned by the engine men to be twenty-two years old, having been in the service for many years. I suspect that there is some exaggeration in this statement, but he is certainly an old horse. His mate is ten, and considera- bly larger, but the two step well to- gether, and make a fast team. Their driver assured me tbat he had once given the protective company a fair beating on Washington Street, in a race to a lire. Of the gray horse, a good and, I be- lieve, on investigation, a true story is told. In the same building with the chemical engine is an ordinary fire en- gine, the two houses being connect- ed by hallways. At one time the gray horse was transferred to the other en- gine, and put in one of the stalls behind it. In the middle of the first night after this change had been made, an alarm of fire was sounded. The men tumbled out of bed, rushed down to the engine floor, and found the othet I~orse standing in his place by the pole, ready to have the collar fastened about his neck; but the gray was missing. They looked in his stall, but it was vacant; neither hide nor hair of him could be found, and it seemed clear that the animal had been stolen by some bold thief. Present- ly, however, a horse was heard moving about in the adjoining house, and it proved to be one belonging to the chem- ical engine, which had already gone to the fire. He was of course immediately put in the place of the missing beast, and the engine finally got under way. The fact was that when the alarm sound- ed, and the doors of the stable flew open, the gray had gone to his old place on the chemical engine, and pushed aside the horse already standing there, who, finding that he was not wanted, returned to his stall. The men, in the hurry of the moment, harnessed such animals as offered themselves, and were off without discovering the mistake. 108 Fire Horses. [July, There is a reason why ladder-truck horses should be taller than engine horses: the apparatus which they draw is at a much higher level from the ground than is the bulk of an engine, and consequently a low-standing animal would waste part of his efforts in pull- ing downward instead of pulling f or- ward. Some ladder-truck horses are shaped in one important respect like Maud S., Sunol, and other fast trotters and runners, namely, higher at the rump than at the withers, and with long hind legs. This is not considered a good conformation for a cart horse; but it seems to answer well where, as in the case of a ladder truck, horses are re- quired which have strength, height, and speed. Such being the kind of horse needed for fire engines, let us now visit a new recruit in his quarters. The weather being warm, the doors of the house are open, a rope being stretched across the entrance. Directly in front of us stands the engine, a polished mass of copper and nickel, with scarlet wheels. The drivers seat is a small box, just big enough to hold him, and behind it, rolled up separately, are strapped the blankets. The harness is suspended from the ceiling in such a manner that it can be let down when the horses stand under it. Back of the engine, and some yards distant as a rule, a partition, com- posed chiefly of doors, runs across the house. Behind this partition are the stalls; the horses facing the engine, and the front of each stall being a door, with a window in it. Bridles are worn night and day, the bits being slipped out when the animals eat their oats, but kept in while they chew their hay. Some few horses, whose mouths are tender, are bridled in the stables, with the bit hang- ing loose. Now, then, we will suppose that an alarm of fire strikes, the hour being midnight. The horses are lying down, out of sight and fast asleep; the men are upstairs in bed, all save one, who dozes in a chair beside those mys- terious telegraphic instruments, grouped in a corner near the front door. The gas burns brightly, but there is not a sign of animation about the place. It is all so miraculously clean, so neat, well ordered, burnished, and polished, so nearly deserted, so absolutely quiescent, and yet so brilliantly lighted, that it ap- pears rather like an illusion than a real- ity. The engine might be the huge and magnificent toy of a giant. It looks much too fine for real use. But, as we were saying, an alarm sounds, and the scene changes. In a corner of the ceil- ing, near the front door, is a circular opening, through whieh, rising from the floor, there passes a shining brass pole. When the men are called out, they throw themselves on this pole, and come down like a flash of lightning; the feet of the second man almost touching the head of the first, and so on. The horses scramble on their legs, the doors in front of them fly open, and out they rush, their heavy iron-shod hoofs thundering over the floor. Each horse goes to his proper place; the driver, from his seat, lets down the harness; two or three men standing at the pole snap the collars to- gether, fasten the reins to the bits, and off they go. There is nothing more to be done: the girths are not used in run- ning to a fire; the traces are already attached to the whiffletrees and the pole- straps to the collars, so that the fasten- ing of two collars and four reins con- stitutes the harnessing. Often, perhaps commonly, the horses are harnessed and everything is ready for a start before the gong has finished telling the number of the box. Half a minute is about the maximum time for companies in a first- class department to make ready arid leave the house; and the ordinary time is, I believe, fifteen or twenty seconds. The fire marshal of the Chicago depart- ment informs me that, on the test of a certain engine, with men in bed and 1890.] Fire Ilor8es. 109 horses in stalls, the hind wheels of the apparatus crossed th& threshold in eleven seconds. For the Brooklyn depart- ment the time is given as from four to eight seconds, according to distance of horses from the engine. To teach a green nag to come out of his stall at the signal and range himself alongside the pole is not so difficult as might be imagined. We will sup- pose that a span of new horses are as- signed to a certain engine, the old pair, as is the custom, being taken away at the same time. The surroundings are strange and more or less terrible to them, but they are handled very gently and carefully, and gradually lose their fears. The schooling begins at once, the driver being assisted by the other men. The ordinary signal is given, as if for a fire; the stall doors open; the horses are led out, put in position, har- nessed, and in a few minutes led back; and then the process is repeated perhaps half a dozen times. Great pains are taken that the animals shall not strike against anything, or by any means be- come frightened. The unusual specta- cle of a harness suspended in the air is apt to disturb them at first, but they are led slowly up to it, induced to smell of it, to inspect it on all sides, and thus to learn that it is perfectly harmless. In the same way they are accustomed to all the other objects about them, being continually patted and encouraged. The chief traits of the horse are the great strength of his memory, especially of his faculty of association, and his timid- ity. The firemans task, therefore, is first to convince his pupil, by gentle treatment, that no harm threatens him, and then to establish a connection in his mind between the proper signal, the opening of the stall door, and a progress thence to his station by the engine pole. After being led to their positions what it is thought may prove a sufficient num- ber of times, the horses are allowed to come out at the signal, of their own accord, a man standing behind to touch them up a little if they do not start promptly when the gong sounds and the doors open. Of course no two horses learn with equal rapidity, and the difference be- tween them in this respect is greater than might be supposed. Two weeks constitute about the average period of instruction, during which time two or three lessons a day are given: but horses have been known to learn in one lesson; and others, again, have been months in arriving at the same profi- ciency. A pair of gray horses, newly purchased for the East Street engine, in Boston, were led out three times in the manner just described. They were then left to themselves: the. gong sounded, the stall doors opened, and the pair trotted out, each going to his place alongside the pole. They had caught the idea at once. These horses are re- markable not only for intelligence, but for strength and speed. They are both, and the off one especially, of a type dif- ferent from that of any other fire horses~ that I have seen, being very tail (the off one is seventeen hands) rangy, slightly wasp - waisted, and having fine, thin necks and small, well-bred heads. They are great gallopers, and the hose-wagon horse has hard work to keep up with them; but this too is a remarkable ani- mal. He is one of the oldest horses in the department, having served ten years, and being, naturally, a little stiff in the legs; but his strength is so great and his courage so good that even these powerful, flying grays cannot draw away from him. He is a big brown horse, with a great shoulder, the best of short legs, and a noble countenance. His original cost was the unusually large sum of $450, but the bargain has proved a good one for the city. Old as he is, being sixteen or seventeen years at least, he is thought to have made the best run of his life a few