The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 51, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 1078 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABP2287-0051 /moa/cent/cent0051/

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The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 51, Note on Digital Production 0051 000
The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 51, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 51, Issue 1 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 1078 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABP2287-0051 /moa/cent/cent0051/

Restricted to authorized users at Cornell University and the University of Michigan. These materials may not be redistributed.

The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 51, Issue 1 Century illustrated monthly magazine Century monthly magazine Century magazine Scribner's monthly Forum Forum and century The Century Company New York Nov 1895 0051 001
The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 51, Issue 1, miscellaneous front pages i-2

T~ CENTU RY I LLU STRATED PXO NTH LY ]~XAGAZINE. Wcvem3e7 1595, T~ CENTURY C9, N EW-YORK. MACMILLAN AND C0 LONDON A~eJ$erieS 1ToLKXIX 14~I.LI Copyright, 1896, by THE OHNTURY Co. THE DE VINNE PRESS. INDEX TO THE CENTURY MAGAZINE VOL. LI. NEW SERIES: VOL. XXIX. PAGE AFRICA, THE STORY OF THE DEVELOPMENT OF Henry M. Stanley 500 ANESTHESIA, THE DISCOVERY OF, THE CLAIMS OF HORACE WELLS TO 955 ANTARCTIC. Borchgrevink and Antarctic Exploration A. W. Greely 431 The First Landing on the Antarctic Continent C. E. Borehgrevinlc 432 Portrait, and pictures by the author. ~ Junius Henri Browne 320 APHORISMS J. Spottiswoode Taylor 477 ARBIThATION, PERMANENT, THE POSSIBILITIES OF. See also s War)) Editorial 948 ARID AMERICA, WAYS AND MEANS IN William E. Smythe 742 Pictures by Harry Feno, Mary Hallock Foote, and Orson Lowell. ARID WEST, THE PLIGHT OF THE Elwood Mead 634 ~ ARKANSAS TRAVELER, THE.5 See ((Music.s James Bryce 150 ARMENIAN QUESTION, THE. See also s Eastern)) and ((Turkish 5 The Duke of Westminster 158 ART. See Titian,s s Yibert,s ((Mural Decorations,)) ((Tissot,5 sPuVis de Chavannes.s ARTISTS, AMERICAN, THE CENTURY SERIES OF Mother and Child. (George De Forest Brush) John C. Van Dyke 802, 954 ATLANTA ExPoSITIoN. See sSouth.s AUNT SELINA OF THE BOSTON s DAILY PHONOGRAPH s Elisabeth Pullen 956 Pictures by F. Boyd Smith. AUSTIN, SARAH. See sWomen, Notable.s AUTHORS CHOICE OF COMPANY, ON AN Woodrow Wilson 775 BONAPARTE. See sNapoleon.s BOYRSEN, HJALMAR HJORTH Editorial 313 BRETHREN? WHO ARE OUR William Dean Howells 932 BRICKS, COLONIAL, WERE THEY IMPORTED FROM ENGLAND ? Lyon C. Tyler 636 BRUSEWOOD BOY, THE Rudyard Kipling 265 BY THE WAY Dorothea Lummis 639 CALHOUN, JOHN C. See sLawyer.s iv INDEX. PAGE CALIFORNIANS, PLAIN WORDS TO Editorial 950 CAPTAIN ELIS BEST EAR Frank B. Stockton 227 Pictures by E. W. Keiuble. ~ CENTURYS, TEE,)) QUARTER OF A CENTURY Editorial 155 ~ CENTURYS, TEE,)) NEW TYPE Editorial 314 ~ CENTURYS, TEE,)) TYPE, TEE CENTURYS PRINTER ON Theodore L. De Vinne 794 CHILDRENS AID SOCIETY. See ((One Way Out.)) CHINESE, RESPONSIBILITY AMONG TEE Chauncey Marvin Cady 341 ~ CHRIST, LIFE OF.)) See sTissot.s CHURCHES AND CATHEDRALS OF FRANCE Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer The Churches of Pdrigueux and Angoul~me 918 Pictures by Joseph Penuell. COLLEGE LIFE, ENCOURAGING DEVELOPMENTS IN Editorial 470 COLLEGE WOMEN AND MATRIMONY, AGAIN Frances M. Abbott 796 CONSTANTINOPLE, A PERSONALLY CONDUCTED ARREST IN F. Hopkinson Smith 643 Pictures by the author. DEBATE, THE, THAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN Walker Kennedy 478 DEGENERATION. Drawn by E. W. Kemble 478 DEVOTION OF ENRIQUEZ, THE Bret Harte 37 Pictures by Gilhert Gaul. DIPLOMACY, THE PALMERSTON IDEAL IN Edward Mortimer Chapman 541 DRAMATIC PERFORMANCE, A MODEL Editorial 633 DUMAS, THE ELDER Emily Crawford 726 Portraits of the elder aud the youuger Dumas. DUSE, ELEONORA J. Ranken Towse 130 Portrait, drawu by Eric Pape, after photograph. EASTERN QUESTION AND QUESTIONS, THE. See also s Armenian)) and Turkish s Edwin Munsell Bliss 473 ENTER THE EARL OF TYNE Chester Bailey Fernald 780 EQUALITY AS THE BASIS OF GOOD SOCIETY William Dean Howells 63 FATAL DEFECT, THE. Drawn by Howard Chandler Christy 640 FINANCE. Congress and the Currency System Editorial 312 Plenty of Gold in the World Editorial 792 FLASHES Richard Lew Dawson 799 FLIEDNER, THEODORE. See s Kaiserswerth.s FOREIGN TRADE, OUR Fenton T. Newbery 786 FORESTRY. See ((Californians)) GIRL IN YELLOW, THE Nannie A. Cox 798 GLAMOUR Edith M: Thomas 308 How THE s KID)) WON HIS MEDAL Thomas H. Wilson 547 HUMPERDINCK. See s Music.s See also page 428. INDIAN LIFE, PERSONAL STUDIES OF Alice C. Fletcher Tribal Life Among the Omahas 450 Pictures by Harry Feun aud August Will. INTERNATIONAL EXHIBITION OF 1900, THE Theodore Stanton 314 IRRIGATION. See ((Arid.)) IRVING, SIR HENRY. See s Dramatic.s JAPANESE WAR POSTERS D. P. B. Conkling 936 Four reproductions KAISERSWERTH AND ITS FOUNDER Eleonora Kinnicutt 84 Portrait and pictures by Werner Zebnie. KEATSS (TOM), DEATH 319 KING ARTHUR. See s Dramatic.s KOVALEYSKY. See sWomen, Notable.s ~LADY OR TEB TIGER? THE sA New Solution Virginia Woodward Cloud .. ~638 LAWYER, A YOUNG, ADVICE TO Elizabeth Elliot 475 Webster, Calhot~n, and William Wirt on Courses of Legal Study. INDEX. v PAGE LINCOLNS CLEMENCY, APPEALS TO Leslie J. Perry 251 LINCOLN CONSPIRACIES, FOUR Victor Louis Mason 889 Pictures, facsimiles, and portraits. LINCOLN, AT TEE DEATH-BED OF Edwin C. Haynie 954 LITTLE BELL OF HONOR, TEE Gilbert Parker 881 LONDON SLUMS, STAMPING OUT TEE Edward Marshall 700 Diagrams and a picture. LONGFELLOWS MARRIAGE Note 319 LOWELL, JAMES RUSSELL, TERRE LETTERS BY. With an Introduction by.. . . Mary A. Clarke 545 MARYLAND, OLD, CERTAIN WORTEIES AND DAMES OF John Williamson Palmer.... 483 Portraits and pictures by Sir Joshua Reynolds, Harry Penn, Charles Wilson Peale, Sir Peter Lely, Rembrandt Peale, Sully, and others. See also page 636. MATRIMONY. See s College Women.s MIDSUMMER NIGET, A Benjamin Kidd 222 MURAL DECORATION IN AMERICA. I Royal Cortissoz 110 Pictures from decorations by John La Farge, John S. Sargent, Edwin A. Abbey, Edward Simmons, and Thomas W. Dewing. MUSIC. Humperdincks sHiinsel und Gretel s Bernhard Slavenhagen 257 Music and portrait. On the TraCk of s The Arkansas Traveler s H. C. Mercer 707 Music and pictures. MUSIC, HEAVENLY MAID)) T. T. Munger 282 MUTINY ON TEE ((JINNY AIKEN,S TEE H. Phelps Whitmarsh 912 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE (Begun in November, 1894) William M. Sloane. Napoleon I., Emperor of the French 3 Decla~ation of the Empire ((The Descent into England (I The Coronation of Napoleon I. The Emperor of the French Crowned King of Italy The Expan. sion of France and the Third Coalition Napoleons Grand Army and Grand Strategy. Napoleon the War Lord 193 Trafalgar Austerlitz The New Map of Europe The Business of Emperor. Napoleon the Dictator of Continental Europe 364 War with Prussia Jena and Auerstiidt The Devastation of Prussia War with Russia: Pultuek Check to the Grand Army Eylau. Napoleon the Western Emperor 510 An Indecisive Victory: Friedland Napoleon and Alexander at Tilsit The Negotiations and Treaty of Tilsit Napoleon and Queen Louisa of Prussia The Path of Napoleonic Empire The Splendors of Paris and the Unification of France. Napoleon the Fountain of Honor and Power 669 This New Feudalism Life at Napoleons Court The Warfare of Land and Ocean -Napoleons Visions of World Empire Check to Russia and Occupation of Portugal Humiliation of the Spanish Crown. Napoleon the Assailant of Nationality 848 Dethronement of the Spanish Bourbons Uprisingand Successes of the Spanish People The Regeneration of Germany through Prussia Napoleon and Alex. ander at Erfurt The Failure of the Spanish Campaign. Portraits and pictures by Boutigny, Eric Pape, Gros, David, Myrbacli, G6rard, Le F~vre, G~iricault, Lejeune, L. F. Abbott, Stanfield, Henri Scheffer, H. A. Ogden, Chartier, L. Sergent, Ralfet, F. Cormon, Meissonier, Detaille, Grolleron, Gosse, Royer, Grivaz, Regnault, Orange, Rossi, Prudhon, Hihlemacher,Ponce-Camus, Girardet,De Laval. Maps by John Hart. NELSON AT CAPE ST. VINCENT Alfred T. Mahan 604 Portraits and diagrams. NEW LADY, TEE Rebecca L. Leeke 476 OLYMPIC GAMES, TEE OLD Allan Marquand 803 Pictures by A. Castaigne. OLYMPIC GAMES, TEE NEW Editorial 951 ON ACCOUNT OF EMMANUEL Bride Neill Taylor 51 Pictures by Albert E. Sterner. vi INDEX. PAGE 7. ONE WAY OUT Jacob A. Bus 303 Pictures by Orson Lowell, from photographs by the author. OUTLINE, AN Berry Benson 319 PALMERSTON IDEAL IN DIPLOMACY, TEE Edward Mortimer Chapman 541 PARIS EXPOSITION. See s International.s PASSION PLAY AT VORDER-TEIERSEE Annie S. Peck 163 Pictures by Louis Loeb. PERDITAS CANDLE Martha Young 586 POLITICS AND POLITICAL REFORM. The Issues of 1896 Theodore Roosevelt 68 William E. Russell 73 A Good Year to Fight the Bosses Editorial 157 Fruits of Civic Spirit Editorial 312 New Corrupt-Practice Laws Editorial 471 How to he a Congressman after Election Editorial 630 The Effect of Large Ideas on Small Minds Editorial 634 The Anachronism of War Editorial 790 A New Force in Politics Editorial 791 The Possibilities of Permanent Arbitration Editorial 948 Patriotism that Costs Editorial 949 POPE LEO XIII. AND MIS HOUSEHOLD. See also U Rome s F. Marion Crawford 590 Portraits and pictures from photographs taken in the Vatican for this article. PUBLICITY, TEE CRAZE FOR Editorial 631 PUVIS DE CEAVANNES Kenyon Cox 558 Portrait, and pictures by Puvis de Chavannes. RANDOLPH, JOHN, OF ROANOKE. With Unpublished Letters Powhatan Bouldin 642, 712 Frontispiece portrait facing page 643. REONE, A FEAST-DAY ON TEE Thomas A. Janvier 409 Pictures by Louis Loeb. ROME, A KALEIDOSCOPE OF. See also ((Pope U F. Marion Crawford 323 Pictures by A. Castaigne. SIR GEORGE TRESSADY Mrs. Humphry Ward 136 With portrait on page 136. 177, 397, 570, 658, 817 SLENDER ROMANCE, A Ruth McEnery Stuart 462 Pictures by W. McNair, Jr. SLUMS. See U London.s SMALL TALK, TEE PERILS OF Allan McLane Hamilton 739 SOUTH, TEE NEW, TEE JUBILEE OF Editorial 470 STEVENSON, ROBERT LOUIS, AND MIS WRITING Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer 123 Portrait in bas-relief, modeled by Augustus St. Gaudens. STRAY THOUGHTS Harry Irving Horton 800 TALK. See ((Small 5 TEACHING ENGLISH, Two WAYS OF Editorial 793 TESTS, A FEW MORE Rose M. Ohaus 480 THEATER, TEE SILENT PROTEST AGAINST TEE Editorial 156 TISSOTS ~ LIFE or CHRIST s Edith Coues 162, 289 Twelve illustrations, including frontispiece, facing page 163, after paintings by James Tissot. TITIANS U FLORA s John C. Van Dylce 264, 318 Picture engraved by W. B. Closson. TITIANS SO-CALLED s SACRED AND PROFANE LOVE Timothy Cole 2, 158 Picture engraved by the author. TOM GROGAN F. Hopicinson Smith 238 Pictures by Charles ~. Reinhart. 346, 616, 760 TRAGEDY OF THE COMEDY, THE Chester Bailey Fernald 98 Pictures by Howard Chandler Christy. TRAMPS, BOY, AND REFORM SCHOOLS C. A. Garard 955 TRUMPETER OF THE TRoop, THE. See also page 547 Thomas H. Wilson 428 INDEX. vii PAGE TURKISH OPPRESSION, DANIEL WEBSTER ON. See also ((Armenian s and Eastern)) Editorial 472 VIBERT, JEAN-GEORGES, ARTICLES BY Jean-Georges Vibert Autobiography 78 The Missionarys Story 82 The Grasshopper and the Ant 260 Patience 362 The Convent under Arms 551 The Wonderful Sauce 554 The Night School 554 The Schism 719 The Reprimand 720 The Roll-Call after the Pillage 722 The Delights of Art 940 Coquelin as sMascarille s 941 The Sick Doctor 944 Portrait, and pictures by the author. WAR, THE ANACHRONISM OF Editorial 790 WEBSTER, DANIEL, ON TURKISH OPPRESSION Editorial 472 WEBSTER, DANIEL. See sLawyer.s WINTER HOUSE-PARTY, A Mrs. Burton Harrison 734 WIRT, WILLIAM. See Lawyer.s WOMEN, NOTABLE. Apropos of Sonya Kovalevsky Fabian Franklin 317 Sarah AustinA Modern Theodora Sylvia R. Hershey 952 YACHTING, TIlE ETHICS OF Editorial 632 YOSEMITE. See sCalifornians.s POETRY. ARBORICIDE Louise Imogen Guiney 816 BALLAD OF THE ((LAUGHING SALLY,)) THE C?earles G. D. Roberts 847 BALLADE os Pooa BOOK-WORMS Alice Williams Brotherton 320 BALLADE OF SLIPS John Albert Macy 639 CAUGHT Ansel Brewster Cook 319 CHRISTMAS QUESTION, A Clinton Scollard 320 CRITIC AND POET Ida Whipple Benham 477 DARKENED COUN~EL, THE John Vance Cheney 550 DESOLATE Minnie Leona Upton 668 FIERCEST BEAST OF PREY, THE Reginald Gourlay 109 FISHER-MAIDENS SONG, THE Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen 569 FLIGHT, THE L. Frank Tooker 629 FORBIDDEN G. W. B 477 GENIUS George Edgar Montgomery 589 GRAHAM TARTAN TO A GRAHAM, THF Louise Imogen Guiney 540 ((HRAR, 0 ISRAEL 5 Harriet Prescott Spofford 281 HER DIMPLES Madeline S. Bridges 800 HIS DANCIN DAYS James Whitcomb Riley 159 Picture by B. W. Kemble. IN AN ANCIENT COPY OF HERRICKS UHESPERIDES s Robert Gilbert Welch 477 IN DAYS GONE BY Lilla Cabot Perry 319 INTERPRETER Frank Dempster Sherman 427 JACKSON, A. V. WILLIAMS, To George E. Woodberry 449 KENNST DU ? Edmund Clarence & edman 656 MAID MARIANS SONG Ednah Proctor Clarke 134 Pictures by Howard Pyle. viii INDEX. PAGE MOTHERS, THE LITTLE Richard Burton 499 Music IN SOLITUDE Richard Watson Gilder 122 NAME, A Catharine Young Glen 509 NEWS James Herbert Morse 469 ON RETURNING TO ULLSWATER Aubrey de Vere 589 ONE DESIRE, THE Frank Dempster Sherman 939 POOR POETS LULLABY, THE John H. Finley 800 QUEEN OF HEARTS, THE W. C. Richardson 160 RAINY TWILIGHT L. Frank Tooker 917 REVIVAL OF ROMANCE Edith M. Thomas 589 RULES FOR PRAYER Charles Love Benjamin 800 SHAKSPERE Henry Jerome Stockard 226 SHUCKING SONG John William Mitchell 800 SPRING COLLOQUY, A Charles G. D. Roberts 640 TO-DAY FOR ME, TO-MORROW DEATH FOR YOU Horace Spencer Fiske 880 TRAMP, THE .... Philip Morse 320 VANDERDECKEN Benjamin S. Parker 758 Picture by Henry B. Snell. WHAT S IN A NAME? Helen F. More 639 WOODLAND DREAM, A Sarah D. Hobart 262 Picture by Siddons Mowbray. WOUND, A Mary Ainge DeVere 947 SEE OPEN LETTERS. SVEO BY T COLE~ FROM THE PAlS ~ ROME FIGURE FROM TITIANS SACRED ANT) PROFANE LOVE.

William M. Sloane Sloane, William M. Napoleon I., Emperor of the French 3-37

THE CENTURY MAGAZINE VOL. LI. NO~MBE~ 1895. No. 1. LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. BY WILLIAM IL SLOANE. NAPOLEON L, EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH. DECLARATION OF THE EMPIREU THE DIECENT INTO ENGLAND 3THE CORONATION OF NAPOLEON LTHE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH CROWNED KING OF ITALY THE EXPANSION OF FRANCE AND THE THIRD COALITIONNAPO- LEONS GRAND ARMY AND GRAND STRATEGY.. DECLARATION OP THE EMPIRE. :tep, laboriously and painfully, consummate genius as soldier apd politician, Napoleon Bonaparte had now climbed to the pinnacle of revolutionary power. Turbulent in his childhood and nurtured in rebellion on catchwords of liberty, his school years were embittered by privation, and by the taunts of stripling aristocrats who refused recogni- tion to his own vaunted but dubious nobil- 4 His mind turned in disgust from the husks of scholasticism presented as learning by his incapable teachers, and his imagina- tion roamed at will among both the ideals of classical antiquity and the theories of the eighteenth century, Plutarch being his solace and Rousseau his guide. Out of such mate- rials he constructed a concept of living all his own, at once practical, yet visionary, ruled by natural affection, yet dictatorial, bounded by a large horizon, yet limited by imperfect knowledge. Insubordinate as a subaltern under a worn- out system, he found for his soaring ambition no fitting sphere in the country of his birth, the only fatherland he ever knew; and in that limited field he was both ineffectual as aa agitator and unsuccessful as a revolution- ary. But with keen insight he studied and apprehended the greater movement as it de- veloped in France. Standing ever at the part- ing of the ways, and indifferent to principle, he carefully considered each path, and finally chose the one which seemed easiest for his footsteps, and likeliest to guide them to- ward the of his ambition. Fertile in resources, he strove always to construct a double plan, and in the failure of one ape- dient passed easily to another. His career was marked by many blunders, and he was often bronght to a stand on the verge of some abyss which threatened failure and ruin: yet, like the driver of a midnight train, he kept the headlight of caution trimmed and burn- ing. Careless of the dangers abounding be- hind the walls of revolutionary darkness which hedged his track, he ever paused be- fore those immediately confronting him, and Copyright, 1895, by THu Cuwrnv Co. All rights reserved. 3 4 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. sometimes retreated far to find a devious but hazardless circuit. Brumaire was almost the only occasion of his larger life on which, unwary, he had come in full career upon an opening chasm. Fate being propitious, he was saved. Lucien, with presence of mind, opened the throttle, and, by releasing the pent-up enthusiasm of the soldiers at the critical instant, safely drove the machine across a toppling bridge. Sobered for the moment by contemplating a past danger which had threatened annihi- lation, and by the crowding responsibilities of the future, the better side of the First Consuls nature was for a time dominant. So far as consistent with his aspirations for personal power and glory, he put into practical operation many of the most im- portant revolutionary ideals, failing only in that which sought to substitute a national for a Roman church. But in this process he took full advantage of the state of French society to make himself indispensable to the continuance of French life on its new path. Incapable of the noble self-abnegation which characterized the close of Washing- tons career, by the parade of civil liberty and a restored social order he so minimized the popular, representative, constitutional side of his reconstructed government as to erect it into a virtual tyranny on its political side. The temptation to make the fact and the name fit each other was over- powering, for the self-styled commonwealth, with a chief magistrate claiming to hold his office as a public trust, was quite ready to be launched as a liberal empire under a ruler who in reality held the highest power as a possession. The murder of the Duc dEnghien was vir- tually a notification of this fact to all the dynasties of Europe as well as to the French nation. The behavior of both was conclusive evidence that they understood it as such. Death was the fate destined not merely for the intestine and personal enemies of the First Citizen, but for the foreign foe, prince or peasant, who should conspire against him whom the French delighted to honor. It is entirely possible that Bonaparte believed him- self, and a dynasty proceeding from his loins, to be the best, if not the only, conservators of the new France; that he conceived of a purely French empire which should be the depositary for that land of all that had been gained by the Revolution; and that he believed he could overcome the inertia of the tremen- dous speed with which he had entered upon his career of single rule. But it is not probable; for no one knew the French better than he did, appreciating as he did most fully their zeal, their enthusiasm, their devotion, their pride, and especially their passion for leader- ship among nations. It was because the Bour- bons had failed to represent these qualities that they despised the Bourbons; it was be- cause they saw their incarnation in Bona- parte that they had assisted him to climb, and were fairly indifferent to his dealings with the Duc dEnghien. He must have known very well that, having mounted so high, he must mount still higher. He also understood the dynastic exclusive- ness of Europe. In a sense the houses of Hanover, of Hohenzollern, and of Savoy were parvenus in the councils of royalty; yet they were ancient princely stocks, and their ac- cession to supreme power had not shocked ancient prejudice; the dubious and blood- stained title of the Czar did not diminish his influence, for his succession was not more irregular than that of many of his predeces- sors on the semi-oriental Russian throne. But to substitute for the Bourbons, the old- est divine-right dynasty of Europe, and in the enlightened West, a citizen king of low descent, who based his claims on popular suf- frage, and successfully to assert the place of a plebeian among the Olympians, was to brave the infieshed prejudice of all conservative Europe, and to hurl defiance at the old sys- tem, than which to millions of minds none other was conceivable. To reach the goal fighting was not a voluntary choice, but an absolute necessity; for the French must be left in no doubt but that their popular sover- eign was quite as able to assert his peerage among kingsas any one of royal lineage and ecclesiastical unction would be. These were the conditions under which the bark of liberal empire was to set sail. It does not seem possible that any pilot could have saved her amid such typhoons as she must encounter. Bonaparte was more likely to suc- ceed than any other, and for y~ears his craft was taut and saucy; but she had no friendly harbors in which to refit, she rode out one storm only to enter another more violent, and at last even the supernal powers of the great captain failed him. Even at the outset the omens were not as propitious as they ap- peared to be, since the defiance contained in Enghiens murder was better understood abroad than at home. For the moment the mistake appeared of little importance. The French public began almost immediately to discuss whether the consular power should not be made hereditary, and within a week H H H 0 z 0 H z H 0 z 0 H 0 0 z H 0 0 z H 6 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. after its occurrence relegated the affair of the dukes death to apparent oblivion. For this there were numerous reasons. The discontent in the army virtually disappeared with Moreaus disgrace, and thereafter both generals and men were entirely docile. The Bourbons at once returned to their conspir- acies, but so ineffectively that neither the cabinets of Europe nor the French people felt any active interest. Royalism in France was thus temporarily crushed. The France of 1803 was the new France. Her church had been reconstructed; her army was de- voted to Bonaparte as the man of the nation; her revolution had been partly pruned and partly warped into the forms of a personal government, her laws revised and codified, her old orders of chivalry replaced by a new one, her financial administration purified and strengthened, her educational system ren- ovated, her social and family life given new direction by the stringent regulation of test- amentary disposition, her government cen- tralized, in short, the whole structure from foundation to turret had been repaired, re- stored, str~ngthened, and given its modern form. The people, composed of successive alluvia of immigrants and conquerors since the days of Julius Cmsar, had been thoroughly unified by the spirit of the French Revolution. They wanted the gains of the Revolution secured by the hereditary power of a house which represented the principles of that event. It is absurd to point out the few smoldering fires of discontent as if they were the char- acteristic feature of the time. Far from it. The nation, leveled and unified, was proud of its institutions, eager to enjoy them, and anxious that nothing should occur to disturb its peaceful occupancy of the new house it had built. All but a few sincerely be- lieved that the patriotism which now passion- ately adored the new France was in large measure only another name and form for de- votion to the man who presided at ita birth and claimed to be its progenitor. For some time past the phrase ((French empire)) had been used by orators and writers to desig- nate the majesty and beauty of its institu- tions. As early as May, 1802, the Austrian ambassador heard the First Consul spoken of as ((Emperor of the Gauls,~ and in March, 1803, an English gentleman in Paris recorded the same expression in his journal. There was, therefore, neither shock nor sur- prise anywhere in the nation when on March 27, 1804, the senate presented to the First Consul an address proposing in the name of the people that he should take measures ((to keep for the sons what he had made for the fathers.)) This was the moment of Bonapartes greatest unpopularitynot a week after the execution of the Duc dEnghien; While yet the blundering and irregular trial of Moreau was incomplete, and a few true friends were representing their hero as the victim of Bonapartes hate; before Georges had been condemned, and while Pichegru was yet alive. Every one expected the event, most desired it, partly for the reason given by the senate, partly for the dramatic effect, partly because they wanted neither the Bourbons nor the Terror again. The senate was now known as the satellite of the First Consul: in spite of changes the tribunate still retained its pop- ular character and the national respect. It was desirable that the formal initiative should come from the latter. During the three weeks or more which elapsed betweea the address of the senate and the end of April, Bonaparte had made certain that neither Austria nor Prussia would oppose, and that army and people were willing. On the 25th, therefore, he seized once more the shield of the Revo- lution, and told the senate that he had heard with interest their plan ((to insure the tri- umph of equality and public liberty,)) and would be glad to knoxv their thoughts with- out reserve. ~I should like on July 14 of this year to say to the French people: (Fif- teen years ago by a spontaneous movement you ran to arms, you secured liberty, equal- ity, glory. To-day these chiefest treasures of the nation, assured beyond a doubt, are sheltered from every storm; they are pre- served for you and your children.))) On April 30, 1804, a member of the tribu- nate who had been richly bribed brought in a complete project. In the interval a commit- tee had inquired of the future incumbent of the new hereditary office what title he would like to haveconsul, stadholder, or emperor. His prudent choice fell on the last. The word has acquired a new significance in our age; but then it still had the old Roman meaning. It propitiated the professional pride which had taken the place of republicanism in the army, and while plainly abolishing de- mocracy, it also bade defiance to royalism. Accordingly, the tribunes voted that Napo- leon Bonaparte be intrusted with the govern- ment of France as emperor, and that the imperial power be declared hereditary. There was only one man who dared to interpose his negative voteNapoleons earliest protector, the grim and veteran republican Carnot. In a calm and moderate speech he admitted that there was a temporary dictator, and that the republican constitutions of the country had ucen unstable, but he thought that with peace would come wisdom and permanency, as in the United 8tates. Bonaparte was a man of virtue and talent, to be sure, but what about his de- scendants? Commodus was the son of Marcus Aurelius. Whatever might be the splendor of a mans services, there were bounds to public gratitude, and these bounds had been reached; to overstep them would destroy the liberty which the First Consul had helped to restore. But if the nation desired what he conscientiously opposed, he would retire to private life, and unqualifiedly obey its will. The legislative body was quickly summoned to a special meeting, and, according to the constitution, made the resolutions law by its approval. As soon as decency would per- mit, a new constitution was laid before the council of state, discussed under Bonapartes direction, and sent down to the senate for consideration. On May 18 the paper was adopted in that body with four dissenting 7 DRAWN BY ERIC PAPE. RID RE PRINT IN TRE CARNARALET MUREAN. FRAN~OIS DE NE1JFCH~TEA1J, WHO DREW 1W THE ADDRESS PRESENTED BY THE DEPUTATION FROM THE SEN ~TE. ENGRAVED DY N DAVIDSON. FROM TilE PAINTING DV ANTOINE-LOUID AROV, IN THE DOLLELI I ON VP IDE IVIRGE III WASOONi. LOUIS-~ LEXANDI~F I3ERTHIER, PRINCE OF NEUFCHATEL AND OF WAGRAM. LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 9 voices, including that of the Abb6 Siey~s, who hated all charters not of his own mak- ing. On the same day the decree of the sen- ate constituting the empire was carried to the First Consul at St. Cloud, where it was duly approved by him, and was formally pro- mulgated. It was found that the difficulty concerning heredity, where there were no children to inherit, had been evaded by giving to Napoleon, but to none of his successors, the right of adoption; and in the event that there should be neither a natural nor an adoptive heir, by settling the succession first in the family of Joseph, then in that of Lu- cien, both of whom were declared to be im- perial princes. As there was to be no more fear of military upheavals and popular ter- rorism within the nation, all chance was thus removed for the return of a dynasty likely to disturb the existing conditions of property. The changes in the constitution were radi- cal, and many of them were not made public except as they were put into operation. The tribunate was untouched; but the legislature was divided into three sections, juristic, ad- ministrative~ and financial. Its members re- gained a partial liberty of speech, and might again discuss, but only with closed doors, the measures laid before them. The senate be- came a house of lords. Six great dignitaries, sixteen military grandees called marshals, and a number of the highest administrative officials were added to its numbers. Refer- ring to the imperial state of the great Ger- man whom the French style Charlemagne, the imperial officers of Napoleon were desig- nated, some by titles from Karling histofy such as the ((Great Elector,)) the ~Arch- chancellor of the Empire,)) the ~Arch-chan- cellor of State,)) the ((Arch-treasurer,)) others by ancient French designations such as the ((Constable)) and the ((High Admiral.)) These, with the imperial princes, were to be addressed as ((Monseigneur,)) or ((Your Highness,)) either ((imperial)) or ((most serene,)) as the case might be. The Emperor himself was to be addressed as ((Your Majesty)) or ((Sire.)) His civil list was 25,000,000 francs; the income of each ((arch)) dignitary was a third of a million. Cambac6r~s was made Chancellor; Lebrun, Treasurer; Joseph Bonaparte was ap- pointed Elector, and Louis, Constable; Fouch~ was reappointed Minister of Police; Talley- rand remained Minister of Foreign Affairs. The heraldic device chosen for the seal of the Napoleonic dynasty was the favorite symbol of the Holy Roman Empire, an eagle ~~an vol)) that is, on the wing. There was nothing original in the idea and VOL. LJ.2. constitution of all this tawdry state except the institution of the marshals, which was altogether so. In prosperity this military hierarchy gave strength to the empire, but in adversity it proved a serious element of weakness. The list was shrewdly chosen to assure the good will of the army. Jourdan, who as consular minister had successfully pacified Piedmont, was named as having been the victor of Fleurus (1794); his republi- canism was thus both recalled and finally quenched. Berthier was rewarded for his skill as chief of staff; Mass~na for his daring at Rivoli, his victory at Zurich, his endurance at Genoa. Augereau, another converted demo- crat, was remembered for Castiglione; Brune was appointed for his campaign in Holland against the Duke of York; Davout for his Egyptian laurels; Lannes and Ney for their bravery in many actions; Murat as the great cavalry commander; Bessi~res as chief of the guards; Bernadotte, Soult, Moncey, and Mor- tier for reasons of policy and for their gen- eral reputation. The ((lion couchant)) had been suggested as the heraldic device of the new empire, but Napoleon scorned it. In all his preparations he carefully distinguished between the ((State,)) which was of course France with its natural boundaries, and the ((Empire,)) which was evi- dently something more; the resting lion might typify the former, the soaring eagle was clearly a device for the other, which, like the realm of Charles the Great, was to know no ((natural)) obstacles in its extension. The most immediate and visible sign of the new order of things was the changed life at the Tuileries. The palace was thronged no longer with powerful but maladroit persons who did not know how to advance, bow, and recede, and who could not wear their elegant clothes with dignity; nor with others who, more refined in their training, laughed in their sleeves at the imperfect manners of the former. A thorough court was organized with careful supervision and rigid etiquette. Soon everybody could behave with sufficient grace and dignity. Fesch was the Grand Almoner; Duroc was Grand Marshal of the Palace; Talleyrand, Grand Chamberlain; Ber~ thier, Master of the Hounds; and C~zulain- court, Master of the Horse. Already many of the returned emigrants had pocketed their pride and their prejudices to accept office under the consulate; these and others equally pliable now thronged the court to fill the minor places of imperial dignity. The per- fection of ceremonial was assured by the appointment, as the arbitrator of etiquett~ 10 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. of S~gur, once minister of Louis XVI. in Russia. Everybody who hoped to shine was expected to study the rules and be present at numerous rehearsals. Mine. Campan, formerly a lady in waiting to Marie Antoi- nette, was summoned to lend her assistance, and, in order to comply, she abandoned her recently organized finishing-school for young ladies. There were scores of the old aris- tocracy, as well as of the new, anxious to profit by her instruction. Finally the now traditional formality of seeking the popular approval was not forgot- ten. To be sure, the question put was merely whether the imperial succession should re- main in the Emperors family. The reply was a thunderous yes; there being, out of three and a half million votes all told, only two and a half thousand in the negative. It was a sign of the times that among the latter were those of all but three of the Paris lawyers. The Paris populace, indeed, was undemon- strative, but it was rather because the idea had ceased to be novel. In a portion of the army, also, there was coolness, but not ex- actly from conviction. Paul Louis Courier, who was then an artillery officer in the army at Naples, graphically described the re- ception of the news by his regiment: ((The colonel summoned the officers, and with no remarks or preamble asked them to vote on the question: emperor or republicwhich? For a quarter of an hour all were silent. At last a young lieutenant blurted out, (If he wants to be emperor, all rightbut for my part I dont like it. (Explain your meaning,) said the colonel. (I dont wish to.) (Very good.) Silence again, and the officers stare about as if they had never seen one another before. We should be sitting there yet if I had not taken the floor. (Gentlemen, it seems to me, but I speak under correction, that this is no business of ours. The nation wants an emperor; are we to discuss their conduct?) This argument was so to the point that the company rose, signified their assent, and adjourned below to play billiards! (Upon my word,) said an officer, ~you talk like Cicero; but why do you want him to be emperor?) (To get through and play our game; did you want to stay there all day dont you want him?) (I dont know,) was the reply, (but I thought he was made for something better.) The reply was not stupid. A man like him, Bonaparte, general, the greatest captain in the worldthat is the man they are going to call (Majesty.) To be Bonaparte and to turn himself into (Sire,) he wants to sink in the scale. But no, he thinks he is rising by putting himself on a plane with kings. He loves a title better than a name. Poor man, his ideas are far below his fortune.)) Such are the comments of the brilliant Hellenistic scholar to whom we owe the discovery of the fine Greek fragment, ((Daphnis and Chloe.)) Another illustration of how votes were manipulated in that day is given in a letter of Fabrier, later an ex- cellent general of the First Empire, written from Metz, where he was a student in the military school. The authorities proposed that the cadets should sign a document invit- ing the First Consul to declare himself em- peror. The majority refused, but in referring to the paper signed by the minority the com- mandant used the word ((unanimously.)) A committee was appointed to protest, but on the technical charge of approaching the gen- eral without the mediation of their colonel, they were imprisoned. To secure their com- rades release the other recalcitrants gave in and signed. ((THE DESCENT INTO ENGLAND.)) WHEN Pepin the Short asked Pope Zacha- rias in 752 whether the name or the fact made the legitimate king, the reply was, ((He is king who has the power)); and in token of this doctrine it was the papal sanction which sealed the legitimacy of the Karlings in Boni- faces crowning Pepin as king. Half a cen- tury later Pope Leo III., acting by an arrogated but admitted authority, likewise established their imperial dignity by setting the imperial crown on the head of Charles the Great. This event occurred on Christmas day of the mem- orable year 800. Early in May of the year 1804, a millennium later, word came that the occupant of St. Peters chair must once more empty the little vial on the head of another Western emperor, and this time not of his own volition, nor in eternal Rome, but by the Emperors demand, and in Paris, inheritor of classic glory and renown. The feeble Pontiff was made wretched indeed by the summons. He had wept for the death of Enghien; could he sanction the substitution of this master- ful newcomer for the ancient and faithful Bourbons? But the Concordat was recent, and doubtless other much-longed-for advan- tages might be secured by compliance; the legations once his, but now forming the fair- est provinces of the Italian republic, were still outside the pale of his temporal power; more- over, no adequate compensation had ever been received for Avignon and Carpentras, lost - to him since the peace of Tolentino in 1797. LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 11 At last a consenting answer was given: the Pontiff would come for the welfare of religion,)) if the Emperor would invite him on that pretext. Besides, he hoped there would be a reconsideration of the organic articles of the Concordat, i~, as head of the Church, he should demand the expulsion of the ((con- stitutional)) bishops. One minor stipulation was that under no circumstances would the holy Father receive Mine. Talleyrand. Out of gratitude for the Concordat he had, to be sure, removed the ban of excommunication from the sometime bishop, and had given him leave ((to administer all civil affairs,)) but the interpretation of this clause into a per- mission to marry had been intolerably ex- asperating. The Emperor in reply recited all his own services to the Church and to the papacy; and what might not hereafter be expected of one who had already done so much? The Pope was obliged to content him- self with this indefinite pledge, and made ready to obey the behests of the man who was now the most brilliant figure of his day, and who, as emperor of the West, might be an invalna- ble ally. The coronation ceremony was to take place on December 2, in the mother church of Paris, the splendid Gothic fane of Notre Dame. But festivities and activities alike began immediately after the declaration of the em- pire on May 18, 1804. A most successful cer- emonial of inauguration was held in June at the Hospital of the Invalides. The Tuileries blazed with candles and jewels; the extrava- gance and heartburnings of a court began again at once. Thanks to S~gur, the exterior at least was gorgeous. That the cup of the aristocracy might overflow, the clemency of the empire was first displayed in the pardon of all the nobles who had been implicated with Georges. The Emperors first journey was in July to his camp at Boulogne, where a distribution of decorations and the swear- ing of allegiance by the army were made the occasion of a second magnificent ceremonial. The ancient Frankish warriors were accus- tomed to set up their kings on a stage formed of their own bucklers. Napoleon received the acclamations of his troops seated in an iron chair, which was said to have been Dagoberts, while he gazed seaward to the cliffs of Albion. On this notable journey, which was intended to have political as well as military signifi- cance, he was accompanied by Josephine. Her position was far from comfortable. As will be remembered, she had deceived her husband when he was first in Italy by a false hint that she was soon to give him an heir, and her intrigues at Milan were the cause of fre quent quarrels between them. Bonaparte had justified his public and scandalous associa- tion with a certain Mine. Foug~ in Egypt by a suggestion that if he could but have a son he would marry the childs mother; the recon- ciliation of Brumaire was an act of expedi- ency, and while it did a perfect work for the consulate, the discussions which had been rife about the line of descent ever since the talk of empire had become general showed the instability of the relation between the impe- rial pair; even the formal regulations of the new constitution had inspired little confidence in the Beauharnais party. The new Empress, therefore, was the embodiment of meekness, but for the present she was, according to the old Roman formula, ((Caia)) where her hus- band was ((Caius.)) Side by side, and appar- ently in perfect amity, they proceeded from Boulogne to Aachen, the ancient capital of Charles the Great, on the German frontier. As if to mock the Roman and German claims of Francis, Napoleon and his consort held high court in that historic town, whose memories were redolent of European sway, and whose walls had been the bulwarks of that medieval Roman empire which, though itself an ineffective anachronism, was about to be renewed in modern guise. The dukes, princes, and kings of Germany, either in per- son or by their ambassadors, came to do homage; even Austria had a representative. Constantine had made a capital for his re- united empire by building a new Rome on the banks of the Bosporus; Paris and France could see how easily Napoleon might do likewise. They did observe, and not without dismay. But while the princes of the earth were jostling each other to honor this new mon- arch of monarchs, the underground currents of feeling were doing his work. Already the ((empire)) meant war; but the war so far was with England alone, and must necessarily be either a maritime conflict or else a costly and risky invasion. Pitts return to power on May 12 signified the resistance of a united Eng- land to Bonaparte and all his works: on her own soil, if necessary, but preferably by the renewal of the premiers old policy of Conti- nental coalition against France. It was the irony of fate that, thanks to the intricacies of party politics and the kings imbecility, the strong man was brought b~ck to power with a contemptible and feeble cabinet. For the first, therefore, he could only fortify the island kingdom. Signs soon began to appear, however, that his enemy would meet him at least half-way in provoking a new coalition; 12 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. the union of western Europe for war would give Napoleon the Emperor a new hold on France, that second string to his bow which he had always wanted to have by him, and of which he now had greater need than ever. Moreover, success would mean to him the im- mediate realization of a French empire so transcending the boundaries of France her- self that men would forget the old nation in the splendors of a new inclusive French political organism, destructive of nationality as an influence in the world. Alexander of Russia, though dazzled at first by the concept of Bonaparte as a type of modern liberalism, had been alienated by the appointment of his hero as consul for life, and, beholding in him now a dangerous rival, was on the verge of rupture with the land which had made him so; Prussia was cold and distant; Austria was smarting under her compulsory position of in- feriority. On the suggestion of Francis, and probably at the instigation of the czar Alex- ander, the German Diet sitting at Ratisbon asked,but in vain,that Napoleon should declare his conduct in the execution of the Duc dEn- ghien to have been dictated by secret motives which he ctuld not yet divulge to the cabinets of Europe. Was this a moment haughtily to refuse such slender satisfaction? Was this a moment to cast contempt on the German and Western imperialism of the house of Austria by holding defiant court at Aachen? In July, Russia, whose ruler cared little for the death of Enghien, and was actuated by an unbounded ambition for Oriental em- pire, made a formal protest against Frances foreign policy, demanding the evacuation of Naples and an indemnity for the King of Sardinia. Talleyrand replied roughly that France had asked no explanation of the sus- picious death of the Emperor Paul; that Russia had naturalized notorious French emigrants; that she had sent to Paris in the person of Markoff a distasteful diplomat, who, by the sarcastic disdain of his manners, clearly showed his masters animus toward France; and that, moreover, she had occupied the Jo- nian Islands. ((The Emperor of the French wants peace,)) said Talleyrand, ((but with the aid of God and his armies he need fear no one.)) Taken in connection with certain high- handed acts already committed by Napoleon, as, for example, the expulsion from their posts, by his command, of Spencer Smith and Drake, the English envoys at Stuttgart and Munich, who had imprudently plotted with Meh~e de la Touche; and the much more arbitrary seizure at Hamburg of Rumbold, the recently appointed minister of England to Saxony, while on his way to assume his diplo- matic duties,these words of Talleyrand meant nothing less than defiance to the whole Continent, as well as to England. Russia had protested in vain against the violation of Badens neutral territory by the seizure of Enghien; Prussia was successful in her re- monstrance with regard to Rumbold, but in view of the continued occupation of Han- over by a strengthened French garrison, this scanty grace did not reassure her ministers. These provocations seem to furnish cumu- lative evidence that the ostentatious prepara- tions for invading England were little more than a feint. It may have been that, as ever, the colossal genius of the man who knew that he was a match in military strength for the whole Continent was making ready for either alternative. The romance of his imperial pol- icy knew no bounds: thwarted in crossing the Channel, he might confirm his new position by overwhelming the coalition which, as a result of his conduct and of Pitts time-honored pol- icy, was sure to be formed at once; or, on the other hand, checked on the Continent, he might retrieve all by one crushing blow at England. But this is the most that can be conceded, even in view of his great prepara- tions and his apparent earnestness. The autumn of 1803 and the spring of 1804 had seen a steady development of resources at Boulogne. It was tentatively arranged that a French fleet of ten sail of the line under La- touche-Tr~ville should leave Toulon on July 30 as if to reoccupy Egypt, and thus tempt Nelson to follow with the hope of repeating his victory in the scenes of his former ex- ploits. But the French admiral was to turn and appear at Rochefort on the Bay of Biscay, increase his armament by the addition to it of six first-rate vessels with a number of frigates, and then, by a long detour, arrive in the Straits of Dover, as if doubling Cape Clear from the west. ((Masters of the Chan- nel for six hours, we ~tre masters of the world,)) wrote the Emperor. This scheme was thwarted by the untimely death of the ad- miral. However, a much grander one was evolved in September. Napoleons policy of conciliat- ing Spain by gifts and promises to the Duke of Parma had made the queen of that country his friend, and her criminal intimacy with Godoy, the Prince of the Peace, being already notori- ous, both she and her paramour paid the price of toleration by abject servility. At the First Consuls nod Spain invaded and humiliated Portugal, whose ships had aided Nelson in the Levant, and whose fine harbors were invalua LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 13 ble to England. At the peace of Amiens he gave the Spanish colony of Trinidad to Eng- land without consulting its owner, and he sold Louisiana in utter disregard of the right of redemption reserved by Spain. He now forced his ally to a monstrous treaty whereby she was to keep Portugal neutral, and increase her subsidy to the exorbitant sum of six million francs a month. This alliance made Napoleon absolute master of the Spanish maritime re- sources, when, in December, 1804, as was in- evitable, war broke out between England and Spain: he commenced even earlier to act as if the French mastery of the seas were to be not for six hours, but forever. A fever- ish activity began in all his dockyards and arsenals; press-gangs ranged the harbor cities and seized all available sailors, and in a few weeks the imperial marine was nearly doubled in ships, guns, and men. Its efficiency unfortunately diminished in the direct ratio of its unwieldy size. Villeneuve, the new com- mander at Toulon, though capable in many ways, was only too well aware of the utter de- moralization in French naval affairs. He was consequently destitute of all enthusiasm, and shy of the task imposed upon him. This mattered little, for his and the Roche- fort squadron were now destined to sail for the West Indies separately, in order to draw away the English; incidentally they were to recover San Domingo, if possible, and to strengthen Guadeloupe, Martinique, and Santa Lucia. Ganteaume, the commander at Brest, was to bring out his squadron of twenty line- of-battle ships with Augereau and 18,000 men on board, sail westward half-way to New- foundland as a feint, then, returning, land the soldiers in the north of Ireland, and, sail- ing thence, enter the Channel from the north to codperate with the flotilla of invasion which, with great expense, had been got to- gether at and near Boulogne. How little in earnest the Emperor was in this showy plan is shown by his carefully studied letter of Janu- ary 16, 1805, in which he proposes attacking England in the East Indies with this same Brest squadron and a force of 30,000 men. This proposition was seriously made even before Villeneuve had put to sea; it should not be considered as one of the occasional divaga- tions which such a man may either claim as revealing a genuine state of mind, or which may be ridiculed by himself, and forgotten by others, as chimerical, according to the turn of affairs. The Rochefort squadron succeeded in passing the English blockaders, and reached Martinique in safety. Villeneuve left Toulon on January 17, 1805, under cover of a storm, which he hoped to use in running from Nel- son; but it so dispersed his ships as to make any concerted action impossible, and the sep- arate vessels returned with some difficulty to their port of departure. Ganteaume did not even make an effort to run the English block- ade before Brest. Three months later a third preposterous scheme for mystifying England was divulged, the Indian expedition being held still in re- serve. This time the apparent object was to effect a union of all the French naval forces in the West Indies, and orders were given accordingly. Thence under the command of Villeneuve the vast fleet, forty ships of the line, should return by the tremendous detour around Scotland and through the North Sea to sweep the Channel clear and keep it so until the flotilla of transports could cross. The whole scheme has been stigmatized as a landsmans conception. In fact, viewed as a serious design, it makes every quality of Napoleons mind the reverse of what it really was. The monstrous expense of sustaining for such a length of time, and without the usual war indemnities, both a fleet and a large army entirely disproportionate to the demands of invasion; the theatrical character of all these arrangements; the apparent carelessness of indefinite delay; the calmness with which the news of Trafalgar was heard by the great captainall these are considerations which cumulatively lead to the conclusion that he was in earnest neither with the maritime campaign nor with the invasion, and that his real armament was the costly land force which was prepared for the purpos~e of conquering Austria, the enemy against which, in the fol- lowing year, it was actually used; while the naval armament, including the Boulogne flo- tilla, was intended to prevent, as it did, the active interference of England to destroy his own so-called blockade of the Continental ports, and therebyto renew her commerce. On any other theory Napoleon was at this one epoch of his life a dreaming visionary, care- less of his own reputation for sound com- mon sense; a tyro, underestimating his great enemys resources, power, and capacity; a gambler trusting for success to some hazard or cast of the dice to paralyze his foe and lift himself at one stroke to the stars. This last hypothesis is ridiculous. His gen- erals, whose ability was as remarkable as the feebleness of his admirals, were interested, as their own memoirs and those of other keen ob- servers prove, in an empire of Europe by which their dignities were to be perpetuated and strengthened. Joseph told the Prussian minis- 14 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. ter that his brothers strength with the army was in the new laurels which they hoped to pluck, and in the wealth which would follow as a result. The Emperorhad revealedthe truth to his favorite brother when he said that he himself would never attempt a landing on British shores, but that he might send Ney to Ireland. It is a significant straw that when Robert Fulton offered to make the flotilla in- dependent of wind and wave by the use of steam, Napoleon, the apostle of science, friend of Monge and Volney, member of the Insti- tute, displayed very little scientific interest. For some time past he had been coquetting with the American inventor, granting him in- adequate subsidies to prosecute his schemes for applying steam power to various marine engines of destruction. He probably in- tended to keep others from using Fultons inventions; that he made no fair trial of them himself would seem to show that he had no real use for them. Reference will be made again, as it has been before, to this much-discussed historical question, for it must be viewed in all lights and in every connection. For the present it is well to recall that if the whole Egyptian expedition was intended by Bonaparte and his friends in the Directory to mystify the French, the naval preparations, made as if both to meet England on her own undisputed element, and likewise to invade her soil, may well have been made with similar intention regarding the English. The one hypothesis requires no greater credulity than the other. Having driven the Addington ministry from power, and facing the responsibilities of war with the half-hearted support of a reluctant opposition, Pitt said, on May 23, 1803, that France would base her hope of success either on the expectation that she could ((break the spirit and shake the determination of the country by harassing us with perpetual ap- prehension of descent upon our coasts,)) or on the supposition that she could ~impair our resources and undermine our credit by the effects of an expensive and protracted con- test.)) There is no reason to regard this as other than a prophetic utterance, except that the preparations of Napoleon for invasion as- sumed such dimensions as to give the whole scheme for ((harassing)) England the appear- ance of a real purpose. But it must be re- membered that no other course would have deceived a people so astute as the English, and this fact, taken in connection with the Emperors ever-increasing determination that neither Spain, nor Portugal, nor Holland, nor, in fact, any power within the sphere of his influence, should remain neutral, but that all should furnish either money or troops, and close their doors to English commerce, is very strong proof that Napoleon was fight- ing England in both the ways indicated by Pitt. It is also pertinent to inquire what would have happened had Napoleon been success- ful in landing an army on English shores. In the first place, his mastery of the seas would have been quickly ended by the com- bined efforts of the English war vessels then afloat, and he would have been left without base of supplies or communication. In the second place, he would have met a resistance from a proud, free, enlightened, and desper- ate people which would have paralyzed all his tactics, and would have worn out any army he could have kept together. Did Napoleon fail to understand this? Of course not. He had said before that an army which cannot be regularly recruited is a doomed army. He had seen this theory verified in Egypt, and he knew very well that a permanent mastery of the seas was out of the question with the fleets and flotillas at his disposal. It would appear in the case of any other man than Napoleon that the proof was complete, in view of what actually did occurnamely, the attack by land on Austria. The impression which Met- ternich received in 1810 that this had been the Emperors intention from the first, and the lavishness with which Napoleon, through- out his public career, made use of any and every form of ruse, even the costliest, in or- der to mislead his foes, are complementary pieces of evidence which furnish the strong- est corroboration. THE CORONATION OF NAPOLEON I. PARIS had not been agreeably impressed by the spectacle of the imperial court held at Aachen, and when there appeared in the ((Moniteur)) a shrewd reminder that the seat of Roman empire had been permanently trans- ferred to a Greek city, the feeling of disquiet was heightened to the desired point. The Parisians were therefore not disinclined to exhibit an enthusiastic loyalty on the unique occasion of the coronation. The sometime atheist, later Oriental hero and son of heaven, quasi-Mohammedan and destroyer of papacy, but now for some years past the professed admirer of Christianity, had recently been addressed by Pius VII., in the form used in addressing legitimate rulers, as his ~~son in Christ Jesus.~ Having gone so far as this climax, the Popes scruples finally dis LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 15 appeared, and on November 2 he set out for his winter journey to the French capital. It is said that he drew back at the last mo- ment, alleging, not, as he might well have done, that Napoleon had violated every tra- dition of Europe and broken all the com- mandments, but that the Emperors letter had been irregularly delivered by General Caffarelli, instead of being duly transmitted by the hands of two bishops! No wonder that the distracted but tenacious man was drawn two ways: as a temporal prince he must bow as others had done; as the vicar of Christ upon earth how could he give the sacred unc- tion to one who so violated the Ark of the Covenant? But perhaps one office might give assistance to the other; if neither secular nor spiritual restitution could be obtained in com- pleteness, partial satisfaction for wrongs of both sorts might be got. In due time the venerable traveler reached Fontainebleau. As the Pope had come to Paris, and the Emperor had not, as of old, gone to Rome, so by another reversal the prodigal son had this time come out to meet his spiritual .father. He was in hunting cos- tume, and seemed by accident to meet the Popes carriage as it traversed the forest. Against his loud protestations the successor of St. Peter alighted with satin shoes and robes of state upon the muddy ground. But the Emperor, though a prodigal, was not re- pentant, for after his first effusive greeting little acts of contemptuous discourtesy such, for example, as himself taking the seat of honor in the carriage which they entered togethershowed that this late successor of Charles the Great was no second Henry IV., who thought a crown well worth a mass, but an Otto or a Henry III., determined to assert the secular supremacy against any assump- tion recalling the pretensions of Gregory VII. Nations, like families and individuals, have their hereditary weaknesses. Napoleon un- derstood that of France, which is the pas- sion for great thoughts, great words, great display, great deeds. The symbolism of acts as a power with the populace he also appre- ciated, but he had little sense of artistic re- straint and proportion. Ridicule and chaff are dear to the French spirit. Already the immensity of time and space traversed to seek, in an age of faith and sentiment, for precedents concerning the coronation was in dangerous contrast with the sordid reali- ties of a materialistic, irreligious, unpoetic present; profession and practice, means and ends, sound and sense, were everywhere ar- raying themselves in ticklish opposition, and an inopportune joke is a serious thing in France. Thus it happened that the spectacle of the coronation was an equilibrious combi- nation of the sublime with the commonplace, the balance verging at times to absurdity. Eye-witnesses declared that the tension was painful, so near was the multitude to express- ing open ridicule of the heavy and oppressive pomp. The day before the ceremony a delegation of the senate had formally announced the result of the plebiscitum, and the Emperor not only had guaranteed the popular rights as secured by the Revolution, but had prom- ised to transmit them unimpaired to his childrenbut where were they? That same night, at the last hour, the Empress, who in the eyes of the Church had so far been only a concubine, obtained by the Popes insistence what was the chief desire of her heart, but what had so often been refused by her hus- banda secret marriage to him by ecclesi- astical rite. Would this work a miracle and remove the reproach of her barrenness? In any case it removed the bar to her corona- tion by the Pope, of which nothing h~d been said in the preliminary negotiations. This ac4t completed the preparations. The great church had been renovated and gorgeously decorated; the brilliant costumes, the imperial scepter, the jeweled crown, were all in readiness; re- hearsals, too, had been held; and still further, by means of ingeniously devised puppets every participant had been carefully taught his exact movements. It had been suggested that, like former sovereigns, Napoleon should, on the eve of his corenation, repair to the sanctuary, confess, and receive absolution; but he drew back as before a sacrilege. In the official program of the ceremonies it was also arranged that ((Their Majes- ties)) should receive holy communion; but the article was dropped, and it was cur- rently reported that the reason was Napo- leons fear lest the Italian prelates should poison the elements. The Holy Father was not urgent, for he feared a more serious re- buff than any he had yet received. At the outset he had inquired whether, according to immemorial custom, he was himself to set the crown in place on the head of the sovereign. I will arrange that,)) had been Napoleons reply, and the imperial decision was still unknown. The morning of Sunday, December 2, 1804, was cold and cloudy as the gorgeous proces- sion passed from the Tuileries to Notre Dame. The streets were lined and the houses deco- rated; but the people of Paris, sated with ceremonials, were, in spite of self-interest, 16 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. silent and critical. On the other hand, the presence of the German princes in the train, and the glittering costumes of the court, threw the provincial deputations, and the throngs of office-holders who had come up from all France, into a delirium of enthusi- asm. The irreverent tittered when the papal chamberlain ambled by on a mule at the head of His Holinesss court, but immediately fell on their knees and received the papal blessing. Clergy and choristers intoned the hymn, ((Tu es Petrus)) as the Pontiff entered the majestic cathedral from the transept, and proceeded to his throne in the c~enter of the choir to the right of the high altar. After an interval of an hour or more appeared the Emperors attendants, Murat leading at the head of twenty squadrons of cavalry. Then followed the imperial chariot, surmounted by a crown, and drawn by eight superb and richly caparisoned steeds. Facing the Em- peror and Empress sat Joseph and Louis; the other brothers were in temporary disgrace, and Madame Mare remained stubbornly with Lucien at Rome. Then, as the artillery salvos resounded~ there advanced eighteen sixhorse carriages with the court, all moving to the sound of triumphal music. Passing in a burst of sunshine to the archiepiscopal palace, and entering the vestry, the Emperor donned his coronation robes and a crown of laurel leaves. Thence, with the Empress at his side, he proceeded in state to the place prepared for them in the lofty nave, facing the high altar. Joseph, Louis, Cambac~r~s, and Lebrun were his pages, and supported the train of his mantle, heavy with gold and embroidery. The yet empty throne had been erected in the heart of the choir. From twenty thousand throats burst the cry, ((Long live the Em- peror!)) as the slow and stately march pro- ceeded. At last the entrance of the choir was reached, and the Pope, descending from his chair, began to intone, amid the deep silence of the throng, the majestic chant of ((Veni, Creator.)) This ended, the personages of the court found their appointed seats, the regalia were laid on the altar, and Pius, holding out a copy of the Scriptures, demanded in the Latin tongue whether the Emperor would use all his powers to have law, justice, and peace reign supreme in the Church and among his people. The Emperor laid both his hands on the book, and ~Profiteor~ came the solemn answer. Pope, cardinals, archbishops, and bishops began the litany, and the sovereigns kneeled. As the closing strains sounded forth, the imperial pair advanced under priestly conduct to the steps of the high altar, and kneeled again. The Pope, pronouncing the customary but long-disused prayer, then sol- emnly anointed both in turn with the triple unction on head and hands. Returning to their chairs, the two chief actors seated themselves, and high mass began. Midway in its solemn course there was a pause; the Emperor stepped forward to the altar as if to be invested at the papal hands with all the insignia of powerring, mantle, and crown. The last of the consecrated baubles to be lifted was the crown. At the pregnant in- stant, just as the Holy Father, doubting but hoping, lifted it aloft, the Emperor advanced two paces downward, and, firmly seizing it in his own hands, set it on his own brow. With- out a movement of hesitancy he then crowned the Empress, and the two, stepping upward, seated themselves in the great throne of the empire. The Pope recovered his self-control, if, indeed, he had momentarily lost it, and said, ((May God confirm you on this throne, and may Christ give you to rule with him in his eternal kingdom.)) Then, giving Napoleon the kiss of peace, he cried, ~Vivat imperator in ~eternum!~ The throng shouted in anti- phony with deafening acclaim. Then the rit- ual proceeded, and the religious ceremonial was soon ended. At its close the presidents of the great assemblages of the State advanced. The Emperor, with his hands on the Bible, said, el swear to maintain the principles of the Revolution, the integrity of French terri- tory, and to govern for the welfare, happi- ness, and glory of the French people.)) Other particulars, equally radical in their nature, were added according to constitutional re- quirement. The hierarchical clergy must have shuddered as they listened. Then the chief of the heralds college stood forth and cried: ((The thrice glorious and thrice august Emperor Napoleon is crowned and enthroned. Long live the Emperor!)) At this moment the cannon outside proclaimed the consum- mation of the ceremony. Had history returned on its steps to the coronation of Charles the Great? Was this again the festival of a thousand years ago held in the old Basilica of St. Peters? There was much to suggest it; but there were dif- ferences all too significant. Then the cor- onation was the Popes will; now it is the Emperors. Then the imperial domain was almost conterminous with the spiritual sway of the Pope; now that dominion remains to be conquered by the Ca~sar. Then the symbol of power was bestowed by the Pope; now it is arrogated by the secular authority. Then the significance was medieval; now it is mod- em and revolutionary. In short, then it was Rome; now it is Paris. Then it was a German prince and a Latin pontiff; now both are of Latin blood. Then it was political order and religious sanctity; now it is ecclesiastical subjugation and military despotism. Not that there was a clear contrast any more than there was a plain historical continuity; the chain of causation in history has its links in- terconnected like a coat of mail, and cannot be so analyzed. There was superficially more of a parallel than of a difference; so much so VOL LL3. that the multitude was deceived by it. 4 have gained a battle,)) said Napoleon to Jo- seph, speaking of the ceremony. ((You have made me a French knight,)) he said to the painter David, speaking of the great canvas on which the former Jacobin had delineated the scene in which the monarch crowned his consort. Both remarks were true. So per- fect were the setting and the movement of the tragicomedy that all the incongruities passed unobserved; the moments when a sin- gle misstep would have raised a laugh passed, 17 PIUS VII. 18 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. after all, with dignity. The masquerade was accepted as a significant solemnity. The French nation and the Napoleonic empire, it was believed, were wedded in the fusion of Church, State, and army, for the loyal sup- port of what the masses were sure was now France ~ one and indivisible,)) as the motto of the Revolution expressed it. Pius VII. was one of the few disenchanted. He claimed that the Emperor had broken an express promise in seizing the crown, and was silent only because the official journal called no attention to the incident. For sev- eral months he remained a suppliant in Paris. One demand after another was perforce aban- doned. He had hoped to destroy the last vestige of Gallican liberties, and to see the Roman Church recognized, not as a privi- leged sect, but as the national ecclesiastical organism. His temporary secretary, Cardinal Antonelli, found in Napoleons minister of pub- lic worship, Portalis, an adversary as learned in ecclesiastical matters, as polished, adroit, and unctuous, as himself, and spent his diplo- matic arts in vain. Two small concessions were indeed made. The statesman promised to restore the Gregorian calendar, and the Emperor, with a half-ironical, half-supersti- tious feeling, dated the course of the empire after January 1, 1806, not by the Revolution- ary reckoning, but by the Christian. It was likewise ordered that the bishops and priests who had sworn to the civil constitution should take the ecclesiastical oath, and thus return to the fold. In the field of temporal negotia- tions the Roman prince was quite as unsuc- cessful as in the spiritual. It was in vain that he pleaded the gift of Charles the Great, which made him a sovereign prince. Talley- rand replied that what God had given to the Emperor the Emperor must keep, but an op- portunity might offer to increase the States of the Church. The successor to St. Peter left Paris wounded and disillusioned, considering, says his memorialist Consalvi, that the Em- peror must have intended, by the poverty of his gifts, to show the light estimate he put on the papal services. Weakened in dig- nity and general esteem, outwitted at every turn, the Pope returned to Rome, a bitter and secret enemy of the empire he had sanctioned. THE EMPEROR OF THE FRENCH CROWNED KING OF ITALY. AMID the brilliant festivities in Paris, in- augurated and continued to celebrate the new r6gime, grave thoughts and weighty pur- poses filled Napoleons mind. He was at times so somber that his oldest friends shrank from any exhibition of intimacy, while the Empress herself began to use the distant language of a subject and address her husband as ((Maj- esty)) and ((Sire.)) Nor could she ever discon- tinue the practice. The ecclesiastical calendar with all its saints days and feast days was soon to be restored, and the gli d Christmas- tide was at hand. But when the legislature assembled, two days after the great festival of peace, and the Emperor opened its session with a state proportionate to his new dignity, his speech from the throne was not merely an enumeration of what France owed to the new dispensation, the civil and other codes, prizes for the encouragement of letters, industry, and the arts, the achievement of splendid p works, it was also an omi- nous exposi European situation. He declared th~ like France, needed a definite or~ on; that Austria was re- cuperating strength; that the King of Prussia we e friend of France. Turkey, however, hc id, was pursuing with vacilla tion and timldity a policy foreign to her in- terests, and he dragged in an expression of his desire that the spirit of Catherine the Great would guide the councils of the Czar Alexander. ((He will remember,)) said the Emperor, ((that the friendship of France is a necessary counterpoise for him in the Euro- pean balance. . . . Set far from her, he can neither touch her interests nor trouble her repose.)) These were clearly words of warn- ing. They meant that Russia must abandon her new Orientai policy, forget the anxiety she felt about French control in Italy and Naples, and forbear to chafe under the limi- tations of her ~ade with England, necessi- tated by the ci ing of all harbors in western Europe to English commerce. In the light of subsequent events there is nothing forced in the conclusion that this language was a presage of war. Home duties were evidently not in question; a great empire could con- firm its existence only by the performance of transcendent exploits. A not unnatural sensitiveness has confirmed in most English historians the belief that Na- poleons forecast saw a successful invasion of their country, and Great Britain as a con- sequence disgorging a vast war indemnity wherewith his invincible legions could be re- cruited and the Continental powers could be reduced to subjection. Englishmen have al- ways felt that it was a deed of high enterprise for Britons t~ overawe the Corsican ogre by the magnitude of their preparations to re- sist him, and have by constant iteration con- H H Q 0 z 0 0 z z Cr2 0 z H z vinced large numbers that this among other honors is also theirs. It will, of course, never be known how serious the Emperors much-paraded purpose was during 1803 and 1804. But a more significant sign even than those already enumerated is the fact, that in January, 1805, while the council of state was discussing the budget, he declared that for two years France had been making tre- mendous sacrifices. ((A general war on the Continent,)) he said, ((would demand no greater. I now have the strongest possible army, a complete military organization, and am this moment on the footing which I gen- erally have first to secure in case of actual wear. To raise such forces in time of peace 20,000 artillery, horses and trains complete there was need of a pretext in order to levy and bring them all together without rousing suspicion in the other Continental powers. This pretext was afforded by the project for landing in England. Two years ago I would not thus have spoken to you, but it was nevertheless my sole purpose. I am well aware that to maintain such an equip- ment in time of peace means throwing thirty millions out of the window. But in return I have the advantage of all ihy ~enemies by twenty days, and can take the field a whole month before Austria can even prepare her artillery.)) Evenwithinthe labyrinthine ~~rnings of the most tortuous mind there is a clue, and this time Napoleon probably spoke ~he truth. The inherent probability is furth ~Ir strengthened by the evidence of what j~killowed. Some weeks later he said in a mkment of frank- ness: ((What I have so fa~ done is nothing. There will be no peace in E ~rope except under a single chief, under an kmperor who shall have kings for ofiiei.aIs, who shall distribute kingdoms to his lienten nts, making one king of Italy, anoth~r of Ba aria, this one landam- man of Switzerland, t ~ one stadholder of Hollandall charged ith duties in the im- perial household. . . . You may say there is nothing new in this, th t it is only an imita- tion of the plan on whic the German Empire was founded; but nothi g is absolutely new: political institutions re olve in an orbit, and it is often necessary t return to what has been.)) ((We were soon ware,)) wrote Miot de M& lito in August, 1804, referring to the de- monstration against Th~gland, ((that the Em- 20 DRAWN BC A5555T WILL. KEY TO THE PICTUHE OF THE CORONATION ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE. 1. Napoleon; 2~Josephine: 3. Pope Pius VIL; 4. Aech-Tresoorer (Lebrun); 5. Arch-Chancellor (Cambardrfo; 6. Marobal ~erthier; 7. Talleyrand; 8. Hogbne Beaoharnaio; 9. Mooter of the Boroc (Caulaincourt); 10. Marohal Bernadette; 11. Cardinal Fcoch; 12. Italiasi Prieoto ; 13. Cardinal- legate Caprara; 14. Cardinal Brasehl; 15. Greek Biohop; 16. Marshal Morat; 17. Marshal Strorier; 18. Marshal Moncey- 59. ~[arshal Brooltres; 20. Master of Ceremonies (Sdgur): 21. General dEarville, Senator; 22. Treasurer-General of the Household of the Empen4 (Esttve); 23. Mine. de Ia Hochefoncauld; 24. Mine. do la Valette; 25. Arehbishop of Paris and his two Vicar-Generals; 26. Madame MOre (Napoleon~e~other); 27. Mine. de Pontanges; 2~ M. de Cooot-Brlssac (Chamberlain); 29. M. de Ia Ville; 30. Mine. Soult; 31. Master of the Hor~e (H de Beaum int) 32. Joseph Bona- parte; 33. Louis Bonapsete; 34. Caroline Bonaparte Murat; 35. Paulisse Bonaparte Borghese; 36. Thise Bonaparte BaccioccPi 37. Mine. Joseph Bonaparte; 38. Prince Napoleon; 39. Hortense Beanharisais (Mine. Louis Bossaparte); 40. General Junot; 4L M. de HOnsuost 4s-efect of the Palace; 42. Chamberlains; 43. Grand Marohal of the Palace (Duroc); 44. Marohals Lefebvre, Kellerinaun, and Pdrignon; 45 Admiral) Gravina; 46. Count Cobenel; 47. M. de Marescalchi; 48. United States Minister; 49. Turkish Aesbasoador; 50. Various celebrated men, laintere, ~culptors,Antsquaries, Poets, etc. (This picture waspainted by order sfNapsleon, and is not hiotorically accurate in all respects; for instance, Madame ~~re was uotpresent.) H z H 0 0 z H 0 z 0 0 0 z 22 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. peror, in the execution of a plan already aban- doned, had made such demonstrations only to increase the security of the Continental pow- ers, and lure them to some decisive step which would permit him to speak out and act.)) The feeling arose, and at once became gen- eral, not only in France, but in Europe, that every word and action of the Emperor meant an appeal to force. The Revolution had claimed to have a world-wide mission in pro- tecting the oppressed and establishing jus- tice. The nations had felt a solemn awe when they saw this task intrusted to the greatest general of his day. But now in a twinkling all was changed: here was a new kind of monarch; not a king, but a king of kings; and headstrong, wilful, and selfish, just as kings were, with no more respect than they for the rights of man. The greatest general of Europe was now its most ambitious and ruthless sovereign. It was a powerful argu- ment for the peoples of the Continent that their old kings, whom they knew, were better than a new and unknown tyrant. It is a trite remark that as one era is verg- ing to its close the elements of another are already stirring. However rapidly events may move, no gulf or cleft separates two epochs either of national life or of general history. The germs of that national uprising which later overwhelmed Napoleon can be observed as early as 1805. The tide of his success was still to flow high before the turn, but his alliance with a great idea began to dissolve before he struck the first blow for his dynasty. It was with a light heart and a new enthusiasm that Europe went to war in 1805. Even the Russian peasants, peering into the misty diplomacy whichstrove to con- ceal the Czars Oriental ambitions and dynas- tic pride under irrelevant complaints about the Duc dEnghien, and demands for indem- nity to Piedmoiit, a kingdom almost extinct, CORON TION COACh OF NAPOLEO I. DRAWN DY ERIC PAPE. FROR A PAOTAGAAPR. ESCUTCHEON FROM PANEL OF THE CORONATION COACH. saw dimly that the principles of eternal violated to secure his person, and his high justice and right were no longer on the side birth made that violation appear more fla- of France, but on theirs. Clearer heads per- grant. While it would have been useless in the ceived that there was an altogether new in- revolutionary epoch to take a stand against ternational question of a purely moral nature, the militant French revolutionary republic 8o far as Russia was concerned, the separa- for such a cause, the establishment of the tion of the Bourbons from France had put consulate and empire had restored France, the Duc dEnghien on the level with any pri- as the public of ~urope supposed, to her old vate individual; she could have protested and place in the state system, and therefore again intervened for an imperial prince of her own had given general validity to the old prin- house, but to protest on bis behalf as a I3our- ciples of international law. If that country bon prince was logically absurd, Neverthe- was to live henceforth under monarchical less, the territory of a neutral state had been rule, her ruler must be made to keep his TING BY FRANIQIS RD, IN THE MUSEUM OF VERUA~~.,. G1~iEAEDs FORTHAIT OF NAPOLEON AS EMPEROR (SHOWING THE PEESENT CONDITION OF THE CANVAS). 24 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. place in the former political equipoise and abide by the law. This fact constituted the moral strength of Russias position when she somewhat hastily dismissed the French envoy from St. Petersburg. In every land the men of sense and feeling began to apprehend that, for the triumph of those very principles which the republic had so loudly proclaimed, the nations must now rise against Napoleon as the incarnate Revolution. For many years a wide-spread devotion to ideals by the peo- ple, and the narrowness of their absolute dy- nasties, had combined to weaken the national sentiment, but now it was only by courageous independence and serious patriotism that the new millennium could be ushered in. While this change of sentiment, elemental in the history of the time, was gradually taking place outside of France, that nation was interested in itself as rarely before. Commerce and industry were rising and de- veloping under a sense of security. The chief magistrate had laid under contribution for the welfare of the people both science and literature. In particular, trade and engineer- ing had received a mighty impulse by the in- ception of those splendid public works which still make the First Empire illustrious, the superb highways of the Simplon, Mt. Cenis, and Mt. Gen~vre, the great canals of St. Quen- tin, Arles, Aigues-Mortes, in France proper, with those of even higher importance in Bel- gium, and by the improvement of every land and water route which made intercommuni- cation easy. Besides all these enterprises of general utility, every commune received the minutest attention. Where the Emperor~ s in- terest made it seem best public buildings rose like magic. Labor was abundant, and pros- perity almost commonplace. While thus the land was strong and beautiful, the spell of Napoleons name and dynasty, together with the lmperial policy for which they stood, fasci- nated men to an ever-growing degree. There were shadows: the budget for 1805 was alarming, for the last harvest was bad; the American payment was spent, Spain could not be asked for a further subsidy when arm- ing herself for French support, and the pro- hibition of English trade diminished the cus- toms revenues. The price of French bonds fell for a time at a tremendous rate. But the ingenuity of the Emperor was still fecund. A new tariff, a new syndicate of bankers to scale the public debt, a new tax laid on liti- gants, such were his expedients; and they temporarily succeeded, for the French people cared as little then as now for the joys and woes of the capitalists and financiers who gamble on the Paris exchange. Nothing short of a panic which reaches their own doors serves to awaken their interest. When the senate adjourned in March, the members of that high assembly were requested to re- port how the new machinery was working in their respective homes. It appeared to be working very well. At the same time the imperial masque- rade was further continued in a proclama- tion which it pleased the imperial writer to date from Aachen, the capital of Charles the Great. Rome re~stablished in France, the land of science, literature, and art, the glories of the coming century should eclipse those of the past. To this end were estab- lished prizes, some of ten thousand, some of five thousand francs, which once in ten years, on the 18th Brumaire, the Emperor with his own gracious hand would distribute in state to successful competitors in the race for scientific, artistic, and literary honors. The best book in each of the physical, mathe- matical, and historical sciences respectively would then be crowned; so, too, the best play, the best poem, the best opera, the best mechanical invention, the best painting, the best statue. The administration of the scheme was intrusted to the minister from whose de- partment the funds were to be raised, namely, the chief of the police! The Muses were to be escorted to the Pierian spring by pla- toons of the public guardians, and there, un- der the menace of the policemans club, they were to drink for the refreshment of their devotees! Unfortunately the notion contra- vened human experience. The brightest spir- its of the nation, like Stahl and Constant, were now living for their own safety in Ger- many, and could not contest. Chateaubriand, the great rhetorician, on receiving the news of Enghiens murder, at once resigned his dip- lomatic position, and set out for Jerusalem in quest of new stimulus for his imagina- tion. Signs of decadence in French art are visible in the over-nice finish and daintiness of form which characterize those productions of the old regime just antecedent to the Rev- olution. There is little or no serious thought or earnest purpose underneath the elegant exterior. Neither consulate nor empire could make a renaissance. The inspiration of those who worked under fear was but a scanty nIl, and the French intellectual life of the Napo- leonic age was feeble and uncertain. Not that the output was meager, for it was not; but the censorship was applied to newspapers and books with ever-increasing rigor, and what did appear in books or on the stage FROM THE PAINTING BY LFFFNRFS PORTRAIT OF NAPOLEON AS EMPEROR \III. II. 4. 26 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. was in general utterly colorless and vague. The only exceptions were those pieces which summoned historical illusions to bolster the existing government. The censors smiled ap- proval on the story of ((William the Conquer- or)) as told by Duval, on the tale of ((Peter the Great)) in the words of Carrion-Nisas, on M. J. Ch~niers ((Cyrus,)) or Raynouards ((Templars,) on anything which, in the Em- perors own words, set forth the ((passage from the first to the second race,)) provided only the theme was from days sufficiently distant. The career of Henry IV., founder of the Bourbon line, who became king by the victories of the Protestants and by the con- sent of the people, was not to Napoleons liking, even though he traced in that career a resemblance to his own. The daily papers could publish no news except such as re- dounded to the credit of France, and dared not discuss religious matters at all. In the whole country there was but one unfettered genius, that of the painter Prudhon, and he was free because he moved in the orbit of antiquity, within limits which did not inter- sect the p~iblic life of his day. Gros might perhaps rank near him, but Davids talent and Andre Ch~niers muse were alike enthralled in fetters, light but strong. Some high au- thorities have but lately claimed immortality for S~nancour and the subtle abstractions of ((Obermann~ but they are caviar not merely to the multitude, but to many of the initiated. With France at his back and his great army perfectly equipped, the Emperor was now ready for the Continental war which was to give permanency to his system. In the eyes of all Europe the rupture with England had been due to British bad faith in refusing to evacuate Malta according to the treaty of Amiens. Napoleon in a second personal letter to George III., written with his own hand on January 2, 1805, deprecated the consequences of this fact; he felt his con- science awakened by such useless bloodshed, and conjured his Majesty ((not to refuse himself the happiness of giving peace to the world, nor to put it off to become a sweet satisfaction to his Majestys children. It was time to silence passion and hear the voice of humanity and reason.)) The answer was evasive. England must first consult the Con- tinental powers with which she had confiden- tial relations. As Parliament had in February voted five and a half million pounds sterling for secret purposes, -that is, as a subsidy to Austria,there could be no doubt of what this answer meant. The war with England was therefore just. Russia was in a state of hostility, but quies- cent because she had meddled with what was not her affair. If she began a war, that like- wise would be a conflict on Napoleons part for French independence. How could Austria be put in the same position? The answer was not difficult for a man of such encyclic grasp. It was clear that those states de- pendent on France, which, following her ex- ample, had adopted in turn the forms and constitution of a directorial, and subsequently of a consular, republic, must still follow their leader and accept the rule of a single man. They could not be imperial commonwealths except as part of France, for there could be but one emperor: they could accomplish the end only by giving a new meaning to king- ship. The Italian republic was not averse to securing constitutional monarchy if only it might be rid of French officials and the pay- ment of subsidies. Taking advantage of this, Napoleon determined to make the change, and bestow the crown either on Joseph or on the child which was accepted by the world as Louiss eldest son. On this infant he had always lavished the attentions of a father. Both brothers flatly refused the proposal on the ground that it would prejudice their rights in the imperial succession. Their sov- ereign appeared to be very angry, but soon suggested to the Italian delegation which he had summoned to Paris that he might him- self accept the dignity, a hint which was a command. Late in March, with a suite com- prising the chief courtiers, Napoleon began his progress toward Milan. The Emperor of Austriafor to this title Francis was reduced by the dismemberment of Germanywas told in a gracious personal letter that with Rus- sian troops at Corfu and English soldiers at Malta the two crowns of France and italy could not be kept apart, except nominally, but that ((this situation would cease the moment both these islands were evacuated.)) The attention of all Europe was momentarily diverted from Boulogne to the spectacle at Milan. On May26 the Emperor of the French was crowned King of Italy in the cathedral by his own hand, and with the iron crown of Lombardy, a diadem considered the most precious on earth, for it was said to be made from the nails which pierced the Saviours feet and hands. It was with per- ceptible defiance that as he set the emblem on his head he uttered the traditional words: ((God hath given it to me; let him be- ware who touches it.)) The attendant festi- vals surpassed in splendor anything yet seen in Napoleons career. ENGRAVED BY HENRY WOLF. GtRARDS PORTRAIT OF JOSEPHD~E AS EMPRESS. THE EXPANSION OF FRANCE AND THE THIRD COALITION. THIS spectacle was in itself sufficient to startle cabinets and kings; but the sequel was in their eyes a downright menace. Piom- bino and Lucca were a few weeks later erected into principalities for the two Bona- parte sisters, who, like their brothers, must be of such nobility as befits imperial blood. Parma and Piacenza were then endowed with the new French code. The climax of auda- city seemed reached when the entire Ligurian Republic was incorporated at a stroke, like 27 28 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. Piedmont, with France. The Emperor had only a short time since informed the world through an allocution to the legislature that Holland, Switzerland, and three fourths of Germany belonged to France by right of con- quest, but that, such was his moderation, the two former lands would be left independent. The partition of Poland and the conquest of India, as he had previously remarked, preju- diced France in the European balance; but again, such was French moderation, Italy was to have remained independent, the two crowns separate, and no new province was to have been annexed to the empire. But now it was otherwise ordered, and by no fault of his he had been forced to unite the two crowns; this being so, Genoa had become essential to the unity of the empire. To this language he gave a characteristic climax. Austria might well ask what the word ((Italy)) in the royal title was intended to mean. No sooner were the measures for incorporating Genoa taken and the coronation ceremonies ended than half of the sixty thousand troops which had either accompanied Napoleon or had been summoned from near were stationed oppo- site the so-called sanitary cordon of Austria on the old Venetian boundaries. The merry monarch of 4taly~ sent to Paris for the worm-eaten coat and battered hat which he had worn at Marengo, and on the memor- able field which had witnessed his agony of doubt, fear, and joy, rehearsed with the re- maining thirtythousand the events of that de- cisive day. At Castiglione a few days later the other contingent repeated in sport what they and their predecessors had done in awful earn- est, under the daring leadership of Augereau. There is something satanic in these sports of a ((statesman,)) so ingeniously conceived that to human weakness they appear at first blush, if not innocent, at least innocuous. It is now known, and probably Napoleon sus- pected at the time, that Pitts exertions had already been half successful. On November (3, 1804, Austria and Russia, through the personal influence of their sovereigns, had, in fact, signed a defensive treaty like that which had been concluded between Russia and Prussia. Then, as now, the cabinets and peoples of the two lands heartily disliked each other. But Alexander was a dreamer and a schemer. His notorious plan for the redis- tribution of European territory, printed only a few years ago for the first time in the memoirs of Czartoryski, his minister for for- eign affairs, is conclusive evidence of his character. By this plan he himself was to have the whole of Poland as it xvas before the first partition, together with the prQvinces from which the kingdom of Prussia takes its name; and besides, Moldavia, Cattaro, Corfu, Constantinople, and the Dardanelles! Aus- tria xvas to get Bavaria, France the Rhine frontier, Prussia a slight compensation in Germany, and so forth. England was clever enough to use this dreamer for her own pur- poses, leading him to hope for some conces- sions to such of his visionary schemes for the rearrangement of western Europe as were known to her, but putting her own proposi- tions in such a form as would to a certainty be unacceptable to Napoleon: for example, she would not promise to evacuate Malta. The Czar assented conditionally. He would mediate with the Emperor of the French for peace, not now as a solitary rival, but in the name of all Europe, except, of course, Prus- sia, which was negotiating with France for Hanover. He would thus become a general arbitrator of the Continent. The powers con- cerned listened and finally agreed, but with certain reservations. This was the first step toward a coalition. It was with a sanguine spirit that Alex- ander despatched his envoy in May to ask from the court at Berlin a safe-conduct into France, with which Russia had broken off diplomatic relations, rashly, as it now seemed. Napoleon received at Milan a letter from Frederick William notifying him of the cir- cumstance. He replied in what appeared a conciliatory tone; but enumerated among other terms that any peace with England must bind her cabinet not to give asylum to the Bourbons, and compel them likewise to muzzle their wretched writers. I have no ambition,~ ran one clause; ((twice I have evacuated the third of Europe without com- pulsion. I owe Russia no more explanation concerning Italian affairs than she does to me concerning those of Turkey and Persia.)) These last words were to show how thor- oughly he understood Alexander, whom he considered to be a man of boundless ambi- tion, but uncertain and feeble. The news of what had been done with Genoa, Lucca, and Piombino reached St. Petersburg in due time, and emphasized the grim sincerity of the French Emperor. As time passed byit was also claimed by him that the city of Naples was a focus of anti- French conspiracies, and that by the queens influence Russia had occupied Corfu. The independence of Etruria, under the so-called protection of the French troops quartered in the kingdom, was already a phantom; that of Naples was, in sl)ite of existing treaties, not more substantial. The king was the obedient servant of his masterful Austrian consort, Maria Carolina, who was the real ruler, She had been told ia January that the existence of her power depended on her attitude. If she would dismiss her minister, Acton; expel the French emigrants; send home the English resident; recall her own from St. Petersburg; tnd muster out her militia,in short, ((show pe~ ce envoy from Berlin,~for he had not collfi(leuce iu Frauce,s-sht migbt continuc j )llrneye(1 fartber,~- ud immedi tely Fussu to reign. At Milan the Neapolitan representa-~ tive who had come to present his mistresss congratulations was treated with the utmost indignity. No one could doubt that this fore- told the speedy end of the Italian Bourbons, the last royal house in Italy connected by ties of blood with that of Austria, by interest with that of Russia. The Czar at once recalled his FROM THE PAINTING BY JEAN-EOUIS-ANDRETREQOORE GRRICAULT, IN THE LOU RE. A WOUNDED CUIRASSIER QUITTING THE FIELD. 80 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. and Austria put aside their conflicting ambi- tions as to the Orient in order to meet their common enemy of the Occident before he could seize the whole of Italy. These natural foes could overlook the occupation of Han- over, the violation of neutral territory in Baden and Hamburg, the proclamation of the Western empire, even the execution of Enghien, with a host of minor aggressions, and continue their rivalry; but they could no longer do so when Austria felt Venice slip- ping from her grasp, and Alexander saw his Oriental ambitions forever defeated, as would be the case if, as rumor represented to be probable, Italy and the western shore of the Adriatic should fall into Napoleons hands. So evident was all this to the world that early in May the treaty between England and Russia, which had been signed as pro- visional, was already rumored to be definitive and binding. The French papers denied the report, and denounced it as another English snare; their St. Petersburg correspondence, written, of course, in their own Parisoffices, declared that the coalition had collapsed. The Emperc~r still lingered in Italy, carefully observing and noting the Italian and Austrian dispositions. It was not until July that at last he hastened to Paris, leaving his step- son Beauharnais, the ((Prince Eug~ne,~ as viceroy at Milan. There was no longer any doubt as to the existence of the new coalition. England had failed in securing Prussia, for Hardenbergs influence was temporarily para- mount, and he desired, by observing the old neutrality, to secure the consolidation of the Prussian territory through the acquisition of Hanover from the French. Austria was in a serious dilemma. Relying first on the treaty of Lun~ville, then on the preparations at Boulogne, as likely to assure a long peace, she had fallen into Napoleons trap, and had begun a series of important army reforms. The old system had been abol- ished; but the new one, modeled on that of France, had not yet been perfected. There were only 40,000 men under arms, and artil- lery there was none. The Archduke Charles might well shrink from taking the field with such an insignificant armament. But England promised cash and Russia offered men in case the Emperor would fight at once. It was no slight inducement that Italy and perhaps Bavaria were to be won. Yes, more perhaps; for should Prussia fail to assert her neutral- ity, and declare for France, the house of Austria might retrieve its ancient prestige, and recover Silesia. On July 7 the cabinet yielded, and orders were given to mobilize the troops. General Mack, who enjoyed a swollen reputation as a great organizer, was intrusted with the task of making ready. This was the condition of affairs, almost certainly known to Napoleon through his emissaries, at the time when he thought best to announce with unusual emphasis that the invasion of England was fixed for the middle of August. In April Nelson had finally been enticed to the West Indies, and Villeneuve, eluding him, had returned in May to Euro- pean waters. Nelson, mistaking his enemys destination, sailed in pursuit to Gibraltar; but one of his detached cruisers learned that the united French and Spanish squadrons were to meet at Ferrol, and by the middle of July the English admiralty was fully informed as to the whereabouts and plans of the French fleet. On the sixteenth of that month the Emperor issued orders for Villeneuve to unite the Spanish vessels with his own, and then to reinforce himself with the French squadrons of Rochefort and Brest, and appear in the Channel. On July 22 a British fleet under Calder met Villeneuve off Cape Finisterre in a dense fog. The former had fifteen ships of the line, the latter twenty, with seven frigates; but the numerical superiority of the French was offset by the comparatively ex- cellent discipline and equipment of the Eng- lish; and while Calder captured two Spanish vessels, the skirmish was really indecisive, since Villeneuve was not checked in his pas- sage to Vigo. By August 2 Villeneuve had carried out his instructions, and, having touched at Vigo, found himself at the head of a Franco-Spanish fleet numbering no fewer than twenty-nine ships of the line, which were assembled in the harbors of Ferrol and Corunna. But the hasty and inadequate equipment of the French navy had shown itself both in battle and in sailing the high seas. Villeneuve complained that he had ((bad masts, bad sails, bad rigging, bad officers, bad sailors.)) Con- ceiving himself to be only the tool of a feint, he lost the little enthusiasm he had, and be- came sullen. The hostile fleets, which had been temporarily thrown off the track, were now in Europe. Nelson bad joined Admiral Coruwallis before Brest, and, leaving his best eight ships to strengthen both the guard and the blockading fleets, made for Portsmouth. Calder, too, had reinforced the blockaders, so that by August 17 there would be eighteen vessels before Ferrol; eighteen remained be- fore Brest,while a third squadron, under Ster- ling, was cruising with five more, prepared to join either. Villeneuve was not ready for LIFE OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 31 sea until the 13th. Were his orders, in view of the changed situation, still valid? After an effort to beat northward against a violent storm the French admiral received false news from a merchant vessel that an English fleet of twenty-five sail was approaching. He thought himself in the exercise of due dis- cretion when he turned and made for Cadiz. If not strictly, he was at least substantially, in the line of duty, for the Emperors orders contained a clause authorizing him, in case of unforeseen casualties which materially al- tered the situation, which with Gods help will not occur,~ to anchor in the harbor of Cadiz after liberating the squadrons of Roche- fort and Brest. This was, of course, an end to any demon- stration in the Straits of Dover, even if the Emperor had been in earnest about the inva- sion, as he still appeared to be. The succes- sive bulletins of disaster at sea found him at Boulogne. It was no feigned anger with which he received them. What a contrast between the efficiency of his land force and the utter incompetency of his shipbuilders, sailors, and naval officers! If he had really hoped to rival England by sea, this would have shown how futile was his expectation; if he had really hoped to throw an army on her soil under the momentary protection of his fleet, that project, too, was ended: but if at heart he de- spised that Revolutionary legacy, the ((free- dom of the seas and the invasion of England,)) if he always intended to destroy Great Britain, not by direct attack on land or sea, but by isolating her through the destruction of her Continental allies, he might still be furious that his best efforts had resulted in so trivial a display, and that not only England, but her allies, would look upon this fiasco by sea as a presage of similar results in the coming land campaign. History must accept this dilemma: either England or France was the author of the Russian and Austrian alliance which brought in those wars that drenched Euro- pean soil with human blood. Either Pitt, by his subsidies and diplomacy, turned an army intended for the invasion of England against his Continental allies, or else Napoleon taunted and exasperated them into a coalition for his own purposes. If the latter be true, then all the thousand indications that the French Emperor was never serious about the inva- sion are trustworthythe rest is but the dust behind which he was manomvering. His diplo- macy, his stratagem, his own statements to this effect, his notorious Continental block- ade, are all in perfect accord as coherent parts of one plan. NAPOLEONS GRAND ARMY AND GRAND STRATEGY. THE first distribution of crosses after the institution of the Legion of Honor took place in July, 1804, with great pomp, at the Hospi- tal of the Invalides; the second had occurred at Boulogne just a year later, when the ((Lit- tle Corporal)) had appeared among his men to distribute the coveted decorations with his own hands. So skilfully was the distribu- tion managed that no man, however illiterate or mean, despaired of one day attaining the distinction of his favored comrades. The com- mon soldiers and officers alike were thence- forward the Emperors devoted slaves, and obeyed without question or murmur. Glory or profit, or both, were to be had in his service. They were therefore neither eager for the duty they believed was before them, nor the reverse, but, like fine machines, the compa- nies, battalions, and half brigades performed their daily manomvers of embarking, disem- barking, landing, and making good their footing on the shore, while Napoleon from time to time swept the horizon with a field- glass. Meanwhile his purposes were steadily rea- lizing themselves. By the middle of July it was agreed with the King of Prussia that the French army of occupation in Hanover should be relieved by Prussian troops. This freed Na- poleon from all fear of the 250,000 soldiers which Frederick the Greats successor could put into the field, a force considered through- out Europe to be quite equal in efficiency to that of France. On the 31st the Emperor wrote to Talleyrand that the italian news was all for war; on August 2 the Paris newspapers began to abuse Austria and Russia in unmea- sured terms; on the 12th the ((Moniteur)) summoned Austria to desist from arming, and threatened an advance of the great army at Boulogne from the ocean to Switzerland. Next day the Emperor wrote to Talleyrand that if the court at Vienna gave no heed to his demand, he would attack Austria, be in her capital by November, and thence advance against Russia. He instructed him to com- municate this to the Austrian minister, and to have an answer from the Emperor Francis before the end of the month. This was but the culmination of a series of hints which had been repeatedly given in his private cor- respondence with both Talleyrand and Cam- bac~r?~s. On August 23 the declaration of war was composed and held in readiness. The same day Napoleon again wrote to Talleyrand that 82 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. his resolution was taken: if the fleet appeared in the Channel there was still time, and he would be master of England; if not, he would start for Germany. I march to Vienna, and do not lay down my arms until I have Naples and Venice, and have so enlarged the terri- tories of the Elector of Bavaria that I have nothing more to fear from Austria.)) Two days later in the same correspondence he wrote, ((The Austrians have no idek how quickly my 200,000 will pirouette.)) On the 24th, Marmont received orders to hasten by forced marches from the Texel to Mainz; on the 27th marching orders were issued to the Army of England, the camp at Boulogne was broken up, and the swift columns were hurry- ing eastward before Europe understood what had happened. Duroc was already on his way to offer Hanover to Prussia as the price of a threatening demonstration against Austria. Bernadotte was to mass the army of occupa- tion at G6ttingen. Eug~ne was instructed to collect the troops from northern Italy under Mass~na on the banks of the Adige, and Saint- Cyrto make readyfor the occupationof Naples. The merest layman can not only see the colossal proportions of this plan, but he must recognize as well the symmetry of its parts. It is a matter of opinion whether Napoleon devised it in the few days between the re- ceipt of news that Villeneuve had failed him and the departure for Germany, or whether its combination was the result of a long- studied and carefully concealed design. Ei- ther hypothesis borders on the miraculous, and yet, paradoxical as it may appear, it re- quires less strain on ones reason to believe that both are in a measure correct; the test imposed on the navy having failed, the alter- native which was long foreseen and always preferred became imperative. ~Fesch,~ said the Emperor one bright noon to the cardinal, interrupting a homily on politics, ((do you see that star?)) ((No,)) was the reply. ((Well, then, as I alone can see it, I will go my own way and tolerate no remarks.)) Such is the significant anecdote told by Marmont, and if its truth be not concrete, it is at least ideal. The details of this wonderful march were as carefully foreseen as its line. So rapid xvas it that scouts and spies could scarcely outrun it with reports, and the newspapers were either without information or dared not print what they knew. It was a force of about 200,000 men which crossed the Rhine and passed through Hesse, Baden, and Wiir- teinot. g to crush the utterly disproportion- ate and feeble Austrian army, reaching the Danube valley near ITIm early in October. It was the 3d of September before Francis de- dared war; on the 8th his forces, 60,000 strong, crossed the Inn; on the 21st they were on the Iller in sight of Ulm. It was not so much Bavaria that he had in mind, exaspe- rated as she had been at Austrias attempts during the rearrangement of Germany to secure a good portion of her territory; it was always Italy for which the Danube em- pire was concerned. Her weight in the bal- ance now depended on her keeping the Vene- tian lands. She had twice been humiliated from that side; she would take measures to prevent its reoccurrence. So it happened that she was slow and faltering in an advance which would not only put the Alps between her own two armies, but separate her van from her approaching auxiliaries. The agreement with Russia was that her army, now on the borders of Galicia, and 80,- 000 strong, should enter Austria in three di- visions, the first of which should reach the Inn on October 16. The veteran Archduke Charles was to command the main force in Italy; the youthful Archduke Ferdinand, un- der the direction of Mack as quartermaster- general, that in Germany. The organizing genius of Mack had apparently wrought a wonder in bringing any army worthy of the name into the field, and the worker of this miracle was proud and over-confident. Na- poleon had made the acquaintance of this officer six years before while he was a pris- oner of war at Paris, and considered him entirely mediocre ((likely to get a lesson if ever opposed to a first-rate French general.)) Now that the two were matched the Emperor must have laughed in his sleeve, for he played with his adversary in a spirit of confident and amused assurance. In order to apprehend Napoleons supernal greatness it is essential at this period of his life to shut out of view the man and politician, and fix the eye again on the general; to see him, moreover, solely as a strategist. It may be said that he was for the first and last time unhampered. His political independence and personal popularity were alike secure. His army was the best in Europe, composed of young and well-drilled conscripts, who had been eighteen months under arms, with a large nucleus of trained veterans. Of the generals who commanded the seven corps destined for Germany only two, Augereau and Bernadotte, were over forty years of age. The Emperor himself, Soult, Lannes, and Ney were thirty-six, Davout was thirty-five, and Marmont only thirty-one. Of the division commanders one half were between thirty H H z 0 0 z H z Yoi. LI. 34 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. and forty, while oniy a single one was fifty. Not one of these men was commonplace. They knew their profession, and had prac- tised it with success; they were without an exception self-reliant and enterprising, famil- iar with their leaders methods and require- ments. Napoleon himself forgot entirely that he was an emperor, and was first and last throughout the campaign a general. It is a strain on the most elastic credulity to be- lieve the recorded details of his activity. Every highway and cross-road from Boulogne to the Danube had been surveyed by his confi- dential officers and circumstantially described to him; and out of these reports he evolved a plan for the march which included every essential provision, and was executed to the letter under his personal direction. From day to day he sat with map and compass in hand, fixing like a chief of staff the position at the moment of every division of the swift- marching troops. The order for crossing the Rhine is a classic in military literature. No sooner was the advance from one line to an- other complete than reserve camps were established in the rear, the strong places fortified, and depots of munitions established. It was, therefore, with a perfect finish that the march took place, with an exact calcu- lation of means to end, and with no loss of power. The Austrians had chosen for defense the line of the Iller. In addition to their main force of 60,000, there were 12,000 in the fortified camp at Braunau, which contained their stores, and 15,000 on Lake Constance. They had not compelled Bavaria either to disarm or to accept their alliance, and the Elector had consequently gathered an army at Bamberg. Such was the situation when the French and Austrians came within striking distance of each other. The latter did not know that their foe was so near, for by a masterly and seemingly reckless use of his cavalry Napoleon had temporarily misled them as to the true position of his columns, which had flanked the Black Forest, and were holding the northeast line from Weissenburg southwesterly to Ulm by N~iirdlingen and Aalen, being actually in the rear of their enemy. The next move of Napoleon was one of daring genius. By a series of carefully pre- scribed marches, continuing for a week, the seven corps were all thrown northward to the left as if to surround the enemy. Ber- nadotte, violating the Prussian neutrality, crossed the duchy of Ansbach to Ingolstadt; Marmont was at Neuburg; the other five held the line from Heidenheim to Offingen. Every- thing was ready for a further march behind the Austrians. But it was not necessary. Mack learned the facts from the notorious spy Schulmeister, who then, and for a few weeks later, until he learned to despise Macks intelligence, passed between the lines of the contestants, giving authentic news to both. But every Austrian believed that the French people hated Napoleon, and Mack, the over-shrewd commander, concluded that his enemy was facing about in order to re- treat by the southerly line to France! The French people, he thought, were threatening revolution and causing anxiety; the English, he was positive, were about to make a land- ing. So he stood still and waited until, on October 7, the French, instead of marching for home, began to cross the Danube. Three weeks after the passage of the Rhine, the Emperor wrote to Josephine: ~I have destroyed the enemy merely by marches.)) It was literally true. On October 9, the French, having beaten the parties sent out to harry them, had completed their crossing. Soult seized Memmingen and cut off the retreat to the Tyrol; Bernadotte and Davout remained to observe the Russians, whom they expected to see at any moment, although as yet they had not put in an appearance. In a sort of dazed uncertainty Mack finally made a deci- sion and marched out from Ulm to cross the Danube at Giinzburg; but he found Ney in possession of the bridge, and in the night of the 10th he returned to the city. Two days were spent in discussions as to the probable course of the French, Mack persisting in the hallucination that they had retreated, the archduke, with better sense, perceiving that the toils were ever drawing closer about his army. On the 12th Napoleon felt that ((the de- cisive moment had arrived.)) He had been expecting another advance, but as none came he moved with his whole force. The Arch- duke Ferdinand escaped into Bohemia with three battalions of infantry and eleven cav- alry squadrons; but Mack, who finally changed his mind, and now persistently believed that the Emperor was going to attack the Rus- sians, remained, as he said, to strike the pass- ing columns of the French on their flank! On the 13th he was disenchanted, as it became clear that the goal of the enemy was Ulm; on the 14th they had virtually beset the town; and on the 16th the mortified and humili- ated Mack opened negotiations for surrender, which were completed the following day. Voi. LI - 36 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. Without a serious fight the Austrians were overwhelmed. If within a week,)) ran the terms, ((the auxiliary forces do not appear, the army of Ulm are prisoners of war: ex- cept the officers, who march out on parole.)) On the 18th, Murat captured the division of Werneck at Niirdlingen. In a personal in- terview between the Emperor and Mack on October 20, three days before the expiration of his term, the latter was wheedled into ad- mitting the terms as already complete. While the 23,000 Austrians went through the forms of surrender, Napoleon, as one of their officers wrote in his journal, ((in the simplest garb, surrounded by his embroidered marshals, chatted with Mack and several of our generals, who, after laying down their arms, had been summoned to him. The Em- peror, in the uniform of a common soldier, with a gray coat singed on the elbows and tails, a slouch hat without any badge of dis- tinction on his head, his arms crossed behind his back, and warming himself at a camp-fire, conversed with vivacity, and made himself agreeable.)) An Aust~ian corps had started from Vienna to guard the crossing of the Inn; the Arch- (luke John was advancing from the Tyrol; the Archduke Charles was holding the Adige. A month later all these were able to unite at Marburg in Styria; but they were reduced to assuming the defensive, and Macks capitula- tion at Ulm was the virtual destruction of Austrias offensive power. For the moment the pride of Francis was crushed, since the safety of his capital depended not on its feeble garrison, but on the Russians, who had gathered on the Inn at Braunau and on the Enns at Wels. Almost immediately the French, who had ((been gathered to strike,)) were ((separated to live,)) as their command- ers motto ran. Ten days later so great was the panic of their enemies that Braunau with all its stores fell into the hands of Lannes without a blow, and the van of the allies be- gan a somewhat precipitate retreat toward the river Enns, the line which the Aulic Coun- cil at Vienna had determined to defend. But Kutusoff, the Russian general, was not of the same mind, and prepared to abandon the defense of Vienna in order to secure, if possible, the support of the second division of his emperors army, which was advancing under Buxh~iwden from the frontier. Accord- ingly he crossed to the left bank of the Danube at Krems, and hastened northeast- ward toward Znaim, and thence toward Brijun, the capital of Moravia. Murat had been in- structed to follow with his cavalry and hang on the enemys skirts, harassing his retreat. Instead, he kept down the right bank of the Danube, hastening toward Vienna for the laurels he hoped to seize in occupying that undefended capital. I cannot explain your behavior,)) wrote Napoleon to his brother-in- law; ~~you have lost me two days, and thought only on the glory of entering Vienna. There is no glory where there is no danger.)) In fact, an unsupported division under Mortier was caught by the Russians on the left bank and utterly destroyed. A victory won at Leoben by Ney over the Austrian division of Merveldt was unfortunately productive of no results, and left Napoleons situation very difficult. There was nothing now possible but for MuraL to secure the river at Vienna, cross with two army corps, and hurry backward toward the northwest to prevent Kutusoff from reaching Moravia. This order was obeyed. Entering Vienna on the 13th, Murat has- tened to the Tabor bridge, which he found all laid with combustibles ready to be set on fire by a garrison troop of Austrians whq had re- treated to the opposite shore. The danger was real and the crisis imminent. Taking advantage of the fact that on the 3d the Emperor Francis had vainly endeavored to open negotiations with Napoleon, Murat declared to the Austrian commander what he knew to be an untruththat an armistice had been concluded, and that there was still some prospect of peace. Bertrand fortified the statement by his word of honor; the Aus- trians withheld their torches, and the French crossed the bridge, while the victimized gar- rison drew back in the direction of Briinn. The union of the two Russian divisions with the remnants of the Austrian army was thus rendered doubtful, and their chances of de- feating the reunited French were doubly un- certain. Napoleons reputation as a strategist was saved in extremity. By another series of almost superhuman marches his main army reached Vienna on the next day, ready to fol- low on Murats heels. On the 14th Napoleons headquarters were established in the palace of Schdnbrunn. William M. Sloane. (To be continued.) 0 z q 0