weeks ago, galloping all the way from East Street 110 Fire Hor8es. [July, to Battery Wharf, a distance of a mile, or more. A little blood trickled from his nostrils when he pulled up behind the engine, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for the immense exertion. Another big horse, of the greyhound type already described, that is, hav- ing long hind legs and standing higher at the rump than at the withers, was four months in learning the business. He is a gray, with a long, rather coarse head, and small mouse ears out of proportion to his size, for he weighs 1380 pounds; but this evidently mon- grel beast is not altogether devoid of intelligence, being steady enough on the street to serve as a leader when three horses are used, and on one occasion he allowed the whiffletree to fall on his legs without starting to run. This horse is used with a ladder truck, and his education was finally accomplished by fencing in his path from the stall to the pole with ladders, a method often em- ployed. Sometimes, it is not want of mind, but nervousness, which makes a fire horse slow to learn the trade, just as some nervous children have difficulty in am plying their minds. Such was the case with Peter, a well-bred black horse, used for many years in Boston with the lad- der truck in Fort Hill Square. Peter was a noble, strong, spirited animal, and, once taught, he became as prompt and trustworthy as any horse in the depart- ment. On one occasion, shortly after his purchase, Peter, exasperated by the schooling, broke away from his instruc- tors, jumped cleanly through an open window without touching the sash, and ran down the street in search of amuse- ment. At another time, while waiting in the blacksmith shop, his shoes having been taken off, but not yet replaced, Pe- ter heard the twelve oclock alarm strike. This, he knew, indicated the hour of his dinner, and accordingly Peter made off, without saying By your leave to the smith, and presently appeared at the ladder-house door, neighing for admis- sion. This fine animal met with a sad fate not long ago. While running to a fire, he came into collision with one of the pro- tective wagons, and his leg was broken in two places, so that he had to be shot where he fell in the street. Something even worse happened several years ago to a fire-engine horse in Boston. He was struck by the pole of another en- gine, which came out of its house just as the first engine dashed by; the force of the blow, unknown to his driver, broke the animals leg, but he kept on, traveling, of course, on three legs only, and pulling his share of the immense weight behind him, till the place of the fire was reached, nearly or quite one quarter of a mile further. Then the poor beast dropped to the ground, never to rise again. The fire horse is subject to accidents like these, but we must re- member that the firemans danger is greater yet. It happens occasionally that a horse is bought who proves to be altogether too nervous for the business: he is in a continual state of tension, will not eat unless taken out of his stall, and is so worried with apprehension of an alarm that it is impossible to use him as a fire horse. In a few other cases, the ner- vousness, though not so extreme, is suffi- cient to disturb the animals health, to impair his digestion, to prevent his tak- ing the needed amount of rest, so that, eventually, he too, after being doctored, perhaps, for an imaginary disease, is transferred to some more peaceful occu- pation. Now that we have seen how a fire-en- gine horse is instructed and where he lives, it might be interesting to know in what manner his daily life is ordered. He takes breakfast, in Boston, at five or half past, in some houses as late as six oclock, the meal consisting, as a rule, of two quarts of oats. After breakfast he re- ceives a thorough grooming, and about 1890.] .F~re Horses. 111 ten oclock he goes out to walk for an hour, with an occasional trot, one horse of a pair being ridden and the other led. At half past eleven or twelve he has dinner, two quarts of oats again, which also is the allowance for supper, at half past five or six. Some old and delicate horses have nine quarts of oats per day. Usually a bran mash is given once a week, and in some houses a little bran is fed every day. In the after- noon the horse has another hour of ex- ercise, supposing that no fire has oc- curred. Hay is allowed at night only, and in most of the houses it is fed from the floor, so that the horse can eat it while lying down. For several reasons this method is far better than feeding from a rack, especially for the fire horse, who takes a long while to eat his hay, inasmuch as the bit remains in his mouth. In most cities the grain allow- aiice is about the same as it is in Boston, although in Chicago the horses are fed just twice as much, twelve quarts per day, and in Brooklyn, as I am informed, the allowance varies from twelve to eighteen quarts, which is excessive. In Chicago, it would seem, the fire horses do more work than is required in Bos- ton. Ten companies in the heart of that city average thirty-six runs per month; whereas in Boston the average varies, according to the situation, from eight or ten to twenty-five runs per month. In the suburbs many companies do not go out more than once a week, on the average. The hour for bedding down varies from half past five to eight i. M., at the discretion of the driver. It would be better to make this duty ob- ligatory at the earlier hour, and better yet if the bedding were left under the horses by day as well as by night, espe- cially in the case of those companies which do the most work. The more a horse lies down, the longer his legs and feet are likely to endure; and by the sup- ply of a soft and perpetual couch he can often be induced to lengthen his hours of repose. At eight ~. M., it is the cus- tom all over the city to call the horses out and harness them to the engine, and at this time visitors are apt to drop in. Both firemen and horses are always well known in the vicinity, and many civilities pass between the neighbors and the occupants, human and equine, of the engine houses. The children especially are friends with the horses, calling them by their names, and often treating them to candy and other luxuries. In fact, whenever a fire-engine horse is intro- duced to a stranger, he expects to re- ceive some dainty, and will poke his nose into the visitors hands and pock- ets; nor is he easily discouraged by fail- ure to find anything, being evidently convinced that nobody would be quite so mean as to enter his stable without bringing at least a lump of sugar or the fraction of an apple. There is a handsome gray horse in the Mason Street station, in Boston, who has a great liking for ice, and, when out for exercise, he can never be persuaded to pass an ice wagon without first thrust- ing his head in behind and helping him- self to a small piece. It is needless~to say that the firemen (whom, by the way, I found invariably civil and intelligent) make great pets of their four-footed companions, and are a little inclined to exaggerate their good qualities, the finest pair in the department being dis- covered in almost every engine house. There is, too, a favorite horse at each station, not always the strongest or handsomest, but the most affectionate, docile, and sociable; and the visitor is always taken first to this animals stall, whose virtues are thereupon extolled with generous enthusiasm. From December to April every engine house contains an equine guest, as an extra horse for making up a spike team, in case the streets are blocked with snow. Usually this horse is not owned by the department, but is loaned by an ice company or a contractor, 112 Fire Horses. [July, his keep being reckoned as payment for his services. The new-corner does not serve as a leader: one of the regular team is put in that post, the extra horse taking the others place at the pole. Some of the engine horses show great intelligence and discretion as leaders. On one occasion a spike team was dash- ing through a narrow street, where there was barely room to get between a wagon on one side and a light carryall, with women and children in it, on the other. The driver found that he had no control over his leader, and feared a bad acci- dent; but the horse threaded his way so carefully and accurately that the engine swept past the carriage without touching it. When the engine stopped, it ap- peared that the leaders bit was hanging loose, and that he had served as his own river. This same animal a big bay horse on Fort Hill Square is also credited with some clever work in his own in- terest. Immediately in the rear of his stall was a sllde where the oats came down, as he had full opportunity to ob- serve at feeding-time. But how could he. get them? He was confined in his stall, not of course by a halter, but by a rope stretched behind him, and fas- tened by an ordinary open hook. First, he discovered that, with some difficulty, he could turn in the stall far enough to get hold of the rope with his teeth, and after many attempts he succeeded in un- hooking it. It was then an easy task to step across to the slide, pull it open with his teeth, and thus set running the reservoir of grain above. Two or three times he was found, after achieving this feat, staiiding in a deluge of oats, and industriously stowing them away in a compartment furnished by nature. But the firemen checkmated him by putting on the rope a snap hook, closed by a spring; and there it may be seen, at once proving the occurrence and preventing its repetition. There is another sagacious leader, called John, one of a span of large, handsome, dark mottled grays, used on the Dudley Street ladder truck. These are among the very finest horses in the department: they are strong and symmet- rical, with small, clean-cut heads, large eyes, and courageous but gentle expres- sion. John, especially, is as kind as a dog, a favorite with the women and chil- dren of the neighborhood, a great pet of the firemen, and quiet as a mouse in the stable, but on the street full of life and animation, and playful enough to have thrown, at one time and another, everybody who has ridden him to exer- cise, except the captain. Johns sense of discipline is so strong that he draws the line there. While used as a leader his stall is different from the i~sual one; and when, on one occasion, having occu- pied it for some weeks, the third horse was dispensed with, and John was put back in his old quarters, he rightly and sagaciously concluded that his former place on the engine should be resumed, and accordingly, at the next alarm, he ran to the pole, instead of going in front. The finest engine horse that I have seen is, I think, the near one of a dark gray team used on the Salem Street engine, in Boston. This is what horse- men call a big little un; that is, a stout animal on short legs. He is a comparatively small horse, standing 15 hands 3 inches, and weighing 1320 pounds: but he is big where bigness is required. He has a broad chest, a tre- mendous shoulder, deep lungs, a big bar- rel, a short back, and strong hind quar- ters. His legs are fiat and clean, his feet of just the right size, and he has a broad forehead and an intelligent eye. Possibly his shoulder is a little too up- right, and there is a suspicion of hollow- ness in his back, but otherwise he seemed to me an ideal engine horse. His mate is handsomer in some respects and more gentle, but a trifle too long in the back and legs. 1890.] Fire Horses. 113 Beside the engine, hose-wagon, and ladder-truck horses, there are others, used to haul coal and supplies, to carry men and tools for the repair of wires, etc. These are chiefly old, partly broken- down animals, no longer fit for the hard and rapid work of running to fires. Then there are smaller nags, weighing from 950 to 1050 pounds, employed by the engineers in their light wagons. These horses, especially such as are used by the chief engineer, get more practice in running to fires than any others, and they become very clever in picking their way through a crowded street; break- ing into a gallop whenever they see an open space before them, and pulling up promptly to avoid collisions. The tough, intelligent, short-stepping Morgan is ex- cellently adapted for this purpose, and one of that breed has been used for eight years past by the veterinary sur- geon connected with the department. At least, this animal came from Ver- mont, and bears all the marks of the Morgan strain. Another, used by the district engineer on Dudley Street, is of about the same size and pattern, and of the same gamy disposition. The protective (insurance) wagon steeds, though not, strictly speaking, be- longing to the fire department, should not be disregarded in this account. They show more quality than fire-engine horses, weigh less (about 1150 pounds), stand higher in proportion, and would look, if their tails were docked, like powerful coach horses. There are two protective wagons in Boston: one in Hamilton Street, in the heart of the city, which weighs, with the men, about 7800 pounds; and the other, which is much lighter, at the South End, on Broadway extension. One or both of these wagons respond to every alarm of fire in the city, so that the horses at- tached to them do a great deal of work. On a certain Fourth of July, one of these companies was called out on nineteen different occasions in the twenty-four VOL. LXVI. NO. 393. 8 hours; the horses not becoming cool enough throughout that time to be fed, and being supported by draughts of bran and water. The arrangements in the protective houses differ, for the worse, from those of the fire department. The stalls are in the main room, where the wagon is kept, and at the back of the building is an entrance, the doors of which are apt to be open. The animals are thus exposed to strong and frequent draughts, very bad for horseflesh; and they are also continually annoyed by the noise, by the glare of lights kept burning all night, and by the coining and going of visitors and officials. The object of this arrangement is, of course, to save time; but if the horses stood six feet farther back, and were protected by a partition, probably only one or two sec- onds more would be required to bring them to the pole. Moreover, they are so often out at night that the suggestion already made in regard to engine horses applies with more force to those en- gaged in this service, namely, that bed- ding should be left under them at all times. In the South End house the stalls are open at both ends, so that the horses stand in a thoroughfare for cold breezes; and this was formerly the case in the Hamilton Street station. In the latter house there were for eight years a very fine pair of grays, who were sold, not for unsoundness, but be- cause they were worn out by want of rest. One of them also became vicious. The fact is that, with the possible excep- tion of man, the horse is the most ner- vous animal in the world, and the least able to endure continual and multiplied annoyances. These grays were last seen drawing a hack, and they have proba- bly long since passed to some lower and more painful stage of equine degrada- tion. Their places were taken by a fine chestnut and brown, well-bred, strong, and speedy horses. At the South End station there is another cross-matched 114 Fire Hor8es. [July, pair: an oldish gray, a very fine animal still (whose mate fell a victim to pleu- risy), and a handsome young black. In fact, the horses of this department seem to have been selected with great judg- ment. Connected with a fire department there is usually a veterinary hospital, and in Boston this is situated on Tre- mont Street; being a part of the build- ing in which ladder truck No. 12 is stationed. It consists of a single box- stall and several straight stalls, but the health of the horses is looked after so carefully that these accommodations are quite sufficient. When I visited the place it contained but two patients. One was a fine gray engine horse, who, while running to a fire, came in collision with a tow horse, and was thrown down. His knees and hind legs were badly cut, but none of these injuries proved se- rious, and he was soon on the road to recovery. The other patient, also an engine horse, was suffering from a bad leg, caused partly by improper shoeing, and partly by the state of his blood. With the exception of these two, all the horses in the department, number- ing about two hundred, were in working order, an excellent showing. Fire horses, as a rule, give out first and chiefly in their feet. Standing so much as they do on wooden floors, their feet have a tendency to become dry and hard, but this is counteracted by a per- manent stuffing of tar and oakum, held in place with a leather pad. Almost all the fire horses of Boston wear these pads, and usually on the hind as well as the fore feet. In other cities, the same result is accomplished by periodi- cal stuffing of the feet with some one of the many materials which horsemen use for this purpose. Possibly this result might be accomplished satisfactorily by the Charlier process, which consists in channeling the wall of the foot at its base, and inserting in the circular groove so formed a steel shoe. By this method the walls The worst trouble, however, arises from the concussion produced in the foot by the hard paving-stones of the city. This is bad enough for any horse, but especially bad for the fire horse, because, owing to his great weight, his galloping speed, and his heavy load, he pounds his feet with tremendous force. Often a pair of engine horses whose feet have begun to give out are trans- ferred to a suburban station, where, the roads being less hard and alarms less frequent, they go on very well for some years longer. Great pains are taken with the shoeing, which is under the direct charge of the accomplished vets em- ployed by the department. Horses used in the city proper wear corks on all their feet, to give them a better grip on slippery pavements, car-tracks, etc.; but in the suburbs corks are dispensed with, the shoes without them having this ad- vantage, that they let the foot down lower, so that it supports the weight of the horse in a more natural position. The frog of the foot is intended by na- ture to lessen the concussion by receiv- ing part of the blow itself; but with an ordinary shoe, especially with one hav- ing corks, this function of the frog is very imperfectly discharged, the frog being kept off the ground by the shoe. What the city fire horses (perhaps I might say, what horses in general) need is some method of shoeing which will protect the wall of the foot, and at the same time allow the frog to come in contact with the ground.tm Fire horses also throw their shoes very frequently, catching them in car-tracks and other projections. In fact, a team can hardly go to a fire without losing at least one shoe between