Bret Harte Harte, Bret The Devotion of Enriquez 37-51

0 z q 0 H H THE DEVOTION OP ENRJQUEZ. 39 ing, brandishing his silken signals like a bal- lerinas scarf in the languishment or fire of passion, until, in a final figure, where the con- quered and submitting fair one usually sinks into the arms of her partner, need it be said that the ingenious Enriquez was found in the center of the floor supporting four of the dancers! Yet he was by no means unduly ex- cited either by the plaudits of the crowd or by his evident success with the fair. ((Ah, be- lieve me, it is nothing,)) he said quietly, roll- ing a fresh cigarette as he leaned against the doorway. ((Possibly I shall have to offer the chocolate or the wine to thees girls, or make to them a promenade in the moonlight on the veranda. It is ever so. Unless, my friend,)) he said, suddenly turning toward me in an ex- cess of chivalrous self-abnegation, ((unless you shall yourself take my place. Behold, I gif them to you! I vamos! I vanish! I make track! I skedaddle!~ I think he would have carried his extravagance to the point of sum- moning his four gipsy witches of partners, and committing them to my care, if the crowd had not at that moment parted before the remaining dancers, and left one of the on- lookers, a tall, slender girl, calmly survey- ing them through gold-rimmed eye-glasses in complete critical absorption. I stared in amazement and consternation; for I recog- nized in the fair stranger Miss Urania Mannersley, the Congregational ministers niece Everybody knew Rainie Mannersley throughout the length and breadth of the Encinal. She was at once the envy and the goad of the daughters of those Southwestern and Eastern immigrants who had settled in the valley. She was correct, she was critical, she was faultless and observant. She was proper, yet independent; she was highly educated; she was suspected of knowing Latin and Greek; she even spelled correctly! She could wither the plainest field nosegay in the hands of other girls by giving the flowers their bo- tanical names. She never said, ((Aint you?)) but ((Are nt you?)) She looked upon ((Did I which?)) as an incomplete and imperfect form of ((What did I do?)) She quoted from Browning and Tennyson, and was believed to have read them. She was from Boston. What could she possibly be doing at a free-and-easy fandango? Even if these facts were not already fa- miliar to every one there, her outward ap- pearance would have attracted attention. Contrasted with the gorgeous red, black, and yellow skirts of the dancers, her plain, tightly fitting gown and hat, all of one delicate gray, were sufficiently notable in themselves, even had they not seemed, like the girl herself, a kind of quiet protest to the glaring flounces before her. Her small, straight waist and flat back brought into greater relief the corset- less, waistless, swaying figures of the Mexi- can girls; and her long, slim, well-booted feet, peeping from the stiff, white edges of her short skirt, made their broad, low-quartered slippers, held on by the big toe, appear more preposterous than ever. Suddenly she seemed to realize that she was standing there alone, but without fear or embarrassment. She drew back a little, glanced carelessly behind her as if missing some previous companion, and then her eyes fell upon mine. She smiled an easy recognition; then, a moment later, her glance rested more curiously upon Enriquez, who was still by my side. I disengaged my- self and instantly joined her, particularly as I noticed that a few of the other bystanders were beginning to stare at her with little reserve. ((Is nt it the most extraordinary thing you ever saw?)) she said quietly. Then, presently noticing the look of embarrassment on my face, she went on, more by way of conversa- tion than of explanation: I just left uncle making a call on a parishioner next door, and was going home with Jocasta [a peon servant of her uncles], when I heard the music, and dropped in. I dont know what has become of her,)) she added, glancing round the room again; ((she seemed perfectly wild when she saw that creature over there bounding about with his handkerchiefs. You were speaking to him just now. Do tell meis he real ?~ ((I should think there was little doubt of that,)) I said, with a vague laugh. ((You know what I mean,)) she said sim- ply. ~Is he quite sane? Does he do that because he likes it, or is he paid for it?~ This was too much. I pointed out some- what hurriedly that he was a scion of one of the oldest Castilian families, that the per- formance was a national gipsy dance which he had joined in as a patriot and a patron, and that he was my dearest friend. At the same time I was conscious that I wished she had nt seen his last performance. ((You dont mean to say that all that he did was in the dance?)) she said. ~I dont believe it. It was only like him.)) As I hesi- tated over this palpable truth, she went on: ((I do wish he d do it again. Dont you think you could make him?)) ((Perhaps he might if you asked him,)) I said a little maliciously. ((Of course I should nt do that,)) she re turned quietly. ((All the same, I do believe he is really going to do itor something else. Do look!)) I looked, and to my horror saw that Enri- quez, possibly incited by the delicate gold eye-glasses of Miss Mannersley, had divested himself of his coat, and was winding the four handkerchiefs, tied together, picturesquely around his waist, preparatory to some new performance. I tried furtively to give him a warning look, but in vain. ((Is nt he really too absurd for anything?)) said Miss Mannersley, yet with a certain comfortable anticipation in her voice. ((You know, I never saw anything like this before. I would nt have believed such a creature could have existedA Even had I succeeded in warning him, I ENRIQURE IN THE RING. THE DEVOTION OF ENRIQUEZ. 41 doubt if it would have been of any avail. For, seizing a guitar from one of the musicians, he struck a few chords, and suddenly began to zigzag into the center of the floor, swaying his body languishingly from side to side in time with the music and the pitch of a thin Spanish tenor. It was a gipsy love-song. Possibly Miss Mannersleys lingual accom- plishments did not include a knowledge of Castilian, but she could not fail to see that the gestures and illustrative pantomime were ad- dressed to her. Passionately assuring her that she was the most favored daughter of the Virgin, that her eyes were like votive tapers, and yet in the same breath accusing her of being a ((brigand)) and ((assassin)) in her attitude toward ((his heart,)) he balanced with quivering timidity toward her, threw an imaginary cloak in front of her neat boots as a carpet for her to tread on, and with a final astonishing pirouette and a languishing twang of his guitar, sank on one knee, and blew, with a rose, a kiss at her feet. If I had been seriously angry with him be- fore for his grotesque extravagance, I could have pitied l~im now for the young girls ab- soldte unconsciousness of anything but his utter ludicrousness. The applause of dancers and bystanders was instantaneous and hearty; her only contribution to it was a slight part- ing of her thin red lips in a half-incredulous smile. In the silence that followed the ap- plause, as Enriquez walked pantingly away, I heard her saying, half to herself, ((Certainly a most extraordinary creature!)) In my in- dignation I could not help turning suddenly upon her and looking straight into her eyes. They were brown, with that peculiar velvet opacity common to the pupils of near-sighted persons, and seemed to defy internal scru- tiny. She only repeated carelessly, ((Is nt he?)) and added: ((Please see if you can find Jocasta. I suppose we ought to be going now; and I dare say he wont be doing it again. Ah! there she is. Good gracious, child! what have you got there?)) It was Enriquezs rose, which Jocasta had picked up, and was timidly holding out toward her mistress. ((Heavens! I dont want it. Keep it your- self.)) I walked with them to the door, as I did not fancy a certain glitter in the black eyes of the Seftoritas Manuela and Pepita, who were watching her curiously. But I think she was as oblivious of this as she was of Enri- quezs particular attentions. As we reached the street I felt that I ought to say some- thing more. ((You know,)) I began casually, ((that al- though those poor people meet here in this public way, their gathering is really quite a homely pastoral and a national custom; and these girls are all honest, hard-working peons or servants enjoying themselves in quite the old idyllic fashion.)) ((Certainly,)) said the young girl, half ab- stractedly. ((Of course it s a Moorish dance, originally brought over, I suppose, by those old Andalusian immigrants two hundred years ago. It s quite Arabic in its suggestions. I have got something like it in an old cancion- ero I picked up at a book-stall in Boston. But,)) she added, with a gasp of reminiscent satisfaction, ((that s not he. Oh, no! he is decidedly original. Heavens! yes.~ I turned away in some discomfiture to join Enriquez, who was calmly awaiting me, with a cigarette in his mouth, outside the sala. Yet he looked so unconscious of any previous ab- surdity that I hesitated in what I thought was a necessary warning. He, however, quickly precipitated it. Glancing after the retreating figures of the two women, he said, ((Thees mees from Boston is return to her house. You do not accompany her? I shall. Behold meI am there.)) But I linked my arm firmly in his. Then I pointed out, first, that she was already accompanied by a servant; sec- ondly, that if I, who knew her, had hesitated to offer myself as an escort, it was hardly proper for him, a perfect stranger, to take that liberty; that Miss Mannersley was very punctilious of etiquette, which he, as a Cas- tilian gentleman, ought to appreciate. ((But will she not regard lofethe admir- ationexcessif?~ he said, twirling his thin little mustache meditatively. ((No; she will not,)) I returned sharply; ((and you ought to understand that she is on a differ- ent level from your Manuelas and Carmens.~ ((Pardon, my friend,)) he said gravely; ((thees women are ever the same. There is a proverb in my language. Listen: (Whether the sharp blade of the Toledo pierce the satin or the goatskin, it shall find behind it ever the same heart to wound.) I am that Toledo bladeor possibly it is you, my friend. Where- fore, let us together pursue this girl of Bos- ton on the instant.)) But I kept my grasp on Enriquezs arm, and succeeded in restraining his mercurial impulses for the moment. He halted, and puffed vigorously at his cigarette; but the next instant he started forward again. ((Let us, however, follow with discretion in the rear: we shall pass the house; we shall gaze at it; it shall touch her heart.)) 42 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. Ridiculous as was this following of the young girl we had just parted from in point of fact, I knew that Enriquez was quite capa- ble of attempting it alone, and I thought it better to humor him by consenting to walk with him in that direction; but I felt it neces- sary to say: I ought to warn you that Miss Mannersley already looks upon your performances at the sala as something outr~ and peculiar, and if I were you I should nt do anything to deepen that impression.)) ((You are saying she ees shock?)) said En- riquez, gravely. I felt I could not conscientiously say that she was shocked, and he saw my hesitation. ((Then she have jealousy of the master,)) he suggested, with insufferable complacency. ((You observe! I have already said. It is ever 50.)) I could stand it no longer. ((Look here, Harry,)) I said, ~if you must know it, she looks upon you as an acrobata paid performer.)) ((Ah! ~ his black eyes sparkled ((the tor- ero, the man who fight the bull, he is also an acrobat.)) ((Yes; but she thinks you a clown, a gra- cioso de teatro, there!)) ((Then I have make her laugh?)) he said coolly. I dont think he had; but I shrugged my shoulders. I3ueno!~ he said cheerfully. ((Lofe, he begin with a laugh, he make feenish with a sigh.)) I turned to look at him in the moonlight. His face presented its habitual Spanish grav- itya gravity that was almost ironical. His small black eyes had their characteristic ir- responsible audacitythe irresponsibility of the vivacious young animal. It could not be possible that he was really touched with the placid frigidities of Miss Mannersley. I re- membered his equally elastic gallantries with Miss Pinky Smith, a blonde Western belle, from which both had harmlessly rebounded. As we walked on slowly I continued more persuasively: ((Of course this is only your nonsense; but dont you see, Miss Manners- ley thinks it all in earnest and really your nature?)) I hesitated, for it suddenly struck me that it was really his nature. And hang it all !you dont want her to believe you a common buffoon, or some intoxicated muchacho.~ ((Intoxicated?)) repeated Enriquez, with exasperating languishment. ((Yes; that is the word that shall express itself. My friend, you have made a shot in the centeryou have ring the bell every time! It is intoxication but not of aguardiente. Look! I have long time an ancestor of whom is a pretty story. One day in church he have seen a young girl a mere peasant girlpass to the confes- sional. He look her in her eye, he stagger,)) here Enriquez wobbled pantomimically into the road, he fall! ~ he would have suited the action to the word if I had not firmly held him up. ((They have take him home, where he have remain without his clothes, and have dance and sing. But it was the drunkenness of lofe. And, look you, thees village girl is a nothing, not even pretty. The name of my ancestor wasn ((Don Quixote de la Mancha,~ I suggested maliciously. I suspected as much. Come along. That will do.)) ((My ancestors name,)) continued Enriquez, gravely, ((was Antonio Hermenegildo de Sal- vatierra, which is not the same. Thees Don Quixote of whom you speak exist not at all.)) ((Never mind. Only, for heavens sake, as we are nearing the house, dont make a fool of yourself again.)) It was a wonderful moonlight night. ~The deep redwood porch of the Mannersley ~par- sonage, under the shadow of a great oak, the largest in the Encinal, was diapered in black and silver. As the women stepped upon the porch their shadows were silhouetted against the door. Miss Mannersley paused for an in- stant, and turned to give a last look at the beauty of the night as Jocasta entered. Her glance fell upon us as we passed. She nodded carelessly and unaffectedly to me, but as she recognized Enriquez she looked a little longer at him with her previous cold and invincible curiosity. To my horror Enriquez began in- stantlyto affect a slight tremulousness of gait and a difficulty of breathing; but I gripped his arm savagely, and managed to get him past the house as the door closed finally on the young lady. ((You do not comprehend, friend Pancho,)) he said gravely, ((but those eye in their glass are as the espejo ustorio, the burning mirror. They burn, they consume me here like paper. Let us affix to ourselves thees tree. She will, without doubt, appear at her window. We shall salute her for good-night.)) ((We will do nothing of the kind,)) I said sharply. Finding that I was determined, he permitted me to lead him away. I was de- lighted to notice, however, that he had in- dicated the window which I knew was the ministers study, and that as the bedrooms were in the rear of the house, this later in- cident was probably not overseen by the THE DEVOTION OF ENRJQUEZ. 43 young lady or the servant. But I did not part from Enriquez until I saw him safely back to the sala, where I left him sipping chocolate, his arm alternating around the waists of his two previous partners in a de- lightful Arcadian and childlike simplicity, and an apparent utter forgetfulness of Miss Mannersley. The fandangos were usually held on Satur- day night, and the next day, being Sunday, I missed Enriquez; but as he was a devout Catholic I remembered that he was at mass in the morning, and possibly at the bull-fight at San Antonio in the afternoon. But I was somewhat surprised on the Monday morn- ing following, as I was crossing the plaza, to have my arm taken by the Rev. Mr. Manners- ley in the nearest approach to familiarity that was consistent with the reserve of this eminent divine. I looked at him inquiringly. Although scrupulously correct in attire, his features always had a singular resemblance to the national caricature known as ((Uncle Sam,~ but with the humorous expression left out. Softly stroking his goatee with three fingers, he b~gan condescendingly: ((You are, I think, more or less familiar with the char- acteristics and customs of the Spanish as exhibited by the settlers here.)) A thrill of apprehension went through me. Had he heard of Enriquezs proceedings? Had Miss Man- nersley cruelly betrayed him to her uncle? ((I have not given that attention myself to their language and social peculiarities,)) he continued, with a large wave of the hand, ((be- ing much occupied with a study of their re- ligious beliefs and superstitions [it struck me that this was apt to be a common fault of people of the Mannersley type]; but I have refrained from a personal discussion of them; on the contrary, I have held somewhat broad views on the subject of their remarkable mis- sionary work, and have suggested a scheme of co6peration with them, quite independent of doctrinal teaching, to my brethren of other Protestant Christian sects. These views I first incorporated in a sermon last Sunday week, which I am told has created considerable at- tention.)) He stopped and coughed slightly. ~I have not yet heard from any of the Roman clergy, but I am led to believe that my remarks were not ungrateful to Catholics generally.)) I was relieved, although still in some won- der why he should address me on this topic. I had a vague remembrance of having heard that he had said something on Sunday which had offended some Puritans of his flock, but nothing more. He continued: I have just said that I was unacquainted with the character- istics of the Spanish-American race. I pre- sume, however, they have the impulsiveness of their Latin origin. They gesticulateeh? They express their gratitude, their joy, their affection, their emotions generally, by spas- modic movements? They naturally dance-~5 singeh?)) A horrible suspicion crossed my mind; I could only stare helplessly at him. ~I see,)) he said graciously; ((perhaps it is a somewhat general question. I will explain myself. A rather singular occurrence hap- pened to me the other night. I had returned from visiting a parishioner, and was alone in my study, reviewing my sermon for the next day. It must have been quite late before I concluded, for I distinctly remember my niece had returned with her servant fully an hour before. Presently I heard the sounds of a musical instrument in the road, with the ac- cents of some one singing or rehearsing some metrical composition in words that, although couched in a language foreign to me, in ex- pression and modulation gave me the impres- sion of being distinctly adulatory. For some little time, in the greater preoccupation of my task, I paid little attention to the per- formance; but its persistency at length drew me in no mere idle curiosity to the window. From thence, standing in my dressing-gown, and believing myself unperceived, I noticed under the large oak in the roadside the fig- ure of a young man, who, by the imperfect light, appeared to be of Spanish extraction. But I evidently miscalculated my own invisi- bility; for he moved rapidly forward as I came to the window, and in a series of the most ex- traordinary pantomimic gestures saluted me. Beyond my experience of a few Greek plays in earlier days, I confess I am not an adept in the understanding of gesticulation; but it struck me that the various phases of grati- tude, fervor, reverence, and exaltation were successively portrayed. He placed his hands upon his head, his heart, and even clasped them together in this manner.)) To my conster- nation the reverend gentleman here imitated Enriquezs most extravagant pantomime. I am willing to confess,)) he continued, ((that I was singularly moved by them, as well as by the highly creditable and Christian in- terest that evidently produced them. At last I opened the window. Leaning out, I told him that I regretted that the lateness of the hour prevented any further response from me than a grateful though hurried acknowledgment of his praiseworthy emotion, but that I should be glad to see him for a few moments in the vestry before service the next day, or at early candle-light, before the meeting of the Bible 44 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. class. I told him that as my sole purpose had been the creation of an evangelical brother- hood and the exclusion of merely doctrinal views, nothing could be more gratifying to me than his spontaneous and unsolicited tes- timony to my motives. He appeared for an in- stant to be deeply affected, and, indeed, quite overcome with emotion, and then gracefully retired, with some agility and a slight salta- tory movement.~ He paused. A sudden and overwhelming idea took possession of me, and I looked im- pulsively into his face. Was it possible that for once Enriquezs ironical extravagance had been understood, met, and vanquished by a master hand? But the Rev. Mr. Man- nersleys self-satisfied face betrayed no am- biguity or lurking humor. He was evidently in earnest; he had complacently accepted for himself the abandoned Enriquezs serenade to his niece. I felt a hysterical desire to laugh, but it was checked by my companions next words. 4 informed my niece of the occurrence in the morning at breakfast. She had not heard anything of the strange performance, but she a~reed with me as to its undoubted origin in a grateful recognition of my liberal efforts toward his coreligionists. It was she, in fact, who suggested that your knowledge of these people might corroborate my im- pressions)) I was dumfounded. Had Miss Mannersley, who must have recognized Enriquezs hand in this, concealed the fact in a desire to shield him? But this was so inconsistent with her utter indifference to him, except as a gro- tesque study, that she would have been more likely to tell her uncle all about his pre- vious performance. Nor could it be that she wished to conceal her visit to the fandango. She was far too independent for that, and it was even possible that the reverend gentle- man, in his desire to know more of Enriquezs compatriots, would not have objected. In my confusion I meekly added my conviction to hers, congratulated him upon his evident suc- cess, and slipped away. But I was burning with a desire to see Enriquez and know all. He was imaginative, but not untruthful. Un- fortunately, I learned that he was just then following one of his erratic impulses, and had gone to a rodeo at his cousins, in the foot- hills, where he was alternately exercising his horsemanship in catching and breaking wild cattle, and delighting his relatives with his incomparable grasp of the American lan- guage and customs, and of the airs of a young man of fashion. Then my thoughts recurred to Miss Mannersley. Had she really been ob- livious that night to Enriquezs serenade? I resolved to find out, if I could, without be- traying Enriquez. Indeed, it was possible, after all, that it might not have been he. Chance favored me. The next evening I was at a party where Miss Mannersley, by rea- son of her position and quality, was a distin- guishedI had almost written a popular guest. But, as I have formerly stated, al- though the youthful fair of the Encinal were flattered by her casual attentions, and secretly admired her superior style and aristocratic calm, they were more or less uneasy under the dominance of her intelligence and education, and were afraid to attempt either confidence or familiarity. They were also singularly jeal- ous of her, for although the average young man was equally afraid of her cleverness and candor, he was not above paying a tremulous and timid court to her for its effect upon her humbler sisters. This evening she was sur- rounded by her usual satellites, including, of course, the local notables and special guests of distinction. She had been discussing, I think, the existence of glaciers on Mount Shasta with a spectacled geologist, and had participated with charming frankness in a conversation on anatomy with the local doctor and a learned professor, when she was asked to take a seat at the piano. She played with remarkable skill and wonderful precision, but coldly and brilliantly. As she sat there in her subdued but perfectly fitting evening dress, her regular profile and short but slender neck firmly set upon her high shoulders, exhaling an atmosphere of refined puritanism and pro- vocative intelligence, the utter incongruity of Enriquezs extravagant attentions if ironical, and their equal hopelessness if not, seemed to me plainer than ever. What had this well- poised, coldly observant spinster to do with that quaintly ironic ruffier, that romantic cynic, that rowdy Don Quixote, that impossi- ble Enriquez? Presently she ceased playing. Her slim, narrow slipper, revealing her thin ankle, remained upon the pedal; her delicate fingers were resting idly on the keys; her head was slightly thrown back, and her nar- row eyebrows prettily knit toward the ceiling in an effort of memory. ((Something of Chopins,)) suggested the geologist, ardently. ((That exquisite sonata!)) pleaded the doc- tor. ((Suthin of Rubinstein. Heard him once,)) said a gentleman of Siskiyou. ((He just made that pianner get up and howl. Play Rube.)) She shook her head with parted lips and THE DEVOTION OF ENRJQUEZ. 45 a slight touch of girlish coquetry in her manner. Then her fingers suddenly dropped upon the keys with a glassy tinkle; there were a few quick pizzicato chords, down went the low pedal with a monotonous strumming, and she presently began to hum to herself. I started,as well I might,for I recognized one of Enriquezs favorite and most extrav- agant guitar solos. It was audacious;. it was barbaric; it was, I fear, vulgar. As I remem- bered it, as he sang it, it recounted the ad- ventures of one Don Francisco, a provincial gallant and roisterer of the most objection- able type. It had one hundred and four verses, which Enriquez never spared me. I shud- dered as in a pleasant, quiet voice the correct Miss Mannersley warbled in musical praise of the pellejo, or wine-skin, and a eulogy of the dice-box came caressingly from her thin red lips. But the company was far differently affected: the strange, wild air and wilder ac- companiment were evidently catching; people moved toward the piano; somebody whistled the air from a distant corner; even the faces of the geologist and doctor brightened. ((A tarantella, I presume?)) blandly sug- gested the doctor. Miss Mannersley stopped, and rose care- lessly from the piano. ((It is a Moorish gipsy song of the fifteenth century,)) she said dryly. ((It seemed sorter familiar, too,)) hesitated one of the young men, timidly, ((like as if dont you know ?you had without knowing it, dont you know? ~ he blushed slightly ((sorter picked it up somewhere.)) ((I (picked it up,) as you call it, in the col- lection of medieval manuscripts of the Har- vard Library, and copied it,)) returned Miss Mannersley, coldly, as she turned away. But I was not inclined to let her off so easily. I presently made my way to her side. ((Your uncle was complimentary enough to consuJt me as to the meaning of the appear- ance of a certain exuberant Spanish visitor at his house the other night.)) I looked into her brown eyes, but my own slipped off her vel- vety pupils without retaining anything. Then she reinforced her gaze with a pince-nez, and said carelessly: ((Oh, it s you? How are you? Well, could you give him any information?)) ((Only generally,)) I returned, still looking into her eyes. ((These people are impulsive. The Spanish blood is a mixture of gold and quicksilver.)) She smiled slightly. ((That reminds me of your volatile friend. He was mercurial enough, certainly. Is he still dancing?)) ((And singing sometimes,)) I responded pointedly. But she only added casually, ((A singular creature,)) without exhibiting the least consciousness, and drifted away, leav- ing me none the wiser. I felt that Enriquez alone could enlighten me. I must see him. I did, but not in the way I expected. There was a bull-fight at San Antonio the next Saturday afternoon, the usual Sunday per- formance being changed in deference to the Sabbatical habits of the Americans. An ad- ditional attraction was offered in the shape of a bull and bear fight, also a concession to American taste, which had voted the bull- fight slow,~ and had averred that the bull ((did not get a fair show.)) I am glad that I am able to spare the reader the usual realis- tic horrors, for in the Californian perform- ances there was very little of the brutality that distinguished this function in the mo- ther country. The horses were not miserable, worn-out hacks, but young and alert mus- tangs; and the display of horsemanship by the picadors was not only wonderful, but secured an almost absolute safety to horse and rider. I never saw a horse gored; although unskilful riders were sometimes thrown in wheeling quickly to avoid the bulls charge, they gen- erally regained their animals without injury. The Plaza de Toros was reached through the decayed and tile-strewn outskirts of an old Spanish village. It was a rudely built, oval amphitheater, with crumbling, whitewashed adobe walls, and roofed only over portions of the gallery reserved for the provincial ((notables,)) but now occupied by a few shop- keepers and their wives, with a sprinkling of American travelers and ranchmen. The im- palpable adobe-dust of the arena was being whirled into the air by the strong onset of the afternoon trade-winds, which happily, how- ever, helped also to dissipate a reek of garlic, and the acrid fumes of cheap tobacco, rolled in corn-husk cigarettes. I was leaning over the second barrier, waiting for the meager and circus-like procession to enter with the keys of the bull-pen, when my attention was attracted to a movement in the reserved gal- lery. A lady and gentleman of a quality that was evidently unfamiliar to the rest of the audience were picking their way along the rickety benches to a front seat. I recognized the geologist with some surprise, and the lady he was leading with still greater astonish- ment. For it was Miss Mannersley, in her pre- cise, well-fitting walking-costumea mono- tone of sober color among the party-colored audience. However, I was perhaps less surprised than the audience, for I was not only becoming as 46 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. accustomed to the young girls vagaries as I had been to Enriquezs extravagance; but I was also satisfied that her uncle might have given her permission to come, as a recog- nition of the Sunday concession of the man- agement, as well as to conciliate his supposed Catholic friends. I watched her sitting there until the first bull had entered, and, after a rather brief play with the picadors and ban- derilleros, was despatched. At the moment when the matador approached the bull with his lethal weapon I was not sorry for an ex- cuse to glance at Miss Mannersley. Her hands were in her lap, her head slightly bent forward over her knees. I fancied that she, too, had dropped her eyes before the brutal situation; to my horror I saw that she had a drawing- book in her hand, and was actually sketching it. I turned my eyes in preference to the dying bull. The second animal led out for this ingen- ious slaughter was, however, more sullen, uncertain, and discomposing to his butchers. He accepted the irony of a trial with gloomy, suspicious eyes, and he declined the chal- lenge of whirling and insulting picadors. He bristled with banderillas like a hedgehog, but remained ~vith his haunches backed against the barrier, at times almost hidden in the fine dust raised by the monotonous stroke of his sullenly pawing hoof his one dull, heavy protest. A vague uneasiness had infected his adversaries; the picadors held aloof, the banderilleros skirmished at a safe distance. The audience resented only the indecision of the bull. Galling epithets were flung at him, followed by cries of ((Espada!)) and, curving his elbow under his short cloak, the matador, with his flashing blade in hand, advanced and stopped. The bull remained motionless. For at that moment a heavier gust of wind than usual swept down upon the arena, lifted a~ suffocating cloud of dust, and whirled it around the tiers of benches and balcony, and for a moment seemed to stop the perform- ance. I heard an exclamation from the geol- ogist, who had risen to his feet. I fancied I heard even a faint cry from Miss Manners- ley; but the next moment, as the dust was slowly settling, we saw a sheet of paper in the air, that had been caught up in this brief cyclone, dropping, dipping from side to side on uncertain wings, until it slowly descended in the very midde of the arena. It was a leaf from Miss Mannersleys sketch-book, the one on which she had been sketching. In the pause that followed it seemed to be the one object that at last excited the bulls growing but tardy ire. He glanced at it with murky, distended eyes; he snorted at it with vague yet troubled fury. Whether he detected his own presentment in Miss Man- nersleys sketch, or whether he recognized it as an unknown and unfamiliar treachery in his surroundings, I could not conjecture; for the next moment the matador, taking advan- tage of the bulls concentration, with a com- placent leer at the audience, advanced toward the paper. But at that instant a young man cleared the barrier into the arena with a single bound, shoved the matador to one side, caught up the paper, turned toward the bal- cony and Miss Mannersley with a gesture of apology, dropped gaily before the bull, knelt down before him with an exaggerated humil- ity, and held up the drawing as if for his inspection. A roar of applause broke from the audience, a cry of warning and exaspera- tion from the attendants, as the goaded bull suddenly charged the stranger. But he sprang to one side with great dexterity, made a cour- teous gesture to the matador as if passing the bull over to him, and, still holding the pa- per in his hand, releaped the barrier, and re- joined the audience in safety. I did not wait to see the deadly, dominant thrust with which the matador received the charging bull; my eyes were following the figure now bounding up the steps to the balcony, where with an exaggerated salutation he laid the drawing in Miss Mannersleys lap and vanished. There was no mistaking that thin, lithe form, the narrow black mustache, and gravely dancing eyes. The audacity of conception, the extrav- agance of execution, the quaint irony of the sequel, could belong to no one but Enriquez. I hurried up to her as the six yoked mules dragged the carcass of the bull away. She was placidly putting up her book, the un- moved focus of a hundred eager and curious eyes. She smiled slightly as she saw me. ((1 was just telling Mr. Briggs what an extraor- dinary creature it was, and how you knew him. He must have had great experience to do that sort of thing so cleverly and safely. Does he do it often? Of course, not just that. But does he pick up cigars and things that I see they throw to the matador? Does he be- long to the management? Mr. Briggs thinks the whole thing was a feint to distract the bull,~ she added, with a wicked glance at the geologist, who, I fancied, looked .disturbed. 4 am afraid,)) I said dryly, ((that his act was as unpremeditated and genuine as it was unusual.)) ((Why afraid?)) It was a matter-of-fact question, but I in- stantly saw my mistake. What right had I to assume that Enriquezs attentions were any THE DEVOTION OP ENRIQUEZ. 47 more genuine than her own easy indifference; and if I suspected that they were, was it fair in me to give my friend away to this heartless coquette? ((You are not very gallant,)) she said, with a slight laugh, as I was hesitating, and turned away with her escort before I could frame a reply. But at least Enriquez was now accessible, and I should gain some information from him. I knew where to find him, unless he were still lounging about the building, intent upon more extravagance; but I waited until I saw Miss Mannersley and Briggs depart without further interruption. The hacienda of Ramon Saltillo, Enriquezs cousin, was on the outskirts of the village. When I arrived there I found Enriquezs pinto mustang steaming in the corral, and, although I was momentarily delayed by the servants at the gateway, I was surprised to find Enriquez himself lying languidly on his back in a ham- mock in the patio. His arms were hanging down listlessly on each side as if in the great- est prostration, yet I could not resist the im- pression that the rascal had only just got into the hammock when he heard of my arrival. ((You hax~e arrive, friend Pancho, in time,)) he said in accents of exaggerated weakness. ((I am absolutely exhaust. I am bursted, caved in, kerfiummoxed. I have behold you, my friend, at the barrier. I speak not, I make no sign at the first, because I was on fire; I speak not at the feenishfor I am exhaust.)) I see; the bull made it lively for you.~ He instantly bounded up in the hammock. ((The bull! Caramba! Not a thousand bulls! And thees one, look you, was a craven. I snap my fingers over his horn; I roll my cigarette under his nose.~ ((Well, thenwhat was it?~ He instantly lay down again, pulling up the sides of the hammock. Presently his voice came from its depths, appealing in hollow tones to the sky. ((He asks methees friend of my soul, thees brother of my life, thees Pancho that I lofewhat it was? He would that I should tell him why I am game in the legs, why I shake in the hand, crack in the voice, and am generally wipe out! And yet he, my pardnerthees Franciscoknow that I have seen the mees from Boston! That I have gaze into the eye, touch the hand, and for the instant possess the picture that hand have drawn! It was a sublime picture, Pancho,)) he said, sitting up again suddenly, ((and have kill the bull before our friend Pepes sword have touch even the bone of hees back and make finish of him.)) ((Look here, Enriquez,)) I said bluntly, ((have you been serenading that girl ?~ He shrugged his shoulders without the least embarrassment, and said: ((Ah, yes. What would you? It is of a necessity.)) ((Well,)) I retorted, ((then you ought to know that her uncle took it all to himself thought you some grateful Catholic pleased with his religious tolerance.)) He did not even smile. ~Bueno,~ he said gravely. ((That make something, too. In thees affair it is well to begin with the duenna. He is the duenna.)) ((And,)) I went on relentlessly, ((her escort told her just now that your exploit in the bull-ring was only a trick to divert the bull, suggested by the management.)) ((Bah! her escort is a geologian. Natur- ally, she is to him as a stone.)) I would have continued, but a peon inter- rupted us at this moment with a sign to En- riquez, who leaped briskly from the hammock, bidding me wait his return from a messenger in the gateway. Still unsatisfied of mind, I waited, and sat down in the hammock that Enriquez had quitted. A scrap of paper was lying in its meshes, which at first appeared to be of the kind from which Enriquez rolled his cigar- ettes; but as I picked it up to throw it away, I found it was of much firmer and stouter material. Looking at it more closely, I was surprised to recognize it as a piece of the tinted drawing-paper torn off the ((block)) that Miss Mannersley had used. It had been deeply creased at right angles as if it had been folded; it looked as if it might have been the outer half of a sheet used for a note. It might have been a trifling circumstance, but it greatly excited my curiosity. I knew that he had returned the sketch to Miss Man- nersley, for I had seen it in her hand. Had she given him another? And if so, why had it been folded to the destruction of the draw- ing? Or was it part of a note which he had destroyed? In the first impulse of discovery I walked quickly with it toward the gateway where Enriquez had disappeared, intending to restore it to him. He was just outside talk- ing with a young girl. I started, for it was JocastaMiss Mannersleys maid. With this added discovery came that sense of uneasiness and indignation with which we illogically are apt to resent the withholding of a friends confidence, even in matters con- cerning only himself. It was no use for me to reason that it was no business of mine, that he was right in keeping a secret that con- cerned anotherand a lady; but I was afraid I was even more meanly resentful because the discovery quite upset my theory of his 48 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. conduct and of Miss Mannersleys attitude toward him. I continued to walk on to the gateway, where I bade Enriquez a hurried good-by, alleging the sudden remembrance of another engagement, but without appearing to recognize the girl, who was moving away, when, to my further discomfiture, the rascal stopped me with an appealing wink, threw his arms around my neck, whispered hoarsely in my ear, ((Ah! you seeyou comprehend but you are the mirror of discretion!)) and returned to Jocasta. But whether this meant that he had received a message from Miss Mannersley, or that he was trying to suborn her maid to carry one, was still uncertain. He was capable of either. During the next two or three weeks I saw him frequently; but as I had resolved to try the effect of ignoring Miss Mannersley in our conversation, I gathered little further of their relations, and, to my surprise, after one or two characteristic extravagances of allusi& i, Enriquez dropped the subject, too. Only one afternoon, as we were parting, he said care- lessly: ((My friend, you are going to the casa of iVlannersley to-night. I too have the honor of the invilation. But you will be my Mercury my Leporelloyou will take of me a mes- sage to thees Mees Boston, that I am crushed, desolated, protraste, and flabbergastedthat I cannot arrive, for I have of that night to sit up with the grandaunt of my brother-in-law, who has a quinsy to the death. It is sad.~ This was the first indication I had received of Miss Mannersleys advances. I was equally surprised at Enriquezs refusal. ((Nonsense!)) I said bluntly. ((Nothing keeps you from going.)) ((My friend,)) returned Enriquez, with a sudden lapse into languishment that seemed to make him absolutely infirm, ((it is every- thing that shall restrain me. I am not strong. I shall become weak of the knee and tremble under the eye of Mees Boston. I shall pre- cipitate myself to the geologian by the throat. Ask me another conundrum that shall be easy.)) He seemed idiotically inflexible, and did not go. But I did. I foQnd Miss Mannersley ex- quisitely dressed and looking singularly ani- mated and pretty. The lambent glow of her inscrutable eye as she turned toward me might have been flattering but for my uneasi- ness in regard to Enriquez. I delivered his excuses as naturally as I could. She stiffened for an instant, and seemed an inch higher. ((I am so sorry,)) she said at last in a level voice. ~I thought he would have been so amusing. Indeed, I had hoped we might try an old Moorish dance together which I have found and was practising.)) ((He would have been delighted, I know. It s a great pity he did nt come with me,~ I said quickly; ((but,)) I could not help adding, with emphasis on her own words, ((he is such an (extraordinary creature,) you know.)) ((I see nothing extraordinary in his devo- tion to an aged relative,)) returned Miss Man- nersley, quietly, as she turned away, ((except that it justifies my respect for his character.)) I do not know why I did not relate this to him. Possibly I had given up trying to under- stand them; perhaps I was beginning to have an idea that he could take care of himself. But I was somewhat surprised a few days later when, after asking me to go with him to a rodeo at his uncles, he added composedly, ((You will meet Mees Boston.)) I stared, and but for his manner would have thought it part of his extravagance. For the rodeoa yearly chase of wild cattle for the purpose of lassoing and branding them was a rather brutal affair, and purely a man~s function; it was also a family affaira prop- erty stock-taking of the great Spanish cattle- ownersand strangers, particularly Amer- icans, found it difficult to gain access to its mysteries and the festa that followed. ((But how did she get an invitation?)) I asked. ((You did not dare to ask)) I began. ~1VIy friend,)) said Enriquez, with a singular deliberation, ((the great and respectable Bos- ton herself, and her serene, venerable oncle, and other Boston magniftcos, have of a truth done me the inexpressible honor to solicit of my degraded, papistical oncle that she shall comethat she shall of her own superior eye behold the barbaric customs of our race.)) His tone and manner were so peculiar that I stepped quickly before him, laid my hands on his shoulders, and looked down into his face. But the actual devil which I now for the first time saw in his eyes went out of them sud- denly, and he relapsed again in affected lan- guishment in his chair. ~I shall be there, friend Pancho,)) he said, with a preposterous gasp. I shall nerve my arm to lasso the bull, and tumble him before her at her feet. I shall throw the (buck-jump) mustang at the same sacred spot. I shall pluck for her the buried chicken at full speed from the ground, and present it to her. You shall see it, friend Pancho. I shall be there.)) He was as good as his word. When Don Pedro Amador, his uncle, installed Miss Man- nersley, with Spanish courtesy, on a raised platform in the long valley where the rodeo took place, the gallant Enriquez selected a bull from the frightened and galloping herd, and, cleverly isolating him from the band, lassoed his hind legs, and threw him exactly before the platform where Miss Mannersley was seated. It was Enriquez who caught the unbroken mustang, sprang from his own sad- dle to the bare back of his captive, and with only the lasso for a bridle, halted him on rigid haunches at Miss Mannersleys feet. It was Enriquez who, in the sports that followed, teaned from his saddle at full speed, caught up the chicken buried to its head in the sand without wringing its neck, and tossed it un- harmed and fluttering toward his mistress. As for her, she wore the same look of animation that I had seen in her face at our previous meeting. Although she did not bring her sketch-book with her, as at the bull-fight, she did not shrink from the branding of the cattle, which took place under her very eyes. Yet I had never seen her and Enriquez to- gether; they had never, to my actual know- ledge, even exchanged words. And now, al- though she was the guest of his uncle, his duties seemed to keep him in the field, and apart from her. Nor, as far as I could de- tect, did either apparently make any effort to have it otherwise. The peculiar circum- stance seemed to attract no attention from any one else. But for what I alone knewor thonght I knewof their actual relations, I should have thought them strangers. But I felt certain that the festa which took place in the broad patio of Don Pedros casa would bring them together. And later in the evening, as we were all sitting on the veranda watching the dancing of the Mexi- can women, whose white-flounced sayas were monotonously rising and falling to the strains of two melancholy harps, Miss Mannersley re- joined us from the house. She seemed to be utterly absorbed and abstracted in the bar- baric dances, and scarcely moved as she leaned over the railing with her cheek resting on her hand. Suddenly she arose with a little cry. ((What is it?~ asked two or three. ((Nothingonly I have lost my fan.)) She had risen, and was looking abstractedly on the floor. Half a dozen men jumped to their feet. Let me fetch it,)) they said. ((No; thank you. I think I know where it is, and will go for it myself.)) She was moving away. But Don Pedro interposed with Spanish gravity. Such a thing was not to be heard of in his casa. If the seiTiorita would not permit him, an old man, to go for it, it must be brought by Enriquez, her cavalier of the day. But Enriquez was not to be found. T glanced ENGRAVED BY C. W. CHADW;CK. HALTED HIM ON RIGID HAUNCHES AT MISS MANKEESLEYS FEET. group of Don Pedros family were excitedly discussing something, and I fancied they turned away awkwardly and consciously as I approached. There was an air of indefinite uneasiness everywhere. A strange fear came over me with the chill of the early morning air. Had anything happened to Enriquez? I had always looked upon his extravagance as part of his playful humor. Could it be pos- sible that under the sting of rejection he had made his grotesque threat of languish- ing effacement real? Surely Miss Mannersley would know or suspect something, if it were the case. I approached one of the Mexican women and asked if the sefiorita had risen. The woman started, and looked covertly round be- fore she replied. Did not Don Pancho know that Miss Mannersley and her maid had not slept in their beds that night, but had gone, none knew where? For an instant I felt an appalling sense of my own responsibility in this suddenly serious situation, and hurried after the retreating family group. But as I entered the corridor a vaquero touched me on the shoulder. He had evidently just dismounted, and was cov- ered with the dust of the road. He handed me a note written in pencil on a leaf from Miss Mannersleys sketch-book. It was in En- riquezs hand, and his signature was followed by his most extravagant rubric. THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. 50 at Miss Mannersleys somewhat disturbed face, and begged her to let me fetch it. I thought I saw a flush of relief come into her pale cheek as she said, in a lower voice, ((On the stone seat in the garden.)) I hurried away, leaving Don Pedro still pro- testing. I knew the gardens, and the stone seat at an angle of the wall, not a dozen yards from the casa. The moon shone full upon it. There, indeed, lay the little gray-feathered fan. But close beside it, also, lay the crum- pled, black, gold-embroidered riding-gauntlet that Enriquez had worn at the rodeo. I thrust it hurriedly into my pocket, and ran back. As I passed through the gateway I asked a peon to send Enriquez to me. The man stared. Did I not know that Don En- riquez had ridden away two minutes ago? When I reached the veranda, I handed the fan to Miss Mannersley without a word. ((Bueno,)) said Don Pedro, gravely; ((it is as well. There shall be no bones broken over the getting of it, for Enriquez, I hear, has had to return to the Encinal this very evening.)) Miss Mannersley retired early. I did not in- form her of my discovery, nor did I seek in any way to penetrate her secret. There was no doubt that she and Enriquez had been to- gether, perhaps not for the first time; but what was the result of their interview? From the young girls demeanor, and Enriquezs hur- ried departure, I could only fear the worst for him. Had he been tempted into some further FRIEND PANCHO: When you read this hue extravagance and been angrily rebuked, or you shall of a possibility think I am no more. had he avowed a real passion concealed under That is where you shall slip up, my little his exaggerated mask and been deliberately brother! I am much moreI am two times rejected? I tossed uneasily half the night, as much, for I have marry Miss Boston. At following in my dreams my poor friends the Mission Church, at five of the morning, hurrying hoof-beats, and ever starting from sharp! No cards shall be left! I kiss the hand my sleep at what I thought was the sound of of my venerable uncle-in-law. You shall say to him that we fly to the South wilderness as galloping hoofs. the combined evangelical missionary to the I rose early, and lounged into the patio; heathen! Miss Boston herself say this. Ta-ta! but others were there before me, and a small How are you now ~ Your own ENRJQUEZ. DRAWN BY GILBERT GAAL. ENGRAVED BY E. HEINEMARN. Bret Harte. I AE4 ON ACCOUNT OF EMMANUEL. wITH PTeTURES BY ALBERT E. STERNER. ing over St. Annes all day parted, and a stream of sunlight came down. It found its way particu- larly into the wide court framed on three sides by the great, straggling build- ing, and the young grass and new verdure there lighted up gaily. All the life of St. Annes throbbed out its daily beats about this court. The long, monotonous fa~ade on the other side turned merely a lifeless mask to the highway, but back here con- centered the physical, mental, and spiritual reasons of its being. Here black-veiled, white- banded nuns flitted to and fro all day; girl- students played or took their promenade at intervals; the kitchens gave out their odors; the class-rooms and music-halls their jargon of sounds; the chapel its prayer and hymn. The sun might stream out over all the thousand acres that St. Annes kept between itself and a crowding, curious world, and it would mean nothing special. But such part of his gift as fell into the court became a matter of personal concern; so that, though the place was vacant for the moment, the sudden brightening there was an invitation sure of prompt acceptance. A door opened be- fore long, and Sister Bethlehem stood framed in the embrasure, smiling. On her arm en- throned, his little yellow curls making a halo about his head, sat Emmanuel, smiling too. Sister Bethlehem looked youngtwenty-four perhaps; but it is not easy to read the light handwriting of time on the faces of nuns. Emmanuel was young likewise not yet three, in fact; and the year was young, hardly well entered on its May. Everywhere was testi clouds which had been lower-. mony of bursting bud and springing blade; and, looking out across the sunny court, Sis- ter Bethlehem and Emmanuel could see the level, fallow meadows, the pastures beyond, and, farthest away of all, the tree-fringes that marked the rivers line, all thinly veiled in green. Even the gray old walls took on something of that look by which at the mo- ment all of natures exteriors betrayed the springtime thrill beneath, and life began to stir at doors and windows. A demure pro- cession of very little girls following Sister Josephine along the porch on their way to play boiled over at sight of Emmanuel, and, as they passed near him, broke ranks to hurl themselves upon him with impassioned kisses; then, scared, but happy, straggled back into line again behind the unsuspecting Sister Jo- sephine. All at once, too, the court was filled with larger girls promenading in exclusive twos with their heads together, exchanging the secrets of their mysterious emotions. Over on the other side the Reverend Mother Ambrose watched the scene from the window of her office. Dr. Smith, tramping along the porch on his way to his patients in the girls infirmary, stopped outside her window for his daily chat, and found her lost in heavy pre- occupation. His eyes followed her gaze till they fell on Sister Bethlehem and Emmanuel in their doorway opposite, smiling down with placid sympathy on the game of fox and geese which the little girls were organizing in the court. He brightened at the sight. ((Ha!)) he exclaimed, ((bring out your Raphael, if you ye got one. Here s the young Madonna.)) Mother Ambrose smiled in silence. The in- ertia of age, and an overburden of flesh, made 51

Bride Neill Taylor Taylor, Bride Neill On Account of Emmanuel 51-63

I AE4 ON ACCOUNT OF EMMANUEL. wITH PTeTURES BY ALBERT E. STERNER. ing over St. Annes all day parted, and a stream of sunlight came down. It found its way particu- larly into the wide court framed on three sides by the great, straggling build- ing, and the young grass and new verdure there lighted up gaily. All the life of St. Annes throbbed out its daily beats about this court. The long, monotonous fa~ade on the other side turned merely a lifeless mask to the highway, but back here con- centered the physical, mental, and spiritual reasons of its being. Here black-veiled, white- banded nuns flitted to and fro all day; girl- students played or took their promenade at intervals; the kitchens gave out their odors; the class-rooms and music-halls their jargon of sounds; the chapel its prayer and hymn. The sun might stream out over all the thousand acres that St. Annes kept between itself and a crowding, curious world, and it would mean nothing special. But such part of his gift as fell into the court became a matter of personal concern; so that, though the place was vacant for the moment, the sudden brightening there was an invitation sure of prompt acceptance. A door opened be- fore long, and Sister Bethlehem stood framed in the embrasure, smiling. On her arm en- throned, his little yellow curls making a halo about his head, sat Emmanuel, smiling too. Sister Bethlehem looked youngtwenty-four perhaps; but it is not easy to read the light handwriting of time on the faces of nuns. Emmanuel was young likewise not yet three, in fact; and the year was young, hardly well entered on its May. Everywhere was testi clouds which had been lower-. mony of bursting bud and springing blade; and, looking out across the sunny court, Sis- ter Bethlehem and Emmanuel could see the level, fallow meadows, the pastures beyond, and, farthest away of all, the tree-fringes that marked the rivers line, all thinly veiled in green. Even the gray old walls took on something of that look by which at the mo- ment all of natures exteriors betrayed the springtime thrill beneath, and life began to stir at doors and windows. A demure pro- cession of very little girls following Sister Josephine along the porch on their way to play boiled over at sight of Emmanuel, and, as they passed near him, broke ranks to hurl themselves upon him with impassioned kisses; then, scared, but happy, straggled back into line again behind the unsuspecting Sister Jo- sephine. All at once, too, the court was filled with larger girls promenading in exclusive twos with their heads together, exchanging the secrets of their mysterious emotions. Over on the other side the Reverend Mother Ambrose watched the scene from the window of her office. Dr. Smith, tramping along the porch on his way to his patients in the girls infirmary, stopped outside her window for his daily chat, and found her lost in heavy pre- occupation. His eyes followed her gaze till they fell on Sister Bethlehem and Emmanuel in their doorway opposite, smiling down with placid sympathy on the game of fox and geese which the little girls were organizing in the court. He brightened at the sight. ((Ha!)) he exclaimed, ((bring out your Raphael, if you ye got one. Here s the young Madonna.)) Mother Ambrose smiled in silence. The in- ertia of age, and an overburden of flesh, made 51 Df~AWN ~Y ALBERr E. STERNER. 5555550 55 M. RAISES. SISTER BETHLEHEM. ON ACCOUNT OF EMMANUEL. 53 her averse to begin talking. Presently, when once she had made a beginning, she would be just as averse to leaving off. but ((Pretty sight, is nt it% the doctor said. Mother Ambrose nodded slowly without moving her eyes, and the doctor, falling under the spell of her silent mood, stood for some minutes studying with her the picture in the doorway opposite. Even across the distance of the court their keen old sight caught the young expression of Sister Bethlehems wide- open gray eyes, and of her full red lips smil- ing with curves too large, perhaps, but very winning. The doctor thought that her rosy face bloomed with a peculiarly human sort of beauty in spite of the spiritual trappings of linen bands and black veiling about it, and to his irreverent professional imagination her tall, generously rounded figure, even though so slightly outlined under its loose serge gar- ments, was animate with the bounding pulse of spring. As he studied her with the beau- tiful child on her arm, the jocose intent went out of his countenance, and the thought which had often irritated him before broke out roughly into words. ((She was nt made for any of your convents. Nature gave all that rich exuberance of life for a better purpose.)) Mother Ambrose found tongue at that. ((My! my! my! you people of the world!)) she said, with a playful assumption of despair. ((You want to keep the best of everything to yourselves, and give the screenings to God.~ ((Not a bit of it,)) he answered bluntly. ~Give her to God as much as you like, but not after the convent fashion. Look at her,)) he exclaimed, waving his arm toward her; ((just look at her! What an ideal mother Sister Bethlehem would have made for half a dozen men and women of the future! I tell you, somebody made an awful blunder when that young woman took the veil.)) ((Goodness knows,)) Mother Ambrose de- clared suddenly, lowering her voice, and drop- ping the air of persistent jocosity she had kept till now, 4 did what I could to hold her back. Nobody was more afraid of a blind sacrifice than I was.)) She leaned her fat hands on the window-sill, and bent toward him confiden- tially. ((Did nt I do everything to show her what the world she wanted to renounce was like? Did nt I take her traveling with me from one end of the country to the other whenever I had to visit any of our mission housesand that for three whole years before she went into the novitiate?)) The doctor threw back his tousled gray head, stamped his foot, and laughed uproariously, irreverently even. Mother Ambrose looked mystified, then hurt. They were friends of thirty years standing, ((I beg your pardon, Reverend Mother, I really do,)) he exclaimed at last; ~but1ha! ha! ha!just imagine what that glimpse of the world must have been like, snatched from the windows of trains and convents under your chaperonage. Avery good guide through heaven, no doubt; but this old worlddont you seeoh-ha! ha! ha!)) And he doubled over in the intensity of his merriment. Mother Ambrose liked a joke almost as well as her friend. As this one gradually revealed itself to her, a gentle commotion set her su- perabundant tissues shaking, and after some moments of internal development culminated in a wheezy laugh. When she could control sufficient breath, she said, wiping her eyes: ((Well, what else could I do? I wanted the worst in the world to find some good, religious family that I could trust her to for a couple of years till she had time to test her voca- tion; butwell, you know yourself that was no easy matter.)) ((Easy enough, I should think.)) She smiled out musingly on the gay life in the court; then, with an impulse of unusual frankness, she came out with a confession. ((If any mistake was made it was made in the beginning. When we found her on the doorstep that night, you remember, we should nt have kept her. We ought to have given her right then to some good mother of a family to bring up with her own children. It was just the same case over again that we had a couple of years ago about Emmanuel. The sisters all begged me so to keep the child. I told them we were nt running ~an orphan asylum, but nothing would do, andwell, after a while we were all so attached to the little thing that we could nt give her up)) ((WhichEmmanuel?)) the doctor inter- rupted with his foolish joke. ((No; of course notSister Bethlehem,)) re- turned Mother Ambrose, impatient of sense- less obstruction, now that she had got fairly going. ((Several times, while she was a child, ladies begged me to let them adopt her; she was a pretty thing, and people took to her)) I should say so.)) ((And once I really did come very near giv- ing her up. I dont believe I ever told you about it.)) She had, time and again; but he had not the heart to say so. ((She was only ten at the time. A good, pious womanvery wealthy, toowanted me to give Sister Bethlehem to her, and I had about half made up my mind to, when the N lAVA Dl A ANA-ASAN DRAWN ALDEAT E. Al RN 11 TVV WAlK AT ST. ANN Th ON ACCOUNT OF EMMANUEL. 55 child herself found it outand, my, the scene there was! ~ She stopped to laugh silently awhile. You dont know Sister Bethlehem when her affections are crossed.)) ((Aha! dont I, though!)) ((Well, anyhow, there was never such a time before nor since as I had with her that time. I never considered the idea again.)) She looked dreamily across to the doorway opposite,which was only an empty frame now, since Sister Bethlehem and Emmanuel had vanished somewhere within,and smiled, partly at her own reminiscences, and partly because a long habit of benignity had given an upward trend to the corners of her mouth. 4 m afraid I ye spoiled her somewhat, giving in to her so often, against my judg- ment.)) She spoke musingly, more to herself than to the doctor, and a faint line of perplexity showed itself incongruously among the curves of her face. The doctor grew complacent at the~sight. ((Oh, Sister Bethlehem s all right,)) he said, patronizingly happy as a bird. That s not what I ~n complaining about. It s the world you ye defraudedthe loss to society.)) Mother Ambrose brightened. ((Well, indeed, so far as society is con- cerned, there are people enough willing to assume the responsibility of replenishing the face of the earthvery little to its better- ment, in my opinion. It behooves a few of us to reserve ourselves to)) The doctor tramped off laughing. ((I wont be dragged into that discussion again,)) he called back over his shoulder. She watched him across the court till he disappeared through an archway near the chapel. With him went her habitual smile, and in its place the line of perplexity drew itself again below the linen band across her faded forehead. The doctor did not know it, being rather a blunderer, but the conversation had been playing very near to the subject of her daily anxiety without actually touching it. That little rogue of an Emmanuel! It all hinged upon him. If he belonged anywhere in the academy, which of course he did not, it was certainly with Sister Josephine and the very little girls. What had ever made her let Sister Bethlehem have him? A baby tumbling about the treasury floor all day, while his nurse added columns, or wrote receipts and duns to patronsvery foolish, very foolish, of course. All very easy to see now. But, worst of all, core of her trouble, Sister Bethlehem was growing more unreasonable about the child every day, abandoning herself to a passion which threat- ened wholly to block her progress to that goal of self-effacement whither every good nun should be painfully toiling. Small effect in- deed had the Reverend Mothers reminders that the true religious must wholly die to self and to personal affections, the better to live for God and for humanity in general. What chance had a cold abstraction like that with this impulsive soul when set against such a temptation as Emmanuel? ((However, there is one hopeful thing about even our worst mistakes,)) thought Mother Ambrose, at this stage of her unhappy self-communings: ((we can at least turn about and try to undo them.)) With that she turned herself about, and set out for the treasury room, calling to mind, as she went ponderousjy along the spacious, bare corridors, a certain hard purpose which had been growing somewhere within her for weeks. The time to do a good deed is now. She loitered on the threshold of the treas- ury a moment before entering, perhaps to harden her purpose a trifle more still. The long room, lighted by a row of tall, uncurtained windows, stretched away in bare perspective, with here and there reflected gleams thrown out from the polished floor and the surfaces of the severe, scant furniture. A little sister with a childish face was busy dusting. She had her black serge skirt pinned up, and a blue apron tied over all. Down at the farther end of the room, near the last window, Sister Jane Frances de Chantal, treasurer of the moneys of St. Annes, sat at her desk over a pile of letters. Near that end of the room where Mother Ambrose stood looking in, Sister Beth- lehem at another desk was adding a long col- umn in the ledger before ~her. Emmanuel sat on the floor beside her, carefully protected from the bare, cold boards by the skirt of her gown, which trailed out scantily under him. While Mother Ambrose, unobserved, stood watching, he reached up and pulled at Sister Bethlehems arm, clamoring for her atten- tion. She put one hand soothingly on his head, while with the other she continued to run her pen up the column; to offset his clamor, she began to add aloud. Put off so, the baby fell to making incoherent confidences to the only plaything at hand, the big crucifix at Sister Bethlehems side. When she had finished the column she turned her attention to him, and found him pressing his wet kisses on the cold surface of the crucifix. With a heart aflame she snatched him up. ((Oh, you angel,)) she cried joyously, ((ser- aph, cherubwas there ever such a darling!)) Then, catching sight of Mother Ambrose ad- vancing heavily into the room, she burst out: 0 H Q) H H cr2 H ON ACCOUNT OF EMMANUEL. 57 ((What do you suppose I found him doing, Reverend Mother? Kissing my crucifix, act- ually.~ She fell to frolicking with him, press- ing her face down into the folds of his chubby neck, and challenging him with laughing pet names. Emmanuel laughed back at her,kicked up his merry heels, and pulled frantically at her veil. The Reverend Mother smiled half reluctantly at the gay abandon of their play, and the little dusting sister looked on with bashful appreciation mixed with wonder. How did Sister Bethlehem dare to frolic like that in the awful presence of the Reverend Mother? ((I m afraid this little man interferes with your work, sister,)) the Reverend Mother said, feeling her way toward her purpose, which all of a sudden began in her own mind to take on a complexidh of cruelty. Sister Bethlehem turned a face of piteous apprehension upon Mother Ambrose. ((Oh, dear Reverend Mother, no really no; not in 4he least. Does he, Sister de Chan- tal ?~ She turned toward that end of the room with a vehement claim for support; but Sister de Chantal, busy with her letters, was for the mon~ent a little deaf. Mother Ambrose went on: ((The end of the session is near, sister, and you will have a great deal to do on your books. Dont you thinkI feel sure it would be better to let Emmanuel stay with Sister Josephine and the little girls.)) Sister Bethlehem tried to smile coaxingly, but her eyes filled with tears. Mother Ambrose felt herself weakening. Very much ashamed of herself, she began to temporize. She knew, without looking, that Sister de Chantal was smiling behind her letter as she continued: ((Only for part of the day, of course, sister, say during the morning hours. There is always more time in the afternoon.)) Sister Bethlehem shook her head perverse- ly, and put both arms about Emmanuel. The baby laid his head against her bosom, and sent a sidelong glance toward Mother Ambrose, as if he understood and disapproved. Mother Ambrose asked herself if her duty did not call for severe measures, and then resumed in a voice more softly expostulating than before: ((Really, sister, you ought to share him with the other sisters. They re all fond of him, and Sister Josephine in particular)) Sister Bethlehems face cleared. ((Of course, dear Reverend Mother, I know I m very selfish. I m afraid I m spoiled ~ with a mischievous glance at her superior. ((I 11 take him to Sister Josephine now, if you say so)~ VOL. LI.8. ((Yes, sister; do. I should be glad,)) Mother Ambrose said in great relief. Whereupon Sis- ter Bethlehem ran out of the room all joyous- ness again. She was back in a second. ((Sister Josephine is to have him only morn- ings, you said, Reverend Mother?)) She put the question with a half-playful air of defi- ancethe air of a favored, spoiled child quite sure of her privileges. ((Yes, yes; I said itonly mornings,)) Mo- ther Ambrose replied, smiling and frowning at the same time. The little dusting sister and the treasurer both smiled, too, but fur- tively. It was an open secret that gave amuse- ment to the entire convent how Sister Joseph- ine felt about the monopoly of Emmanuel. Sister Bethlehem went swiftly down the corridor on her errand of abnegation. As she went she raised Emmanuel high up in her arms, and then let him drop suddenly to the level of her waist, saying in a delighted sing- song which kept time to the up-and-down motion of her arms: ((I know I m naughty and selfish; but he is so fascinating so fascinatingso fascinat- ing!)) Emmanuel fairly shrieked with glee, and their gay clatter came back along the bare hall, and in through the open door of the treasury. Mother Ambrose walked down the long room toward Sister de Chantal, who rose to meet her with her hands pressed upon the pile of open letters on her desk. ((I m very foolishvery weak and foolish,)) she said plaintively. I dont see where it s going to end)); and she shook her head despair- ingly. Sister de Chantal nodded warningly toward the young sister, who, apparently absorbed in dusting the leg of a table, had, nevertheless, an intense listening look in her stooping back. Then she took a key from a pigeon-hol~, and said: ((Sister Anastasia, will you run down to the mail-box and see if the last mail has come? It s a little early, butperhaps)) ((Yes, sister,)) Sister Anastasia said very brightly. It was a full half-hour too early, as she and Sister de Chantal very well knew. ((Will you close the door after you, sister? I feel a draft.)) ((Yes, sister,)) called back the little sister with great cheerfulness; and then as she closed the door carefully she sighed. She could hear the voices of her two elderly su- periors inside beginning to talk earnestly. What a pity she had to go! ((But it is an- other opportunity for the mortification of the unruly body,)) she murmured with a funny assumption of old piety, and so fortified she went on her errand. 58 TilE CENTURY MAGAZINE. IT came to pass in the days immediately following this one that the little Sister Anas- tasia had more opportunities for the mortifi- cation of the unruly body than she could well utilize, and she had a hard struggle with her- self not to grow peevish under the embarrass- ment of this sort of riches. As an example of her trials, hardly a week later Sister Fidelis came into the treasury with a look on her thin, aged face which transfixed Sister Anastasia with interest. Sister Fidelis had charge of the academy parlor by reason of her years, and of a certain sympathetic manner that was thought to fit her particularly for the tiresome business of meeting strangers. ((Sister de Chantal, I m afraid there s trouble ahead.~ Sister Anastasia had been polishing a win- dow at the treasurers elbow. All at once she began to rub hard, as if there were nothing else of interest for her in the world just then. Sister de Chantal looked up at her visitor with a tranquil smile. ((Trouble?)) It was a word which forty years spent amid the shades of St. Annes had robbed of its meaning for Sister de Chantal. Sister Fidelis stirred a sense of h~imor in Sister de Chantal, she was so plainly in the grip of her emotions. ((Yes, sister; trouble indeedtrouble for poor, dear Sister Bethlehem.)) Sister Fidelis spoke with irritable empha- sis. She did not like that calm smile when her own feelings were running riot. Sister de Chantal turned quickly to Sister Anastasia, so hopefully polishing her window. ((Sister, will you go to the study hall and ask the sister in charge to let Lily Cassidy come to me?)) ((Yes, sister,)) said Sister Anastasia, start- ing on her errand with vexation in her heart, but with a pleasant smile on her lips. ((She need nt come for about fifteen min- utes, sister,)) the head of the treasury called after her messenger. ((Yes, sister.)) ((Andoh, sisterwould you kindly close the door after you?)) ((Yes, sister,)) tinkled the gay voice of Sis- ter Anastasia again; but as she shut herself out on the uninteresting side of the treasury door she felt like stamping her foot. Instead, however, she said after a moment, I will offer it up for my sins.)) Since Lily Cassidy was not wanted at the treasury for fifteen minutes, there was no need of hurry, and Sister Anastasia had time to stop on her way to the study hall for little chats with such sisters as she met. She men- tioned to each one that she was afraid there was trouble ahead for poor Sister Bethlehem never mind whatbut trouble; and was nt it too baddear, sweet Sister Bethlehem! This may have been the reason that when Sister Bethlehem went into the community room that evening for the recreation hour she fancied that a queer look ran like a flash across the faces of the sisters assembled there; but later she thought that it must have been some trick of the electric lights shining down on the bewildering array of faces under their bands and veils. Why should they look strangely at her? At all events, they had never been kinder, half a dozen voices calling eagerly to her at once from as many groups to join them. What Sister Fidelis had told Sister de Chantal, after they were quite sure that Sis- ter Anastasia had shut the door, was this: From the corner where she dozed in the par- lor Sister Fidelis had been roused by the sound of voices, and had seen the Reverend Mother standing in the front door of the academy talking to the doctor; and the doctor had seemed angry and expostulating; but of courseyes, that was nothingthe doctor did expostulate a good deal. But a convenient gust blowing inward had carried Mother Am- broses voice to Sister Fidelis just as it framed these words, ((Well, doctor, no matter howhard it seems, they have the first claim to the child, and if they have come to a sense of their duty at last, we ought to thank God for them.)) ((Butbutwoman, Sister Bethlehem)) the doctor had burst out, quite rudely, really; and then the accommodating breeze had died away, leaving Sister Fidelis in a tremble of suspense and grief. Something terrible was going to happen to Sister Bethlehem, who loved the child so. A few days. after there came an old gentle- man, unused evidently, Sister Fidelis thought, to finding himself face to face with women in the religious garb, and, with an air of exag- gerated deference, asked to see the ((lady in charge.)) Sister Fidelis left him closeted with Mother Ambrose, and hastened to share her forebodings with Sister de Chantal; but Sister Bethlehem was at her desk, Emmanuel curled up asleep on two chairs at her side, and Sister Fidelis had to carry her overcharged heart back to the parlor unrelieved. In the days immediately following this omi- nous one it seemed as if the curiosity of Sister Anastasia and the emotions of Sister Fidelis must surely be strained past the point of safety. There were mysterious conferences with strange people in Mother Ambroses office at all hours: the same old gentleman ON ACCOUNT OF EMMANUEL. 59 again, a young man, somewhat jaunty in his bearing, upon whom Sister Fidelis looked with cold suspicion, and a sad-faced elderly wo- man who hurried through the austere spaces of the convent with a shamed and furtive air. Sister de Chantal was asked to step down to the Reverend Mothers office repeatedly. Sis- ter Fidelis had a way of hovering about the door of the treasury room with the lines of anxiety in her face drawn deeper daily; and whenever she found Sister Bethlehem absent, she swooped down on Sister de Chantal with whispered questions and forebodings, much to that well-poised woman~ s inconvenience. In consequence of these ill-timed visits Sister Anastasia was sent on so many futile errands that her stock of meekness ran down to the dregs. Sister Bethlehem, alone unsuspicious, failed to scent the unusual. One June eveningSister Fidelis felt that she should remember it to the day of her deathindescribable odors and soft sounds were coming in from the gardens through wide-open doors and windows, and Sister Beth- lehem came gaily along the corridor that ran behind the Uarlor. She was taking Emmanuel to bed. Her voice, rich with subdued joyous- ness, was carried far down the still passage by the sweetly laden breeze, which went by her in little puffs that flickered the lights shining in the red globes over her head. ((The birdies are in bed. Emmanuel ought to be there, too.)) ((Birdies?)) said Emmanuel. ((Yes, birdies. They re in their little nests, with their little heads under their little wings)) Ittle wings?)) queried the sweet voice. ((Yes, ittle wings; heads under ittle wings; and the mother birdie is twittering to them. Emmanuel must get into his little nest, and his mother birdie)) 8ister Bethlehem,)) said Sister Fidelis, coming out unexpectedly from somewhere, and putting forth a tender hand to stay the younger womans progress ~ Sister Bethle- hem,~ and then stopped. Sister Bethlehem looked down with a smile still in her eyes and on her lips, and under the shaded rosy light beheld the face of the old sister quivering and tearful. ((Why, Sister Fidelish she exclaimed, with a fond concern assumed for kindnesss sake; for the tears of Sister Fidelis were not thought to be a serious matter always. ((You are wanted, Sister Bethlehem, in the Reverend Mothers office.)) ((Right away? Cant I put Emmanuel to bed first?)) Who but this dear, spoiled young creature would ask such a thing? Sister Fidelis thought. ((No, sister; bring him along. He she s wanted too.)) Sister Bethlehem turned and followed Sis- ter Fidelis to the Reverend Mothers office, a sacredly private place, not to be entered lightly on any foolish pretext. It was a small room, furnished without any frivolity of gar- nishment. An electric light under a plain white shade hung above a large table in the middle of the room. Sister de Chantal was standing beside it, facing the door. Her hands were crossed before her, and there was a dis- turbed look on her usually tranquil face. Mo- ther Ambrose had her back to theni, and was looking out of the window into the warm gloom of the sweet-smelling night. Sister Fi- delis closed the door after Sister Bethlehem, and stood with her hand irresolutely on the knob, directing an imploring glance across at the Reverend Mothers back, as if she hoped to see a permission to remain emanating from the folds that veiled it. Sister Bethlehem, with Emmanuel still in her arms, looked from one to another, an expression of wonder and alarm growing in her face. There was something ominous in the silence, in the look and attitude of Sister de Chantal, still more in the persis- tent way in which Mother Ambrose kept her back to them. Emmanuel, drowsy, burrowed under her veil, and settled his head heavily on her shoulder. ((Birdies?)) he murmured. Mother Ambrose turned from the window suddenly with an air of resolution. She looked at Sister Bethlehem a moment, then wavering- ly toward Sister de Chantal. Nobody thought of Sister Fidelis with her hand still on the door- knob. Sister de Chantal gave Mother Ambrose a commanding look, and cast down her eyes. ((Sister, dear sister,)) the Reverend Mother began in a voice that for the first time in her vigorous life showed a quaver of age in it, ((I have to beg your forgiveness.)) She came close to Sister Bethlehem, and laid her hand on the arm that was about Emmanuel. ((I meant to prepare youto give you timeas much time as possibleto strengthen yourself for the sacrifice.)) Sister Bethlehem looked scared, and tight- ened her clasp about Emmanuel. The Rever- end Mother went on: ((They told me it would not be till next monthI thought there was time enough; but circumstances are driving them hard. They have come upon me sud- denly, after all. I do not seem to have any choiceI wanted to warn youdear sister, I have to beg your forgiveness.)) It seemed as if she were going to wander 60 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. about the point forever. Sister Bethlehems lips had fallen apart; her eyes were staring at Mother Ambrose; the color was going slowly out of her face. She clutched with her free hand the wrist of the soothing one Mother Ambrose had placed upon her. She spoke al- most in a whisper: ((Mother, for the love of God, tell me what you have to tell me!)) ((Sister, they have come for the child.)) ((They?)) she cried out angrily. ((Who are they?)) ((Hishisthe agents of his unfortunate mother. It is possible for her to take the child now without fear of exposure, of scandal. She has been married, poor thing; she has gone to live in another place. Theywish to atoneand and, oh, poor sister, she has sent for Emman- uel. We must give him up to-nightnow.)) Sister Bethlehem started back, away from the hand Mother Ambrose still kept upon her. ((She cant have him,)) she declared vio- lently, and unconsciously straining the child to her so tightly that he awoke with a cry. I wont give him to her. What right has she to him?)) she asked with scorn. ((She threw him away-1threw him away, I tell youand on Christmas morning.)) Simultaneously Sister Fidelis and Mother Ambrose made a movement toward her, say- ing in alarm, ((Sister, sister, be calm)); and Sister Fidelis added inarticulately, ((Remem- ber the Holy Habit, sister.)) Mother Ambrose had recourse to pleading. ((We have no choice in the matter, Sister Bethlehem; he belongs to her, you know. If they choose to)) Sister Bethlehem flushed with indignation. ((lie belongs to me,s she said angrily. ((You gave him to me yourself. Who has taken care of him, andand loved)) Sister de Chantal interrupted. She was the only calm one among them. ((Nothing belongs to her who has once re- nounced all.)) At that Sister Bethlehem quailed for an in- stant. She turned a look almost of terror on Sister de Chantal. Then she slipped Emman- uel into a new position, so that he lay across her arms smiling up at her from under his sleepy lids. She began to sob heavily as she looked down at him. ((I cant give him upI cant! Oh, dear, dear Reverend Mother, dont ask it of me!)) Mother Ambrose put her hand before her eyes for a moment. ((Dont make it any harder than it is for us, sister. We all love the child; we all pity you.~ Sister Bethlehem fell upon her knees at this, and Emmanuel slid from her arms down upon the floor, with his sleepy head leaning against her. ((Mother, mother,)) she cried, I need nt give him up unless you say so. They have no right to take him back. Dont make me. I cant stand it. He s all I ye ever had for my own. We belong to each other. We were both cast offboth found on the door-stepboth taken in for charity.)) She sank down over the child crying aloud. Sister Fidelis tried to lift her up, saying tremulously, ((Sister, dear sis- ter.)) It was her feeble effort to give support; but Sister Bethlehem paid no attention to her save to cease her audible crying. Instead she put out one hand, and, grasping Mother Am- broses skirt, knelt there, looking up at her, and mutely weeping. In that attitude she seemed to Mother Ambrose not to have changed since that day when she was only ten, and there had been such a scene. The white bands and black veil were gone, and about her face there was only the curly dark hair that used to frame it. ((It is for your good, dear child,)) the old nun said, bending over her, and weeping with her; ((for your good that we should give him up. You are losing yourself in an unreasona- ble affection. We have been troubled about you. The true religious)) ((Let me keep him just a little longer, then two yearsoneonly a little while. Then I 11 give him up, if you say so.~ Mother Ambrose shook her head. Sister Bethlehem looked up at the other two des- perately; but seeing no hope of help, either in Sister Fideliss hysterical sympathy, or in Sister de Chantals little-disturbed calmness, she turned back to Mother Ambrose with a new appeal. ((Oh, you re hard on me. Think how you ye all had your dear ones at some.time or other all of you but me fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers. There was some one that each of you had to give up when you made your vows. Ive never had any one never till now. Oh, just let me keep him a little while longer! I did nt have any sacrifice to offer when I made my profes- sionthere was nobody for me to give up.)) ((Offer your sacrifice now, sister.)) It was Sister de Chantals voice that again broke in upon her useless pleading. Sister de Chantal might look not quite so tranquil as usual, but she had kept her head. She nodded across Sister Bethlehem to Mother Ambrose that the moment had come for sterner mea- sures. The Reverend Mother plainly needed a prop. There was a silence, except for Sister Bethlehems sobs, while Mother Ambrose drew herself together. She was trying to summon ON ACCOUNT OF EMMANUEL. 61 up a voice that would sound strong and severe. The room adjoining was the parlor. Some one in there now began to pace heavily back and forth. At last Mother Ambrose rose to the demand Sister de Chantals eyes were making on her. ((Sister Bethlehem,)) she said slowly and with a religious solemnity, ((in the name of Holy Obedience, I command you to give up the child.)) Sister Bethlehems sobs ceased. She looked up at the Reverend Mother, grown awful to her in the cold determination of her voice and poise, awful in the demand she made. She grew paler even than before. Her breath came short. Terror looked out of her large eyes. It seemed for a full minute that she was going to speak and could not. The three sisters watched her breathless. At that mo- ment Emmanuel began to whimper; he caught her wide sleeve, and drew himself up from the floor till he stood pressed against her side, pulling at her, and rubbing his sleepy eyes peevishly. She looked at the little face thus brought near a level with her own as she knelt, and then put both arms about him. Sister Fideli~ caught her by the shoulder, and shook her. ((You are commanded in Holy Obedience, sister; in the name of our holy vows.~ Her voice trembled with a kind of horror, and she spoke with unnecessary loudness, as if Sister Bethlehem had removed herself to a distance. Sister Bethlehem turned a rigid face up to her for a moment; then she turned back to the Reverend Mother, waiting with a great show of sternness for her submission. Suddenly she cried out loudly: I cant; oh, God, I cant!)) All at once Mother Ambrose looked gray and old. She motioned to Sister de Chantal, and moved aside, turning her back on the fig- ure down at her feet. Her action revealed what till then her spreading figure had eclipsed a low pedestal in the corner on which stood a small statue of the Sorrowful Mother. At the sight Sister Bethlehem held up her arms with a freshening hope, crying: ((0 Blessed Mother, help me, help me! Dont let them take him away from methat other woman has no right to him! I cant give him up. Oh, soften their hard hearts)) Her voice rose almost to a shriek, and Em- manuel, thoroughly awake now, lifted up his baby voice at sight of her anguish, and wept loudly with her. It was past bearing longer. Sister Fidelis abandoned herself to unre- strained sobbing, and Mother Ambroses shoulders heaved spasmodically. Sister de Chantal stepped forward firmly. She laid hold of Emmanuel under the arms, and tried to draw him up away from the frantic clasp that Sister Bethlehem had thrown about him at her approach. Her voice was husky, but she spoke sternly: ((Sister, this will not do. You offend our Lord and his Mother by forgetting your vow. You must give the child up.~ While she was speaking she continued to draw Emmanuel upward. Sister Bethlehems clasp relaxed, as if in despair she meant at last to yield. She felt him slipping from her till only his ankles remained in the circle of her loosening arms; in another second he would be gone. At the thought she tight- ened her arms with fierce resistance. Sister de Chantal set her teeth hard, and dragged the little body toward her. Emmanuel cried out with fright and pain. Sister Fidelis fluttered above them, crying warningly, but scarcely knowing to which one, ((Sister! sis- ter!)) Sister de Chantal gave a last tug, and Emmanuel slipped free of the detaining clutch about his feet. She thrust him into the arms of poor, quivering Sister Fidelis, whispering: ((Tell them to take him out of the house at once. We 11 send his clothes to-morrow. Wrap your shawl around him.)) There came to Sister Bethlehem the sound of the closing door, and of Emmanuel crying along the corridor; then she fell slowly for- ward at the foot of the pedestal. Mother Am- brose ran to her, and stooping down, lifted the fainting head to her knee. ((Water, for heavens sake, water!)) she called to Sister de Chantal. IT was known about the convent before an- other day that Emmanuel was gone and that Sister Bethlehem was ill. There were tears and questions innumerable in the community roomtears and questions likewise in the students hall. But information was hard to obtain. The Reverend Mother was sacred from intrusion, Sister de Chantal more non- committal even than usual, and Sister Fidelis went off into tears at the hint of a question. The only person willing to disseminate in- formation was Sister Anastasia; but unfor- tunately her interesting recitals always broke off at a critical point with ((And just then Sister de Chantal sent me on an errand.)) Everybody watched the doctors face as he came out of the sisters infirmary each morn- ing. He looked angry, and was seen to pass his old friend Mother Ambrose with a cold bow. The Reverend Mother herself looked feeble. 62 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. After some days Sister Bethlehem was seen from the court sitting at a window of the con- valescents room. By that time commence- ment day had come and gone. The students had departed to their homes, except the few unfortunates who had no homes to go to, and an air of delightful quiet prevailedlike heaven, the sisters told each other. They went across the court to and from the chapel with a frequency possible only to vacation time. The middle of July came thus, and the memory of Emmanuels taking away was los- ing its edge a little,Sister Bethlehem had even been seen at her desk in the treasury the day before, when one morning Sister Anastasia said to Sister Josephine: ((Something has happened. I dont know whatyet; but Sister Fidelis is crying so that Mother has sent for some one else to go to the parlor, Sister de Chantal has been shut up with Mother all morning, Dr. Smith is with them, I am sent for Father John, and tele- grams have been flying back and forth like like snowflakes. As soon as I find out what it s all about, I 11 tell you.)) Later in the day she had another bit of news. Dr. SmiCh, passing the treasury door, walk- ing between the Reverend Mother and Sister de Chantal, was overheard saying: I m glad she s done it. You 11 never forgive the re- mark, of course; but I m glad she s done it. It was a shame to take the child from her. Provided no harm comes to her)) ((But that is it,)) the Reverend Mother had interrupted. ((What but harm can come to her? Where can she have gone?)) That night the knowledge fell like a pall over St. Annes: Sister Bethlehem had gone away; no one knew where. They set such inquiries on foot as they could without awakening suspicion; but hampered as they were by a determination not to let it be known outside of their own community, there was small chance of success. They put their hope elsewhere; there were novenas, litanies, communions, by the hundred; but in spite of faith, the gloom over St. Annes threatened to be perpetual. One morning, several days after the discov- eryof this first calamity,the doctor came to the Reverend Mother with a wicked look. ~I have it,)) he said, almost as if it pleased him. Mother Ambrose looked at him anxious ly. She had only one subject in her mind in these days. She did not smile any more, and she seemed to age a year for every day of anxiety that passed over her. ((I ye had a letter from our old gentleman.)) ((About Emmanuel ?~ ((He 5 gone, too.)) She stared at him speechless. ((Stolen bysome one unknown.)) THIRTY-SIX hours by rail from St. Annes there is a city in which is situated a house of the Good Shepherd. On a morning in this same July there came to the Sister Superior of this house the good nun who had charge of those whom in all tenderness and hope they called the ~Magdalens.~ I wish you would see the young woman we admitted last night as soon as you can, sis- ter. We have never had any one like her. She is crazy with frightstarts at every step; but it is not so much that. She will not give any name for herself or her child; but it is not so much that either. It is her faceOh, sister, her face! It is not possible that it is the face of a sinful woman.)) Half an hour later the strange young woman was sobbing at the knees of the Sister Super- ior. ((Only hide me,)) she begged. ((Only let me stay. I have committed a terrible sinI am lost. Save me. Oh, God, if you turn me away, I have nowhere to gowith the child!)) The sister passed her hand gently over the dark hair that curled close to the head on her knee. ((Our dear Lord did not turn his back on the poor, sinful Magdalen. Neither can we upon you, poor child. Later, perhaps, you will feel able to tell us your story.)) The young woman shuddered under her hand. ((Well, wellif notat all events, stayfor the present with your child.)) She thought a moment, still caressing the close-cropped dark head; then she added, ((And try to remember, dear child, that our Good Shepherd leaves gladly the ninety and nine to seek, with love, the one which is lost.)) THEY are still seeking Sister Bethlehem, but with all secrecy. They are still seeking Emmanuel, but with all secrecy, too. In the chapel at St. Annes there is a stall near the altar of the Sacred Heart in which no one sits. Some hand has tied across the back a strip of black, and no one has the heart to remove it. Every evening, when the night prayers are finished, Mother Am- brose raises her voice a little, there is a sad quaver in it which turns the thoughts of every one of her hearers to the vacant stall, and every head goes lower in a passion of devouter aspiration as she says: ((Let us pray fora special intention.)) Bride Neill Taylor. EQUALITY AS THE BASIS OF GOOD SOCIETY. years ago I knew an elder of the Shakers who differed from many of his brethren in having thought much about the social structure of his sect, though their coin- munal life was rather favorable to thinking in all of them. We were talking one day of the life of the world, which I defended; and he said in concession of my ground at one point, 4f good soci- ety were what it appears to be on the sur- face, I could not find fault with it. If peo- ple in society behaved toward one another from motives of real kindness,as they behave now from motives of politeness, society would be an image of heaven: for in society you see people defer to one another, the strong give way to the ~eak, the brilliant and the gifted will not put the rest at a disadvantage, and they all seem to meet on an equality. The trouble is that their behavior is merely a convention and not a principle; they behave beautifully from politeness and not from kindness.~ I was struck by this philosophy of the fact at the time; I still think it interesting, and I believe that it is essentially true. If not quite an image of heaven, good society appears to me an image of a righteous state on earth; and I find that though it is the stronghold of the prejudices which foster inequality, yet it is the very home of equality. I. PEOPLE often wish to get into good society because they hope to be the superiors of those who remain out of it; but when they are once in it, the ideal of their behavior is equal- ity. In ideal, at least, society is the purely voluntary association of kindred minds and tastes in a region of absolute altruism. If you are asked to a house, the theory is that you are the equal of every person you meet there, and if you behave otherwise, you are vulgar. You are as dear to your host and hostess as any others whom they entreat in the same terms to give them the pleasure of their company. The understanding is that rio distinction will be made between you and them: no one will seek his own advantage, but each will seek the advantage of the rest; nothing shall be suffered to remind you of the selfish world outside. Deference and atten- tion shall be your portion from all, which you will render again. If you are intellectu- ally the inferior of the rest, society will carry its complaisance still farther, and, as Goethe noticed long ago, will adapt its conversation and diversion to your capacity. Even the ser- vitude which tacitly operates your entertain- ment will be delicately used, and addressed in courteous terms. In its finest and gentlest moments society will get rid of the inferiors altogether, and the equals will serve one an- other. We know very well what sometimes hap- pens instead of this. There are some hosts and hostesses who neglect on~ guest and cumber another with favor; snubs and slights are exchanged between the guests, who seize petty occasions to gratify their greed and pride; the servants are coldly and thanklessly used. But we all think these things indecent when we witness them; when we do them our- selves we are ashamed of them, and we feel that we have violated an ideal which should have been sacred. The ideal of society is equality, because to the more enlightened, and to all in their more enlightened moments, inequality is irk- some and offensive. You can have no pleasure of the man you look up to, or the man you look down on; the thing is impossible. Your soul is always seeking the level of your com- panions, and society formulates and ex- presses this instinctive desire for equality. The prince, the distinguished person, if he is a gentleman, will do his best to efface your difference when he meets you in society, and it will be your fault or your misfortune if you cannot let him do so; he will not ask you to be a snob or a toady. Inequality bores him; he is glad to get rid of it; and this is the mood of all good society. The better society is the more it shuns formality and seeks ease and freedom. The aristocrats, the highest equals, call each other by their first names, their nicknames,when they are by themselves, as the plebeians do. II. EQUALITY is such a beautiful thing that I wonder people can ever have any other ideal. It is the only social joy, the only comfort. If 63