them; and the continual re-shoeing tends, of course, to wear away the hoof. It is desirable, of the foot are protected as with the ordinary shoe, but, the foot not being raised from the ground, the frog comes into play, just as if no shoe at all were worn. 1890.] Fire Hor8es. 115 therefore, to make it grow as fast as possible, and for this purpose it is kept well oiled. Every driver has his own specific, upon the peculiar and wonder- ful properties of which he will descant with much enthusiasm; but the best of them is probably not more efficacious than a rag tied about the coronet, and kept well moistened with cold water. Despite the severity of their occasional labors and the hard usage to which their feet are subjected, fire horses in Bos- ton last a considerable time. They are bought, usually, at the age of five or six years (costing about $325), and they remain in service, on the average, about seven or eight years. In other cities their duration and cost are about the same. In Cambridge, where few of the streets are paved, fire horses are said to last from seven to ten years; but in Brooklyn this period is put as low as six years, about the length of time that a car horse endures. In Boston there are at least half a dozen veterans of ten years standing, and some who have served as fire horses even longer than that. The old hose- cart horse in East Street, of whom I have spoken already, has a record of at least ten years~ service. There is an- other seasoned houyhnhnm on Harrison Avenue, a dark chestnut, of the same heavy, low-standing shape, who has seen twelve winters in the business. About five years ago it was thought that he ought to have an easier life, and accord- ingly he was transferred to an outlying station, where fires seldom occur. But on the occasion of the first alarm to which he responded the old fellow bolt- ed, and made a complete wreck of the hose cart by dashing it against a stone wall. This was his protest at being re- moved from the house to which he had become accustomed, and from the soci- ety of his familiar friends, human and equine; and so he was put back in the old place, where he still remains in full employment. He is reckoned to be seventeen years old, and he has a con- temporary in the Dartmouth Street sta- tion, also a hose horse, who entered the department in the same year. This is Grief, so named because of his melancholy aspect. He has a way of standing with his fore legs wide apart, his head hanging down between, and a doleful expression of the face. A vis- itor, who saw him once in this attitude, remarked that he would make a good image of Grief, and the name seemed so appropriate that it was adopted by common consent. Grief is duly in- scribed in large letters over his stall, and as Grief he is known through the department and to all the neighbors. Grief is a remarkable horse; in color a rich mottled brown, and in shape much resembling the other old horses already described. He has a massive, well- formed shoulder, strong, straight fore legs, powerful hind quarters (too long a cannon - bone, however), a good neck, slightly arched, a rather intelligent, clean- cut head, but mulish ears. His pecu- liarity is a philosophical, phlegmatic dis- position. He has a hearty appetite and a sound digestion, but he never shows the least impatience for his meals. Other horses paw and neigh when they hear the premonitory rattle of the oat-box, but Grief never betrays the least sign of curiosity or interest. The children of the vicinity often come to this house to give the horses candy, and the span of bays who draw the engine always recog- nize their benefactors, and will follow them about the stable. But Grief, though glad enough to be fed, never takes the slightest notice of any visitor beyond swallowing what is offered to him. He sleeps a great deal, ruminates still more, and allows nothing outside of business to disturb or excite him; and hence, no doubt, his excellent state of preserva- tion. But Grief wakes up when the alarm strikes. However long or steep the road, however fast may gallop the stout young 116 Fire horses. [July, bays in front, he always keeps up with the engine. The strength and nervous force that he accumulates in the stable Grief expends lavishly on the way to a fire. His eye is then full of spirit; his expanded nostrils display the red glow within; his neck curves to the task; his splendid shoulder strains against the collar. He looks twice the size of the horse that was dozing in his stall a few minutes before. Arrived at the scene of action, he draws up as close as possible to the engine. Grief likes to get where the sparks fall in showers about him, and there he will stand, shaking his head to dislodge the burning particles, pleased with the shrieks and roar of the engine, with the shouts of the men, with the smoke and flame of the con- flagration. At the fire in Boston on Thanksgiving Day of last year, the en- gine which he followed was burned within twenty-five minutes after it left the house; but Grief stood by it, firm as a rock, till the flames came near and he was led away. The patriarch of the department is, however, not Grief, but another horse, stationed in East Boston, and called Old Joe. His age is variously estimated, but I gather that it is at least twenty years, and possibly twenty-four. Joe is not so impassive as Grief; he is more like the rest of us, being swayed by curiosity, touched by social affections, and depen- dent upon society. He has a gentle, intelligent, courageous eye and a good head and ears. His great age is indi- cated by an extremely hollow back, but otherwise he is still a grand -looking horse. He, too, is a mottled bay or brown, and not unlike Grief, except that he is even larger. In fact, the four old fire horses whom I have par- ticularly described would have made a great team in their youth, broad-chest- ed, deep - lunged, rather low - standing, short - backed fellows, with immense shoulders, roomy stomachs, and strong hind quarters. Joe is now an engine horse. His mate, though in comparison with him a mere colt, is, in truth, an oldish beast; and the two agreed some time ago that they would trot out no more from their stalls when the alarm sounded (having, as it seemed to them, done that sort of thing quite long enough), but would proceed from the stable to the pole at a dignified walk. This resolution has been kept. The fire- men have tried to hurry them, but with- out success. Rattan rods (such as school- boys used to be whipped with) are hung behind their stalls, and descend automat- ically when the alarm strikes; but the old horses laugh at this gentle flagella- tion; they refuse to hurry their pace, and, alone among the fire horses of Bos- ton, they advance with slow and meas- ured step from the stable to the engine house. The only remaining question which we have to ask is this: What becomes of them all? What fate is in store for Old Joe, for Grief, for that veteran hose- cart steed in East Street, who gallops with his heavy load till the blood runs from his nostrils? When thoroughly worn out, fire horses are sold, or, more commonly, handed over to a dealer in part paynient for new animals. In some cities, in Brooklyn, in New York also, I believe, they are disposed of at auc- tion; and inasmuch as a certain distinc- tion attaches to them even in decrepi- tude, they always bring a little more than they are worth as beasts of burden. At most, however, they sell for a song. Broken-down horses are bought by poor men; they have scanty fare, little or no clothing, hard boards to lie on, and, com- monly, severe toil to endure. The cast- off fire horse must sadly miss his good oats and hay, his clean, warm stable and comfortable bed, his elaborate grooming and gentle treatment, his companions, brute and human, the caresses and sweet- meats to which he was daily treated. Removed from all these luxuries, his life broken up by a sudden and painful 1890.] The Language of the Recent Norwegian W~riters. 117 revulsion, we may be sure that the equine bony animal that the reader sees pulling veteran, who spent his best years in help- a tip-cart may be a once proud and ing to save our property from destruc- petted fire horse, for whom the only tion, must very shortly present a spec- possible boon is now the axe of the tacle of misery and despair. The next knacker. H. C. AIerw~n. THE LANGUAGE OF THE RECENT NORWEGIAN WRITERS. IN the literature of one kind and an- other that has been, of late, so suddenly and plenteously evoked by the introduc- tion of the poet Ibsen to the English reader, there is often a curious confusion as to his nationality. In the desire to place him somewhere among the Scan- dinavian races, he is variously called, in the light of what may be an explicably hazy knowledge of the political divisions of that people, either a Norwegian, a Swede, or a Dane; and, as a logical con- sequence, his language, or at any rate its literary expression, is in kind stated to be either Norwegian, Swedish, or. Da- nish. Most of the English versions of the plays style themselves simply trans- lations, ignoring, as now well known, the foreign medium from which they come. On the title-page, however, of at least one of these translations we are told that that particular version of the Norwegian poet is from the Norwe- gian. The term, from a linguistic point of view, is, nevertheless, in reality much the same sort of a misnomer that it would be for a German to print on the title-page of his