William Dean Howells Howells, William Dean Equality as the Basis of Good Society 63-68

EQUALITY AS THE BASIS OF GOOD SOCIETY. years ago I knew an elder of the Shakers who differed from many of his brethren in having thought much about the social structure of his sect, though their coin- munal life was rather favorable to thinking in all of them. We were talking one day of the life of the world, which I defended; and he said in concession of my ground at one point, 4f good soci- ety were what it appears to be on the sur- face, I could not find fault with it. If peo- ple in society behaved toward one another from motives of real kindness,as they behave now from motives of politeness, society would be an image of heaven: for in society you see people defer to one another, the strong give way to the ~eak, the brilliant and the gifted will not put the rest at a disadvantage, and they all seem to meet on an equality. The trouble is that their behavior is merely a convention and not a principle; they behave beautifully from politeness and not from kindness.~ I was struck by this philosophy of the fact at the time; I still think it interesting, and I believe that it is essentially true. If not quite an image of heaven, good society appears to me an image of a righteous state on earth; and I find that though it is the stronghold of the prejudices which foster inequality, yet it is the very home of equality. I. PEOPLE often wish to get into good society because they hope to be the superiors of those who remain out of it; but when they are once in it, the ideal of their behavior is equal- ity. In ideal, at least, society is the purely voluntary association of kindred minds and tastes in a region of absolute altruism. If you are asked to a house, the theory is that you are the equal of every person you meet there, and if you behave otherwise, you are vulgar. You are as dear to your host and hostess as any others whom they entreat in the same terms to give them the pleasure of their company. The understanding is that rio distinction will be made between you and them: no one will seek his own advantage, but each will seek the advantage of the rest; nothing shall be suffered to remind you of the selfish world outside. Deference and atten- tion shall be your portion from all, which you will render again. If you are intellectu- ally the inferior of the rest, society will carry its complaisance still farther, and, as Goethe noticed long ago, will adapt its conversation and diversion to your capacity. Even the ser- vitude which tacitly operates your entertain- ment will be delicately used, and addressed in courteous terms. In its finest and gentlest moments society will get rid of the inferiors altogether, and the equals will serve one an- other. We know very well what sometimes hap- pens instead of this. There are some hosts and hostesses who neglect on~ guest and cumber another with favor; snubs and slights are exchanged between the guests, who seize petty occasions to gratify their greed and pride; the servants are coldly and thanklessly used. But we all think these things indecent when we witness them; when we do them our- selves we are ashamed of them, and we feel that we have violated an ideal which should have been sacred. The ideal of society is equality, because to the more enlightened, and to all in their more enlightened moments, inequality is irk- some and offensive. You can have no pleasure of the man you look up to, or the man you look down on; the thing is impossible. Your soul is always seeking the level of your com- panions, and society formulates and ex- presses this instinctive desire for equality. The prince, the distinguished person, if he is a gentleman, will do his best to efface your difference when he meets you in society, and it will be your fault or your misfortune if you cannot let him do so; he will not ask you to be a snob or a toady. Inequality bores him; he is glad to get rid of it; and this is the mood of all good society. The better society is the more it shuns formality and seeks ease and freedom. The aristocrats, the highest equals, call each other by their first names, their nicknames,when they are by themselves, as the plebeians do. II. EQUALITY is such a beautiful thing that I wonder people can ever have any other ideal. It is the only social joy, the only comfort. If 63 64 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. you meet an inferior or a superior, you are at once wretched. Do you have any pleasure of the man who stands behind your chair at dinner? No more than of the man across the table who, because he is richer or of better family, or of greater distinction, treats you de haut en. bas. You spoil the joy of life for your inferior, just as your superior spoils the joy of life for you. The sense of inferiority in- furiates; the sense of superiority intoxicates. The madness is more or less violent, as tem- perament varies; but in some form it is felt wherever inequality is seen: and good soci- ety, which always hates a scene, instinctively does its best to ignore inequality. Of course it can do this only on a very partial and re- stricted scale, and of course the result is an effect of equality, and not equality itself, or equality merely for the moment. Perhaps it is because we know society to be merely a make-believe in its equality that so many society people regard a real equality as impossible, and are content to remain in the make-believe. But even the pretense of equality is precious, and it has more honesty in it than the pretense of inequality. There is nothing so essentially false as that; and the superior, when he takes thought, is as distinctly aware of the fact as the inferior. Humanity is always seeking equality. The pa- trician wishes to be with his equals because his inferiors make him uneasy; the plebeian wishes to be with his equals because his supe- riors make him unhappy. This fact accounts for inequality itself, for classes. Inferiority and superiority were intolerable t& men, and so they formed themselves into classes, that inside of these classes they might have the peace, the comfort, of equality; and each kept himself to his own class for that reason. Human life, which is fluid and not fixed, is like other fluids in seeking a level. It has always done this in times past, and has not rested till it has found the level of equality in some place or other. It once found this in classes; and these became confluent with the gradual effect of time on their borders, and flowed into orders, larger and vaster. At last the larger expanses have begun to burst their bounds and to meet in the immeasurable level of equality, of society. When we grow impatient of the inequality that still remains, we are apt to say that there is more inequality in the world than ever; but this is not so. There is more and ever more equality, because there is more good society, and good society is immensely better than it was. Once it contained only persons of noble or gentle birth; then per- sons of genteel or sacred callings were ad- mitted; now it welcomes to its level every one of agreeable manners and cultivated mind. This sort are not the less in it because it abounds in offensive and unworthy persons; and it is the spirit of the liberal and friendly people which characterizes it. All that society now asks of people is that they shall behave civilly, and join the rest in doing and saying pleasant things to one another. It asks of them what Christianity asks of sinners: that they shall cease to do evil, at least for the time being, for that afternoon or that evening. Social equality is the expression of an in- stinct implanted in us from the first, as we see in children, who, until they are depraved by their elders, have no conception of social differences. It is true that we often see younger children straining up to the level of their elders, and apparently very happy if they are accepted there; but this is not a real happiness or comfort; it is the gratifi- cation of precocious ambition, inherited or instilled. So we see people of lower station basking in the notice of those they think above them; but they are not happy, and they are very far from comfortable in it. They are flattered, but to be flattered is not to be blessed; it is something as far from that feel- ing of peace which we associate with the idea of happiness as misery itself. It is misery, for it is false. Whenever men are remanded to a situation where personal worth has sway, social equal- ity reappears among them. In danger of any kind, in times of great hardship, in periods of struggle or suspense, in moments of patriotic emotion, equality again characterizes life, and one man is as good as another. In new countries, where people live in the need of neighborhood and kindliness, equality is the rule; they laugh at the notion of anything else. That is the reason why equality was so long the ideal of America, for here we were everywhere emancipated from the old classi- fications by the necessity which knows no etiquette. We were forced to simplify our- selves; the New World, while it was new, had no use for the distinctions and differences of an older civility; and the Easterner, even now, when he goes West, finds a whole sec- tion incredulous of claims which his own sophistication has admitted. It was the return of the race to simple conditions, and its long sojourn in these dur- ing the pioneer period of the middle West, which enabled it to give us Lincoln, ((the first American,)) as Lowell called him in the deepest inspiration of his own life. It can, EQUALITY AS THE BASIS OF GOOD SOCIETY. 65 of course, justly be said that the conditions in which the race gave us Lincoln were rude, but I think that it is not from rudeness that the love of equality comes. Otherwise I cannot understand how the politest society should always strive for equality among its members, and that within its limits it should offer us the truest image of equality now recognizable among men. III. IT is strange that while everybody ac- knowledges good society to be the highest expression of civilization, the purest joy and sweetest pleasure of it, many people, espe- cially society people, should fear to have its greatest blessing, its most delicate beauty and subtlest charm, imparted to the whole of life. If you speak of social equality before some women, they imagine that you want to take their pretty clothes away, and put them in the kitchen along with the cook, or at best expect them to dust their own parlors. Some men conceivg of it with like force and intelli- gence, and ask you if you believe they ought to get no more money for toiling all day in a bank parlor, or managing a large business, than the fellow that works on the roads, or tends a machine in a mill. In either case they stand in abhorrence of what they call the dead level of equality. I do not suppose there was ever a human being who got any good from inequality, and I think one may safely defy those who abhor equality to say what harm there would be in it. I, for my part, should like to have some one say why its level would be dead. Do those people live most who are the most deeply and hopelessly sundered into castes? Were those ages the happiest or the usefulest when there were imasters and slaves, lords and villeins, and every man knew his place; or were they more animated than this, when we have pretty well rid ourselves of such differences, and no man thinks any other mans place right- fully beyond him? Is the arrest of develop- ment greater on the plains of society than on its summits or in its abysses? Is a king par- ticularly alive? Is an aristocrat? Is a peas- ant? Have the inventions, the good books, the beautiful pictures and statues, the just laws, the animal comforts, even, come from the uppermost or the lowermost classes? They have mostly come from the middle classes, from the community lifted above want, but not above work, from the inexhaustible and generous vitality of the widest level of life. VOL. LI.9. If it is from equality, not from inequality, that we have anything to hope, we certainly have nothing to fear from it. I know we are told the inferiors would be very rude and bad if there were no superiors to set them a good example. But hitherto the superiors have only very exceptionally behaved as if this were their office in the world; they have mainly tried to get all the pleasure, and mainly the gross pleasure, they could out of life, at the expense of the inferiors. I do not believe one lovely or amiable thing would be lost if equality were to become the rule and fashion of the whole race, as it is now the rule and fashion of the best and wisest of the race in society. Men have believed that there was something to be gained by setting themselves apart from other men; and they have actually at times believed that those whom they ex- cluded and depressed believed this, too, be- cause they suffered it. But the inferior never believed, even in the depths of slavery, that inequality was a gain to him, whatever it might be to the superior, and he suffered it because he must. It never was a gain to the superior except in some advantages of food, clothing, and shelter. It never made him in any wise a finer, purer, juster man; and it very often made him arrogant, luxurious, bestial. Certain sentimentalists, however, for want of a better grievance, complain of equality as unpicturesque. They are not able, appar- ently, to say why it is unpicturesque, and I never could find that they wished to con- tribute to the picturesqueness of inequality through any discomfort of their own. I never met a single person, of all those who praise inequality, willing to take the lower placp, not to speak of the lowest. What is perhaps stranger still is that none of those who arc down seem to like it, although they are used to being down, and have not the excuse of unfamiliarity with their position, which their superiors might urge if they were asked to descend in the scale. The underlings are not satisfied when the overlings tell them that it is not only fit that they should be where they are, but that it is very picturesque, and that it promotes sympathy in the overlings. With- out troubling themselves to deny that it is picturesque, they invite the overlings to try it awhile themselves, and then they will be better able to say whether it is fit or not. As for sympathy, they would like to be in a position to do a little sympathizing too. I doubt, in fine, if anybody really wants inequality. None but the superiors ever pretend to want it; the inferiors openly or 66. THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. secretly detest it. I doubt whether the su- periors have any comfort in it; the body of a man, especially the face of a man, with his more or less squirming, is not an agreeable footing, and I think no one truly enjoys the bad eminence it gives him. What we truly enjoy in each other is like- ness, not unlikeness. That is what makes the pleasure of good society. There is no rest save on the common ground. If I meet a man of different tradition, different religion, dif- ferent race, different language, I am pleased with him for a moment, as I should be with a fairy or an amiable goblin; but he presently bores me, when the surprise of him is over. I find that we have no common ground. The perpetual yearning of our hearts is for intel- ligent response, and this can come only from our equals, from equality. Many people do not understand this yet, and in my more uncharitable moments I have sometimes suspected that those who talk of the dead level of equality, and who dread or affect to dread equality, are dreaming of pleasure to their pride or vanity from in- equality. They do not propose to be inferiors in the inequality they profess to like; they are greedily promising themselves to be princes and princesses in it, or at least dukes and duchesses, with or without the titles. They are either doing this, or else they are feeling some weakness in themselves which will not bear the test of equality. These are the kind of people who snub or truckle in good soci- ety, and cannot conceive that the good and beauty of society are imperiled whenever its spirit of equality is violated. Still less can they conceive of a whole civility, a uni- versal condition, which shall be governed by the spirit of good society. For the sake of having the man behind their chairs, they are willing to be treated de haut en bas by the man across the table. Such people will try to face you down from the facts that are and that always have been. There is, and there always has been, inequal- ity in the world, in spite of the striving of generous hearts and enlightened minds for equality. Although equality has never ceased to show itself, and effect itself, within the different orders, and in modern times to characterize at least superficially that large composite order which we call good society, civilization is still embruted and endangered by inequality. One need not allege instances; they are abundant in every ones experience and observation; and those who dread or af- fect to dread the dead level of equality are quite right in saying that even in a political democracy there is as much inequality as anywhere. But this does not prove that they are right in admiring it, that it is not offen- sive and stupid. Inequality still persists, but so does theft, so does murder, so does un- chastity, so do almost all the sins and shames that ever were. Inequality is, in fact, the sum of them; in the body of this death they fester and corrupt forever. As long as we have inequality we shall have these sins and shames, which spring from it, and which live on from inferior to superior. Few vices live from equal to equal; but the virtues flourish. iv. MUST we have inequality always? I do not think so. The disparity between the differ- ent sorts and conditions of men is not with- out its supposed remedy even in our con- ditions. The well-known American theory is that all having the same chance to get on top, all will get on top. If this really hap- pened we should have the dead level of equal- ity indeed; but a great many do not get on topso many of the gentle, the kind, the good, that it may be questioned whether the summit would not have its displeasures for people of taste, whether one would altogether like to be seen there. It appears that this specific no longer cures, then; and if inequal- ity is a malady, an evil, we must seek some other medicine for it. What that will be many will be ready to say, but few to prove. Per- haps we shall be changed by the slow process of the years, and by a process no more visi- ble in the present than the movement of the hand upon the clock, but destined to a greater and greater swiftness in the future. Any change is a long look ahead, and it is no part of my present purpose to offer the reader a telescopic view of the remote time when The eommon sense o~ most shall hold a fretful realm in awe, And the kindly earth shall slumber, lapped in universal law. I say the remote time, but if I supposed it to be very near, I should still try to put off the Golden Age, at least till I had reasoned my reader out of his fears of it; for there is noth- ing that seems to alarm people so much as the notion of a Golden Age to come. Nothing is really so offensive to the average good man or woman as the notion of human brother- hood. But I think this is not from any innate hatred of ones kind, or a natural disposition to obey the law and the prophets rather than EQUALITY AS THE BASIS OF GOOD SOCIETY. 67 the new commandment they hang upon; for I am a great friend of human nature, and I like it all the better because it has had to suffer so much unjust reproach. It seems to me that we are always mistaking our condi- tions for our natures, and saying that human nature is greedy and mean and false and cruel, when only its conditions are so. We say you must change human nature if you wish to have human brotherhood, but we really mean that you must change human conditions, and this is quite feasible. It has always been bet- ter than its conditions, and ready for new and fitter conditions, although many sages have tried to rivet the old ones upon it, out of some such mistaken kindness as would forbid the crustacean a change of shell. The state of the crustacean after this change takes place is perilous, but with all its dangers it is not so perilous as the effort to keep its old shell on forever would be. V. As nearly as we can conceive it or fore- cast it, the new condition, the equality of the future, will be the enlargement of good society to t~e whole of humanity. This seems to me so not only because, so far as we have social equality, it has grown out of human nature, but because we have already more of that equality than any other. Social inequality wounds most the most vocal, if not the most sensitive, of our kind, and from their outcry we are apt to think there is more of it than there is of other sorts of inequality; but there is really more social equality. The different sorts of equality are finally inseparable, but up to a certain point they are sufficiently distinguishable, and one may speak of political equality, equality be- fore the laws, and economic equality. With- out the last, the first and second exist only measurably, and they tend to disappear as it shrinks. In fact, economic equality is the mother of all other equalities; but money has less power in society than anywhere else. It is true that money can give more sumptuous entertainments than merit can, and that if merit comes to a dinner which it cannot re- turn, it takes a stamp of inferiority from money. But this only proves that economic inequality invades social equality as it in- vades political equality. In spite of it, how- ever, good society is, upon the whole, so nobly imagined, and so handsomely realized, that one longs to have it perfect, and then to im- part its perfection to all human society. Its perfection would be perfect equality. I do not mean equality of wits, bulks, statures, looks; the differences in these come from so far behind us that we cannot control them; though, of course, economic equality would tend to efface them by giving good food, clothing, shelter, and education to all; as it is, such differences do not afflict us much. By perfect equality I mean equal consideration, the absence of any and all man-made distinc- tions between men. We have had inequality so long in the world that it is the convention to justify it, as it once was the convention to justify slavery, and I dare say cannibalism more remotely. It is supposed to be human nature, and it was undoubtedly human nature once, as those other things were in their time. But I do not believe that any enlightened person thinks it just; and the other sort of persons are no longer the majority in good society, or at least they do not dominate the ideals of good society. There is some prospect that they will not always dominate the ideals of society in the sense of humanity, but will presently be so powerless that this sort of society can be safely included in good society; and as peo- ple are apt to become finally what they have long seemed to be, professed to be, goodness of manner will end in goodness of heart, and we shall have an equality which is at once polite and sincere. None other is worth having. There must be no rudeness, no unkindness; that must be left to the savage world which will still admire force, violence, the expressions of inequality. The level, when we have it, will be the highest yet attained by the exceptional few. The purest ideals of the philosophers and the saints are not too fine to be realized in the civility which shall be the life of the whole people, and shall come home to their business and bosoms. W. D. Howells. THE ISSUES OF 1896. I. A REPUBLICAN VIEW, BY THE HON. THEODORE ROOSEVELT. next Presidential cam- paign will be remarkable, if for no other reason than because in it the Democratic party will have to ask retention in power upon the ground that, if so retained, it will undo most of what it has done during the years that it had free governmental control. A party always bases much of its claim to public support upon the shortcomings of the the opposite party; but the Republicans may safely leave the tale of their foes shortcom- ings to be told by their foes themselves. Next year it seems as if the Democracy would achieve the distinction of running, at one and the same time, both on the issue that it will hereafter keep the promises which hitherto it has failed to keep, and also on the issue that it is perfectly safe to trust it, because it never has kept its promises, and does not intend to, and therefore need not be taken at its word by any man who fears a convulsion in our financial or economic policy. This last must certainly be the attitude it will take on one of the great questions be- fore the country the tariff. The majority of Democrats are sincere believers in a low tariff looking toward free trade. However, few of them venture openly to champion free trade as a present-day possibility, and, as a whole, they have united only in demanding that vague entity known as ((tariff reform,)) which may mean anything or nothing. Un- doubtedly, however, at the last election the great majority of Democrats understood tar- iff reform to mean a sweeping and general reduction in import duties, and the great majority of their leaders gave fullest and frankest expression to this view. The bitter disappointment they felt over what they deemed their betrayal by some of the Dem- ocratic leaders in Congress is too fresh in mind to need more than an allusion. No denunciation of the Fifty-third Congress by Republicans can compare in violence with the denunciation heaped upon it by leading Dem- ocrats everywhere. Much the most serious argument advanced against a policy of high tariff is that it puts a premium upon the sacrifice of the general welfare to the selfish 68 interests of particular individuals and partic- ular businesses or localities, and the most forceful plea advanced for a policy of low tariff is that it does away with this scramble of greedy and conflicting interests. Yet the tariff bill of 1894 was passed amid scenes more scandalous than had attended the pas- sage of any previous bill. Never before was the general welfare so contemptuously dis- regarded in dealing with special industries. Never before did United States senators appear so openly as the guardians of, and attorneys for, those peculiar aggregates of capital which are commonly styled ((trusts.)) The result proved the truth of the statement made by the brilliant Republican leader on whom there fell in the House the chief bur- den of opposing the passage of the tariff bill. Mr. Reed, in denouncing the queer measure which finally received the sanction of Presi- dent Clevelands signature, said that ~pro- tection was proper as a principle, but infa- mous as a preference.)) The Wilson-Gorman Bill was described with exact nicety in this condemnation. It was largely a protective measure, for protection was yielded to cer- tain industries in varying degree as a matter of preference and bargain and sale, but not as a matter of principle. It was a free-trade measure in spots, also; for here and there, where an industry had no special champion in Congress, or where it flourished in a dis- trict in which it was hopeless to expect Democratic votes, the duties were greatly reduced; but wherever an industry possessed a sufficiently formidable champion, and was willing to pay the price, it had little to fear. There were entirely disinterested believers in free trade, or in a low tariff, in both the upper and the lower house; but in the actual event the power rested with their foes. One group of senators might demand much and another little. One might represent the im- mense wealth of the sugar trust, while an- other stood for the iron manufacturers, and yet a third merely for a single business in- terest, such as the manufacture of collars in some given town. But they all got what they wanted. The result was a lawwhich nobodyde- fended and everybody condemned, and which the majority of Democrats ridiculed and dis- liked even more than did the Republicans.

Theodore Roosevelt Roosevelt, Theodore The Issues of 1896 68-73

THE ISSUES OF 1896. I. A REPUBLICAN VIEW, BY THE HON. THEODORE ROOSEVELT. next Presidential cam- paign will be remarkable, if for no other reason than because in it the Democratic party will have to ask retention in power upon the ground that, if so retained, it will undo most of what it has done during the years that it had free governmental control. A party always bases much of its claim to public support upon the shortcomings of the the opposite party; but the Republicans may safely leave the tale of their foes shortcom- ings to be told by their foes themselves. Next year it seems as if the Democracy would achieve the distinction of running, at one and the same time, both on the issue that it will hereafter keep the promises which hitherto it has failed to keep, and also on the issue that it is perfectly safe to trust it, because it never has kept its promises, and does not intend to, and therefore need not be taken at its word by any man who fears a convulsion in our financial or economic policy. This last must certainly be the attitude it will take on one of the great questions be- fore the country the tariff. The majority of Democrats are sincere believers in a low tariff looking toward free trade. However, few of them venture openly to champion free trade as a present-day possibility, and, as a whole, they have united only in demanding that vague entity known as ((tariff reform,)) which may mean anything or nothing. Un- doubtedly, however, at the last election the great majority of Democrats understood tar- iff reform to mean a sweeping and general reduction in import duties, and the great majority of their leaders gave fullest and frankest expression to this view. The bitter disappointment they felt over what they deemed their betrayal by some of the Dem- ocratic leaders in Congress is too fresh in mind to need more than an allusion. No denunciation of the Fifty-third Congress by Republicans can compare in violence with the denunciation heaped upon it by leading Dem- ocrats everywhere. Much the most serious argument advanced against a policy of high tariff is that it puts a premium upon the sacrifice of the general welfare to the selfish 68 interests of particular individuals and partic- ular businesses or localities, and the most forceful plea advanced for a policy of low tariff is that it does away with this scramble of greedy and conflicting interests. Yet the tariff bill of 1894 was passed amid scenes more scandalous than had attended the pas- sage of any previous bill. Never before was the general welfare so contemptuously dis- regarded in dealing with special industries. Never before did United States senators appear so openly as the guardians of, and attorneys for, those peculiar aggregates of capital which are commonly styled ((trusts.)) The result proved the truth of the statement made by the brilliant Republican leader on whom there fell in the House the chief bur- den of opposing the passage of the tariff bill. Mr. Reed, in denouncing the queer measure which finally received the sanction of Presi- dent Clevelands signature, said that ~pro- tection was proper as a principle, but infa- mous as a preference.)) The Wilson-Gorman Bill was described with exact nicety in this condemnation. It was largely a protective measure, for protection was yielded to cer- tain industries in varying degree as a matter of preference and bargain and sale, but not as a matter of principle. It was a free-trade measure in spots, also; for here and there, where an industry had no special champion in Congress, or where it flourished in a dis- trict in which it was hopeless to expect Democratic votes, the duties were greatly reduced; but wherever an industry possessed a sufficiently formidable champion, and was willing to pay the price, it had little to fear. There were entirely disinterested believers in free trade, or in a low tariff, in both the upper and the lower house; but in the actual event the power rested with their foes. One group of senators might demand much and another little. One might represent the im- mense wealth of the sugar trust, while an- other stood for the iron manufacturers, and yet a third merely for a single business in- terest, such as the manufacture of collars in some given town. But they all got what they wanted. The result was a lawwhich nobodyde- fended and everybody condemned, and which the majority of Democrats ridiculed and dis- liked even more than did the Republicans. THE ISSUES OF 1896. 69 It is needless now to recite the events of last years election. The Democratic party had been in complete power for the first time since the civil war. The Senate, House, and Presidentall had been theirs. They had passed their own tariff bill; they had done whatever they deemed proper on the question of finance; and the result was that the coun- try went through such a time of business disaster as it had not seen since 1857. As to the exact causes of the depression men disagreed; but they were all agreed that the tariff agitation and its outcome played a big part therein. Some contended that the bill was iniquitous because in so many directions it kept and even increased the protective duties. Others saw in its free-trade provi- sions a menace to the prosperity of American workingmen. But they were all agreed in condemning it. Accordingly, at the polls in 1894 the Democrats received an even more crushing defeat than had befallen the Re- publicans four years previously. The result did not make entirely clear what the Amer- ican people did want, but it left no kind of doubt as to what they did not want. On the tariff, therefore, the Democrats enter the next campaign handicapped by the fact that they repudiate their own handi- work. All of their leaders who are entitled to receive respectful attention denounce the Wilson-Gorman Bill, and promise to supplant it by another. They cannot take any other position. They are traitors to their own prin- ciples unless they denounce as treachery to these principles the work of their own hands. All they can promise is further agitation, further change and unrest, with all the at- tendant misfortunes of such change and un- rest to the business community and to the world of workingmen. The Republicans, on the other hand, stand for a policy of com- mercial rest. They wish to continue the pro- tective policy. They have no desire to carry the principle to unreasonable extremes. All they intend to do, if they have the power, is to remodel the present law wherever it is absolutely necessary to do so in the interests of impartial justice, so that all sections and all industries shall be treated alike. At present, however, the financial question bids fair to overtop the tariff in interest. If business had continued in its depressed con- dition, and if there had been a failure of crops in the West, the financial question would have been all-important, and the fight would undoubtedly have resolved itself into a straight-out contest for and against free silver, the Democrats championing and the Republicans opposing unlimited coinage of the depreciated metal. The partial return of prosperity, however, has checked the free- silver craze. The Republicans have always been overwhelmingly against any form of ((cheap)) currency, whether under the guise of fiat paper or short-weight silver. All of the presidential candidates on the Republican side are and have been against itReed, Morton, McKinley, Harrison, Allison. The free-silver Republicans are important only because they are concentrated in a number of the Rocky Mountain States. These States are sparsely populated. They count for little in a party convention or in a national elec- tion, but they count for a great deal in the Senate; and it is this disproportionate repre- sentation in the Senate that has given the free-silver people any weight at all in the Re- publican party. With the Democratic party affairs are widely different. In most of the great Democratic States there is a very strong and real sentiment in favor of free silver. In some of these States the free-silver men are in the majority, and have complete control of the party machinery. In other States they form merely a large minority. Jn yet others the two sides are evenly balanced, which sometimes results in rather droll com- plications; as in Kentucky, where the Demo- cratic convention compromised the matter by running a free-silver candidate on an anti- free-silver platform. In very many of the Democratic strong- holdsnotably in the South and Southwest the Populist organizations seriously threaten Democratic supremacy. The Populists really represent very little except an angry but loose discontent with affairs as they actually are, and a readiness to grasp after any rem- edy proposed either by charlatanism or by an ignorance as honest as it is abysmal. The Populist party, therefore, waxes and wanes inversely as prosperity increases or declines; that is, the folly of certain voters seems to grow in inverse ratio to their need of dis- playing wisdom. At present, affairs over the country seem to be on the mend, and the Populist party is therefore losing power. The Democratic attitude toward free silver, in turn, depends very much upon the Popu- lists strength. Wherever and whenever the Populists are a distinct menace to the gov- ernment, the Democrats try to outbid them by declaring in favor of unsound finance; but as the Populists become weak, the mass of the Democratic statesmen grow ready once more to stand by their party, even should that party decline to announce itself as un 70 THE CENTURY MAGAZJNI3X restrictedly as they wish in favor of dishonest money. It seems likely, therefore, at present, that the Democrats will make no open fight for free silver; and as their leading men oc- cupy every conceivable position upon this as upon all other public questions, it is quite impossible to foretell what any Democratic nomination will really mean. The Republican partys attitude, on the contrary, is absolutely clear. It does not de- pend in the least upon whether the crops are good or bad, upon whether the business com- munity is or is not in a flourishing condition. It does not even depend upon who is nomi- nated. From Iowa east every Republican State has declared, or will declare, in some shape, against the adoption of a free-silver platform; and even pest of Iowa the major- ity of Republicans, in all save the few rabid silver States, are against free silver and in favor of sound finance. Every Republican whose nomination is a possibility is against the free coinage of silver, and has proved his faith by his votes and actions in time past. President Cleveland, like ex-President Harri- son, has shown himself a stanch friend of sound money. But in Congress, under Repub- lican and under Democratic control alike, the great majority of the Republicans have been found ranged on the side of an honest cur- rency, and the great majority of the Demo- crats have voted for that species of partial repudiation, the unlimited coinage of short- weight silver dollars. The Republican party, when assembled in a national convention, will certainly not declare for free silver. In my opinion it ought to declare unqualifiedly against it. But possibly the anti-free-silver men, knowing that they have the substance, will not refuse to give half of the shadow to the Rocky Mountain Republicans. Their pres- idential nominee will be a man who would veto any free-silver bill that passed Congress; their nominees for Congress itself will be men who would strenuously oppose such a bill. Refusal to be for free silver means, of course, that the party is resolutely against it; and the major- ity may rest content with this state of affairs, and spare the minority humiliation by refrain- lug from denouncing in so many words the free coinage of silver. I should prefer that they did denounce it; but the denunciation is really a matter of small consequence when the attitude of the party is so clear, not alone from its present actions, but from its actions in the past. The Republican party, as a party is, as it always has been, unflinchingly against the free coinage of silver. Probably the convention will declare a de sire for an international agreement to further bimetallism. Some of the anti-free-silver men, the extreme gold men, are as unreason- able in their fanaticism as any representa- tives of the Rocky Mountain mine-owners. These men violently oppose any scheme look- ing toward international bimetallism, and, indeed, at times seem to object to it almost as much as to free silver. Such conduct is mere foolishness. The financial question is far too complicated to permit any persons to refuse to discuss any method which offers a reasonable hope of bettering the situation. The question of the free coinage of silver is not complicated at all. Very many honest men honestly advocate free coinage; never- theless, in its essence, the measure is one of partial repudiation, and is to be opposed be- cause it would shake the countrys credit, and would damage that reputation for honest dealing which should be as dear to a nation as to a private individual. But the question of bimetallism stands on an entirely different footing. Very many men of high repute as statesmen and as students of finance, both at home and abroad, believe that great good would come from an international agreement which would permit the use of both metals in the currency of the world. No one is pre- pared to say that such an agreement would do harm. There is grave doubt as to whether the agreement can be reached; but the end is of such importance as to justify an effort to attain it. The people who oppose the move are, as a rule, men whom the insane folly of the ultra-free-silver men has worked into a panic of folly only less acute. These good people have come to a condi- tion where they are apt to confound names and things, and to forget the relative im- portance of words and of acts. A curious instance of this is afforded by their attitude toward ex-Speaker Reed during the last few months. Mr. Reed has occupied a position not too common among the public men of the country, because of his consistent and un- flinching support of honest finance. His vote and speech have invariably been against every free-coinage bill, and against every other measure to depreciate the currency which has been introduced in Congress. When he was Speaker he actually, by the force of his iron will and commanding personality, stopped the passage of a free-silver bill through the lower house, and thus prevented its going to President Harrison. The Presi- dent would have vetoed it; but the mere passage of the bill by Congress would have been a very serious shock to our credit, and THE ISSUES OF 1896. 71 would have invited commercial disaster. Par- ties were very closely divided in the Fifty- first Congress, and the Democrats, with the exception of a bare handful from the North- east, supported the measure. Half a dozen Republicans from the Rocky Mountains also supported it. But Mr. Reed, by sheer weight of personal influence kept the immense ma- jority of his party firm, being heartily backed by Mr. McKinley and every other Republican leader on the floor. The two sides were al- most evenly balanced. Indeed, for two days. the free-silver men seemed to have a major- ity of one. The Democrats, assisted by the few free-silver Republicans, exhausted them- selves in the effort to pass the bill. All of their leadersMr. Crisp, Mr. Mills, Mr. Springerput forth every effort to force through the bill, and, for the moment, even such usually consistent hard-money Demo- crats as Mr. Wilson of West Virginia aban- doned their faith and turned in with the sil- ver men. Not another man in the country could have barred the passage of the bill. But Mr. Reed did bar it. With indomitable resolution h~ stopped its passage for three days, until at last he rallied the bare major- ity necessary to kill it. Finally, Mr. Reed voted for the gold-bond resolution rendered necessary by the peculiar terms in which President Cleveland couched his contract with the syndicate that took the United States bonds. Like very many men, both Republicans and Democrats, he did not approve of the terms of this contract, and he was not able to express the unmeasured approbation which its friends seemed to de- mand. The important thing, however, was his vote; and his vote was given, as it always had been, for sound finance. Not even the fact that the bulk of his party associates broke away from him and joined with the bulk of the Democrats in refusing to support the gold bond, swayed Mr. Reed. His personal dislike to the terms of the contract did not prevent him from casting his vote in accord- ance with what he deemed, on the whole, the best interests of the country. Yet the ex- treme gold people of the Northeast actually condemned his action, failing to see, what to a disinterested observer is self-evident, that his conduct proved conclusively that even in the most trying emergencies he can be relied upon to stand firmly for honest money. Truly the attitude of his critics affords another in- stance of ((the infinite capacity of mankind to withstand the introduction of knowledge.)) No man deserves more at the hands of be- lievers in sound money than Mr. Reed; and his views are the views of the great miss of Republican voters. In the next presidential campaign the Republican party will stand for sound finance, for honest money, and against the free coinage of the depreciated silver dollar. It is earnestly to be hoped that the Repub- lican party will also make an aggressive fight on the question of Americas foreign policy. A policy of buncombe and spread-eagleism in foreign affairs would be sincerely to be deprecated; but a policy of tame submission to insult is even worse. In its foreign policy the present Democratic administration has offered a most unpleasant contrast to the preceding Republican administration. The very Democrats who have stood stoutest in warring against the great majority of their own party for sound finance have also been unpleasantly conspicuous in forcing their party to adopt a thoroughly improper and un-American tone in foreign affairs. Unfortu- nately, very many decent men in the country, and especially in the Northeast, are too timid, or too unpatriotic, to wish the United States to play the part it should among the nations of the earth. America must never play the part of a bully; but even less must she play the part of a coward; and it is this last most unpleasant part which, during the last two years of Democratic administration, she has once or twice come near playing. We should build a first-class fighting navy a navy, not of mere swift commerce-des- troyers, but of powerful battle-ships. We should annex Hawaii immediately. It was a crime against the United States, it was a crime against white civilization, not to annex it two years and a half ago. The delay did dam- age that is perhaps irreparable; for it meant that at the critical period of the islands growth the influx of population consisted, not of white Americans, but of low-caste laborers drawn from the yellow races. We should build the isthmian caiialThiid it should be built either by the United States government or under its protection. We should inform Great Britain, with equal firmness and cour- tesy, that the Monroe doctrine is very much alive, and that the United States cannot toler- ate the aggrandizement of a European power on American soil, especially when such ag- grandizement takes the form of an attempt to seize the mouths of the Orinoco. This does not mean a policy of bluster. No American President or Secretary of State, no American legislative body, should ever make a threat which is not, if necessary, to be backed by force of arms. Honorable peace is 72 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. always desirable, but under no circumstances should we permit ourselves to be defrauded of our just rights by any fear of war. No amount of material prosperity can atone for lack of national self-respect; and in no way can national self-respect be easier lost than through a peace obtained or preserved un- worthily, whether through cowardice or through sluggish indifference. The conduct of our foreign affairs under President Harrison was, on the whole, admir- able. Our attitude toward Germany in the Samoan incident, and toward Chile later, raised our standard high. We behaved in each instance with great moderation, but with entire firmness, and in each our conduct was rewarded with excellent results. We preserved the same attitude toward the great European empire and the spitfire South Amer- ican republic. In the latter case, indeed, it was only our timely firmness that prevented the Chileans forcing us into a position which would have certainly meant war. All of this stands in striking contrast to the behavior of the present administration toward Hawaii and Nicaragua, and in the dispute between England and Venezuela. The one failure of President Harrisons administration was in the Bering Sea case, and this failure was due to our over-anxiety for a peaceful settle- ment, and consequent willingness to yield what we ought not to have yielded. Had we taken the stand which was advocated by the Secretary of the Navy, Mr. Tracy, and which had already been advocated by Mr. Phelps when minister to England under President Cleveland, there would have been no war, the seals would now have been alive, and there would have been no danger of the extinction of the greatest industry of the North Pacific. We ought never to have agreed to an arbitra- tion; but we did, and the present administra- tion. has, of course, made matters worse. It is not a page of American diplomacy upon which we can look back with pride; but it offers a most wholesome lesson. It should teach us to beware, beyond all others, of the peace-at-any-price men. It should teach us to be exceedingly cautious about entering into any arbitration. Above all, it should teach us the lesson of courteous but resolute insistence on our rights, at no matter what cost. The Republican party will go into the next election as the champion of the only foreign policy to which self-respecting Americans can subscribe; and the Democratic party, on this issue, will either have to condemn with- out reservation its own immediate past, or else must stand as the apologist of a policy of national humiliation. More important, almost, than any specific measure or policy is the general attitude of the Republican party toward good govern- ment. A party is much more than its candi- date or its platform. It is even more than the men who, in the aggregate, compose it at the moment; for it is a bundle of traditions, tendencies, and principles as well. Every act of an organized Republican body in any portion of the Union has some effect upon the general party welfare. Republicans, and spe- cially Republican politicians, in and out of office, must, if they have the welfare of the party at heart, feel that a heavy responsi- bility rests upon them. They must take the right side on every issue that arises, local or State or National. It is a discredit to the whole party when Republicans put into office a scoundrel of any kind. It is a credit to the whole party when they work in any place disinterestedly for good government. They must feel this, and they must show that they feel it. Everywhere they must stand for law and order. The law-breaker, whether he be lyncher or whitecapper, or merely the liquor- seller who desires to drive an illegal business, must be made to feel that the Republican party is against him. Every ballot:box stuffer, every bribe-taking legislator, every corrupt official of any grade, must be made to feel that he is an outcast from the Republican party. The party must stand firmly for good government in our cities; and in many cases this good government can only be obtained by the sinking of partizan lines in municipal contests. The Republican party must stand by the civil-service law, National and State. Republicans of every grade must feel that it behooves them to see that their party repre- sentatives in every office are clean and honest men; and for the sake of the welfare of the party they must rigorously punish the scoun- drels who use the party name to cloak their own base purposes. On the great national issues of the daythe tariff, finance, and foreign policythe Republican party has all the advantage of position in the presidential fight upon which we shall shortly enter. All Republicans must be specially careful to strengthen this position by making it their duty to see that the dishonest and unworthy representatives of their party are punished, and to see that in every locality the Repub- lican party stands for honesty, decency, and good citizenship on whatever may be the issue for the moment. Theodore Roosevelt. THE ISSUES OF 1896. 73 11. A DEMOCRATIC VIEW, BY EX-GOVERNOR RUSSELL. THE American people like politicsnot the running of the political machine, but the discussion of public questions and of pub- lic men. A few like to run the machine; the vast majority like to smash it, asserting an independence which will not stand being bound and gagged, especially by selfish, ig- norant, or corrupt control. By machine is meant, not spontaneous party organization or selected personal leadership, which is ne- cessary and useful, but self-assumed control, often in the name of party, which grinds out candidates, dictates their opinions and action, gets, holds, and uses political power for selfish and personal ends, and dominates its con- stituency instead of guiding and uplifting it. Between the two there is a wide difference. The one is Statesmanship, leading by prin- ciple for the public good; the other Bossism, controlling by tactics, and with an iron hand, for its own purposes. Our political experience of the past ten or twelve years has been helpful in emphasizing this difference, and in arousing public spirit, developing political courage, and reviving the interest of the people in their government, National, State, and local. We have seen old and false issues discarded. The ((bloody shirt,~ which never had a soul or truth within it, has been relegated to the lumber-room, to indulge in reminiscence with the old hats, torches, and banners of many a forgotten campaign. No longer can a Presi- dent be made by impeaching the loyalty and patriotism of any section of our country, or by dire prediction of evils which time has abundantly falsified. We have seen parties and leaders with the courage of their convictions. Questions which for years they feared to touch, which were straddled in platforms and abandoned in cam- paigns, have been boldly thrust to the front; and neither the timidity of politicians nor the threat of factional division has stopped their progress upward still and onward)) to suc- cessful, victorious solution. We have seen the people take the deepest interest in intricate public problems. The time has passed when campaigns can be waged upon the personality of candidates or the past of political parties. Abuse and vituperation, brag and bluster, have given way to educa- tionthe serious, intelligent discussion of principles and measures. In the vigorous agitation over living issues, ((pointing with pride)) to what a party has been or has done excites only ridicule, unless coupled with VOL. LJ.1O. proof and pledge that it now has a sound policy, which it definitely declares and means courageously to enforce. Who would have believed ten years ago that the tariff would become a subject of popular discussion, or that its details could be satisfactorily settled by popular vote? Yet for six successive years it monopolized the attention of the people. On the farm and in the workshop, in village store and city factory, the voters were debat- ing the merits of protection and free trade, and their effect on prices, wages, and indus- tries. The campaign speaker could hardly get a hearing who did not discuss the principles of taxation and the details of tariff schedules. ((Free raw material,)) ((the home market,)) ((McKinley prices,)) and ~pauper labor)) were phrases more familiar to the public than the names of candidates; and candidates became important only as they represented definite views on this one absorbing topic. We have seen the steady growth of a re- form sentiment which, not content with crit- icism within the quiet of the scholars clois- ter, has gone forth to wage battle and win wholesome victories; a keener demand that political power shall be used only for the benefit of the governed, not for personal or party advantage; the uprooting of old abuses; and, with all of this, greater independence in political action, inflicting defeats welcomed as blessings by patriots of whatever political stripe. We have seen, in the marvelous career of a firm and brave man, how popular is politi- cal courage, and how loyally the people follow resolute leadership. More conspicuously than any of our generation has stood forth one who has had strong convictions, with the courage always to declare them and everywhere to fight for them; who has achieved success by character and ability, not by offices or office- holders; who, in the midst of factional discord and partizan abuse, has confidently relied on an appeal from faction to the rank and file, and from the partizan to the people; who has stood for principle without compromise, and for sound policies against heresy inside or out- side of his own party; and who has impressed himself upon the people because they believed that he stood steadfast for the public welfare, without regard to personal or political con- sequences. One or two familiar incidents in his later life will illustrate my meaning. The campaign of 1888 was about to begin, in which he was to be a candidate for reilec- tion. He had given the country an honorable

William E. Russell Russell, William E. The Issues of 1896 73-78

THE ISSUES OF 1896. 73 11. A DEMOCRATIC VIEW, BY EX-GOVERNOR RUSSELL. THE American people like politicsnot the running of the political machine, but the discussion of public questions and of pub- lic men. A few like to run the machine; the vast majority like to smash it, asserting an independence which will not stand being bound and gagged, especially by selfish, ig- norant, or corrupt control. By machine is meant, not spontaneous party organization or selected personal leadership, which is ne- cessary and useful, but self-assumed control, often in the name of party, which grinds out candidates, dictates their opinions and action, gets, holds, and uses political power for selfish and personal ends, and dominates its con- stituency instead of guiding and uplifting it. Between the two there is a wide difference. The one is Statesmanship, leading by prin- ciple for the public good; the other Bossism, controlling by tactics, and with an iron hand, for its own purposes. Our political experience of the past ten or twelve years has been helpful in emphasizing this difference, and in arousing public spirit, developing political courage, and reviving the interest of the people in their government, National, State, and local. We have seen old and false issues discarded. The ((bloody shirt,~ which never had a soul or truth within it, has been relegated to the lumber-room, to indulge in reminiscence with the old hats, torches, and banners of many a forgotten campaign. No longer can a Presi- dent be made by impeaching the loyalty and patriotism of any section of our country, or by dire prediction of evils which time has abundantly falsified. We have seen parties and leaders with the courage of their convictions. Questions which for years they feared to touch, which were straddled in platforms and abandoned in cam- paigns, have been boldly thrust to the front; and neither the timidity of politicians nor the threat of factional division has stopped their progress upward still and onward)) to suc- cessful, victorious solution. We have seen the people take the deepest interest in intricate public problems. The time has passed when campaigns can be waged upon the personality of candidates or the past of political parties. Abuse and vituperation, brag and bluster, have given way to educa- tionthe serious, intelligent discussion of principles and measures. In the vigorous agitation over living issues, ((pointing with pride)) to what a party has been or has done excites only ridicule, unless coupled with VOL. LJ.1O. proof and pledge that it now has a sound policy, which it definitely declares and means courageously to enforce. Who would have believed ten years ago that the tariff would become a subject of popular discussion, or that its details could be satisfactorily settled by popular vote? Yet for six successive years it monopolized the attention of the people. On the farm and in the workshop, in village store and city factory, the voters were debat- ing the merits of protection and free trade, and their effect on prices, wages, and indus- tries. The campaign speaker could hardly get a hearing who did not discuss the principles of taxation and the details of tariff schedules. ((Free raw material,)) ((the home market,)) ((McKinley prices,)) and ~pauper labor)) were phrases more familiar to the public than the names of candidates; and candidates became important only as they represented definite views on this one absorbing topic. We have seen the steady growth of a re- form sentiment which, not content with crit- icism within the quiet of the scholars clois- ter, has gone forth to wage battle and win wholesome victories; a keener demand that political power shall be used only for the benefit of the governed, not for personal or party advantage; the uprooting of old abuses; and, with all of this, greater independence in political action, inflicting defeats welcomed as blessings by patriots of whatever political stripe. We have seen, in the marvelous career of a firm and brave man, how popular is politi- cal courage, and how loyally the people follow resolute leadership. More conspicuously than any of our generation has stood forth one who has had strong convictions, with the courage always to declare them and everywhere to fight for them; who has achieved success by character and ability, not by offices or office- holders; who, in the midst of factional discord and partizan abuse, has confidently relied on an appeal from faction to the rank and file, and from the partizan to the people; who has stood for principle without compromise, and for sound policies against heresy inside or out- side of his own party; and who has impressed himself upon the people because they believed that he stood steadfast for the public welfare, without regard to personal or political con- sequences. One or two familiar incidents in his later life will illustrate my meaning. The campaign of 1888 was about to begin, in which he was to be a candidate for reilec- tion. He had given the country an honorable 74 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. and successful administration; a Democratic victory seemed certain. The one thing need- ful was not to raise new questions nor dis- turb existing conditions. So prudence and timidity suggested; so party leaders and as- sociates advised. But, disregarding such ad- vice, Cleveland issued his historic message of December, 1887a bold challenge to wealthy, powerful, and favored interests, but a trum- pet-call marshaling the intelligence and pa- triotism of the country to the consideration of the most important question of a generation, which politicians and parties had hitherto feared to touch. That message was not the product of political expediency, but of con- science, conviction, and courage. It led to temporary defeat; but it gave his party new life and vigor, made him its trusted leader, immeasurably raised the standard of politics, and finally won the hearty support of the country, giving to Democracy its first oppor- tunity since the war for important construc- tive legislation. Again in 1891, when the free coinage of silver was imminent, and politi- ciansespecially would-be candidates for President-were reluctant to declare their position, Cleveland, with characteristic cou- rage and directness, denounced ((the danger- ous and reckless experiment.)) His party was badly split upon the question. To many his action gave great offense; by many more it was thought to be political suicide. But soon the party made him again its leader, and un- der such leadership won a notable victory. These influences which have been at work are still operative. The people have not taken their government into their own hands, and fully experienced the pleasure and benefit of governing themselves, only now to relax con- trol and permit government to become ((~ close corporation of politicians for exploit- ing the public to their own advantage.)) Nor have they once demanded that parties shall discard dead issues and take definite position on the living questions of the day, only now to relapse into indifference and be content with idle generalities and halting candidates. The reform impulse for better men and bet- ter government is not ephemeral, but the best product of past campaigns, and bound again to exert a healthy and potent influence; and the people still like courage, character, ability in politics as in everything else, and despise trimming and time-serving. In the next presidential campaign the Dem- ocratic party, if guided by past experience, must and will nominate candidates of courage and character, of definite, outspoken opinions on living questions, and upon a platform which means something, and expresses it with a di- rectness and emphasis not to be mistaken. The people wish, and have a right to know, the ex- act position of parties on silver, the tariff, a foreign policy, civil-service reform, and other main issues. The time is over when a party can get or hold power by the mere momentum of its past. We may assume, then, that the campaign of 96 will not be seriously affected by ancient political history, nor an alert, in- telligent people deceived by mere boasting, exaggeration, or false pretense. Not that all this will be absent from the campaign. On the contrary, I fancy I can now see the Republi- can orator setting up his men of strawthe Southern brigadier, the free-trader, the Eng- lish sycophant; 1 hear him again denouncing as un-American everything and everybody out- side the Republican lines; I hear him claim- ing all prosperity as a Republican gift, and all adversity as Democratic deviltry; I laugh with others at the sarcasm and drollery of the gentleman from Maine, as he again contrasts virtue and vice, patriotism and disloyalty, industry and idleness, wealth and poverty, and then, with vivid imagination and cool assurance, gives each a party label. But all of this is only the ad captandum dramatics of the campaign orator, which amuse himself, with little effect on his audience and less harm to his opponent. Meanwhile the thoughtful citizen is asking, Which party preached and practised extravagance, squandered the sur- plus, raised taxation, unsettled the currency, emptied the treasury, and left behind it, if not the deluge, an established financial and economic policy which was bound to bring panic and disaster? He is also comparing dates and conditions93, a year of distress, with Republican laws and policy in full force; and 9~, a year of marked prosperity, with such laws and policyrepealed. To suchvoterswho, after all, decide electionsthe Democratic party in 96 will gladly submit the record of its administration. What is that record? It has had to deal with a business depression for which it was in no way responsible; it has applied the remedies demanded by the con- servative opinion of the country; and it has done this bravely, against bitter opposition within and without its party lines. It has re- pealed the Federal Election law, thus giving to the States the right to control their elec- tions, and the responsibility for their proper conduct. It has ended McKinley protection, reducing taxation and reversing the tariff policy of the country. It has repealed the Sherman silver law, which stood as a great and growing menace to the stability of our fi THE ISSUES OF 1896. 75 nances; and it has by drastic measures, neces- sary and wholesome, sustained the treasury re- serve and the credit of the nation, and saved business and the country from untold loss and suffering. This record of a party seeking the renewed confidence of the people will neces- sarily enter into the next presidential cam- paign. So much for the past. Of more consequence are the questions now imminent, and the posi- tion of the parties upon them. Of these the most important, no doubt, is the silver ques- tion. Our country can adjust itself to any kind of a tariff, but it never can adjust itself to a dishonest dollar. Fortunately the ques- tion has become at last the subject of con- stant and serious discussion. The people have put on their thinking-caps, and with characteristic earnestness and thoroughness are going to think the problem out, and set- tle it permanently without evasion or com- promise. Parties must and will adapt them- selves to this situation. It is not difficult to foresee the course of the Democratic party. It has on its hands a radical difference of opinion and a first-class fight. It has had this before. It was divided on the tariff question. It fought this out within its ranks to a right conclusion, then became stronger, united, and victorious. It never would have made any progress if it had feared to face the fight or halted because of dissenters. It is now re- peating that experience. Everywhere it is debating the silver question. The recent victories for sound money in Kentucky, Iowa, and Ohio show the effect of full discussion, and make it certain that the Democratic party will not commit itself to the silver heresy, nor weaken its credit and standing by seeking harmony through compromise of principle. Harmony will come, as it did on the tariff, when the party, through struggle, takes and obstinately holds a sound position. I confidently predict that in 96 the Demo- cratic party, in its national platform and can- didate, will stand for sound money, and will oppose the free coinage of silver. Both prin- ciple and expediency suggest this course. It is in line with the traditions and past of the party; with its platforms and principles; with the whole record of its administration, for which it is responsible; with its own action in opposing and repealing the Sherman law; and with its devoted loyalty to one who for eleven years has been the most conspicuous and valiant champion of honest money and sound finance. Any other course invites dis- creditable defeat. The party can stand de- feat, and even grow stronger by it. It cannot stand the discredit of committing itself to a passing heresy born of hard times, which time and prosperity will surely kill, but which, if successful, would unsettle business, impair credit, reduce all savings, and the value of all wages. It has now a splendid opportunity to render the country a further service, and, following the lead of Jackson and Cleveland, its past and its present, to educate and agi- tate for sound principles of finance as it has for a sound policy of tariff taxation. In such position it will be at issue with the Republican party. Not that that party will advocate the free coinage of silver; that would be stand- ing for some principle, however erroneous, and the Republican party to-day is a party of compromise and expediency. But, judged by its past, it will trim and evade, to satisfy an aggressive minority deemed necessary for its success. At the critical moment the Repub- lican party yields to financial heresy in its ranks, and the Democratic party conquers it. Through such weakness have come the many compromise measures as to paper money, in- flation, and silver, which have been a constant menace to the stability of our finances. It led to Republican criticism of Clevelands first administration for its unflinching stand for sound money; it was expressed in the Republi- can national platform of 88, which arraigned the Democratic party for its hostility to silver, and in the speeches of leaders like Mr. McKinley, who, in February, 1891, de- nounced his opponents for ((dishonoring one of our precious metals, one of our greatest products, discrediting silver and enhancing the price of gold,)) making ~~money the mas- ter, everything else the servant)); it accounts for the present ominous silence of Republican statesmen with presidential aspirations, while the Democratic administration and party are pursuing a vigorous and successful campaign of education. The old Republican malady of timidity and compromise has paralyzed Re- publican speech; its ambitious leaders re- main silent, useless, with their weather eye open only for any little favoring breeze which may drift them onward. It is time for them to trim ship and set a course. I write in the fall of 95. It is possible that before the next presidential campaign has opened, the silver question, through Demo- cratic work and returning prosperity, will have lost its importance, and the two parties will vie with each other in emphatic expres- sion of the countrys settled and sound con- viction. I do not, however, anticipate such a happy result. It is more likely that the ques- tion will be the leading subject of the cam- 76 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. paign. If so, I believe that the Democratic party, through discussion, education, and a struggle, will make its way to a safe and strong position, and nominate a sound can- didate upon a socind platform. I as firmly believe that the Republican party will drift into compromise, not favoring free silver, but throwing a sop to its silver contingent, and nominating a non-committal candidate of doubtful record and of cautious speech, who will be expected to hold both Colorado and Massachusetts. Democratic promise will be backed by the record of the party in adminis- tration, and will win the support not only of the conservative sentiment and business interests of the country, but of the growing body of independents who place the public above any partizan interest, and who insist that candi- dates and conventions shall take definite po- sition on the questions of the day. It ought to carry every doubtful State. If, on the other hand, the party is committed to free silver, it discredits its own administration, and, I believe, goes to certain defeat. While the silver question is likely, in the next campaign, to be uppermost in the pub- lic mind, t~ie tariff will, no doubt, as in the past, be an issue between the parties and the subject of much discussion. Between the parties there is a radical difference on the principles involved; but just how important the issue is to be depends largely on the ac- tion of the Republican Congress and National Convention. The burden rests upon that party. The Democracy, after a long contest over the tariff, has passed a law which, though a very conservative measure, is a long ad- vance in the right direction. Business and in- dustries have accepted it, and are contented and prosperous under it. Democrats are anx- ious to give it the test of time and experi- ence. Will the Republicans acquiesce in this, or do they propose to turn backward to Mc- Kinleyism? Should they nominate McKinley without repudiating his tariff views, the tariff will at once become the vital issue of the campaign. He represents distinctly one idea. His nomination would be a challenge to the country to return to a tariff policy which it has defeated and discarded. The Democratic party would gladly accept the challenge and fight the old battle over again; but this time it would have with it the business interests, which have adapted themselves to present conditions and demand a rest from further tariff changes. The issue would be between a fair trial of a successful tariff and a re- turn to a discredited policy. Should the Republican platform advocate reiinactment of the McKinley law or repeal of the present law, the same result would follow. The con- vention is not at all likely, however, to do anything so specific or dangerous. It will content itself with criticism of free trade, the usual eulogy of protection and the home market, and the usual claim that the Repub- lican party alone represents American ideas, interests, and patriotism. This raises no very definite issue, except, perhaps, one of truth and good taste. At the same time the tendency of the Republican party is for protection always, and plenty of it, whenever it has the power and courage to carry out its purpose. Already a movement is on foot to couple with Republican protection of manufactures boun- ties to shipping and to agricultural exports, so as to distribute more widely the taxes Republican policy exacts, and to bind other interests to public support, all at the expense of the whole people. The Democratic party is at issue with this Republican policy. Dis- cussion and education will go on, until with substantial agreement we get back to the sound principles and policy of the tariff of 57. The Democratic party will advance slowly in this direction, by urging, not another general revision of the tariff, but specific measures such as for free coal and iron ore, and grad- ually reducing taxation as time again proves the benefit of such a policy. One other question is likely to be an impor- tant issue in the campaign, namely,the foreign policy of our country. Until a comparatively recent date there was substantial agreement that such policy should not be one of conquest or aggression, but should avoid ((entangling alliances,~ and make Washingtons farewell words, and the proper assertion of the Mon- roe doctrine, the bulwark of national safety and honor. The San Domingo fiasco of Grants administration was believed to have ended permanently any other course. But recently Republican leaders have revived a defeated and almost forgotten Jingoism, and pro- claimed a policy of foreign interference and annexation. By annexation of the Hawaiian Islands they would have the country try the experiment of governing a distant, divided, foreign people, and of assimilating them and their institutions. By interference at Samoa they would involve us in entangling alliances with Germany and England, and in a responsi- bility unusual and unnecessary. By assisting Nicaragua in resisting payment of Englands claim and English occupancy they would per- vert the Monroe doctrine and establish a precedent which would force us into the for- eign quarrels of every petty, irresponsible THE ISSUES OF 1896. 77 republic of Central and South America. How far these views of Republican Jingoists per- meate and control that party will be deter- mined in its next convention. The Democratic administration, in its conduct of our foreign affairs, has met constant, bitter criticism, but has resolutely refused to depart from the traditional policy of our country, and to in- volve her in novel and everlasting foreign complications. It has not believed that con- quest or colonial acquisition is conducive to her strength or welfare, nor national honor best upheld by tyranny over a feeble but friend- ly power. The Republican party may make an issue over this Democratic record. if so, a most important question of far-reaching con- sequences will demand serious attention. For one, I believe it will take much more than the bluster of Jingoism to persuade the people that it is wise, safe, or patriotic to plunge our country into the maelstrom of international strife and ambition, and to abandon a course where we have found peace with honor, and have grown to be the most powerful, prosper- ous, and happy of the nations of the world. Finally, in view of Republican declamation and assumption, it is certainly desirable that we should discuss seriously and thoroughly what is a sound American policy, what is the true American spirit, and which party is its better representative. Americanism, patriot- ism, is a thing of action, not of declamation. It does not become the exclusive property of the party claiming it, nor condone political crimes committed in its name. We have seen the term misused to justify a policy of sec- tional division and hatred, and, in violation of the Constitution, to supplant the rights and duties of the States, either by force of arms or gifts from the National treasury; to excuse a wild career of profligate public ex- penditure; to defend a ((spoils system,)) which places influence against merit, and makes par- tizanship, not efficiency, the test of tenure of office; to uphold a system of taxation which benefited the few at the expense of the many, and impos9d burdens unequal, unjust, and un- necessary ; to encourage a policy which would restrict the inventive genius, the marvelous industry, and the energy of our people to a home market rather than let them place our nation at the head of the markets of the world and make America the mistress of the sea. And now this much-abused term is summoned to lead us away from the peaceful traditions and policy of the past out into the field of conquest and annexation, of strife and war. This is not the true American spirit, but the spirit of bravado; not a sound American pol- icy, but a policy of recklessness. The true American spirit welcomes with fraternal love the reunion of the whole coun- try in loyalty, happiness, and prosperity; it stands fast to the Constitution against those who would violate it for partizan or sectional purposes, and guards the peoples money against the wild raids of selfish schemers; it still believes there is virtue in thrift, and that it is better that government should lift the burdens of taxation rather than set the people an example of riotous living; that tax- ation is not a blessing, but a necessary evil to be lessened by prudence and economy; that it is not to be used to take from one to give to another, nor to be controlled by selfish in- terests, but it is to be levied justly, equally, according to mens means, not their necessi- ties, and for public purposes only. The true American policy would open the public ser- vice to all upon their merits, and make the office-holder neither the slave of the politi- cian nor the master of the people. It urges us to a ((vigorous prosecution of the pursuits of peace,)) and competition with all nations in the markets of the world; but not to follow their bloody footsteps in a struggle to conquer or control lands or peoples beyond our borders. It upholds, as it always has through many a Democratic administration,the national honor. It is nonsense to argue that in this there is division on party lines, or that Republicans monopolize patriotism. Let us through discus- sion get at the real Americanism, extol and follow it, exposing and avoiding the shams and demagogism masquerading in its name. I have not ventured to predict who will be the candidates in the next campaign. In view of the earnest personal struggle within the Republican party, and the sectional differ- ence of opinion within the Democratic party, he would be a bold man who would say who either candidate will be, or from what sec- tion of the country he will hail. This much we may gather from the past: the Democrats will nominate a candidate of positive and well-known convictions on pending questions and upon a platform equally emphatic; the Republicans will compromise upon their can- didate and platform. This much also we may predict: that the Democratic party will have no right to demand or expect that he who has so gallantly led them in three campaigns, and twice to victory, will again be their stan- dard-bearer. His own wish, no doubt, will be to retire on the laurels he has well won to a rest he has well earned. William E. Russell. THE PAINTER VIBERT. AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. [The following sketch, prepared by M. Vibert at our request, will make known to the readers of THE CENTURY some of the interesting personal qualities of a painter already famous by his artistic work, and will serve as an appropriate introduction to a series of reproductions of his canvases, each of which, like the one printed on page 83, will be accompanied by a brief story from the pen of M. Vibert.EDJTOE.] Y good Conscience, my dear comrade, I wish to ask your advice. I would not demand it of you, understand; but you will give it me all the same.)) ((Certainly, my dear fellow; for it is when one most fears to listen to his conscience that he has the greatest need of it.~ ((That may be, but if I have done wrong sometimes in paying too much heed to you, I possess, at any rate, the sweet consolation of having known how to please you; and to pre- serve the peace of our household, I do not care to risk incurring the least reproach from you. This is why I wish to consult you in the following very serious matter. THE CENTURY MAGAZINE has done me the great honor of asking me for an autobiographical sketch. A delicate commission, is it not?)) ((You are under no compulsion to accept.)) ((True; but they might have it written by somebody else.)) ((Who would not, perhaps, say of you all the good things you think of yourself?)) ((Do you, then, think me so vain?)) ((Well, no. Perhaps the difficulty is that the least praise might frighten your modesty.)) ((You are making fun of me; am I, then, so ridiculous?)) ((You would be if I were not by to combat your secret thoughts; for you do not hope, I presume, to conceal your real mind from me. You hope to use the opportunity now offered you to let your new readersthat is to say, half the worldknow that, being an excel- lent cook, you have invented and prepared sauces that make your compatriots lick their fingers; that, using your pen as well as your brush, you have written songs and plays that have been applauded in the minor theaters of Paris; that, following the example of Mo- li~re, and having, like him, an extraordinary talent as an actor, you have played your own productions at the club and in artistic sa- lons; then, having a passion for building, and trying your hand at all the trades, you are not only your own architect, but do not disdain occasionally to work in iron, like Louis 78 XVI., or in wood, like the good St. Joseph; and finally that, in decorating your house, you have distinguished yourself as an upholsterer. In the last particular you may even say that you surpass Moli~re, for he, although the son of an upholsterer, was not himself one. ((Next I see you conducting the readers over your studios and your hall, enlightening them with the pompous explanation: (Ladies and gentlemen, see this marble monument erected in honor of La Fontaine, my favorite poet. It is I who composed and had engraved on the face of it my motto, taken from one of his fables: Travaillez; prenez de la peine. The golden figures which support the ceiling I carved with my own hands; I designed these ornaments; I myself gave the colors to the stuffs); and so on and so on. Then, carried still further by the vanity of ownership, you will go to the very end of Brittany to show them your castle, the red granite walls of which dip in the ocean. ((Oh, my friend, how puerile all that would be! How little worthy of you, in the eyes of a public that thinks you a serious artist, to give such importance to these trifling details, which in your life are mere recreations! Perhaps you would like also to speak of your great talent as an improvisateur, and of your oratorical successes.)) ((As for that; my dear Conscience, you cant deny that the priests who began my educa- tion recognized in me elocutionary talents, be- cause they planned to make a preacher of me.)) ((Yes; I advise you to speak of the priests! You have profited handsomely by their teach- ings! They, at any rate, cannot be ignorant of your lively satire; you have made them feel the point of it enough.)) ((Have nt you always said that a painter should paint only what he sees? It is not my fault if I have seen them at such close quar- ters.)) ((That may be. But to proceed. No doubt you also wish that your readers should know that, having studied closely the chemistry of colors, you yourself prepare those that you use, as well as your varnishes.)) ((It is natural that I should.))