translation of Mr. Long- fellow from the American. There would be, in such a case, the important difference that, while the Norwegian writer might maintain that his language is really Norwegian, the American au- thor would, as probably, with propriety have resented the imputation of having written anything but English, and would have viewed as an ill-earned fate a rele- gation to the pages of that book alone whose title called down upon itself the outspoken wrath of Matthew Arnold, the Primer of American Literature. That there is no literary language properly called Norwegian is as true, in its way, as that there is no literary language properly called American. The con- ditions may and do differ in Norway and America, where they have had a widely different origin and growth; but the result ultimately attained in both of linguistic dependency is sufficiently sim- ilar to allow a very suggestive parallel to be drawn between them. To assert that a nations linguistic conditions depend to a great extent upon that nations political history is a truism that may go without defense. All Teu- tonic Scandinavia had at one time a sin- gle language, the mother tongue of the scalds and the saga-men, which at the end of the so-called Viking Age, or about the year 1000, had already differenti- ated itself into three more or less ho- mogeneous dialects, to correspond with the three northern countries, Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. This ancient Norwegian language, for various reasons truer than its neighbors to its prototype, maintained itself down to the Calmar Union of 1397, when Norway fell under the sovereignty of Denmark. The Da- nish rule essentially changed the condi- tions of language that had hitherto pre- vailed. Although originally identical with the language of Norway, which, as has already been stated, continued down to this time to be the most conservative

1890.] The Language of the Recent Norwegian W~riters. 117 revulsion, we may be sure that the equine bony animal that the reader sees pulling veteran, who spent his best years in help- a tip-cart may be a once proud and ing to save our property from destruc- petted fire horse, for whom the only tion, must very shortly present a spec- possible boon is now the axe of the tacle of misery and despair. The next knacker. H. C. AIerw~n. THE LANGUAGE OF THE RECENT NORWEGIAN WRITERS. IN the literature of one kind and an- other that has been, of late, so suddenly and plenteously evoked by the introduc- tion of the poet Ibsen to the English reader, there is often a curious confusion as to his nationality. In the desire to place him somewhere among the Scan- dinavian races, he is variously called, in the light of what may be an explicably hazy knowledge of the political divisions of that people, either a Norwegian, a Swede, or a Dane; and, as a logical con- sequence, his language, or at any rate its literary expression, is in kind stated to be either Norwegian, Swedish, or. Da- nish. Most of the English versions of the plays style themselves simply trans- lations, ignoring, as now well known, the foreign medium from which they come. On the title-page, however, of at least one of these translations we are told that that particular version of the Norwegian poet is from the Norwe- gian. The term, from a linguistic point of view, is, nevertheless, in reality much the same sort of a misnomer that it would be for a German to print on the title-page of his translation of Mr. Long- fellow from the American. There would be, in such a case, the important difference that, while the Norwegian writer might maintain that his language is really Norwegian, the American au- thor would, as probably, with propriety have resented the imputation of having written anything but English, and would have viewed as an ill-earned fate a rele- gation to the pages of that book alone whose title called down upon itself the outspoken wrath of Matthew Arnold, the Primer of American Literature. That there is no literary language properly called Norwegian is as true, in its way, as that there is no literary language properly called American. The con- ditions may and do differ in Norway and America, where they have had a widely different origin and growth; but the result ultimately attained in both of linguistic dependency is sufficiently sim- ilar to allow a very suggestive parallel to be drawn between them. To assert that a nations linguistic conditions depend to a great extent upon that nations political history is a truism that may go without defense. All Teu- tonic Scandinavia had at one time a sin- gle language, the mother tongue of the scalds and the saga-men, which at the end of the so-called Viking Age, or about the year 1000, had already differenti- ated itself into three more or less ho- mogeneous dialects, to correspond with the three northern countries, Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. This ancient Norwegian language, for various reasons truer than its neighbors to its prototype, maintained itself down to the Calmar Union of 1397, when Norway fell under the sovereignty of Denmark. The Da- nish rule essentially changed the condi- tions of language that had hitherto pre- vailed. Although originally identical with the language of Norway, which, as has already been stated, continued down to this time to be the most conservative 118 The Language of the Recent Norwegian Writers. [July, of the Scandinavian group, Danish had pursued its own course of development, and in this period of four hundred years had changed more materially than either of its sister dialects. It had be- come, accordingly, at the time of its introduction into Norway, to all intents and purposes a distinct language, with well - defined characteristics. As the language of political administration, of education, and of the culture of the day, it in course of time gained complete possession of the field. When litera- ture came to be produced, Danish was no less surely and naturally its medium, and only medium, of expression; and down to the separation from Denmark, in 1814, nothing is heard of a Nor- wegian language any more than of a Norwegian state. While Danish thus acquired, through perfectly intelligible causes, a literary supremacy, Norwegian, none the less, as a spoken language did not cease to exist, and still exists, in un- broken continuity, down to the present day. From the absence of a recognized norm, it has, none the less, utterly lost the homogeneity that it is safe to assume once prevailed, and has since been di- vided and re-divided into local dialects, that, according to a recent writer, attain the astonishing number of over four hundred, distinguished from each other by appreciable differentiations. The summary cession of Norway to Sweden by the Peace of Kiel called again into life the dormant national spirit of the Norwegians, and, in accord with the notion of separation that then arose, things are once more patriotically, but often indiscriminately, called Norwe- gian. Although linguistic conditions, in the mean time, had undergone scarce- ly any material changes, the national appellation was soon given to the liter- ary language, also; and we henceforth hear of Norwegian, which, neverthe- less, differs, at the bottom, from the Danish of the time in very little except fiat. In 1848, the desire for a real na tional language for Norway, that should completely dispossess the Danish, found a much more definite expression. Ivar Aasen at this time published a Gram- mar of the Norwegian Folk-Language, in which he sought to establish, on the ba- sis of the popular spoken dialects, an ideal normal form that should be used in common by the whole land. The idea, at first sight, is not a bad one, and it had the advantage, besides, of being carried out by Aasen with extraordinary acumen and wide linguistic knowledge. It failed, in that the result proposed rep- resented an artificial product that had never existed, and, under the circum- stances of development, could never have existed; and although its intention was simply to level dialectic differences, it really became to most parts of Norway a new language, which would have to be laboriously acquired as a foreign tongue. The impetus given by Aasen to this mat- ter of a common speech has been con- tinued, with slightly varying direction, down to the present time. It has, how- ever, gained in intensity, until the move- ment for a Landsmaal, or national lan- guage, is one of the most important and widely discussed questions of the day in Norway. Champions of a particular form of language, based upon the local dialect of a particular district, in east or west, are met by others, who suggest a compromise on ground between. In one case, the government, by a liberal nioney appropriation, has assisted in the fur- therance of a form proposed in the north, which has met, however, in spite of this recognition, with but scant general fa- vor. What renders the whole matter especially complicated is the fact that, in the local desire for representation in this national language of the future, the various advocates of a Landsm~aal have thus far been unable definitely to agree upon a single grammatical form. In point of fact, the matter can never be settled in this way. If the possession by Norway of a language that shall really be 1890.] The Language of the Recent Norwegian Writers. 