Jean-Georges Vibert Vibert, Jean-Georges Autobiography of Jean-Georges Vibert 78-82

THE PAINTER VIBERT. AN AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. [The following sketch, prepared by M. Vibert at our request, will make known to the readers of THE CENTURY some of the interesting personal qualities of a painter already famous by his artistic work, and will serve as an appropriate introduction to a series of reproductions of his canvases, each of which, like the one printed on page 83, will be accompanied by a brief story from the pen of M. Vibert.EDJTOE.] Y good Conscience, my dear comrade, I wish to ask your advice. I would not demand it of you, understand; but you will give it me all the same.)) ((Certainly, my dear fellow; for it is when one most fears to listen to his conscience that he has the greatest need of it.~ ((That may be, but if I have done wrong sometimes in paying too much heed to you, I possess, at any rate, the sweet consolation of having known how to please you; and to pre- serve the peace of our household, I do not care to risk incurring the least reproach from you. This is why I wish to consult you in the following very serious matter. THE CENTURY MAGAZINE has done me the great honor of asking me for an autobiographical sketch. A delicate commission, is it not?)) ((You are under no compulsion to accept.)) ((True; but they might have it written by somebody else.)) ((Who would not, perhaps, say of you all the good things you think of yourself?)) ((Do you, then, think me so vain?)) ((Well, no. Perhaps the difficulty is that the least praise might frighten your modesty.)) ((You are making fun of me; am I, then, so ridiculous?)) ((You would be if I were not by to combat your secret thoughts; for you do not hope, I presume, to conceal your real mind from me. You hope to use the opportunity now offered you to let your new readersthat is to say, half the worldknow that, being an excel- lent cook, you have invented and prepared sauces that make your compatriots lick their fingers; that, using your pen as well as your brush, you have written songs and plays that have been applauded in the minor theaters of Paris; that, following the example of Mo- li~re, and having, like him, an extraordinary talent as an actor, you have played your own productions at the club and in artistic sa- lons; then, having a passion for building, and trying your hand at all the trades, you are not only your own architect, but do not disdain occasionally to work in iron, like Louis 78 XVI., or in wood, like the good St. Joseph; and finally that, in decorating your house, you have distinguished yourself as an upholsterer. In the last particular you may even say that you surpass Moli~re, for he, although the son of an upholsterer, was not himself one. ((Next I see you conducting the readers over your studios and your hall, enlightening them with the pompous explanation: (Ladies and gentlemen, see this marble monument erected in honor of La Fontaine, my favorite poet. It is I who composed and had engraved on the face of it my motto, taken from one of his fables: Travaillez; prenez de la peine. The golden figures which support the ceiling I carved with my own hands; I designed these ornaments; I myself gave the colors to the stuffs); and so on and so on. Then, carried still further by the vanity of ownership, you will go to the very end of Brittany to show them your castle, the red granite walls of which dip in the ocean. ((Oh, my friend, how puerile all that would be! How little worthy of you, in the eyes of a public that thinks you a serious artist, to give such importance to these trifling details, which in your life are mere recreations! Perhaps you would like also to speak of your great talent as an improvisateur, and of your oratorical successes.)) ((As for that; my dear Conscience, you cant deny that the priests who began my educa- tion recognized in me elocutionary talents, be- cause they planned to make a preacher of me.)) ((Yes; I advise you to speak of the priests! You have profited handsomely by their teach- ings! They, at any rate, cannot be ignorant of your lively satire; you have made them feel the point of it enough.)) ((Have nt you always said that a painter should paint only what he sees? It is not my fault if I have seen them at such close quar- ters.)) ((That may be. But to proceed. No doubt you also wish that your readers should know that, having studied closely the chemistry of colors, you yourself prepare those that you use, as well as your varnishes.)) ((It is natural that I should.)) THE PAINTER VIBERT. 79 Natural? Of course; every kind of pre- tentiousness is natural.)) ((You are not going to blame me, I hope, for having written a book on the science of painting? You assisted in that work.)) ((On the contrary, I congratulate you on it; in giving the world the benefit of your dis- coveries you have only done your duty. But, although you may be more learned in chem- istry than most of your brother-artists (who do not know the first word of it), you are yet less so than a professional chemist; therefore it is not a thing for you to boast about. If your colors are really more beautiful than those of other artists, the amateurs will see it without your telling them. If your pictures stand longer, time only will prove this. Qual- ities announced for the future are simply the wording of a prospectus.)) ((Then, if we may not refer to any of the occupations with which my life has been filled, of what shall we speak?)) 4 would talk of Vibert, the painter. I would try to explain the soul of the man as you have done his physical life. That is all people wish to know about. Dont you re- member, my dear friend, the amusement M. Ingres excited (and you have not his merit) when he seemed prouder of his small gift as a violinist than of his fame as a painter?)) ((Then we shall merely say, Jehan-Georges Vibert, born in Paris, at No. 7 Rue de Lan- cry.))) ((On what day?)) ((The 30th of September.)) ((In what year?)) ((That is not important.)) ((On the contrary, it is of great impor- tance. You may not see the use of telling people who think you younger that you are fifty-five years old. But there are others who might think you older, judging from the number of your works, and especially knowing how long you take to execute them. We will say, then, Born in 1840. And after that?)) ((Why, I was nursed, I suppose, and then I began to eat.)) ((You did those things to some purpose, at any rate.)) 4 learned to read, write, and cipher; then Greek and Latin.)) ((All this did not profit you much; you were indeed but a mediocre scholar, more assidu- ous in drawing pictures of people in your copy-books than in paying attention to your masters lessons.)) ((Say at once that I am an ignoramus.)) ((No; for later you were your own instruc- tor. It is true, nevertheless, that you learned only what you wished to learn. But with all these digressions we shall never get through.)) ((Very well, then, I shall let you tell the story your own way, and interfere no more.)) ((I will proceed. Vibert, according to the law of heredity, ought to have been an ar- tist. His maternal grandfather was the cele- brated French engraver Jazet, an indefati- gable worker and remarkable producer, who engraved in aquatint not only almost all the work of his friend Horace Vernet, but also many of the principal works of his contem- poraries. Jazet was himself the nephew and pupil of another great engraver, Debucourt, who was the first to produce engravings printed in colorsa result he obtained by superimposing a number of plates, and thus obtaining his charming compositions, proofs of which are very rare now, and highly prized by amateurs. ((Debucourts works, quite apart from the merit they have of bringing to life again the end of the eighteenth century, and of show- ing us a faithful picture of its costumes and manners, are also remarkable for their great finesse of execution. They are clear in com- position, perfect in register, delicate in taste, and the subjects are always spirituel. ((The maternal grandfather of our hero was also in his way a celebrityJean-Pierre Vibert, a soldier of the First Republic and of Napoleon, who, compelled by his many wounds to leave the army, became a gardener because he loved flowers. He felt a genuine delight at the sight of their beautiful colors, and when ninety years of age, some days before his death, while arranging his daily bouquet in a vase, he said to his grandson: (See, my child, a man knows truly what he has loved best on earth only when in his last days he finds it still in his heart. Like the rest of the world, I have thought that I adored and detested many men and many things. In reality I have loved only Napoleon and roses. To-day, after nearly a century of rebellion against all the unjust things I have seen and all the evils from which I have suffered, there remain to me only two objects of profound hatred: the Eng- lish, who overthrew my idol, and the white worms that have destroyed my roses.) That gardener and philosopher, who wrote some very good books on the culture of his favor- ite flower, created many new species that are well known to-day: among others, the Aim~ Vibert, and a red rose to which he gave the name 6f his grandson, the Georges Vibert. So it wasit may have been chance, it may have been prophecythat the painter was dedicated to red from his cradle. 80 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. ((If my egotistical comrade were still by, he would not fail to claim that he did this himself. But it is very easy to see that his complete germ existed in his ancestors. The obstinate toil, the inventive imagination, the clearness, the precision, the taste, the finesse, the esprit comique, and the passion for color are, in fact, qualities of the whole French race, which is wanting in so many other gifts. Inheriting these qualities, in however slight a degree, from his ancestors, he was from the start a painter by predisposition. ((As might be expected, it was in the studio of his grandfather Jazet that the young pupil started work, and his first efforts were made in the art of engraving. But black and white did not satisfy an eye that longed for the delights of color, and his imagination pre- ferred to stray here and there on its own ac- count rather than make faithful copies of the works of others. Furthermore, he made up his mind to study as a painter. Barrias, his new master, was an excellent teacher, who, al- though he urged his pupils to serious studies, never sought to impose his style on them, and always knew how to preserve and develop, in the many ~ever scholars whom he educated, the original gift that belonged to each. But his method was severe: he wished his scholars to spend a long time in drawing before be- ginning to paint; and it was only after three years passed in the semi-obscurity of black- and-white drawings on gray paper that the poor young fellow, by this time athirst for the brighter and gayer art, was at last allowed to insert his thumb into the hole of a palette which had more colors than he could use in a week. Such was his emotion at that never-to-be-forgotten moment that the young painter nearly fainted. I was at that time only a small Conscience, but I approved the severe methods of the master, which my com- panion called barbarous. I believe that he has since come to admit that I was right. 4 should not omit to remark that as soon as we were in full possession of colors, I, poor Conscience, lost much of my authority in our youthful m6nage, and my mad friend, now quite emancipated, gave himself up to certain fantastic orgies of harmony in which I took no part. That was in our days of youth- ful folly. The misfortune is, however, that from time to time some of these productions of a delirious brain come to light, and, when they do, there are scenes between us, in which my master reproaches me for having let him paint them. Such is the way of the world. ((At the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, which he entered at sixteen years of age, our appren- tice in painting was not very brilliant. He took at once the first place in composition, and kept it during the six years through which his studies lasted; but that was all. After school days, which were not without their troubles and sorrows, began the still more painful struggle with his many disap- pointments. Happily, my comrade, in the long periods of trial which beset his early years, had an admirable auxiliary in his mother. She was one of the most perfect beauties of her day, and is still one of the most beauti- ful of old women. She was possessed of firm character and great tenderness, and under- stood her son and how to educate him. It was with his mothers beautiful countenance, and her heart full of sweet affection, under his eyes as a model that the boy grew up. When he became a man he remained under her beneficent influence, and was always sustained and consoled by her; for, bold and jovial as he seems, he is really a very nervous creature, easily disquieted, doubtful of whatever he un- dertakes, and discouraged by a mere nothing. ((It is now his wife who perpetuates about him those traditions of beauty and tender- ness in the absence of which he would be merely a body without a soul. Mine. Vibert- Lloyd, soci~taire of the Com~die Fran9aise, will leave in the annals of the Th6atre a last- ing memory of her grace and talent; but she has also the right to share such fame as posterity shall accord to her husband, for she is more jealous for his art than he and I to- gether, and, if ever I should fail him, she could fill my place to advantage. ((After some years, during which the artist, then entirely unknown, was trying to make his way, he met with his first success, and from that day on his life has been like that of other artists. He has had medals, crosses, honors. He has painted, he paints, and he will paint as long as God shall let him. With regard to his works, which are everywhere, they must speak for themselves; and as for saying which the artist prefers, we never shall. A father loves all his children, though he may be seldom satisfied with them. ((It may be observed that I have not spoken of travels or adventures. A painters travels should be seen in his works; as for his adventureswell, if I have been a witness to them, I have not been an accomplice. ((Once only have I drawn my comrade far from his art, but then not from his duty. It was in 1870, saddest of years, when I led him, disguised as a soldier, to the battle-fields around besieged Paris, from which later I J. G. VIBERT. brought him away wounded, ill, and greatly ten your biography as you would like to have discouraged. I ought to say to his credit that, done it yourself, I am sure, at any rate, that of all the stupid things which he claims I I have fulfilled my duty in giving here the just ye made him do, that is the one for which tribute of gratitude you owe those who have he has reproached me the least.)) made you what you areyour ancestors, your teacher, your mother, and your wife. ((Now, my dear friend, if I have not writ- ((And I sign for you, en bonne conscience, Von. LT.11. 81 THE MISSIONARYS STORY. T TIE scene is a great salon, sumptuously furnished, but severe in appearance. It is lighted from above with diffused daylight, subdued, like that of a chapel. One brighter ray, coming from without, pierces the cur- tains of the only windoxv, and by contrast renders the room still more mysterious. At the end, on a great marble mantelpiece, is a portrait of Cardinal Richelieu, like a bloody specter appearing in the shade, old, broken, and pallid, but the more terrible for being near death. On another panel you see the tragic picture of the martyrdom of St. Bar- tholomew. Is anything very dreadful about to take place in this apartment? On the contrary, something rather pleasant, as we shall presently see. Several prelates, who have left the table, come into the salon to take coffee, and take possession of the sofas and arm-chairs, ranged in a semicircle. In the midst of them, on a stool, is seated a priest dressed entirely in black. His somber figure stands out clearly from this brilliant group of white, violet, pur- ple, and scarlet. His soldierly head, which breathes courage, bears on the forehead a deep and recent scar. He is a missionary. He recounts his ad- ventures, and shows upon his wrists the still gaping incisions of his crucifixion; for he has been crucified, like St. Bartholomew, like Christ. In his agony he has made to God the supreme vow that, if he is delivered, he will return to his executioners, to bring them again the divine Word; then (as it seems) he dies, praying for his torturers. An armed force, which comes too late, takes down his life- less body, thinking they have to carry back a corpse; but by a miracle he returns to life. To-day, faithful to his vow, although scarcely convalescent, he is about to return. As the holy man speaks, his inspired head becomes more and more beautiful among those faces that express only egotism and indifference. The first personage, seated on the divan, who holds his cup in one hand and his cigarette in the other, a younger son of a noble Roman family, and a cardinal by right of birth without, however, doing anything to merit that honor, approves in his heart the 82 poor priests resolution. He finds it, indeed, needful to send him back to his sufferings. Religion must have martyrs, and the best are still those who fulfil the office with hearty good will. The second cardinal, in rose silk, who leans back on the cushions in the attitude of a Caesar, is also thinking that such a man should go back. He is too extravagant and spiritual a person to be left in Rome. With his eloquence and his wounds he could move the world, and popes have been made of lesser men than that missionary. The third, who seems to take more interest in the recital than the others, is perfectly deaf. The fourth talks in a low voice with a young neophyte, and we may be sure that he is not advising him to emulate the missionary. As for the fifth, leaning back nonchalantly in his arm-chair, he is interested only in the antics of a small yellow dog with large ears who is sitting up gravely on his curly tail. Since every dog may look at a bishop, there is nothing to prevent these two from convers- ing with their eyes; and in that case they would no doubt be saying, ((How tiresome he is, that missionary, who will not let little dogs show off their accomplishments so as to get some sugar!)) If, however, at the story of the martyrs sufferings any pity might be awakened in the hearts of these prelates, the soul of Richelieu, who is always near to the minds of church- men, haunting them, would say, ((No one is a ruler of men who does not know as well how to sacrifice the innocent as to punish the guilty; and whether you sacrifice or punish, you must shed blood.)) That seems, and no doubt is, a horrible doc- trine. Yet every one of us, without the least remorse, sacrifices to his necessities, to his pleasures even, some poor living beings. It is true we have the excuse of believing these to be our inferiors, but the same feeling no doubt exists toward an equal. It is enough to have the consciousness of being his su- perior to make it seem quite natural to send him to his death. Besides, here below, all depends on the point of view one takes, and everything on earth may move you either to laughter or tears. J. G. Vibert.

Jean-Georges Vibert Vibert, Jean-Georges The Missionary's Story 82-84

THE MISSIONARYS STORY. T TIE scene is a great salon, sumptuously furnished, but severe in appearance. It is lighted from above with diffused daylight, subdued, like that of a chapel. One brighter ray, coming from without, pierces the cur- tains of the only windoxv, and by contrast renders the room still more mysterious. At the end, on a great marble mantelpiece, is a portrait of Cardinal Richelieu, like a bloody specter appearing in the shade, old, broken, and pallid, but the more terrible for being near death. On another panel you see the tragic picture of the martyrdom of St. Bar- tholomew. Is anything very dreadful about to take place in this apartment? On the contrary, something rather pleasant, as we shall presently see. Several prelates, who have left the table, come into the salon to take coffee, and take possession of the sofas and arm-chairs, ranged in a semicircle. In the midst of them, on a stool, is seated a priest dressed entirely in black. His somber figure stands out clearly from this brilliant group of white, violet, pur- ple, and scarlet. His soldierly head, which breathes courage, bears on the forehead a deep and recent scar. He is a missionary. He recounts his ad- ventures, and shows upon his wrists the still gaping incisions of his crucifixion; for he has been crucified, like St. Bartholomew, like Christ. In his agony he has made to God the supreme vow that, if he is delivered, he will return to his executioners, to bring them again the divine Word; then (as it seems) he dies, praying for his torturers. An armed force, which comes too late, takes down his life- less body, thinking they have to carry back a corpse; but by a miracle he returns to life. To-day, faithful to his vow, although scarcely convalescent, he is about to return. As the holy man speaks, his inspired head becomes more and more beautiful among those faces that express only egotism and indifference. The first personage, seated on the divan, who holds his cup in one hand and his cigarette in the other, a younger son of a noble Roman family, and a cardinal by right of birth without, however, doing anything to merit that honor, approves in his heart the 82 poor priests resolution. He finds it, indeed, needful to send him back to his sufferings. Religion must have martyrs, and the best are still those who fulfil the office with hearty good will. The second cardinal, in rose silk, who leans back on the cushions in the attitude of a Caesar, is also thinking that such a man should go back. He is too extravagant and spiritual a person to be left in Rome. With his eloquence and his wounds he could move the world, and popes have been made of lesser men than that missionary. The third, who seems to take more interest in the recital than the others, is perfectly deaf. The fourth talks in a low voice with a young neophyte, and we may be sure that he is not advising him to emulate the missionary. As for the fifth, leaning back nonchalantly in his arm-chair, he is interested only in the antics of a small yellow dog with large ears who is sitting up gravely on his curly tail. Since every dog may look at a bishop, there is nothing to prevent these two from convers- ing with their eyes; and in that case they would no doubt be saying, ((How tiresome he is, that missionary, who will not let little dogs show off their accomplishments so as to get some sugar!)) If, however, at the story of the martyrs sufferings any pity might be awakened in the hearts of these prelates, the soul of Richelieu, who is always near to the minds of church- men, haunting them, would say, ((No one is a ruler of men who does not know as well how to sacrifice the innocent as to punish the guilty; and whether you sacrifice or punish, you must shed blood.)) That seems, and no doubt is, a horrible doc- trine. Yet every one of us, without the least remorse, sacrifices to his necessities, to his pleasures even, some poor living beings. It is true we have the excuse of believing these to be our inferiors, but the same feeling no doubt exists toward an equal. It is enough to have the consciousness of being his su- perior to make it seem quite natural to send him to his death. Besides, here below, all depends on the point of view one takes, and everything on earth may move you either to laughter or tears. J. G. Vibert. H 0 z H 0 KAISERSWERTH AND ITS FOUNDER. WITH PICTURES BY WERNER ZEUME. I. FLIEDNERS LIFE. /,fr FROM A LITHOGRAPH BY ENOELBACH. ThEODORE FLIEI)NER. THE story of a human life, of small be- ginnings nd great achievement, often possesses a charm greater than fiction. The real, When it includes the ideal, not only ac- complishes its OWR purpose, but creates pur- pose in others. And specially to men and women struggling toward difficult goals does the story of a successful lifesuccessful in the sense of aims attainedgive encourage- ment and cheer. Such a one pre~minently was Theodore Fliedners. His name is per- haps little known to-day, even in Germany, the land of his birth, but it is one that many people, in many lands, have daily cause to bless. Theodore Fliedner was born in a village near the Rhine in 1800, and was the son and the grandson of pious Lutheran clergymen. The Napoleonic invasions which, early in the century, devastated Germany brought gloom and terror into his childhood, and deepened an inherited desire to make his own life, like his forefathers, one of quiet usefulness to others. With this lofty purpose in his heart, the sensitive childs feelings were hurt when his father, because of the plumpness of his figure, called him in jest ((the little beer- brewer.)) When school years were over the boy man- aged to work his way into the universities of Giessen and G6ttingen, with the help of friends, and by giving instruction in return for food and lodging. He blacked boots, sawed wood, and darned his own clothes; the darn- ing, however, must have been of a somewhat primitive kind, for he writes to his mother that he sewed up the holes in his trousers with white thread, and then inked it over. The intellectual atmosphere of the univer- sities strongly influenced him against his early formed resolution to enter the ministry,which was further weakened by the bitter contro- versies among the theologians of the day. I only manage,)) he writes, ((to cling to the one belief: that Christ was neither Deceiver nor Deceived.)) He studied foreig~ languages; read the lives of great men, making notes upon them; collected songs and games for children, which are known to-day in hundreds of kindergartens; studied botany and the use of simple household remedies for man and beastall with the one object in view of mak- ing himself practically helpful to others. Dur- ing the college vacations he managed to see something of the world. His first journey was a sixty-mile tramp to Nuremberg, with only two gulden in his pocket; his second, a four weeks visit to Bremen and Hamburg, by means of a hard-earned gold-piece. In finan- cial matters Fliedner early developed two qualities rarely combined: faith in money to come, and economy in the spending of money in hand. At the age of twenty the young student passed successfully his examinations for the ministry, and went to Cologne, where, by way of a beginning, he accepted the position of tutor in a private family. He tells naively of the lessons in deportment given to him at this time by the mother of his two boy-pupils, a woman of fashion and wealth, and confesses to have learned that ((gentle ways and polite 84

Eleonora Kinnicutt Kinnicutt, Eleonora Kaiserswerth and its Founder 84-98

KAISERSWERTH AND ITS FOUNDER. WITH PICTURES BY WERNER ZEUME. I. FLIEDNERS LIFE. /,fr FROM A LITHOGRAPH BY ENOELBACH. ThEODORE FLIEI)NER. THE story of a human life, of small be- ginnings nd great achievement, often possesses a charm greater than fiction. The real, When it includes the ideal, not only ac- complishes its OWR purpose, but creates pur- pose in others. And specially to men and women struggling toward difficult goals does the story of a successful lifesuccessful in the sense of aims attainedgive encourage- ment and cheer. Such a one pre~minently was Theodore Fliedners. His name is per- haps little known to-day, even in Germany, the land of his birth, but it is one that many people, in many lands, have daily cause to bless. Theodore Fliedner was born in a village near the Rhine in 1800, and was the son and the grandson of pious Lutheran clergymen. The Napoleonic invasions which, early in the century, devastated Germany brought gloom and terror into his childhood, and deepened an inherited desire to make his own life, like his forefathers, one of quiet usefulness to others. With this lofty purpose in his heart, the sensitive childs feelings were hurt when his father, because of the plumpness of his figure, called him in jest ((the little beer- brewer.)) When school years were over the boy man- aged to work his way into the universities of Giessen and G6ttingen, with the help of friends, and by giving instruction in return for food and lodging. He blacked boots, sawed wood, and darned his own clothes; the darn- ing, however, must have been of a somewhat primitive kind, for he writes to his mother that he sewed up the holes in his trousers with white thread, and then inked it over. The intellectual atmosphere of the univer- sities strongly influenced him against his early formed resolution to enter the ministry,which was further weakened by the bitter contro- versies among the theologians of the day. I only manage,)) he writes, ((to cling to the one belief: that Christ was neither Deceiver nor Deceived.)) He studied foreig~ languages; read the lives of great men, making notes upon them; collected songs and games for children, which are known to-day in hundreds of kindergartens; studied botany and the use of simple household remedies for man and beastall with the one object in view of mak- ing himself practically helpful to others. Dur- ing the college vacations he managed to see something of the world. His first journey was a sixty-mile tramp to Nuremberg, with only two gulden in his pocket; his second, a four weeks visit to Bremen and Hamburg, by means of a hard-earned gold-piece. In finan- cial matters Fliedner early developed two qualities rarely combined: faith in money to come, and economy in the spending of money in hand. At the age of twenty the young student passed successfully his examinations for the ministry, and went to Cologne, where, by way of a beginning, he accepted the position of tutor in a private family. He tells naively of the lessons in deportment given to him at this time by the mother of his two boy-pupils, a woman of fashion and wealth, and confesses to have learned that ((gentle ways and polite 84 IN THE GARDEN OF THE HOSPITAL FOE CHILDREN. manners help greatly to further the kingdom of God.)) He made the acquaintance of many influential people at Cologne, among them the foremost Evangelical clergyman, who allowed him to assist him in parish and prison preach- ing. Fliedner gradually worked himself into a belief that he was unfit for the ministry, and was about to apply for a vacant instructor- ship at Bonn, when he received a call to the parish of KaiserSwerth, near Dusseldorf. Be- lieving the message, coming, as it did, at a turning-point in his life, to be a divine sum- mons, he accepted immediately, was ordained in his native village, surrounded by a proud family circle, and entered Kaiserswerth, alone and on foot, a day earlier than arranged, so that he might spare the little parish the ex- pe se of a formal reception. The position in which he foun himself 85 DRAWN BY WE AREA 86 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. was not a brilliant one. Kaiserswerth was a small town composed almost entirely of fac- tory people, and was the one feeble Protes- tant spark in the heart of a Roman Catholic country. The yearly salary of the minister was one hundred and eighty thaler, with the use of the parsonage, which, however, he was obliged to share with the aged widow of his predecessor. The twenty-two-year-old ((Herr Pastor,)) however, set to work energetically, returning first to his home to fetch two younger brothers and a sister, so that his widowed mother might be somewhat re- lieved in the support of a large family. With their slim household belongings, they sailed for several days down the Rhine in a small craft. Four weeks after Fliedners installation at Kaiserswerth the velvet factory upon which the support of the population depended failed, and the extinction of the one Protes- tant communion in the neighborhood seemed inevitable. The young minister directly re- ceived calls to two other parishes; but a feeling now came over him that he was a shepherd, tiot a hireling, and that it was his duty to go out into the world and seek help for his unfortunate people. Staff in hand, he started off on foot for Holland. A kind old gentleman, patting him on the back, bade him God-speed, with this parting reminder: Faith,persuasiveness, and a little impudence, are the qualities that you most will need.)) In Holland, among the prosperous burgh- ers, where the Protestant spirit glowed warm, and later in England, Fliedner received sub- stantial aid. II. THE ORDER OF DEACONESSES. SINGULARLY appropriate is the church seal of Kaiserswerth, which represents a tree grow- ing and expanding under the rays of a sun, with the motto, ((The grain of mustard-seed becometh a tree.)) The same idea is expressed in a picture in the little gate-house of the par- sonage garden, bearing the inscription, ((The kingdom of heaven is like to a grain of mus- tard-seed.)) This gate-house, consisting of one room twelve feet square, is the cradle of Fliedners life-work. In it, after having founded the first German prison-reform association, he lodged a released prisonera poor, forlorn woman who had managed to find her way to him, be- cause she had heard the strange story that here was a man who felt pity in his heart for outcasts; indeed, that he encouraged them to come to him for help. This woman was fol lowed by others, and very soon the question forced itself upon Fliedners mind, How shall I find house-room for these unfortu- nates, and, above all, where shall I look for proper care-takers for them?)) During his travels in foreign parts he had frequently been impressed by the want of efficient ser- vice in many hospitals. ((Often I found marble entrances, but a pitiful absence of skill and faithfulness on the part of nurses and atten- dants.)) Fliedner, confronted by an immediate need in his own parish work, revived in the Prot- estant Church of Germany the order of dea- coness, which had its origin in apostolic times. The office was preserved in the Ro- man Church down to the eighth, in the Greek Church to the twelfth, century, but was discontinued in both, partly on account of abuses that had crept in, and partly because the hierarchy of the middle ages was averse to all lay activity. It was displaced by that entirely different system, the conventual sys- tem. The nun appeared, the deaconess dis- appeared; but in the church of the Waldenses and Moravians women continued to hold this ministering office. Also in the British Church, which had re- ceived Christianity from the East and not through Rome, women were employed as dea- conesses as early as the fifth century. Luther in his writings advised the rei3s- tablishment of the order in the reformed churches of Germany. ((But we do not dare begin,)) he says, ((until the Lord God makes better Christians.)) Again,and Luther, in his direct methods of pursuing truth, did not always speak graciously of the weaker sex, ((The readiness to feel compassion for others is more natural to women than to men; they have a special gift for comforting and sooth- ing sorrow.)) The first General Synod of the Reformed Church of the Lower Rhine and the Nether- lands put Luthers recommendations into effect in 1568. In the annals of the time we find the deaconess frequently spoken of as ~~an ornament of the church,)) a figure of speech which must have been rather obscure to the youthful mind of those days, for it was then the custom for the deaconess to occupy during services a commanding seat in the church, with a long birch rod in her hand, with which from time to time she would deal out smart ear-taPs to the inattentive children in the congregation. Here again the deaconess gradually disap- peared; probably because the church order, which was changed into a purely civic one, Cr2 Cr2 0 0 0 H Cr Cr22 H lost iuuch of its centralizing and vitalizing power, and also because of the absence of special training-schools. Toward the middle of the nineteenth cen- tury, when Germany had freed herself from the bondage of the French, and the Church had thrown off to a great extent her lethargy, signs appeared anew of a desire to draw women into active participation in church ministry. Amalia Sieveking, a patrician of Hamburg, and later in many ways its bene- factress, tells in a pathetic manner how she herself tried to bring it about: ((In the year of the cholera epidemic, 1831,believing that the right moment had come, I offered my ser- vices at the cholera hospital. They were ac- cepted, and directly I sent out an urgent appeal to my sisters to join me. But none came.)) This brings us down to the time when Flied- ner set to work to make a practical beginning. Of course the first thing needed for the training of nurses was a hospital. Kaisers- werth possessed no hospital, nor was there one anywhere in the neighborhood; so Flied- ner secured a large house which happened to be standing vacant in the village, fitted up a few rooms with mended furniture, cracked china, and a supply of six sheets, and on Octo- ber 13, 1836, opened the ((Deaconess Hospital of Kaiserswerth,s without patients and with- out deaconess~s. This was the first training- school for nurses of modern times. On the Sunday morning following a poor servant-girl knocked at the door for admit- tance, and before the end of the month four acutely ill patients were under its roof. There was vigorous opposition to the founding of the hospital on the part of the Roman Catho- lic clergy and laity of the neighborhood, but it so happened that the first patient admitted and the first physician appointed were both Roman Catholics. Soon after the opening, one candidate for deaconess presented herself, and with her several probationers. As the growth of a tree is marked from year to year by added rings and new branches, so the growth of Kaiserswerth has been marked, from that day to this, by yearly increase and expansion. It stands to-day one of the world- centers of philanthropic work, and each in- stitution that it includes bears the stamp of its energetic founder. Besides the main hos- pital, now containing two hundred and ten beds, there are to be seen there to-day a hospital for deaconesses, a Magdalen home, a large kindergarten, a seminary for school- teachers of all grades, an orphan-asylum. a holiday house and home for retired deacon- esses, an old ladies home, and innumerable 88 THE GATE-HOUSE, THE BEGINNING OF THE INSTITUTION OF KAISE1ISWERTH. KAISERSWERTH AND ITS FOUNDER. 89 workshops and buildings. The property ei - its income is self-earned. It is derived in braces several hundred acres, and the well- largest part from board-wages paid for the managed farm helps largely to meet the ex- persons educated or nursed at Kaiserswerth; p enses of the collective institutions. One of from payment for the services of graduated the recent annual reports shows among its nurses all over the world; and from the Kai- products 141 tons of grain, 7000 barrels of serswerth publishing establishment, which potatoes, 20,000 eggs, and 125,000 quarts of produces much popular reading-matter in milk. cheap form. During 1898, 110,000 copies of 3Y WERNER ZENME. OLD SISTERS (DEACONESSES) IN THE GARD ~N OF THE HOUSE OF REST. Of course generous sums of money have the sVolkskalendar,)) an annual publication, alone enabled the founding of the different were sold, and a few years ago 755,000 institutions at Kaiserswerth, and many are copies of a ((Life of Luther.)) still in need of endowment; but the financial The founding of these many institutions, report of 1893 shows that three quarters of and the conduct of their financial affairs, YoL. LT.12. 90 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. formed but a small part of Fliedners life- work. From all over the world came to him calls for advice and for nurses. Kaiserswerth became, in fact and in figure, a light set upon a hill. Three years after its establishment Elizabeth Fry founded a deaconess order in England; Vermail, the Huguenot clergyman and philanthropist, one in Paris; others fol- lowing their example in Switzerland and Den- mark. Florence Nightingale presented her- self as a pupil at Kaiserswerth, and was among the first graduates to make its name honored abroad. Frederick William IV. of Prussia, always a generous supporter of Fliedner, appreciating his rare executive talents, called him to live at his side in Berlin. ((Your Majesty, I was not made for Berlin,)) was Fliedners modest refusal. He went there, however, and estab- lished a deaconess house and several other institutions, among them an admirable train- ing-school for domestic servants, which is also a temporary home, a social meeting-place, and an inquiry-office, for all women-servants in and out of employment in Berlin. Attached to this school is a childs nursery for the training of nursery-maids. Fliedner was twice married. His work in life was advanced, perhaps even made possi- ble, by the two noble women who shared his labors and more than shared his privations, and who in turn became the first Deacon- ess Mothers of Kaiserswerth. The first wife lived but a comparatively short time. Dur- ing the period of his widowerhood Fliedner tells in his journal that he went to Hamburg to ask Amalia Sieveking to take charge of a deaconess home. She refused, but recon- mended Caroline Bertheau, a former pupil, who had for four years been devoting herself to similar work in the Hamburg hospital. Fliedner was so well pleased with the candi- date that he offered her a hospital appoint- ment, along with the alternative of becoming his wife. After mature deliberationthe young woman decided, not between the two, but in favor of both. She foresaw that as Fliedners wife she could better serve the cause of the sick and the suffering. The wedding-journey of the quickly married couple was to Berlin, for the frnrpose of placing the first five dea- conesses in the Charit~ Hospital, and was typi- cal of their journey together through life twice-blessed in bringing blessings to others. With the graduation of more and more deaconesses at Kaiserswerth came calls for their services from every part of the world. During the first ten years Fliedner established sixty nurses in twenty-five different places. He was specially gratified when church pres- byteries applied to him for help in nursing the sick of their parishes. It is your duty,)) he always said, when starting off with a little band of graduates, ((to give your first service to the poor. If ever you happen to be forced to choose between them and the rich, go to those who cannot recompense you, for they are the ones who need you the most.)) His first long journeyin the days when travel was not made easy, as it is nowwas to America, to conduct two deaconesses to the Rev. Dr. Passavants German parish at Pitts- burg. One is still living as the faithful super- intendent of an orphan-asylum in Rochester, Pennsylvania. In 1884 several former Kai- serswerth deaconesses came to America, at Mr. Anthony Drexels request, to fill places in the German Hospital in Philadelphia. Flied- ner in his note-book gives many impressions of this ((wonderful, upward-striving country,)) and records with regret and much perplexity the number of its conflicting religious sects. The second long journey was to Jerusalem, where with four deaconesses he opened a hos- pital and a school in two small buildings placed at his disposal by the king of Prussia. Flied- ner lived to see, as a result of his untiring efforts, between four and five hundred pa- tients cared for yearly in this hospital, and over one hundred girls in the school. From Jerusalem he turned his steps to Constantinople, where fifteen centuries ear- lier the deaconess office had flourished, and where to-day again, thanks to his initiative, it exerts a wide and beneficent influence. Throughout the Orient thousands of human beings, of every country and color, are cared for by the brave German women who have given up home, and all that the word in- cludes, to nurse strangers in a strange land. After Constantinople came the founding of the hospitals, boarding-schools, and orphan- ages at Alexandria, Beirut, Smyrna, Bucha- rest, and many other places. It would be wearisome for those not specially interested to read even a list of the posts at which Ger- man deaconesses are stationed to-day. Fol- lowing the example of Kaiserswerth, other church sisterhoods have been established. Since the founding of the first order, 10,400 deaconesses have been ordained in the Ger- man Protestant Church, and they are working to-day at 3640 different posts. An Amer- ican commentator, referring to Fliedners work, speaks of it as a wonderful illustration of the way in which a man eminent for no gifts save those called moral may succeed in accomplishing tremendous results. The last seven years of his life were marked by physical suffering; but he labored cheerfully to the end in the cause so dear to him. Almost his last words were, ((As I look back upon my life, I appreciate how full it has been of blessings; every heart-beat ~hould have been gratitude, and every breath praise.)) III. THE LIFE OF A DEACONESS. Du ING a recent illness in a foreign hos- pital unexpected opportunity w s given to me to gather further information concerning Pliedners life-work, and to come personally under the shadow of its blessing. Observing that the nurse who had been called to my care wore a distinctive dress, differing from the Roman Catholic sisterhoods in that her gown was cotton, not woolen, and her white mus- lin cap had no band across the forehead, concealing the brow and hair, I said, ((You are a German deaconess, are you not?)) ((Yes,)) was the prompt and pleasant reply, confirmed by speech, blond hair, and rosy cheeks; I am a Kaiserswertherin.)) Tell me something about Kal. erswerth,~ I 9 DRAWN BY WERNER ZEHME. FOUN PROBATIOKERS COMING OUT OF SCHOOL. 92 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. said one day. ((How long was your training there? What are the conditions of your life as a deaconess, and what is the difference between your order and the Roman Catholic sisterhoods?)) ((The training at Kaiserswerth,)) began Sister Margarethe, ~~covers three years. The training-school has two classes, one for nurses, the other for teachers; and every woman upon entering decides which of the two she wishes to join, the (Kranken- schwestern, or the (Lehrschwestern,) as they are called; for although each must know something of the work of the other, the subjects of instruction differ in the higher branches of knowledge. Every probationer begins with a course in practical housework that is to say, she helps do the housework of the hospital; she cooks, irons, sews, re- pairs mattresses, etc., because in her future sphere among the poor, even though she may not always be called upon to do the work herself, knowledge of all these branches is essential. Instruction in simple book-keep- ing, letter-writing, and reading aloud is in- cluded in tbe general course, after which the two classes diverge; the nurse goes into the medical and surgical wards of the hospital, and the teacher, whose future sphere of work will be in orphan-asylums, kindergartens, and distant colonization-schools, is taught pri- marily how to teach. ((In my own case, when I entered Kaisers- werth, it was as a teaching-sister, because I had previously been fitted for, and had filled, the position of governess; but the desire be- came so strong in me to nurse the sick that whenever I had a spare hour I used to run over to the hospital, and finally I was entirely transferred. ((The (Mutterhaus,) as we always call Kaiserswerth, is presided over by a mother- deaconess, chosen, as is the housekeeper- deaconess, from among the sisters by their vote. The several clergymen connected with the institutions are appointed by the Kaisers- werth board of governors, their election, how- ever, being subject to approval by the church authorities. ((How 1 wish that you could once be present at the consecration service in the beautiful Kaiserswerth chapel! As soon as a sister has been ordained she is sent wherever the need for her is greatest. If she is a nurse, it is either to a hospital where the nursing- staff is composed of deaconesses, or to some town or church parish, where her duty will be to care for the poor and the sick in the community. If she go into parish work she will live with one or more deaconesses in a little home, the expenses of which are borne by the municipality or the church which has applied to Kaiserswerth for her services, and which also pays to the mother-house an an- nual sum for each deaconess employed. In cases of private nursing, where people are able and anxious to pay for skilled care, a gift of money is usually made to the society supporting the local deaconess home. ((Almost every town in Germany to-day has, or is seeking to have, a deaconess home; for no matter how well a town may be equipped with hospitals, there is much illness in every community that does not call for hospital treatment. Many families in moderate cir- cumstances cannot afford to employ a pri- vate professional nurse, and among the really poor even slight illness may produce condi- tions of distress. In such cases the services of a competent nurse for an hour in the morn- ing, and again at night, are all-sufficient, and one woman can thus lend a helping hand in many homes. Of course, if allowed to choose, every trained nurse interested in her profes- sion would prefer to occupy herself only with the acutely ill, rather than to do other work, because this brings her best faculties into play; but we deaconesses are taught from the beginning that while we must fit ourselves to meet the worst emergencies in illness, our duty is not to be sick-nurses only. ((See, for instance, how often it may hap- pen, when a poor working-woman is ill, that while she requires very little personal atten- tion, the poor are unspoiled, she is in ur- gent need of somebody to cook the family dinner, to tidy up the room, and to keep the baby from the stove. This may seem to you menial and disagreeable work for one trained in the higher branches of knowledge, but I as- sure you it is not; there is physical and mental variety in it all, and practice makes every- thing easy. Then, too, it is such a pleasure to help people at the times when they are most in need of help. 4 must not forget to tell you,)~ Sister Mar- garethe continued, ((that throughout Ger- many, besides the deaconesses, there are the lay graduates of Kaiserswerth, the Sisters of St. John. These comprise women of every age and social position, married and single, who at some time in their life have taken a six months course at the Kaiserswerth hospital. The Knights of the Order of St. John offer to pay the traveling and tuition expenses of any woman desiring to take this course. We deaconesses find the (Johanniterschwestern) very helpful in our parish work. They stand DRAWN BY WERNER ZElIME. A DEACONESS. PRAWN RN WERNPR PERME A SISTER OF ST. JOHN. KAJSERSWERTH AND ITS FOUNDER. 95 ready, as an army of reserves, to assist when individually we are over-tired, to take our place at the bedside of a patient for a few hours at a time, and to help procure for us lit- tle necessaries and comforts for the sick. Their hospital training makes them efficient aids.)) ((You accept personally no money for your services, and even refuse a gift in remem- brance of them?)) I asked. ((Yes; and this must be so, even though it may seem ungracious. But do not forget that we have no wants; neither have we, as individuals, any permanent abiding-place in which to store possessions. When we start out in our career Kaiserswerth gives us a full outfit; we receive, wherever we may be, a small yearly allowance for pocket-money, and are supplied once a year with the gowns that we need by the Kaiserswerth dressmak- ing department, where the measures of every sister are kept.)) ((And what are your needs?)) I asked, know- ing the elasticity of the word as applied to feminine adornment. ((Two blue cotton gowns and two cotton aprons yeaAy, and every five years a new blue woolen go~wn and a black alpaca apron, for Sunday and dress occasions,)) was the rapid summing up. ((Our indoor dress is blue, this being considered more cheerful than black in the sick-room; and it is of cotton, so that it may be washed frequently. We wear in the street a long black cloak and a black bonnet, which fits closely over our cap. Our dress, you know, must be adapted to quick change with- out trouble. In Roman Catholic countries we deaconesses are stared at in the street be- cause we wear no white band across the fore- head. I hear people say frequently as I walk along, (Look at the blonde nun!) I must not omit to tell you that every deaconess who hap- pens to possess private property upon enter- ing the order retains full control of it, and at her death it reverts to her family, unless otherwise disposed of by will. ((When we start out from Kaiserswerth into the world we are instructed, among other things, never to obtrude our religion upon any one, and proselyting as a duty of our calling is distinctly discouraged. We are taught that when brought into relation with people who are antagonistic or indifferent to Christian teachings, our best power of persuasion will not lie in words. Kaiserswerth always appoints the sta- tions to which we go, and changes us about from place to place according to its best judg- ment; but service in foreign countries and in times of epidemic is not obligatory~ ((Have you ever been through an epi- demic?)) I asked. ((Oh, yes,)) her face lighting up, 4 have beefi through typhus and diphtheria, and I was at Hamburg throughout the cholera two years ago.~ Here I recalled having read in a newspaper that at the time of the last outbreak of chol- era in Hamburg Kaiserswerth had sent out a call to all her deaconesses, asking them to signify whether they were willing to go to the Hamburg hospitals, and that every response had come in promptly in the affirmative. ((Oh, that was a never-to-be-forgotten ex- perience!)) continued the gentle little woman at my side. 4 was at the city hospital during the worst of it. Cholera is the most difficult and exciting of scourges to nurse, because its course is so short and acute. Patients are apparently in the death agony when they are brought in, and must be worked over inces- santly during the few hours in which their fate lies in the balance. If they live they also recover rapidly. During the first days in Hamburg patients were brought in in such overwhelming numbers that the hospital forces were almost paralyzed. Physicians and nurses were taxed to the utmost, but soon order was brought out of chaos. ((Sometimes the changes were so rapid that upon returning to the wards after a few hours sleep I would find new faces in almost every bed. The saddest corner of the hos- pital was the inquiry office, where crowds of anxious people were forever coming and go- ing. I used to hurry past the door as quickly as possible, because I knew only too well the message that was awaiting most of them. Frequently I recall to memory the coming of an orderly into the ward with several lit- tle children in his arms, begging me to find places for them. I had no place, and still he would stand. I would then take four or five of the poor little things, and lay them cross- wise on one bed. They did nt mind the crowd- ingin fact, they were quite unaware of it; and sometimes one would suddenly sit up out of an apparently comatose condition, and begin to laugh and play. Oh, how much I would like to see again some of the dear little faces that helped make even those dark scenes bright! They come back to me now like angel faces.)) ((When it was all over, did you not break down physically from the strain?)) I asked. ((Oh, no; when our services were no longer needed, we were quarantined for ten days, and so had a good rest, and were quite fresh and ready at the end of that time to return to our various posts.)) DRAWN DY WERNER ZERRE. END OF A NIGHT WATCIIEARLY MORNING. KAJSERSWERTH AND ITS FOUNDER. 97 What a difference, thought I, as I listened own little room in the Feierabendhaus, and to this heroic tale, so simply told, between her own patch of flower-garden. Moreover, the woman of nerves and the woman of nerve, she has the great pleasure of being reunited, and what a force it takes to remove one little after long separation, to the friends of her letter! girlhood, and of seeing in the busy life that ((You asked me to tell you,~ said Sister surrounds her a younger generation prepar- largarethe one day, ((how the Protestant ing to fill the place of the one calmly looking sister differs from the Roman Catholic. Very on. Returning to a home is a very different little, I am sure, in the impulse that leads her thing from being taken into a strange institu- to the choice of her calling, but greatly in tion in old age. the relation of each to each. The principal ~Remember, whenever you compare the lot difference between the two lies in the fact of a deaconess with that of another woman, that the Protestant sister retains throughout that to be just you should compare it only to life her freedom of action. At her ordination that of another single woman. Marriage and ahe takes no vows. She only promises that motherhood must be left out of the scales. while a deaconess she will (endeavor to do It is not the calling of a deaconess that shuts her duty, in the fear of God, according to her off from these. People seem to forget, his holy teachings. She may withdraw from sometimes, when they talk about woman~ s the order at any time without disgrace, to vocations, that all women in the world are marry, or to return to private life. She is re- not happy to marry, nor are all happily mar- quested, however, to signify her intention in ned. There will always be some who from the matter every five years. force of circumstance are obliged to create ((Probationers at Kaiserswerth frequently an independent sphere of usefulness for them- fall away, either from unfitness, or because selves; and surely, among these, the deacon- they enter with sentimental ideas of the office, ess has her right and honorable place.)) which hard work soon dispels. There is Sister Margarethe seemed to me to be her- usually as little liking for hard work in a self the best answer to the question. At the sentimental sister as in a so-called (esthetic end of six weeks she left me, with only a Christian); but rarely does a deaconess once ((thank you~~ on my part for all her kindness ordained desire to give up her calling, and skill. From the window of my room after ((For my own part, I must confess that night-fall I watched the slender figure in when I look about me in the world at other black as it disappeared into the darkness, hur- women who, like myself, are standing alone, rying to respond to another call of distress, and there are many, many such,my own and. for one, was grateful and glad that such lot, even from an outside point of view, looks as she exist in the world. Whatever ones to me brighter and fuller than many others. convictions, or lack of conviction, on the My calling brings me into happy, healthful problems of life, it is impossible to come into relations with people; it is free from petty per- touch jith such disinterested goodness with- sonal cares of every kind; and when I look out an increase of faith in human nature, a ahead into the future I need never dread that keener appreciation of the opportunities for worst of all dreads, a lonely old age. If I out- usefulness that lie in every womans path, live my usefulness the dear home at Kaisers- and, above all, a more reverent recognition werth stands ready with open arms to welcome of the one Source whence such a life draws me back. There every retired sister has her day by day its own strength and sweetness. Eteonora Kinnicutt. SEAL OF KAISERSWERTIL VOL. LL1 1 THE TRAGEDY OF THE COMEDY. By the Author of The Cat aiid the Cherub. WITH PICTURES BY HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY. HEY crisped the snow of Boston Common dressed in handsome fabrics, carrying themselves as some princesses do and as every princess should. Their waists, within the easy embrace of their bodices, were free and supple, as God planned. The winter air bit their cheeks. Charlotte was strongly boned. her face was full and her mouth was large and firm, its smile endowed with liberal range of mean- ing. Her eyes were o the North-blue and 98 quiet. Jessica was an inch taller, a woman Tith fine frame and slender hands. Her feet were small, but capable of much ground. Her eyes were like the Italian sky. Her face was pale, with the pure, high, narrow brow that sculptors choose. Both girls had chestnut- glossy hair, and both were twenty-eight years old. One would have thought the ~n twenty-f our. They h d been walking steadily for four hours. It was visible that Charlotte and DRAWN BY HNWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY. THEY CRISPED THE SNOW OF BOSTON COMMON,

Chester Bailey Fernald Fernald, Chester Bailey The Tragedy of the Comedy 98-109

THE TRAGEDY OF THE COMEDY. By the Author of The Cat aiid the Cherub. WITH PICTURES BY HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY. HEY crisped the snow of Boston Common dressed in handsome fabrics, carrying themselves as some princesses do and as every princess should. Their waists, within the easy embrace of their bodices, were free and supple, as God planned. The winter air bit their cheeks. Charlotte was strongly boned. her face was full and her mouth was large and firm, its smile endowed with liberal range of mean- ing. Her eyes were o the North-blue and 98 quiet. Jessica was an inch taller, a woman Tith fine frame and slender hands. Her feet were small, but capable of much ground. Her eyes were like the Italian sky. Her face was pale, with the pure, high, narrow brow that sculptors choose. Both girls had chestnut- glossy hair, and both were twenty-eight years old. One would have thought the ~n twenty-f our. They h d been walking steadily for four hours. It was visible that Charlotte and DRAWN BY HNWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY. THEY CRISPED THE SNOW OF BOSTON COMMON, THE TRAGEDY OF THE COMEDY. 99 Jessica were different from other girls. They were as well groomed as women of fashion. Their faces had the dignity and cast of thought of the fostered intellect, but not the postgraduate air of abstraction; nor did the girls bear the trivial weights of the mode. Charlotte pressed with her elbow a book, thinking of the story in its pages, written by her friend Mr. Bond. She could not help marveling at his genius. Jessica, seeing into her friends mind, no- ticed with a twinge how the volume was affectionately handled by Charlotte. Jessica was silent until the pressure became too great. Then she began: ((You did nt believe, a year ago, that to- day his name would stand so high.~ ((No,)) said Charlotte, accustomed to these interpretations. ((At least I did nt believe he would achieve this. I confess I thought he might succeed in something ingenious, or perhaps humorous, or fantastic; but not that he was equal to this sort of thing. I dont think we ever overestimated him,)) she added. ((After all, though,)) said Jessica, ((~ single fairish novel does not confer immortality. Heaven knows that some of the stuff printed might have been written by you or me.~ ((I said that to Mr. Bond once, and he asked me if I had ever entered into any com- petition for money.)) ((Implying that you were a babbling infant. That was quite like him,)) said Jessica, with a short laugh. ((He was right. I dont know why you should forever disparage himafter all this time,)) said Charlotte, with dignity. 4 have no pedestal for Mr. Bond,)) said Jessica. 4 dont think I ever pretended otherwise.~ ((Not to him, surelyor me!)) ((Oh, I suppose you 11 marry him in the end,)), said Jessica, bitterly. Charlotte would not answer. A flush came over Jessicas face. They walked on, looking far ahead, until they entered the Public Gar- den. There Jessica stopped abruptly and whirled around. ((You know you love himand are sorry!)) she said passionately. Charlotte slowly raised her eyes to Jessica. ((If ever I doI will tell you before I tell him, dear,)) she said. ((And that will part us forever. You know ith said Jessica, wretchedly. ((You know I never cared for any one in the world but you. But you have forgotten all you once felt.)) ((You have charged me with that so often,)) said Charlotte, deprecatingly; ((and you know it is not true. Why should we reopen that miserable, impossible subject?)) ((And we used to agree that we should so like the same man that it would be an outrage on the other for either of us to marry him,)) continued Jessica, in a tone that implied ab- solute foreknowledge of an event. ((If you refer by chance to Mr. Bond, you know you could have liked him if you had wished to.)) ((Yes; you still think I am jealous of him or of you,~ said Jessica. ((How absurd! I cannot forget, though, that you spoke of him with more enthusiasm than I did, at first.)) ((That was because I did not want to marry him.)) ((Jessica, you are childish. I did not want to marry him.~ ((No; but you are going to.)) Charlotte said nothing. They were at their own door. They parted to dress for the evening. THESE girls had met at college. Their strange hypersensitiveness and its concur- rent melancholy had immediately joined them together. Their friendship grew to one of those affairs not infrequent in womens col- leges. It was not the ordinary intimacy be- tween girls: it was peculiar and binding. It formed a creed around itselfone which came to regulate almost every action of their lives. They rose together, ate together, studied together, and walked together. To Jessica, Charlotte was a Juno, fearless and born to rule. To Charlotte, Jessica was a flower of surpassing gentleness, made to be cherished and directed. Their tastes were identical, and their capabilities were the wonder of those years with their alma mater. They did not affect a special trend, but sipped of every stream which pleased their fancy, and widened their touch with realms of science and pure imagination. They entered little into the social circles of student life, passing their time rather in voracious readings, both of books and nature. They knew every flower and bit of stone and creeping or flying thing the country round. Both were independent in money, though no bait for fortune-seekers, and both delved well below the surface of all that excited their interest, purely for the satisfaction that is dilettante. As each year tightened their friendship they saw less and less of other girls, and cared less for the society of men. They contrived reasons for not going home during the re 100 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. cess, in order that they might spend the time more closely together. When their relatives rebelled, the girls parted in gloom, and wrote letters regularly every day until they came back early to the college walls. The most serious incident in their college career, except the friendship itself, followed upon the suggestion of the lady professor of French to the lady principal, that the two girls were taking too morbid an interest in each other, and should be kept more apart, for the good of their minds and the moral benefits of occasional solitude. Charlotte and Jessica packed their belongings and wrote long letters home, which resulted in the lady principals relenting, while the lady professor of French shrugged her shoulders. The girls altered their course from French to Spanish. When they left college Charlotte imme- diately came to Boston to live with Jessica and Jessicas father and brothers. Jessica had been motherless for several years, and Charlotte had lost both her parents during her course at college. In Boston their life went on again in much the same channels, only at fir~4~ more delightfully than ever; for the girls were free to go wherever they pleased. They saw, heard, and read every- thing that was well played or sung or writ- ten; and the brilliant cynicism which grew gradually out of their view and mode of life afforded them now a regular pleasure in averting the attentions of successive men, some of them mediocre and fatuous, a few superior to the girls, but all with traits that made them interesting for the time, and all subjected to the cold, critical spirit not rare in clever modern women who have never al- lowed themselves in competition or in true fellowship with the sturdier sex. Many men passed in review through their drawing-rooms for the amusement of the girls, but few made more than half a dozen visits. This was apt to be the extent of their true welcome, and generally sufficed to con- vey a subtle impression on the men quite suited to the circumstance. Humor of a high quality, and much wit and flippancy, the girls received with applause; but it was painful to fall below their standard, and those who talked of serious matters were chilled by the lack of enthusiasm of the girls, which seemed to express a complete disapproval of mascu- line ideals. Those who survived these con- ditions were either entertaining creatures unconscious of themselves, or else men who fancied themselves in love with one of the girls, in the fashion of male creatures for so long as there have been scintillant beings in the world about whom a man may build a domestic halo in his imagination. These lat- ter men were the greatest sport of all, unless Jessica, to whom they did not often attach themselves, began to draw a fear from Char- lottes really gentler manner that Charlottes heart was in absurd danger of being touched. Jessica then disposed of the enemy in a way that was at once humane and expeditious in the hands of the lady of the house; and Charlotte made no sound, though she would have been interested in a more extended observation of the inferior animal when it lost its sentimental balance. The two often laughed together over subsequent wedding- cards engraved with the names of the de- parted and of sweet young things. But there came Mr. Bond, who was a minor officer in the city government. The girls took him as the greatest curiosity, and Jessica viewed him as wholly harmless be- cause he had scanty means, and no future ex- cept in his aspirations to a literary career. He explained this to them, and they received it kindly, because it seemed pathetic that one with so narrow an education compared to theirs, a man who told them in the triumph of discovery many a thing they had read in the ancient philosophers, should be possessed of his hopes. But Bond had two qualifica- tions which they overlooked, perhaps without blame. He was constantly making the most astounding acquaintances with his own short- comings, which he confided to them as if he had been an insect under his own microscope; and he was constantly drawing a larger in- terest on this knowledge of himselfall this with a persistence in the face of certain odds that would have inspired the girls if they had not been so nearly content with their spiri- tual condition. One might have inferred from them that he was illiterate; but he was far from that: his obstacles were great only when measured from the goal he had set for him- self, and when it was understood how little leisure he had. But the girls looked to him mainly for amusement, and for an agreeable outlet for easy-going charity, rather than for the inspiriting current of sympathy that may flow between the sexes. He was always div- ing into some unexpected corner and produc- ing some extraordinary character in the flesh, or some outlandish inanimate thing that was new to them, and hence highly exciting. And with all his youthful ardor, as they said it, he had a certain dignity, such that they could not feel toward him as they did toward any other man. They did not both perceive, as they knew THE TRAGEDY OF THE COMEDY. 101 him better, that while he seemed to look to them for instruction in his spiritual growth, referring continually to their opinions, he constantly made progress in a direction of which he was sole arbiter. In time Charlotte felt it; but Jessica forever ignored that he had views that were to be taken seriously, or were in touch with the times. They had begun to honor him with invita- tions to show them curious corners in Bos- ton, when Jessica, much against her choice, was constrained to go abroad with her father, in tardy response to his request made before she went to college. And it happened that property complications and a lawsuit of im- portance required Charlottes presence at a town on the Maine coast, where her people had made their all in the rise of summer- resort real estate. When Jessica was half- way across the Atlantic, and heavy with the journal of three days longings for Charlotte, Mr. Bond was taking Charlotte for walks on the cliff at Seaweed Cove. It was during this miserable period of cathedrals and homesickness for Charlotte that Jessica began to dream how Mr. Bond might become a dangerous possibility. Char- lotte, she considered, was, after all, entirely too susceptible to men, and would, if left to herself, be apt to take them to heart. Be- sides, Charlotte was excessively charming to contemplateshe could do anything in the world, from making a Greek verse to making a creamed lobster; and Charlotte was not alert to know that what men said to her was always with an ulterior purposethat of putting the girl in wedding-harness, with all that sort of humble reality so reverse from the, silly dreams of young creatures who have not learned that the best philosophy confers a higher title on friendship than it does on love. Clingers~ was Jessicas favorite des- ignation for girls who confessed to a certain moral support exerted by men. Jessica her- self was of the ((clinger)) order, but in a per- verted and most exaggerated form, and this was the secret of her adhesion to Charlotte. As much as she admired Charlottes self- reliance, she feared it because it was always dangerously near an independence quite op- posed to the theory of their bonded lives. Meanwhile, with cliffs and sea, and con- versation over the field of human aspirations, Charlotte came into a new and delightful world that fascinated her and appealed to her most healthy sentiments. She enjoyed herself in a fashion which Jessica would have trembled to see, and did weep over when it was described in Charlottes letters with many appreciative items concerning Mr. Bond. Charlotte spent hours and hours in the sun- light, sitting silent while Bond descanted on various subjects, arriving in the end, with un- erring aim, at a chosen center. If they began to talk of fish in the sea, he made some remark about the jewfish, then about the patriarchal system of Jewish life, then about family life in general, then about the married life of young people. If they spoke of rocks, he would draw her out concerning mineralogy and crystals and jewels, and would tell her of a remarkable wedding-ring he had seen, and recount an anecdote of its wearer, from which he would draw deductions of an ab- stract nature. If they started on sand and seaweed, he straightway wondered under what circumstances the poet happened on the simile of the sands of time and the footprints thereon; then talked about poets, and Long- fellow in particular, and Longfellows ideal married life. Then he talked of his own future, and apologized unceasingly for his failings in the deeper sort of culture, which seemed to her to lie in the direction of material, rather than in lack of imagination or feeling. He spoke of a little book on which he was secret- ly at workto be published by and by at his own expense; and she half gave her approval to its plan, though it did not seem quite in keeping with all the rest she thought of him. Then he announced to her that he was going abroad in another week as agent for a new steam-valve, and might not return too soon, unless she desired it for her special benefit. This was at the end of two months, and after three days trepidation, in thought of what Jessica would say to all this, Charlotte finally gave way, and they confided in her aunt. The aunt smiled, and reserved her opini6n for a better acquaintance with the gentle- manwhich she never obtained, since the young people were always out of reach; until at length Mr. Bond went away, leaving Char- lotte blue and happy, then blue and wishing for Jessicas return, then blue and doubtful. And Mr. Bond and Jessica passed on the ocean, Jessica with a cablegram in her pocket-book, and sunken to the depths of melancholy that her Charlotte should stoop to matrimony at all, not to speak of the abominable choice of a wretched steam-valve novelist whose cul- ture could be stowed away comfortably in the minutest corner of Charlottes brain; a man, thought Jessica, who would shine, if he ever did, solely by reflected light, and in miserable lesser ways that would be forever a shame and hmniliation. So Jessica made up her mind that the en DRAWN BY HYWARY CHANDLER CHRISTY. IN THOUGHT OF WHAT JESSICA WOULD SAY TO ALL THIS. gagement should be declared off as soon as she could reach Charlotte, which would be on the pier at New York. The two went to their hotel and wept together for a number of hours, and Jessica assumed a superior atti- tude that was altogether fresh to her, first searching Charlottes soul, and then engaging in an analysis of Mr. Bond that left him like a dried thing in a museum. Charlotte pleaded for him with no avail, for Jessica showed that he was neither an ardent student, nor an athlete, nor a linguist, nor a man of affairs all of which symbolic utterances she am- plified until they comprised every attribute which may possibly give a male creature the right of existence under any code of moral law. Moreover, she intimated that Mr. Bond would find Charlottes money a welcome sub- stitute for the traveling steam-valve, which was the only part of the inquisition where Charlotte frightened her friend with flashing of the eyes. Then Jessica attacked the insti- tution of marriage on general grounds, and quoted so many of Charlottes own cavils at it that Charlotte finally felt obliged to ac- knowledge her foolishness, and to write a note to Mr. Bond explaining what a grievous ~nistake she had made; that she did not love him, and could never marry him. 102 This was BQnds first serious experience in being misprized, and he careened so badly under the burden that he seemed quite to fit Jessicas estimate of him, and confirmed for- ever the abstractions concerning men made by Jessica out of her innocence of them. Mr. Bond wrote back that he regretted Charlotte had taken him for some other man. He filled four pages with a shivering sarcasm that made Charlotte think Jessica much wiser than had been suspected by her most irresponsible admirers. For a year the matter seemed a closed incident. During that year Mr. Bond continued his researches within himself, and finally came, in the light of a soul that grew constantly, to be heartily ashamed of his last communi- cation to the woman he had loved and still loved. To arrive at such a state meant for him straightway to write another letter, proudly explaining his new understanding of his unworthiness, and telling of all the mental anguish he had undergone since they parted, and how completely he comprehended what his attitude must have stood for in her eyes. And Charlotte, moved, as she thought, by her conscience, replied that they both had much to regret, she especially in having allowed him to form such an impression of her regard for ji~ A THE TRAGEDY OF THE COMEDY. 103 Thin, which had been, and would always be, simply that of a friend who admired his hon- esty and many other traits of his character. It turned out soon afterward that the steam- salve brought him back to Boston, and he called on Charlotte, and they took up the same friendly intercourse that had been the rule before he had ever touched on the sub- ject of marriage. This reconciliation was bitterly opposed by Jessica, and never gave her a moments peace. But Charlotte stood like a rock, and went so far as to insist that Jessica should not forget the courtesy of a gentlewoman when Mr. Bond came in of an evening; to which Jessica yielded, though she came very near dangerous ground on more tban one oc- casion. Mr. Bond informed Charlotte that he knew he had forfeited much of her respect by his letter at the breaking of their engage- ment, but that he should not rest until he had regained what he had lost, and shown her that he was right when he said he could make her happy, which was a tremendous undertaking for any man in any circumstances, and stood for an opti~nism on his part that was an argu- ment in itself. So another year passed, during which the once ideal life of the two girls seemed to have permanently altered in a most distressing manner. They developed. They bickered over many things, all of which had root in Jessica~s specter of Mr. Bond in eventual triumph; and as often as they bickered they wept and mu- tually asked forgiveness, though Charlotte would rarely accede to Jessicas demands for limitations on Mr. Bonds occurrence at the house. Mr. Bond had now become literary editor of a Boston daily, and smiled good- naturedly at his own small knowledge of the classics, ancient or modern, when he com- pared it to that of the girls. He even took the humor of Jessicas occasional causticity born of reading his reviews as the only side of her remarks worth appearing to notice; and meanwhile the paper increased his sal- ary and gave him more space in the Sunday edition, and other newspaper men looked upon him as a leader in his line. There grew a limit to which Charlotte would listen to Jessicas sarcasms, and henceforth Jessica never rose without bracing herself for the announcement of an engagement; for Char- lotte became more silent every day. The truth was that though Charlotte had said at first it would be useless to look for- ward to any change in her heart, her subse- quent reception of his subtly caressing tones had been such as to warrant a different be- lief. However, he resolved never to speak unless she showed conclusively that she wished him to. And Charlotte, between the opposition of Jessica and the expansion of her own womanly yearnings, came into that region of feminine doubt which lets things take care of themselves. For Charlotte was growing, while Jessica stood still. And it finally happened that on the eve of another of his departures from Boston, Mr. Bond, finding his way by chance unannounced into their drawing-room, came upon Charlotte stand- ing at the mantelpiece, contemplating a mask of Mirth. Charlotte did not care anything for a mask of Mirth; for her eyes were full of tears; and she could not conceal them from him when she turned around. But, unhappily, neither could she explain them; and when he made a wise suggestion, she averred that she could not truthfully say she loved him, and urged that much the best way was for them to part indefinitely. He then had his oppor- tunity to cover the memory of his first re- jection with a manly speech. He said gently that he should love her always, and that he would wait. patiently until she was ready, no matter how long it took. And he went off in a driving rain, leaving her in tears, as he had found her. Jessicas imagination and artfulness ex- tracted this much from mournful Charlotte the next day. Jessica then showed conclu- sively, on the highest moral grounds, that it was a grievous wrong to Mr. Bond for Char- lotte to let him suppose she felt what she could not own to her dearest friend. And Charlotte, out of her affection for Mr. Bond, wrote to him that she was now sure that she should never marry him, though she omitted to say that she was sure that she did not love him. Mr. Bond did not write for a correction of this omission, for fear that, with the ex- aggerated notion of the truth which takes possession of fretful maidens, she would supply it. On the contrary, he wrote that he felt that Charlotte would in the end arrive at the point he desired; that he was aware of the an- tagonism of Miss Jessica, but that, after all, a regard weaker than objections external, and perhaps not wholly unselfish, would not justify any woman in entering matrimony; and that he was content to wait until Char- lotte understood this. He said that Charlotte seemed constructed to prove that the first in- stitution of our civilization could be a success for one who possessed her qualities; and he thereby came dangerously near compliment- I_ ing himself, since he implied himself capable of supplying the other element for the triumph of his theory. He tried to state gently that Charlotte was spending the best years of her life in aimlessness, and that her con- stitutional tendency to melancholy would in- crease as long as she refused to work out normally a scheme of existence planned more for her benefit than for that of anybody else in the world. He said that he loved her, and 104 expected her to discover that she loved him, and that he should wait until she acknow- ledged it. IT was two years later when the girls were dining in their new house after Jessicas out- burst in the Public Garden. Jessica sulked. They were going to see two comedies, one of which, in one act, had been written by Mr. Bond, and was now to be produced for the N WI DRAWN BY HOWARD CHANDLER CHRIATY. CHARLOTTE DID NOT CARE ANYTHING FOR A MASK OF MIRTH. THE TRAGEDY OF THE COMEDY. 105 first time in Boston, after a run in New York which was announced as a success. When it was time for the theater Jessica refused to go, despite the prayers of Charlotte. So Char- lotte left Jessica at home, and went off with Jessicas brother. As they sat waiting for the rise of the cur- tain she saw Mr. Bond enter one of the boxes, accompanied by some ladies. He had changed considerably, perhaps for the better, she thought. He looked as old as he was, and certainly could not convey that impression of youthfulness which went with his earlier days. Charlotte watched him intentlythe man who had won her imagination to the only earthly career she could now contem- plate with a hope of happiness. His man- ner seemed to have become graver. There were a few streaks of premature gray in his hair. Bonds comedy was the story of a girl who had sent away the man who loved her. Now she regretted it, but to no purpose, since from the occasional conventional let- ters which passed between them she believed that his h~art had fallen into possession of another. Soon the lover returned. There was a long scene in which she was caused to shadow forth her sorrow at his change of sentiment, ending with the announcement on his part that the other woman in the case was only a myth, and had been invented by him so that the girl might place a true value on what she thought she had lost. The letters were read over, and the description of the girl who did not exist was found to be that of the girl who did exist, and who now fell into the arms of the hero. This, after some little feminine difficulties were overcome, enabled the curtain to fall on hearts united. As Mr. Bond left the box and passed along with the two ladies, Charlotte noticed that one of them was young and looked very clever and happy. She was evidently the daughter of the other lady. Bond caught sight of Char- lotte, and hastened over to speak to her. ((What do you think of the girl in the play?)) he asked, after the customary ex- change. ((The girl gets more than she deserves,)) said Charlotte, brightly. ((In the play she does,)) said Bond. ((Shall you stay long in Boston?)) asked Charlotte. She did not know what she might s~y next. ((No; I leave to-nightnow that the little play seems to catch favor. Good-by.)) He was gone. ((Bond is getting to be a notable,)) said Jessicas brother. ((That was a fine-looking girl he had with him.)) For Charlotte the second play dragged wofully. The atmosphere seemed too heavy to breathe. She longed to be alone in the open air. During these moments Jessica, at home, very unhappy, and ravishingly handsome in her evening gown, was making furious game of the admiring Chauncey Barber, the young medical student and religious enthusiast whose courage was apparent only by fits and starts. In the course of the evening he chanced to remark: ((That s a beauty Franklin Bond is going to marry, dont you think?)) ((Who?)) asked Jessica, excitedly. Barber took revenge for her raillery by refusing to tell. Later, when the girls were alone, they were both unusually gay. Charlotte soon pleaded fatigue, and retired to her room. Jessica went to sleep determined to find out at the earliest opportunity if Mr. Bond was engaged. When Charlotte awoke in the morning she was ill. As the day wore on she grew worse. Evening found the doctor at her bedside. The illness developed into typhoid fever. For weeks Jessica scarcely left Charlottes chamber. She slept at Charlottes side on a mattress on the floor, nursing her day and night. It was a great strain on the nerves of the more delicate girl; all the more from a fearful anxiety for Charlottes life, which sometimes kept Jessica awake far toward the dawn, when she lay exhausted after a day of highest tension. In those hours Jessica went back over the history of their lives to- gether, and blamed herself for many a child- ish jealousy over Charlotte, and for many a cutting speech born of unreasoning hatred of those occasional third persons who took Char- lottes fancy. Now Charlotte would forget Mr. Bond, if what Barber said was true. And the lives of the two girls, if death would only spare Charlotte, would go on, with Jes- sica chastened in spirit, and risen to a new dignity, through the loveliness of Charlottes example. They would grow old together; and if Charlotte wished the society of men at times, Jessica thought that a little of it would suffice, why, Charlotte should be given it. The patient became convalescent. The case had been less severe than Jessicas fears. Charlotte was able to join with the prayers of the family, and the admonitions of the doc- tor, in forcing Jessica into the open air. At last Jessica consented to take both exercise 106 THE CENTURY MAGAZinE. and sleep, and while she was absent Charlotte lay musing hour after hour over the girl in the play. It occurred to Jessica to ask the doctor about the rumor of Bonds engage- ment; the doctor would know. She met the medical man coming from his final visit to Charlotte. Mr. Bonds engagement to Miss Catherwood, he said, was a fact which would soon be attested by names engraved. The wedding was to take place in Boston. Jessica breathed a long sigh of content, and ran up-stairs. The room was dim in twilight. Charlotte lay motionless, with her hands clasped under her head. She had been long in meditation. There was a settled look upon her face. The heart-crisis was past. ((Jessie dear,)) she said immediately, 4 have something to tell you. Icare for Air. Bond.)) Jessicas heart stopped. She must not speak nowno, not until Charlotte was strong. ((You are not going to be angry, Jessie ?~ asked Charlotte. ((Oh, nc~ darling,)) cried Jessica, with a great lump in her throat. She threw her arms around her friend. ((You will always need meno matter what happens!)) I told you,~ said Charlotte, pressing her face against Jessicas, ((because I am so happy; and I want to tell some one.)) ((But, my darling,)) said Jessica, who dared not sob, ~y~u must think only of getting well now. You are not to excite yourself.)) ((I do not, deaneI am too happy. It has been so long! I want to be well enough to send for him and ask his pardon. How long will it be?)) ((Some time yet, dear. You must think of other things now.~ ((Think of other things!)) said Charlotte, smiling. ((You dear, funny girl!)) That evening Jessica read to Charlotte, who listened apparently with close attention; but her thoughts were far away. She was glad to be left alone in the dark when Jessica re- tired to a night of tears. Charlotte slept and dreamed. The next day, as Jessica entered the li- brary, she met Bond. ((Good morning,)) he said pleasantly, as was his wont to Jessica, notwithstanding her attitude toward him. ((Charlotte is ill.)) ((How did you know?)) asked Jessica. ((Because you are alone, if nothing else. I saw the doctor this morning. He gave me your new address, and I sent my wedding- cards to you and Charlotte. Will you step into the florists? A bunch of violets would look well against that black fur.)) She went with him, and this was surprising, for she generally, in his memory of her, took special delight in refusing the smallest cour- tesy he offered. When he suggested now a huge bunch of violets she declined them. He bowed gravely, and proceeded to assort some roses. Suddenly he said, holding them up: I started to pick these out for Miss Cath- erwood; she likes Banksias, too. But I am going to send them to Charlotte.)) ((Please dont!)) faltered Jessica. He smiled curiously to himself, and wrote down Charlottes name and address. When he had added his card to the flowers, Jessica went with him to the street. As they came out she stopped him, and facing him with a pleading such as he never imagined could come to her eyes, she said: ((Wont you please, please, not send those flowers to Charlotte!)) He looked at her in amazement. ((Let us cross to the Common,)) he said. When they were less in the crowd, he turned to her and said, with wonder, and yet in an indulgent way: ((You are a most extraordinary woman!)) 4 will be any kind you wishif you will only do as I ask,)) she said almost tear- fully. He marveled to see Jessica humbled to make a prayer to him. It was ridiculous. ((You forget,)) he said gravely, ((that I think a great deal of Charlotte.)) ((Youthink a great deal of her !~ said Jessica, impetuously. ((Oh, you are no better than all the other clay of your kind! Your sentiments will not stand the wear of two short years. You said you could never love any one but Charlottethat you would wait for her as long as you lived, that she could summon you in ten years and still find you true. And here you send her your wedding- cards, engraved with another womans name! What fools women are ((It is true that I said all those things,)) he answered without emotion, ((except the last. And many other things which I presume Charlotte held no more sacredly than to tell youwho have so often declared me an im- possible person. The answer to your im- plication that I am a staler of oaths lies in the material you use for your arraignment of me.)) ((What Charlotte has said to me was in defense of you.)) ((Silence was all the defense I needed,)) he said, looking into the distance. THE TRAGEDY OF THE COMEDY. 107 ((That is all you have received for two years,)) said Jessica, mendaciously. ((Thenwhat more to say? Charlotte is happy, you are happy, I am happyah, but that is not all true !~ he said sorrowfully. Charlotte and you are not happy. You have built a wall around yourselvesyou have shut yourselves away from sympathy with men, and you are out of the march of life.)) ((All because neither Charlotte nor I wished her to marry you !~ laughed Jessica. CHARLOTTE gained strength rapidly. She had not lost her hair. This was a source of happiness. She remembered how Bond had often admired it. She amused herself with fondling its full length and thinking of him. Then she blushed in the quiet of her room. Each day brought the spring nearer. Jessica came in every morning laden with flowers, and promising the earliest wild blossoms when they should appear. The twenty-eight white roses Jessica had taken from the box when they came, and they stood on Char- lottes table for three days, apparently as a token of J~ssicas affection. Her real tribute was the fact that Bonds card lay in Jessica~ s room, part of the ashes in the grate. Jessica would not leave the house until the flowers had safely reached her own hands; and until the wedding-cards, too, had come, and were stowed away in her secret drawer. Bond was to be married at noon on the third of May. By that morning Charlotte had risen and dressed regularly for a week. The weather had been cold and wet, and it was not thought advisable for her to go out. But now the day opened bright and warm. It brought memo- ries of past delightful springtimes and prom- ises of summer that sent her mind back to Seaweed Cove, and to the blue waters over which she had gazed so many hours in silence. soon she and Jessica would ride out together, and before long Charlotte could consider her- self well-nigh restored. For a week Jessica had gone about weighed to earth with the news she felt long overdue to Charlotte. Often it trembled on her lips to speak; but the effort stifled it. When the two were together Jes- sicas mind was distracted in debate when and how to begin, while Charlottes thoughts were too evidently far away. The crisis came when, on this morning of the third of May, Jessica discovered Char- lotte sitting at her desk finishing a note. Charlotte colored crimson when she found Jessicas eyes fixed upon her in a strange, compassionate gaze. ((You are not writing to Mr. Bond?)) ((Yes, dear. I have asked him to come as soon as he can. The doctor told me he was heretwo weeks ago,~ she confessed shyly. ((Oh, it is so delightful to be well again !~ ((But how can you be so sure he will come, now?)) said Jessica. ((Ahyou do not know him! Why should he not, dear?)) ((Because, Challie deardid nt the doc- tor say the rest?)) asked Jessica, hopelessly. ((The rest?)) ((Yes; that Mr. Bond is going to marry Miss Catherwood? Dearest, I could nt tell you until you were strong.)) Charlotte put down her pen. Her color flew. She rested her elbows on the desk and pressed her forehead in her hands. Jessica came and placed her arms around her friend. There was no word. I cannot say I am surprised, dear,)) said Jessica, aimlessly. There was a long silence in the room. The soft May air came in through the open win- dow. It brought the chiming of the bells in the steeple of the church where Franklin Bond would soon be married to Miss Catherwood. It blew the hair which Charlotte had fondled in thinking of him. For a time she seemed un- aware of Jessicas presence. Suddenly Char- lotte rose and walked across the room. ((I do not believe it,)) she said resolutely. ((I cannot believe it. Dont you know it was lack of faith that has made me miserable for two long years? Dont you know that he never has failed to live up to what I think of him now? That was the trouble, Jessica. When I first knew him I could take no man seriously. I looked down upon them. What childishness for a girl of twenty-three! And even when I grew to know him so well, I could not see that he justified his aspira- tions. His capital seemed so slim to me then; I did not recognize the moral part of it. I did not understand that he knew his disad- vantages better than I did, and yet was less afraid in his own self than I was for him. I saw all his mistakes very clearly; but I did not see that he never faltered one moment in his coursehe always pressed forward always; sometimes slowly, sometimes almost standing still; but he always faced one way, Jessica, and II could have helped him so much more than I did! If I had only under- stood! But we laughed at him, and made fun of his work in the newspapers, and of the little book which he never published because I did not think it equal to some masterpieceand there was no one for whose opinion he cared as he did for mine. He put the little book 108 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. aside; but he never stoppedhe went on just as if I had never existedonly he took more pride in my praise thanO Jessica! And it made no difference what idle thing I said, or how I hurt him in my thoughtless criticisms, or how I showed I thought him inferior clay he forgave me; he never lost his gentle tone for one moment all the time I knew him. And I thought it was small humility on his part. I thought it was obeisance to my higher spirit when it was only because he knew better and felt more deeply than I did, and forgave me out of the sweetness of his soul! Oh, we have much to learn! They teach us to applaud things that are applauded, but we do not learn to praise the man in the aspiration and in the struggle. And he never ceased to love me as long as Iand I do not believe he has ceased to now! If his name has been heard with Miss Catherwoods, why, it has been against his will. For all I know, perhaps he thought it might move me as it did the girl in the play. I told you about that. She thought she had lost himthen she began to feel his value. It made her wretched first. It made them both happy in the end. It was a matter of years; but they cared for each other. Time could not change it. And do you believe that the man who wrote that sweet little play, the one who was true to me through three long years of wretched unappreciation on my part, through rebuff and insane womanish freak~ and distrust and almost ridicule at timesdo you believe he has forgotten the things he said to me? Why, I have faith now! If you were to tell me anything in the world against him I would believe him innocent. I have faith. I believe he loves me to-dayjust as he always did. And Ido not deserve it!)) ((But, oh, my darling! s cried Je~sica, burst- ing into tears, ((he does nt lo ~e you any more! He told me soand I have been the cause of all this!)) ((I have faith in him!)) said Charlotte. ((He would not open his heart to you. ((But he is being married a ~av at this mi- nutein the church under those bells. I have his cards, addressed to you. Must you see?)) ((Let me have them!)) gasped Charlotte. Charlotte stood at the window, holding to the sill in the whirl of things about her. Th current of spring air struck cold against he heated temples. Her note to Bond rustled and blew from the table. The church lay in the distance before her. The chimes rang out the wedding-march from ~Lohengrin,s and the people began to stream from the ortal. Her breath came quick and irregular. he tnrust her arms out Ride above her ead, and ap- pealed to the fresh blue sky with a sigh that shook her frame. Jessica returned wet-eyed, with the invitation in her han~ eharlotte CHARLOTTE IS THIRTY. THE FIERCEST BEAST OF PREY. 109 was rigid. She took the smooth paper in her handsthe lines swamshe did not see the names. Jessica dropped to her knees, and beseechingly clasped Charlotte, crying: ((Can you ever in the long, long world for- give me?)) The paper floated to the floor. Charlottes hands fell lightly on Jessicas shoulders. The silence was broken only by Jessicas sobs. ((There is nothing to forgive,)) said Char- lotte at length, slowly. I was put to a test. I was offered doubt and mistrustand I ac- cepted them. I was unequal to the test. Mr. Bond has to thank you. There is nothing.)) ((Say that we can go on now,)) pleaded Jessica, tearfully go on as we did before ever a man came into our happiness. I will give my whole life to make you forgetmy whole life! Poor, poor darling Charlotte!)) Charlotte slowly shook her head: ((It can never be exactly the samenot until we understand each other. I do not want to forget. It is not I who am to be pitied. I am better off than you. I have learned. I would not for anything in the world exchange myfor the man who oncefor your inno- cence of what it is to trust.)) THAT was two years ago. Charlotte is thirty. I do not know that she is prominent in charitable work, or has thrown herself into some intellectual field with an energy and de- votion that are winning her laurels. I have not heard that she is specially glorified as the sweet fireside aunt of her brothers children, or the tender confidante of younger people in love. But I know that her hair has in it many threads of purest silver; and that she looks quite thirty; and thatI should not like to be Charlotte. Jessica was married last fall to a man four years younger than herself. Chester Bailey Fernald. THE FIERCEST BEAST OF PREY. ~HE white da~n oer the sleeping forest rose, I And woke each beast and bird to feed or play; To pass, in Natures temple of repose, Their happy, harmless day. When, crashing onward through the thickets dun, And strong with dreadful arts to maim and slay, Took man the hunter, with his dogs and gun, His devastating way. Fear went before him with her visage wan, And each beast owned his dread and ruthless sway; All Natures children fled the face of man, The fiercest beast of prey. Reginald Gourlay.