11~ entitled to the name Norwegian is to depend upon the adoption of a form thus artificially produced and accepted by de- cree, the difficulties in the way are so in- superable that it is safe to assume they will never be successfully overcome, and she will be left without one to the end of her history. In the mean time, the question of a Landsmaal has, curiously enough, but naturally, too, in the light of surround- ing circumstances, been pursuing a way of its own. While the written language of what may truly be called the Norwe- gian literature of the present is still un- deniably Danish, it is, none the less, no longer the Danish of Denmark, but a markedly different speech, rich in char- acteristic national elements, and strik- ingly strong in expression where the other, by contrast, is often feeble and effete. This literary language is, however, infinitely nearer Danish, of which it is strictly to be considered simply a dif- ferentiated form, than are the popular dialects, which are, in their turn, as has been said, the true modern representa- tives of the old Norwegian language. This popular speech naturally finds its way not infrequently into literature in stories of Norwegian life, just as dialect stories in English and German are a perfectly well-recognized form of liter- ary expression. But the difference be- tween it and Danish is so great that they are really different languages, cer- tainly more unintelligible in Denmark than either Swedish or German. A note to one of the short stories in the third edition of Bj6rnsons Forta4linger (Copenhagen, 1881) puts this matter much more clearly than can a mere general explanation. A Dangerous Wooing, it goes on to say, was origi- nally written in the Danish literary lan- guage, and afterward translated [sic] into Norwegian peasant dialect. It has, in the latter form, according to the judg- ment of the Norwegian reader, received a fresher color and tone, so that the author is no longer able to dissever them. But since the narrative has thus become less accessible to Danish readers, and since its aim is to give an idea, in simple out- lines, of the so-called Saturday wooing, which was originally, and in places is still, a poetic and innocent custom that gives an opportunity to develop both courage and invention, strength and dar- ing, among the youthful wooers of the valley, and holds within it the Norwe- gian peasants freshest remembrances of youth, the author has desired to offer the Danish reader a paraphrase. The real differences between the lit- erary language of Norway and literary Danish are differences in orthography, in vocabulary, and in idiom, but all to a degree scarcely a whit greater than are to be found, for instance, in the literary language of America when contrasted with the English of England. The first volume of Bj~Srnsons Forhnllinger, a book of three hundred and seventy pages, glosses, in the manner of notes at the bottom of the pages, four hundred words and phrases, or a little more than one for each page, and the stories con- tained in the book are without excep- tion tales of Norwegian life. Magnhild (Copenhagen, 1877), another Norwegian story by the same author, a book of one hundred and seventy-four pages, has but thirty words explained in the gloss at the end. The vocabulary, accordingly, cannot be widely different from that of literary Danish, since the whole purpose of the explanations is to make the text intelligible to the Danish reader. None of the works of Ibsen, so far as has been noticed, has been glossed in the manner described; but it is quite safe to assume that the number of these Norwegian- isms is no greater in his pages, and in all probability it is not often so great. What differentiates most of all the print- ed language of the Norwegian writers from the literary Danish of Denmark is the orthography. Bj~irnson and Ib- sen in this particular do not essentially 120 The Language of the Recent Norwegian Writers. [July, differ. Thsens native dialect is that of Skien, in the southwestern part of Nor- way. Bj6rnson, who has frequently ex- pressed himself on the subject in news- paper articles, brochures, and in his books, uses what may be termed in some respects a middle form between the dia- lects of the west and east. In his last novel, The Ways of God (Copenhagen, 1889), in a note to the reader at the end of the book, he calls attention to the complaints that the Danes, in particu- lar, have raised against his orthography. The linguistic conditions in Norway are such, he continues, that if we do not proceed in the direction of the cus- tomary pronunciation, the advocates of the provincial dialects have a just cause for criticism ; and if we neglect the claim to probability, that also may be made for linguistic forms if the peoples speech and habits of thought shall be correctly represented, then that quickly avenges itself in the diction. But the literary language with us has slipped too far away froni the colloquial language to permit me to venture to be strictly consistent. The variations, besides, are more than I myself have desired, for I am a bad proof-reader. They, however, who blame me for my good intention should bear in mind what my former publisher assured me, that I lost thou- sands because of my orthography, and that I likewise still cling to it. B$irnsons position, thus candidly stat- ed, is wholly a rational one; and the fact that he, the most national of all Norwegian writers, has advocated, by his own use of it, this particular form has given, more than anything else, a definite direction to the movement, and has all but established a national literary norm. Bjtwnson has thus consciously and with result played an important part in the struggle for a Landsmaal. That the whole matter has proceeded in quite a different manner from that suggested by the more revolutionary speech-re- formers is, after all, in complete accord with natural conditions; and it is an in- ference amply justified by facts of de- velopment, both here and elsewhere, that only by this gradual, but persistent, in- corporation of national elements into the blood and bone of a sturdy national lit- erature will it be possible for it to gain still greater signification and weight. Ibsen, in Peer Gynt, the Scandinavian Faust, where opportunity is found to scourge with unsparing hand almost every Norwegian foible, does not forget to turn his lash upon the Landsinaal. Since it shows accurately his own atti- tude toward this struggle on the part of the speech-reformers for a national lan- guage, the passage is, perhaps, worthy of quotation in its entirety, particularly as it has never before been rendered into English. Peer Gynt, late in~ his career, finds himself in a madhouse at Cairo. Begriffenfelt, its director, to strengthen in Peers mind the idea of the self-suffi- ciency of the individual, assures him that nearly all in the world at the outset is new, and, offering to show him an example, calls to an obscure figure Good-day, Huhu! How, goest thou, my lad, Thus always about with the impress of sad- ness? Huhu. Can I well do else, when the nation, Age by age, dies unexpounded? [To Peer Gynt.] Thou art strange here, wilt thou listen? Peer Gynt. [Bows.] God forfend! Huku. Thine ear then lend me. Far in East, like wreath on forehead, Lies a strand, the Malabarish. Portuguese and men of Holland All the land bespan with culture. In addition, dwell there numbers Of the real Malabar folk. These folk, now, have mixed their language; They are of the land the masters. But in times long since departed The orang~ang once ruled there, Was the forests man and master; Free he dared to beat and bind there; As the hand of nature made him, So he grinned and so lie gaped there; There to screech he was permitted; He was ruler in his kingdom. Ah! but then came strange oppression And confused the forest language. 1890.] The Language of the Recent Norwegian Writer8. Long nights, now, of years four hundred Over all the ape folk brooded And one knows that nights so endless Set their stamp upon the people. Silenced the old sound in forest; Growling there was heard no longer. If to paint our thoughts we re able, That must be with help of language. What constraint for all conditions! Portuguese and men of Holland, Malabar folk and mixed races, Ill have fared they, each and equal. I have eke essayed to combat For our forest speech, the true one; Tried new life to give the body; For the right to screech I ye striven; Screeched myself, and showed how needful In the peoples songs its use is. Little they esteem my efforts. Now, I think, thou lt grasp my sorrow. Thanks that thou thine ear hast lent me. if thou help hast, let me hear it! Peer Gynt. [Softly.] One should howl, so stands it written, With the wolves when in the forest. [Aloud.] Dearest friend, as I remember, Ift Morocco are there thickets Where orang-outangs assemble With no singer or expounder; There their speech was Malabarish, It was fair and exemplary. If, like other men of station, You have left to bless your fellows Huhu. Thanks that thou thine ear hast lent me. I will act as thou advisest. [With a profound gesture.] Thus the East re- jects its singer! The West orang-outangs has ever! Ibsen, as may unmistakably be read from this speech of Huhu, whom he calls, in his list of dramatis persoux, a speech-reformer from the Malabar coast, imputes but little value to the aims and efforts of the would - be re- formers, who, like Aasen and many of his successors, would ideally rehabilitate, with the use so far ~as may be of mod- ern elements, a previous linguistic condi- tion. Like Bjirnson, however, and in the same direction, he is still performing his part in gradually, but none the less surely, Norwegianizing the language of Norway by using a rational form that must perforce impress itself upon his countrymen, because of the strength and value of the message it conveys. Whether Norwegian as a language will ever exist in any other sense than the limited one that it bears at pre- sent will depend, not upon the speech- reformers alone, but particularly upon the conscious efforts of great writers in a succeeding generation in the direc- tion taken by Bjornson and Ibsen in this. In the mean time, the literary lan- guage of Norway is not Norwegian, but Danish, or, if one chooses, Norwegian- Danish. With the rise of Norwegian literature, Norwegian writers are con- stantly printed and read in Denmark, and Norwegian expressions, in surprising numbers, are as surely finding their way into the literary Danish of the Danes. It would be a singular working of fate if, in some remote future, with a by no means impossible literary preemi- nence in Norway, a true Norwegian lan- guage not only should develop itself by continual differentiation from the Da- nish, but, through the influence of the stronger upon the weaker, should even thoroughly Norwegianize that language itself. Such an adventitious result, how- [He goes. ever, naturally does not enter into the plan of even the most patriotic Norse- man, whose object is to have a national- ity and a language that lie may consis- tently call Norwegian. In both points he may not improbably attain his end. Of all means that can consciously be employed, if such a separation in lan- guage as this between Norwegian and Danish is desired and striven for, a na- tional literature, strong in its originality and its consequent self-assertion, may become the most effective and irresisti- ble propaganda for a characteristic na- tional speech. William H. Carpenter. 121 122 A Vesuvian Episode. [July, A VESUVIAN EPISODE. THERE hangs on a wall in my rec- tory one of the Naples pastels familiar to every traveler in Italy. It represents Vesuvius as it appeared under the ex- ceptional conditions of a snow that fell, and for some days robed at least the ridge of Somma and the cone, in De- cember, 1867. Shortly before this time, a young Eng- lishman, of refined and cultured family and character, visiting Florence greatly broken in health, brought me a letter of introduction from a near relative and my own friend, a clergyman of the Church. This young man, whom I will call Thorpe, exhausted by close and ex- cessive brain work, was suffering from a singular and morbid state of mind. He had long wished to visit Italy, and espe- cially to see Naples and Vesuvius, with a desire so passionately strong that he had come to fear lest it was in itself sinful, and lest to yield to it would be an almost unpardonable act of self-in- dulgence. His friends had persuaded him to take the rest from his duties and the mental relaxation which he so greatly needed; and they had even induced him to come to Italy, so far, at least, as Florence. But, having reached this city, he was arrested by the conviction that he had guiltily yielded to his longing, and that, instead of going on to Naples, he ought at once, if indeed it were not already too late, to return to London. The morbid peculiarity of his state of mind was this: that no sooner did he reach one decision, either to go on or to return, than all the reasons for the op- posite course came back on him in their full force; and he alternately either felt the folly of coming to Italy, and then repressing the intense longing which had brought him there, or, if he persuaded himself to stay and to go to Naples, he was at once haunted by the presenti- ment that such a course would be pun- ished by death. It was a strange experience which had given this presentiment such power over him. A friend of his boyhood, visiting Italy, had died in Leghorn, and had been buried in the little cemetery ad- joining the English Church. On reach- ing Italy, Thorpe stopped to spend Sun- day in Leghorn, and, before the time for service, he sought this cemetery and his friends grave. He found it, and on the headstone he read, after the name and date, this appropriate text: He brought down my strength in my journey, and shortened my days. At once and moy- bidly applying these words to himself as a warning, he sat there for some time, lost in thought, until he was aroused, by the sound of the church organ, to the fact that the service had commenced. With some reluctance he rose, and, af- ter a little delay, left the graveyard and entered the church. As he opened the door, he saw the congregation standing, and realized that the service had pro- ceeded as far as the Psalter. It was the twentieth day of the month. The first words which fell on his ear from the of- ficiating clergyman, as he himself stood in the doorway, were, He brought down my strength in my journey, and short- ened my days. Struck by these words as by a blow, he was only able to stagger to a seat, and was almost oblivious of all that followed, until, during the singing of a hymn, the minister entered the pulpit. The hynin sung, as Thorpe calmed him- self to listen, the preacher announced his text, the twenty - third verse of Psalm cii. : He brought down my strength in my journey, and shortened my days.

122 A Vesuvian Episode. [July, A VESUVIAN EPISODE. THERE hangs on a wall in my rec- tory one of the Naples pastels familiar to every traveler in Italy. It represents Vesuvius as it appeared under the ex- ceptional conditions of a snow that fell, and for some days robed at least the ridge of Somma and the cone, in De- cember, 1867. Shortly before this time, a young Eng- lishman, of refined and cultured family and character, visiting Florence greatly broken in health, brought me a letter of introduction from a near relative and my own friend, a clergyman of the Church. This young man, whom I will call Thorpe, exhausted by close and ex- cessive brain work, was suffering from a singular and morbid state of mind. He had long wished to visit Italy, and espe- cially to see Naples and Vesuvius, with a desire so passionately strong that he had come to fear lest it was in itself sinful, and lest to yield to it would be an almost unpardonable act of self-in- dulgence. His friends had persuaded him to take the rest from his duties and the mental relaxation which he so greatly needed; and they had even induced him to come to Italy, so far, at least, as Florence. But, having reached this city, he was arrested by the conviction that he had guiltily yielded to his longing, and that, instead of going on to Naples, he ought at once, if indeed it were not already too late, to return to London. The morbid peculiarity of his state of mind was this: that no sooner did he reach one decision, either to go on or to return, than all the reasons for the op- posite course came back on him in their full force; and he alternately either felt the folly of coming to Italy, and then repressing the intense longing which had brought him there, or, if he persuaded himself to stay and to go to Naples, he was at once haunted by the presenti- ment that such a course would be pun- ished by death. It was a strange experience which had given this presentiment such power over him. A friend of his boyhood, visiting Italy, had died in Leghorn, and had been buried in the little cemetery ad- joining the English Church. On reach- ing Italy, Thorpe stopped to spend Sun- day in Leghorn, and, before the time for service, he sought this cemetery and his friends grave. He found it, and on the headstone he read, after the name and date, this appropriate text: He brought down my strength in my journey, and shortened my days. At once and moy- bidly applying these words to himself as a warning, he sat there for some time, lost in thought, until he was aroused, by the sound of the church organ, to the fact that the service had commenced. With some reluctance he rose, and, af- ter a little delay, left the graveyard and entered the church. As he opened the door, he saw the congregation standing, and realized that the service had pro- ceeded as far as the Psalter. It was the twentieth day of the month. The first words which fell on his ear from the of- ficiating clergyman, as he himself stood in the doorway, were, He brought down my strength in my journey, and short- ened my days. Struck by these words as by a blow, he was only able to stagger to a seat, and was almost oblivious of all that followed, until, during the singing of a hymn, the minister entered the pulpit. The hynin sung, as Thorpe calmed him- self to listen, the preacher announced his text, the twenty - third verse of Psalm cii. : He brought down my strength in my journey, and shortened my days. 123 1890.] A Tfesuvian Episode. Thorpe sprang up, and rushed from the church. That this extraordinary concurrence was not imaginary was proven by the fact that I myself subsequently found the grave and this text upon the head- stone. The chaplain also told me that on the day when those words occurred in the Psalter he had preached from them, and that he remembered seeing a young man, on the same day, enter during the reading of the Psalter, and suddenly leave the church as soon as he had given out his text. In this state of mind and under these circumstances, Thorpe caine to Florence. For some weeks I did what I could to interest him, to occupy his mind, and to divert