Reginald Gourlay Gourlay, Reginald The Fiercest Beast of Prey 109-110

THE FIERCEST BEAST OF PREY. 109 was rigid. She took the smooth paper in her handsthe lines swamshe did not see the names. Jessica dropped to her knees, and beseechingly clasped Charlotte, crying: ((Can you ever in the long, long world for- give me?)) The paper floated to the floor. Charlottes hands fell lightly on Jessicas shoulders. The silence was broken only by Jessicas sobs. ((There is nothing to forgive,)) said Char- lotte at length, slowly. I was put to a test. I was offered doubt and mistrustand I ac- cepted them. I was unequal to the test. Mr. Bond has to thank you. There is nothing.)) ((Say that we can go on now,)) pleaded Jessica, tearfully go on as we did before ever a man came into our happiness. I will give my whole life to make you forgetmy whole life! Poor, poor darling Charlotte!)) Charlotte slowly shook her head: ((It can never be exactly the samenot until we understand each other. I do not want to forget. It is not I who am to be pitied. I am better off than you. I have learned. I would not for anything in the world exchange myfor the man who oncefor your inno- cence of what it is to trust.)) THAT was two years ago. Charlotte is thirty. I do not know that she is prominent in charitable work, or has thrown herself into some intellectual field with an energy and de- votion that are winning her laurels. I have not heard that she is specially glorified as the sweet fireside aunt of her brothers children, or the tender confidante of younger people in love. But I know that her hair has in it many threads of purest silver; and that she looks quite thirty; and thatI should not like to be Charlotte. Jessica was married last fall to a man four years younger than herself. Chester Bailey Fernald. THE FIERCEST BEAST OF PREY. ~HE white da~n oer the sleeping forest rose, I And woke each beast and bird to feed or play; To pass, in Natures temple of repose, Their happy, harmless day. When, crashing onward through the thickets dun, And strong with dreadful arts to maim and slay, Took man the hunter, with his dogs and gun, His devastating way. Fear went before him with her visage wan, And each beast owned his dread and ruthless sway; All Natures children fled the face of man, The fiercest beast of prey. Reginald Gourlay. MURAL DECORATION IN AMERICA. (FIRST PAPER.) begin by considering mural decoration as a half-sister of architecture is to clear the way for a more accurate compre- hension of the younger art. The two are not exactly in- terdependent. Good architecture can exist without painted embellishment; but mural decoration, by the very nature of its being, is part and parcel of an architectural scheme. The best decorators in the past have recog- nized this fact. Even in their most pictorial moments they have retained an architectural basis for their work. The great library at- tached to the cathedral at Siena is adorned with a series of frescos in the liveliest narra- tive style of the Umbrian painter Pinturic- chio, but every panel in the room is composed with referi~nce to the room itself. The field is wide for the citation of similar illustrations from Renaissance art; but the object of this. paper is to show wherein American painters have fulfilled the obligations of mural decora- tion, and how materially they have contrib- uted to the development of that form of art. The word ((obligations)) is used advisedly. It is futile to talk about the beauty of a decora- t~ve picture until you have settled its value as a pictorial decoration; and to get at that value it is necessary clearly to understand what mural decoration is in its best estate. It is part of an architectural scheme. But how large a part? the reader may ask. The an- swer seems to be required so often that I give it in very nearly rudimentary form. Mural decoration, or mural painting, to be minutely exact, is that permanent addition of painted color to a wall or other immovable portion of a building which falls into the effect of the whole structure as the lines of an arch fall into it on the purely architectural side of the design. Lay hold of that fundamental conception, and you have a touchstone for all the decoration ever painted. Note that noth- ing is said about the form which this added color takes. It may be a representation of a historical pageant two hundred feet long. It may be a solid mass of some one tint ac- cented by a few conventional arabesques. No matter what the form may be, pictorial de- sign or solid tint, the decoration must be an integral part of the architectural whole, and 110 to be this it must be brought into conformity with the general character of its surround- ings. Now this seems obvious enough; but ignorance of it, or indifference to it, has done more to disfigure buildings and retard. the growth of a noble art than all the incom- petency that ever expressed its dreary self through the medium of color. We shall be as- sisted in our survey of recent American work if we remember the special requirements of the various situations attacked, and look at the decorations purely as such, not as inter- esting pictures painted on a larger scale than usual, and hoisted into some convenient place without the formality of a frame. The build- ing is more than a frame for a true mural decoration. It is the organism of which the painting is as necessary a part as the stair- case running from floor to floor, like the spinal column in a human being. We have seen above that at the roots of their work the common house-painter and the artist of the rank of Puvis de Chavannes are on the same level. Where the one leaps far beyond. the other is not merely in executive power, but in the possession of ideasexpressing his genius in c& iperation with that of another, so far as the form goes, but with complete originality and abounding interest so far as the thoughts presented are concerned. I ani glad to leave generalizations of this sort for concrete examples close at hand. Whatever ideas we may have about mural decoration are clarified and strengthened by reference to the work which exists already in Amer- ica. It has not existed long. We have had. only one accomplished decorator behind the present generation, and he, the late William Hunt, was not more than a casual and passing factor in the evolution of the art. Its history in this country is embraced by the careers of men still living; some of its most interesting figures are among the youngest of American artists, and the dean of the group is. still in his prime. He, Mr. John La Forge, has car- ried the art of mural decoration to a point so high that he gives me the critics great- est privilege, the privilege of plunging into the heart of the matter with a conscious- ness of wholly impeccable data in the paint- ing described. Qualifications, deductions, are avoided. Praise of a fine work of art really

Royal Cortissoz Cortissoz, Royal Mural Decoration in America. I. 110-122

MURAL DECORATION IN AMERICA. (FIRST PAPER.) begin by considering mural decoration as a half-sister of architecture is to clear the way for a more accurate compre- hension of the younger art. The two are not exactly in- terdependent. Good architecture can exist without painted embellishment; but mural decoration, by the very nature of its being, is part and parcel of an architectural scheme. The best decorators in the past have recog- nized this fact. Even in their most pictorial moments they have retained an architectural basis for their work. The great library at- tached to the cathedral at Siena is adorned with a series of frescos in the liveliest narra- tive style of the Umbrian painter Pinturic- chio, but every panel in the room is composed with referi~nce to the room itself. The field is wide for the citation of similar illustrations from Renaissance art; but the object of this. paper is to show wherein American painters have fulfilled the obligations of mural decora- tion, and how materially they have contrib- uted to the development of that form of art. The word ((obligations)) is used advisedly. It is futile to talk about the beauty of a decora- t~ve picture until you have settled its value as a pictorial decoration; and to get at that value it is necessary clearly to understand what mural decoration is in its best estate. It is part of an architectural scheme. But how large a part? the reader may ask. The an- swer seems to be required so often that I give it in very nearly rudimentary form. Mural decoration, or mural painting, to be minutely exact, is that permanent addition of painted color to a wall or other immovable portion of a building which falls into the effect of the whole structure as the lines of an arch fall into it on the purely architectural side of the design. Lay hold of that fundamental conception, and you have a touchstone for all the decoration ever painted. Note that noth- ing is said about the form which this added color takes. It may be a representation of a historical pageant two hundred feet long. It may be a solid mass of some one tint ac- cented by a few conventional arabesques. No matter what the form may be, pictorial de- sign or solid tint, the decoration must be an integral part of the architectural whole, and 110 to be this it must be brought into conformity with the general character of its surround- ings. Now this seems obvious enough; but ignorance of it, or indifference to it, has done more to disfigure buildings and retard. the growth of a noble art than all the incom- petency that ever expressed its dreary self through the medium of color. We shall be as- sisted in our survey of recent American work if we remember the special requirements of the various situations attacked, and look at the decorations purely as such, not as inter- esting pictures painted on a larger scale than usual, and hoisted into some convenient place without the formality of a frame. The build- ing is more than a frame for a true mural decoration. It is the organism of which the painting is as necessary a part as the stair- case running from floor to floor, like the spinal column in a human being. We have seen above that at the roots of their work the common house-painter and the artist of the rank of Puvis de Chavannes are on the same level. Where the one leaps far beyond. the other is not merely in executive power, but in the possession of ideasexpressing his genius in c& iperation with that of another, so far as the form goes, but with complete originality and abounding interest so far as the thoughts presented are concerned. I ani glad to leave generalizations of this sort for concrete examples close at hand. Whatever ideas we may have about mural decoration are clarified and strengthened by reference to the work which exists already in Amer- ica. It has not existed long. We have had. only one accomplished decorator behind the present generation, and he, the late William Hunt, was not more than a casual and passing factor in the evolution of the art. Its history in this country is embraced by the careers of men still living; some of its most interesting figures are among the youngest of American artists, and the dean of the group is. still in his prime. He, Mr. John La Forge, has car- ried the art of mural decoration to a point so high that he gives me the critics great- est privilege, the privilege of plunging into the heart of the matter with a conscious- ness of wholly impeccable data in the paint- ing described. Qualifications, deductions, are avoided. Praise of a fine work of art really MURAL DECORATION IN AMERICA. 4 111 means the interpretation of its elements. State those, and the total impression takes care of itself. To analyze the great ((Ascen- sion)) of Mr. La Farge is not alone to express delight in its beauty, but to show exactly what a true decoration is in all its relations. This painting by Mr. La Farge had a pic- turesque origin. It was first conceived, and sketched out in something roughly like its present outlines, with a view to its execution in stained glass for a memorial chapel. Then, when that plan was abandoned, it narrowly escaped being transformed into a species of relief by an eminent sculptor who, Mr. La Farge thought, could make a brilliant altar- piece out of the design, following the prece- dent found to-day in some of the churches of Italy and Spain. Ultimately, Mr. La Farge, who had been asked to put some stained glass over the chancel of the Church of the Ascen- sion in New York (where he had advised the plastic decoration), developed his idea into the canvas which exists. It fills half the height of the lofty edifice. Its width is virtually the width of the nave. These dimensions it would be idle to st*ite in feet and inches, but they are important to remember broadly, because the design is scaled to its surroundings, and seems to spring naturally from that end of the church over which it presides. The archi- tectural lines which meet the surface of the painting mark neither a frame nor an aper- ture in the wall. The richly coffered arch of gold, springing from pilasters as splendidly embellished with conventional ornament, seems rather like some natural boundary narrowing the horizon, concentrating the vision upon one sublime scene. Yet if, the eyes travel, you are aware of no conflict be- tween the scene and its encircling architec- ture; if the transition from one to the other is unconsciously achieved, you must seek the secret of the passage in the painting and not in the arch. Then you begin to grasp the majestic beauty of a perfect wall-painting. You see the harmony between the upright figures on the first plane of the composition and the pilasters on each side. And then, as you are insensibly lifted by the spring of the golden arch, the angels who encircle the risen Christ seem to float in similarly soaring lines. The central figure, as it half pauses in its ascension, is the pivot of the imaginative conception, the pivot of the group of celes- tial worshipers, and, finally, the pivot of the architectural lines. Take an even more subtle point in the ar- rangement of the lines and curves in this painting. As the spectator faces the altar he is dimly sensible of the forward leap of that arch which is reared above the aisle on each side of the church and nearest the chancel. The line is in contradiction to that of the arch above the painting. One comes toward you, the other is calculated to melt into the distance which is suggested by the receding angle of the golden archs soffit. Now this contradiction, if left unbalanced~ might prove seriously detrimental to the unity of the picture, so we find in the latter a landscape the hills of which are so inclined on each side as to bring the curves of the en- tire scheme back into repose and symmetry. It is not easy to demonstrate this with mathe- matical precision, but if the reader will look closely at the painting, and try to imagine the hills at the sides either eliminated or inclined toward the mountain in the middle of the background, he will feel the force of the point at issue. The unity of the thing would be instantly endangered. I lay such stress upon this side of the design, not to reduce its charm to a bald question of lines, but to show how much its beauty depends upon the adjustment of its parts to surrounding con- ditions. It is the adjustment that leaves you free to approach the work on its imaginative and personal side, on the side of its color and purely sensuous enchantment. Yet even here the atmosphere of organic balance is still enveloping the picture. The subdued light by which its lower portion is suffused is suited not only to the demands of the composition~ but to the structure and lighting of the churc~h at that level; and the misty golden radiance of the upper half is keyed to the very note that golden arch and clearstory windows join in producing. Thus far we have traced the beauty of Mr. La Parges decorative art to its co- operation with the architectural ideas ex- pressed in the same place. But we have spoken of a mural decorators own ideas, and we must come back to those, to his inspira- tion. It is that which crowns his work, and in the present instance it is impossible to give an adequate estimate of Mr. La Farge without reference to the sublimity of his conception as a symbol for a spiritual idea. In the first place, he has been strikingly original. The rough outlines of the composition have been settled in advance for hundreds of painters, and they were settled for him in the same way; yet through the subtleties of grouping he has escaped the faintest suggestion of any of his predecessors. If he recalls them at all, it is in the sincerity with which he has bodied forth his idea. The Christ rises with indescrib 112 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. able dignity above the astonished figures, who gaze in awe upon his flight, and the benignant gesture, familiar as it is, has yet in this new version a vitality for which hitherto we have had to ask the old Italians exclusively. Indeed, there is nothing more interesting about this design than its proof of the strength still liv- ing in sacred art when the painter is a man of genius as well as a craftsman. In all that makes religious art religious this is a just modern equivalent for the art of an older faith. We say, in the presence of the sacred pictures of the golden era, Oh, the illusion! the illusion! We have lost that, and the day for biblical illustration is gone by.)) Mr. La Farge gives the best possible answer to this. Nobly designed, saturated in color of the deepest splendor and most exquisite delicacy, imbued with the indefinable spirituality of a high ima- gination, his painting puts before you, on the heroic scale which it demands, the scene which marks the culmination of our Christian faith. It must be a cold temperament which could find in this uplifting creation less of fervor, less of the power to convince, than we are willing to believe a more naive century found in more naive productions. I have said nothing in regard to Mr. La Farges subject, and the relation between it, or his treatment of it, and the limitations of mural decoration, because all that needs to be said in this connection is more sugges- tively set down apropos of Mr. Sargents work. That brilliant work, dedicated to certain walls of the new Public Library in Boston, is remarkable for the peculiar and dazzling virtuosity characteristic of Mr. Sargent, and for some daring departures from those laws which we have noted as at the foundation of mural painting. The work is divided into two sections. One consists of a frieze, which has thus far been completed in only three divi- sions, two of them opposite each other and at right angles to the third, which itself fills the end of that vaulted hall in which the en- tire series of decorations by this artist is to be unfolded. The other portion of the fin- ished work is that which embraces the semi- circular wall-space at the end of the hall, above the frieze, and the first panel of the arched ceiling. The frieze is devoted to a procession of the prophets, which follow each other in stately march. Above them, on one side of the ceiling, is a representation of Moloch, while the corresponding space on the other side of the vault is devoted to Astarte. Other deities are included in these divisions, which are dominated from the center by the signs of the zodiac [see page 114] and by Neith, the Egyptian goddess in whom there was supposed to dwell the maternal genius of the universe. The lunette upon which these look down, be- tween them and the frieze, is filled with a composition which represents the confusion of the Israelites on their turning to worship false gods. From the standpoint of erudi- tion Mr. Sargents designs are easily suscep- tible of analysis, and they are, indeed, per- fectly transparent in their symbolism when scrutinized by the learned. On the other hand, their purely decorative character is somewhat obscure; and it is with refer- ence to this fact that I wish to show the connection between right mural decoration and the subject, or the decorators treatment of it. In so far as the subject is complex it is in peril. A symbolism that is too symbolical be- comes opaque after the first gloss has disap- peared; it becomes a puzzle to the professor and a terror to the illiterate or only moder- ately educated person. Anecdotic masters like Pinturicchio, like Carpaccio, or like Gozzoli, go very near the precipice which gives on oblivion when their stories become involved. But they save themselves by the great re- source: they counterbalance complexity of motive by simplicity of design. Therein lies the whole history of Renaissance decoration, the most important of which we have records. Michelangelo and Raphael themselves provide the most cogent illustrations. It is in his disinclination to emulate altogether their transparency of design that Mr. Sargent has compelled me to preface a cordial valuation of his work at its best with a little homily on his work in a less conciliating phase. From the maze in which he has depicted the tale of Israelitish disgrace there emerge certain fig- ures, like the menacing Assyrian and Egyptian kings, stopped in their wrath by the hands of Jehovah. These have such statuesque charac- ter, and are withal so well placed in opposi- tion to each other, that the fresco begins to take on the architectural dignity it requires. Yet somehow even these figures do not quite hold their own against the labyrinthine changes of line which meet the eye. Heroic the motive certainly is, but you miss the di- rectness expected in the heroic mural paint- ing. There are rather hints of the qualities for which you go to an easel picture: the pictorial element predominates, and the dec- orative style undergoes a material modifi- cation. I dwell upon this, however, not to charge Mr. Sargent with a defect, but to fix the readers attention for a moment upon the significant development of our inquiry which these frescos illustrate. They show conclusively that an artist may have imagina- tion, color, draftsmanship, even genius, and yet diminish his effect because he does not adhere rigidly to the conditions under which he is working. Mr. Sargent seems to have held himself with some indifference to his conditions, trying, perhaps, to equalize his effects by modeling some of the details in relief (the lions of Moloch and various other passages are treated in this way); he lapses to some extent, nevertheless, from that standard of clarity which is inseparable from the finest mural decoration. This must surely have been the result of some strange heed- lessness or audacity on the part of the ar- Voi~. LL15 tist, for one has only to look beloxv the ceiling designs and the lunette to see a tri- umphant demonstration of his decorative faculty. The line of prophets occupying the frieze is little less than magnificent. It is formed of noble figures clad in simple robes; tall types of hieratic power and reserve, which have quite as much to impress the imagination in their austere characters, beau- tifully individualized, as may be found in any of the mystic abstractions with which Mr. Sargent has peopled the superimposed stages of his scheme. The prophets are ranged along perfectly plain surfaces, broken only by the severest pilasters. They are rendered in bold, simple tones, the light and dark draperies in which they are variously wrapped being set one against the other in effective masses. In 113 THE ASCENSION, IN THE ChURCH OF TILE ASCENSION, NEW YORK CITY. 114 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. the center of the long division at the end of a performance which easily rises superior to the hall there stands between Joshua and those points of modifying significance at Elijah a stupendous figure of Moses, winged, which it has been necessary to glance with mysterious, leaning with might on the carved some care. It is true that he has not main- tables of the law, and looming in his place tamed throughout the decorative, architec- like the terrible vicegerent before whom tural equilibrium most essential to his art; even the modern imagination recoils with but he has contrived, in spite of this, to give reverential and yet fearful awe. Here, in enormous weight to his exalted conceptions, this plastic figure, Mr. Sargent seems to me to make an extraordinary impression. Again to have achieved~ his most felicitous touch. and again the mind is grasped with irre- He keeps the simplicity of the surrounding sistible force, and held by some passage of prophets, and he exercises also the super- natural spell which is active in the intrica- cies of his upper designs. The Moses stands like a veritable key-stone. He is pictorial, nay, he is sculptural, but he is also decora- tive in the very highest meaning of the word, There is still a great deal to be done by Mr. Sargent in the hall of the library, which has been assigned him. A final judgment upon his work may be suspended. Looking now to the intrinsic value of those fragments which are in place, he has achieved, it iay be aid, dramatic inspiration, which falls with ex- quisite fitness into the massy fullness and grandeur of the whole. In the center of the lunette are the flaming wings of Jehovah, and they seem to pervade the entire scene with sacred and overwhelming fire. On the ceiling the lovely figure of Astarte, wrapped in filmy blue, a sweet and graceful image of lA fuller account of Mr. Sargents art-work, in- cluding a complete set of illustratiorn of these nota )le decorations, will appeni iii an ea~1y uumber of TaF CENTITRY. -=~-EDITOR. THE ZODIAC, FROM THE CEILING ARCH, A PART OF SARGENTS DECORATIONS IN THE BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY.l MURAL DECORATION IN AMERICA. 115 delicate authority, stands overshadowed by the oppressive mystery of Neith, whose strange and solemn head is separated from the other goddess by the glistening coils of a huge snake. Beyond the zodiac, which is represented at this point, there is raised the baleful and gigantic bulk of Moloch. Around him and his lions, unearthly shapes of dread, the suns rays play in long, arrowy lines, which terminate in fantastic golden hands. These are thrilling things, made more passionately vivid and poignant by the vigorous style of execution, and the still more forceful strokes of color. From the blazing wrath of Jehovahs omniscient pinions to the dull, sinister shadow of the tawny Moloch there is not one false note. The scheme rings true in the cumulative force of its appeals to the imagination, to the sense of what is great in vivid, palpitat- ing, and spiritualized forms. It fastens the attention very closely upon the quality which we have touched upon above as so precious and inspiringthe quality of intellect, of thought, of imagination. Mr. Sargent could not have painted the frieze of the prophets without decorative genius. He could not have painted either the frieze or the designs above it without unusual brain-power, a fact on which emphasis is laid, because it means all the difference between a vigorous and a triv- ial school of art. Mural decoration in Amer- ica is being established every year with greater and greater firmness, because its principal exemplars are men who think as well as paint. It is because they keep the balance intact that we find inspiration in Mr. La Farge, in Mr. Sargent, and in the artist who is now to be considered, the painter of ((The Quest of the Holy Grail.~ Mr. Abbeys contribution to the adornment of the Boston Library has one element which almost predisposes the spectator in its favor before he has paused to weigh it with crit- ical scales. It is from first to last enchant- ingly poetic. The most obtuse would yield to the magic of the Arthurian legend. A critic could hardly be blamed who found Mr. Abbeys paintings charming merely on the score of their picturesque atmosphere. But if these decorations belong among the major per- formances of American mural painting, it is because they are wholly suited to their place, because they are decorative. They tell a story, and that an elaborate one, a legend over which the accretions of centuries have flung themselves like the ivy on an ancient British ruin; but the essentials of the old tale live in Mr. Abbeys frieze with nothing to obscure their meaning. Some symbolism may be dis- played with the introduction of the cup, the Grail itself, but for the rest the pageant moves on with the compactness and celerity of a historical sequence, and the merest title if even thatis sufficient for the enlight- enment of the public. The first of the five designs completed at this time represents the appearance of an angel bearing the Grail to the infant Galahad uplifted in the arms of a nun in a convent cell. The next represents the untried and spotless knight kneeling in the dawn at the end of his vigil, while Lancelot and Bors affix his spurs, and a group of nuns wait behind them with lighted candles. In the third picture Galahad is shown entering the hall of Arthur to take possession of the Seat Perilous, which has been destined for him at the Round Table. Following this comes the scene in Arthurs church, where Galahad and the other knights embarking upon the quest come for the benediction. The fifth picture, which terminates the series now in place in Boston, is devoted to the visit of Galahad to the petrified court of Amfortas, with the burden of a great opportunity upon him, and the greater weight of an indecision which he cannot conquer. He stands beside the stony couch of the unhappy king, heedless of the life-in-death on every side, heedless of the procession of figures headed by the crowned bearer of the Grail. We leave him in his doubt for Mr. Abbeys further illustration of the legend. What I wish to point out now is the extraordinary skill with which the painter has set forth his narrative, not simply as a matter of poetic compression, but in the strictly dec- orative relations of the work. All through the succession of pictures there are effects of form, of line, adapted subtly and brilliantly to the exigencies of mural decora- tion. In the scene of Galahads vigil there are the vertical lines in the draperies of the nuns and in the candles of the latter on one side of the design, and on the other you find the kneeling knight repeating the upright motive, and carrying it on to the pillars of the altar at which his watch has been kept. Between the two portions of the design Bors and his companion introduce varying contours, and add the necessary contrast to the main lines employed. Mr. Abbey knows the value of line. He uses it admirably in the richly orna- mented wall of the nuns chamber depicted in the initial decoration; and he produces a beautiful effect with it in the erect staves of those banners which are borne by the kneel- ing warriors at the moment of the benediction. In the last mystical episode of the sleeping court, wherein he had to accommodate his design to a break in the lower level of the space on the wall, he has solved his problem by the use of an expedient altogether fasci- nating. The top of a heavy door-frame rises into the center of the canvas. Mr. Abbey adheres to the massive character imposed upon him at this point, and places there the great marble sarcophagus on which Amfortas reclines, wrapped in a mass of furs. To the right and left of this center the other per- sonages of the scene are placed, their forms mingling with the slender lines of those pil- lars which uphold the roof. The result of this sagacious arrangement is that you appre- hend the design in so many strictly balanced masses, and get from it, vaguely but surely, that feeling of smooth rhythm which architec- ture itself possesses in rivalry to music. This is the one sensation to which it is not only a pleasure, but a necessity, to return in the con- sideration of Mr. Abbeys work. I began by pointing out the special char- acter of mural decoration; and the highest praise to be expended upon a series of pic- tures like those in illustration of the Arthur- ian story is to say that they seem to grow out of the spaces in which they have been placed. That they should do this has been a delightful surprise to all those who have followed closely Mr. Abbeys work. The only mural piece by him which was known prior to the appearance of his Grail designs is that charming bit of colonial genre, as it might be called, in which 11~ he represented a game of bowls as played in New York during the Dutch occupation. This is a delightful pictureone of the quaintest Mr. Abbey has done. At the same time it is very much the picture and not so much the decoration, for all its effectiveness on the hotel wall which it adorns. Remembering that Mr. Abbeys fame had been won as a black- and-white illustrator, it was easy to assume that the Grail decorations would not be what they should be. The artist was accustomed to work in too minute a vein, with too deli- cate a touch, with too little color in his daily experience. What he lacked, and would prove himself to lack, was breadth. Well, we know now just what Mr. Abbey lacks as a mural dec- orator. He lacks space, time, opportunity; for even when he has completed his work in the library we will not have had half enough of his decorative charm. He has this last be- cause he has those other things it was feared he might lackrichness and range of color, breadth and vigor of style. Both qualities are controlled in him by the feeling for structure, which is his most precious virtue; but in every relation of his art he moves with freedom, and the last impression he leaves is one of fine artistic pomp, of precisely that decorative bravura which means impressiveness without effort, splendor with serenity, brilliancy held in check by the decorative idea. The endeavor has been made to present the various paintings thus far approached in the particular light shed from a true conception BOWLING GREEN, IN THE HOTEL of what mural decoration means. It must be clear enough that what it does not mean is a picture placed without reference to its sur- roundings. But I wish to avoid the danger which lies in too conventional and too rigid an interpretation of this idea. The most im- pressive decorations are those in which the various motives employed have been really built up into a whole, composed in a very architectural sense. But it does not follow that because this building up is most tremen- dous in effect when the subject is in itself tremendous, as in Mr. La Farges ~Ascen- sion,~) only a heroic ideal is permitted to the decorator of a wall; that he must always be, as it were, epical, dramatic. Mural dec- oration, like every other form of painting, has, if I may continue to borrow froiu poetic terminology, its lyric moments, and it is of these that I now desire to speak. Were I to hark back to earlier epochs, I should be in- clined to go to the eighteenth century, and find an illustration in Tiepolo. It is more gratifying to discover the type in an Ameri- can painter vastly superior to Tiepolo in everything that means delicacy of tempera- ment and distinction of tone. I mean Mr. Dewing. He does not figure very often as a mural painter. When he has appeared in that character it has been at rare intervals in cer- tain private houses which have kept his work hidden. But in one of the rooms of a New York hotelin the Imperial, at the corner of Broadway and Thirty-second streetthere is a ceiling painted by Mr. Dewing which is all that is needed to affirm his full title to a place among the first of decorative painters. It is a circular panel showing three allegor- ical figures, Night, Dawn, and Aurora, the three poised together in the sky, with a pale, thin, crescent moon separating Aurora from her sisters. Dawn half lies in the lap of Night, and holds in one outstretched hand the morning star. All three are draped in soft robes of subtle blues and pinks, which blend imperceptibly into the turquoise blue and cirrus white of the sky and its clouds. The three make no sign; there is no dramatic gesture, there is no elaboration of symbol- ism. The group hangs in a sweet insouciance, graceful, pliant, the very incarnation of a lyric inspiration. In its blithe freedom from all hint of academic formalism, wherein, it may be asked, does its mural character sur- vive? In its subtle and absolutely successful maintenance of a kind of a~irial balance, it may be replied, the figures floating in the sky like some fixed stars, irregular, if you like, in their disposition, but with an undercurrent of something that tells you their relations have been perfectly adjusted. It is this peculiar symmetry which belongs primarily to a ceiling, particularly to a ceil- ing of circular outline. Such a space needs a light, vivacious motive; it wants some fra- gile forms flung with the ease of heedlessness upon thewaiting surface, and at the same time welded together in a composition which ac- ii7 IMPERIAL, NEW YORK CITY. 118 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. cords in spirit with the solidity of the walls that bound it. Remember all that is implied in a problem of this description, and it will be seen that Mr. Dewing exerts an uncommon power in mural decoration; that he possesses in unusual measure the faculty of seeing his composition as a whole, apprehending its rela- tions, and determining with profound inten- tion the flow of every contour, the illuminative office of every stroke of the brush, whether it be to flood with light or to whelm in shadow. In short, while his work seems far removed from such strictly constructive design as that exemplified by Mr. La Farges ((Ascension,)) it is architectural, decorative, to the very rim of the canvas. it is Mr. Dewings privilege, however, to project into his decorative work, with no diminution of its special character, an exceptional proportion of the charm which belongs to his art in any form. The ceiling to which I have referred is not an easel pic- ture, but it has added to its mural point all the beauties of the artist in his smallest and subtlest achievements. The magnified scale of the work has done nothing to modify Mr. Dewings accustomed elegance and daintiness of style. The design has the same fine out- lines, the same exquisite modulations of line and surface, which belong to paintings like ((The Hermit Thrush.)) In this ceiling he has changed the conditions of his art without surrendering any of his characteristics of style; he has abandoned the mere limitations in space of the ((conversation piece)) for the spacious lines of monumental art; but he has remained himself, he has kept the beauty, the originality, which make him distinguished. To do this is perhaps the greatest triumph of the decorator, and I know of nothing more delightful in those works which we have traversed than the strong individualismwhich they illustrate. In the case of Mr. La Farge, for example, we have found ourselves in the presence of a man who had established him- self as a painter of easel pictures before he had taken to decoration; yet the transition has been marked by an increase of authority, by an expansion of the artists style, without any loss of that temperamental quality which made him interesting in the first place. This point is distinctly worth noting as in- dicative of a particularly healthy tendency in the new American school. Nowhere is it so easy to become dryly academic as in mural decoration. The strongest individuality may find itself staggered by the vastness of the scale onwhich it is suddenly asked to manifest itself; and even in his moments of wildest lib- erty the artist will paint so cautiously that his native touch grows thin, his style under- goes a change. Our own men have stood firm even in their experimental stages. The dec- orations at the Chicago Fair demonstrated this. They weie lamentably crude iu more than one instance, but in the long run every one of the painters contrived to make the KEY TO THE DECORATIONS BY EDWARD SIMMONS. ~.......MONS, 1895. JUSTICE. IN if COUlI O~ OYER AND TE1L~ IN IN TB CRIMI AL COU TS III ING, NEW 0 K CIT H 0 0 4 H 0 H z 0 0 MURAL DECORATION IN AMERICA. 121 observer feel that the work was genuine, that it had a strong force behind it. That force was compelled to start, of course, from the natures of the various painters who began three or four years ago to look upon wall- painting as a substantial form of art and one worth practising. But it has had to look for nourishment, also, at the hands of connois- seurs and public officers, and at this point we draw near to one of the most interesting phases of our sketch. What chance has mu- ral decoration in America, what encourage- ment, what opportunity, what stimulus for the men whose abilities are only waiting to be employed in this lofty sphere of artistic activity? Private enterprise has done much, and is doing more. Public and semi-public efforts have also been made, and are still efficient. Mr. La Farges great church deco- ration offers one proof, and his experience offers many more to which reference might be made, did the scope of the present paper permit. Mr. Sargent and Mr. Abbey have done their work in one of the public monu- ments of Massachusetts. Mr. Dewing owed the commission for his beautiful ceiling to the enlightened jolicy which has begun to regard hotels as legitimate objects of artistic labor. Mr. Edward Simmons has been working for some time on three panels for the Court of Oyer and Terminer in the new Criminal Courts Building of New York City. The opportunity was given to him by the Municipal Art So- ciety, which arranged the competition which he entered, and will provide the funds for the completion of the work. But when that work is in place it will stand in an official spot, and though privately inspired, as it were, it will place us on record as having employed the services of an artist in a building public to a degree, and in an official, national sense, that even the library at Boston is not. In this we have an occasion for rejoicing, for the begin- ning is, after all, the thing, and having begun by decorating the walls of one of our municipal buildings, the road is short to similar under- takings. The enthusiasm is already spreading: the new Congressional Library at Washing- ton, for example, is to contain several im- portant decof~ations. A further assurance of the normal development of the art is pre- sented in the case of Mr. Simmonss decora- tions. They are in a good place, and they are good themselves. In fact, there has been nothing more decorative produced here in all the brief history of the art. The wall given to Mr. Simmons is that before which the judges bench is placed. It is marked in the center by a recess of some few inches, crowned by an arch. In this central panel Mr. Simmons has portrayed a stately and majestic ideal of Justice, showing her erect in severe white robes, with the flag flung so deftly over her left shoulder, and fall- ing so gracefully down her side, that it be- comes part of her drapery in a very subtle artistic way. She holds aloft the scales, and in her other hand poises the crystal globe surmounted by a cross which symbolizes the Christian world. Above her, small cherubs bear the arms of the city and the State. At her feet two childish figures carry the sword of condemnation, and the dove in which Mr. Simmons hints the gentleness of acquittal. These figures stand below a flight of two or three stone steps, which end in the platform on which Justice rears her queenly lines. Behind her is a simple iron door, flanked by columns. On the wall to the right of this panel an oblong division is filled with a rep- resentation of the Three Fates, seated on a marble bench, with the fragment of a pillar at the end nearest the Justice. To the left, a group of three figures disposed in a simi- lar composition are emblematic of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity. Th6 side-pieces are nicely balanced with each other, the same gradation in the heights of the figures being kept in both pictures. The latter stand, more-. over, as exactly the wings needed for the tall canvas in the center. Taken as a whole, regarded as a design, the work is brilliant in its adherence to the rules imposed by its sur- roundings. It is finely held together, each figure falling into its place with naturalness, and at the same time with that special dig- nity and poise essential in mural decoration. The principal figure, Justice, is extraordi- narily imposing; an abstraction, if it must be called one, but brimming over with charac- ter; a figure so vitalized that it looms imperi- ous in its place, touches the imagination, and stirs the emotions, as is seldom the case with the Justitia of pictorial or decorative art. With this suggestive decoration I -close for the present this survey of recent mural painting in America. All the men here men- tioned are destined to exert a good influence upon the growth of their art. In another paper we may return to other men. It is certain that we have in America more than one master of mural decoration; that the country is ap- preciative of their gifts; and that the move- ment which has been begun through that~ appreciation and the exercise of those gifts is gaining in impetus. Royal Cortissoz. VOL. LI.16. MUSIC IN SOLITUDE. IN this valley far and lonely Birds sang only, And the brook, And the rain upon the leaves; And all night long beneath the eaves (While with soft breathings slept the hous~d cattle) The hiv~d bees Made music like the murmuring seas; From lichened wall, from many a leafy nook, The chipmunk sounded shrill his tiny rattle; Through the warm day boomed low the droning flies, And the great mountains shook With the organs of the skies. Dear these songs unto my heart; But the spirit longs for art, Longs for music that is born Of the human soul forlorn, Or the beating heart of pleasure. Thou, sweet girl, didst bring this boon Without stint or measure! Many a tune From the masters of all time In my waiting heart made rhyme. As the rain on parch~d meadows, As cool shadows Falling from the summer sky, As loved memories die, But live again when a well-tun~d voice Makes with old joy the griev~d heart rejoice, So came once more with thy clear touch The melodies I love Ah, not too much, But all earths natural songs far, far above! For they are nature felt, and living, And human, and impassioned; And they full well are fashioned To bring to sound and sense the eternal striving, The inner soul of the inexpressive world, The meaning furled Deep at the heart of all, The thought that mortals name divine, Whereof all beauty is the sign, That comesah! surely comesat musics solemn call. R. W. Gilder. 122

Richard Watson Gilder Gilder, Richard Watson Music in Solitude 122-123

MUSIC IN SOLITUDE. IN this valley far and lonely Birds sang only, And the brook, And the rain upon the leaves; And all night long beneath the eaves (While with soft breathings slept the hous~d cattle) The hiv~d bees Made music like the murmuring seas; From lichened wall, from many a leafy nook, The chipmunk sounded shrill his tiny rattle; Through the warm day boomed low the droning flies, And the great mountains shook With the organs of the skies. Dear these songs unto my heart; But the spirit longs for art, Longs for music that is born Of the human soul forlorn, Or the beating heart of pleasure. Thou, sweet girl, didst bring this boon Without stint or measure! Many a tune From the masters of all time In my waiting heart made rhyme. As the rain on parch~d meadows, As cool shadows Falling from the summer sky, As loved memories die, But live again when a well-tun~d voice Makes with old joy the griev~d heart rejoice, So came once more with thy clear touch The melodies I love Ah, not too much, But all earths natural songs far, far above! For they are nature felt, and living, And human, and impassioned; And they full well are fashioned To bring to sound and sense the eternal striving, The inner soul of the inexpressive world, The meaning furled Deep at the heart of all, The thought that mortals name divine, Whereof all beauty is the sign, That comesah! surely comesat musics solemn call. R. W. Gilder. 122 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, AND HIS WRITING. 10 other writer of our time has come as near as Stevenson to the conquest of a perfect Eng- lish style. He is the one who stands first with true lovers of the art of words. He is the one who, most unceasingly inspired (in his honor I may use his own expressions) by ~~an inex- tinguishable zest in technical successes,~ has also most constantly remembered ((the end of all art: to please.)) It seems over-bold to write of him who really knew how to write, and es- pecially to comment on his art in writing, which is what I wish to do. Yet a truth that Stevenson has himself recorded lays a certain obligation upon all humbler workmen to celebrate, as best they may, a master of their craft. The public can appreciate some kinds of literary merLt; but ((to those more exquisite refinements of pro- ficiency and finish which the artist so ardently desires, and so keenly feels, for which (in the vigorous words of Balzac) he must toil (like a miner buried in a landslip, for which, day after day, he recasts find revises and re- jectsthe gross mass of the public must b~ ever blind.)) Yes; and also in some degree even the most diligent, hearty, and sensitive lover of literature if he has never practised with the written word himself. Only those who have been taught through brotherhood in effort can perceive with clearness the high- est kinds of technical success, and value them at their full worth. Others may see the beauty, hut not the whole of it; they may feel it, but not with all their heart. They cannot realize in how many different ways of varying faultiness everything may be said, or how diffi- cult it is to say anything even reasonably well; therefore. they cannot adequately prize the skill which finds thebne perfect form of utter- ance. Lacking full insight,they fail of full sym- pathy; Without this there can never be the fullest measure of appreciation; and so the tri- bute of any one who has actually tried to write is somewhat excused of useless temerity. STEVENSON himself has told how his techni- cal studies were begun. He has told of the years when he went about with an English classic in one pocket and pencil and paper in the other, trying with devoted doggedness to reproduce his models style, and when the task was achieved, changing to another model and beginning a similar task afresh. It would be discouraging to read of this modest yet proud persistence were there any reason why, instead, it should not be inspiring. Of course we are hardly wise if we dream that we also were born with our hands full of the gold of genius, and we may not always be wise if we endeavor to beat out the grains of our little talent in the same way that Stevenson chose. Yet surely his example commands us and en- courages us to disengage them somehow somehow to purify them and prove them be- fore we mint them and try to purchase a public hearing for our thoughts. This chapter of Stevensons, showing how the greatest artist of his land and day laid the foundations of his skill, and his ((Let- ter to a Young Gentleman,)) showing how to the end of his days the true artist moils and travails in the sweat of his brow, as must the man who digs the ground, but sweating also the blood of his heart and the ichor of his soulthese should lie underneath the pillow of every youth who ventures to think, I will please with my pen.~ And there is another chapter of Stevensons that ought to lie with them. I have forgotten its name, and have not chanced upon it among his col- lected essays. I read it long ago in a maga- zine, and I lent it to a friend (until then my friend), who carried it off to Europe and never brought it back. It analyzed the riches, pov- erties, and peculiarities of the English tongue from the technical point of view; and it must have come with a sort of blinding light, as of a revelation from the mount of art, to many a man who had long believed that he knew how to use this tongue It showed that mer& sound helps or hinders sense, and that all sounds must be considered even apart from sense. It showed that a right respect for them means a delicate regard, not merely for constructions and conspicuous cadences, but also for words and syllables as such, for slightest accentuations, for individual let- ters, their contrasts and harmonies, and the curious meanings they somehow bear irre- spective of the sense to which, in this word or in that, man has forced them to contrib- ute. It showed that an artist does not simply set out the broad pattern of his verbal mosaic with care, and carefully proportion its main 123

Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer Van Rensselaer, Schuyler, Mrs. Robert Louis Stevenson and his Writing 123-130

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, AND HIS WRITING. 10 other writer of our time has come as near as Stevenson to the conquest of a perfect Eng- lish style. He is the one who stands first with true lovers of the art of words. He is the one who, most unceasingly inspired (in his honor I may use his own expressions) by ~~an inex- tinguishable zest in technical successes,~ has also most constantly remembered ((the end of all art: to please.)) It seems over-bold to write of him who really knew how to write, and es- pecially to comment on his art in writing, which is what I wish to do. Yet a truth that Stevenson has himself recorded lays a certain obligation upon all humbler workmen to celebrate, as best they may, a master of their craft. The public can appreciate some kinds of literary merLt; but ((to those more exquisite refinements of pro- ficiency and finish which the artist so ardently desires, and so keenly feels, for which (in the vigorous words of Balzac) he must toil (like a miner buried in a landslip, for which, day after day, he recasts find revises and re- jectsthe gross mass of the public must b~ ever blind.)) Yes; and also in some degree even the most diligent, hearty, and sensitive lover of literature if he has never practised with the written word himself. Only those who have been taught through brotherhood in effort can perceive with clearness the high- est kinds of technical success, and value them at their full worth. Others may see the beauty, hut not the whole of it; they may feel it, but not with all their heart. They cannot realize in how many different ways of varying faultiness everything may be said, or how diffi- cult it is to say anything even reasonably well; therefore. they cannot adequately prize the skill which finds thebne perfect form of utter- ance. Lacking full insight,they fail of full sym- pathy; Without this there can never be the fullest measure of appreciation; and so the tri- bute of any one who has actually tried to write is somewhat excused of useless temerity. STEVENSON himself has told how his techni- cal studies were begun. He has told of the years when he went about with an English classic in one pocket and pencil and paper in the other, trying with devoted doggedness to reproduce his models style, and when the task was achieved, changing to another model and beginning a similar task afresh. It would be discouraging to read of this modest yet proud persistence were there any reason why, instead, it should not be inspiring. Of course we are hardly wise if we dream that we also were born with our hands full of the gold of genius, and we may not always be wise if we endeavor to beat out the grains of our little talent in the same way that Stevenson chose. Yet surely his example commands us and en- courages us to disengage them somehow somehow to purify them and prove them be- fore we mint them and try to purchase a public hearing for our thoughts. This chapter of Stevensons, showing how the greatest artist of his land and day laid the foundations of his skill, and his ((Let- ter to a Young Gentleman,)) showing how to the end of his days the true artist moils and travails in the sweat of his brow, as must the man who digs the ground, but sweating also the blood of his heart and the ichor of his soulthese should lie underneath the pillow of every youth who ventures to think, I will please with my pen.~ And there is another chapter of Stevensons that ought to lie with them. I have forgotten its name, and have not chanced upon it among his col- lected essays. I read it long ago in a maga- zine, and I lent it to a friend (until then my friend), who carried it off to Europe and never brought it back. It analyzed the riches, pov- erties, and peculiarities of the English tongue from the technical point of view; and it must have come with a sort of blinding light, as of a revelation from the mount of art, to many a man who had long believed that he knew how to use this tongue It showed that mer& sound helps or hinders sense, and that all sounds must be considered even apart from sense. It showed that a right respect for them means a delicate regard, not merely for constructions and conspicuous cadences, but also for words and syllables as such, for slightest accentuations, for individual let- ters, their contrasts and harmonies, and the curious meanings they somehow bear irre- spective of the sense to which, in this word or in that, man has forced them to contrib- ute. It showed that an artist does not simply set out the broad pattern of his verbal mosaic with care, and carefully proportion its main 123 124 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. parts, but thinks of every sentence as a work of art in itself, of every word and letter as a possible jewel or blot, sure to enhance the effect of the finished work if selected rightly, to mar it if chosen by a listless ear., In short, this chapter explained an art so difficult, and set a task so subtile, endless, and complex (like the task of the fairy-tale prin- cess who was told to sort the feathers pulled from a thousand different birds), that in read- ing it one might easily have exclaimed, ((No man can write well,)) but for the cheerful fact that its own words had been set in array by Stevenson. Revealing his attitude toward his art, his persistently beheld ideals, it proved that the attitude was not overstrained, that the ideals might be achieved. Perfectly achieved? Constantly, consistently achieved? Stevenson may answer. Perfect sentences, he says, have often been written, perfect para- graphs at timesnever a perfect page. If thoughts of such labors and ideals as these, and of such a partial possible success, discourage instead of inspiring you, young gentlemen who wish to please with your pens, you will do~ best to set your wishing-caps at another angle. In a literal sense you hardly could have been born to write; but, it seems, you were not born even to learn to write. The seed of the artist is not in you. Our wise and gentle master tells you how to apply the test: ((If a man love the labor of any trade, apart from any question of success or fame, the gods have called him)); otherwise he has mistaken the voice. The mark of the artists vocation is an ((unfaltering and delighted industry,)) a ((laborious partiality)) for the unremitting technical struggle it demands. Notice the words: love, not endurance; not sufferance, but partiality; not mere unfalter- ing, but delighted labor. If you really love vocables and phrases, constructions, cadences, rhythms, accentuations, consonants and vow- els, and even punctuation-marks, for their own dear sake, and not alone because they can serve your personal needs; if you care more to make their beauty plain than to win notice for yourself; and if you find the strug- gle thus implied a veritable joy, then, and then only, you may believe that you were born certainly to begin to try to learn to write, and possibly, in the far end, to succeed. Of course, without all this you may tell, in printed words not loudly offensive to the ear, mauy things that people will like to know; and perhaps they will win you for a time what may seem a literary place: but the prepara- tory work you do with your pen will not really be writing, and so the waters of oblivion will soon undermine the pillars of that place. Nothing but art endures. Even if the thoughts which lie behind your want of art have a lasting value, it will simply be as food for other minds competent to give them an imperishable form. But, on the other hand, you may learn to write pretty well and yet have little to say; the gods sometimes call men to be artists, granting them gifts of ear and eye and pa- tience, and then cramp their art by declaring that they shall have commonplace ~ouls and brains. In such a case you may still be welcome in the world, putting your trifle of thought into agreeable words. But really to serve the world as a great artist serves it, really to attain to beautiful, individual, and immortal words, you must have much to say, and things which no one else has perceived and felt in quite the same fashion. You must be a person as well as an artist. And this truth, too, Stevensons work supports. Within and beyond the technical perfection of his style, inspiring and infusing it, and to a great degree creating it, lies the strong and charm- ing personality of the man. ALL his friends praise thespirit that resided in this man. They delight to speak, not of special qualities and gifts, but of the man as a wholethe character, the nature, the per- souality which his gifts and qualities com- posed. The doer, they tell us, was better than any of his deeds, his art in living finer than his art in writing: even more remarkable, more admirable, even less easily to be ana- lyzed and explained. I was not a friend of his. I talked with him only once for a scanty hour. Yet this is the very fact which impels me to lay my little stone on the cairn that his friends are building. They may be attainted of conscious exaggera- tion, or at least of loving, if unwitting, bias they, but not I, the stranger. And, besides, an impression received by a stranger and pre- served alone in the memory for years, neither disturbed nor reinforced by repetitions, may, if it tallies with the impressions left by long acquaintance, have a special value of its own. This, then, is the strangers witness, and it is precisely like the friends: No man could have a more definite personality than Louis Stevensons; none could more surely awaken immediate interest or exert a more instant charm, or could seem more convincingly to guarantee that the charm and interest would perennially flourish and increase. There is one kind of success which Stevenson rarely can have knownthe slow subdual of indiffer- ence; and one kind of disappointment which ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, AND HIS WRITING. 125 he seldom can have feltthe pause of the foot of friendliness on the threshold of love. He was ill when I saw him in New York in the spring of 1888, after he had come down from the Adirondacks. He was in bed, as he often used to be for days togetherso often that the beautiful portrait which, in the pre- vious autumn, St. Gaudens had made of him, backed by his pillows and covered by his blankets, must, I fancy, seem to many Amer- ican friends the Stevenson whom they knew best. He was in a dismal hotel, in the most dismal possible chamber. Even a very buoy- ant soul might have been pardoned if, then and there, it had declined upon inactivity and gloom. But these were not the constituents of the atmosphere I found. There were a great many things on Ste- vensons bedthings to eat and to smoke, things to write with and to read. I have seen tidier sick-beds, and also invalids more mod- ishly attired: this one wore over his shoulders an old red cloak with a hole for the head in the middle (a serape, I supposed), xvhich, faded and spotted with ink, looked much like a school-room table-cloth. But the untidiness seemed a pro~f of his desire to make the most of each passing minute; clearly, the littering things had been brought, not in case they might be wanted, but as answers to actual and eager needs. Ill as he was, Stevenson had been reading and writingand smoking, as St. Gaudens shows; and in fact, I call him an invalid chiefly because, as I remember him, the term has such a picturesque unfitness. His body was in evil case, but his spirit was more bright, more eager, more ardently and health- ily alive than that of any other mortal. I find myself repeating the one word ((eager.)) There is none which better befits Stevensons appearance and manner and talk. His mind seemed to quiver with perpetual hope Qf something that would give it a new idea to feed upon, a new fact to file away, a new experience to be tested and savored. I could read this attitude even in the quick cordiality of his greeting. The welcome was not for me, as myself, but for the new person for the new human being, who, possessing ears and a tongue, might possibly contribute some item to the harvest of the day. Despite his mastery of the arts of lan- guage, I do not believe that Stevenson ever excelled in the artifice of small talk; he must always have had too many real words to say, and have felt too sure that other folk would like to hear them. This, indeed, was one great secret of his charm: he assumed that you too were alertly alive; he believed that you would understand and share his interest in all interesting things. Therefore one interview was enough to prove him what his friends assert and his books declare him to have beena philosopher very wise in that most precious kind of lore which gives the soul modesty and poise, cheerfulness, humor, and courage; a student of human na- ture, not with classifications and categories to fill out, but with a special welcoming niche prepared for the reception of each new human soul; a ((detached intelligence,)) but a heart, intimately attached to every palpitant fiber in the web of existence, which loved to love, and chose for its hatred only fundamentally hateful and harmful things like hypocrisy, vanity, intolerance, and cowardice in the face of life. He seemed so individual, not because he was more eccentric than others, but be- cause he was more genuine and more broad, more self-expressive, and possessed of a wider and richer self to be explained. Look at his portrait in profile, and you will see sensitiveness and refinement of a virile sort in the general cast of the face and head, sagacity in the long but not prominent nose, and poetic feeling in the contour of the brow. But in a full view the countenance was still more remarkable. The upper part, ex- traordinarily broad between the eye~s, was deerlike in its gentle serenity, but the lower. part, very narrow in comparison, was almost fox-like in its keen alertness; and the mo- biflty of the mouth hardly seemed to fit with the steady intentness of the wide, dark eyes. But if at first this face appeared to contra- dict itself, the reason lay, I think, in the fact that we seldom see the face of a man who is at once a lover of action and a lover of dreams and of books, an astute and yet a most affectionate observer of life and of men and of the humors of the lives of men, and, besides, an artist of imaginative mold. I remember how Stevensons face looked when he said that, long though he had been tied to sedentary babits, and deeply though he loved the art they permitted him to prac- tise, the one thing in the world that he held to be the best was still the joy of outdoor living: it was a beautiful face just then, be- cause it revealed a soul which could endure without bemoaning itself. And for the same reason it was beautiful again when it turned merry over a little tale of attempts to learn the art of knitting as a solace for hours of wearisome languorunavailing attempts, al- though he had persisted in them until he brought himself to the vergenay, he de- clared, actually over the vergeof tears. An 126 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. amusing little story it seemed as he told its details, yet in itself and in the manner of its telling it might have moved a listener to tears in his turn, so unconscious did the teller seem that a lifelong story of smiling conflict with bitter denials and restrictions, when reduced to its very lowest terms, then showed the very sharpest, most tragical edge of its pathos. I should like to make you understand how Stevenson gave this story, and how he spoke (now with a very conscious pride) about the strategical soldier-games which, in scientific ways, he and his stepson were in the habit of playing; I should like to relate how he pounced upon every Americanism I chanced to utter, not deriding it, but shaking it in the teeth of a pleased curiosity as a bit of treasure-trove, a new fragment of speech with an origin, a history, a utility that must be learned; and in other ways to explain what a zest he had for those myriad little interests, little occupations, discoveries, and acquisi- tions, which make existence a perpetual joy to a fresh and questing mind, but which most adult minds have grown too stiff and dull to value. And of course I should like to record how he spoke about his own writings, and, with even quicker pleasure, talked about those of others. But to mummify beautiful, vivid speech is to do it deep injustice, and so I will not try to reproduce his words; and if I should try to paraphrase them, I should merely blur their meaning to myself and make it clear to no one else. Rather, let us read once more in his printed pages. He was interpreting himself when he wrote, ((Gentleness and cheerful- nessthese come before all morality; they are the perfect duties)); and again, quaintly, in one of his babyhood poems: The. world is so full of a number of things I m sure we should all be as happy as kings. To make other people happy, and to turn everything in the populous, Protean world to profit and pleasure for himself by really see- ing it and feeling itthese were the key- notes of Stevensons fine philosophy; these were the corner-stones of that code of ethics which, put into practice under trials that we can hardly measure, enabled him to demon- strate, for the benefit of us all, what he once described as the great Theorem of the Liv- ableness of Life. And it was needful to de- fine this code, this philosophy, in speaking of his art, because it inspired his books as well as his words and deeds, and not only their in- tellectual, but their esthetic, distinction. Def- initely esthetic gifts helpec~ 4dm of course, in his conquest of an almost perfect style; but he was helped quite as much by his moral gifts: of course by that determination to make the most of existence which is the mainspring of industry, and by the patience, the cheerful- ness, the hopefulness, the delight in small dis- coveries and achievements, which make indus- try a joy; and furthermore, by the gentleness and loving sympathy which alone can render a spirit clear and sensitive and logical, and by that desire to make other people happy which includes the belief that the end of all art is to please. BRILLIANT as were Stevensons powers of thought and word, he was no epigram-turner, no pyrotechnist in idea or expression. A clear and coherent train of thought runs through his most sparkling chapters; in its elucidation every phrase plays an indispensable r6le; and the garment of style fits the thought so closely that, although each sentence is in itself a work of art, none exists for itself, but all for the sake of the general effect of the whole. Singularly excellent is this whole as a medium for the transference of thought; impeccably lucid and limpid, translating all shades of perception, sensation, and emotion with such ease and preciseness that the reader scarcely remembers he is absorbing the thought of another. But even this rare merit does not necessarily imply great charm of style. To achieve the highest kind of charm, of beauty, the ear must be enchanted while the mind is definitely and delicately led. If you do not possess an ear for the music of prose (which has nothing at all to do with the ear for music proper, and is differ- ent even from an ear for verse, and a good deal less common),no one can make you under- stand the extraordinary beauty of Stevensons work. But if you do possess this organ, you will rate him, as an artist, at least as high as any poet. The essentials of good poetic form, with its organized measure and accentuation, and often its determined rhymes, are sym- metry and balance, diversified uniformity, varied repetition, echoing assonance and res- onance. The essentials of good prose form are a graceful asymmetry, a discreet avoid- ance of actual in favor of suggested balance, harmony in perpetual diversity, no obvious repetitions or echoings, and yet in every phrase a recognition of the form and color of all accompanying phrases. Thus a more sub- tile if not a higher technical sense goes to the making of very good prose than of even very good poetry: there are no formulas or rules to give assurance or warning, no signal-cries ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, AND HIS WRITING. 127 determined upon in advance, and thereafter loudly audible as helpers of a doubting ear. The greatest danger which attends the would-be writer of harmonious prose is the pitfall laid by his knowledge of the sweet expedients of verse. It can hardly be said of any other modern writer of English whose pages are as musical as Stevensons that he always avoids this pitfall. But in Stevensons we never come upon the smallest fragment of pseudo-versea too prettily rounded para- graph, a too surely expected cadence, a too evident balancing of phrases, a too regular arrangement of words or repetition of sounds. Of course he is never seduced by the vulgar charms of the rhetorical, the grandiloquent, or the sentimental mode; and it is almost an insult to take pains to say that he never de- scends to ((cheap finish,~ is never caught by the prompt appeal of trite verbal formulas, by the attractiveness of superfluous words or of words which do not precisely reproduce the thought, or by those terrible brumma- gem devices, like loud alliteration, which are so often loved by English writers when they aspire to st~yle at all, and so generally ac- cepted by the public as proofs of technical mastery. Perfect accord between sense and sound, perfect beauty of sound, and a per- fect avoidance of palpable artificethese, with freshness and a very masculine vigor, are the qualities of Stevensons prose style. But the main fact which entitles it to be called a perfect style is its constancy in excellence and charm. It is always firm and complete in texture, and uniform in the sense that, while it varies in spirit to suit the sub- ject in hand, it does not vary in quality from line to line, from page to page. I think that Stevenson himself has really written perfect pages; and at all events, his style delights us more as a whole than in any of its parts, striking or exquisite though many of these may still appear when torn away from their context. If you like best to be surprised by independent epigrams, by unexpected bursts of eloquence, by sudden marvels of expres- sional felicity, turn to some other writer. Stevenson will not amaze you thus. But, ex- cept very slightly now and then in his earli- est efforts, he will never disappoint you or let you down. And this experience ought to seem more amazing than any other could. To do things flawlessly from end to end is a rarer and more satisfying merit than to do portions of them magnificentlywell. To strike a beautiful key and always maintain it, even when treating of ugly or commonplace things, and yet to keep the thing and its expression in accordthis is the noblest of literary triumphs. Hand in hand with such constancy in tech- nical success goes, of course, great simplicity of means and method. Much splendor in treat- ment, much richness in the elements employed, may be perfectly managed in little pieces of work, or may make a large one so dazzlingly gorgeous that only a trained eye will perceive discrepancy between its parts. But this dis- crepancy must exist. The limitations of hu- man power forbid that a cathedral shall be elaboratedchiseled and jeweled all over like a small shrine for the bones of a saint; and if the thing were done, the laws of art would forbid its looking well. No one could write a book from end to end as Ruskin has written his most sumptuous passages; and if he could, it would weary and distress the reader. But ((The Pilgrims Progress)) is homogeneous from end to end; its beauty is complete because the great artist who wrote it was classically serene and simple in style. And none of the emphatic and violent, the sweetly sentimental, the elaborately ((pre- cious,)) or the perfervid, luscious, and lux- uriant writers of our day approaches Steven- son in his power to be always at his best. Yet, in saying that his work is beautiful, I have affirmed, of course, that its simplicity is never monotonous, bald, or hard. It is like. the work of a Greek sculptor, which would be grievously deformed were it besprinkled with East Indian jewels. Catholic in sympathy and eagerly active of brain, Stevenson wrote in many moods, and his style served him equally well in all. There is no greater pleasure than to prove these facts by reading, in close contrast, the stories and essays that most widely differ. Take ((The Merry Men,~ for instance, and then ((Will o the Mill,)) ((Pulvis et Umbra,)) ((Markham,)) ((The Flight through the Hea- ther,)) and the mysterious tale of negro ma- gic and tornadoes. Tone and temper could hardly vary more, and the words, as per- spicuous and as beautiful in the one case as in the others, seem to have been twin-born with the thoughts. But, oh, how far from the truth this seeming must lie! What un- faltering and delighted industry must have wrought this perfect union, in so many differ- ent keys, of thoughts, inchoate till the right words were found, with words which had to be chosen from among ten thousand, and arranged in the one right way of many score! Only those who have tried to write can fancy it all. Only those who have never quite suc- ceeded can properly envy the feeling Steven- 128 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. son must have known each time he inscribed his ~Finis.~ Doubtless in his later years the work went more easily than at first. But work it must always have been, and the joy in its completion can never have decreased; for, once they are successfully outlived, the memory of our most desperate hours of struggle remains to give to readier accom- plishment a delicious flavor of surprise. And this is not the least among the facts which proclaim, quite unmistakably, the liv- ableness of life. The simplicity of Stevensons style is very notable in connection with its frequent poetic force. Not more for poetical suggestiveness than for dramatic clarity or for picturesque- ness in narration did he need to draw upon flourishing turns of phrase, or upon words that are strikingly sonorous, recondite, or even uncommon. Take this passage, for ex- ample: ((And if he had anything like the same inspiring weather, the same nights of uproar, men in armor rolling and resounding down the stairs of heaven, the rain hissing on the village streets, the wild bulls-eye of the storm flashing all night long into the bare inn chamberthe same sweet return of day, the same unfathomable blue of noon, the same high-colored halcyon eves ~ I need not finish the sentence, for these words suffice. If you find them unpoetic because with one excep- tion they are simple and common words, while that one is scarcely rare, then you must be among those who think that wine is not wine unless it is heated and spiced. Again, Stevensons exquisite mastery of the means of expression nowhere does him better service than in translating his gently smiling outlook upon life. Of course he is~ never, crudely, a maker of mirth, although upon occasion there is an actual laugh in his words. But he is always the man of humor. Some- times you scarcely notice that he smiles; but when you lay down the book your heart is warm, and this is proof of the smile, and also of its difference from the grin of the cynic or the simper of the fatuous. And often his smil- ing sparkles like sunlight on water, or glows like a hearth-fire cheering some dusky cham- ber of thought into which he has bidden us to consider themes as tragical as ((sad stories of the death of kings.)) No one but a great artist can thus blend emotions, infusing gloom with the reflection of cheerfulness, and mer- riment with the memory of the pathos of all life. Every one of us feels this blending at times; but an incomparable skill in words is needed to express it without affectation or excess. THERE are many other things which should be said of Stevensons art in writing. Here, however, I can only try to tell what, in a per- sonal way, it has meant to me, and thus ex- plain with more distinctness why I could not withhold my hand from its praise. 1 can fairly complain that the technical struggle has been much harder for me than for the majority. Yet I can fairly boast that I have loved it better than the majority, even in its hardest and dullest phases, and that (I remember how Stevenson applauded when he had drawn out the confession) twenty rewrit- ings, in whole or in part, and thirty, and fifty, have often come within my not unpleased ex- perience. Yet one day last winter, when I tried to write, neither the effort nor the result seemed in the least worth while. A useless task, a savorless possible successthis is what I felt. And then, suddenly, the differ- ence between to-day and yesterday proved it- self an echo of my knowledge that Stevenson had died. Of course I had never looked for- ward to writing as he did: there are bounds to sane ambitions. And I had never expected him to read what I might write, much less to approve it. Yet somewhere, I now discov- ered, although I had not clearly realized the truth beforesomewhere down in the bottom of my heart had always been the feeling: If he does chance to see this, what a pity if it should be less good than, with every effort, I can manage to make it; and what a triumph if it should be good enough for him to read without actual distress! Such, I now discov- ered, had been the spur; very vague and fool- ish and unreasonable; but how potent, how helpful, how insistent in its sharp monitions, how delightfully warming in its utterly vague reminders of a possible crown for what I knew to be an all-but-impossible true successthis I realized on the day of which I speak, and this I shall never again forget. For now that the throne of the prince is vacant in our little world of art, in our strenuous little world of oft-defrauded but perennial aspira- tion, I feel that there will never again be quite as much joy in the technical struggle; and I know that, even if I could ever write a page as he wrote hundreds, success would bring a pang of disappointmentnow that the most foolish dreamer can no longer anti- cipate that happy hour in which Stevenson was to smile and say, Well done.~ M. G. Van, Rensselaer. VOL. LIPT. MODELED IN BAS-RELIEF BY AUGUSTUS ST. GAUDENS IN 1887, DURING STEVENSONS ILLNESS IN NEW YORK. ELEONORA DUSE. HERE are, perhaps, only three living actresses now in active life to whom the title ((great)) would be applied by common consent. These are Sarah Bernhardt, Helena Modjeska, and Eleonora Duse. Janauschek, alas! al- though still upon the stage, belongs to the past, while Ellen Terry, with all her dainty skill and radiant charm, has not yet reached those heights to which genius alone can aspire Each of them excels in ways pe- culiar to herself. Bernhardt, after carrying off all the laurels offered in the artificial and declamatory school of French tragedy, has devoted her maturest powers to the illustra- tion of the most violent passions conceivable by morbid imagination. Her achievements in this direction have been extraordinary, and her dramatic genius cannot be disputed; but some of her latest triumphs have been won in defiance tf most of the laws of nature and many of the rules of true art. Modjeska, if less potent in the interpretation of the fiercest emotions than her French rival, need fear no comparison with her in poetic tragedy; while in the field of poetic comedy she is unrivaled. Her performances of Juliet, Rosa- lind, and Ophelia are almost ideally beauti- ful. Eleonora Duse, whose fame has blazed up with meteoric suddenness, is prei~minent above all actresses of her time for versatility, that rare gift of impersonation, still rarer among women than among men, which can conceal the real beneath the assumed identity with- out resorting to the common expedients of theatrical disguise. The phrase that such or such a part was assumed by this or that actor is heard every day. It is a convenient, conventional, and meaningless expression. In the case of Duse it is used correctly, and signifies just what has happened. Like most other successful artists, Signora Duse fought her way to distinction through all manner of obstacles and difficulties. She was born about thirty-three years ago in Vigevano, a small town on the borders of Piedmont and Lombardy, and came of theat- rical stock, both her father and grandfather being actors of good standing. Her grand- father, Luigi Duse, enjoyed considerable rep- utation as a reciter, and established the Garibaldi Theater in Padua. Her father, how- ever, was in very poor circumstances, and 130 she was less than twelve years old when first sent upon the stage to help in making provision for the family. In those days, it is said, she often felt the pangs of hunger, being miserably paid in the inferior theaters in which alone she could secure engagements. Her abilities must have been precocious, for from the first she played leading characters both in tragedy and comedy. She never posed as a juvenile prodigy, but, on the contrary, guarded jealously the secret of her youth, for fear that it might be used to her disad- vantage. Her early audiences, doubtless, were not severely critical; but the fact that they accepted a child of twelve as a fitting repre- sentative of Francesca da Rimini is a suffi- cient proof of her natural ability. For four years she led a life of incessant drudgery, re- hearsing new parts by day and acting at night, subjected to a physical and intellectual strain which tested her endurance and ambition to the uttermost, with scarcely a gleam of hope to brighten the darkness of her prospects. Amid these conditions she had reached the age of sixteen, when there came to her an opportunity to play Juliet in Verona. For a long time she had been eimamoured of the part, and had studied it carefully. The rep- resentation occurred in an open-air theater, the Arena, and a great crowd was present. Inspired by the occasion, the young actress played with all the power and passion of which she was capable, and provoked a storm of enthusiasm. This was her first great tri- umph, and, possibly, the sweetest of all; but it had no immediate effect upon her fortunes. She remained the leading actress of a trav- eling company, and was compelled to resume for a time the old weary wanderings from one provincial town to another. But her proba- tion was not to be prolonged much further. An engagement at the old Florentine Theater, associated with memories of Ristori, Alberti, Salvini, and many other great Italian players, provided her with an appreciative audience and a competent supporting company, and from that moment her fame and fortune were assured. Triumph succeeded to triumph, and the critics vied with one another in express- ing admiration of her versatility, of the sim- plicity and wonderful effectiveness of her methods, of the truthfulness and power of her pathos and passion, and of her sparkling, vivacious, and effervescent humor. She con-

J. Ranken Towse Towse, J. Ranken Eleonora Duse 130-134

ELEONORA DUSE. HERE are, perhaps, only three living actresses now in active life to whom the title ((great)) would be applied by common consent. These are Sarah Bernhardt, Helena Modjeska, and Eleonora Duse. Janauschek, alas! al- though still upon the stage, belongs to the past, while Ellen Terry, with all her dainty skill and radiant charm, has not yet reached those heights to which genius alone can aspire Each of them excels in ways pe- culiar to herself. Bernhardt, after carrying off all the laurels offered in the artificial and declamatory school of French tragedy, has devoted her maturest powers to the illustra- tion of the most violent passions conceivable by morbid imagination. Her achievements in this direction have been extraordinary, and her dramatic genius cannot be disputed; but some of her latest triumphs have been won in defiance tf most of the laws of nature and many of the rules of true art. Modjeska, if less potent in the interpretation of the fiercest emotions than her French rival, need fear no comparison with her in poetic tragedy; while in the field of poetic comedy she is unrivaled. Her performances of Juliet, Rosa- lind, and Ophelia are almost ideally beauti- ful. Eleonora Duse, whose fame has blazed up with meteoric suddenness, is prei~minent above all actresses of her time for versatility, that rare gift of impersonation, still rarer among women than among men, which can conceal the real beneath the assumed identity with- out resorting to the common expedients of theatrical disguise. The phrase that such or such a part was assumed by this or that actor is heard every day. It is a convenient, conventional, and meaningless expression. In the case of Duse it is used correctly, and signifies just what has happened. Like most other successful artists, Signora Duse fought her way to distinction through all manner of obstacles and difficulties. She was born about thirty-three years ago in Vigevano, a small town on the borders of Piedmont and Lombardy, and came of theat- rical stock, both her father and grandfather being actors of good standing. Her grand- father, Luigi Duse, enjoyed considerable rep- utation as a reciter, and established the Garibaldi Theater in Padua. Her father, how- ever, was in very poor circumstances, and 130 she was less than twelve years old when first sent upon the stage to help in making provision for the family. In those days, it is said, she often felt the pangs of hunger, being miserably paid in the inferior theaters in which alone she could secure engagements. Her abilities must have been precocious, for from the first she played leading characters both in tragedy and comedy. She never posed as a juvenile prodigy, but, on the contrary, guarded jealously the secret of her youth, for fear that it might be used to her disad- vantage. Her early audiences, doubtless, were not severely critical; but the fact that they accepted a child of twelve as a fitting repre- sentative of Francesca da Rimini is a suffi- cient proof of her natural ability. For four years she led a life of incessant drudgery, re- hearsing new parts by day and acting at night, subjected to a physical and intellectual strain which tested her endurance and ambition to the uttermost, with scarcely a gleam of hope to brighten the darkness of her prospects. Amid these conditions she had reached the age of sixteen, when there came to her an opportunity to play Juliet in Verona. For a long time she had been eimamoured of the part, and had studied it carefully. The rep- resentation occurred in an open-air theater, the Arena, and a great crowd was present. Inspired by the occasion, the young actress played with all the power and passion of which she was capable, and provoked a storm of enthusiasm. This was her first great tri- umph, and, possibly, the sweetest of all; but it had no immediate effect upon her fortunes. She remained the leading actress of a trav- eling company, and was compelled to resume for a time the old weary wanderings from one provincial town to another. But her proba- tion was not to be prolonged much further. An engagement at the old Florentine Theater, associated with memories of Ristori, Alberti, Salvini, and many other great Italian players, provided her with an appreciative audience and a competent supporting company, and from that moment her fame and fortune were assured. Triumph succeeded to triumph, and the critics vied with one another in express- ing admiration of her versatility, of the sim- plicity and wonderful effectiveness of her methods, of the truthfulness and power of her pathos and passion, and of her sparkling, vivacious, and effervescent humor. She con- ELEONORA DUSE. 131 quered Venice as she had conquered Naples, and in a few months had established her- self in the front rank of her profession in her native country. Soon reports of her genius were noised abroad, and she was invited to visit the principal European capitals. Paris and Vienna confirmed the verdict of Italian opinion, and, emboldened by success, she crossed the Atlantic to New York, where her genius met with the promptest recogni- tion and appreciation. Soon afterward the critical world of London was at her feet, and her name, scarcely known outside of Italy four years before, had become famous from one end of the theatrical world to the other. It was on the 23d of January, 1893, that Signora Duse made her first professional ap- peaiance in New York, at the Fifth Avenue Theater, before a very large and curious, but rather apathetic, not to say suspicious, audi- ence. The preliminary advertisement of her had not been extensive, but what little there was of it had been couched in what seemed to be rather extravagant terms. Before the end of the evening everybody was willing to admit thatthe adjectives were fully justified. She enacted the hackneyed r& le of Camille, thereby challenging comparison with every actress of note during the last twenty years; and when the curtain fell for the last time, after scenes of uncommon enthusiasm, she had demonstrated her right to be considered the peer of any of them. Her originality, brilliancy, and sincerity carried the house by storm. The impression which she then created was more than confirmed by each of her succeeding impersonations. Within a very few moments of her first en- trance upon the stage in the part of Camille her conception of the woman is revealed, as by a flash, with a certainty, swiftness, and sureness that denote the rarest combination of executive and imaginative power. The spoiled favorite stands revealed in all her waywardness, passionate impulsiveness, and discontenta temperament, as might be ex- pected, Italian, not French. No attempt is made either to gloss over or to exaggerate. Her acting is admirably frank and free, but never indelicate. A hundred subtile touches signify her growing interest in Armand; and in her love, when it is finally acknowledged, there is the glow of the true fire. But this impression is conveyed without the least sug- gestion of studied effort, and as the perform- ance proceeds it is peculiarly interesting to note how the most striking effects are created by the simplest means, one of the infallible tests of good acting. This is especially re markable in her scene with the elder Duval, in which she expresses the most poignant grief and emotion with extraordinary quietude, and in her leave-taking from Armand, in which she excels all previous performers in convey- ing to the audience the sense of the inward torture which she is enduring, without doing anything which would be likely to excite her lovers suspicions. At this juncture her act- ing is truer and more touching, if less elab- orate, than that of either Bernhardt or Mod- jeska, and in the subsequent acts she does not fall below the level of those great artists. Her IYdora, the passionate and revengeful heroine of Sardons drama, is a study of fem- inine nature differing utterly in physical and spiritual characteristics from that of Camille, but no less convincing or complete. Scene for scene, it compares favorably with that of Bernhardt herself. At certain moments, by her audacity of expedient or picturesqueness of pose, the French actress may create a more thrilling momentary effect; but, as a whole, Duses interpretation,while never lack- ing in vehemence or variety of emotion, is more satisfying as a consistent and intelligi- ble conception of an imperious, resolute, vin- dictive, hot-blooded woman, with a veneer of culture over fierce semi-barbaric instincts. Throughout all the complicated motives and situations of the first act she maintains the assumed personality with a wonderful amount of harmonious detail and great variety of feeling. So strong was the illusion which she established on the first night of her perform- ance here that some inconsiderate attempts at applause were checked by an angry ((Hush!)) from those more appreciative spectators who feared that the spell might be broken. No more eloquent tribute could be paid to genius. In the cleverly devised scene where F6dora, by the simulation of love, beguiles Loris into a confession of the part which he had taken in her lovers death, the apparently involun- tary gestures and facial expressions by which she contrives to indicate the revengeful hate which really possesses her are extraordina- rily significant, while the mingled horror and exultation with which ~he receives the con- fession itself is a most thrilling achievement. Equally fine and true is her revulsion of feel- ing upon the discovery that the real traitor was her affianced husband, and that his place in her heart is occupied by Loris, the man whom she had doomed to death. Her facial changes and her by-play, as the truth grad- ually dawns upon her, are no less remarkable for their vividness than for their moderation; and this artistic restraint, by force of con- YAPY. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY BETlINI, LEGHORN, ELEONORA DUSK ELEONORA DUSE. 133 trast, lends additional impressiveness to the overwhelming outburst of passion with which she sacrifices alleven honor itselfto save him from the trap prepared for him. In the last act her suicide is less melodramatic and horrifying, perhaps, than Bernhardts, but the despairing pathos of her appeals to the avenging Loris are as pitiful as anything of the kind ever seen upon the stage. As the revengeful Clotilde in Dumass Fer- nandes she presents a third type of woman- hood so completely distinct from either of the others that it is difficult to believe in the iden- tity of the actress. Carriage, walk, and gesture undergo a transformation. Yet the personifi- cation is perfect in every detail, and governed by a beautiful consistency. Her first manifes- tation of great power in this character is in the reading of the despatch which tells of her lovers infidelity. Youth and hope seem to pass out of her face together, and to leave it old and haggard. Her whole attitude and be- havior are eloquent of the blankest despair. Of her performance of the wayward and reckless heroine of ~Francillon s it may be said that she almost succeeds in making her conduct credible and reasonable. In it she portrays with exquisite skill the growth of jealousy under an assumed mask of feverish gaiety; and the graceful coquetry and wo- manly tenderness with which she essays to lure her errant husband back to her side reveals her genius in yet another new light. Her management of the risky scenes growing out of her nocturnal adventure is exceedingly ad- roit, and the occasional hint of malicious glee breaking through her mood of stubborn reck- lessness is exactly right. Another exquisitely truthful touch is her fit of tearful vexation when she finds that, unwittingly, she has es- tablished her own innocence. As an example of imaginative realism her Santuzza, in RCa- valleria Rusticana,)) is a gem of flawless art, perfect as a reproduction of peasant life and manners, entirely free from all adornment and artifice, but lifted into the regions of poetic tragedy by virtue of its pathos and passion. It seems almost incredible that this woman, the unfailing interpreter of the deepest and most turbulent emotions of the human heart, should be able to identify her- self, as she does, with the arch-coquette of ((La Locandiera,)) and the piquant, audacious, and volatile Cyprienne in ~Divor~onss a Cy- prienne whom she makes as light, gay, varia- ble, and sparkling as that of the lamented Aim6e herself. No other actress of this time is capable of such metamorphoses. As yet Duse has permitted us only a glimpse of her gallery of dramatic portraits. Else- where she has achieved triumphs in plays differing as widely as ((La Femme de Claude)) and ~LAbbesse de Jonarre.)) Her Juliet and Ophelia have aroused fervent enthusiasm, and her Cleopatra is still a bone of critical con- tention between the commentators who hold that naturalness is the chiefest stage virtue and those who prefer the dazzling artifice of which Sarah Bernhardt is passed mistress. If it be the first object of good acting to hold the mirror up to nature, the French actress, in these later days, would be unwise to dispute the palm with her Italian rival. The women whom she now depicts are, for the most part, mere monstrosities, fanciful developments from one morbid and extravagant type. If Duse, in attempting some of them, has failed to emphasize all the violent and impossible contrasts of which they are compounded, and to amaze or horrify by a cry or a gesture, she at least has contrived to impart to them, by her intuitive sense of truth and proportion, some semblance of humanity. Wherever there is a foundation of human heart to work upon, her power is absolute, and she can interpret all moods with almost equal facility. As has been pointed out, she can sound all the depths of pathos, or simulate a paroxysm of rage or scorn, with the same veracity; can employ with delightful effect all the wiles of feminine se- ductiveness, play the coquette with unsur- passable archness and vivacity, and tread the perilous paths of the riskiest French comedy with a lightness, a sparkle, an assurance, and an adroitness altogether Parisian. She pos- sesses, moreover, in a larger measure than any other actress, the Protean gift of genuine impersonation. With a face and figure devoid of any peculiar characteristic, she identifies herself with the fictitious personality by sub- tile and appropriate transformations, inwhich gait, gesture, carriage, and facial expression all play their part. In this respect, beyond question, she is the greatest actress of the day, and among men Salvini alone takes rank above her or beside her. Her powers in high tragedy or poetic comedy must be for us, as yet, matter for conjecture only. It is to be hoped that ill health may not prevent her from renewing her former triumphs in New York, or from appearing in the great Shak- sperian characters which she has enacted so successfully at home, and which offer the widest scope to true dramatic genius such as hers. J. Ranlcen Towse. so-hO! for the hnnting risp October morn, ker- In the c With the lace of the frost like a chief tost On the black of the twisted thorn! Dark was the wood ere ~awnir1g, When the moon her bow nnstrnng (When rnsset and green the tall trees lean, And never a bird giveS tongne), Till the snn sprang np in scarlet And hnrled his shafts afar, And the last star fled where the night lies ea A d the ~eadows of morning are~ lJp! np! my lads o Lincoln! Up! np! my merry men all! The pheasant whWS in the clnstered call! fnrze, And hark how the plovers See ~~~mpled brake and osier; Who slept in the bosky hollow? A stag~oPten!iP! np! my men! Oh, followfollow 134

Ednah Proctor Clarke Clarke, Ednah Proctor Maid Marian's Song 134-136

so-hO! for the hnnting risp October morn, ker- In the c With the lace of the frost like a chief tost On the black of the twisted thorn! Dark was the wood ere ~awnir1g, When the moon her bow nnstrnng (When rnsset and green the tall trees lean, And never a bird giveS tongne), Till the snn sprang np in scarlet And hnrled his shafts afar, And the last star fled where the night lies ea A d the ~eadows of morning are~ lJp! np! my lads o Lincoln! Up! np! my merry men all! The pheasant whWS in the clnstered call! fnrze, And hark how the plovers See ~~~mpled brake and osier; Who slept in the bosky hollow? A stag~oPten!iP! np! my men! Oh, followfollow 134 On to the chase, naught fearing We maids o the kirtle green, We wait you here, with cup and cheer, And the kiss that laughs between. A fig for the white-cheeked gallant That never the stout bow drew, With his mincing ways and his honeyed phrase Ambling the greenwood through. Not so, not so, my gentles Ye go a-hunting here! Who rides to the hilt, be his own blood spilt, Brings home the fallow deer! Oh, give me the lad in the jerkin, With the red blood neath the tan, Who can harry a glade, or hold a maid, With the heart and arm of a man! Then ho for the lads o Lincoln! And ho for the hunting morn! For love that doth woo with the twanging yew, And the lilt of the lusty horn! Ednah Proctor Clarke. 135 e FROM A PHOTOGRAPH AT GARELL & CO LONDON

Mrs. Humphry Ward Ward, Humphry, Mrs. Sir George Tressady 136-150

e FROM A PHOTOGRAPH AT GARELL & CO LONDON lIT ELL, that s over, thank Heaven!)) VY The young man speaking drew in his head from the carriage window. But instead of sitting do\vn he turned with a joyous, ex- cited gesture, and lifted the flap over the little window in the back of the landau, sup- porting himself, as he stooped to look, by a hand on his companions shoulder. Through this peep-hole he saw, as the horses trotted away, the crowd in the main street of Mar- ket Malford, still huzzaing and waving, the wild glare of half a dozen torches on the faces and the moving forms, the closed shops on either hand, the irregular roofs and chim- neys sharp cut against a wintry sky, and in the far distance the little lantern belfry and taller mass of the new town hall. 4 m much astonished the horses did nt bolt,)) said the man addressed. ((That bay mare would have lost all the te.mper she s got in another moment. It s a good thing we made them shut the carriageit has turned abominably cold. Had nt you better sit down?)) And Lord Fontenoy made a movement as though to withdraw from the hand on his shoulder. The owner of the hand flung himself down on the seat, with a word of apology, took off his hat, and drew a long breath of fatigue. At the same moment a sudden look of disgust effaced the smile with which he had taken his last glimpse at the crowd. ((All very well !but what one wants after this business is a moral tub! The lies Ive told during the last three weeksthe buncombe I ye talked !it s a feeling of positive dirt! And the worst of it is, however you may scrub your mind afterward, some of it must stick.s He took out a cigarette, and lit it at his companions with a rather unsteady hand. He had a thin, long face and fair hair; and one would have guessed him some ten years younger than the man beside him. ((Certainlyit will stick,)) said the other. ((Election promises nowadays are sharply looked after. I heard no buncombe. As far as I know, our party does nt talk any. We leave that to the Government!)) Sir George Tressady, the young man ad- dressed, shrugged his shoulders. His mouth was still twitching under the influence of nervous excitement. But as they rolled along between the dark hedges, the carriage-lamps shining on their wet branches, green yet, in spite of November, he began to recover a half-cynical self-control. The poll for the Market Malford Division of West Mercia had been declared that afternoon, between two and three oclock, after a hotly contested election; he, as the successful candidate by a very narrow majority, had since addressed a shouting mob from the balcony of the Grey- hound Hotel, had suffered the usual taking out of horses and triumphal dragging through the town, and was now returning with his supporter and party leader, Lord Fontenoy, to the great Tory mansion which had sent them forth in the morning, and had been Tressadys headquarters during the greater part of the fight. ((Did you ever see any one so down as Bur Copyright, 1895, by Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD. All rights reserved. \TOL LI.18. 137 I. 138 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. rows?)) he said presently, with a little leap of laughter. ((By George! it is hard lines. I suppose he thought himself safe, what with the work he d done in the division, and the hold he had on the miners. Then a confounded stranger turns up, and the chance of seven- teen ignorant voters kicks you out! He could hardly bring himself to shake hands with me. I had come rather to admire him, had nt you?)) Lord Fontenoy nodded. ((I thought his speeches showed ability,)) he said indifferently; ((only of a kind that must be kept out of Parliamentthat s all. Sorry you have qualmsquite unnecessary, I assure you! At the present moment, either Burrows and his like knock under, or you and your like. This timeby seventeen votes Burrows knocks under. Thank the Lord! say I.)) And the speaker opened the window an instant to knock off the end of his cigarette. Tressady made no reply. But again a look, half chagrined, half reflective, puckered his brow, which was smooth, white, and boyish under his straight, fair hair; whereas the rest of the fac~~ was subtly lined, and browned ~s though by travel and varied living. The nose and mouth, though not handsome, were small and delicately cut, while the long, pointed chin, slightly protruding, made those who disliked him say that he was like those innu- merable portraits of Philip IV., by and after Velasquez, which bestrew the collections of Europe. But if the Hapsburg chin had to be admitted, nothing could be more modern, in- telligent, alert, than the rest of him. The two rolled along awhile in silence. They were passing through an undulating midland country, dimly seen under the stars. At frequent intervals rose high mounds, with tall chimneys and huddled buildings beside them or upon them, which marked the sites of collieries, while the lights also, which had begun to twinkle over the face of the land, showed that it was thickly inhabited. Suddenly the carriage rattled into a vil- lage, and Tressady looked out. ((I say, Fontenoy, here s a crowd! Do you suppose they know? Why, Gregson s taken us another way round!)) Lord Pontenoy let down his window, and identified the small mining village of Battage. ((Why did you bring us this way, Gregson?)) he said to the coachman. The man, a Londoner, turned, and spoke in a low voice: I thought we might find some rioting going on in Marraby, my Lord. And now I see there s lots o them out here!)) Indeed, with the words, he had to check his horses. The village street was full from end to end with miners just come up from work. Fontenoy at once perceived that the news of the election had arrived. The men were massed in large groups, talking and dis- cussing, with evident and angry excitement; and as soon as the well-known liveries on the box of the new members carriage were identified there was an instant rush toward it. Some of the men had already gone into their houses on either hand, but at the sound of the wheels and the uproar they came rush- ing out again. A howling hubbub arose, a confused sound of booing and groaning, and the carriage was soon surrounded by grimed men, gesticulating and shouting. ((Yer bloated parasites, yer!)) cried a young fellow, catching at the door-handle on Lord Fontenoys side; we 11 make a dd end o yer afore we ye done wi yer. Who asked yer to come meddlin in Malforddn yer!)) ((Whativer do we want wi the bikes o yo representin us!)) shouted another man, point- ing at Tressady. ((Look at im; ee cant walk, ee cant; mus be druv, poor hinnercent! When did yo iver do a days work, eh? Look at my ands! Them s the ands for honest menaint they, you fellers?)) There was a roar of laughter and approval from the crowd, and up went a forest of be- grimed hands, flourishing and waving. George calmly put down the carriage win- dow, and, leaning his arms upon it, put his head out. He flung some good-humored banter at some of the nearest men, and two or three responded. But the majority of the faces were lowering and fierce, and the horses were becoming inconveniently crowded. ((Get on, Gregson,~ said Fontenoy, leaning out of the window. ((If they 11 let me, your lordship,)) said Gregson, rather pale, raising his whip. The horses made a sudden start forward. There was a yell from the crowd, and three or four men had just dashed for the horses heads, when a shout of a different kind ascended. ((Burrows! Ere s Burrows! Three cheers for Burrows!)) And some distance behind them, at the corner of the village street, Tressady sud- denly perceived a tall dog-cart drawing up, with two men in it. It was already surrounded by a cheering and tumultuous assembly, and one of the men in the cart was shaking hands right and left. George drew in his head, with a laugh. ((This is dramatic. They ye stopped the horses, and here s Burrows!)) Fontenoy shrugged his shoulders. ((Theyll SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 139 blackguard us a bit, I suppose, and let us go. Burrows 11 keep them in order.)) ((What d yer mean by it, heh, dash yer!)) shouted a huge man, as he sprang on the step of the carriage and shook a black fist in Tressadys face thrustin yer dd carkiss where yer aint wanted? We wanted im, and we ye worked for im. This is a workin-class district, and we ye a right to im. Do yer ear?)) ((Then you should have given him seven- teen more votes,)) said George, composedly, as he thrust his hands into his pockets. ((Its the fortunes of waryour turn next time. I say, suppose you tell your fellows to let our man get on. We ye had a long day, and we re hungry. Ah,)) to Fontenoy, here s Bur- rows coining!)) Fontenoy turned, and saw that the dog- cart had drawn up alongside them, and that one of the men was standing on the step of it, holding on to the rail of the cart. He was a tall, finely built man, and as he looked down on the carriage, and on Tres- sady leaning over the window, the light from a street lamp near showed a handsome face blanched with excitement and fatigue. ((Now, my friends,)) he said, raising his arm, and addressing the crowd, ~~you let Sir George go home to his dinner. He s beaten us, and so far as I know he s fought fair, whatever some of his friends may have done for him. I m going home to have a bite of something and a wash. I m done. But if any of you like to come round to the club eight oclockI 11 tell you a thing or two about this election. Now good night to you, Sir George. We 11 beat you yet, trust us. Fall back there!)) He pointed peremptorily to the men hold- ing the horses. They and the crowd instantly obeyed him. The. carriage swept on, followed by the hooting and groans of the whole community, men, women, and children, who were now massed along the street on either hand. ((It s easy to see this man Gregson s a new hand,)) said Fontenoy, with an accent of annoyance, as they got clear of the village. 4 believe the Wattons have only just im- ported him; otherwise he d never have avoided Marraby and come round byBattage.~ ((Battage has some special connection with Burrows, has nt it? I had forgotten.)) ((Of course. He was check-weigher at the Acme pit here for years, before they made him district secretary of the union.)) ((That s why they gave me such a hot meeting here a fortnight ago! I remember now; but one thing drives another out of one~s head. Well, I dare say you and I 11 have plenty more to do with Burrows before we ye done.)) Tressady threw himself back in his corner, with a yawn. Fontenoy laughed. ((There 11 be another big strike some time next year,)) he said dryly bound to be, as far as I can see. We shall all have plenty to do with Burrows then.)) ((All right,)) said Tressady, indistinctly, pulling his hat over his eyes. ((Burrows or anybody else may blow me up next year, so long as they let me go to sleep now. However, he did not find it so easy to go to sleep. His pulses were still tingling under the emotions of the day and the stimulus of the hubbub they had just passed through. His mind raced backward and forward over the incidents and excitements of the last six months, over the scenes of his canvassand over some other scenes of a different kind which had taken place in the country house whither he and Fontenoy were returning. But he did his best to feign sleep. His one desire was that Fontenoy should not talk to him. Fontenoy, however, was not easily taken in, and no sooner did George make his first restless movement under the rug he had drawn over him than his companion broke silence. ((By the way, what did you think of that memorandum of mine on Maxwells bill?)) George fidgeted and mumbled. Fontenoy, undaunted, began to harangue on certain minutke of factory law with a monotonous zest of voice and gesture which seemed to Tressady nothing short of amazing. He watched the speaker a minute or two through his half-shut eyes. So this was his leader to bethe man who had made him member for Market Malford. Eight years before, when George Tressady had first entered Christchurch, he had found that place of tempered learning alive with traditions on the subject of ((Dicky Fonte- noy.~ And such traditionsgood heavens! Subsequently, at most race-meetings, large and small, and at various clubs, theaters, and places of public resort, the younger man had had his opportunities of observing the elder, and had used them always with relish, and sometimes with admiration. He himself had no desire to follow in Fontenoys footsteps. Other elements ruled in him, which drew him other ways. But there was a magnificence about the impetuosity, or rather the dogged- ness, with which Fontenoy had plunged into 140 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. the business of ruining himself, which stirred the imagination. On the last occasion, some three and a half years before this Market Malford election, when Tressady had seen Fontenoy before starting himself on a long Eastern tour, he had been conscious of a lively curiosity as to what might happen to ((Dicky)) by the time he came back again. The eldest sons of peers do not generally come to the workhouse; but there are aristo- cratic substitutes which, relatively, are not much less disagreeable; and George hardly saw how they were to be escaped. And nownot four years!and here sat Dicky Fontenoy, haranguing on the dull clauses of a technical act, throat hoarse with the speaking of the last three weeks, eyes cavernous with anxiety and overwork, the creator and leader of a political party which did not exist when Tressady left England, and now bade fair to hold the balance of power in English government! The surprises of fate and character! Tressady pondered them a little in a sleepy way; but the fatigue of many days asserted itself. Even his companion was soon obliged to give him up as a listener. Lord Fontenoy ceased to talk; yet every now and then, as some jolt of the carriage made George open his eyes, he saw the broad- shouldered figure beside him, sitting in the same attitude, erect and tireless, the same half-peevish pugnacity giving expression to mouth and eye. ((COME, wake up, Tressady! Here we are!)) There was a vindictive eagerness in Fon- tenoys voice. Ease was no longer welcome to him, whether in himself or as a spectacle in other men. George, startled from a mo- mentary profundity of sleep, staggered to his feet, and clutched at various bags and rugs. The carriage was standing under the pil- lared porch of Malford House, and the great house doors, thrown back upon an inneifiight of marble steps, gave passage to a blaze of light. George, descending, had just shaken himself awake and handed the things he held to a footman, when there was a sudden up- roar from within. A crowd of figuresmen and women, the men cheering, the women clapping and laughingran down the inner steps toward him. He was surrounded, em- braced, slapped on the back, and finally car- ried triumphantly into the hall. ((Bring him in,)) said an exultant voice; ((and stand back, please, and let his mother get at him.)) The laughing group fell back, and George, blinking, radiant, and abashed, found himself in the arms of an exceedingly sprightly and youthful dame, with pale frizzled hair, and the figure of seventeen. ((Oh, you dear, great, foolish thing!)) said the lady, with the voice and the fervor, moreover, of seventeen. ((So you ye got in you ye done it! Well, I should never have spoken to you again if you had nt! And I suppose you d have minded that a little from your own mother. Goodness, how cold he is!)) And she flew at him with little pecking kisses, retreating every now and again to look at him, and then closing upon him again in ecstasy, till George, at the end of his patience, held her off with a strong arm. ((Now, mother, that s enough. Have the others been home long?)) he asked, address- ing a smiling young man in knickerbockers who, with his hands in his pockets, was stand- ing beside the hero of the occasion, surveying the scene. ((Oh, about half an hour. They reported you d have some difficulty in getting out of the clutches of the crowd. We hardly ex- pected you so soon.~ ((How s Miss Sewells headache? Does she know?)) The expression of the young man~s eye, which was bent on Tressady, changed ever so slightly as he replied: ((Oh, yes; she knows. As soon as the others got back Mrs. Watton went up to tell her. She did nt show at lunch.)) ((Mrs. Watton came to tell menaughty man!)) said the lady whom George had ad- dressed as his mother, tapping the speaker on the arm with her fan. ((Mothers first, if you please, especially when they re cripples like me, and cant go and see their dear darlings triumphs with their own eyes. And I told Miss Sewell.~ She put her head on one side and looked archly at her son. Her high gown, a work of the most approved Parisian art, was so cut as to show much more throat than usual, and, in addition, a row of very fine pearls. Her elegant waist and bust were defined by a sort of Empire sash; her complexion did her maid, and, indeed, her years, great credit. George flushed slightly at his mothers words, and was turning away from her when he was gripped by the owner of the house, Squire Watton, an eloquent and soft-hearted old gentleman, who, having in Georges opin- ion already overdone it greatly at the town hall in the way of hand-shaking and congratu- lations, was now most unreasonably prepared to overdo it again. Lady Tressady joined in SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 141 with little shrieks and sallies, the other guests of the house gathered round, and the hero of the day was once more lost to sight and hearing amid the general hubbub of talk and laughter for the young man in knicker- bockers, at any rate, who stood a little way off from the rest. I wonder when she 11 condescend to come down,~ he said to himself, examining his boots with a speculative smile. ((Of course it was mere caprice that she did nt go to Malford; she meant it to annoy.~ 4 say, do let me get warm,)) said Tressady, at last, breaking from his tormentors and coming up to the open log fire, in front of which the young man stood. ((Where s Fon- tenoy vanished to?)) ((Went up to write letters directly he had swallowed a cup of tea,)) said the young man, whose name was Bayle; ((and called Marks to go with him.)) (Marks was Lord Fontenoys private secretary.) George Tressady threw up his hands in disgust. ((It s absurd. He never allows himself an hours peach. If he expects me to grind as he does, he 11 soon regret that he lent a hand to put me into Parliament. Well, I m stiff all over, and as tired as a rat. I 11 go and have a warm bath before dinner.)) But still he lingered, warming his hands over the blaze, and every now and then scan- ning the gallery which ran round the big hall. Bayle chatted to him about some of the inci- dents of the day. George answered at ran- dom. He did, indeed, look tired out, and his expression was restless and discontented. Suddenly there was a cry from the group of young men and maidens who were amusing themselves in the center of the hall. ((Why, there s Letty, and as fresh as paint!)) George turned abruptly. Bayle saw his manner stiffen and his eye kindle. A young girl was slowly coming down the great staircase which led to the hall. She was in a soft black dress with a blue sash, and a knot of blue at her throata childish slip of a dress, which answered to her small rounded form, her curly head, and the hand slipping along the marble rail. She came down. silently smiling, taking each step with great deliberation, in spite of the outbreak of half-derisive sympathy with which she was greeted from her friends below. Her bright eyes glanced from face to facefrom the mocking inquirers immediately beneath her to George Tressady standing by the fire. At the moment when she reached the last step Tressady found it necessary to put an- other log on a fire already piled to repletion. Meanwhile Miss Sewell went straight to- ward the new member and held out her hand. I am so glad, Sir George; let me con- gratulate you.~ George put down his log, and then looked at his fingers critically. ((I am very sorry, Miss Sewell, but I am not fit to touch. I hope your headache is better.)) Miss Sewell dropped her hand meekly, shot him a glance which was not meek, and said demurely: ((Oh, my headaches do what they re told. You see, I was determined to come down and congratulate you.~ ((I see,)) he repeated, making her a little bow. ((I hope my ailments, when I get them, will be as docile. So my mother told you?)) ((I did nt want telling,)) she said placidly. ((I knew it was all safe.)) ((Then you knew what only the gods knew for I only got in by seventeen votes.)) ((Yes, so I heard. I was very sorry for Burrows.)) She put one foot on the stone fender, raised her pretty dress with one hand, and leant the other lightly against the mantel- piece. The attitude was full of grace, and the little sighing voice fitted the curves of a mouth which seemed always ready to laugh, yet seldom laughed frankly. As she made her remark about Burrows Tressady smiled. ((My prophetic soul was right,)) he said deliberately; I knew you would be sorry for Burrows.~ ((Well, it is hard on him, is nt it? You cant deny you re a carpet-bagger, can you?)) ((Why should I? I m proud of it.)) Then he looked round him. The rest of the partynot without whispers and smothered laughterhad withdrawn from them. Some of the ladies had already gone up to dress. The men had wandered away into a little library and smoking-room which opened on the hall. Only the squire, safe in a capa- cious arm-chair a little way off, was absorbed in a local paper and the last humors of the election. Satisfied with his glance, Tressady put his hands into his pockets and leant back against the fireplace, in a way to give himself fuller command of Miss Sewells countenance. ((Do you never give your friends any better sympathy than you have given me in this affair, Miss Sewell ?~ he said suddenly, as their eyes met. 142 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. She made a little face. ((Why, I ye been an angel!)) she said, pok- ing at a prominent log with her foot. George laughed. ((Then our ideas of angels agree no better than the rest. Why did nt you come and hear the poll declared, after promising me you would be there?)) ((Because I had a headache, Sir George.)) He responded with a little inclination, as though ceremoniously accepting her state- ment. ((May I ask at what time your headache began?)) ((Let me see,~ she said, laughing; I think it was directly after breakfast.)) ((Yes. It declared itself, if I remember right, immediately after certain remarks of mine about a Captain Addison?)) He looked straight before him, with a de- tached air. Yes.~ said Letty, thoughtfully; ((it was a curious coincidence, was nt it?~ There was a moments silence. Then she broke into infectious laughter. Dont y~u know,)) she said, laying her hand on his shoulder dont you know that you re a most foolish and wasteful person? We get along capitally, you and Iwe ye had a rattling time all this weekand then you will go and make uncivil remarks about my friendsin public, too! You actually think I m going to let you tell Aunt Watton how to manage me! You get me into no end of a fussit 11 take me weeks to undo the mis- chief you ye been makingand then you ex- pect me to take it like a lamb! Now, do I look like a lamb?)) All this time she was holding him tight by the arm, and her dimpled face, alive with mirth and malice, was so close to his that a moments wild impulse flashed through him to kiss her there and then. But the impulse passed. He and Letty Sewell had known each other for about three weeks. They were not engagedfar from it. And thesethe hand on the arm, and the rest were Letty Sewells ways. Instead of kissing her, then, he scanned her deliberately. ((I never saw any one more plainly given over to obstinacy and pride,)) he said quietly. ((I told you some plain facts about the char- acter of a man whom I know and you dont, whereupon you sulk all day, you break all your promises about coming to Malford, and when I come back you call me names.)) She raised her eyebrows and withdrew her hand. ((Well, it s plain, is nt it? that I must have been in a great rage. It was very dull up-stairs, though I did write reams to my best friend all about youa very candid account; I shall have to soften it down. By the way, are you ever going to dress for dinner?)) George started, and looked at his watch. ((Are we alone? Is any one coming from outside?)) ((Only a few (locals,) just to celebrate the occasion. I know the clergymans wife s com- ing, for she told me she had been copying one of my frocks, and wanted me to tell her what I thought.)) George laughed. ((Poor lady!)) I dont think I shall be nice to her,)) said Letty, playing with a flower on the mantel- piece. ((Dowdy people make me feel wicked. Well, I must dress.)) It was now his turn to lay a detaining hand. ((Are you sorry?)) he said, bending over to her. His bright gray eyes had shaken off fatigue. ((For what? Because you got in?)) Her face overflowed with laughter. He let her go. She linked her arm in that of the daughter of the house, Miss Florence Wat- ton, who was crossing the hall at the mo- ment, and the two went up-stairs together, she throwing back one triumphant glance at him from the landing. George stood watching them till they dis- appeared. His expression was neither soft nor angry. There was in it a mocking self- possession which showed that he too had been playing a partmingled, perhaps, with a cer- tain perplexity. II. GEORGE TRESSADY came down very late for dinner, and found his hostess on the verge of annoyance. Mrs. Watton was a large, com- manding woman, who seldom thought it worth while to disguise any disapproval she might feeland she had a great deal of that com- modity to expend, both on persons and insti- tutions. George hastened to propitiate her with the usual futilities: he had supposed that he was in excellent time, his watch had been playing tricks, and so on. Mrs. Watton, who, after all, on this great day beheld in the new member the visible triumph of her dearest principles, received these excuses at first with stiffness, but soon thawed. ((Oh, you naughty boy! you naughty, men- SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 143 dacious boy!)) said a sprightly voice in Tres- sadys ear. ((Excellent time, indeed! I saw you for shame!)) And Lady Tressady flounced away from her son, laughing over her shoulder in one of her accustomed poses. She wore white muslin over cherry-colored silk. The display of neck and shoulders could hardly have been more lavish, and the rouge on her cheeks had been overdone, which rarely happened. George turned from her hurriedly to speak to Lord Fontenoy. ((What a fool that woman is!)) thought Mrs. Watton to herself, as her sharp eye followed her guest. ((She will make George positively dislike her soonand all the time she is bound to get him to pay her debts, or there will be a smash. What! dinner? John, will you please take Lady Tressady? Harding, will you take Mrs. Hawkins ? ~ pointing her second son toward a lady in black sitting stiffly on the edge of an ottoman. ((Mr. Haw- kins takes Florence. Sir George)) she waved her hand toward Miss Sewell. ((Now, Lord Fontenoy, you must take me, and the rest of you sort yourselves.~ As the young people, mostly cousins, laugh- ingly did what they were told, Sir George held out his arm to Miss Sewell. ((I am very sorry for you,~ he said, as they passed into the dining-room. ((Oh, I knew it would be my turn,)) said Letty, with resignation. ((You see, you took Florrie last night, and Aunt Watton the night before.)) George settled himself deliberately in his chair, and turned to study his companion. ((Do you mind warning me, to begin with, how I can avoid giving you a headache? Since this morning my nerve has goneI want directions.)) ((Well,)) said Letty, pondering, ((let us lay down the subjects we may talk about first. For instance, you may talk of Mrs. Hawkins.)) She gave an imperceptible nod which di- rected his eyes to the thin woman sitting opposite, to whom Harding Watton, a fash- ionable and fastidious youth, was paying but scant attention. Gecrge examined her. I dont want to,)) he said shortly; ((be- sides, she would last us no time at all.)) ((Oh!on the contrary,)) said Letty, with malice sparkling in her brown eye, ((she would last me a good twenty minutes. She has got on my gown.)) ~I did nt recognize it,)) said George, study- ing the thin lady again. 4 would nt mind,)) said Letty, in the same tone of reflection, if Mrs. Hawkins did nt think it her duty to lecture me in the inter- vals of copying my frocks. If I disapproved of anybody I dont think I should send my nurse to ask her maid for patterns.)) ((I notice you take disapproval very calmly.)) ((Callously, you mean. Well, it is my mis- fortune. I always feel myself so much more reasonable than the people who disapprove.)) ((This morning, then, you thought me a fool ?~ ((Oh, no! OnlywellI knew, you see, that I knew better. I was reasonable, and)) ((Oh, dont finish,)) said George, hastily; ((and dont suppose that I shall ever give you any more good advice.)) ((Wont you?)) Her mocking look sent a challenge, which he met with outward firmness. Meanwhile he was inwardly haunted by a phrase he had once heard a woman apply to the mental ca- pacities of her best friend. ((Her mind ? her mind, my dear, is a shallow chaos!)) The words made a neat label, he scoffinglythought, for his own present sensations. For he could not persuade himself that there was much profundity in his feelings toward Miss Sew- ell, whatever reckless possibilities life might seem to hold at times; when, for instance, she wore that particular pink gown in which she was attired to-night, or when her little impertinent airs suited her as well as they were suiting her just now. Something cool and critical in him was judging her all the time. Ten years hence, he made himself re- flect, she would probably have no prettiness left. Whereas now, what with bloom and grace, what with small proportions and move- ments light as air, what with an inventive refinement in dress and personal adornment that never failed, all Letty Sewells defects of feature or expression were easily lost in a general aspect which most men found daz- zling and perturbing enough. Letty, at any rate within her own circle, had never yet been without partners, or lovers, or any other form of girlish excitement that she desired, and had been generally supposedthough she herself was aware of some strong evidence to the contraryto be capable of getting anything she had set her mind upon. She had set her mind, as the spectators in this particular case had speedily divined, upon enslaving young George Tressady. And she had not failed. For even during these last stirring days it had been tolerably clear that she and his election had divided Tressadys mind between them, with a balance, perhaps, to her side. As to the measure of her success, 144 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. however, that was still doubtfulto herself and him most of all. To-night, at any rate, he could not detach himself from her. He tried repeatedly to talk to the girl on his left, a noble-faced child fresh out of the school-room, who in three years time would be as much Letty Sewells superior in beauty as in other things. But the effort was too great. The strenuous busi- ness of the day had but left himin fatigue and reaction the more athirst for amusement and the gratification of another set of pow- ers. He turned back to Letty, and through course after course they chattered and sparred, discussing people, plays, and books, or rather, under cover of these, a number of those topics on the borderland of pas- sion whereby men and women make their first snatches at intimacytill Mrs. Wattons sharp gray eyes smiled behind her fan, and the attention of her neighbor, Lord Fonte- noyan uneasy attentionwas again and again drawn to the pair. Meanwhile, during the first half of dinner, a chair immediately opposite to Tressadys place ren~ained vacant. It was being kept for the eldest son of the house, his mother explaining carelessly to Lord Fontenoy that she believed he was ((out parish-ing some- where, as usual.)) However, with the appearance of the pheasants the door from the drawing-room opened, and a slim, dark-haired man slipped in. He took his place noiselessly, with a smile of greeting to George and his neighbor, and bade the butler, in a whisper aside, bring him any course that might be going. ((Nonsense, Edward!)) said his mothers loud voice from the head of the table; ((dont be ridiculous. Morris, bring back that hare entr6e and the mutton for Mr. Edward.)) The newcomer raised his eyebrows mildly, smiled, and submitted. ((Where have you been, Edward?)) said Tressady. I have nt seen you since the town hall.)) 4 have been at a rehearsal. There is a parish concert next week, and I conduct these functions.)) ((The concerts are always bad,)) said Mrs. Watton, curtly. Edward Watton shrugged his shoulder. He had a charming, timid air, contradicted now and then by a look of enthusiastic resolution in the eyes. ((All the more reason for rehearsal,)) he said. ((However, really, they wont do badly this time.)) ((Edward is one of the persons,)) said Mrs. Watton, in a low aside to Lord Fontenoy, ((who think you can make friends with people the lower ordersby shaking hands with them, showing them Burne-Joness pictures, and singing (The Messiah) with them. I had the same idea once. Everybody had. It was like the measles. But the sensible persons have got over it.)) ((Thank you, mama,)) said Watton, makino~ her a smiling bow. Lady Tressady interrupted her talk with the squire at the other end of the table to observe what was going on. She had been chattering very fast in a shrill, affected voice, with a gesticulation so free and French, and a face so close to his, that the nervous and finicking squire had been every moment afraid lest the next shoi~d find her white fingers in his very eyes. He felt an inward spasm of relief when he saw her attention diverted. ((Is that Mr. Edward talking his Radical- ism?)) she asked, putting up a gold eye-glass ~ his dear, wicked Radicalism? Ah! we all know where Mr. Edward got it.)) The table laughed. Harding Watton looked particularly amused. ((Egeria was in this neighborhood last week,~ he said, addressing Lady Tressady. ((Edward rode over to see her. Since then he has joined two new societies, and ordered six new books on the Labor Question.)) Edward flushed a little, but went on eating his dinner without any other sign of disturb- ance. ((if you mean Lady Maxwell,)) he said good-humoredly, I can only be sorry for the rest of you that you dont know her.)) He raised his handsome head with a bright air of challenge that became him, but at the same time exasperated his mother. ((That woman said Mrs. Watton, with ponderous force, throwing up her hands as she spoke. Then she turned to Lord Fonte- noy. ((Dont you regard her as the source of half the mischievous work done by this pre- ciotis government in the last two years?)) she asked him, imperiously. A half-contemptuous smile crossed Lord Fontenoys worn face. ((Well, really, I am not inclined to make Lady Maxwell the scapegoat. Let them bear their own misdeeds.~ ((Besides, what worse can you say of Eng- lish ministers than that they should be led by a woman?)) said Mr. Watton, from the bottom of the table, in a piping voice. ((In my young days such a state of things would have been unheard of. No offense, my dear, SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 145 no offense,)) he added hastily, glancing at his wife. Letty glanced at George, and put up a handkerchief to hide her own merriment. Mrs. Watton looked impatient. Plenty of English cabinet ministers have been led by women before now,)) she said dryly; ((and no blame to them or anybody else. Only in the old days you knew where you were. Women were corruptas they were meant to befor their husbands and brothers and sons. They wanted something for somebodyand got it. Now they are cor- ruptlike Lady Maxwellfor what they are pleased to call causes, and it is that which will take the nation to ruin.)) At this there was an incautious protest from Edward Wati~on against the word ((cor- rupt,)) followed by a confirmatory clamor from his mother and brother which seemed to fill the dining-room. Lady Tressady threw in affected comments from time to time, try- ing hard to hold her own in the conversation by a liberal use of fan and Christian names, and little personal audacities applied to each speaker in t~m. Only Edward Watton, how- ever, occasionally took civil or smiling notice of her; the others ignored her. They were engaged in a congenial task, the hunting of the one disaffected and insubordinate mem- ber of their pack, and had for the moment no attention to spare for other people. ((I shall see the great lady, I suppose, in a week or two,)) said George to Miss Sewell, under cover of the noise. It is curious that I should never have seen her.)) ((Who? Lady Maxwell ?~ ((Yes. You remember I have been four years out of England. She was in town, I suppose, the year before I left, but I never came across her.)) ~I prophesy you will like her enormously,)) said Letty, with decision. ((At least, I know that s what happens to me when Aunt Wat- ton abuses people. I could nt dislike them afterward if I tried.)) ((That, allow me to impress upon you, is not my disposition! I am a human beingI am influenced by my friends.)) He turned round toward her so as to ap- propriate her again. ((Oh, you are not at all the poor creature you paint yourself!)) said Letty, shaking her head. In reality, you are the most obstinate person I knowyou can never let a subject aloneyou never know when you re beaten.)) ((Beaten?)) said George, reflectively; ((by a headache? Well, there is no disgrace in that. One will probably live to fight another VOL. LT.19. day. Do you mean to say that you will take no noticeno noticeof all that array of facts I laid before you this morning on the subject of Captain Addison?)) ((I shall be kind to you, and forget them. Now, do listen to Aunt Watton! It is your duty. Aunt Watton is accustomed to be lis- tened to, and you have nt heard it all a hun- dred times before, as I have.)) Mrs. Watton, indeed, was haranguing her end of the table on a subject that clearly excited her. Contempt and antagonism gave a fine energy to a head and face already sufficiently expressive. Both were on a large scale, but without commonness. The old-lace coif she wore suited her waved and grizzled hair, and was carried with conscious dignity; the hand which lay beside her on the table, though long and bony, was full of nervous distinction. Mrs. Watton was, and looked, a tyrantbut a tyrant of ability. ((A neighbor of theirs in Brookshire,)) she was saying, ~~was giving me last week the most extraordinary account of the doings at Mellor. She was the heiress of that house at Mellor ~ here she addressed young Bayle, who, as a comparative stranger in the house, might be supposed to be ignorant of facts which everybody else knew a tumble-down place with an income of about two thousand a year. Directly she married she put a So- cialist of the most unscrupulous typeso they tell meinto possession. The man has established what they call a (standard rate) of wages for the estate,virtually double the normal rate, coerced all the farmers, and made the neighbors furious. They say the whole district is in a ferment. It used to be the quietest part of the world imaginable, and now she has set it all by the ears. She, having married thirty thousand a year, can afford her little amusements; other people, who must live by their land, have their lives worried out of them.)) ((She tells me that the system works, on the whole, extremely well,)) said Edward Watton, whose heightened color alone betrayed the irritation of his mothers chronic aggression, ((and that Maxwell is not at all unlikely to adopt it on his own estate.)) Mrs. Watton threw up her hands again. ((The idiocy of that man! Till he married her he was a man of sense. And now she leads him by the nose, and whatever tune he calls, the government must dance to, because of his power in the House of Lords.)) ((And the worst of it is,)) said Harding Watton, with an unpleasant laugh, ((that if she were not a handsome woman, her influ 146 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. ence would not be half what it is. She uses her beauty in the most unscrupulous way.~ ((I believe that to be entirely untrue,)) said Edward Watton, with emphasis, looking at his brother with hostility. George Tressady interrupted. He had an affection for Edward Watton, and cordially disliked Harding. 4s she really so hand- some?)) he asked, bending forward and ad- dressing his hostess. Mrs. Watton scornfully took no notice. ((Well, an old diplomat told me the other day,)) said Lord Fontenoybut with a cold unwillingness, as though he disliked the sub- ject that she was the most beautiful woman, he thought, that had been seen in London since Lady Blessingtons time.)) ((Lady Blessington! Dear, dear !Lady Blessingtonh said Lady Tressady, with ma- licious emphasis; ~~an unfortunate compari- son, dont you think? Not many people would like to be regarded as Lady Blessingtons successor.)) ((In any other respect than beauty,)) said Edward Watton, haughtily, with the same tension a~ before, ((the comparison, of course, would be ridiculous.)) Harding shrugged his shoulders, and, tilt- ing his chair back, said in the ear of a shy young man who sat next him: ((In my opinion, the Count dOrsay is only a question of time! However, one must nt say that to Edward.)) Harding read memoirs, and considered him- self a man of general cultivation. The young man addressed, who read no printed matter outside the sporting papers that he could help, and had no idea as to who Lady Bless- ington and Count dOrsay might be, smiled vaguely, and said nothing. ((My dear,)) said the squire, plaintively, ((is nt this room extremely hot?)) There was a ripple of meaning laughter from all the young people, to many of whom this particular quarrel was already tiresomely familiar. Mr. Watton, who never understood anything, looked round with an inquiring air. Mrs. Watton condescended to take the hint and retire. IN the drawing-room afterward Mrs. Wat- ton first allotted a duty-conversation of some ten minutes in length, and dealing strictly with the affairs of the parish, to Mrs. Hawk- ins, who, as clergymans wife, had a definite official place in the Malford House circle, quite irrespective of any individuality she might happen to possess. Mrs. Hawkins was plain, self-conscious, and in no way interest- ing to Mrs.Watton, who never took the small- est trouble to approach her in any other ca- pacity than that upon which she had entered by marrying the incumbent of the squires home living. But the civilities and respects that were recognized as belonging to her station she received. This, however, alas! was not enough for Mrs. Hawkins, who was full of ambitions, which a bad manner, a plague of shyness, and a narrow income were perpetually thwarting. As soon as the ten minutes were over, and Mrs. Watton, who was nothing if not politi- cal, and saw no occasion to make a stranger of the vicars wife, had plunged into the even- ing papers brought her by the footman, Mrs. Hawkins threw herself on Letty Sewell. She was effusively grateful too grateful for the patterns lent her by Miss Sewells maid. ((Did she lend you some patterns?)) said Letty, raising her brows. ((Dear me! I did nt know.)) And her eyes ran coolly over Mrs. Hawk- inss attire, which did, indeed, present a vil- lage imitation of the delicate gown in which Miss Sewell had robed herself for the evening. Mrs. Hawkins colored. ((I specially told my nurse,)) she said has- tily, ((that of course your leave must be asked. But my nurse and your maid seem to have made friends. Of course my nurse has plenty of time for dressmaking, with only one child of four to look after, andandone really gets no new ideas in a poky place like this. But I would not have taken a liberty for the world.)) Her pride and mauvaise honte together made both voice and manner particularly unattrac- tive. Letty was seized with the same temper that little boys show toward flies. ((Of course I am delighted!)) she said in- differently. ((It s so nice and good to have ones things made at home. Your nurse must be a treasure.)) All the time her gaze was diligently in- specting every ill-cut seam and tortured trim- ming of the home-made triumph before her. The ear of the vicars wife, always morbidly sensitive in that particular drawing-room, caught a one of insult in every light word. A passionate resentment flamed up in her, and she determined to hold her own. ((Are you going in for more visits when you leave here?)) she inquired. ((Yes, two or three,)) said Letty, turning her delicate head unwittingly. She had been throwing blandishments to Mrs.Wattons dog, a gray Aberdeen terrier, who stood on the rug quietly regarding her. SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 147 ((You spend most of the year in visits, dont you?)) ((Well, a good deal of it,~ said Letty. ((Dont you find it dreadfully time-wasting? Does it leave you leisure for any serious oc- cupations at all? I am afraid it would make me terribly idle!)) Mrs. Hawkins laughed, attempting a tone of banter. Letty put up a small hand to hide a sudden yawn, which, however, was visible enough. ((Would it?~ she said, with an imperti- nence which hardly tried to conceal itself. ((Evelyn, do look at that dog. Does nt he remind you of Mr. Bayle?~ She beckoned to the handsome child of sixteen who had sat on George Tressadys left hand at dinner, and, taking up a pinch of rose-leaves that had dropped from a vase beside her, she flung them at the dog, calling him to her. Instead of going to her, how- ever, the dog slowly curled himself up on the rug, and laying his nose along his front paws, stared at her steadily, with the expression of one mounting guard. ((He never will make friends with you, Letty. Is nt it odd?)) said Evelyn, laughing, and stooping to stroke the creature. ((Never mind; other dogs will. Did you see that adorable black Spitz of Lady Arthurs? She has promised to give me one.~ The two cousins fell into a chatter about their county neighbors, mostly rich and aris- tocratic people, of whom Mrs. Hawkins knew little or nothing. Evelyn Watton, whose in- stincts were quick and generous, tried again and again to draw the vicars wife into the conversation. Letty was determined to ex- clude her. She lay back against the sofa, chatting her liveliest, the whiteness of her neck and cheek shining against the red of the damask behind, one foot lightly crossed over the other, showing her costly little slippers with their paste buckles. She sparkled with jewels as much as a girl maymore, indeed, in Mrs. Hawkinss opinion, than a girl should. From head to foot she breathed affluence, se- ductiveness, successonly the seductiveness was not for Mrs. Hawkins and her like. The vicars wife sat flushed an~ erect on her chair, disdaining, after a ~t~me to make any further effort, but inwardly ~intolerably sore. She could not despise Iietty Sewell, unfortunately, since Lettys advantages were just those that she herself most desired. But there was something else in her mind than small jealousy. When Letty had been a bril- liant child in short frocks, the vicars wife, who was scarcely six years older, had opened her heart, had tried to make herself loved by Mrs. Wattons niece. There had been a moment when they had been ~Madge~ and ((Letty)) to each other, even since Letty had ~~come out.)) Now, whenever Mrs. Hawkins attempted the Christian name, it stuck in her throat; it seemed, even to herself, a familiar- ity that had nothing to go upon; while with every succeeding visit to Malford, Letty had dropped her former friend more decidedly, and ((Madge)) was heard no more. THE gentlemen, deep in election incident and gossip, were, in the view chiefly of the successful candidate, unreasonably long in leaving the dining-room. When they appeared at last, George Tressady once more made an attempt to talk to some one else than Letty Sewell, and once more failed. 4 want you to tell me something about Miss Sewell,~ said Lord Fontenoy, presently, in Mrs. Wattons ear. He had been sitting silent beside her on the sofa for some little time, apparently toying with the evening pa- pers, which Mrs. Watton had relinquished to him. Mrs. Watton looked up, followed the direc- tion of his eyes toward a settee in a distant corner of the room, and showed a half-impa- tient amusement. ((Letty? Oh, Letty s my niecethe daugh- ter of my brother, Walter Sewell, of Helbeck. They live in Yorkshire. My brother has my fathers placea small estate, and rents very irregular. I often wonder how they manage to dress that child as they do. However, she has always had her own way since she was a foot high. As for my poor brother, he has been an invalid for the last ten years, and neither he nor his wifeoh, such a stupid woman! ~ Mrs. Wattons energetic hands and eyes once more called Heaven to witness ~ has ever counted for much, I should say, in Lettys career. There is another sister, a little delicate, silent thing, that looks after them. Oh, Letty is nt stupid; I should think not. I suppose you re alarmed about Sir George. You need nt be. She does it with everybody.)) The candid aunt pursued the conversation a little further, in the same tone of half- caustic indulgence. At the end of it, however, Lord Fontenoy was still uneasy. He had only migrated to Malford House for the declara- tion of the poll, having spent the canvassing weeks mainly in another part of the division. And now, on this triumphant evening, he was conssdous of a sudden sense of defective infor- mation which was disagreeable and damping. 148 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. WHEN bedtime came, Letty lingered in the drawing-room a little behind the other ladies, on the plea of gathering up some trifles that belonged to her; so that when George Tres- sady went out with her to light her candle for her in the gallery, they found themselves alone. He had fallen into a sudden silence, which made her sweep him a look of scrutiny as she took her candlestick. The slim yet virile figure drawn to its full height, the signifi- cant, long-chinned face, pleased her senses. He might be plainshe supposed he was but he was, nevertheless, distinguished, and extraordinarily alive. ((I believe you are tired to death,)) she said to him. ((Why dont you go to bed?)) She spoke with the freedom of one accus- tomed to advise all her male acquaintance for their good. George laughed. ((Tired? Not I. I was before dinner. Look here, Miss Sewell, I ye got a question to ask.)) ((Ask it.)) ((You dont want to spoil my great day, do you? You do repent that headache?)) They looked at each other, dancing laugh- ter in each pair of eyes, combined in his with an excited insistence. ((Good night, Sir George,)) she said, hold- ing out her hand. He retained it. ((You do?)) he said, bending over her. She liked the situation, and made no im- mediate effort to change it. ((Ask me a month hence, when I have proved your statements.)) ((Then you admit it was all pretense?)) ((I admit nothing,)) she said joyously. I protected my friend.)) ((Yes, by injuring and offending another friend. Would it please you if I said I missed you very much at Malford to-day?)) ((I will tell you to-morrowit is so late! Please let me have my hand.)) He took no notice, and they went hand in hand, she drawing him, to the foot of the stairs. ((George!)) said a shrill, hesitating voice from overhead. George looked up and saw his mother. He and Letty started apart, and in another second Letty had glided up-stairs and disap- peared. ((Yes, mother,)) said George, impatiently. ((Will you come here?)) He mounted, and found Lady Tressady a little discomposed, but as affected as usual. ((Oh, George! it was so darkI did nt see J did nt know. George, will you have half an hours talk with me after breakfast to- morrow? Oh, George, my dear boy, my dear boy! Your poor mammy understands!)) She laid one hand on his shoulder, and, lifting her feather fan in the other, shook it with playful meaning in the direction whither Letty had departed. George hastily withdrew himself. ((Of course I will have a talk with you, mother. As for anything else, I dont know what you mean. But you really must let me go to bed; I am much too tired to talk now. Good night.)) Lady Tressady went back to her room, smiling but anxious. ((She has caught him!)) she said to herself barefaced little flirt! It is not altogether the best thing for me. But it may dispose him to be generous, ifif I can play my cards.)) LETTY SEWELL, meanwhile, had reached the quiet of a luxurious bedroom, and sum- moned her maid to her assistance. When the maid departed, the mistress held long counsel with herself over the fire: the gen- eral position of her affairs; what she desired; what other people intended; her will, and the chances of getting it. Her thoughts dealt with these various problems in a skilled and business-like way. To a particular form of self-examination Letty was well accustomed, and it had become by now a strong agent in the development of individuality, as self-ex- amination of another sort is said to be by other kinds of people. She herself was pleasantly conscious of real agitation. George Tressady had touched her feelings, thrilled her nerves, more than yes, she said to herself, decidedly, more than anybody else, more than ((the rest.)) She thought of ((the rest,)) one after the other thought of them contemptuously. Yet cer- tainly few girls in her own set and part of the country had enjoyed a better timefew, perhaps, had dared so many adventures. Her mother had never interfered with her; and she herself had not been afraid to be ((talked about.)) Dances, picnics, moonlight walks; the joys of outrageous ((sitting-out,)) and hot rivalries with prettier girls; of impertinences toward the men who did nt matter, and pretty flatteries toward the men who didit was all pleasant enough to think of. She could not reproach herself with having missed any chances, any opportunities her own ~will might have given her. And yetwell, she was tired of it!out of love altogether with her maiden state and its opportunities. She had come to Malford SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 149 House in a state of soreness, which partly accounted, perhaps, for such airs as she had been showing to poor Mrs. Hawkins. During the past year a particular marriagethe marriage of her neighborhoodhad seemed intermittently within her reach. She had played every card she knewand she had failed! Failed, too, in the most humiliating way. For the bride, indeed, was chosen; but it was not Letty Sewell, but one of Lettys girl-neighbors. To-night, almost for the first time, she could bear to think of it; she could even smile at it. Vanity and ambition alone had been con- cerned, and to-night these wild beasts of the heart were soothed and placable. Well, it was no great match, of course if it came off. All that Aunt Watton knew about the Tressadys had been long since extracted from her by her niece. And with Tressady himself Lettys artless questions had been very effective. She knew almost all that she wished to know. No doubt Ferth was a very second-rate ((place)); and since those horrid miners had become so trouble- some, his income as a coal-owner could not be what his fathers had beenthree or four thousand a year, she supposedmore, per- haps, in good years. It was not much. Stillshe pressed her hands on her eyes he was di.stinguished; she saw that plainly already. He would be welcome anywhere. ((And we are not distinguishedthat is just it. We are small people, in a rather dull set. And I have had hard work to make anything of it. Aunt Watton was very lucky to marry as she did. Of course, she made Uncle Watton marry her; but that was a chanceand papa always says nobody else could have done ith She fell happily ininking of Tressadys skirmishes with her, her face dimpling with amusement. Captain Addison! How amazed he would be could he know the use to which she had put his name and his very hesitating attentions. But he would never know; and meanwhile Sir George had been really pricked really jealous! She laughed to herselfa low laugh of pure pleasure. Yesshe had made up her mind. With a sigh, she put away from her all other and loftier ambitions. She supposed that she had not money or family enough. One must face the facts. George Tressady would take her socially into another milieu than her own, and a higher one. She told herself that she had always pined for Parliament, politics, and eminent people. Why should she not suc- ceed in that world as well as in the Helbeck world? Of course she would succeed! There was his mothersilly, painted old lady! She was naturally the great drawback; ~nd Aunt Watton said she was absurdly ex- travagant, and would ruin Tressady if it went on. All the more reason why he should be protected. Letty drew herself sharply to- gether in her pretty white dressing-gown, with the feeling that mothers of that kind must and could be kept in their place. A house in town, of courseand not in Warwick Square, where, apparently, the Tressadys owned a house, which had been let, and was now once more in Sir Georges hands. That might do for Lady Tressady if, indeed, she could afford it when her son had married and taken other claims upon him. Letty allowed her thoughts to wander dreamily on, envisaging the London life that was to be: the young member, Lord Fontenoys special friend and prot~g6; the young mem- bers wife making her Way among great peo- ple, giving charming little parties at Ferth All very well! But what, please, were the facts on his side? She buried her small chin deep in her hands as she tm~ied, frowning, to think it out. Certainly he was very much drawn, very much taken. She had watched him, sometimes, trying to keep away from herand her lips parted in a broad smile as she recalled the triumph of his sudden re- turns and submissions. She believed he had a curious temper easily depressed, for all his coolness. But he had never been depressed in her company. Still nothing was certain. All that had hap- pened might melt away into nothingness with the greatest ease ifwell, if the right steps were not taken. He was no novice, any more than she; he must have had scores of ((af- fairs)) by now, with that manner of his. Such men were always capable of second thoughts, of tardy retreatsand especially if there were the smallest thought of persecution, of pursuit. She believedshe was nearly certainhe would have a reaction to-morrow, perhaps because his mother had caught them toge- ther. Next morning he would be just a little bored by the thought of ita little bored by having to begin again where he had left off. Without great tact and skill the whole edifice might tumble together like a house of cards. Had she the courage to make difficultiesto put a water-ditch across his path? It was close on midnight when Letty at last raised her little chin from the hands that held it, and rang the bell that communicated with her maids room, but cautiously, so as not to disturb the rest of the sleeping house. 150 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. ((If Grier is asleep, she must wake up, that s all !e Two or three minutes afterward a dishev- eled maid, startled out of her first slumber, appeared, to ask whether her mistress was ill. ((No, Grier; but I wanted to tell you that 1 have changed my mind about staying here till Saturday. I am going to-morrow morning by the 9:30 train. You can order a fly first thing, and bring me my breakfast early.)) The maid, groaning at the thought of the boxes that would have to be packed in this inconceivable hurry, ventured to protest. ((Never mind; you can get the housemaid to help you,~ said Miss Sewell, decidedly. ((I dont mind what you give her. Now go to bed, Grier. I m sorry I woke you up; you look as tired as an owl.)) Then she stood still, looking at herself hands clasped lightly before herin the long glass. (((Letty went by the nine oclock train,))) she said aloud, smiling, and mocking her own white reflection. (((Dear me! How sudden! how extraordinary! Yes, but that s like her. Hm) Then he must write to me, for I shall write him a civil little note asking for that book I lent him. Oh, I hope Aunt Watton and his mother will bore him to death!)) She broke out into a merry laugh; then, sweeping her mass of pretty hair to one side, she began rapidly to coil it up for the night, her fingers working as fast as her thoughts, which were busy with one ingenious plan after another for her next meeting with George Tressady. Mary A. Ward. (To be continued.) THE ARMENIAN QUESTION. friend the editor of THE CENTURY asks me to say a few words regarding the sufferings of the Eastern Christians whose misfor- tune it is to live under the sway of the Turks. Those sufferings have evoked so much sympathy from the American people, and the moral influence of America may be so helpful to them, that no one who has fol- lowed the history of the Armenians during the last twenty years of oppression and mis- ery can refuse the opportunity of addressing American readers on the subject. Nor is it merely that the recent demonstrations of feeling in the United States upon this sub- ject have been so deep and wide-spread: nearly everything which has been done for these ancient seats of Christianity by modern Christian nations has been done by Ameri- can missionaries, whose schools and colleges, planted in various parts of western Asia, have rekindled the flame of knowledge, and stimulated the native Eastern churches to resume the intellectual activity which once distinguished them. Americans have there- fore a special reason, over and above their quick responsiveness to sentiments of hu- manity, for feeling a warm interest in the condition of the Armenian Christians. The Armenians are a civilized people, a people of great natural gifts, and a people who have played a considerable part in his- tory. Since their ancient monarchy, which had suffered severely in the long and deso lating wars between the Roman and Persian empires from the third to the seventh cen- tury of our era, was finally destroyed by the Seljukian Turks, a large part of the race has been forced to migrate from its ancient seats at the head waters of the Euphrates, Tigris, and Aras. Some of them went southwest to the mountain fastnesses of Cilicia, where an- other Armenian kingdom grew up in the twelfth century. Others drifted into Persia. Others moved northeastward, and now form a large, industrious, and prosperous population in Russian Transcaucasia, where many have entered the military or civil service of the Czar, and risen, as the Armenians used to rise long ago in the Byzantine empire, to posts of distinction and power. Russias three best generals in her last Asiatic campaigns against the Turks were Armenians. Others again have scattered themselves over the cities of Asia Minor and southeastern Europe, where much of the local trade is in their hands. But a large number, roughly esti- mated at from 1,300,000 to 1,700,000, re- main in the old fatherland round the great lake of Van, and on the plateaus and elevated valleys which stretch westward from Mount Ararat to Erzerum and Erzinghian. Here they are an agricultural and (to a less ex- tent) a pastoral population, leading a simple, primitive life, and desiring nothing more than to be permitted to lead it in peace and in fidelity to that ancient church which has been to them the symbol of nationality, as well as the guide of life, for sixteen centuries. Unfortunately, peace is just what they are

James Bryce Bryce, James The Armenian Question 150-155

150 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. ((If Grier is asleep, she must wake up, that s all !e Two or three minutes afterward a dishev- eled maid, startled out of her first slumber, appeared, to ask whether her mistress was ill. ((No, Grier; but I wanted to tell you that 1 have changed my mind about staying here till Saturday. I am going to-morrow morning by the 9:30 train. You can order a fly first thing, and bring me my breakfast early.)) The maid, groaning at the thought of the boxes that would have to be packed in this inconceivable hurry, ventured to protest. ((Never mind; you can get the housemaid to help you,~ said Miss Sewell, decidedly. ((I dont mind what you give her. Now go to bed, Grier. I m sorry I woke you up; you look as tired as an owl.)) Then she stood still, looking at herself hands clasped lightly before herin the long glass. (((Letty went by the nine oclock train,))) she said aloud, smiling, and mocking her own white reflection. (((Dear me! How sudden! how extraordinary! Yes, but that s like her. Hm) Then he must write to me, for I shall write him a civil little note asking for that book I lent him. Oh, I hope Aunt Watton and his mother will bore him to death!)) She broke out into a merry laugh; then, sweeping her mass of pretty hair to one side, she began rapidly to coil it up for the night, her fingers working as fast as her thoughts, which were busy with one ingenious plan after another for her next meeting with George Tressady. Mary A. Ward. (To be continued.) THE ARMENIAN QUESTION. friend the editor of THE CENTURY asks me to say a few words regarding the sufferings of the Eastern Christians whose misfor- tune it is to live under the sway of the Turks. Those sufferings have evoked so much sympathy from the American people, and the moral influence of America may be so helpful to them, that no one who has fol- lowed the history of the Armenians during the last twenty years of oppression and mis- ery can refuse the opportunity of addressing American readers on the subject. Nor is it merely that the recent demonstrations of feeling in the United States upon this sub- ject have been so deep and wide-spread: nearly everything which has been done for these ancient seats of Christianity by modern Christian nations has been done by Ameri- can missionaries, whose schools and colleges, planted in various parts of western Asia, have rekindled the flame of knowledge, and stimulated the native Eastern churches to resume the intellectual activity which once distinguished them. Americans have there- fore a special reason, over and above their quick responsiveness to sentiments of hu- manity, for feeling a warm interest in the condition of the Armenian Christians. The Armenians are a civilized people, a people of great natural gifts, and a people who have played a considerable part in his- tory. Since their ancient monarchy, which had suffered severely in the long and deso lating wars between the Roman and Persian empires from the third to the seventh cen- tury of our era, was finally destroyed by the Seljukian Turks, a large part of the race has been forced to migrate from its ancient seats at the head waters of the Euphrates, Tigris, and Aras. Some of them went southwest to the mountain fastnesses of Cilicia, where an- other Armenian kingdom grew up in the twelfth century. Others drifted into Persia. Others moved northeastward, and now form a large, industrious, and prosperous population in Russian Transcaucasia, where many have entered the military or civil service of the Czar, and risen, as the Armenians used to rise long ago in the Byzantine empire, to posts of distinction and power. Russias three best generals in her last Asiatic campaigns against the Turks were Armenians. Others again have scattered themselves over the cities of Asia Minor and southeastern Europe, where much of the local trade is in their hands. But a large number, roughly esti- mated at from 1,300,000 to 1,700,000, re- main in the old fatherland round the great lake of Van, and on the plateaus and elevated valleys which stretch westward from Mount Ararat to Erzerum and Erzinghian. Here they are an agricultural and (to a less ex- tent) a pastoral population, leading a simple, primitive life, and desiring nothing more than to be permitted to lead it in peace and in fidelity to that ancient church which has been to them the symbol of nationality, as well as the guide of life, for sixteen centuries. Unfortunately, peace is just what they are THE ARMENIAN QUESTION. 151 forbidden to enjoy. The tribes of robber Kurds who roam over the mountains in sum- mer with their flocks and herds descend in winter to quarter themselves upon the Ar- menian peasantry in the valleys and plains, and at all times carry on marauding raids, which the peasantry, whom the Turkish gov- ernment deprives of all weapons, are seldom able to resist. Thus the country is the scene of continual disorders. Sheep and cattle are driven off, villages are plundered, men are murdered, women are carried away to the mountains, and when attempts are made to recover them it is alleged that they have become Mussulmans, and the Turkish officials refuse to interfere. Sometimes a whole vil- lage will be burned, and the horses of the Kurdish bands turned into the standing corn in sheer wantonness. These grievances are of long standing. They might have been ex- pected not only to destroy the prosperity of the Armenian peasantry, but also to reduce their numbers. Yet such is the power of patient industry that, in spite of these con- stant attacks, the Christian population has maintained i4~self, and would, indeed, have in- creased faster than the Mussulman, sapped by the practice of polygamy, has shown it- self able to do, were it not for the ravages of these robbers, and the unremitting oppres- sion of the Turkish government. For in Tur- key the government is a praise to evil-doers and a terror to them that do well. So far from trying to keep the Kurds in order, as the Russian government does the nomad Kurdish tribes who live within Russian territory, the Turkish Valis and Kaimakams usually encour- age, and scarcely ever check, their depreda- tions, while at the same time themselves fleec- ing the Christian population by all the arts which corruption and avarice can suggest. Things were so bad seventeen years ago that when Russia compelled the vanquished Turks to sign the treaty of San Stefano, in 1878, a special promise was made in it that the government of the Armenian provinces should be reformed and the Christians pro- tected against the Kurds. When at the Con- gress of Berlin the treaty of Berlin was substi- tuted for that of San Stefano, this provision was carried over to the new instrument, and the Armenians were thus placed virtually under the protection of the six great Euro- pean powers. But their condition, so far from growing better, has since that time grown steadily worse. The British government has incessantly remonstrated with the Turks on their maladministration, and has tried, through its embassy at Constantinople and its consuls in the interior, to impose some sort of check upon the excesses of tyranny, and to procure the dismissal of the most cruel or corrupt officials. But it has received, until quite recently, very little support from the other five powers; and the Turks have opposed to its demands that dogged, sluggish resist- ance, and those endless evasions and vague promises of amendment, which are the usual resource of Oriental diplomacy. Meanwhile two new factors have entered into the situation which have made it more acute. One is the growing fanaticism of the Mussulman population, stimulated by the Sul- tan himself. Claiming to be calif, that is to say, supreme spiritual as well as temporal head of the Mohammedan world, he has con- ceived a higher conceit of his ecclesiastical position than has any of his predecessors for centuries past, and has been striving to strengthen his religious authority all the more because he feels that his material power is fast slipping away. Thus, in appeal- ing to the Mussulman feelings of his Turkish subjects, he has revived their antichristian feelings, and has, indeed, followed during the last ten years a distinctly antichristian pol- icy, which has had the most pernicious re- sults on the relations of the two creeds. The old spirit of hatred to the giaour has become strong in the East, and might (in many places) lead at any moment to conflicts in which the Christians, fewer in numbers, and almost al- ways without arms, would be the sufferers. The other factor is the growing sentiment of nationality among the Armenians them- selves. They have become proud of their his- tory; they have developed a keen interest in education, and while continuing to use and value the American schools and colleges, have now also founded others of their own. They have conceived hopes of a brighter future for their nation when the decaying fabric of the Turkish empire shall have finally crumbled away, and they have been encouraged by the sympathy shown them in Britain and in the United States to take a somewhat bolder line than formerly, and to raise their voices in complaint against the tyranny they have to endure. It is said that some among them have formed secret societies, and that the representatives of Armenian patriotic com- mittees in two or three cities of continental Europe have been moving about Asiatic Tur- key trying to rouse their fellow-countrymen. This is probable enough, though little or nothing is authentically known; nor can any one be surprised that some among the victims of Turkish misrule should combine against it, 152 TilE CENTURY MAGAZINE. however hopeless the prospect of a rising by an unarmed minority against a government which not only possesses a large army fur- nished with modern weapons, but has on its side the bulk of the Mohammedan population, which is generally armed. The result of this growth of national Armenian sentiment has been to alarm the Turks, to stimulate their hatred of the Christians, to make the officials more cruel and the courts even more unjust than they were previously, and to dispose the Turkish ministers more and more toward the policy which one of them is said to have ex- pressed thus: ((The way to get rid of the Arme- nian question is to get rid of the Armenians.)) Under the influence of these causes there has been of late years added to the old dis- orders in Armenia proper a general reign of terror over Asiatic Turkey. The industrious Armenian population in the cities of Asia Minor, which had previously suffered from misgovernment not much more than its Mus- sulman neighbors, and which had lived on friendly terms with them, has been subjected to more outrageous oppressions and more hor- rible cruejties than probably it has had to endure since the fifteenth century, and that under a monarch who holds his throne only by the permission, and owing to the jeal- ousies, of the Christian powers of Europe. Every one has heard of the massacre of Sassoun. It was an absolutely unprovoked massacre, and has all the appearance of hay- ihg been deliberately planned in order to exterminate the Christian population of a district almost entirely inhabited by Arme- nians, and in which they had retained in an unusual degree the primitive simplicity of their life and habits, as well as their phys- ical strength and courage. Taken by sur- prise, and surrounded by vastly superior forces, the unhappy people fought as well as they could for their wives and their children, whose lot, if captured alive, was far worse than death. Of the slaughter and the revolt- ing cruelties which accompanied it no more need be said than this: that the accounts which have appeared in the newspapers are not in excess of the truth as it has been as- certained by careful official inquiries not yet made public. The details sometimes vary, but the main features admit of no doubt. Nor were the Kurds the guiltiest parties. All they did was surpassed by the ferocious cruelties of the regular troops, directed by Turkish officers. But these terrible events are hardly more shocking, except in their scale, than the things which have been monthly and weekly happening in many other towns and villages, and of which no report ever reaches the Eu- ropean pressthe defilement of churches, the abduction of women and children, the imprisonment of innocent men in loathsome dungeons where they are often subjected to frightful tortures under which many perish, the acts of brutal and revolting lust perpe- trated without fear of punishment upon help- less victims. Much of what is contained in the British consular reports is too horrible for print; and if the American missionaries were able, without endangering their own position in the country and the lives of their informants, to make public what they know, they could supply a not less ghastly record. American readers will ask what, in these circumstances, the European powers propose to do. They are morally responsible for the sufferings of the subjects of Turkey to this extent: that they have kept in being a mon- archy which has long since deserved to per.. ish, and which would long since either have fallen to pieces by its own weakness, or have been conquered and annexed by one of its neighbors. They perceive, moreover, that the state of things which now exists in Turkey cannot go on indefinitely, and may produce some explosion which would cause a grave European crisis, perhaps a European war. Something, therefore, must be done. At the moment when these lines are being written the British government, pursuing under Lord Salisbury the line of action which his prede- cessor initiated, is in conjunction with Russia and France pressing the Sultan to accept a scheme of reforms. Long before these lines can be read in America it will be known whether they have extorted the consent of the Sultan to these reforms, or to some others, which may hold out a hope of better days for the Armenian Christians. There would be no use, therefore, in discussing the situation as it stands at this moment. But there are some permanent aspects of the question, not likely to vary for years to come, which may prop- erly be adverted to, because they are not fully realized in western Europe, and are probably even less familiar to Americans. Although the other nations of Europe now treat the Turks as if they were a civilized state, hold diplomatic intercourse with them in the usual way, and even talk of ((respect - ing their susceptibilities,)) they have no title to be so treated, and ought never to have been admitted to a place among civilized com- munities. Even if we do not, as Mr. Freeman did, describe them as ((merely a band of rob- bers encamped in a country whose inhabi- tants they despoil,)) still the words of Edmund THE ARMENIAN QUESTION. 153 Burke, who more than a century ago de- nounced the idea of deeming them to form a part of the European states system, remain true, and have received from events the strongest confirmation: I have never before heard that the Turkish empire has ever been considered as any part of the balance of power in Europe. They de- spise and contemn all Christian princes as in- fidels, and only wish to subdue and extermi- nate them and their people. What have these worse than savages to do with the powers of Europe but to spreadwar, destruction, and pes- tilence amongst them ~? The ministers and the policy which shall give these people any weight in Europe will deserve all the bans and curses of posterity. Having no idea of responsibility to its sub- jects, and not recognizing any duty to pro- mote their welfare, the so-called government of Turkey has been at all times inaccessible to the considerations by which civilized gov- ernments are moved, or to which they must at any rateeven the worst of thempro- fess to defer. Hence the difficulty of making any impression on the Turks by remonstrance or persuasion. Nothing moves them but fear. They are, moreover, most of them, so pur- blind, so incapable of looking forward or around and foreseeing the action of the causes now in motion, that they cannot be made to learn by experience, or to realize that the course they are pursuing must at no distant date involve the ruin of their power. These faults have been aggravated during the last few years by the policy of the present Sultan, who leaves very little to his ministers, is jealous of any talent that shows itself among them, tries to direct everything himself, and is, in fact, largely swayed by a camarilla of ignorant personal attendants and hangers-on at the palace. There are some able Moham- medans in Constantinople who detest the present r6gime and see its perils. Now and then a good governor is found in the prov- inces, who tries to improve the local adminis- tration. But the able men are never listened to, and the good governor is speedily recalled. In every government more depends upon the men who administer than upon the system; but in a ~spotic government men are every- thing. In Turkey the men and the system are equally corrupt; and to try to reform the Turkish monarchy is like trying to repair a ship with rotten timbers. Why does not such a government go to pieces, according to the law of nature which happily provides that corruption and weak- ness bring dissolution in their train? There VOL. LI.20. are three reasons. One is the jealousy of three great European powers, which has had the effect of preventing two of them from annexing what remains of Turkish territory. Another is the fact that the Mussulman popu- lation, being in the majority, is so fanatically ill disposed to the Christians (who are the greatest sufferers) that it is not only willing to help the government to hold the Christians down, but even disposed to tolerate evils which would produce Mussulman insurrections were there no Christians in the country. There is, however, a great deal of latent discontent among the Mohammedans, and but for the fatalism which Islam engenders, and which has made the masses listless and resigned, one may doubt whether even jealousy of the Christians would suffice to prevent outbreaks. The third reason is the enormous advantage which modern weapons give to a government which can raise money to purchase them. Two centuries ago insurrections were far easier and more likely to succeed than now, because the insurgents were more on a level with regular troops than they are in these days of swift-firing guns and rifles of long range. There is therefore little ground for hoping for any speedy extinction of the Turkish power by natural causes. If, then, it is going to last some time longer, can nothing at all be done, if not to reform it, yet to abate its evils? Experience has shown that there is only one way of reform- ing an Oriental government, and that is by putting it into leading-strings, by either superseding the chief officials and putting Europeans in their place, or else by giving them European adjutants who shall virtually direct them. This might be done in Turkey if the European powers were willing. But it would be necessary practically to supersede the Sultanthat is to say, to prevent him from interfering either with administrative policy or with appointments. And it is a method which, though capable of being efficiently worked by a directing and protecting power, as England works it in the minor protected states of India, cannot be well applied, at least on a large scale, by three or four powers con- jointly, because each would suspect the other of obtaining some advantage for itself. Another expedient would be to detach from the rest of the empire those parts of the country where disorders were most fre- quent, placing them under a specially consti- tuted administration. This was done in the case of the Lebanon, and with very good results. It has been proposed for Armenia, and would probably succeed there. If the 154 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. powers chiefly concerned were to compel the Sultan to erect Armenia into a distinct prov- ince, with a European governor who should be irremovable except with the consent of those powers, who should control the reve- nues of the province and maintain out of them a strong police, and who should be free to introduce administrative and judicial re- forms, the country might in ten years time be brought into the same perfect order, and obtain a measure of the same prosperity, as has attended the rule of Count Kallay in Bosnia, which was delivered from the Turks in 1878. There are, no doubt, as many Mus- sulmans as Christians in Armenia, but the former have also much to gain by the estab- lishment of good administration, and would welcome it. Russia, however, is unwilling to set up on her borders what she fears might become an Armenian principality toward which her own Armenian population would gravitate; so it is to be feared that this course, however promising, will not be taken. We are brought back, then, to the question what the European powers can or will do to deal with ~ situation which every one admits must not continue. Their present plan is to introduce small changes in local government changes too numerous to be stated here which may give the Christians a better chance of preserving their lives and property, and to institute a commission of supervision at Constantinople, with which the European ambassadors may be in communication, con- veying to it the reports of their consuls, and pressing it to see that justice is done in the provinces. This scheme, though somewhat complicated, may, in the opinion of several judicious British and American residents, be made to work. But it will require the closest attention by the European consuls and am- bassadors, and the most unremitting pressure must be brought to bear on the Sultan if its provisions are not to be neglected or evaded in practice. Nothing but fear and threats will move a government which has up till now never expressed the slightest penitence, nor shown the slightest remorse, for the Sas- soun massacre, nor taken any serious step to put an end to the hideous prison tortures which the British Embassy has so often brought to its notice. One closing word as to the influence which America may exert in these questions. She has very wisely, and very fortunately for herself, abstained from joining in any of the treaties which determine the relations of European powers to one another; and she has neither obtained any such legal right to interfere for the protection of the native Eastern Christians, nor incurred any such responsibility toward them, as is the case with the six great powers. But she has mis- sionaries in many parts of Turkey, whom, and whose churches and schools, constantly threatened by the local Turkish governors,. she is entitled to protect; and she has the enormous advantage of being obviously dis- interested in all Mediterranean questions, hav- ing nothing to gain for herself in that region of the world. Hence any action taken by her, either on behalf of her missionaries or front sentiments of humanity and sympathy for the oppressed and persecuted, cannot be misun- derstood by the Turks or misrepresented by the press of continental Europe, as that press constantly misrepresents the action of Eng- land, though in interfering on behalf of the Armenians England has not, and cannot have, any selfish motive. The position of America. is therefore a very strong one. The appear- ance of her gunboats off Turkish ports ha~ before now had a wholesome effect upon the Turkish mind; and these gunboats would do well to appear promptly whenever the rights of her citizens and the safety of their edu- cational establishments are threatened. At Constantinople much depends also upon the capacity and the firmness of the envoy who em- bodies and speaks the will of a foreign power. Dark as the prospect before those unhappy people may at present seem, no one who re- members the calamities they have already endured and survived will despair of their future. During ten centuries of humiliation and suffering they have clung to their faith, when at any moment by renouncing it they might have obtained complete equality with their oppressors. Alone of all the races that once inhabited the inland regions of western Asia, the Armenians have retained their lan- guage, their national feeling, and their hold upon the soil. A race with so much natural vigor, so much tenacity of life, and so much capacity for assimilating and using modern ideas, cannot be destined to extinction, and may some day, when countries tjiat were among the earliest homes of civilization have been delivered from the tyranny of the Turk, help to repeople those now desolate and pov- erty-stricken lands, and restore to them some. measure of their ancient prosperity. James Bryce. THIS number of THE CENTURY marks the twenty- fifth anniversary of the magazine. The date may be supposed to have interest to others than those whose life work has been performed in connection with this periodical. The interest may, furthermore, be presumed to extend beyond the circle of those original readers of the magazine who are still living, to the larger and world- wide circle of its present readers and friends. It is not our intention to present here a history of the periodical, but to refer rather to its character and aims and to some of its accomplishments. The magazine from the beginning has felt the impulse and molding of its founders. Dr. Holland, Roswell Smith, and the firm of which Charles Scribner, Sr., was the head, were men not satisfied in taking up an enterprise like this merely to follow in the footsteps of others; nor were they con- tent to strive for a success based purely upon ideas of business profie. The magazine at once, therefore, struck out new paths in various directions, notably in the dis- cussion of questions of public interest, and in original and more refined methods of illustration. There was, in fact, an earnest endeavor to lift the standard of popular periodical literature. At an early period large themes were selected for literary and illustrative presentation, and these were treated so as to contribute toward im- portant results of an educational, moral, and patriotic nature. It was with methods and purposes like these that such subjects have been undertaken as the Great South series; the papers on the Great West; the remarkable series of articles on the Civil War, written by leading participants in its events; the only authorized Life of Lincoln, by his private secretaries; the Californian series; Kennans ex- traordinary description of the Siberian exile system; and the Life of Napoleon, which is now appearing in the magazine, and which will correct for our generation many false notions derived in the past from insuf- ficient data. A periodical like THE CENTURY, even to the persons charged with the duty of its conduct, seems to have an identity which is almost personal. The character appa- rent in this identity may, perhaps, be spoken of by us without the charge of egotism or undue self-exploita- tion. There is something in the history and methods of the magazine which differentiates it from its able and admirable contemporaries. This is, in part, its habit of endeavoring to lead opinion in many lines of thought, rather than contenting itself with the mere record of cur- rent opinion. In many matters of religious and moral im- port,of political policy(using theword in ameaningdiffer- ent from the ordinary partizan signification), of economic device, of civic reform, of education, it has sought to pre- cede rather than to follow public opinion. It has natur ally taken an active part in various reforms, such as those of the civil service, of copyright, of forestry. It has had the frequent pleasure of speaking its mind frankly on oc- casions where such frankness was not immediately grati- fying to certain of its readers. But on the whole its readers have seemed to appreciate and commend just such frankness. In the matter of illustration THE CENTURY, as gen- erously acknowledged by its rivals, led in the revival of the art of wood-engraving. To-day it cherishes that art to a greater extent than any other of the similar publications of the country, and at the same time it fosters and attempts to improve the newer and more autographic methods. The art of steam-printing has reached in connection with it a mechanical perfection hitherto unattained. It claims also to have taken part in the birthhardly a new birth evenof the arts of architecture, sculpture, painting, and decoration in America. In the purely literary field of fiction, essay, and poe- try the magazine has particularly interested itself in the discovery and development of American authors. The literary history of America during the past twenty-five years involves to a very large extent the history of TEE CENTURY MAGAZINE. At the same time the magazine has numbered in the past and will in the future number among its contributors many of the best writers of the old world. With the founding of the magazine, was also founded what is now known as The Century Co. At the beginning the company published only the one magazine. After a short time Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge was induced to un- dertake the management of a young peoples magazine, ((St. Nicholas,)) and for years these were the only interests of the company. In later years, however, The Century Co. has taken its place among the great publishing- houses of America through its publication of notable works which have appeared in the two magazines, and by separate enterprises of the magnitude of its hymn and tune-book publications, and ((The Century Diction- ary,s as well as of a long and constantly increasing ad- ditional list of books sold by subscription or in the gen- eral trade. As to the future, all we need here say is that it seems to us rich in possibilities. Literary and artistic schemes of very deep interest are constantly opening up before us. During the next ten years there should be in America especially a revival of creative literature. If there is, or should be at any particular time, a lack of energy, or a lack of quantity or quality, in the American lit- erary output, it can be merely temporary; for our con- dition is full of social, political, and industrial prob- lems; life in the new world is replete with strenuous exertion of every kind, of picturesque contrasts, and of innumerable themes fit to inspire literary art. Am- 155 The Centurys Quarter of a Century.

Editorial Editorial "The Century's" Quarter of a Century 155-156

THIS number of THE CENTURY marks the twenty- fifth anniversary of the magazine. The date may be supposed to have interest to others than those whose life work has been performed in connection with this periodical. The interest may, furthermore, be presumed to extend beyond the circle of those original readers of the magazine who are still living, to the larger and world- wide circle of its present readers and friends. It is not our intention to present here a history of the periodical, but to refer rather to its character and aims and to some of its accomplishments. The magazine from the beginning has felt the impulse and molding of its founders. Dr. Holland, Roswell Smith, and the firm of which Charles Scribner, Sr., was the head, were men not satisfied in taking up an enterprise like this merely to follow in the footsteps of others; nor were they con- tent to strive for a success based purely upon ideas of business profie. The magazine at once, therefore, struck out new paths in various directions, notably in the dis- cussion of questions of public interest, and in original and more refined methods of illustration. There was, in fact, an earnest endeavor to lift the standard of popular periodical literature. At an early period large themes were selected for literary and illustrative presentation, and these were treated so as to contribute toward im- portant results of an educational, moral, and patriotic nature. It was with methods and purposes like these that such subjects have been undertaken as the Great South series; the papers on the Great West; the remarkable series of articles on the Civil War, written by leading participants in its events; the only authorized Life of Lincoln, by his private secretaries; the Californian series; Kennans ex- traordinary description of the Siberian exile system; and the Life of Napoleon, which is now appearing in the magazine, and which will correct for our generation many false notions derived in the past from insuf- ficient data. A periodical like THE CENTURY, even to the persons charged with the duty of its conduct, seems to have an identity which is almost personal. The character appa- rent in this identity may, perhaps, be spoken of by us without the charge of egotism or undue self-exploita- tion. There is something in the history and methods of the magazine which differentiates it from its able and admirable contemporaries. This is, in part, its habit of endeavoring to lead opinion in many lines of thought, rather than contenting itself with the mere record of cur- rent opinion. In many matters of religious and moral im- port,of political policy(using theword in ameaningdiffer- ent from the ordinary partizan signification), of economic device, of civic reform, of education, it has sought to pre- cede rather than to follow public opinion. It has natur ally taken an active part in various reforms, such as those of the civil service, of copyright, of forestry. It has had the frequent pleasure of speaking its mind frankly on oc- casions where such frankness was not immediately grati- fying to certain of its readers. But on the whole its readers have seemed to appreciate and commend just such frankness. In the matter of illustration THE CENTURY, as gen- erously acknowledged by its rivals, led in the revival of the art of wood-engraving. To-day it cherishes that art to a greater extent than any other of the similar publications of the country, and at the same time it fosters and attempts to improve the newer and more autographic methods. The art of steam-printing has reached in connection with it a mechanical perfection hitherto unattained. It claims also to have taken part in the birthhardly a new birth evenof the arts of architecture, sculpture, painting, and decoration in America. In the purely literary field of fiction, essay, and poe- try the magazine has particularly interested itself in the discovery and development of American authors. The literary history of America during the past twenty-five years involves to a very large extent the history of TEE CENTURY MAGAZINE. At the same time the magazine has numbered in the past and will in the future number among its contributors many of the best writers of the old world. With the founding of the magazine, was also founded what is now known as The Century Co. At the beginning the company published only the one magazine. After a short time Mrs. Mary Mapes Dodge was induced to un- dertake the management of a young peoples magazine, ((St. Nicholas,)) and for years these were the only interests of the company. In later years, however, The Century Co. has taken its place among the great publishing- houses of America through its publication of notable works which have appeared in the two magazines, and by separate enterprises of the magnitude of its hymn and tune-book publications, and ((The Century Diction- ary,s as well as of a long and constantly increasing ad- ditional list of books sold by subscription or in the gen- eral trade. As to the future, all we need here say is that it seems to us rich in possibilities. Literary and artistic schemes of very deep interest are constantly opening up before us. During the next ten years there should be in America especially a revival of creative literature. If there is, or should be at any particular time, a lack of energy, or a lack of quantity or quality, in the American lit- erary output, it can be merely temporary; for our con- dition is full of social, political, and industrial prob- lems; life in the new world is replete with strenuous exertion of every kind, of picturesque contrasts, and of innumerable themes fit to inspire literary art. Am- 155 The Centurys Quarter of a Century. 156 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. erican life is rich in feeling and action and meaning. Moreover, there is an increasing earnestness of interest in public affairs throughout the countrya new spirit of patriotism, which has aroused old and young alike to the conviction that no country is saved)) but once, that every country must be saved continuously. It is more and more understood that, if abandoned, the machinery of government will fall into the hands of men of low and selfish methods, whose corrupt rule de- moralizes the masses and destroys liberty. Out of this new spirit, marking a crisis in our national history, comes a seriousness, and with it may come a new literary movement. At least, a literary renaissance, ar- riving in a recurrent wave, may gain something of power from this new-born national and civic patriotism. Es- pecially may this be so because along with the new en- thusiasm for city and for nation there is a deepening sense of human brotherhood, leading to the sympathetic study of social problems which pass the boundaries of nations to those of humanity itself. The Silent Protest against the Theater. WE have indicated in a previous article our convic- tion that the present debased condition of the American stage is due chiefly to the greed, ignorance, and inca- pacity of a large majority of the men who have estab- lished a virtual monopoly in the control of the theater, and, temporafily at least, have put an end to healthy competition. One of the greatest obstacles in the way of reform is the inability of those same men, for obvi- ous reasons, to discern the trend of intelligent, to say nothing of cultivated, public opinion, or to inform them- selves of the existence of the wide-spread craving for higher and better entertainment. In their councils this demand is not only not suspected, but it would scarce- ly be comprehended. For them the most obvious ob- ject-lessons seem to possess neither significance nor value. Over and over again it has been demonstrated, beyond possibility of cavil or question, that the play- going public will pay double or treble prices for the privilege of witnessing a good performance of a good play, and yet the managers fail to profit by the experi- ence, and persist in adhering to their fatuous and de- structive policy of cheap and coarse sensationalism, or nonsensical extravagance, contenting themselves with an occasional whine about the lack of patriotism on the part of Americans who fill the pockets of foreigners and treat home talent with contemptuous neglect. The sim- ple fact, of course, is that the development of native ability has been checked, if not altogether crushed, by the star and circuit system, which has made a few spec- ulators rich, and has deprived the great body of actors of nearly all opportunity for instruction or advancement. Things, indeed, have come to such a pass that if any manager should become inspired with an ambition to form an American stock company, capable of satisfac- tory all-round work, capable, that is, of giving com- petent representations of old and new comedy and poetic tragedy, as in the days of the preceding generation, he would be puzzled sorely where to look for native acting material. Just now in all the local theatrical world there is a bitter, cry of hard times. The last season ended pre maturely and in general disaster; the coming one is late in opening and not too rich in promise. What there ia to commendand it is almost wholly of foreign origin will throw into cruel relief the intellectual and dra- matic poverty of most of our theatrical exhibitions. The triumph of a few real artists may be regarded ac the outward and visible expression of the deep and con- stant protest which the intelligent part of the public upon whose support the rational theater is mainly de- pendentis making against the foulness and the fool- ishness blazoned of late before the footlights. This ia not to be confounded with the undiscriminating denun- ciations of the stage which issue now and then from the pulpit, but voices the weariness and disgust of true and ardent lovers of the theater, who regard it in its proper estate as a repository of all manner of treasures of lit- erature and art, a most charming and influential school of manners, a source of varied and delightful enter- tainment, and, withal, a potent and beneficent teacher both of morals and learning. It is no small and exclusive class of prudes, or pedants, or faddists which is revolting against the uses to which the stage is now put, but a very large proportion of the best kind of citizens ever found within the walls of a theaterscholars, clubmen, lawyers, merchants, an4 thinking men generally. They are beginning tG ab~ent themselves, not only on account of the offensivem~ss of many of the plays presented, but also on account of their general feebleness and emptiness, the vanity an& vexation of it all. They are sick of seeing the same play over and over again under different titles, of the inter- minable procession of old and tiresome types reproduced from an original which was popular three or four sea- sons back, of cheap or stale melodramatic expedients, and of the buffooneries which lost all their power of amusement long ago. They are weary of the leading men who change their coats and trousers, but not their manners, evidently thinking that the charm of their own private personality is too precious to be hidden under the disguise of an assumed character; and of the leading ladies who have but one set of airs and emotions for all emergencies. In short, they are bored inexpressibly by actors who do not act, and by plays destitute of real merit, however startling they may be as expositions of millinery or of queer social sentiment. Nobody pretends that the theater ought to be solely,. or even primarily, a vehicle for mere solid instruction. All playgoers wish to be interested, and most of them wish to be amused. But the bulk of them wish to have some legitimate excuse for their interest or their mer- riment, and resent even a successful effort to amuse them, if the subject fails to commend itself to them. upon later reflection. This winter, apparently, the local managers, unmindful of the past, intend to adhere to the policy which proved so unprofitable last season. Their main reliance seems to be upon plays which achieved a very moderate share of success in London, even when presented by actors of much higher repute than will appear in them here. For some of them foreign stars have been engaged, and their presence may stimulate public curiosity. But there will be no hope and no real prosperity for the American stage as a free and inde- pendent organization so long as it is used simply as a provincial adjunct to the London theaters. There is n~

Editorial Editorial The Silent Protest against the Theater 156-157

156 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. erican life is rich in feeling and action and meaning. Moreover, there is an increasing earnestness of interest in public affairs throughout the countrya new spirit of patriotism, which has aroused old and young alike to the conviction that no country is saved)) but once, that every country must be saved continuously. It is more and more understood that, if abandoned, the machinery of government will fall into the hands of men of low and selfish methods, whose corrupt rule de- moralizes the masses and destroys liberty. Out of this new spirit, marking a crisis in our national history, comes a seriousness, and with it may come a new literary movement. At least, a literary renaissance, ar- riving in a recurrent wave, may gain something of power from this new-born national and civic patriotism. Es- pecially may this be so because along with the new en- thusiasm for city and for nation there is a deepening sense of human brotherhood, leading to the sympathetic study of social problems which pass the boundaries of nations to those of humanity itself. The Silent Protest against the Theater. WE have indicated in a previous article our convic- tion that the present debased condition of the American stage is due chiefly to the greed, ignorance, and inca- pacity of a large majority of the men who have estab- lished a virtual monopoly in the control of the theater, and, temporafily at least, have put an end to healthy competition. One of the greatest obstacles in the way of reform is the inability of those same men, for obvi- ous reasons, to discern the trend of intelligent, to say nothing of cultivated, public opinion, or to inform them- selves of the existence of the wide-spread craving for higher and better entertainment. In their councils this demand is not only not suspected, but it would scarce- ly be comprehended. For them the most obvious ob- ject-lessons seem to possess neither significance nor value. Over and over again it has been demonstrated, beyond possibility of cavil or question, that the play- going public will pay double or treble prices for the privilege of witnessing a good performance of a good play, and yet the managers fail to profit by the experi- ence, and persist in adhering to their fatuous and de- structive policy of cheap and coarse sensationalism, or nonsensical extravagance, contenting themselves with an occasional whine about the lack of patriotism on the part of Americans who fill the pockets of foreigners and treat home talent with contemptuous neglect. The sim- ple fact, of course, is that the development of native ability has been checked, if not altogether crushed, by the star and circuit system, which has made a few spec- ulators rich, and has deprived the great body of actors of nearly all opportunity for instruction or advancement. Things, indeed, have come to such a pass that if any manager should become inspired with an ambition to form an American stock company, capable of satisfac- tory all-round work, capable, that is, of giving com- petent representations of old and new comedy and poetic tragedy, as in the days of the preceding generation, he would be puzzled sorely where to look for native acting material. Just now in all the local theatrical world there is a bitter, cry of hard times. The last season ended pre maturely and in general disaster; the coming one is late in opening and not too rich in promise. What there ia to commendand it is almost wholly of foreign origin will throw into cruel relief the intellectual and dra- matic poverty of most of our theatrical exhibitions. The triumph of a few real artists may be regarded ac the outward and visible expression of the deep and con- stant protest which the intelligent part of the public upon whose support the rational theater is mainly de- pendentis making against the foulness and the fool- ishness blazoned of late before the footlights. This ia not to be confounded with the undiscriminating denun- ciations of the stage which issue now and then from the pulpit, but voices the weariness and disgust of true and ardent lovers of the theater, who regard it in its proper estate as a repository of all manner of treasures of lit- erature and art, a most charming and influential school of manners, a source of varied and delightful enter- tainment, and, withal, a potent and beneficent teacher both of morals and learning. It is no small and exclusive class of prudes, or pedants, or faddists which is revolting against the uses to which the stage is now put, but a very large proportion of the best kind of citizens ever found within the walls of a theaterscholars, clubmen, lawyers, merchants, an4 thinking men generally. They are beginning tG ab~ent themselves, not only on account of the offensivem~ss of many of the plays presented, but also on account of their general feebleness and emptiness, the vanity an& vexation of it all. They are sick of seeing the same play over and over again under different titles, of the inter- minable procession of old and tiresome types reproduced from an original which was popular three or four sea- sons back, of cheap or stale melodramatic expedients, and of the buffooneries which lost all their power of amusement long ago. They are weary of the leading men who change their coats and trousers, but not their manners, evidently thinking that the charm of their own private personality is too precious to be hidden under the disguise of an assumed character; and of the leading ladies who have but one set of airs and emotions for all emergencies. In short, they are bored inexpressibly by actors who do not act, and by plays destitute of real merit, however startling they may be as expositions of millinery or of queer social sentiment. Nobody pretends that the theater ought to be solely,. or even primarily, a vehicle for mere solid instruction. All playgoers wish to be interested, and most of them wish to be amused. But the bulk of them wish to have some legitimate excuse for their interest or their mer- riment, and resent even a successful effort to amuse them, if the subject fails to commend itself to them. upon later reflection. This winter, apparently, the local managers, unmindful of the past, intend to adhere to the policy which proved so unprofitable last season. Their main reliance seems to be upon plays which achieved a very moderate share of success in London, even when presented by actors of much higher repute than will appear in them here. For some of them foreign stars have been engaged, and their presence may stimulate public curiosity. But there will be no hope and no real prosperity for the American stage as a free and inde- pendent organization so long as it is used simply as a provincial adjunct to the London theaters. There is n~ TOPICS OF THE TIME. 15T good reason why Americans should be expected to ex- hibit special and perpetual interest in plays dealing with the social conditions, types, and humor peculiar to an- other, even though it he the mother, country. What they nave a right to look for, and what they are beginning to look for, in their theaters is capable representation of the masterpieces of English dramatic literature, of plays by native authors treating of timely topics and national characteristics, and of pieces of general, ro- mantic, or historic interest. There is a virtually illimit- able field to be worked by playwrights, and, with a little wise managerial encouragement, plenty of writers would be found willing and able to work it. Such American plays as have been produced, even those of inferior quality, have been received with unmistakable favor, and have brought large profit to everybody concerned. Let the American theater be devoted first to American interests, and it will not be long before the race of American actors will be revived, or before the institu- tion will regain the public favor which has been diverted from it. If it continues on its present course it will lose its hold upon the educated classes altogether, and will sink gradually to the level of the music-halls which it has been imitating. A Good Year to Fight the Bosses. IT is safe to s~y that fewer voters by many thousands will be influenced by extreme partizan considerations in deciding their course at the polls this month than at any previous election since the war. During the past few years, party ties have been relaxing steadily, chiefly because of the lapsing or settlement of issues which appealed to partizanship. With the passing of these issues there has grown up a desire for good government which is really creating throughout the land a third party, composed of the non-partizans of the two great political parties. The members of this third party, al- though they have not united except on unusual emer- gencies and for temporary purposes, are really in com- plete sympathy with each other. Half of them continue to call themselves Republicans and the other half con- tinue to call themselves Democrats, but both are dis- satisfied with boss leadership and with the low level of political morality which it enforces upon party action. It is mainly the party boss who is responsible for this state of mind. Respectable men in both great parties are so weary of bosses and boss methods, so ashamed of having to follow the lead of such men and to make choice between the candidates whom they put forward for office, that they come naturally together on the issue of good government. It seems to us that the elections of this year afford these dissatisfied voters an exceptionally good opportunity to weaken, if not to destroy, the dominion which the bosses exercise over them. There are no great issues at stake. No Con- gress is to be chosen, and in nearly all the States which hold elections the issues are mainly local. The bosses will appeal for support on the ground that the result of the elections this year will have an important moral effect upon the national contest of next year; but this familiar method of arousing partizan feeling is not likely to meet with much success. The appeal ought to be met in a quite different manner from that which the bosses desire. Let the voters who are dissatisfied with their party management reply, ((Yes, we agree with you. This year s elections will have a great moral effect upon the campaign of next year. We intend that they shall~ and we mean to decide the character of that moral effect. We mean to make it clear that the party which makes nominations most clearly in the interest of good government next year will stand the best chance of success.)) How can this be done? Simply by voting against the bosses without regard to their party affiliations. Let the great body of independent-minded voters combine every. where to defeat the candidates who are put forward by the bosses. If there are two of them to choose between, vote against the more objectionable. Let the lesson be enforced everywhere that extreme boss dictation is cer- tain of defeat at the polls, and the bosses will be made so meek that their part in the nominations of next year will be a minor one. It should be borne in mind that public opinion is far more powerful in national than in State nominations~ We pointed out this fact in a recent article on the timidity of presidential aspirants. No matter how sys- tematically and astutely a boss may lay his plans for controlling a national convention, if public opinion runs strongly counter to his candidate he is certain to faiL The delegates know that in a campaign which includes the whole American people something more potent than mere party machinery is necessary to insure victory~ This is certain to be true in a larger sense of the cam- paign of next year than of almost any of its predeces- sors. The great questions of that campaign are easily discernible now. They are to be the inflexible preser- vation of the public credit as the very foundation of national prosperity, sound money, and good govern- ment. The voters in both parties who desire the triumph of these issues next year can exert a power- ful influence upon the selection of the next presiden- tial nominees by showing that the more a boss has t~ do with the choice of a candidate the worse will it be for the candidate. Then, too, by defeating boss candidates for legislative and other offices this year great service will be done directly to the cause of good government. It is a safe rule to follow always, that a boss candidate for the legislature cannot be a useful public servant. He goes to the legislature, if elected, not as a free man, or as the representative of his constituents, but as the agent of his boss, and the boss is always against good goverrv- ment, because under such rule he could not exist.

Editorial Editorial A Good Year to Fight the Bosses 157-158

TOPICS OF THE TIME. 15T good reason why Americans should be expected to ex- hibit special and perpetual interest in plays dealing with the social conditions, types, and humor peculiar to an- other, even though it he the mother, country. What they nave a right to look for, and what they are beginning to look for, in their theaters is capable representation of the masterpieces of English dramatic literature, of plays by native authors treating of timely topics and national characteristics, and of pieces of general, ro- mantic, or historic interest. There is a virtually illimit- able field to be worked by playwrights, and, with a little wise managerial encouragement, plenty of writers would be found willing and able to work it. Such American plays as have been produced, even those of inferior quality, have been received with unmistakable favor, and have brought large profit to everybody concerned. Let the American theater be devoted first to American interests, and it will not be long before the race of American actors will be revived, or before the institu- tion will regain the public favor which has been diverted from it. If it continues on its present course it will lose its hold upon the educated classes altogether, and will sink gradually to the level of the music-halls which it has been imitating. A Good Year to Fight the Bosses. IT is safe to s~y that fewer voters by many thousands will be influenced by extreme partizan considerations in deciding their course at the polls this month than at any previous election since the war. During the past few years, party ties have been relaxing steadily, chiefly because of the lapsing or settlement of issues which appealed to partizanship. With the passing of these issues there has grown up a desire for good government which is really creating throughout the land a third party, composed of the non-partizans of the two great political parties. The members of this third party, al- though they have not united except on unusual emer- gencies and for temporary purposes, are really in com- plete sympathy with each other. Half of them continue to call themselves Republicans and the other half con- tinue to call themselves Democrats, but both are dis- satisfied with boss leadership and with the low level of political morality which it enforces upon party action. It is mainly the party boss who is responsible for this state of mind. Respectable men in both great parties are so weary of bosses and boss methods, so ashamed of having to follow the lead of such men and to make choice between the candidates whom they put forward for office, that they come naturally together on the issue of good government. It seems to us that the elections of this year afford these dissatisfied voters an exceptionally good opportunity to weaken, if not to destroy, the dominion which the bosses exercise over them. There are no great issues at stake. No Con- gress is to be chosen, and in nearly all the States which hold elections the issues are mainly local. The bosses will appeal for support on the ground that the result of the elections this year will have an important moral effect upon the national contest of next year; but this familiar method of arousing partizan feeling is not likely to meet with much success. The appeal ought to be met in a quite different manner from that which the bosses desire. Let the voters who are dissatisfied with their party management reply, ((Yes, we agree with you. This year s elections will have a great moral effect upon the campaign of next year. We intend that they shall~ and we mean to decide the character of that moral effect. We mean to make it clear that the party which makes nominations most clearly in the interest of good government next year will stand the best chance of success.)) How can this be done? Simply by voting against the bosses without regard to their party affiliations. Let the great body of independent-minded voters combine every. where to defeat the candidates who are put forward by the bosses. If there are two of them to choose between, vote against the more objectionable. Let the lesson be enforced everywhere that extreme boss dictation is cer- tain of defeat at the polls, and the bosses will be made so meek that their part in the nominations of next year will be a minor one. It should be borne in mind that public opinion is far more powerful in national than in State nominations~ We pointed out this fact in a recent article on the timidity of presidential aspirants. No matter how sys- tematically and astutely a boss may lay his plans for controlling a national convention, if public opinion runs strongly counter to his candidate he is certain to faiL The delegates know that in a campaign which includes the whole American people something more potent than mere party machinery is necessary to insure victory~ This is certain to be true in a larger sense of the cam- paign of next year than of almost any of its predeces- sors. The great questions of that campaign are easily discernible now. They are to be the inflexible preser- vation of the public credit as the very foundation of national prosperity, sound money, and good govern- ment. The voters in both parties who desire the triumph of these issues next year can exert a power- ful influence upon the selection of the next presiden- tial nominees by showing that the more a boss has t~ do with the choice of a candidate the worse will it be for the candidate. Then, too, by defeating boss candidates for legislative and other offices this year great service will be done directly to the cause of good government. It is a safe rule to follow always, that a boss candidate for the legislature cannot be a useful public servant. He goes to the legislature, if elected, not as a free man, or as the representative of his constituents, but as the agent of his boss, and the boss is always against good goverrv- ment, because under such rule he could not exist. [LONG before Mr. Gladstones remarkable address at Chester, last summer, Americans, acting upon infor- mation received from their own missionaries and from Armenians resident in the United States, and from other sources as well, showed a practical and earnest interest in the cause of the sufferersan interest cordially ac- knowledged by Mr. Gladstone in his address. For the further authoritative information of the American pub- lic, two contributions on the subject are given in this number of THE CENTuaY~one from the pen of the distinguished author and Liberal statesman, Mr. James Bryce; and the other a note from the eminent Conser- vative and well-known philanthropist, the Duke of West- minster.] GRosvENoa HousE, LONDON. Sm: I write a few lines, in deference to your ex- pressed wisl~ in order to invoke the sympathy of the great Republic with the suffering Armenian Christians, now in dire distress in consequence of the inhuman treatment the survivors of the Sassoun massacres have received, and are receiving, at the hands of the Turkish government. The founder of the Anglo-Armenian Association here in England, Mr. Bryce, is, I understand, writing the case of the sufferers for your review. It is the cause of humanity, ~~pure and simple,)) which now confronts the nations of the West. As presiding over a committee in London formed for the purpose of assisting our poor Armenian friends, I venture, therefore, to add one line to ask all who have a heart to feel for those innocent and defenseless thou- sands, whose only fault it is that they are Christians, to join with us in England in bringing all the pressure that can be brought to bear upon the Turkish government in order that there may be found some hope for them, some guarantee for their lives, their faith, their property, and for the honor of their women, for all of which there is absolutely none at this time at which I write. The Turkish government is bound by treaties with the Powers to this effect, but has for forty years ignored all their provisions. America is by comparison only remotely interested in the Eastern questions, but she has sent missionaries to these unhappy countries, and it is through their assistance mainly that the contributions raised here are distributed therea work which, owing to the difficulties of communication and to the remoteness of the provinces affected, is one of very great difficulty. All the facts connected with the horrors of the mis- doings of the Porte have not yet been revealed, but enough has transpired, on authority which cannot be disputed, to combine all the civilized governments of the world in raising one loud, powerful, and indignant protest against a continuance of these iniquities, and in declaring that not only shall they never be repeated, but that guarantees must be given by the Sultan for some measure of adequate reform in the afflicted prov- inces subject to his sway. I remain, sir, yours obedi- ently, TVestm jester. Titians So-called Sacred and Profane Love.1 IT is said that this famous picture came to be known by its present title many years after it was painted that it was not so named by Titian. The picture is now to be seen in the Villa Borghese, where it is better placed and lighted than it was in its former position in the gallery of the Borghese palace. The figures are life- size, and the picture is in width something more than double its heightsay eleven feet wide by nearly five feet high. It is composed of two female figures, one nude and the other heavily draped, seated on either side of a fountain which is in shape like an ancient Greek sculptured sarcophagus, while a Cupid behind the foun- tain plunges his arm into the water, as though playing with fish. The background on each side is a charm- ing landscape, while toward the center and behind the Cupid rises a thick mass of foliage, very rich and deep in color. The coloring of the whole is simple and effec- tive, and is easily taken in at a glance. From the nude figurewhich is seated upon the edge of the fountain in a buoyant attitude, reclining upon one arm, while the other holds aloft a smoking brazierfalls a mass of drapery of a rich red tone. The drapery of the other figure is one simple tone of gray, relieved only by the sleeve of the arm reclining in the lap, which is red, and of a similar tone to that of the red drapery of the other figure. The fountain is gray also. These simple tints, with the golden coloring of the flesh, are relieved against a background of rich, deep brownish tones. The composition of the picture is equally agree able and impressive: while the nude figure reclines on the edge of the fountain in a light, free, and agile pos- ture, the draped figure is seated more sedately and rest- fully, and upon a step below the fountain, thus breaking what might otherwise be too great a symmetry of pose between the two. The nude figure is delightful in its proportions. It is neither heroic nor ascetic nor volup- tuous in feeling, but purely natural in its development entirely beautiful, and one of Titians most charming creations. The draped figure is statuesque in pose and emblematic in feeling. The grand and ample folds of her heavy drapery, and the gloved hands, together with a certain turning away of the head from the ardent gaze of her free companion, seem to suggest a severity and chastity that no doubt give the reason for the present title of the picture. T. Cole. See Frontispiece. 158 The Armenian Sufferers. A NOTE FROM THE DUKE OF WESTMINSTER.