his thoughts from himself. Once, on the impulse of the moment, he did actually start for Naples. He went, however, no farther than Rome, where he was so overcome with the reaction that he returned immediately to Flor- ence, and had been there some days be- fore I learned of his return and found him. I now wrote to his relative, and urged that some member of his family should come to him. Meanwhile, find- ing that I had a great influence over him, possibly because of being a cler- gyman, I kept him as much as possi- ble with me. About the middle of December, his relative and my friend, Canon Thorpe, arrived in Florence, and some anxious consultations followed during the next two days. Thorpes strong desire to see Yesu- vius was now intensified by the reports of an eruption which gave promise to be of more than ordinary interest; but with this the conviction of the sinful- ness of such a self-indulgence also grew stronger, and the warning of the thrice- repeated text. The canon and I finally concurred in thinking that the best hope of breaking the spell lay in actually getting Thorpe to Naples, and, if we could do so, to Vesuvius; but we could not rid our- selves of some anxiety for the result of taking such a responsibility. We laid our plans for Monday, the 16th. The canon invited me to dine with them at the hotel. I went, taking my valise, and leaving it, unknown to Thorpe, with the porter. While I chat- ted with Thorpe before dinner, in the reading-room, the canon saw to it that their luggage was ready to be taken down to the porter during dinner. We talked of everything else for some time, and when dessert was brought on, sud- denly and for the first time we turned the conversation to Naples and the eruption. As we had anticipated, Thorpe was at once eager to go; and I said, Come; the omnibus is now at the door; let us all go this evening. Good! responded the canon, rising; and Thorpe adding, Capital! we all instantly rose, descended to the door, and got into the omnibus. The porter, having had his instructions, when he saw us get in, threw our luggage on the top. This was all done so rapidly that Thorpe had no time to reflect or to demur. But no sooner had the omni- bus started than he exclaimed, first in a query about my own sudden departure, and then, Our luggage! I gave some sufficing reply, and the canon that our luggage was with us, and Thorpe then, for a while, acquiesced; but before we reached the station the reaction came. He declared that he dared not commit a sin so presumptuous as this would be. Neither the canon nor I attempted to argue with him, but one of us simply said, Well, we have started; if we give up Naples, better go back at once to London. The train for Paris starts at about the same time. Yes, re- plied Thorpe sadly, it were better to do so. Very well, we answered, as we drove up and descended. While they walked up and down in the station till very nearly the last minute, I, trusting to a speedy counter-reaction, 124 A J4~suvian Episode. [July, ~vent for the tickets, and registered the luggage to Naples. As I rejoined them, Thorpe turned and appealed to me solemnly to say if it would really be wrong to go to Naples, as we had just planned. On my assurance that it would not, he responded, Let us go, then; and we got instantly into the south-bound train and were off. The matter was now out of his hands, and, seeming satisfied, he soon fell asleep. After that there was no opportunity to turn back. It was a through express, continuing all night to Rome, where alone we could re- verse our plan, and, our luggage be- ing registered and beyond our present control, go through we must. We reached Naples Tuesday evening, fatigued enough to predispose us all, above everything else, for a good nights rest. We took only a half hour during the evening to walk out on the Chiaia, to see Vesuvius lighted up by the glowing lava flowing down its side to- wards us, and by the lurid clouds of steam and smoke which hung overhead. The next day was rainy, and we were therefore constrained to spend it indoors. The canon aiid Thorpe went to the Mu- seo. In fact, during the afternoon, quite a storm broke upon us. The day following, it had cleared off, and, lo! wondrous to behold, the cone and shoulders of Vesuvius were covered with snow, and the volumes of smoke and steam rose high and curled up into the keen, frosty air. Thorpe was now somewhat reassured by the fact that he had come safely, not only to Italy, but to Naples; and, al- though he recurred two or three times to his warning and to the improbability that he should get away safely, none the less, with the influence of Vesuvius in its novel and weird beauty before his eyes, it was not so difficult to persuade him to concur in the plan to go that afternoon at least to Pompeii. From Pompeii, after a good dinner at the Hotel Diomede, with two guides and three horses, we set off, between three and four, to make the ascent. We rode on and up for two hours. It was now beautifully clear, and gave us a magnificent view out to sea and far up the valley southward towards Cava. The shoulders of the mountain were covered with fresh black ashes; the cone and the ridge of Somma, on our right as we advanced, with snow. The contrast was most striking, especially when the snow glowed and glistened in the rays of the now setting sun. We left our horses at last at a lit- tle pi~zioheria, and walked on to the right, into the valley between the cone and Somma. Here our progress was stopped by the fresh lava slowly oozing down from the fissures in the side of the cone. As it grew darker we went on more slowly. The snowy lining of Somma, opposite the lava, shone with white and rose tints, in the fiery light of the flames which flashed up intermittent- ly from the crater. The lava had first flowed westwardly, towards the Hermit- age and Naples; but, being now heaped up on that side, the stream had flowed more to the north, into the valley of Somma, and thence worked round in the direction of Pompeii. We were, therefore, going to meet it. When as near as was wise, we clambered to the top of a little ridge of partly cooled lava, and stopped to enjoy the scene. At first our position seemed some- what too dangerous for pleasure. We could feel the lava stream moving under us, for it was only five days old, and even the scoria on which we stood was hot through the soles of our shoes. At the same time, while some of these cur- rents of molten lava moved on before and past us, down into the valley below, there was one large flow which was slow- ly coming down time cone and lapping its way directly towards us. But the dis- tance was probably greater than it ap- peared, and the lava moved sluggishly, so that we were able to stand there until 1890.] A Vesuvian Episode. 125 it was quite dark. It was a glorious sight. Behind us, down in the valley and off towards the plains, southward, it was pitchy black. Above, the clear blue sky was studded with stars. To the right, as we stood, the ridge of Somma, and to the left the Pompeian side of the cone, were white or rosy with the snow. Before us were the fiery masses of molten lava working their way down the cone, whose summit was wrapped with alternately black and lu- rid smoke; and at times, when the wind swept this smoke away from us, we could look to the very apex, and see the white-hot lava gurgling over and out of the crater. All this while, dull, reverberating ex- plosions burst upon us every three or four minutes, and, when the smoke per- mitted, we could see red stones shot up into the air like distant rockets; falling back, for the most part, into the crater, but occasionally on one side, and rolling down towards us. It was intensely fascinating. Thorpe was quiet, utterly absorbed in the contemplation of the scene, whose som- bre magnificence excluded every other thought. When at length we spoke of the necessity of returning, he at first in- sisted that we should leave him, that he wished to stay there all night. But when the lava had come as near us as we could suffer with safety, he yielded; we called our guides, and turned to descend. As we did this, we entered and passed down through a snow-cloud, a snow- storm, in fact, of some twenty minutes, coming out again, below, into the clear starlight. At the little shop where we had left our horses we were detained so long that we were strongly suspicious that it was for some sinister purpose. It was piercingly cold. Our guides pretended not to understand our inquiries for our horses and our insistence upon proceed- ing. There were half a dozen fellows around us, very models of brigands; and, late at night as it was, we felt it necessary carefully to avoid a quarrel, firmly to demand our horses, and to keep so closely together, back to back, that none of them could get behind any one of us. This real or supposed danger was of the greatest advantage to Thorpe. It roused all his manliness; it siippressed every morbid tendency; it directed all his thoughts from himself to us and to the Italians. Finally, the game seemed to be played out, or whatever purpose they may have had was abandoned, for the horses came. We mounted at once and rode on. The storm-clouds, which had been snow above, now overt~iking, settled down upon us in the form of heavy rain, so that by the time we reached Torre dell Annunziata we were drenched. The ride from thence brought us back to Naples by two oclock in the morning; as a matter of course, tired out. When we arose, l