The Duke of Westminster Westminster, The Duke of The Armenian Question 158

[LONG before Mr. Gladstones remarkable address at Chester, last summer, Americans, acting upon infor- mation received from their own missionaries and from Armenians resident in the United States, and from other sources as well, showed a practical and earnest interest in the cause of the sufferersan interest cordially ac- knowledged by Mr. Gladstone in his address. For the further authoritative information of the American pub- lic, two contributions on the subject are given in this number of THE CENTuaY~one from the pen of the distinguished author and Liberal statesman, Mr. James Bryce; and the other a note from the eminent Conser- vative and well-known philanthropist, the Duke of West- minster.] GRosvENoa HousE, LONDON. Sm: I write a few lines, in deference to your ex- pressed wisl~ in order to invoke the sympathy of the great Republic with the suffering Armenian Christians, now in dire distress in consequence of the inhuman treatment the survivors of the Sassoun massacres have received, and are receiving, at the hands of the Turkish government. The founder of the Anglo-Armenian Association here in England, Mr. Bryce, is, I understand, writing the case of the sufferers for your review. It is the cause of humanity, ~~pure and simple,)) which now confronts the nations of the West. As presiding over a committee in London formed for the purpose of assisting our poor Armenian friends, I venture, therefore, to add one line to ask all who have a heart to feel for those innocent and defenseless thou- sands, whose only fault it is that they are Christians, to join with us in England in bringing all the pressure that can be brought to bear upon the Turkish government in order that there may be found some hope for them, some guarantee for their lives, their faith, their property, and for the honor of their women, for all of which there is absolutely none at this time at which I write. The Turkish government is bound by treaties with the Powers to this effect, but has for forty years ignored all their provisions. America is by comparison only remotely interested in the Eastern questions, but she has sent missionaries to these unhappy countries, and it is through their assistance mainly that the contributions raised here are distributed therea work which, owing to the difficulties of communication and to the remoteness of the provinces affected, is one of very great difficulty. All the facts connected with the horrors of the mis- doings of the Porte have not yet been revealed, but enough has transpired, on authority which cannot be disputed, to combine all the civilized governments of the world in raising one loud, powerful, and indignant protest against a continuance of these iniquities, and in declaring that not only shall they never be repeated, but that guarantees must be given by the Sultan for some measure of adequate reform in the afflicted prov- inces subject to his sway. I remain, sir, yours obedi- ently, TVestm jester. Titians So-called Sacred and Profane Love.1 IT is said that this famous picture came to be known by its present title many years after it was painted that it was not so named by Titian. The picture is now to be seen in the Villa Borghese, where it is better placed and lighted than it was in its former position in the gallery of the Borghese palace. The figures are life- size, and the picture is in width something more than double its heightsay eleven feet wide by nearly five feet high. It is composed of two female figures, one nude and the other heavily draped, seated on either side of a fountain which is in shape like an ancient Greek sculptured sarcophagus, while a Cupid behind the foun- tain plunges his arm into the water, as though playing with fish. The background on each side is a charm- ing landscape, while toward the center and behind the Cupid rises a thick mass of foliage, very rich and deep in color. The coloring of the whole is simple and effec- tive, and is easily taken in at a glance. From the nude figurewhich is seated upon the edge of the fountain in a buoyant attitude, reclining upon one arm, while the other holds aloft a smoking brazierfalls a mass of drapery of a rich red tone. The drapery of the other figure is one simple tone of gray, relieved only by the sleeve of the arm reclining in the lap, which is red, and of a similar tone to that of the red drapery of the other figure. The fountain is gray also. These simple tints, with the golden coloring of the flesh, are relieved against a background of rich, deep brownish tones. The composition of the picture is equally agree able and impressive: while the nude figure reclines on the edge of the fountain in a light, free, and agile pos- ture, the draped figure is seated more sedately and rest- fully, and upon a step below the fountain, thus breaking what might otherwise be too great a symmetry of pose between the two. The nude figure is delightful in its proportions. It is neither heroic nor ascetic nor volup- tuous in feeling, but purely natural in its development entirely beautiful, and one of Titians most charming creations. The draped figure is statuesque in pose and emblematic in feeling. The grand and ample folds of her heavy drapery, and the gloved hands, together with a certain turning away of the head from the ardent gaze of her free companion, seem to suggest a severity and chastity that no doubt give the reason for the present title of the picture. T. Cole. See Frontispiece. 158 The Armenian Sufferers. A NOTE FROM THE DUKE OF WESTMINSTER.

Timothy Cole Cole, Timothy Titian's So-Called "Sacred and Profane Love" 158-159

[LONG before Mr. Gladstones remarkable address at Chester, last summer, Americans, acting upon infor- mation received from their own missionaries and from Armenians resident in the United States, and from other sources as well, showed a practical and earnest interest in the cause of the sufferersan interest cordially ac- knowledged by Mr. Gladstone in his address. For the further authoritative information of the American pub- lic, two contributions on the subject are given in this number of THE CENTuaY~one from the pen of the distinguished author and Liberal statesman, Mr. James Bryce; and the other a note from the eminent Conser- vative and well-known philanthropist, the Duke of West- minster.] GRosvENoa HousE, LONDON. Sm: I write a few lines, in deference to your ex- pressed wisl~ in order to invoke the sympathy of the great Republic with the suffering Armenian Christians, now in dire distress in consequence of the inhuman treatment the survivors of the Sassoun massacres have received, and are receiving, at the hands of the Turkish government. The founder of the Anglo-Armenian Association here in England, Mr. Bryce, is, I understand, writing the case of the sufferers for your review. It is the cause of humanity, ~~pure and simple,)) which now confronts the nations of the West. As presiding over a committee in London formed for the purpose of assisting our poor Armenian friends, I venture, therefore, to add one line to ask all who have a heart to feel for those innocent and defenseless thou- sands, whose only fault it is that they are Christians, to join with us in England in bringing all the pressure that can be brought to bear upon the Turkish government in order that there may be found some hope for them, some guarantee for their lives, their faith, their property, and for the honor of their women, for all of which there is absolutely none at this time at which I write. The Turkish government is bound by treaties with the Powers to this effect, but has for forty years ignored all their provisions. America is by comparison only remotely interested in the Eastern questions, but she has sent missionaries to these unhappy countries, and it is through their assistance mainly that the contributions raised here are distributed therea work which, owing to the difficulties of communication and to the remoteness of the provinces affected, is one of very great difficulty. All the facts connected with the horrors of the mis- doings of the Porte have not yet been revealed, but enough has transpired, on authority which cannot be disputed, to combine all the civilized governments of the world in raising one loud, powerful, and indignant protest against a continuance of these iniquities, and in declaring that not only shall they never be repeated, but that guarantees must be given by the Sultan for some measure of adequate reform in the afflicted prov- inces subject to his sway. I remain, sir, yours obedi- ently, TVestm jester. Titians So-called Sacred and Profane Love.1 IT is said that this famous picture came to be known by its present title many years after it was painted that it was not so named by Titian. The picture is now to be seen in the Villa Borghese, where it is better placed and lighted than it was in its former position in the gallery of the Borghese palace. The figures are life- size, and the picture is in width something more than double its heightsay eleven feet wide by nearly five feet high. It is composed of two female figures, one nude and the other heavily draped, seated on either side of a fountain which is in shape like an ancient Greek sculptured sarcophagus, while a Cupid behind the foun- tain plunges his arm into the water, as though playing with fish. The background on each side is a charm- ing landscape, while toward the center and behind the Cupid rises a thick mass of foliage, very rich and deep in color. The coloring of the whole is simple and effec- tive, and is easily taken in at a glance. From the nude figurewhich is seated upon the edge of the fountain in a buoyant attitude, reclining upon one arm, while the other holds aloft a smoking brazierfalls a mass of drapery of a rich red tone. The drapery of the other figure is one simple tone of gray, relieved only by the sleeve of the arm reclining in the lap, which is red, and of a similar tone to that of the red drapery of the other figure. The fountain is gray also. These simple tints, with the golden coloring of the flesh, are relieved against a background of rich, deep brownish tones. The composition of the picture is equally agree able and impressive: while the nude figure reclines on the edge of the fountain in a light, free, and agile pos- ture, the draped figure is seated more sedately and rest- fully, and upon a step below the fountain, thus breaking what might otherwise be too great a symmetry of pose between the two. The nude figure is delightful in its proportions. It is neither heroic nor ascetic nor volup- tuous in feeling, but purely natural in its development entirely beautiful, and one of Titians most charming creations. The draped figure is statuesque in pose and emblematic in feeling. The grand and ample folds of her heavy drapery, and the gloved hands, together with a certain turning away of the head from the ardent gaze of her free companion, seem to suggest a severity and chastity that no doubt give the reason for the present title of the picture. T. Cole. See Frontispiece. 158 The Armenian Sufferers. A NOTE FROM THE DUKE OF WESTMINSTER. His Dancin Days. WHAT is it in old fiddle-tunes at makes me ketch my breath, And ripples up my back-bone tell I m tickled most to death? Kind o like that sweet-sick feelin in the long sweep of a swing Yer first sweetheart in with ye, sailin upards, wing to wing; Yer first picnic, yer first ice-cream, yer first of every- thing At happened fore yer dancin-days wuz over! I never understood itand I spose I never can, But right in town here, yisterdy, I heard a pore blind man A-fiddlin old 5 Gray Eagle.sJerked my lines and stopped my load 0 hay and listened at himyes, and watched the way he ((bowd)) And back I went, plum forty year, with boys and girls I knowed And loved, long fore my dancin-days wuz over. At high noon in yer citywith yer blame magnetic cars A-hummin and a-skreechin past, and bands and G.A.R.s A-marchin, and fire-inginsall the noise the whole street through Wuz lost on meI only heard a whipperwill er two, It peared like, kind o callin crost the darkness and the dew, Them nights afore my dancin-days wuz over! 15Q /7/ DRAWN BY E. W. KEMBLE. STOPPED MY LOAD.

James Whitcomb Riley Riley, James Whitcomb His Dancin' Days 159-160

His Dancin Days. WHAT is it in old fiddle-tunes at makes me ketch my breath, And ripples up my back-bone tell I m tickled most to death? Kind o like that sweet-sick feelin in the long sweep of a swing Yer first sweetheart in with ye, sailin upards, wing to wing; Yer first picnic, yer first ice-cream, yer first of every- thing At happened fore yer dancin-days wuz over! I never understood itand I spose I never can, But right in town here, yisterdy, I heard a pore blind man A-fiddlin old 5 Gray Eagle.sJerked my lines and stopped my load 0 hay and listened at himyes, and watched the way he ((bowd)) And back I went, plum forty year, with boys and girls I knowed And loved, long fore my dancin-days wuz over. At high noon in yer citywith yer blame magnetic cars A-hummin and a-skreechin past, and bands and G.A.R.s A-marchin, and fire-inginsall the noise the whole street through Wuz lost on meI only heard a whipperwill er two, It peared like, kind o callin crost the darkness and the dew, Them nights afore my dancin-days wuz over! 15Q /7/ DRAWN BY E. W. KEMBLE. STOPPED MY LOAD. 160 THE CENTURY T uz Chusedy night at Wetherells, er Wensdy night at Strawns, Er Fourth o July night at either Tompss house er Johns! With old Lew Church from Sugar Crick and that old fiddle he Bad ((sawed,)) clean through the army, from Atlanty to the sea And yit he d fetched her home agin, so s he could play fer me Onct more, afore my dancin-days wuz over! The woods at s all ben cut away seemed growin same as then; The youngsters all wuz boys agin at s now all oldish men; And all the girls at then wuz girlsI saw em, one and all, As jilain as thenthe middle-sized, the short-and-fat, and tall. And, peared like, I danced ~Tucker)) fer em up and down the wall, As peert as fore my dancin-days wuz over. The facts is, I wuz dazed so at I clean fergot jes where I railly wuza-blockin streets, and still a-standin there! I heard the po-leece yellin, but my ears wuz kind o blurred, My eyrs, too, fer the odds o that,bekase I thought I heard My wife at s dead a-laughin like and jokin, word fer word, Jes like afore her dancin days wuz over. James Whiteomb Riley. The Queen of Hearts. (AN EVERY-DAY EPIC.) THERE was a Hearta red, red Heart Dwelt in a castle lone; Her pennons shone on every part, From keep to turret-stone, Grim warders paced along the wall To let the huge portcullis fall. Two knights came pricking oer the plain, With shields in sun aglance, Two knights without a spot or stain On sword or polished lance. They spurred the oaken outposts through, And loud the challenge blast they blew. One knight, he bore a lance of steel, And one, a lance of gold; The one was bight Sir Trusty Leal, And one, Sir Cheek the Bold. Each seized his horn-such blast he blew Might rive the brazen gate in two. A moment and the fearful sound Rolled upward to the blue; MAGAZINE. It smote the sky, it smote the ground, It shook the castle through. The Queen was dining in the hall; She let her silver trencher fall. She looked aghast, all blanched and pale, On every minion there Was it a note of bliss or bale, Of triumph or despair? All shuddered at the dreadful peal, And crossed themselves for woe or weal. Then hied the Queen her knights in quest, To ward the threatened blow. She knew the foe with lance in rest Might lay her turrets low. Her battlements she viewed with pride, But could they such a joust deride? Her warriors stepped in heavy mail, With hauberk and with glaive. Who should their haughty Queen assail Must find a bloody grave. She locked herself where none might spy, And hung the golden key on high. To paint the fray would sadly mock All cunning of the pen; Who can describe the battle shock, The rush, the cry of men? The sun went down, but still they fought By sparks from cloven helmets wrought. Sat quaking in her cell the Queen; Sir Trusty hurled his lance, For through a casement he had seen The glitter of her glance. His spear-head smote the granite wall, Shiveredin bits was seen to fall. Sir Cheek the Bold quickly advanced, Quickly the Queen withdrew; But as his mailM charger pranced His golden lance he threw. It pierced the wall,the fatal dart, But bounded from my lady Heart. He crossed himselfwhat fiend was near, His stalwart strength to mock? What coat of mail, what shield, had eer Withstood his lances shock? Of cause there could be one alone: The Heart that dulled his dart wasstone. Two doleful knights pricked home that day, With looks upon the ground; They pondered all their weary way, As wights who were astound. But of their thoughtsgood lack, enow! Ye ken the Queen yourselves, I trow. W. C. Richardson. THE DE VINNE PEESS, NEW YORK.

W. C. Richardson Richardson, W. C. The Queen of Hearts 160

160 THE CENTURY T uz Chusedy night at Wetherells, er Wensdy night at Strawns, Er Fourth o July night at either Tompss house er Johns! With old Lew Church from Sugar Crick and that old fiddle he Bad ((sawed,)) clean through the army, from Atlanty to the sea And yit he d fetched her home agin, so s he could play fer me Onct more, afore my dancin-days wuz over! The woods at s all ben cut away seemed growin same as then; The youngsters all wuz boys agin at s now all oldish men; And all the girls at then wuz girlsI saw em, one and all, As jilain as thenthe middle-sized, the short-and-fat, and tall. And, peared like, I danced ~Tucker)) fer em up and down the wall, As peert as fore my dancin-days wuz over. The facts is, I wuz dazed so at I clean fergot jes where I railly wuza-blockin streets, and still a-standin there! I heard the po-leece yellin, but my ears wuz kind o blurred, My eyrs, too, fer the odds o that,bekase I thought I heard My wife at s dead a-laughin like and jokin, word fer word, Jes like afore her dancin days wuz over. James Whiteomb Riley. The Queen of Hearts. (AN EVERY-DAY EPIC.) THERE was a Hearta red, red Heart Dwelt in a castle lone; Her pennons shone on every part, From keep to turret-stone, Grim warders paced along the wall To let the huge portcullis fall. Two knights came pricking oer the plain, With shields in sun aglance, Two knights without a spot or stain On sword or polished lance. They spurred the oaken outposts through, And loud the challenge blast they blew. One knight, he bore a lance of steel, And one, a lance of gold; The one was bight Sir Trusty Leal, And one, Sir Cheek the Bold. Each seized his horn-such blast he blew Might rive the brazen gate in two. A moment and the fearful sound Rolled upward to the blue; MAGAZINE. It smote the sky, it smote the ground, It shook the castle through. The Queen was dining in the hall; She let her silver trencher fall. She looked aghast, all blanched and pale, On every minion there Was it a note of bliss or bale, Of triumph or despair? All shuddered at the dreadful peal, And crossed themselves for woe or weal. Then hied the Queen her knights in quest, To ward the threatened blow. She knew the foe with lance in rest Might lay her turrets low. Her battlements she viewed with pride, But could they such a joust deride? Her warriors stepped in heavy mail, With hauberk and with glaive. Who should their haughty Queen assail Must find a bloody grave. She locked herself where none might spy, And hung the golden key on high. To paint the fray would sadly mock All cunning of the pen; Who can describe the battle shock, The rush, the cry of men? The sun went down, but still they fought By sparks from cloven helmets wrought. Sat quaking in her cell the Queen; Sir Trusty hurled his lance, For through a casement he had seen The glitter of her glance. His spear-head smote the granite wall, Shiveredin bits was seen to fall. Sir Cheek the Bold quickly advanced, Quickly the Queen withdrew; But as his mailM charger pranced His golden lance he threw. It pierced the wall,the fatal dart, But bounded from my lady Heart. He crossed himselfwhat fiend was near, His stalwart strength to mock? What coat of mail, what shield, had eer Withstood his lances shock? Of cause there could be one alone: The Heart that dulled his dart wasstone. Two doleful knights pricked home that day, With looks upon the ground; They pondered all their weary way, As wights who were astound. But of their thoughtsgood lack, enow! Ye ken the Queen yourselves, I trow. W. C. Richardson. THE DE VINNE PEESS, NEW YORK.

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The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 51, Issue 2 Century illustrated monthly magazine Century monthly magazine Century magazine Scribner's monthly Forum Forum and century The Century Company New York Dec 1895 0051 002
The Century; a popular quarterly. / Volume 51, Issue 2, miscellaneous front pages 161

Edith Coues Coues, Edith Tissot's "Life of Christ" 162-163

Th~ PAlNTl~~ JAMaS T%S~~ I TIN TYMPLE ~OLE THE CENTURY MAGAZINE DECEMBER, 1895. No. 2. TIlE PASSION-PLAY AT VORDER-THIERSEE. WITH PICTURES BY LOUIS LOEB. A PASSION-PLAYand not at Oberam- mergau! So often has it been written that the decennial representation in the val- ley of the Ammer is a unique survival of the miracle-plays of the middle ages that to many the announcement of a passion-play in a se- questered vale among the Tyrolean Alps will come as a startling revelation. My ticket was for Kufstein, a pretty. little town and summer resort sixty-five miles from Munich, and just over the boundary line in Tyrol. Midnight was approaching before Kuf- stein was called by the conductor. I asked a porter to conduct me to a good hotel, and followed him into the darkness. My slumbers were brief, since it is a two hours walk to Thiersee, and the performance began at half- past eight. Sunday morning, though pleasant, was not perfectly clear. Groups of peasants and a few city people were strolling along, mostly to- ward the scene of the play. In an hour the summit of a ridge was gained, and beyond the brow of a little col we turned, and looked down into a beautiful valley. A white church and spire were seen on the opposite green hillside in the midst of a small cluster of houses, and in the foreground a little emerald lake quite filled the bottom of the valley, its gently slop- Copyright, 1895, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved. ing banks dotted sparsely with houses, above which, at the left, towered the massive, rocky Pentling, four thousand feet high. Over the hilltop beyond the church and theater were still higher mountains, bald and bare, save for the snow still filling the deepest seams and wrin4des of their stony faces. A signal-gun broke the stillness, announc- ing that a quarter past eight had arrived, and urging us onward. At length we overtook a crowd of visitors pressing up the lane to the theater beyond the church. The ticket-office was in the basement. Hurriedly asking for one of the best seats, which range in price from fifteen to seventy-five cents, we entered by a side door directly into the auditorium as the gun gave a final signal and the orchestra began the overture. The theater is a barn-like wooden structure of the simplest possible fashion, without clap- boards or plastering. It was erected in 1884 for the decennial performance. Like the old Greeks, the builders sensibly availed them- selves of the slope of the hill, so that the seats rise toward the back without the trouble of a scaffolding, or danger of the flimsy structure breaking down. In front there are ten rows of wooden chairs, which turn up and down like those in our theaters. The less fortunate 163 VOL. LI.

Annie S. Peck Peck, Annie S. Passion Play at Vorder-Thiersee 163-177

THE CENTURY MAGAZINE DECEMBER, 1895. No. 2. TIlE PASSION-PLAY AT VORDER-THIERSEE. WITH PICTURES BY LOUIS LOEB. A PASSION-PLAYand not at Oberam- mergau! So often has it been written that the decennial representation in the val- ley of the Ammer is a unique survival of the miracle-plays of the middle ages that to many the announcement of a passion-play in a se- questered vale among the Tyrolean Alps will come as a startling revelation. My ticket was for Kufstein, a pretty. little town and summer resort sixty-five miles from Munich, and just over the boundary line in Tyrol. Midnight was approaching before Kuf- stein was called by the conductor. I asked a porter to conduct me to a good hotel, and followed him into the darkness. My slumbers were brief, since it is a two hours walk to Thiersee, and the performance began at half- past eight. Sunday morning, though pleasant, was not perfectly clear. Groups of peasants and a few city people were strolling along, mostly to- ward the scene of the play. In an hour the summit of a ridge was gained, and beyond the brow of a little col we turned, and looked down into a beautiful valley. A white church and spire were seen on the opposite green hillside in the midst of a small cluster of houses, and in the foreground a little emerald lake quite filled the bottom of the valley, its gently slop- Copyright, 1895, by THE CENTURY Co. All rights reserved. ing banks dotted sparsely with houses, above which, at the left, towered the massive, rocky Pentling, four thousand feet high. Over the hilltop beyond the church and theater were still higher mountains, bald and bare, save for the snow still filling the deepest seams and wrin4des of their stony faces. A signal-gun broke the stillness, announc- ing that a quarter past eight had arrived, and urging us onward. At length we overtook a crowd of visitors pressing up the lane to the theater beyond the church. The ticket-office was in the basement. Hurriedly asking for one of the best seats, which range in price from fifteen to seventy-five cents, we entered by a side door directly into the auditorium as the gun gave a final signal and the orchestra began the overture. The theater is a barn-like wooden structure of the simplest possible fashion, without clap- boards or plastering. It was erected in 1884 for the decennial performance. Like the old Greeks, the builders sensibly availed them- selves of the slope of the hill, so that the seats rise toward the back without the trouble of a scaffolding, or danger of the flimsy structure breaking down. In front there are ten rows of wooden chairs, which turn up and down like those in our theaters. The less fortunate 163 VOL. LI. 164 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. or more economical who sit farther back are provided only with plain wooden benches, extremely narrow and very close together. Of these there are several sections, reached by different doorways, and many of the peo- ple come early to get the front seats in their section. This part of the house is best filled. A sea of black heads fades away into the darkness, but in front vacant places may be discerned. The stage is fairly lighted by a row of kerosene lamps, and perhaps through the side scenes some rays may fall. A few lamps also assist the orchestra. Otherwise the house is left in darkness, save for the knot-holes and crevices in the walls, through which the light glimmers, lessening in a small degree the otherwise total obscurity of the audience. An account of the play at Thiersee must necessarily resemble the descriptions of the representation at Oberammergau. It must not, however, be imagined that the good peo- ple of Thiersee, hearing of the multitudes that every decade flock to that more noted village, have been tempted to establish a ri- val attracj~ion, in the hope that their village, also, may become famous. So far from this being the case, it is a well-established fact that long before Oberammergau had been introduced to the world by the artist Edward Devrient, who chanced upon the scene in 1850, this play had been performed atVorder- Thiersee, though it did not originate at this spot. The earliest text of the play dates from the latter part of the seventeenth century; but at that time it was presented, by a rather curious coincidence, at a place called Oberan- dorf, which must not be confused with Ober- an, the station where one leaves the rail- road to visit Oberammergau. This Oberandorf is a village on the railroad between Munich and Kufstein, only a few miles distant from Thier- see,.though over the boundary line in Bavaria. Here, as in other mountain villages, the me- dieval custom of performing miracle-plays had lingered, and here the passion-play was presented until, having been repeatedly pro- hibited by the Bavarian authorities both tem- poral and spiritual, it was finally discontinued near the close of the eighteenth century, Oberammergau, as is well known, being the only community in Bavaria to secure exemp- tion from the general edict. The story of the transfer of this drama from its original home to Thiersee, though somewhat similar to, is less romantic than, that of Oberammergau. Here the cattle, and not the people, were being de- cimated by a plague which occurred as late as 1800 during one of those enforced pauses at Oberandorf. The good people of Thiersee, fear- ing the total destruction of their herds, vowed that if the remainder should be spared they would take up the performance of the passion- play, which their neighbors over the border had been compelled to disconhnue. The plague was stayed. The text of the play, with the right to exhibit it, was purchased, and in 1802, with the help of advice and instruction from the former director at Oberandorf, the first performance at Vorder-Thiersee was given. For a while it was repeated every year; then at longer intervals, until finally, beginning with 1855, it has been performed every ten years, as at Oberammergan, in all its pristine simplicity, by peasants who have neither experience nor training of any sort from the outside world. The overture, rendered by a brass band of thirty pieces, afforded us the pleasing as- surance that we might expect to enjoy the music. The drop-curtain is decorated with a painting of the little valley, with the church in the foreground, and the lake and mountains beyond. When it rises there enter the pro- scenium, from draped doorways on each side, the chorus, nine in number, who stand be- fore the main curtain while the leader, or choragus, calls upon all to behold the miracle of divine love and mercy which in Christs suffering, death, and resurrection will be portrayed. They fulfil to some extent the duty of the old Greek chorus, but they never, as in Greek tragedy, take part in the conversa- tion. After the prologue, as the curtain rises, the chorus divide, and during this and all of the subsequent tableaux they remain standing at the sides, while one and another, in short recitation or song, explain the scene, or utter suitable reflections thereon. This idea of illustrating the narrative of the Passion by means of scenes taken from the Old Testament, and of introducing the chorus of Guardian Spirits, as they are called, was borrowed from the Ammergan version when that of Thiersee was revised in 1873. The text at present used, however, is a still later revision, made by Professor Robert Weis- senhofer. The number of tableaux is fewer than at Oberammergau, and less time is de- voted to the music, which is entirely origi- nal, and of excellent quality, the composition of the choir-master of Kufstein, John Ober- steiner. The first tableau, as might be supposed, shows Adam and Eve in the garden, already provided with aprons of fig-leaves, and stand- ing near the tree of knowledge. Eve, tempted by an extremely artificial snake, takes a piece of real fruit, of which she and Adam taste. Immediately there is a flash of red light, a curtain rising in the rear discloses an offended God seated in majesty upon his throne among the clouds, while in the fore- ground an angel, sword in hand, drives forth the weeping guilty pair. This scene is the crudest of the whole drama. A maiden clothed in an ugly white gown, with plain waist and full skirt, holding out horizontally a small sword, is a rather ludicrous angel of wrath, in spite of the large white wings fastened upon her shoulders. The angels are altogether the worst feature of the perform- ance, though probably to the uncultivated peasants they (10 not seem 50 absurd as to the average stranger, who, if not more inti- mately acquainted with angels, has at least a more artistic conception of their appearance. A moment later another picture appears in the background: the Holy Virgin, standing upon the world, her foot on the head of a snake. These tableaux have been described by the Guardian Spirits, and are followed by a second prologue by the choragus, after which the curtain again rises, displaying little chil- dren robed in white adoring the cross. Thus in brief is typified the whole story of sin and redemption, now to be succeeded by a repre- sentation of the latter in greater fullness. The entire play is divided into six acts, containing numerous scenes, among which are interspersed tableaux from the Old Tes- I 65 VIEW IN KUFSTEIN. DRAWN BY LOUIS LOEB. ENGRAVED BR B-. RAID R. AT THE TICKET-OFFICE. THE PASSION-PLAY AT VORDER-THIERSEE. 167 tament. The first scene, Christs entry into Jerusalem, is less impressive than might be expected. There are the children crying, ((Hosanna to the Son of David!)) women strewing garments in the way, and the shout- ing multitude, in the midst of which Christ advances, sitting upon an ass, and accom- panied by his disciples; but upon the boards of the stage, with its humble setting, the action seems cramped and the scene arti- ficial. The Christ has the conventional ap- pearance, gracefully wearing a lavender robe with a mantle of reddish purple, which har- monizes well in fact, if not in words. The chorus then rendered its first number in a very pleasing manner. The music in gen- eral was effective and appropriate, whether performed by orchestra or ch~orus. The second scene, in which Christ drives out the traders from the temple, calls for more action, and here conversation begins. This comes more within the range of every- day life, and the participants display much vigor and naturalness, as also in the next scene, where the angry traders make an up- roar before the high priests, inciting them to immediate action against this sacrilegious violator of their ancient and lawful customs. Next comes a tableau of considerable beau- ty, the theme of which is taken from the Apocrypha: Tobias bidding farewell to his parents, foreshadowing the parting of Christ from his mother as he leaves her to go from Bethany to Jerusalem. During this tableau and the accompanying recitations by the Guardian Spirits, the orchestra, now com- posed mainly of stringed instruments, dis- courses plaintive music, which is concluded by a few sweet strains from the chorus. These tableaux serve the double purpose not only of illustrating from the Old Testament the story of the New, but also of affording a variation from what would otherwise be a tedious length of dialogue, furnishing a most agreeable diversion from the severe mental strain which uninterrupted attention to the play for so many hours would require. The scenes now increase in interest. Si- mons house in Bethany, where Mary Magda- lene is at once so prominent and modest a figure, next appears before us; and Judas, who is one of the leading figures in the first half of the drama, here makes his debut, ap- pearing to be a thrifty, frugal-minded man, bold enough to criticize the conduct of his Master in allowing the apparent waste of ointment. Then follows, if one may judge from the manifestations of the audience, the most affecting scene of the whole drama: on one side the mother of Jesus, accompa- nied by two women, who support her by their presence and sympathy; on the other, Jesus, with the three disciples Peter, James, and John. After greeting his mother tenderly, Jesus informs her of his departure for Jeru- salem and his approaching death, seeking to comfort her as she laments over his bitter fate and her loss, and begs to die for him, or at least with him. The house had long since been moved to tears, and a vigorous use of handkerchiefs filled the pause that ensued before the open- ing of the next scene. Here we see the Mas- ter and his disciples as they approach the suburbs of Jerusalem. The meeting of the Sanhedrim, presided over by Annas and Caiaphas, is one of great interest. The death of Christ being resolved upon, Judas appears with the Sadducee. On the assurance from the high priests that only justice shall be done, and that if his Master is innocent no harm can befall, he promises that evening to conduct them to a place where Jesus generally resorts. In the minds of the audience Judas seems to be regarded as the comic figure of the tragedy, though he really does nothing to entitle him to such a r6le. It is, however, probable that the feelings of the audience are so strained by the tragic char- acter of the greater part of the drama that they take the smallest chance for relief, and are amused on the slightest provocation, as here when the secretary who counts out the silver hesitates to give Judas the whole of the money in advance, and finally attempts to cheat him out of two pieces by miscounting. The character of Judas, based upon the sim- ple outlines given in Scripture, has been well elaborated. He is represented as by no means altogether base and heartless, though self- seeking and avaricious. A tableauthe sacrifice of Melchizedec precedes the scene of the Last Supper, which closes the first act; but without any unusual pause the second act begins. The tableau, Samson derided by the Philistines, is one of the best presented. The scene in the garden of Gethsemane is watched by the audience with breathless interest, but its solemnity is marred by the angel that comes down from heaven to comfort Jesus in a manner so auto- matic that one feels hardly sure whether it is a dummy angel worked by machinery, or a creature of flesh and blood. The appearance of Judas with the soldiers, and the subse- quent action, follow precisely as narrated, as is usually the case, though supplementary scenes are introduced and others amplified 168 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. from the brief outlines given in the New Testament. Two hours had passed since the beginning of the drama when the side doors were thrown open, admitting fresh air and sunshine, and a recess of ten minutes was allowed for re- freshment in the open air. At the farther corner outside there was a wooden booth, where beer, wine, bread, and pastry of vari- ous sorts might be purchased. The third scene of the second act opens with Annas anxiously awaiting the outcome of the nights adventure, to whom Judas ap- pears, bringing the glad tidings of his success- ful conduct of the undertakingretreating, however, before the arrival of Jesus, who is brought to Annas for a brief examination, and then led before the Sanhedrim. A tableau showing Naboth accused by false witnesses and condemned to death precedes this scene. Caiaphas presided admirably over the as- sembly. You would never have suspected him of being the village baker as, with authori- tative air and suitable gesture, he conducted the examination of the accused. The death- sentence i~ passed unanimously. As they are about to proceed to the house of Pilate the governor to demand the execution of their verdict, Judas rushes in, overcome with hor- ror and despair, throws down the thirty pieces of silver, upbraids the high priests for their unjust sentence, and, cursing them and him- self, goes out. The scene changes. Nicodemus and Joseph of Arimathea converse with the friendly Ro- man centurion whose servant was healed at Capernaum. He promises to seek an audience for them with Pilate, in the hope that they may persuade him to veto the death-sentence of the Jews. Now we see the servants stand- ing without, warming themselves, and the de- nial of Peter occurs as recorded. The seventh tableau, representing the de- spair of Cain, fitly precedes that of Judas, who is seen in a solitary place lamenting over his conduct, and tormented by the spirits of hell. Peter now enters, weighed down with sorrow, bewailing his falsity, yet mourning not as one without hope. He calls on his Master for forgiveness, lamenting that he can no longer hear his voice. Then a happy thought strikes him: there is Mary, the mother of Jesus; she can pardon him in her Sons name. Feeling that this thought has been sent by Jesus himself, he goes to seek her, rejoicing in the assurance of the pardoning love of Jesus. This episode and that of Veronica are the only ones to which the most rigid Protestant might object: not enough, it would seem, to interfere with any ones enjoyment of the drama. In any case one cannot help admir- ing the skilful and extremely natural manner in which the idea of Mary as a mediator is here introduced. Again Judas comes forward, groaning over the contrast between himself and Peter, who can weep. To him tears are denied. His sin is too great to be forgiven, and his remorse can no longer be endured. The third act should open with a tableau of Daniel in the lions den, an excellent proto- type of the situation of Christ surrounded by his enemies. Since genuine lions would ob- viously be out of the question, it is probably on account of the difficulty of procuring imi- tation lions that would look sufficiently real not to be ridiculous that this picture is omitted, and we come at once to the palace of Pilate. The several scenes before Pilate and Herod, though somewhat similar in character, are all of great interest, and are extremely well rendered. A tableau of Job precedes the scene before Herod, a man of fine presence and great dignity, who despises the Jews as much as Pilate does. Herod finally dismissing Christ and his accusers alike contemptuously, the cry again arises, ((Death to the Nazarene! On to Pilate!)) Again Pilate seeks to escape pronouncing an unjust verdict, though he is hardly prepared to risk his own position and prospects for the sake of protecting a blame- less fanatic. He suggests to the people that they select this man as the one to be released at the Passover. Disappointed in this, but strengthened in his determination not to crucify the innocent by a message received from his wife, he decides upon a middle course, and orders the culprit to be scourged, hoping thus to satisfy the people. The next scene shows Jesus at the close of this ordeal, as the last blows fall. Released from his fet- ters, he sinks to the earth as if lifeless. In his helpless condition, being momentarily deserted by the soldiers, a Guardian Spirit enters, who laments over him in plaintive song, and bends down to kiss his brow. The guards, now returning, lift Jesus to his feet, place him upon a stool, and again mock him as king, adorning him with a scarlet robe, placing upon his head a crown of thorns, and in his hands a scepter. Thus he is led back to Pilate. A variation from these scenes of persecu- tion and mockery is presented by the appear- ance of Mary, the Magdalene, and John, who, having witnessed the sufferings of Christ, are overwhelmed with grief. Peter, meeting DRAWN BY LOUIS LOBS. CHRIST TAKING LEAVE OF HIS MOTHER. VOL LL22. 170 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. DRAWN BY LODIR LOEB. A CHARACTER OF THE DISTRICT. them, improves the opportunity to beg Marys forgiveness, in the name of her Son, for his cowardly denial of his Lord. For the third time the crowd appears before the house of Pilate, loudly demanding Christs crucifixion. In vain does Pilate seek to persuade them to ask for the release of the mild and inoffen- sive Jesus rather than the guilty murderer Barabbas. The moment when he places the two together before them, saying, ((Behold the Man!)) is perhaps the most dramatic of the entire representation. Accused of treach- ery to his emperor, and of responsibility for whatever outbreak may occur, Pilate seems compelled to yield, and, washing his hands of the whole matter, with evident distress he finally gives way. The death-sentence, preceded and followed by three blasts of the trumpet, is proclaimed by an officer who had recently played the part of Herod. The crowd, at last appeased, shout their thanks. The superscription for the cross is, however, re- ceived with disapprobation; but with an em- phatic, ((What I have written I have written,)) Pilate disappears, leaving the multitude to go to Golgotha rejoicing in the final attainment of their wishes, yet with a slight sting of dissatisfaction over the title ((King of the Jews.)) The first half of the drama occupied a little more than four hours, and the audience, with a sigh of relief, streamed out into the noonday for the intermission of an hour and a half. At two oclock the second part began. A pro- logue by the choragus preceded a tableau rep- resenting the serpent lifted up by Moses in the wildernessperhaps the finest of all the tableaux exhibited, more than fifty persons appearing together on the stage. The group- ing was particularly effective. The fourth act opens with Mary and the Mag- dalene upon the stage, to whom John, enter- ing, relates the sad tidings of his Masters condemnation to death. As the mournful procession approaches, they withdraw to one side, Mary eager once more to behold her Son. A trumpeter advances, followed by an officer of justice, a centurion, and four Roman soldiers. The four Jewish servants who have hitherto guarded Jesus, and taken such de- light in the mocking and buffeting, still at- tend him as he staggers along, bowed down beneath the weight of the cross. More sol- diers, with the two thieves, the priests, and people, follow. As they proceed the officer proclaims in a loud voice the death by cruci- fixion of Jesus of Nazareth and two nameless evil-doers, in accordance with the command of Pontius Pilate, representative of CEesar. It is not necessary here to repeat the whole of the mournful storyhowthe procession winds in and out, several times reappearing on the stage; how Jesus falls for the first, second, and third times~ how his mother comes for- ward to weep over him; how Simon of Cyrene is compelled to help him bear his cross; the legend of Veronica; the lamentation of the DRAWN BY LOUIS LOEB. CATAPHAS. 4/. 4 U THE PASSION-PLAY AT VORDER-THIERSEE. 171 daughters of Jerusalem. All proceeds in an intensely impressive mariner till the arrival on Calvary, where, stripped of his purple robe, Christ kneels, embracing the cross, as the cur- tain falls. When the curtain again rises the thieves are already in position, their arms simply thrown over the cross-bar, and arms and legs bound to the plank with ropes. The soldiers are driving the last nails into the hands of Jesus,whose cross is in a nearly hori- zontal position. It is then raised by several attendants, and with wedges is made fast in the wooden floor. Meanwhile there was plain- tive music by the orchestra, and the audience gazed in breathless silence upon the scene. When all is ready the soldiers in the f ore- ground cast lots for the purple robe, John and the several women take their position at the foot of the cross, Annas, Caiaphas, and others pass by, uttering derisive words, and all that is recordeU in the various Gospels is enacted in a most realistic manner. With the words, ((Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit,)) at last the end comes. Thunder and lightning follow; the scene is wrapped in gloom. Soldiers fall on their faces in alarm, declaring that this was indeed the Son of God. People rush about in terror, or sink prostrate, imploring mercy. The scene is at once transferred to Jeru- salem, where Pilate appears again, standing on his balcony, astonished at the uproar of the elements, and wondering if it can have any connection with the Nazarene. Soon the people rush by in terror, not staying to an- swer his questions as to the cause of their alarm; Roman soldiers, also, pausing only at the second word of command to confess that in fright and terror they have fled from Cal- vary. Reproached that such words should fall from the lips of Roman soldiers, they reply that on the field of battle they will indeed stand like Romans, but to contend against unknown, invisible powers is terrible. Others rush in, shouting, ((The dead, the dead arise; the graves are opened! Help! Help!)) Upon Pilate, as he demands peace, they turn, ac- cusing him of guilt and unjust judgment; then, with mutual recrimination and curses, they flee onward. Still others appear, crying that the veil of the temple is rent from top to bottom. Annas and Caiaphas now enter, calling upon Pilate to quell the tumult with soldiery, the whole city being in an uproar. This he refuses to do, telling them that they but reap the consequences of their own hate and injustice. When the high priests them- selves attempt to still the tumult, they in turn are upbraided by the people, who, however, are finally persuaded to go to the temple for prayer, being assured that the apparitions of the dead are only some magic spell wrought by the disciples of Jesus. Pilate, left alone, mourns over the days unhallowed work, over his own weakness and complaisance. He sees that the edge of his authority is dulled, that by yielding he has forfeited the respect of the people. Already is Jesus avenged on him. If in like manner he takes vengeance on the people, fearful will be their doom. The en- trance of Joseph and Nicodemus forms an agreeable diversion to his thoughts, and he gladly grants their request to receive and entomb the body of Jesus. Again we behold the scene on Calvary; but DRAWN BY LOUIS LOEB. THE VILLAGE BAKER (THE cAJAPHAS OF THE PLAY). 172 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. the bodies of the two thieves have already been removed, so that the ludicrous action of breaking their legs with inflated india-rubber clubs, as at Ammergan, is avoided. In spite of the entreaties of his mother and the other women, the side of Jesus is now pierced by the centurion. Blood spurts out and splashes upon the floor. At this opportune moment Joseph and Nicodemus arrive with permission to bury the body. With the help of two lad- ders and a long roll of linen they succeed in lowering it more easily than appears in Ru- benss ((Descent from the Cross,s and they place it in Marys arms. After music by the chorus the entombment is enacted in silence, save for the accompanying vocal and instru- mental music. As these scenes of the fourth act occupy an hour and a quarter, a short recess is allowed. The audience now seemed to have become somewhat weary, and there was a good deal of passing in and out after the intermission. The fifth act begins with a tableau in which Christ, clothed in white, is dimly seen through a veil, presumably in the lower world among the departed spirits. Yet an- other scene before Pilate is presented, in which a guard and a seal for the tonib are demanded. In great wrath at the continual reappearance of the Jews, Pilate is never- theless obliged to yield to their wishes. A soliloquy by Caiaphas follows. At this late hour a horrible suspicion arises that perhaps, after all, he has made a mistake. In spite of his outward contempt and courage, he has been greatly disturbed by the signs and omens. As he remembers the dignity and patience of Jesus, the terrible thought will come: Can it be that he has really crucified the Son of God? But this he will utter to no one. In that cas.e his doom is sealed. If Jesus should rise again, as he has promised, it will be all over with him both in this world and in the next. He will be hated and reviled as the chief persecutor of his Lord. Even his office will be destroyed if the kingdom of God is established on earth. Such thoughts are interrupted by the entrance of the cap- tain of the city guard, who reports that out- wardly the city is quiet, but in their homes the people are still excited over the days events, some cursing the Nazarene, some Pilate, and some Caiaphas. Alarmed by the earthquakes, the darkness, and the appear- ance of the dead, they look for the resurrec- tion of Jesus. Caiaphas, allowing for the moment that such a thing might happen, de- clares that it must be made impossible, if not actually in fact, yet in the minds of the peo pIe. Such a work of magic, if performed by Jesus, must be attributed to the disciples. Though too weak and cowardly to do any- thing of the sort, nevertheless they must have done it, and so the bargain is concluded that if the centurion will make such a statement, he (Caiaphas) will compel the people to be- lieve it. Apart from the fact that the end is too long postponed, the night scene, with the soldiers guarding the tomb, is a good and natu- ral one. To while away the time they talk of the wonderful works of Jesus. One who had witnessed the resurrection of Lazarus de- scribes that occurrence. They wonder if Jesus himself may not have power to rise again. They look into the tomb, where all is dark and still. They rejoice that the morning is beginning to dawn; but just at that moment distant thunder is heard, there is a flash of light from the tomb, angels appear, then Christ, clad in spotless raiment, arises and stands for a moment, his right hand uplifted, a scepter in his left, but bearing the marks of the nails. Strains of joyous music pro- claim the glorious tidings as the curtain falls at the close of the fifth act. The last act begins with a tableau repre- senting Joseph making himself known to his brethren, obviously in anticipation of Jesus disclosing himself to his disciples. Several scenes by the open grave follow in quick succession. The three women, John and Pe- ter, and Mary the mother, in turn mourn over the deserted tomb, only to have their sorrow speedily changed into joy as they receive the glad tidings of the resurrection,or themselves behold their Lord. The high priests, having heard the joyful news, which is spreading rapidly over the city, are filled with painful perplexity. They hear that the people are making threats against them. Caiaphas is on the verge of despair, but Annas is more hopeful. His plans are made, and his bait is ready for the Roman guard when these are announced. Accused of spreading lies in the city, the soldiers are filled with indignation. Finally one is in- duced to give an exact account of the events of the night, to which the others swear. Vain is the effort to bribe them to give a different version and to say that the body of Jesus has been stolen by his disciples. Spurning indig- nantly the offers of the high priests, they march abruptly out, leaving Annas and Caia- phas in despair. A tableau follows, entitled ((Jesus the Good Shepherd.s Surrounded by his disciples, he hands to Peter, who is kneeling, the keys of the church. In the last scene Jesus is stand- a C!) H 0 H 174 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. ing on a mound a few feet above his disci- ples, Mary, and several other women. He bids them all farewell, utters his last com- mission, and then, with hand outstretched in blessing, by no visible means rises out of sight. The dramatic effect is here again marred by the two angels, a too close adher- ence to the Scripture text producing rather an anticlimax. The chorus now sings a grand triumphal song, after which the curtain rises for the last time, disclosing in the background Jesus sitting in glory at the right hand of his Father, among the holy angels; the women and the apostles kneeling in adoration below; and Annas and Caiaphas prone in the fore- ground. One more stanza by the chorus, a grand triumphal march by the orchestra, and the passion-play is ended. The first question which naturally arises is, What is the effect of the play upon specta- tors and actors? As far as the actors and the majority of the spectators are concerned, the testimony of the village priest should have the greatest weight. He declares that its influence upon all parties is beneficial. Two services are held in the early morning in the village church, which the actors and others attend; but during the summer the play takes the place of the services usually held at a later hour. If one were to form an opinion from a superficial acquaintance with the people, it would be that Vorder-Thiersee is a community of unusually kindly and well- disposed folk. To the spectators in general it seems probable that through this pictorial representation the story of the cross becomes more vivid than any amount of Scripture reading or sermons could make it. Of almost as much interest as the play itself was the meeting afterward with some of the leading actors, and seeing something of their every-day lives. The village of Vorder- Thiersee, the scene of the play, contains be- tween five and six hundred inhabitants, from whom all the actors and musicians are drawn. As there is no compact settlement, these are widely scattered, some living a distance of an hour or two from the little church and theater. It is therefore a matter of much greater difficulty for all to be present at a re- hearsal than if they lived in a compact vil- lage like Oberammergau. The inhabitants are all farmers, or are engaged in simple, neces- sary occupations. Thus, Calaphas, who is also director of the play, is a baker. The Chris- tus, Josef Uffinger, is a farmerfortunately an eldest son, inheriting the patrimony of his fathers, upon which he lives, with his five younger brothers, his aged parents, wife, and two little children. He seemed to be a man of unusually amiable character, and he for- tunately speaks very good German for one of the country-people, many of whom use a dia- lect quite unintelligible to the unpractised ear. A trace of this is visible on the stage, though here an effort is made to use the lit- erary speech and to pronounce the best of German. One of the members of the choir is mine host of the Seewirth; and it is here, opposite the little lake and the tall Pentling, that when the days labor is over, arduous for spectator, and still more for the leading performers, many of the natives and stran- gers gather; and over his pipe and glass of beer one may chat with the Christus and Caiaphas, Peter, John, and Judas, Herod and Pilate, not to mention a particularly obnox- ious churl who, being one of the guards of Jesus, is especially forward in ill treating him. When pointed out as this disagreeable person, he said, ~Ah, yes; but I have a good heart.)) Judas, strange to say, married for his second wife a former Madonna, and the present Virgin Mary is his daughter. If, in witnessing the play, one is astonished at the excellence of the acting in so rural a com- munity, still more is this the case when one meets the actors afterward. Mary, who takes her part with remarkable dignity and grace, and who displays great depth of feeling, is found to be a shy, rather awkward country girl of twenty, who at first hardly ventures monosyllabic answers when addressed. Her father, Judas, who is one of the best of the actors, is now taking his part for the fifth season, at the age of sixty-nine. Seeing his many wrinkles and his bald, gray head, one would never imagine the lightness with which he steps about in the play. Indeed the ease of manner generally exhibited on the stage is astonishing. A particularly noticeable feature is the excellence of their walk, which is free, simple, and utterly unaffected, as are their movements generally. Remembering the stiff angularity of some of the country students at a Western college commencement, the almost entire absence of it here seems the more re- markable. It appears, however, to some ex- tent among the disciples, who, save Peter, John, and Judas, are the poorest of the actors. For this there are probably two reasons: one, that as they have little, almost nothing, to say, all of the best actors have been selected for the more prominent parts; the other, that it is much easier to be free and natural as a member of a gesticulating, angry crowd than to stand about and listen, to sit on a stool for the feet-washing, and to be meek and quiet CHARLES STATE VIEW FEOM THE THEATER ACROSS THE LAKE AND VALLEY. 176 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. generally. John, however, who possesses these characteristics to a marked degree, and who has also a good deal to say, looks and acts his part excellently. In his wi~ of long hair he has quite the ideal appearance; but in the evening, as a round-faced, dark-haired rustic of nineteen, though one could still see a little of the expression, the change was marvelous. Pontius Pilate, who acted his part with great power, though he had no make-np, was never- theless a wholly different person in the gilt vestments of a Roman governor and in his every-day dress. The Christus, unfortunately, was obliged to wear a wig which was a little too dark to compare well with his sandy beard, and so lessened the beauty of his appearance. When I asked him why he did not let his own hair grow long, as they do at Oberammergan, he said, ((Oh, it would not do for a farmer; it would be altogether too warm.s The actors take part entirely for love of the work, receiving no compensation even for the time devoted to rehea~ sals or perform- ance. Whatever profits accrue are for the benefit of the community as a whole. Between the decennial representations of the passion-play other dramas are every summer enacted, which are to some extent attended by outsiders, and serve as a sort of training-school for the greater performance of the passion-play. All of the participants, and indeed the whole community, greatly enjoy these representations, which form a most agreeable diversion in their otherwise monotonous lives. Whoever is a student of human nature or religion, and is interested in seeing what may be achieved by simple, honest-hearted peasants, practically desti- tute of contact with the outside world, will be well repaid for a pilgrimage to Thiersee in 1905. Annie S. Peck. DURIKG THE PLAY. DURING this same space of time, which for Miss ~ewells maid ended so disagreeably, Sir George Tressady was engaged in a curious conversation. He had excused himself from smoking, on the ground ~f fatigue, immediately after his parting from Letty; but he had only nomi- nally gone to bed. He, too, found it difficult to tear himself from thinking and the fire, and had not begun to undress when he heard a knock at his door. On his reply Lord Fonte- noy entered. ((May I come in, Tressady?)) eBy all means.)) George, however, stared at his invader in some astonishment. His relations with Fon- tenoy were not personally intimate. ((Well, 1 m glad to find you still up, for I had a few words on my mind to say to you before I go off to-morrow. Can you spare me ten minutes?)) ((Certainly; do sit down. Onlywell, I m afraid I m pretty well done. If it s anything important, I cant promise to take it in.)) Lord Fontenoy for a moment made no reply. He stood by the fire, looking at the cigarette he still held, in silence. George watched him with repressed annoyance. ((It s been a very hot fight, this,)) said Fontenoy at last, slowly, ((and you ye won it well. All our band have prospered in the matter of elections. But this contest of yours has been, I think, the most conspicuous that any of us have fought. Your speeches have made a mark one can see that from the way in which tbe press has begun to take them, political beginner though you are. In the House you will be, I think, our best speaker of course with time and experience. As for me, if you give me a fortnight to prepare in, I can make out something. Otherwise I am no use. You will take a good debating place from the beginning. Well, it is only what I expected.)) The speaker stopped. George, fidgeting in his chair, said nothing, and presently Fonte- noy resumed: 4 trust you will not think what I am go- ing to say an intrusion, butyou remember my letters to you in India?)) George nodded. ((They put the case strongly, I think,)) Fontenoy went on, ((but, in my opinion, not strongly enough. This wretched government is in power by the help of a tyrannya tyranny of labor. They call themselves Con- servativesthey are really State Socialists, and the mere cats-paws of the revolutionary Socialists. You and I are in Parliament to break down that tyranny, if we can. This year and next will be all-important. If we can hold Maxwell and his friends in check for a time, if we can put some backbone into the party of freedom, if we can rally and call up the forces we have in the country, the thing will be done. We shall have established the counterpoisewe shall very likely turn the next election; and libertyor what still remains of it!will be saved for a generation. But to succeed, the effort, the sacrifice, from each one of us will have to be enormous.)) Fontenoy paused and looked at his com- panion. George was lying back in an arm- chair with his eyes shut. Why on earth so he was thinkingshould Fontenoy have chosen this particular hour and this particu- lar night to d6biter these very stale things, that he had already served up in innumerable Copyright, 1895, by Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD. All rights reserved. VOL. LI.23. 177 III.

Mrs. Humphry Ward Ward, Humphry, Mrs. Sir George Tressady 177-193

DURING this same space of time, which for Miss ~ewells maid ended so disagreeably, Sir George Tressady was engaged in a curious conversation. He had excused himself from smoking, on the ground ~f fatigue, immediately after his parting from Letty; but he had only nomi- nally gone to bed. He, too, found it difficult to tear himself from thinking and the fire, and had not begun to undress when he heard a knock at his door. On his reply Lord Fonte- noy entered. ((May I come in, Tressady?)) eBy all means.)) George, however, stared at his invader in some astonishment. His relations with Fon- tenoy were not personally intimate. ((Well, 1 m glad to find you still up, for I had a few words on my mind to say to you before I go off to-morrow. Can you spare me ten minutes?)) ((Certainly; do sit down. Onlywell, I m afraid I m pretty well done. If it s anything important, I cant promise to take it in.)) Lord Fontenoy for a moment made no reply. He stood by the fire, looking at the cigarette he still held, in silence. George watched him with repressed annoyance. ((It s been a very hot fight, this,)) said Fontenoy at last, slowly, ((and you ye won it well. All our band have prospered in the matter of elections. But this contest of yours has been, I think, the most conspicuous that any of us have fought. Your speeches have made a mark one can see that from the way in which tbe press has begun to take them, political beginner though you are. In the House you will be, I think, our best speaker of course with time and experience. As for me, if you give me a fortnight to prepare in, I can make out something. Otherwise I am no use. You will take a good debating place from the beginning. Well, it is only what I expected.)) The speaker stopped. George, fidgeting in his chair, said nothing, and presently Fonte- noy resumed: 4 trust you will not think what I am go- ing to say an intrusion, butyou remember my letters to you in India?)) George nodded. ((They put the case strongly, I think,)) Fontenoy went on, ((but, in my opinion, not strongly enough. This wretched government is in power by the help of a tyrannya tyranny of labor. They call themselves Con- servativesthey are really State Socialists, and the mere cats-paws of the revolutionary Socialists. You and I are in Parliament to break down that tyranny, if we can. This year and next will be all-important. If we can hold Maxwell and his friends in check for a time, if we can put some backbone into the party of freedom, if we can rally and call up the forces we have in the country, the thing will be done. We shall have established the counterpoisewe shall very likely turn the next election; and libertyor what still remains of it!will be saved for a generation. But to succeed, the effort, the sacrifice, from each one of us will have to be enormous.)) Fontenoy paused and looked at his com- panion. George was lying back in an arm- chair with his eyes shut. Why on earth so he was thinkingshould Fontenoy have chosen this particular hour and this particu- lar night to d6biter these very stale things, that he had already served up in innumerable Copyright, 1895, by Mrs. HUMPHRY WARD. All rights reserved. VOL. LI.23. 177 III. 178 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. speeches and almost every letter that George had received from him? ~I dont suppose it will be childs play,~ he said, stifling a yawn hope I shall feel keener after a nights rest!)) He looked up with a smile. Fontenoy dropped his cigarette into the fender and stood silent a moment, his hands clasped behind his back. ((Look here, Tressady,~ he said at last, turning to his companion; ~~you remember how affairs stood with me when you left England? I did nt know much of you, but I believe, like many of my juniors, you knew a great deal about me?)) George made the sign of assent expected of him. ((I knew something about you, certainly,)) he said, smiling; it was not difficult.~ Fontenoy smiled too, though without ge- niality. Geniality had become impossible to a man always overworked and on edge. ((I was a fool,)) he said quickly an open and notorious fool. But I enjoyed my life. I dont suppose any one ever enjoyed life more. Every day of my former existence gave the lie to the good people who tell you that to be happy you must be virtuous. I was idle, extravagant, and vicious, and I was one of the happiest of men. As to my racing and my horses, they were a constant delight to me. I cant think now of those mornings on the Heaththe gallops of my colts, the change and excitement of it all without longing for it to come back again. Yet I have never owned a horse, or seen a race, or made a bet, for the last three years. I never go into society, except for political purposes; and I scarcely ever touch wine. In fact, I have thrown overboard everything that once gave me pleasure and amusement so com- pletely that I have, perhaps, some right to press upon the party that follows me my con- viction that unless each and all of us give up private ease and comfort as I have done unless we are contented, as the Parnellites were, to be bores in the House and nuisances to ourselvesto peg away in season and out of season to give up everything for the cause we may just as well not go into the fight at all, for we shall do nothing with it.)) George clasped his hands round his knee and stared stubbornly into the fire. Sermon- izing was all very well, but Fontenoy did too much of it; nobody need suppose that he would have done what he had done unless, on the whole, it had given him more pleasure to do it than not to do it. Well, he said, looking up at last with a laugh, I wonder what you mean, really. Do you mean, for instance, that I ought nt to get myself married?)) His offhand manner covered a good deal of irritation. He made a shrewd guess at the idea in Fontenoys mind, and meant to show that he would not be dictated to. Fontenoy also laughed, with as little ge- niality as before. Then he applied himself to a deliberate answer: ((This is what I mean. If you, just elected, at the beginning of this critical session, were to give your best mind to anything else in the world than the fight before us, I should regard you as, for the time, at any rate, lost to usas, so far, betraying us.)) The color rushed into Georges cheeks. ((Upon my word!)) he said, springing up ~~upon my wordyou are a taskmaster!)) Fontenoy hastened to reply, in a different tone, I only want to keep the machine in order.~ George paced up and down for a few mo- ments without speaking. Presently he paused. ((Look here, Fontenoy! I cannot look at the matter as you do, and we may as well understand each other. To me this election of mine is, after all, an ordinary affair. I take it, and what is to come after it, just as other men do. I have accepted your party and your program, and I mean to stick to them. I see that the political situation is difficult and exciting, and I dont intend to shirk. But I am no more going to slay my private life and interests at the altar of poli- tics than my father did when he was in Par- liament. If the revolution is coming, it will come in spite of you and me. And, moreover, if you will let me say so,I am convinced that your modes of procedure are not even profitable to the cause in the long run. No man can work as you do, without rest and without distraction. You will break down, and then where will the ~cause~ be?)) Lord Fontenoy surveyed the speaker with a curious, calculating look. It was as though, with as much rapidity as his mind was capa- ble of, he balanced a number of pros and cons against each other, and finally decided to let the matter drop, perhaps not without some regret for having raised it. ((Ah, well,)) he said, I have no doubt that what I have said appears to you mere meddle- someness. If so, you will change your view, and you will forgive me. I must trust the compulsion of the situation. You will realize it, as I have done, when you get well intO the fight. There is something in this Labor tyranny which rouses all a mans passions, SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 179 bad and good. If it does not rouse yours, I have been much mistaken in my estimate of you. As for me, dont waste your concern. There are few stronger men than I. You forget, too)) There was a pause. Of late yearssince his transformation, in factLord Pontenoys stiff reserve about himself had been rarely broken through. At this moment, however, George, looking up, saw that his companion was in some way moved by a kind of somber and personal emotion. ((You forget,)) the speaker resumed, ((that I learned nothing either at school or college, and that a man who wants to lead a party must, some time or other, pay for that pre- cious privilege. When you left England the only financial statement I could understand was a betting-book. I knew no history except what one gets from living among people who have been making it, and even that I was too lazy to profit by. 1 could nt understand the simplest economical argument, and I hated trouble of all kinds. Nothing but the toil of a galley-slave could have enabled me to do what I have done. You would be astonished some- times if youcould look in upon me at night and see what I am doingwhat 1 am obliged to do to keep up the most elementary appearances.)) George was touched. The tone of the speaker had passed suddenly into one of plain dignity, in spite of, perhaps because of, the half-bitter humility that mingled with it. ~I know you make one ashamed,)) he said sincerely, though awkwardly. ((Well, dont distrust me; I 11 do my best.)) ((Good night,)) said Lord Fontenoy, and held out his hand. He had gained no promises, and George had shown and felt annoyance. Yet the friendship between the two men had sensibly advanced. GEORGE shut the door upon him, and came back to the fire to ponder this odd quarter of an hour. His experience certainly contained no more extraordinary fact than this conver- sion of a gambler and a spendthrift into the passionate leader of an arduous cause. Only one quality linked the man he remembered with the politician he had now pledged him- self to followthe quality of intensity. Dicky Fontenoy in his follies had been neither gay nor lovable, but his fierce will, his extrava- gant and reckless force, had given him the command of men softer than himself. That will and that force were still there, steeled and concentrated. But George Tressady was sometimes restlessly doubtful as to how far he himself was prepared to submit to them. His personal acquaintance with Fontenoy was of comparatively recent date. He him- self had been for some four years away from England, to which he had returned only about three months before the Market Malford elec- tion. A letter from Fontenoy had been the immediate cause of his return; but before it arrived the two men had been in no direct communication. The circumstances of Tressadys long ab- sence concern his later story, and were on this wise. His father, Sir William, the owner of Ferth Place, in West Mercia, died in the year that George, his only surviving child and the son of his old age, left college. The son, finding his fathers debts considerable, and his own distaste for the law, to which he had been destined, amazingly increased by his newly acquired freedom to do what he liked with himself, turned his mind at once toward traveling. Travel he must if he was ever to take up public and parliamentary life, and for no other professionso he announced did he feel the smallest vocation. More- over, economy was absolutely necessary. Dur- ing his absence the London house could be let, and Lady Tressady could live quietly at Ferth upon an allowance, while his uncles looked after the colliery property. Lady Tressady made no difficulty, except as to the figure first named for the proposed allowance, which she declared was absurd. The uncles, elderly business men, could not understand why the younger generation should not go into harness at once without indul- gences, as they themselves had done; but George got his way, and had much reason to show for it. He had not been idle at college, though perhaps at no time industrious enough. Influenced by natural ambition and an able tutor, he had won some distinction, and he was now a man full of odds and ends of ideas, of nascent interests, curiosities, and opinions, strongly influenced, moreover, already, though he said less about it than about other things, by the desire for political distinction. While still at college he had been especially attracted owing mainly to the chances of an under- graduate friendshipby a group of Eastern problems bearing upon Englands future in Asia; and he was no sooner free to govern himself and his moderate income than there flamed up in him the Englishmans passion to see, to touch, to handle, coupled with the young mans natural desire to go where it was dangerous to go, and where other men were not going. His friendthe son of an eminent geographer, possessed by inheritance of the explorers instinctswas just leaving England for Asia Minor, Armenia, and Per 180 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. sia. George made up his mind, hastily but firmly, to go with him, and his family had to put up with it. The year, however, for which the young fellow had stipulated went by; two others were added to it, and a fourth began to run its coursestill George showed but faint signs of returning. According to his letters home, he had wandered through Persia, India, and Ceylon; had found friends and amuse- ment everywhere; and in the latter colony had even served eight months as private secre- tary to the governor, who had taken a fancy to him, and had been suddenly bereft by a boating accident of the indispensable young man who was accustomed to direct the hos- pitalities of Government House before Tres- sadys advent. Thence he went to China and Japan, made a trip from Peking into Mon- golia, landed on Formosa, fell in with some French naval officers at Saigon, spending with them some of the gayest and maddest weeks of his life; explored Siam, and finally returned by way of Burma to Calcutta, with the dim intention this time of some day, be- fore long,, taking ship for home. Meanwhile, during the last months of his stay in Ceylon, he had written some signed articles for an important English newspaper, which, together with the natural liking felt by the many important persons he had come to knoxv in the East for an intelligent and promising young fellow, endowed with brains, family, and good manners, served to bring him considerably into notice. The tone of the articles was strongly English and Imperialist. The first of them came out immediately be- fore his visit to Saigon, and Tressady thanked his lucky stars that the foreign reading of his French friends was, perhaps, not so extensive as their practical acquaintance with life. He was, however, proud of his first literary achievement, and it served to crystallize in him a number of ideas and sentiments which had previously represented rather the preju- dices of a traveler accustomed to find his race in the ascendant, and to be well received by its official class, than any reasoned political theory. As he went on writing, conviction grew with statement, became a faith, ulti- mately a passiontill, as he turned home- ward, he seemed to himself to have attained a philosophy sufficient to steer the rest of life by. It was the common philosophy of the educated and fastidious observer, and it rested on ideas of the greatness of England and the infinity of Englands mission, on the rights of ability to govern as contrasted with the squalid possibilities of democracy, on the natural kingship of the higher races, and on a profound personal admiration for the vir- tues of the administrator and the soldier. Now, no man in whom these perceptions take strong root early need expect to love popular government. Tressady read his Eng- lish newspapers with increasing disgust. On that little England in those far seas all de- pended, and England meant the English work- ingman with his flatterers of either party. He blundered and blustered at home, while the Empire, its services and its defenses, by which alone all this pullulating ((street folk)) existed for a day, were in danger of starva- tion and hindrance abroad, to meet the un- reasonable fancies of a degenerate race. A deep hatred of mob rule rooted itself in Tres- sady, passing gradually, during his last three months in India, into a growing inclination to return and take his place in the fightto have his say. ((Government to the compe- tentnot to the many,)) might have been the summary of his three years experience. Nor were private influences wanting. He was a West Mercian landowner in a coal- mining district, and owned a group of pits on the borders of his estate. His uncles, who had shares in the property, reported to him periodically during his absence. With every quarter it seemed to Tressady that the re- ports grew worse and the dividends less. His uncles letters, indeed, were full of anxieties and complaints. After a long period of peace in the coal-trade, it looked as though a time of hot war between masters and men was ap- proaching. ((We have to thrash them every fifteen years,)) wrote one of the uncles, ((and the time is nearly up.~ The unreason, brutality, and extravagance of the men, the tyranny of the Union, the growing insolence of the Union officials Tressadys letters from home after a time spoke of little else. And Tressadys bank- book, meanwhile, formed a disagreeable com- ment on the correspondence. The pits were al- most running at a loss; yet neither party had made up their minds to the trial of strength. Tressady was still lingering in Bombay though supposed to be on his way home when Lord Fontenoys letter reached him. The writer referred slightly to their pre- vious acquaintance, and to a remote, family connection between himself and Tressady; dwelt in flattering terms on the reports which had reached him from many quarters of Tres- sadys opinions and abilities; described the genesis and aims of the new parliamentary party, of which the writer was the founder and head; and finally urged him to come home SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 181 at once, and to stand for Parliament as a can- didate for the Market Malford division, where the influence of Fontenoys family was con- siderable. Since the general election, which had taken place in June, and had returned a moderate Conservative government to power, the member for Market Malford had become incurably ill. The seat might be vacant at any moment. Fontenoy asked for a telegram and urged the next steamer. Tressady had alreadynartly from private talk, partly from the newspaperslearned the main outlines of Lord Fontenoys later story. The first political speech of Pontenoys he had ever read made a half-farcical impres- sion on himlet Dicky stick to his two-year- olds! The second he read twice over, and alike in it, in certain party manifestos from the same hand printed in the newspapers, and in the letter he had now received, there spoke something for which it seemed to him he had been waiting. The style was rough and halt- ing, but Tressady felt in it the note and power of a leader. He took an hours walk through the streets of Bombay ~& o think it over, then sent his telegram, and booked his passage on his way home to luncheon. Such, in brief outline, had been the origin of the two mens acquaintance. Since Georges return they had been constantly together. Fontenoy had thrown his whole colossal power of work into the struggle for the Market Mal- ford seat, and George owed him much. AFTER he was left to himself on this par- ticular night Tressady was for long restless and wakeful. In spite of resistance, Fonte- noys talk and Fontenoys personality had nevertheless restored for the moment an earlier balance of mind. The interests of ambition and the intellect returned in force. Letty Sewell had, no doubt, made life very agreeable to him during the past three weeks but, after allwas it worth while? Her little figure danced before the inward eye as his fire sank into darkness; fragments of her chatter ran through his mind. He be- gan to be rather ashamed of himself. Fonte- noy was right. It was not the moment. No doubt he must marry some day; he had come home, indeed, with the vague intention of marrying; but the world was wide and women many. That he had very little romance in his temperament was probably due to his mother. His childish experiences of her character, and of her relations to his father, had left him no room, alas! for the natural childish opinion that all grown-ups, and especially all mothers, are saints. In India he had amused himself a good deal; but his adventures had, on the whole, confirmed his boyish bias. If he had been forced to put his inmost opiniQns about women into words, the result would have been crude, perhaps brutal, which did not prevent him from holding a very strong and vivid con- viction of the pleasure to be got from their society. Accordingly he woke up next morning pre- cisely in the mood that Letty, for her own reasons, had foreseen. It worried him to think that for two or three days more he and Letty Sewell must still be thrown together in close relations. He and his mother were waiting on at Malford for a day or two till some workmen should be out of his own house, which lay twenty miles away, at the farther edge of the Market Malford division. Mean- while a couple of shooting-parties had been arranged, mainly for his entertainment. Still, was there no urgent business that required him in town? He sauntered in to breakfast a little before ten. Only Evelyn Watton and her mother were visible, most of the men having already gone off to a distant meet. ((Now sit down and entertain us, Sir George,)) said Mrs. Watton, holding out her hand to him with an odd expression. ((We re as dull as ditch-waterthe men have all gone, Florrie s in bed with a chill, and Letty de- parted by the 9:30 train.)) Georges start, as he took his coffee from her, did not escape her. ((Miss Sewell gone? But why this sudden- ness?)) he inquired. 4 thought Miss Letty was to be here to the end of the week.)) Mrs. Watton raised her shoulders. ((She sent a note in to me at half-past eight to say her mother was nt well, and she was wanted at home. She just rushed in to say good-by to me, chattered a great deal, kissed every- body a great dealand I know no more. I hear she had breakfast and a fly, which is all I troubled myself about. I never interfere with the modern young woman.)) Then she raised her eye-glass, and looked hard and curiously at Tressady. His face told her nothing, however, and as she was the least sympathetic of women she soon forgot her own curiosity. Evelyn Watton, a vision of fresh girlhood in her morning frock, glanced shyly at him once or twice as she gave him scones and mustard. She was passing through a moment of poetry and happy dreams. All human be- ings walked glorified in her eyes, especially if they were young. Letty was not wholly to 182 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. her taste, and had never been a particular friend. But she thought ill of no one, and her little heart must needs flutter tenderly in the presence of anything that suggested love and marriage. It had delighted her to watch George and Letty together. Now, why had Letty rushed away like this? She thought with concern, thrilling all the time, that Sir George looked grave awl depressed. George, however, was not depressedor thought he was not. He walked into the li- brary after breakfast, whistling and quoting to himself: And there be they Who kissed his wings which brought him yesterday, And thank his wings to-day that he is flown. He prided himself on his memory of some modern poets, and the lines pleased him particularly. He had no sooner done quoting, however, than his mother peered into the room, claim- ing the business talk that had been promised. From that talk George emerged irritable and silent. His mothers extravagance was really preposterousnot to be borne. For four years now he had been free from the con- stant daily friction of money troubles, which had spoiled his youth and robbed him of all power of respecting his mother. And he had hugged his freedom. But all the time it seemed he had been hugging illusion, and the troubles had been merely piling up for his re- turn. Her present claimsand he knew very well that they were not the whole would ex- haust all his available balance at his bankers. Lady Tressady, for her part, thought, with indignant despair, that he had not behaved at all as an only son shouldespecially an only son just returned to a widowed mother after four years absence. How could any one suppose that in four years there would be no debtson such a pittance of an income? Some money, indeed, he had promised her; but not nearly enough, and not immediately. He ((must look into things at home.~ Lady Tressady was enraged with herself and him that she had not succeeded better in making him understand how pressing, how urgent, matters were. She must, indeed, bring it home to him that there might be a scandal at any moment. That odious livery-stable man, two or three dressmakersin these directions every phase and shift of the debtors long finesse had been exhausted long ago. Even she was at her wits end. As for other matters But from these her thoughts turned hurriedly away. Luck would change, of course, some time; it must change! No need to say anything about that just yet, especially while Georges temper was in such a queer state. It was very oddmost annoying! As a baby even he had never been caressing or sweet like other peoples babies. And now, really!why her son should have such unattractive ways! But, inanceuver as she would, George would not be drawn into further discussion. She could only show him offended airs, and rack her brains morning and night as to how best to help herself. Meanwhile George had never been so little pleased with living as during these few days. He was overwhelmed with congratulations; and, to judge from the newspapers, ((all Eng- land,)) as Lady Tressady said, ~~was talking of him.)) It seemed to him ridiculous that a man should derive so little entertainment from such a fact. Nevertheless his dullness re- mained and refused to be got rid of. He dis- cussed with himself, of course, for a new set of reasons, the possibility of evading the shooting-parties and departing. But he was deeply pledged to stay, and he was under considerable obligations to the Wattons. So he stayed; but he shot so as to increase his own dissatisfaction with the universe, and to make the other men in the house wonder what might be the general value of an Indian sporting reputation when it came to dealing with the British pheasant. Then he turned to business. He tried to read some parliamentary reports bearing on a coming measure, and full of notes by Fon- tenoy, which Fontenoy had left with him. But it only ended in his putting them hastily aside, lest in the mood of obscure contradic- tion that possessed him he should destroy his opinions before he had taken his seat. On the day before the last ((shoot,)) among the letters his servant brought him in the early morning was one that he tore open in a hurry, tossing the rest aside. It was from Miss Sewell, requesting, pret- tily, in as few words as possible, that he would return her a book she had lent him. ((My mother,)) she wrote, ((has almost re- covered from her sudden attack of chill. I trust the shooting-parties have amused you, and that you have read all Lord Fontenoys Blue Books.)) George wrote a reply before be went down to breakfasta piece of ordinary small talk, that seemed to him the most wretched stuff conceivable. But he pulled two pens to pieces before he achieved it. Then he went out for a long walk alone, SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 183 pondering what was the matter with him. Had that little witch dropped the old familiar poison into his veins, after all? Certainly some women made life vivacity and pleasure, while othershis mother or Mrs. Watton, for instancemade it fatigue or tedium. Ever since his boyhood Tressady had been conscious of intermittent assaults of melan- choly, fits of some inner disgust, which hung the world in black, crippled his will, made him hate himself and despise his neighbors. It was possibly some half-conscious dread lest this morbid speck in his nature should gain upon the rest that made him so hungry for travel and change of scene after he left college. It explained many surprises, many apparent ficklenesses, in his life. During the three weeks that he had spent in the same house with Letty Sewell he had never once been conscious of this lurking element of his life. And now, after four days, he found him- self positively pining for her voice, the rustle of her delicate dress, her defiant, provocative ways that kept a man on the alertstill more, her smiling silences, that seemed to challenge all his powers; the touch of her small, cool hand, that crushed so easily in his. What had she left the house for in that wilful way? He did not believe her excuses. Yet he was mystified. Did she realize that things were becoming serious, and did she not mean them to be serious? If so, who or what hindered? As for Fontenoy Tressady quickened his step impatiently as he recalled that harassed and toiling figure. Politics or no politics, he would live his life! Besides, it was obviously to his profit to marry. How could he ever make a common household with his mother? He meant to do his duty by her, but she annoyed and abashed him twenty times a day. He would be far happier married, far better able to do his work. He was not passionately in lovenot at all. Butfor it was no good fencing with himself any longer-he desired Letty Sew- ells companionship more than he had desired anything for a long time. He wanted the right to carry off the little musical box, with all its tunes, and set it playing in his own house, to keep him gay. Why not? He could house it prettily, and reward it well. As for the rest, he decided, without think- ing about it, that Letty Sewell was well born and bred. She had, of course, all the little refinements a fastidious taste might desire in a woman. She would never discredit a man in society. On the contrary, she would be a great strength to him there. And she must be sweet-tempered, or that pretty child Evelyn Watton would not be so fond of her. That pretty child, meanwhile, was absorbed in the excitement of her own small r6le. Tres- sady, who had only made duty-conversation with her before, had found out somehow that she was sympatheticthat she would talk to him charmingly about Letty. After a very little pretending he let himself go, and Eve- lyn dreamed at night of his confidences, her heart, without knowing it, leaping forward to the time when a man would look at her so, for her own sakenot anothers. She forgot that she had ever criticized Letty, thought her vain or selfish. Nay, she made a heroine of her forthwith; she remembered all sorts of delightful things to say of her, simply that she might keep the young member talking in a corner, that she might still enjoy the delicious pride of feeling that she knew she was helping it on. After the big ((shoot,)) for instance, when all the other gentlemen were stiff and sleepy, George spent the whole evening in chatter- ing to Evelyn, or, rather, in making her chat- ter. Lady Tressady loitered near them once or twice. She heard the names ((Letty,)) ((Miss Sewell,~ passing and repassing, one talker catching up the other. Over any topic that included Miss Sewell they lingered; when anything was begun that did not concern her it dropped at once, like a ball ill thrown. The mother went away smiling rather sourly. She watched her son, indeed, cat-like all these days, trying to discover what had hap- penedwhat his real mind was. She did not wish for a daughter-in-law at all, and she had even a secret fear of Letty Sewell in that capacity. But somehow George must be man- aged, her own needs must be met. She felt that she might be undoing the future; but the present drove her on. On the following morning, from one of Mrs. Wattons numerous letters there dropped out the fact that Letty Sewell was expected im- mediately at a country house in North Mercia whereof a certain Mrs. Corfield was mistress a house only distant some twenty miles from the Tressadys estate of Perth Place. ((My sister-in-law has recovered with re- markable rapidity,)) said Mrs. Watton, raising a sarcastic eye. ((Do you know anything of the Corfields, Sir George ? ~) ((Nothing at all,)) said George. ((One hears of them sometimes from neighbors. They are said to be very lively folk. Miss Sewell will have a gay time.)) ((Corfield?)) said Lady Tressady, her head on one side and her cup balanced in two jew- 184 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. eled hands. ((What! Aspasia Corfield! Why, my dear George one of my oldest friends!)) George laughedthe short, grating laugh his mother so often evoked. ((Beg pardon, mother; I can only answer for myself. To the best of my belief I never saw her, either at Ferth or anywhere else.)) ((Why, Aspasia Corfield and I,~ said Lady Tressady, with languid reflectiveness ((Aspa- sia Corfield and I copied each others dresses and bought our hats at the same place when we were eighteen. I have nt seen her for an eternity. But Aspasia used to be a dear girl and so fond of me!)) She put down her cup with a sigh, intended as a reproach to George. George only buried himself the deeper in his mornings letters. Mrs.Watton, behind her newspaper, glanced grimly from the mother to the son. I wonder if that woman has a single real old friend in the world. How is George Tres- sady going to put up with her?)) The Wattons themselves had been on friendly terms with Tressadys father for many years. Since Sir Williams death and Georges absence, however, Mrs. Watton had not troubled herself much about Lady Tres- sady, in which she believed she was only fol- lowing suit with the rest of West Mercia. But now that George had reappeared as a promising politician, his mothertill he mar- riedhad to be to some extent accepted along with him. Mrs. Watton, accordingly, had thought it her duty to invite her for the election, not without an active sense of mar- tyrdom. ((She always has bored me to tears since I first saw Sir William trailing her about,)) she would remark to Letty. Where did he pick her up? The marvel is that she has kept respectable. She has never looked it. I always feel inclined to ask her at breakfast why she dresses for dinner twelve hours too soon!)) Very soon after the little conversation about the Corfields Lady Tressady withdrew to her room, sat thoughtful for a while, with her writing-block on her knee, then wrote a letter. She was perfectly aware of the fact that since George had come back to her she was likely to be welcome once more in many houses that for years had shown no particular desire to receive her. She took the situation very easily. It was seldom her way to be bitter. She was only determined to amuse herself, to enjoy her life in her own way. If people disapproved of her, she thought them fools; but it did not prevent her from trying to make it up with them next day, if she saw an opening and it seemed worth while. ((There!)) she said to herself as she sealed the letter and looked at it with admiration. 4 really have a knack for doing those things. I should think Aspasia Corfield would ask him by return-me, too, if she has any decency, though she has dropped me for fifteen years. She has a tribe of daughters. Why I should play Miss Sewells game like this I dont know! Well, one must try something.)) THAT same afternoon mother and son took their departure for Ferth Place. George, who had only spent a few weeks at Ferth since his return from India, should have found plenty to do both indoors and out. The house struck him as singularly dingy and out of order. Changes were imperatively de- manded in the garden and in the estate. His business as a colliery-owner was in a tangled and critical condition. And meanwhile Fon- tenoy plied him incessantly with a political correspondence which of itself made large demands upon intelligence and energy. Nevertheless he shuffled out of everything, unless it were the correspondence with Fonte- noy. As to the notion that all the languor could be due merely to an unsatisfied craving for Letty Sewells society, when it presented itself he still fought with it. The Indian cli- mate might have somehow affected him. An English winter is soon forgotten, and has to be relearned like a distasteful lesson. About a week after their arrival at Ferth, George was sitting at his solitary breakfast when his mother came floating into the room, preceded by a rattle of bangles, a flutter of streamers, and the barking of little dogs. She held various newly opened letters, and, running up to him, she laid her hands on his shoulders. ((Now,)) thought George to himself, with annoyance, ((she is going to be arch!)) ((Oh, you silly boy!)) she said, holding him, with her head on one side. ((Who s been cross and nasty to his poor old mammy? Who wants cheering up a bit before he set- tles down to his horrid work? Who would take his mammy to a nice party at a nice house, if he were prettily askedeh? Who would?)) She pinched his cheek before he could escape. ((Well, mother, of course you will do what you like,)) said George, walking off to supply himself with ham. I shall not leave home again just yet.)) Lady Tressady smiled. ((Well, anyhow, you can read Aspasia Cor- fields letter,)) she said, holding it out to him. ((You know, really, that house is nt ba~l. They SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 185 took over the Dryburghs chef, and Aspasia knows how to pick her people.)) ((Aspasia!)) The tone of patronizing inti- macy! George blushed, if his mother did not. Yet he took the letter. He read it, then put it down, and walked to the window to look at a crowd of birds that had been col- lecting around a plate of food he had just put out upon the snow. ((Well, will you go?)) said his mother. ((If you particularly wish it,)) he said, after a pause, in an embarrassed voice. Lady Tressadys dimples were in full play as she settled herself into her seat and be- gan to gather a supply of provisions. But as he returned to his place, and she glanced at him, she saw that he was not in a mood to be bantered, and understood that he was not going to let her force his confidence, however shrewdly she might guess at his affairs. So she controlled herself, and began to chatter about the Corfields and their party. He responded, and by the end of breakfast they were on much better terms than they had been for some weeks. That morning, also, he wrote a check for her immediate necessities, which made her for the timea happy woman; and she over- whelmed him with grateful tears and em- braces, which he did his best to bear. Early in December he and she became the Corfields guests. They found a large party collected, and Letty Sewell happily estab- lished as the spoiled child of the house. At the first touch of her hand, the first glance of her eyes, Georges cloud dispersed. ((Why did you run away?)) George asked her on the first possible occasion. Letty laughed, fenced with the question for four days, during which George was never dull for a single instant, and then capitu- lated. She allowed him to propose to her, and was graciously pleased to accept him. THE following week Tressady went down with Letty to her home at Helbeck. He found an invalid father, a remarkably foolish, inconsequent mother, and a younger sister, Elsie, on whom, as it seemed to him, the bur- dens of the house mainly rested. The father, who was suffering from a slow but incurable disease, had the remains of much natural ability and acuteness. He was well content with Tressady as a son-in-law, though in the few interviews that Tressady was able to have with him on the question of settlements, the young man took pains to state his money affairs as carefully and mod- estly as possible. Letty was not often in her VOL. LI.24. fathers room, and Mr. Sewell treated her, when she did come, rather like an agreeable guest than a daughter. But he was evidently extremely proud of her, as also was the mother,and he would talk much to George, when his health allowed it, of her good looks and her social success. With the younger sister Tressady did not find it easy to make friends. She was plain, sickly, and rather silent. She seemed to have scientific tastes, and to be a great reader. And, so far as he could judge, the two sisters were not intimate. Donthate me fortaking her away,)) he said, as he was bidding good-by to Elsie, and glanc- ing over her shoulder at Letty on the stairs. The girls quiet eyes were crossed by a momentary look of amusement. Then she controlled herself, and said gently: ((We did nt expect to keep her! Good- by!)) IV. ((OH, Tully, look at my cloak! You ye let it fall! Hold my fan, please, and give me the opera-glasses.)) The speaker was Miss Sewell. She and an elderly lady were sitting side by side in the stalls, about half-way down St. Jamess Hall. The occasion was a popular concert, and, as Joachim was to play, every seat in the hall was rapidly filling up. Letty rose as she asked for the opera- glasses, and scanned the crowds streaming in through the side doors. ((Nono signs of him! He must have been kept at the House, after all,)) she said, with annoyance. ((Really, Tully, I do think you might have got a program all this time! Why do you leave everything to me?)) ((My dear,)) said her companion, protesting, ~~you did nt tell me to.)) ((Well, I dont see why I should tell you everything. Of course I want a program. Is that he? No! What a nuisance!)) ((Sir George must have been detained,)) murmured her companion, timidly. ((What a very original thing to say, was nt it, Tully?~ remarked Miss Sewell, with sar- casm, as she sat down again. The lady addressed was silent, instinctively waitingtill Lettys nerves should have quieted down. She was a Miss Tulloch, a former governess of the Sewells, and now often em- ployed by Letty, when she was in town, as a convenient chaperon. Letty was accustomed to stay with an aunt in Cavendish Square, an old lady who did not go out in the evenings. A chaperon, therefore, was indispensable, 186 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. and Maria Tulloch could always be had. She existed somewhere in West Kensington, on an income of seventy pounds a year. Letty took her freely to the opera and the theater, to concerts and galleries, and occasionally gave her a dress she did not want. Miss Tul- loch clung to the connection as her only chance of relief from the boarding-house routine she detested, and was always abjectly ready to do as she was told. She saw nothing she was not meant to see, and she could be shaken off at a moments notice. For the rest, she came of a stock of gentlefolk, and her invariable black dress, her bits of care- fully treasured lace, the weak refinement of her face, and her timid manner, did no dis- credit to the brilliant creature beside her. When the first number of the program was over, Letty got up once more, opera-glass in hand, to search among the late comers for her missing lover. She nodded to many ac- quaintances, but George Tressady was not to be seen; and she sat down finally in no mood either to listen or to enjoy, though the magi- cian of the evening was already at work. Ther~ s something very special, is nt there, you want to see Sir George about to-night?)) Tully inquired, humbly, when the next pause occurred. ((Of course there is!)) said Letty, crossly. ((You do ask such foolish questions, Tully! If I dont see him to-night he may let that house in Brook street slip. There are several peo- ple after it, the agents told me.~ ((And he thinks it too expensive?)) ((Only because of her. If she makes him pay her that preposterous allowance, of course it will be too expensive. But I dont mean him to pay it.)) ((Lady Tressady is terribly extravagant,)) murmured Miss Tulloch. ((Well, so long as she is nt extravagant with his moneyour moneyI dont care a rap,)) said Letty; ((only she shant spend all her own and all ours too, which is what she has been doing. When George was away he let her live at Ferth and spend almost all the income, except five hundred a year that he kept for himself. And then she got so shanie- fully into debt that he does nt know when he shall ever clear her. He gave her money at Christmas, and again, I am sure, just late ly. Oh, no!)) said Letty, sharply, drawing her- self up; it must be stopped. I dont know that I shall be able to do much till I m married, but I mean to make him take this house.)) ((Is Lady Tressady nice to you? She is in town, is nt she?)) ((Oh, yes, she s in town. Nice?)) said Let- ty, with a little laugh. ((She cant bear me, of course; but we re quite civil.)) eI thought she tried to bring it on?)) said the confidante, anxious, above all things, to be sympathetic. ((Well, she brought him to the Corfields, and let me know she had. I dont know why she did it. I suppose she wanted to get some- thing out of him. Ah, there he is!)) And Letty stood up, smiling and beckoning, while Tressadys tall, thin figure made its way along the central passage. ((Horrid House! What made you so late?)) she said, as he sat down between her and Miss Tulloch. George Tressady looked at her with de- light. The shrewish contractions in the face, which had been very evident to Tully a few minutes before, had all disappeared, and the sharp, slight lines of it seemed to George the height of delicacy. At sight of him color and eyes had brightened. Yet at the same time there was not a trace of the raw girl about her. She knew very well that he had no taste for ing6nues, and she was neither nervous nor sentimental in his company. ((Do you suppose I should have stayed a second longer than I was obliged?)) he asked her, smiling, pressing her little hand under pretense of taking her program. The first notes of a new Brahms quartet mounted, thin and sweet, into the air. The musical portion of the audience, having come for this particular morsel, prepared them- selves eagerly for the tasting and trying of it. George and Letty tried to say a few things more to each other before yielding to the gen- eral silence, but an old gentleman in front turned upon them a face of such disdain and fury they must needs laugh and desist. Not that George was unwilling. He was tired; and silence with Letty beside him was not only repose, but pleasure. Moreover, he derived a certain honest pleasure of a mixed sort from music. It suggested literary or pictorial ideas to him which stirred him, and gave him a sense of enjoyment. Now, as the playing flowed on, it called up delightful images in his brain: of woody places, of whirling forms, of quiet rivers, of thin trees Corot-like against the skyscenes of plead- ing, of frolic, reproachful pain, dissolving joy. With it all mingled his own story, his own feeling; his pride of possession in this white creature touching him; his sense of youth, of opening life, of a crowded stage whereon his ~~cue)) had just been given, his ((call)) sounded. He listened with eagerness, welcoming each fancy as it floated past, con- SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 187 scions of a grain of self-abandonment even a rare mood with him. He was not absorbed in love by any means; the music suggested to him a hundred other kindling or enchanting things. Nevertheless it made it doubly pleas- ant to be there, with Letty beside him. He was quite satisfied with himself and her; quite certain that he had done everything for the best. All this the music in some way emphasized made clear. When it was over, and the applause was subsiding, Letty said in his ear, ((Have you settled about the house?)) He smiled down upon her, not hearing what she said, but admiring her dress, its little complication and subtleties, the vio- lets that perfumed every movement, the slim fingers holding the fan. Her mere ways of personal adornment were to him like pleasant talk. They surprised and amused himstood between him and ennui. She repeated her question. A frown crossed his brow, and the face changed wholly. ((Ah!it is so difficult to see one~s way,)) he said, with a little sigh of annoyance. Letty played with her fan, and was silent. ((Do you so much prefer it to the others?)) he asked her. Letty looked up with astonishment. ((Why, it is a house!)) she said, lifting her eyebrows; (and the others)) ((Hovels? Well, you are about right. The small London house is an abomination. Per- haps I can make them take less premium.)) Letty shook her head. ((It is not at all a dear house,)) she said decidedly. He still frowned, with the look of one re- called to an annoyance he had shaken off. ((Well, darling, if you wish it so much, that settles it. Promise to be still nice to me when we go through the Bankruptcy Court!)) ((We will let lodgings, and I will do the wait- ing,~ said Letty, just laying her hand lightly against his for an instant. ((Just think! That house would draw like anything. Of course we will only take the eldest sons of peers. By the way, do you see Lord Fontenoy?~ They were in the middle of the ((interval,)) and almost every one about them, including Miss Tulloch, was standing up, talking or examining their neighbors. George craned his neck round Miss Tul- loch, and saw Fontenoy sitting beside a lady on the other side of the middle gangway. ((Who is the lady?)) Letty inquired. ((I saw her with him the other night at the Foreign Office.)) George smiled. ((Thatif you want to knowis Fontenoys story!)) ((Oh, but tell me at once!)) said Letty, im- periously. ((But he has nt got a story, or a heart. He s only stuffed with Blue Book.)) ((So I thought till a few weeks ago. But I know a good deal more now about Master Fontenoy than I did.)) ((But who is she?)) ((She is a Mrs. Allison. Is nt that white hair beautiful? And her facehalf saintI always think; you might take her for a mo- ther-abbessand half princess. Did you ever see such diamonds?)) George pulled his mustaches and grinned as he looked across at Fontenoy. ((Tell me quick!)) said Letty, tapping him on the arm. ((Is she a widowand is he go- ing to marry her? Why did nt you tell me before? Why did nt you tell me at Malford?~ ((Because I did nt know,)) said George, laughing. ((Oh, it 5 a strange storytoo long to tell now. She is a widow, but he is not going to marry her, apparently. She has a grown-up son, just gone to college, and thinks it is nt fair to him. If Fontenoy wants to introduce her, dont refuse. She is the mistress of Castle Luton, and has delight- ful parties. Yesif I d known at Malford what I know now!)) And he laughed again, remembering Fon- tenoys nocturnal incursion upon him, and its apparent object. Who would have imagined that the preacher of that occasion had ever given one serious thought to woman and womans artsleast of all that he was the creation and slave of a woman! Lettys curiosity was piqued, and she would have plied George with questions, but that she suddenly perceived that Fontenoy had risen and was coming across to them. ((Gracious!)) she said; ((here he comes. I cant think why; he does nt like me.)) Fontenoy, however, when he had made his way to them, greeted Miss Sewell with as much apparent cordiality as he showed to any one else. He had received Georges news of the marriage with all decorum, and had since sent a handsome wedding-present to the bride elect. Letty, however, was never at ease with him, which, indeed, was the case with most women. He stood beside the ftanc~s for a minute or two, exchanging a few commonplaces with Letty on the performers and the audience ; then he turned to George with a change of look. ((No need for us to go back to-night, I think?)) 188 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. ((Whatto the House? Dear, no! Grooby and Havershon may be trusted to drone the evening out, I should hope, with no trouble to anybody but themselves. The Government are just keeping a house, that s all. Have you been grinding at your speech all day?)) Fontenoy shrugged his shoulders. ((I shant get anything out that I want to say. Are you coming to the House on Friday, Miss Sewell ?~ ((Friday?)) said Letty, looking puzzled. George laughed. ((I told you. You must plead trousseau if you want to save yourself!)) Amusement shone in his blue eyes as they passed from Letty to Fontenoy. He had long ago discovered that Letty was incapable of any serious interest in his public life. It did not disturb him at all. But it tickled his sense of humor that Letty would have to talk politics all the same, and to talk them with people like Fontenoy. ((Oh, you mean your Resolution!)) cried Letty. Is nt it a Resolution? Yes, of course I m coming. It s very absurd, for I dont know anyThing about it. But George says I must, and till I promise to obey, you see, I dont mind being obedient!)) Archness, however, was thrown away on Fontenoy. He stood beside her, awkward and irresponsive. Not being allowed to be woman- ish, she could only try once more to be political. ((It s to be a great attack on Mr. Dowson, is nt it?~ she asked him. ((You and George are mad about some things he has been do- ing? He s Home Secretary, is nt he? Yes, of course! And he s been driving trade away, and tyrannizing over the manufactur- ers? I wish you d explain it to me! I ask George, and he tells me not to talk shop.)) ((Oh, for goodness sake,)) groaned George, ((let it alone! I came to meet you and hear Joachim. However, I may as well warn you, Letty, that I shant have time to be married qnce Fontenoys anti-Maxwell campaign be- gins, and it will go on till the Day of Judg- ment.)) ((Why anti-Maxwell?)) said Letty, puzzled. 4 thought it was Mr. Dowson you are going to attack?)) George, a little vexed that she should re- quire it, began to explain that as Maxwell was ((only a miserable peer,)) he could have nothing to do with the House of Commons, and that Dowson was the official mouthpiece of the Maxwell group and policy in the Lower House. ((The hands were the hands of Esau,~ etc. Letty meanwhile, conscious that she was not showing to advantage, flushed, began to play nervously with her fan, and wished that George would leave off. Fontenoy did nothing to assist Georges political lesson. He stood impassive, till sud- denly he tried to look across his immediate neighbors, and then said, turning to Letty: ((The Maxwells, I see, are here to-night.)) He nodded toward a group on the left, some two or three benches behind them. ((You ye seen her, have nt you, Miss Sewell ?~ ((Oh, yes, often!~ said Letty, annoyed by the question, standing, however, eagerly on tiptoe. 4 know her, too, a little; but she never remembers me. She was at the Foreign Office on Saturday, with such a hideous dress onit spoiled her completely.)) ((Hideous!)) said Fontenoy, with a puzzled look. ((Some artistI forget whocame and raved to me about it; said it was like some Florentine pictureI forget whatdont think I ever heard of it.)) Letty looked contemptuous. Her expres- sion said that in this matter, at any rate, she knew what she was talking about. Never- theless her eyes followed the dark head Fon- tenoy had pointed out to her. Lady Maxwell was at the moment the cen- ter of a large group of people,~ mostly men, all of whom seemed to be eager to get a word with her; and she was talking with great animation, appealing from time to time to a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman, with gray- ish hair, who stood, smiling and silent, at the edge of the group. Letty noticed that many glasses from the balcony were directed to this particular knot of persons; that every- body near them, or rather every woman, was watching Lady Maxwell, or trying to get a better view of her. The girl felt a secret pang of envy and dislike. The figure of a well-known accompanist appeared suddenly at the head of the stair- case leading from the artists room. The interval was over, and the audience began to subside into attention. Fontenoy bowed and took his leave. ((You see, he did nt introduce me,~ said Letty, not without chagrin, as she settled down. ((And how plain he is! I think him uglier every time I see him.)) George made a vague sound of assent, but did not really agree with her in the least. Fontenoys air of overwork was more decided than ever; his eyes had almost sunk out of sight; the complexion of his broad, strong face had reddened and coarsened from lack of exercise and sleep; his brown hair was thinning and grizzling fast. Nevertheless a man saw much to admire in the ungainly head SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 189 and long-limbed frame, and did not think any the better of a womans intelligence for failing to perceive it. After the concert, as George and Letty stood together in the crowded vestibule, he said to her, with a smile: ((So I take that house?)) ((If you want to do anything disagreeable,)) she retorted quickly, ((dont ask me. Do it, and then wait till I am good-tempered again!)) ((What a tempting prospect! Do you know that when you put on that particular hood, I would take Buckingham Palace to please you? Do you know also that my mother will think us very extravagant?)) ((Ah, we cant all be economical!)) said Letty. He saw the little toss of the head and sharpening of the lips. They only amused him. Though he had never, so far, discussed his mother and her affairs with Letty in any detail, he understood perfectly well that her feeling about this particular house in some way concerned his mother, and that Letty and Lady Tressady were rapidly coming to dislike each other. .Well, why should Letty pretend? He liked her the better for not pretending. There was a movement in the crowd about them, and Letty, looking up, suddenly found herself close to a tall lady whose dark eyes were bent upon her. ((How do you do, Miss Sewell ?~ Letty, a little fluttered, gave her hand and replied. Lady Maxwell glanced across her at the tall young man with the fair, irregular face. George bowed involuntarily, and she slightly responded. Then she was swept on by her own party. ((Have you sent for your carriage?)) George heard some one say to her. ((No; I am going home in a hansom. I ye tired out both the horses to-day. Aldous is going down to the club to see if he can hear anything about Devizes.s ((Oh! the election?)) She nodded, then caught sight of her hus- band at the door beckoning, and hurried on. ((What a head!)) said George, looking after her with admiration. ((Yes,)) said Letty, unwillingly. ((It s the hair that s so splendidthe long black waves of it. How ridiculous to talk of tiring out her horsesthat s just like her! As though she might nt have fifty horses if she liked! Oh, George, there s our man! Quick, Tully!s They made their way out. In the press George put his arm half round Letty, shielding her. The touch of her light form, the near- ness of her delicate face, enchanted him. When their carriage had rolled away, and he turned homeward along Piccadilly,he walked absently for a time, conscious only of pulsing pleasure. It was a mild February night. After a long frost and a grudging thaw, westerly winds were setting in, and spring could be fore- seen. It had been pouringwith rain during the concert, but was now fair, the rushing clouds leaving behind them, as they passed, great torn spaces of blue, where the stars shone. Gusts of warm, moist air swept through the street. As Georges moment of intoxica- tion gradually subsided, he felt the physical charm of the soft buffeting wind. How good seemed all livingyouth and capacity, this roaring multitudinous London, the future with its chances! This common pleasant chance of marriage amongst themhe was glad he had put out his hand to it. His wife that was to be was no saint and no philoso- pher. He thanked the fates! He at least asked for neitheron the hearth. ((Praise, blame, bye, kisses ~ for all of those life with Letty would give ~scope; yet for none of them in excess. There would be plenty of room left for other things, other passions the passion of political power, for instance; the art of dealing with and commanding other men. He, the novice, the beginner, to talk of ((commanding))! Yet already he felt his foot upon the ladder. Fontenoy consulted him and confided in him more and more. In spite of his engagemeni he was informing himself rapidly on a hundred questions, and the mental wrestle of every day was exhilar- ating. Their small group in the House, com- pact, tireless, audacious, was growing in im- portance and in the attention it extorted from the public. This attack upon Dowson upon a meddling and tyrannical Home Office would give them their first great chance. The season~ and ((dangerous)) trades ha- rassed by the administrative energy of the Government had rallied to Fontenoys sup- port with loud alarums and lamentations. A certain number of Liberals, especially an ac- tive and Whiggish group of manufacturers, were likely to vote with him; while the so- cialist Labor party, who just at the moment were on bad terms with the Government, could not be trusted. The attack and defense would probably take two nights; for the Government, admitting the gravity of the assault, had agreed, in case the debate should not be concluded on Friday, to give up Mon- day to it. Altogether the affair would make a noise. George would probably get in hi~ maiden speech on the second night, and was, in truth, devoting a great deal of his mind 190 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. to the prospect, though to Letty he had per- sistently laughed at it and belittled it, refus- ing altogether to let her come and hear him. Then, after Easter, would come Maxwells bill, and the fat in the fire! Poor little Let- ty!she would get but few of the bridal observances due to her when that struggle began. But first would come Easter and their wedding; that one short fortnight, when he would carry her offsoft, willing preyto the country, draw a ((wind-warm space~~ about himself and her, and minister to all her whims. He turned down St. Jamess street, passed - Marlborough House, and entered the Mall, on the way to Warwick Square, where he was living with his mother. Suddenly he became aware of a crowd, immediately in front of him, in the direction of Buckingham Palace. A hansom and horse were standing in the roadway; the driver, crimson and hatless, was bandying words with one of the policemen, who had his note-book open, and from the middle of the crowd came a sound of wailing. He walked up to the edge of the circle. Anybody hurt?)) he said to the policeman as the man shut his note-book. ((Little girl run over, sir.~ ((Can I be of any assistance? Is there an ambulance coming ? ~ ((No, sir. There was a lady in the han- som. She s just now bandaging the childs leg, and says she 11 take it to the hospital.)) George mounted on one of the seats under the trees that stood handy, and looked over the heads of the crowd to the space in the center which the other policeman was keep- ing clear. A little girl lay on the ground, or rather on a heap of coats; another girl, ap- parently about sixteen, stood near her, cry- ing bitterly; and a lady ((Goodness!)) said Tressady; and, jumping down, hetouchedthepolicemanonthe shoulder. ((Can you get me through? I think I could be some help. That lady ~ he spoke a word in the policemans ear. The man touched his hat. ((Stand back, please,)) he said, addressing the crowd, ((and let this gentleman through.)) The crowd divided unwillingly. But at the same moment it parted from the inside, and a little procession came through, both police- men joining their energies to make a free passage for it. In front walked the police- man carrying the little girl, a child appar- ently about twelve years old. Her right foot lay stiffly across his arm, held straight and still in an impromptu splint of umbrellas and handkerchiefs. Immediately behind him came the lady whom George had caught sight of, holding the other girls hand in hers. She was bareheaded and in evening dress. Her opera-cloak, with its heavy sable collar, showed beneath it a dress of some light-col- ored satin, which had already suffered de- plorably from the puddles of the road; and as she neared the lamp beneath which the cab had stopped, the diamonds on her wrists sparkled in the light. During her passage through the crowd, George perceived that one or two people recognized her, and that a murmur ran from mouth to mouth. Of anything of the sort she herself was totally unconscious. George saw at once that she, not the policeman, was in command. She gave him directions, as they approached the cab, in a quick, imperative voice which left no room for hesitation. ((The driver is drunk,)) he heard her say; ((who will drive?)) ((One of us will drive, ma am.~ ((Whatthe other man? Ask him to take the reins at once, please, before I get in. The horse is fresh, and might start. That s right. Now, when I say the word, give me the child.)) She settled herself in the cab. George saw the policeman somewhat embarrassed for a moment with his burden. He came for- ward to his help, and between them they handed in the child, placing her carefully on her protectors knee. Then, standing at the open door of the cab, George raised his hat. ((Can I be of any further assistance to you, Lady Maxwell? I saw you just now at the concert.)) She turned in some astonishment as she heard her name, and looked at the speaker. Then, very quickly, she seemed to under- stand. I dont know,)) she said, pondering. ((Yes, you could help me. I am going to take the child to hospital. But there is this other girl. Could you take her home?she is very much upset. No! first, could you bring her after me to St. Georges? She wants to see where we put her sister.)) ((I will call another cab, and be there as soon as you.~ ((Thank you. Just let me speak to the sister a moment, please.)) He put the weeping girl forward, and Lady Maxwell bent across the burden on her knee to say a few words to hersoft, quick wo;ds in another voice. The girl understood; her face cleared a little, and she let Tressady take charge of her. SIR GEORGE TRESSADY. 191 One of the policemen mounted the box of the hansom, amid the ((chaff)) of the crowd, and the cab started. A few hats were raised in Georges neighborhood, and there was something of a cheer. ((I tell yer,)) said a voice, I knowed her fust sightseed her picture lots o times in the papers, and in the winders, too. My word, aint she good-lookin! And did yer see all them diamonds?)) ((Come along!)) said George, impatiently, hurrying his charge into the four-wheeler the other policeman had just stopped for them. In a few more seconds, he, the girl, and the policeman were pursuing Lady Maxwells hansom at the best speed of an indifferent horse. George tried to say a few consoling things to his neighbor, and the girl, reassured by his kind manner, found her tongue, and began to chatter in a tearful voice about the how and when of the accident; about the elder sister in a lodging in Crawford street, Tottenham Court Road, whom she and the little one had been visiting; the grandmother in Westminster with whom they lived; poor Lizzies place in a laundry, which now she must lose; how the lady had begged handkerchiefs and umbrellas from the crowd to tie up Lizzie s leg withand so on through a number of other details incoherent or plaintive. George heard her absently. His mind all the time was absorbed in the dramatic or ironic aspects of what he had just seen. For dramatic they werethough perhaps a little cheap. Could he, could any one, have made acquaintance with this particular woman in more characteristic fashion? He laughed to think how he would tell the story to Fonte- noy. The beautiful creature in her diamonds, kneeling on her satin dress in the mud, to bind up a little laundry-maids legit was so extravagantly in keeping with Marcella Maxwell that it amused one like an overdone coincidence in a clumsy play. What made her so beautiful? The face had marked defects; but in color, expression, subtlety of lineincomparable! On the other hand, the mannerno!he shrugged his shoulders. The remembrance of its mannish or should it be, rather, boyish ?energy and assurance somehow set him on edge. In the end, they were not much behind the hansom, for the hospital porter was only just in the act of taking the injured child from Lady Maxwell as Tressady dismounted and went forward again to see what he could do. But, somewhat to his chagrin, he was not wanted. Lady Maxwell and the porter did everything. As they went into the hospital George caught a few of the things she was saying to the porter as she supported the childs leg. She spoke in a rapid, profes- sional way, and the man answered, as the policeman had done, with a deference and understanding which were clearly not due only to her ((grand air)) and her evening dress. George was puzzled. He and the elder sister followed her into the waiting-room. The house surgeon and a nurse were summoned, and the injured leg was put into a splint there and then. The patient moaned and cried most of the time, and Tressady had hard work to keep the sister quiet. Then nurse and doctor lifted the child. ((They are going to put her to bed,)) said Lady Maxwell, turning to George. ((I am going up with them. Would you kindly wait? The sister ~ she dropped her business tone, and, smiling, touched the elder girl on the arm can come up when the little one is undressed.)) The little procession swept away, and George was left with his charge. As soon as the small sister was out of sight the elder one began to chatter again out of sheer ex- citement, crying at intervals. George did not heed her much. He walked up and down with his hands in his pockets, conscious of a curious irritability. He did not think a woman should take a strange mans service quite so coolly. At the end of another quarter of an hour a nurse appeared to summon the sister. Tressady was told he might come too if he would, and his charge threw him a quick, timid look, as though asking him not to de- sert her in this unknown and formidable place. So they followed the nurse up white stone stairs, and through half-lit corridors, where all was silent, save that once a sound of delirious shrieking and talking reached them through a closed door, and made the sisters consumptive little face turn whiter still. At last the nurse, putting her finger on her lip, turned a handle, and George was con- scious of a sudden feeling of pleasure. They were standing on the threshold of a childrens ward. On either hand was a range of beds, bluish-white between the yellow pic- ture-covered walls and the middle way of spotless floor. Far away, at the other end, a great fire glowed. On a bare table in the center, laden with bottles and various sur- gical necessaries, stood a shaded lamp, and beside it the chair where the night nui~e had been sitting. In the beds were sleeping children of various ages, some burrowing 192 TilE CENTURY MAGAZINE. face downward, animal-like, into their pil- lows; others lying on their backs, painfully straight and still. The air was warm, yet light, and there was the inevitable smell of antiseptics. Something in the fire-lit space and comfort of the great room, its ordered lines and colors, the gentleness of the shaded light as contrasted with the dim figures in the beds, seemed to make a poem of ita poem of human tenderness. Two or three beds away to the right, Lady Maxwell was standing with the night nurse of the ward. The little girl had been un- dressed, and was lying quiet, with a drawn, piteous face that turned eagerly as her sis- ter came in. The whole scene was new and touching to Tressady. Yet, after the first impression, his attention was perforce held by Lady Maxwell, and he saw the rest only in relation to her. She had slipped off her heavy cloak, in order, perhaps, that she might help in the undressing of the child. Beneath she wore a little shawl or cape of some deli- cate lace over her low dress. The dress itself was of a pale shade of green; the mire and mud with which it was bedabbled no longer showed in the half light, and the satin folds glistened dimly as she moved. The poetic dignity of the head, so finely wreathed with its black hair, of the full throat and falling shoulders, received a sort of special emphasis from the wide spaces, the pale colors and level lines of the ward. Tressady was con- scious again of the dramatic, significant note as he watched her, yet without any soften- ing of his nascent feeling of antagonism. She turned and beckoned to the sister as they entered. ((Come and see how comfortable she is! And then you must give this lady your name and address.)) The girl timidly approached. While she was .occupied with her sister and with the nurse, Lady Maxwell suddenly looked round, and saw Tressady standing by the table a yard or two from her. A momentary expression of astonishment crossed her face. He saw that, in her ab- sorption with the case and the two sisters, she had clean forgotten all about him. But in a flash she remembered and smiled. ((So you are really going to take her home? That is very kind of you. It will make all the difference to the grandmother that somebody should go and explain. You see, they leave her in the splint for the night, and to-morrow they will put the leginplaster. Probably theywont keep her in hospital more than about three weeks, for they are very full.)) ((You seem to know all about ith ((I was a nurse myself once, for a time,)) she said, but with a certain stiffness which seemed to mark the transition from the pro- fessional to the great lady. ((Ah! I should have remembered that. I had heard it from Edward Watton.~ She looked up quickly. He felt that for the first time she took notice of him as an individual. ((You know Mr. Watton? I think you are Sir George Tressady, are you not? You got in for Market Malford in November? I recol- lect. I did nt like your speeches.~ She laughed. So did he. ((Yes, I got in just in time for a fighting Session.)) Her laugh disappeared. ((An odious fight!)) she said gravely. I am not so sure. That depends on whether you like fighting, and how certain you are of your cause!)) She hesitated a moment, then she said: ((How can Lord Fontenoy be certain of his cause!)) The slight note of scorn roused him. ((Is nt that what all parties say of their opponents?)) She glanced at him again curiously. He was evidently quite youngyounger than herself, she guessed. But his careless ease and experience of bearing, contrasted with his thin boys figure, attracted her. Her lip softened reluctantly into a smile. ((Perhaps,)) she said. ((Only sometimes, you know, it must be true! Well, evidently we cant discuss it here at one oclock in the morningand there is the nurse making signs to me. It is really very good of you. If you are in our neighborhood on Sunday, will you report?)) ((Certainlywith the greatest pleasure. I will come and give you a full account of my mission.)) She held out a slim hand. The sister, red- eyed with crying, was handed over to him, and he and she were soon in a cab speeding toward the Westminster mews, whither she directed him. Well, was Maxwell to be so greatly envied? Tressady was not sure. Such a woman, he thought, for all her beauty, would not have greatly stirred his own pulses. (To be continued.) Mary A. Ward. IRON THE PAINTING BY LEHUEL F, AHHOTT~ IN THE ENGLISH NATIONAL PORTRAIT I ENGRAVER HO T. JOHNSON. HORATIO, VISCOUFT EELSON, ADMIRAL OF THE BRITISH FLEET AT TRAFALGAR. the port. For the moment he was not strong enough to do more, but reinforcements were already on their way from England. Ville- neuve remained at anchor. On September 25 he received orders which had been issued on the 14th to weigh anchor, pass through the Strait of Gibraltar, take up the ships lying at Gartagena, and proceed to Naples, in order to odperate with the army under Saint-Cyr. lit 14 was to engage the enemy wherever found. The wretched admiral was in despair; for lack of stores he had been unable to improve his equipment during the interval of inaction, and the number of his ships was an embar- rassment rather than a source of strength. He prepared to obey, but sent home a remon- strance. In the mean time, however, ~in fact, on the very heels of his first order, -N po

William M. Sloane Sloane, William M. Napoleon the War Lord 193-222

IRON THE PAINTING BY LEHUEL F, AHHOTT~ IN THE ENGLISH NATIONAL PORTRAIT I ENGRAVER HO T. JOHNSON. HORATIO, VISCOUFT EELSON, ADMIRAL OF THE BRITISH FLEET AT TRAFALGAR. the port. For the moment he was not strong enough to do more, but reinforcements were already on their way from England. Ville- neuve remained at anchor. On September 25 he received orders which had been issued on the 14th to weigh anchor, pass through the Strait of Gibraltar, take up the ships lying at Gartagena, and proceed to Naples, in order to odperate with the army under Saint-Cyr. lit 14 was to engage the enemy wherever found. The wretched admiral was in despair; for lack of stores he had been unable to improve his equipment during the interval of inaction, and the number of his ships was an embar- rassment rather than a source of strength. He prepared to obey, but sent home a remon- strance. In the mean time, however, ~in fact, on the very heels of his first order, -N po INS BY LEMUEL ABBOTT, IN THE ENGLISH NATIONAL POSTHAIT ENGRAVES BY T. JOHNSON. HORATIO, VISCOUNT NELSON, ADMIRAL OF THE BRITISH FLEET AT TRAFALGAR. the port. For the moment he was not strong enough to do more, but reinforcements were already on their way from England. Ville- neuve remained at anchor. On September 25 he received orders which had been issued on the 14th to weigh anchor, pass through the Strait of Gibraltar, take up the ships lying at Cartagena, and proceed to Naples, in order to & iperate with the army under Saint-Cyr. He 194 was to engage the enemy wherever found. The wretched admiral was in despair; for lack of stores he had been unable to improve his equipment during the interval of inaction, and the number of his ships was an embar- rassment rather than a source of strength. He prepared to obey, but sent home a remon- strance. In the mean time, however,in fact, on the very heels of his first order, Napo NAPOLEON THE WAR LORD. 195 leon had despatched Rosily to supersede Villeneuve, who was evidently destined for a scapegoat, since he was to return immediately to Paris and answer charges preferred by Napoleon himself. The news outran Rosilys speed. Villeneuve, hearing of the disgrace which had overtaken him, hastened his prep- arations, and sailed on October 19 with thirty- three ships of the line, five frigates, and two brigs. It is easy to see what a tremendous effect the presence of such a naval power in the Mediterranean would have had upon the grand campaign Napoleon had arranged against Austria. Meantime repeated reinforcements from England had reached the blockading fleet, and in the last days of September seven more ships of the line arrived, raising the total number to thirty-three. On the 28th Nelson himself came to take command, Collingwood remaining as second. What the former was to British sailors need not again be told: his very name was worth a second fleet. He hoped for nothing short of absolutely annihilating the naval power of the allies. But he was compelled ~o send his vessels to Gihraltar for xvater in detachments, and consequently had only twenty-seven present and available when called on to fight. These were disposed south- westwardly from Cadiz toward Cape Spartel, the main body being fifty miles away when NTilleneuve sailed, believing that there were only twenty confronting him. On October 10 Nelson had already published to his fleet the plan of the coming battle, with orders similar in kind and quite as brilliant as those of Na- poleon before reaching Ulm. In order not to terrify his enemy he hovered at a long dis- tance from the shore. On the 20th he ad- vanced toward the northwest, having learned from his frigates, which had been watching Cadiz, that the allies had started. Next morning at daybreak his own watch descried the enemy sailing southeasterly, and far beyond, low on the horizon, the downs which line the bay north of Cape Trafalgar. The French fleet, simultaneously descrying the English, at once turned northward so as to be ready for retreat toward Cadiz; and Ville- neuve, skilful but ever despondent, drew up his ships for battle in a disposition which, on the whole, was admirable: two long lines parallel with the shore, those of the rear covering the spaces between those of the first, so as to make the whole virtually a sin- gle compact curved line, concave toward the enemy, and therefore prepared to deliver a cross-fire. It was a bright morning, with a light west- erly breeze, but a heavy ocean swell, as the British, with the advantage of the wind, slowly advanced in two columns, one led by Nelson in the Victory, the other by Colling- wood in the Royal Sovereign. All was silent when at the appointed moment the famous signal fluttered from the flag-ship, ((England expects every man to do his duty.)) Respon- sive cheers burst from ship after ship, and the French admiral murmured, ((Allis lost!)) Nelson had given a stirring order: ((In case signals cannot be seen or clearly understood, no captain can do wrong if he places his ship alongside that of an enemy.)) Villeneuve s was scarcely less so: ((Any captain not un- der fire is not at his post, and a signal to recall him would be a disgrace.)) It was a splendid audacity on Nelsons part which, fearing lest the light wind might make an engagement impossible, offered each of his ships in two attacking columns, one after the other, to the fire of a whole fleet. Colling- woods linethe southerncame into action first, just at noon, and broke through the enemys ranks, as was expected; but although this was by prearrangement with Nelson, yet the Royal Sovereign, having outsailed her consorts, went too far, and was isolated for twenty minutes, being exposed to the fire of all the enemys ships which could reach her, and was nearly lost before she could mamzeuver or aid could reach her. Instead of furling his sails, Collingwood had cut his sheets, and the flapping canvas could not be put into use. The Victory hastened on against the Ru- centaure, which carried the standard of Ville- neuve, as fast as the treacherous breeze would permit, and in turn attacked on the north. She too was in advance of her con- sorts, and was riddled before they could come to her relief. For a time the Redout- able withstood the onset both of the Victory and the next in line; but three more British vessels coming up, the five finally broke through, capturing the Bucentaure, the Re- doutable, and the Santissima Trinidad, which had so gallantly opposed them. Both the English flag-ships were saved in the end, but the fighting was terrific on both sides. To the over-confidence of the British was opposed a dull timidity in their opponents, and in the end this began to tell. The allied van failed to use their guns with either rapidity or pre- cision, while their inner line drifted awEiy to leeward and was enveloped by the enemy. In a few hours they were scattered, and about four oclock were at the mercy of their foes. Of the whole armada only eleven shipsfive French and six Spanishfinally escaped. 196 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. About half-past one Nelson received a mor- tal wound from the maintop of the Redout- able, but lived to hear the news of victory. His last order was for the ships to anchor for safety against a storm which was evidently approaching. He was a victim to his own system, which subordinated caution and every other idea to the single one of success. His men loved him just as Napoleons did, and fought desperately for his approval. Like his great contemporary, he was a master of his own profession, and to an extent equaled by no other admiral of Great Britain. He was still in his prime, and in many minds his loss offset the victory. That night the storm broke with violence. It continued throughout the 23d, and three of the eleven vessels which had escaped under Admiral Gravina were dashed to pieces on the shore; all but four of the English prizes were wrecked, and of Villeneuves proud squadron only eight were left. He himself sur- vived as a prisoner, and the following spring was released on parole. Early in April he landed at Morlaix, and, proceeding to Rennes, forwarded, thence a letter asking for an opportunity, to plead his cause before the Emperor. What the reply was is not known, but on the 22d he was found dead in his room, stabbed in several places, the knife embedded in the last wound. The reproaches Napoleon had heaped upon him must have been in the main undeserved, for he was never degraded; but they broke his spirit, and he doubtless committed suicide. It was long believed that he had been killed by one of his own officers, Magendie, captain of the Bucentaure, lest he should make disclosures disgraceful to the fleet and to the Emperor. Captain Wright, who commanded the English ship in which Georges Cadoudal the Chouan and other Bourbon conspirators had landed at Biville, had been thrown on French shores from a wreck, and taken prisoner. In October, 1805, he, like Pichegru, was found dead in his cell. The circumstances were equally theatri- cal and damning. He was lying with his throat cut, and near at hand was a razor and a copy of the Moniteur~~ containing the news of Ulm. The Parisians murmured under their breath that this Bonaparte was indeed unfortunate, as all his enemies died in his hands. Later, however, the most convincing testimony proved Magendies innocence, and there is lit- tle evidence that Fouchb or any of his agents were concerned in the deaths of Pichegru and Wright. It is nevertheless possible, and suspicion will never entirely disappear, for the coincidences are startling. The effect of Trafalgar in England was enormous. No doubt of her superiority on the seas could now remain, for the navies of her foes were wiped out. She was freed from the fear of invasion, and, in spite of the tremendous subsidies paid on the Continent, might hope for a revival of industry and trade. Napoleons career was one long, thick shadow which hung menacingly over English life. The victory of Trafalgar was a great rift in the cloud. Consequently a dispropor- tionate importance has always been assigned by her people and her historians to this bat- tle, which, although it ended French maritime aggressions for the duration of the war, in reality changed but little the eventual course of affairs by land, and in no way interfered with Napoleons operations for the moment. It did not necessitate, as has been claimed, the notorious Continental system, for that system was already in existence; it merely hastened tbe effort to enforce it rigorously enough to lame England by attacking her commerce. Her naval supremacy had been from the beginning a factor in determining French policy; it became after Trafalgar the most powerful element in molding Na- poleons policy, though it was not the only one. The Continental allies of England, while of course they rejoiced, felt that, after all, the effects of Nelsons victory were remote. For the moment Austria and Russia were engaged in a struggle which even Trafalgar did not influence to their advantage. Napoleon~ s sim- ple but characteristic remark on receiving the news was, 4 cannot be everywhere.)) He be- gan at once the reconstruction of a navy for the purpose of destroying commerce, but he never again assigned it any other share in his plans. In France there was a stunned feeling, but it quickly passed away under the influence of another event which marked nearly the highest point ever reached by the imperial power. The one noticeable result of Trafalgar was the quick dejection it pro- duced in Napoleons grand army; this was symptomatic of an evil still in its initiatory stages, which, though easily cured for the mo- ment, became in a short time periodic, and finally fatal. To trace any connection between the an- nihilation of Napoleons sea power and his European campaign is impossible. He was almost immediately confronted by a new foe, but there is no link between the two facts. While the French had been crossing from the valley of the Rhine into that of the Dan- ube, the Emperor had treated the minor Ger- man states with scant courtesy, using their H ~ H H 0 H Q 198 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. territories as those of either conquered peo- ple or dependent allies. This ruthless treat- ment did not, however, awaken a spirit of resentment among them. But Prussia, still considering herself a great power, grew fu- rious when Bernadotte rashly violated her neutrality and marched over her lands at Ansbach. The Czar, who had already directed his troops toward the Prussian frontier in order to coerce Frederick William into join- ing the coalition, and intended, if necessary, to violate Prussian neutrality as Napoleon had done, appeared in Berlin about the middle of October. The court party, headed by Queen Louisa, sympathized with the coalition, used the French ruthlessness to arouse public opin- ion in its favor, and, aided by Alexanders presence, soon gained a temporary victory in the treaty of Potsdam with Russia, signed November 3, which virtually ended the policy of neutrality so carefully cherished for ten years by Frederick William, and in the pur- suit of which Prussia had lost her vigor and her political importance. The wavering king finally bound himself to armed mediation, to put his army.on a war footing, and then either to secure from the Emperor of the French the liberties of Naples, Holland, and Switzer- land, with the separation of the crown of Italy from that of France, and an indemni- fication for the King of Sardinia, or else to enter the coalition with 180,000 men. The Russian troops might occupy or cross Prus- sian territory whenever needful. It was be- lieved that the necessary negotiations with Napoleon would turn one way or the other by the middle of December. Shortly afterward the two monarchs, who had wrought them- selves into an exalted fervor, swore eternal friendship over the tomb of Frederick the Great. The scene appears, in the light of later events, to have had a mystic character for both parties. They had seen the letter of the treaties made at Lun~ville and Amiens utterly disregarded; they felt that the treaty just signed was more profoundly significant than its language indicated. Their dramatic oath initiated a policy of secret dealing in everything pertaining to the imperial usurper who had defied all Europe, and with whom no faith in any literal sense could be kept. This feeling among the divine-right monarchs, though at times kept under by necessity, is recurrent and determinative to the end of Na- poleons career. There was some momentary compensation to the Emperor of the French for the serious blow he had received by the new alliance in the fact that he could now openly consolidate his power in western and southern Germany, relying on the interested friendship of the three electors who had gained so much by the enactment of the im- perial delegates, so called, in 1803those, namely, of Baden, Wiirtemberg, and Bavaria. The grateful Elector of Bavaria personally thanked Napoleon for his condescension, and again occupied Munich, from which the Aus- trians had driven him. His visit was short, for Napoleon was in haste; in fact, his posi- tion was critical. As to the immediate future, Russia and Austria were in front, and if he should give unsatisfactory answers to the envoy from Berlin, Prussia would be in his rear. All depended, therefore, on a quick and decisive struggle with the two allied empires. During his advance to Vienna, Napoleon, without a single conflict which might justly be called a pitched battle, had manceuvered both Austrians and Russians out of his way. By serious inadvertence he had suffered the division of Mortier, left isolated on the left bank of the Danube, to be annihilated at Diir- renstein; and through Murats vainglorious stubbornness, Kutusoff had escaped with the Russian contingent. Nevertheless, as we have seen, the main French army had, by the most amazing marches, reached Vienna on November 14, and the same day Napoleon had established his headquarters in the neigh- boring palace of Francis at Schbnbrunn. Mu- rat was hurrying forward with his cavalry, and the divisions of Suchet and Lannes were close on the heels of Murat. If these should attack one Russian flank while a second army turned the other, Kutusoffs force could be dis- persed. But two important duties demanded immediate attention. In all this long east- ward march from the sea to Vienna, the Em- peror would not listen to questions of com- missariat. The season was propitious: there were potatoes in the fields and forage in abundance, so that the troops had been quite able to live by their own exertions. To do so, however, they were scattered over a wide territory; now the season was already late, and the troops must be gathered in to strike. It was consequently essential that regular pro- vision-trains be organized and supplied. Both these tasks were pursued with untiring zeal. ((They sayl have more talent than some others,)) Napoleon wrote to Marmont on November 15, ((and yet to defeat an enemy whom I am ac- customed to beat I feel I can never have enough troops. I am calling in all I can unite.)) Murat pushed onward after the retreating Russians, and in spite of their tremendous marches overtook them on the 15th. Kutu- soffs men were so weary that they could pro- CARBINEER. 200 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. ceed no farther without a rest, and from Schrattenthal he sent back a subordinate, Bagration, to Hollabrunn, with 6000 of the freshest troops, to check the French advance, if possible. Believing the main army of Kutu- soff to be before him, and having only Lannes with his own cavalry, since Suchet had not arrived, the French leader felt unable to en- gage. He determined, therefore, to gain time for reinforcements to come in, and to try with the Russians the same unscrupulous game which had succeeded in Vienna with the Aus- trians. Accordingly he despatched a messen- ger under a flag of truce with the statement, purely fictitious, though speciously based on certain irrelevant facts, that negotiations had been opened for a general armistice. Kutusoff was as sly as his foe, and, pretend- ing to be familiar with the details of the falsehood, heartily entered into a proposition to negotiate, using the time thus gained to prepare his further retreat. A paper was duly drawn up, signed, and sent to Napoleon at Schbnbrunn, where the messenger arrived on the 16th. The Emperor, seeing how Murat had been oijtwitted, immediately sent off an adjutant to him with peremptory orders to attack at once. When the messenger arrived at Hollabrunn, Soult had come in with three divisions, but Kutusoff with his army was far away on the highroad to Znaim. Murat fought bravely, but Bagrations vastly inferior force resisted with equal stubbornness until eleven at night, when, their purpose of gaining time having been accomplished, the decimated ranks formed in column, broke through the French troops who had turned their rear, and followed the main army. Napoleon had by this time come up to take charge in person, but it was too late. The Russian army had eluded him. Murat, by delaying to attack, had ((destroyed the fruits of a campaign.)) Near Briinn, Kutusoff met the Vienna garrison, and at Wischau the united force of 45,000 men joined the first detachment, 14,000 strong, of a second Russian army which was advan- cing under BuxhUwden. The second detach- ment of this army, 10,000 strong, was found next day (November 20) at Prossnitz. The great fortress of Olmiitz was just beyond, with a garrison of about 15,000; Alexander had arrived with his imperial guard; and Ben- nigsen, one of Pauls assassins, who had been preferred to high command by Alexander, was already marching from Breslan with an- other army of 45,000. The Archduke Ferdi- nand was in Bohemia with an Austrian corps to guard the right, and the Archduke Charles was on his way to Vienna with the Austrian army from Italythe two together about 80,000 strong. AUSTERLITZ. AT first sight it appears as if the force opposed to Napoleon was munch greater than his own, and as if by his haste to succor Murat he had marched so rashly as both to endanger his communications and render du- bious the cobrdination of his scattered de- tachments. Both charges have been brought in order to attribute his subsequent success to good fortune alone. But a scrutiny of the Emperors grand strategy will show that he could be perfectly secure. From far and near his scattered but well-trained divisions were moving on. Mass6na had left Italy; Ney, hav- ing swept the enemy from the Tyro], was coming up; and all about the southern line divisions were moving to guard strategic points, to stop the hurrying Austrians, and yet be within ((marching distance.)) With this comfortable assurance, the great cap- tain waited for a day, nominally that the Em- peror Francis might withdraw in comfort from Briinn; but this bit of imperial cour- tesy secured at the same time a much- needed rest for the weary troops. He then advanced to the Moravian capital, and there established his headquarters on the 19th. The danger was really over, for once again, by his amazing power of combination, he had gained the day. His front was more than two hundred miles in length from west to east, but his troops were so disposed that in one day he could call in 54,000 men; in two, 75,- 000; in four, 85,000; and his line of retreat was secure. If compelled to withdraw, he could fall back on Davout, Mortier, and Klein, assemble 100,000 men, and again make a stand. If Kutusoff and Charles should march straight to Vienna to effect a junction, he could oppose to their combined army of 169,000 troops, 172,000 of his own. The defensive position of his foes was virtually impregnable, but they could not unite for attack as swiftly or advantageously as he. His own defensive position was less strong, because he had for some distance about and behind a hostile country. What the allies, therefore, needed was time; what Napoleon wanted was a battle. But where and how? There would be little advantage and much danger in simply at- tacking the foe to drive them farther back into their own lands. This battle must be swift and conclusive, or else the year, with all the prestige of Ulm, would be lost. In this juncture what Napoleon chose to call DRAWN DY F. DR MYRBACH. NAPOLEON AND HIS STAFF AT AUSTERLITZ. VOL. LL26. his fate or destiny signally favored him; in reality it ~as his own calm assurance which misled his opponents. The two emperors in the Austro-Russian camp at Ollschann delib- erated long and earnestly with their advisers. The Austrians had too often felt the weight of Napoleons hand, and all their officers ex- cept Colonel Weirother, a favorite of Alex- anders, were cautious; the Russians remem- bered that Napoleon had never fought with them, and were eager to destroy his renown. Czartoryski, Alexanders Polish counselor, though he had resigned his post of foreign minister after making the alliance with Eng- land, was again at his masters side. ((Our true policyand this I told to every one who would listen, he wrote, in 1806, ((was to weary the foe with skirmishes and keep the main army out of reach, secure Hungary, and unite with the Archduke Charles.)) But at the time the Czars other advisers would not listen. These were the more intent because there was no love lost between them and Aus- tria. Francis had already despatched two able agents, Gyuliii and Stadion, to co~5perate with the Prussian envoy Haugwitz, who was expected at Brijun, in enforcing Frederick Williams demands, and negotiating with Napoleon for peace. These negotiations, if successful, would greatly diminish Russias importance. Moved, therefore, by a charac- teristic pride, Alexander harkened to those who clamored for battle, and, taking the momentous decision on his own account, be- 202 gan to draw up a plan of attack. Napoleon could scarcely realize the possibility of such rashness, and received the news with delight. Haugwitz, whose heart was not in his errand, had not yet arrived. A messenger had already been despatched to meet him at Jglau and turn him aside toward Vienna, where Talleyrand was to conduct the negotiations; the Austrian diplomats were also directed to the same ren- dezvous, where they too should discuss their propositionwith the French minister until the Emperor himself should arrive in a few days; another messengerNapoleons ownadjutant, Savarywas sent direct to Alexander himself, nominally to see whether he would consider a partition of Turkey, in reality to observe the state of the Russian forces. The crafty dispo- sition of the diplomats was the never-failing second bow-string, in case the decision of arms should be doubtful; Savarys mission was a feint to gain time and information. Napoleon heard on November 27, from a deserter, that his enemy was actually ad- vancing, but could not believe it. Next day the news was confirmed by his own cavalry, and in such a way as to indicate the plan of attacka flank movement against the French right. That night his own plan was completed and the outlying divisions were summoned. They came so promptly that the very next morning found him ready to meet the ene- mys attack on the heights above Austerlitz, twelve miles to the east of southeast from Briinn. Bernadotte accomplished what seemed MAP OF THE AUSTERLITZ CAMPAIGN. impossible, and on December 1 was in position across the highwaybetween Briinn and Olmiitz. Davout was close behind, and the same night reached the cloister of Great Raigern, seven miles south of Briinn, and about twelve from Austerlitz. But the enemy was not yet visible in force on November 29, and it was onlywhen Savary returned from the Russian camp with complete and precious information that there seemed no longer room for doubt. Accord- ingly the French were withdrawn during that day in a line southwesterly from Austerlitz, to take up a position stronger than that in which they stood. To preserve the appearance of sin- cerity, Savary was sent back in hot haste to Alexander with a second meaningless propo- sition. As a return move Prince Dolgorukiwas sent on the .30th with a like message from Alex- ander to Napoleon. The prince was not admit- ted to headquarters, but was received by Napoleon on the picket-line. He was utterly hoodwinked, and some have thought that the Russian decision to fight was due to his report that the French were on the point of retreat. In the rich agricultural land of Moravia rolling and gentle slopes alternate with fer- tile and well-watered vales. On the highest hilltop between Briinn and Austerlitz, still known as ((Napoleons Mount,~ the Emperor bivouacked during the night of November 30. Before him to the eastward spread the country like a map. Far in the distance on a hillside was the great yellow mansion of Prince Kaunitz, with the village of Austerlitz clustered at its feet on the brook known as the Littawa. Its former owner had consum- mated that iniquitous Hapsbnrg-Bourbon al- liance which proved to be the ruin of the latter house; if his shade now lingered near, it might naturally, though falsely, have fore- boded the downfall of the former. Napoleon, having been aware since morning that the enemys slowness would give him yet another day, had carefully ridden over and examined the land in front and far to his right. The result was a daring resolution. The Czars advisers had determined to turn the right wing of the French: this he had now defi- nitely learned through a traitor in the Rus- sian camp. It would be easy to thwart them by occupying a high plateau to the right, on which stood the hamlet of Pratzen, with his right wing on the Littawa stream; in which case he would win ~~an ordinary battle,)) to use his own phrase. But it was not such a victory that he wished: his aim was nothing less than the annihilation of the coalition. So he determined to leave this apparently 203 H H 0 H H H H z H 0 0 NAPOLEON THE WAR LORD. 205 commanding position, feeling sure that his over-confident foe would occupy it as a mani- fest vantage-ground. On December 1 the hostile army appeared, marching in five columns, and before night the two divisions of the center were drawn up on and behind the plateau of Pratzen; the three which composed the left were on and before its southern slopes. Their movements and their position convinced the experienced observer that his information was exact. Late in the afternoon was held a council of war in which every general received the most minute directions. Soult especially was carefully instructed as to the emanznuver of the day e an advance in echelon, right shoul- der forward. The evening and the night were not periods of rest for Napoleon nicelypoised combinations need careful watching. For a time the uneasy but confident Emperor passed from watch-fire to watch-fire, encouraging and observing his own men. With noisy en- thusiasm they besought him not to expose his life on the morrow, and promised to bring him a suitable bouquet for the anniversary of his coronation. For a time the whole camp was illumihated with extemporized torches of hay. But, though excited, the troops, as well as their general, were confident; they understood his casually uttered but carefully considered words, which passed from mouth to mouth: ((While they are marching to sur- round my right, they will offer me their flank.)) For a time, also, he rode in the dark- ness to reconnoiter the enemys position, and being convinced that no movement was to be made before morning, he returned to his tent about three and slept until dawn. He has been charged with having for the first time shown cowardice at Austerlitz. This is be- cause in a proclamation he promised not to risk his life, as his men had requested, but only in case they did their duty, and kept his word because they kept theirs. Bonaparte the division general and even Bonaparte the First Consul had led his soldiers where danger was greatest, but Napoleon the Em- peror, having won his stake, had no need to take such risks; having more to lose, he now for the first time used the ordinary cau- tion of a man whose life is worth that of many common men. It was only what every NOTE TO THE PICTURE ON THE PREVIOUS PAGE.Mar- bot says of the struggle for the Pratzen hill: Several lines of Russian cavalry quickly advanced to support this momentary success of the [Russian] guards; hut Napoleon hurled against them the Mamelukes, the mounted chasseurs, and the mounted grenadiers of his guard, under Marshal Bessidres and General Rapp.s great royal and imperial general is accus- tomed to do. The early hours of December 2, 1805, were misty, although there was a sharp frost; but by seven the sun had dimly risen, and soon the thick fog lay only along the streams. At that hour the Russians and Austrians be- gan their marching. Those behind the Prat- zen heights passed swiftly up, and, uniting with those already there, marched in the gen- eral direction of the forest near Turas, in- tending to cross the intervening Goldbach and with their own left, which stood at Telnitz and Sokolnitz, surround Napoleons right wing. The battle-field of Austerlitz is approximately an isosceles triangle, the short base extending north and south between Raigern and Briinn, a distance of about seven miles, and the equal sides, twelve miles in length, converging in Austerlitz to the eastward. About half-way on a perpendicular let fall from the apex to the base the Goldbach flows on the west side of the Pratzen plateau, parallel with its base, nearly due south, with the villages of Schlap- anitz, Puntowitz, Kobelnitz, Sokolnitz, and Telnitz at about equidistant intervals from north to south on its banks. A mile north of Schlapanitz the road from Briinn to Olmiitz forms the north side of the triangle; the for- est of Turas lies about two miles to the west of Puntowitz, on a high plain. In a line east- ward of Schlapanitz, about a mile from that village and from each other, are the villages of (}irzikowitz and Blasowitz. Napoleons bivouac was on the high hill northwest of Schlapanitz, at the base of which, on the other side, was Bellowitz. North of the Olmiitz road is a com- manding hill, dubbed by the veterans of the Egyptian expedition with an Egyptian name, Santon, from a fancied resemblance of the lit- tle spire which crowned it to a minaret. This was to be the pivot of the battle, and Napo- leon fortified it with a redoubt and eighteen pieces of cannon. South of it stood the left wing under Lannes; next toward the south stood the cavalry under iVlurat; then the cen- ter under Bernadotte; and Soult with the right was west of Puntowitz. Oudinot was eastward, in front of the imperial bivouac, with ten bat- talions; and ten battalions of the guard, with forty field-pieces, were westward behind it. Davout, having arrived the night before, was According to Larousse, the Mamelukes of the guard consisted of Arahs who accompanied the French army when it retired from Egypt, reinforced from time to time hy men of color of various countries. They wore the costume of the ancient Mamelukes. At the fall of the empire this squadron numhered 250 men, exclusive of the officers.EmToR. z 0 H rj~ H r:r2 0 0 0 H H z H 0 0 0 z 0 z NAPOLEON THE WAR LORD. 207 at Raigern. Legrand stood between him and Sokolnitz, on a pond lying southeast of that village. At five in the morning Davout marched from Raigern, arriving about nine, to rein- force Legrand and engage the enemys left. Meantime, at a quarter to eight, Soult began to climb the Pratzen slopes with the divisions of Vandamme and Saint-Hilaire. In about twenty minutesthe exact time in which he had declared he could do sohe had made good his position, and was fiercely engaged with the column of Kollowrath, which formed the enemys center, and with which Kutusoff was present in person. The latter, realizing for the first time what the loss of Pratzen would mean, endeavored to concentrate to- ward the right; but his efforts were unavail- ing: he could only stand and fight. The two Austro-Russian columns on his left swooped down to the Goldbach, and seized both Telnitz and Sokolnitz. Simultaneously with Soults ad- vance, Bernadotte and Murat moved forward, encountering between Girzikowitz and Blaso- wibz the enemys cavalry under Prince Lich- tenstein, a~d the Russian imperial guard under the grand duke Constantine. Napoleon ad- vanced to observe this conflict, and a little before eleven, at the critical moment, when the regiment of his brother Joseph was on the verge of being engulfed and lost, he threw in the cavalry of his own guard, under Bes- si~res and Rapp, upon the Russian guard, turned the scale against them, and with his own eyes saw Constantine withdraw. The Russian vanguard under Bagration had mean- time come in from Bosenitz, and was hotly engaged with a portion of the French left. The entire cavalry mass of Lichtenstein and Murat was commingled in bitter conflict. With the retreat of Constantine began the rout of the entire Austro-Russian right wing. Lannes, supported by the Santon redoubt, had stood like a rock until then; at once he precipitated himself, with the divisions of Suchet and Caffarelli, upon Bagration, and drove him back. Lichtenstein,who, up to that moment, had at least held his own, if, in- deed, he had not shown himself the stronger, could no longer stand, and late in the af- ternoon he too began to yield. Between eleven and twelve Soult had cleared the Pratzen heights, and pushing ever toward the right, had finally, just as the sun burst in splendorthrough the clouds, separated the enemys left wing from its center. The latter had been sadly weakened both by detach- ments to strengthen the left and by its losses in conflict. At noon it began to retreat, and Napoleon, having satisfied himself that all was well on his left to the north, rode south to join Soult, and in passing despatched Drou,ots division against the fugitive Kutusoff, whose columnwas thus overpowered and thrown into utter confusion. Since nine in the morning Da- vout had stood on the west shore of the Gold- bach, flinging back the successive charges of the enemys overgrown left. The continuous struggles had been terrific; the stream liter- ally flowed blood as the soldiers of both sides crashed through the ice, and, unable to dis- engage themselves from the muddy bottom, stood fighting until they died. By two oclock his labors were over: the great move of the day, Soults echelon march, right shoulder for- ward, was complete; Saint-Hilaire and Van- damme had recaptured the villages of Sokol- nitz and Aujezd; the three southernmost Austro-Russian columns were entirely sur- rounded, and only a few from each escaped to join the remnants of their right, center, and re- serve, running for life across frozen ponds and ditches, by dikes, and over rough-plowed fields toward Austerlitz. About 5000 of the fugi- tives, mostly Russians under Doctoroff and Langeron, had risked themselves on the ice of the Satschan lake and were hurrying across when Napoleon arrived, He ordered the field- pieces to be turned on the ice so that the balls weakened and cracked it. In a few moments it gave way; with shrieks and groans the multi- tude sank into the slowly rising waters and disappeared under thetossing ice-floes. Nearly 2000 of them were drowned. The fighting strength of the coalition was destroyed; so likewise was their moral courage. Shortly after Kutusoffs retreat General Toll found Alexander seated weeping by the wayside, and accompanied by only a single adjutant. As the sun went down, Napoleon, accord- ing to his custom, passed from one scene of conflict to the next over the whole field, not- ing the ground and calculating his loss and gain. So fixed was the Austrian emperors determination to make peace that hostilities were scarcely ended for the day before he despatched Lichtenstein with proposals for an armistice. Napoleon received the envoy while making his round of the battle-field, but refused to treat for two days. He intended to reap the fruits of victory, and ordered a skilful, thorough pursuit. At midnight the labors of his greatest day, the anniversary of his coronation, were over, and he lay down to sleep in the posting-station of Posorzitz. Next morning he moved his quarters to the Kaunitz manor-house. Such was the rout of the allies that the position of the shattered columns H H CL H 0 z z z 0 0 z 0 z H NAPOLEON THE WAR LORD. 209 of Austria and Russia was not known until the 4th of December. On the afternoon of that day the Emperor Francis was received by Napoleon in a tent near Holitsch, and the campaign was ended by Austrias acceptance of such terms for an armistice as the Em- peror of the French chose to impose. Considering the character of the battle, the terms first suggested were not hard: No loss of territory for Austria if the Russian em- peror would withdraw to his own territories and shut out England from his harbors; other- wise Napoleonwould take Venetia for Italy and Tyrol for Bavaria. Alexander would not listen to the embargo project, nor to Franciss des- perate suggestion that they should continue the war. On the 6th, having, according to Savary, exchanged fulsome compliments with Napoleon, he marched away for Russia, leav- ing his ally to take the consequences of what was really his own rashness. The only hope of Austria for endurable terms of peace lay in Prussian co6peration. But Haugwitz could no longer offer the ultimatum agreed upon at Potsdam: the battle had of course utterly changed the situation. Napoleon now de- manded nothing less from Prussia than the long-desired alliance offensive and defensive. On December 15 Frederick Williams envoy assented provisionally, and set out for Berlin to secure the royal assent, if possible. His master was to keep Hanover and close her ports to the English; to give Cleves, Wesel, and Neuchfltel to France; to cede Ansbach to Bavaria; and to acknowledge the latter as a kingdom, with such eastern boundaries as Austria would agree to yield. For an instant Napoleon thought of con- tinuing the war to annihilate Austria forever. Talleyrands hand, however, had been crossed, as no one doubted, with an enormous bribe from Austrian sources, and he persuaded the Emperor not to follow the bad advice of his generals, but to ((rise higher as a statesman)) and make peace. With his assent to this went ever larger and harder demands, until Francis actually contemplated a renewal of the desperate and unequal struggle alone and unassisted. He had in all probability a fighting chance, but his longing for peace prevailed. When the treaty was signed, on December 26, 1805, at Presburg, Austria surrendered Ven- ice, with Friuli, Istria, and Dalmatia, to Italy; ceded Tyrol to Bavaria; consented to the ban- ishment of the Bourbons from Naples, and to all the new arrangements which had recently been made by Napoleon in Italy, agreeing to pay a war indemnity of 40,000,000 francs. The recognition of Bavaria as an independent VOL. LJ.27. kingdom, and the rearrangement of German territories, put an end to the German Empire; Wiirtemberg received five cities on the Dan- ube, the counties of Hohenembs and Wellen- burg, with part of the Breisgau, and became a kingdom like Bavaria; Baden got the rest of the Breisgau, together with Ortenan, Mainau, and the city of Constance; Bavaria received not only Tyrol, with the Vorarlberg, but Brixen, Trent, Passau, Eichstiidt, Burgau, Lindau, and other minor possessions, to round out her new frontier. The fighting on both sides at Austerlitz was in the main superb. ((My people,)) said the Emperor to his soldiers ~~my people will see you again with delight; and if one of you shall say, (I was at Austerlitz, every one will respond, (Here stands a hero.))) The legions of the empire had indeed fought with unsurpassed bravery, as had likewise the Aus- trians. The Russians were not so steadfast. In their first experience of the ((furia Fran- cesa~ their old notions of courage were wiped out. ((Those who saw the battle-field,)) said the ~Moniteur,~ ((will testify that it lay strewn with Austrians where the fight was thickest, while elsewhere it was strewn with Russian knapsacks.)) Such was the effect upon his men that not only did Alexander leave his ally in the lurch and march back into Poland, but he felt called on to publish a bulletin asserting the valor of his own and the timidity of the Austrian troops. But the ((Battle of Austerlitz,~ as it is called in French phrase, the ((Fight of the Three Em- perors,)) as the Germans designate the day, was epochal, not merely for the courage dis- played, but for the tactical revolution it wrought. It was the first true Napoleonic battle. Thenceforward the greatest conflicts were arranged on its commanding principle a principle which had long been used, but was then for the first time fully developed and accepted. Throughout the preceding period of warfare an army was set in motion as a whole, every portion being from first to last in the commanders hand ready for ma- minuvering. If any division was hemmed, or any portion of the line was broken, the result was defeat. From 1805 onward any single part, center or either wing, could be annihi- lated and the victory still be won elsewhere by the other parts. For this two things are essential: first, fresh troops to throw into the proper place at the proper time; second, a line of retreat, with a new basis for operations, previously prepared. The highest military authorities go so far as to say that in a well- arranged battle one portion of the line should DRAWN BR ERIC PAPE~ AFTER TRE PRRTRAIT BY FRRNQ~.~. RILLE, AJACCIR. JOSEPH BONAPAETE, KING OF SPAIN. NAPOLEON THE WAR LORD. 211 even be sacrificed to the enemy in order to se- cure victory with the others. The pursuit after Austerlitz was as fine as the attack, and so colossal and comprehensive was Napoleons genius that he had made complete arrange- ments for withdrawing in case of defeat, not, as the enemy thought, toward Vienna, but through Bohemia to Passau. The total num- bers engaged were, on the side of the allies, about 90,000; on that of the French, about 80,000. The Austrians and Russians lost 15,000 killed and xvounded, with 20,000 ta- ken prisoners, while the French had 7000 killed and wounded in the long and dreadful stand made at the Goldbach by their right, and about 5000 elsewhere. The Emperor thought it a small price to pay for the hege- mony of Europe, and his favorite title was ((Victor of Austerlitz.~ Soldiers, he cried at Moscow as the sun burst through the dun clouds, it is the sun of Austerlitz!~ and his flagging army revived its drooping spirits. THE NEW MAP OF EUROPE. THE political effects of Austerlitz were the devastation of the old system. Austria was driven, apparently forever, from leadership in Germany, and consigned to the difficult and thorny path of aggrandizement down the Danube valley which she has ever since trod- den. There was only a difference of degree between the subserviency of Bavaria and that of Prussia, between the humiliation of Baden and that of Russia. Pitt, who was in Bath recovering from an attack of gout, grew old within twenty-four hours after receipt of the news; his features became pinched and blue, taking on an expression long known as the Austerlitz look.)) Returning to his villa at Putney, with the hand of death upon him, he is said to have entered through a corridor on the wall of which hung a map of Europe. Roll up that map,~ he hoarsely murmured to his niece; it will not be needed these ten years.)) He died soon afterward, on January 23, 1806, in his forty-seventh year; and the last words he was heard to utter were, My countryoh, how I leave my country!)) He had hoped, and, as the sequel proved, not in vain, that as England had saved herself by her own exertions, so she might save Europe by her example. To his ministry succeeded that known by the sobriquet of ((All the Talents,)) in which Grenville was First Lord of the Treasury, and Pitts great rival, Fox, was Secretary of State. The effect of Austerlitz in the French army was to silence criticism, which had been rife after Kutusoffs escape. In France itself the war had for some time been growing unpopu- lar; the long-feared panic had actually begun; for since Trafalgar all prospect of colonial trade was at an end, while commerce with the East had well-nigh ceased. The people, moreover, groaned under the hardships of the ruthless conscription, and many cared more that France herself should be at peace than that she should have the ascendancy in Eu~ rope. But the news of Austerlitz was irre- sistible; the national pride was strengthened by the achievements of French soldiers and a French emperor, while a victory of hitherto unknown brilliancy, which at the same time brought peace, was enough to have intoxi- cated a less mercurial people. New shifts were devised to tide over the financial crisis until the great administrator should return and with the aid of his war indemnities re- arrange the pieces on the board of domestic affairs. These circumstances opened the way for what was the most profound and influential effect of Austerlitz: the attempted substi- tution for the effete Holy Roman Empire under a German prince, of a Western empire to be ruled by the Emperor of the French, with territorial subdivisions under Napoleonic princes and subject to the central power. It is not a matter of quite so great importance in the history of the time that the Holy Roman or German Empire ceased to exist as it is that the Napoleonic empire was instituted; but both facts are fundamental to the history of the nineteenth century. The first step taken toward establishing this new conception was a further advance in Italy. At the critical moment of the Aus- terlitz campaign, Caroline, the Queen of Na- ples, Napoleon~ s irreconcilable enemy, had broken her sourly given engagement with him. Her harbors were opened to English ships, and Russian troops occupied her terri- tories. The day after Austerlitz an army order was issued which sent Mass~ina to Naples, and declared that the Bourbon dynasty had ceased to exist. The Czar withdrew his soldiers to Corfu, the English vessels sailed to Sicily, the offending court was left to the tender mer- cies of its enemy, and within a few months Joseph Bonaparte, by decree of the French senate, was on March 30, 1806, made king of Naples and Sicily. He had refused the com- parative independence of the Italian crown; as a punishment he was forced to accept one far inferior, with only a nominal autonomy. The new monarch retained his French digni- ties, and assumed the r51e of a dependent ally of France. At the same time and in the same way all Venetia was incorporated with the kingdom of Italy. Elises appanage of Lucca was increased by the districts of Massa-e-Car- rara and Garfagnana; the principality of Guas- talla was made over to the Princess Pauline Borghese. As if to proclaim in no uncertain tones the complete supremacy of the Napoleonic em- pire in Italy, a new fe dal system was called into being, which was like the old in this, that it was intended to reward men for ser- vices still to be rendered, and not, like tbe Ro- 212 man benefice, to repay veterans for sacrificcs already made. It was carried out in the lands around the Adriatic. Twenty heredi- tary duchies were organized, either at once or later, bearing the titles of Dalmatia, Istria, Friuli, Cadore, Belluno, Conegliano, Treviso, Feltre, Bassano, Viceuza, Padna, Rovigo, Ra- gusa, Gaeta, Otranto, Tarentum, Reggio, Luc- ca, Parma, and Piacenza. The dignity and state of each holder was to be supported by the annual gift of one fifteenth of the yearly income of the respective domains. These were fiefs, not of France, but of the French ~H~~HMU~UUUE FFER, IN THE MUSEUM OF VERSAILLES. USUIEU MO E. A. POWELL. EUGi~ E ISE BEAIJHAItNAIS, KNOWN AS PRINCE EUGENE. NAPOLEON THE WAR LORD. 218 empire; the first duty of the holders was to the Emperor, their second to France. To the Emperor himself the kingdom of Italy was to pay 14,000,000 francs a year, and the kingdom of Naples, 1,000,000. This latter sum was to be distributed among those of his officers and soldiers who had rendered the greatest service to the country and the throne.)) These Italian titles were intended for French citizens, and later the same system was extended to Germany and Poland. What could be plainer than the mean- ing of this? As to the Pope, the question was very knotty. Pius was in a curious frame of mind. He had gone to the coronation, it will be re- membered, without conditions, hoping to se- cure his ends by the exercise of his personal influence. He had returned with empty hands, though partly under the fascination of Napo- leon; but removed from the Emperors pres- ence, he had become disposed to self-asser- tion. Jerome Bonaparte returned in 1805 to France, and professed repentance for his American marriage. Although Napoleon had asked the ~sovereign pontiff to pronounce a divorce, the request had been firmly refused. Throughout the last campaign the Pope had asserted his absolute neutrality and had given no cause for offense. But nevertheless, as if in contempt for the pontiffs claims of feudal suzerainty, Bernadotte was made prince of Ponte Corvo, and Talleyrand prince of Bene- ventum; the French soldiers seized and held Ancona on the plea that its sovereign was not strong enough to maintain it against the English and Turks (heretics and pagans); and immediately after, the cap-stone of imperious- ness was added by orders to close the Roman ports to all enemies of France. The Pope was plainly to be regarded as having no longer any politics; he was, to be sure, the sovereign of Rome, but Napoleon, as the inheritor of Charles the Great, on whose enlargement and confirmation of Pe- pins gift the Popes temporal power rested, was its emperor, and would protect it against the world. A chronicler of the times declares that the victor of Austerlitz had actually in mind the project of being crowned Western emperor in St. Peters, but relinquished it when he learned that the cardinals would rather suffer death than such disgrace. Whether or not this be true, he demanded recognition as emperor of Rome, and exacted the expul- sion of Russians, English, and Sardinians from the Papal States. The Pope pleaded that for the Emperor of the French to be recognized as Roman emperor would destroy the papal power in all other lands, and obtained a re- spite of two years by dismissing from his of- fice as secretary of state Consalvi,who headed the opposition. The additional title of Western emperor was unimportant compared with the reality, and this Napoleon set about securing still further by erecting Holland into a Napoleonic kingdom. Louis Bonaparte had been par- doned, and though now governor-general of Piedmont, he had previously been stationed for a time in the Batavian Republic to defend it against the English and Swedes. Schimmel- penninck, Napoleons stanch supporter, was still grand pensionary, and at a wink from the Emperor a deputation of Dutch officials came to Paris in order to discuss the situation. Their chairman, Verhuel, was informed by Napoleon in a personal interview that he meant to give their country a new executive in the person of Prince Louis; otherwise he could not, at the peace, hand back her colo- nies; that as to religion, the new king would keep his own, but every part of his kingdom should have the same right. The constitution should remain unchanged. The delegates pro- tested, and pleaded the treaties of 1795 and 1803, which guaranteed Dutch independence; but the Emperor stood firm: either Louis as king, or incorporation with France. The bit- terness of faction, the plague of indolence, and the love of wealth were so abroad among the Dutch that there was no resistance; on May 24, 1806, the ((High and Mighty States)) ceased to exist, and on June 5 a new king, much against his will, was added to the great vassals of the empire. The humiliation of Germany was scarcely less profound than that of Italy and Holland. For some time past Napoleon had been nego- tiating with the electors of both Wiirtem- berg and Bavaria for matrimonial alliances between certain of their children and vari- ous members of his own family. Previous to Austerlitz his efforts had been in vain. With the advance of years Napoleons earlier re- ligious impressions, always vague, had degen- erated into a mild and tolerant deism; less than a fortnight after Austerlitz he found time to reprimand sharply a member of the Institute for printing atheistic books; but the orthodox faith of Western Christendom, with its attendant morality, was for him, after all, only an important social phenomenon of which atheism would be destructive. Never- theless, outward respect for Roman Catholi- cism had been a powerful lever for his own ambitious purposes both in Italy and in France. He had formed to his own profit an SKETCH BY ERIC PAPE. FROM THE PAINTING BY FRAN~OIS GERARD, IN THE MAREAM R FRERRAILL N. AUGUSTA AMELIA OF I3AYAI{IA, VICE-QUEEN OF ITALY. NAPOLEON THE WAR LORD. 215 alliance between Church and State in the latter country so perfect and stable that in spite of all the intervening political changes it stands in full validity to-day. This same lever he purposed to make use of for the complete overturning of the old political sys- tem of Germany. Among other complaints which he poured out to the Pope was one concerning the utter disorganization of the Church among the Germans. The discus- sion of this theme was a welcome occupa- tion to many of the faithful in the Roman Catholic districts of southern and central Germany; and the common people, having been told from the outset that they were victims of a worn-out tyranny, and having been so treated by the French generals, finally began to feel that their rulers were indeed what the conquerors declared they were. This sentiment was further strengthened because there was truth in the allegations that the petty ecclesiastical and secular princes of Germany were licentious and corrupt. Re- ligion and morality were both at a low ebb among them. The more important rulers of south Ger- many in the year 1806 were men of some shrewdness and power. When Bavaria, Wiir- temberg, and Baden were enlarged and eman- cipated from the overlordship of Austria, the reigning princes and their people alike felt their obligations so deeply that they either misunderstood what had actually occurred, the transfer of their suzerainty from Austria to France, -or else they felt no sense of shame in becoming vassals of the French emperor, by whom their aggrandizement had come. The so-called sovereigns occasionally made a mild endeavor to assert some little inde- pendence; but such efforts were so often fol- lowed by a message from Paris suggesting that they held their offices, not for them- selves, but as part of the French system, that they soon desisted entirely. On January 14, 1806, six weeks after Austerlitz, Max Joseph of Bavaria yielded to the Thupress Josephines long-cherished desire, and gave his daughter Augusta, the affianced bride of the heir apparent in Baden, to the viceroy Eug~ne. Soon after, Eug~nes cousin St6pha- nie, whose relations with Napoleon had made a scandal even in Paris, was married to the prince who had been Augustas lover. A year after, Jerome, whose submission had given him swift promotion in his profession of the navy, and was soon to make him king of 1,A/estphalia, was married, in defiance of ec- clesiastical laws, to the Princess Catharine, daughter of King Frederick of Wiirtemberg. The two new kingdoms were thus connected by marriage with the Napoleonic system. Although the royal and princely alliances of his family gratified the Emperors personal pride, these arrangements were made prima- rily to support the new imperial state policy. In them there was nothing calculated to alarm England and rouse her from the com- parative lethargy into which she fell after Trafalgar, nor to exasperate Prussia unduly. But this moderation was only apparent. There was a bolt in the forge which, if rightly wielded, would speedily reduce Prussia to vas- salage, and eventually bring England herself to terms. When Haugwitz, the Prussian envoy, re- turned from Sch~5nbrunn to Berlin, the treaty of alliance with France which he had felt bound to make was not welcomed, and with some suggestions for important changes the bearer was despatched to Paris by the King to see whether better terms could not be obtained. The Emperor received the pleni- potentiary kindly, and seemed on the point of yielding the modifications suggested by Frederick William, which were that he should receive along with Hanover the cities of Ham- burg, Bremen, and Lilbeck. The King was, in fact, afraid of the Prussian national temper, and dared not face his people without some- thing more than Hanover to show for his previous losses on the left bank of the Rhine, and the new cessions he had been compelled to make after Austerlitz. But the advent of Fox to power momentarily turned Napoleons head. With one great Liberal at the helm in England, and another autocratic in France, the two could change the face of Europe and the character of the world. This momentary delusion suggested imme- diate peace with England, and the Emperor thought for an instant of keeping Hanover as a medium of exchange; his second thought, however, was not to buy peace, but to en- force it. Accordingly, even harder conditions than before were laid upon Prussia as to the exchange of territories, and besides she was compelled to enter the Continental embargo on English trade. Haugwitz, who had long represented the French influence in Berlin, did not dare to carry back the new treaty, and sent it by Lucchesini, the Prussian minister to France. The King was in despair, but he yielded. Hardenberg, the head of his cabinet, was dismissed, at Napoleons desire, because he represented the national self-respect; and Prussia, lately so proud, but now humbled and disgraced, listened, stunned and incred- ulous, to the insults of the ~Moniteur,~ while her king, on March 9, 1806, set his hand to a paper which, though securing Hanover, really destroyed Prussian independence. To occupy Hanover was to incur the hostility of England, and three months later, on June 11, Fox declared war against Prussia. The Em- peror of the French, utterly regardless of his obligations to Frederick William, in fact, scornfully indifferent to them, was at that moment negotiating for the return of that electorate to George III. of England, its he- reditary prince, as the price of a peace with Great Britain. 216 Fox, whose admiration for the First Con- sul had never been concealed, seized an op- portunity to open communications with the French government which was offered by the report of a plot to assassinate the Emperor. His overtures were not repulsed, and the Eng- lish ministry was given to understand that Napoleon would gladly make peace on the basis of the treaty of Amiens. Negotiations were opened through Lord Yarmouth, one of the travelers detained in France under the Emperors retaliatory measure when war was declared by England. Talleyrand offered all SKETCH BY ERIC POPE. FROM TOE PAINTING RE FRON~CIS GERARD, IN TOE ROGERS OF VERGAILIER ST~PHANIE-LOUISE-ADRLENNE, GRAND DUCHESO (SF BkI)EN. NAPOLEON THE WAR LORD. 217 that England could desire, including the resti- tution of Hanover to George III., and the prin- ciple of uti possidetis, which meant that Eng- land could keep Malta and the conquered colonies; besides, the Naples Bourbons, though banished from the mainland, could reign in the island of Sicily. But the French minister would not consent that Russia should treat in common with Great Britain. With these seemingly favorable terms Yarmouth set out for London. Separate negotiations with Russia had been opened shortly before, through Oubril, a spe- cial plenipotentiary sent to Paris for the pur- pose. It was under instruction from Alexander that this envoy acted, he, and not Talleyrand, having taken the ground that Russia could not join England in negotiation. The Czar was unwilling to hamper himself in the Orient by even a temporary alliance with his rival in that quarter. This was playing directly into the hands of Napoleon, who had gained too much by separate peaces not to understand their value. It was soon evident that the new Russian minister was wax in Talleyrands hands. The Emperors diplomacy was, like his strateg3?, dependent for its overwhelming success on the utter surprises it prepared for his opponents. Such a one was now in readiness. No sooner had Yarmouth returned to Paris in June than the French government began to draw back. King Joseph could not get on without Sicily, and the only possible indemnity to the former rulers would be a domain formed from the Hanseatic cities. After a few weeks of fencing, in which Yar- mouth appeared to mirror by a yielding com- placency the supposed peace policy of Foxs cabinet, Oubril provisionally signed just such a treaty with Russia as Napoleon desired. Then the bolt thus far kept in concealment was first loosed by publishing as an accom- plished fact the organization of a great power subsidiary to France in the heart of Europe the Confederation of the Rhine. This was the most audacious of all Napoleons auda- cious schemes, being an awful blow to Prus- sia, and scarcely less stunning to England. It meant, indeed, a new map of Europe, the minimizing of Englands influence on the Continent, the permanent neutralizing of both Austrian and Prussian power, the exclusion of Russia from the councils of western Eu- rope. The means by which it was brought about were as astute as the measure was momentous. Among the German princes who had lent their presence to the splendors of Napoleons coronation was the only ecclesi- astic who had maintained himself amid the VOL. LI.28. changes incident to the general seculariza- tion which took place after the treaty of Lun6villeto wit, the Archbishop Dalberg, Elector of Mainz. Having been treated with distinction in Paris, he formed the ambitious plan of securing by his own efforts that unity and efficiency of the German Church which both the Pope and the Emperor desired. Of an ancient and noble line, he found no diffi- culty in putting himself at the head of an extensive movement among the Roman Cath- olics of western and central Germany, who desired to restore the church in Germany to a position of influence, and to secure her purity and power in a way similar to that which had been taken in France through the Concordat. For some time pastin fact, ever since 1804, when he had had an interview with Napoleon and Talleyrandhe had been perfectly aware of their wishes. The rulers of France had for more than a century been desirous of establishing between their own territories and those of the great German states, Prussia and Austria, a belt of weak states, to serve as a bulwark against their enemies and as a field for the extension of their own influence. In Napoleons mind this arrangement had now become a neces- sity, and, making use of the malleable temper produced in Europe by the fires of Austerlitz, he proceeded to realize the project. To the Pope he said that if his authority were not sufficient to bring order out of the ecclesias- tical chaos in Germany he would intrust the task to Dalberg as primate. That prelate was not unwilling, and with his own purposes in view expressed to the French ambassador a desire for the re~stablishment of Charles the Greats empire by the union under Napoleon of Italy, Germany, and France. Assured, therefore, not only of subservient obedience from Bavaria, Wiirtemberg, and Baden, but of considerable good will from the devout inhabitants of the still numerous petty states in western Germany, the Em- peror of the French had formed the plan of confederating the three considerable powers above mentioned with new ones to be formed by mediatizing most of the petty ones still remainingthat is, by depriving them of their autonomy and consolidating them in new governments. No sooner was the exis- tence of this design whispered abroad than Talleyrand was beset by agents from the twenty-four princelings concerned, all anx- ious to retain their power and escape the indiscriminate destruction which was immi- nent. The hands of these suppliants were not empty, and again the minister lined his 218 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. coffers with their ample bribes. When the document was at last ready, and the neces- sary signatures were added, it was found that only a few of the little principalities and coun- ties had escaped annihilation. For various reasons,those of Jsenburg, Arenberg, Lichten- stein, Salm, Hohenzollern, and Von der Leyen were still permitted to live. All the rest were cut off from their immediate dependency on the empire and given a ((mediate)) relation to the various sovereigns composing the feder- ation, the former rulers retaining only their patrimony and personal effects. The electors of Hesse-Cassel and of Saxony, who were friendly to Prussia, were excluded from the league. The members of this new federal organism, which came into existence under the ((pro- tection)) of the Emperor of the French, were Bavaria, Wiirtemberg, Baden, Nassau, Hesse- Darmstadt, the city and lands of Frankfort, with Dalberg as prince-primate, the six dis- tricts just enumerated, and, lastly, a new state, the grand duchy of Cleves and Berg, created for Murat, another Napoleonic prince, who reigned as Joachim I. These all declared themselve~ members of a federal state inde- pendent of both Prussia and Austria, but under the protection of the French empire. Napoleon could introduce new members to the confederation, had the right of appointing the primate, and, most important privilege of all, was to control the army. This followed as a corollary of the article which declared that every Continental war which one of the contracting powers had to wage was common to the others. Bavaria was to furnish 30,000 men, Wiirtemberg 12,000, Baden 8000, Darm- stadt 4000, Berg 5000, Nassau and the other pygmies 4000. This arrangement, whereby 63,000 soldiers were added to the armies of France, was then dignified by the name of ((alliance.)) The decree was published on July 12, 1806; on August 1 the Diet at Regensburg was in- formed that the Germanic Empire had ceased to exist; on August 6 the Emperor Francis, who had declared himself hereditary emperor of Austria in 1804, now declared under com- pulsion that he laid down his Germanic crown. ((If the Germanic body were not in existence,)) Bonaparte had said during the Congress of Rastatt, ~~we should create it.)) The shaky, irrational anachronism had, indeed, been a mighty weapon in his hands; the work of separation and subdivision which Richelieu had accomplished in Germany on behalf of France and by the treaty of Westphalia was well done; Napoleon temporarily reaped the harvest. But another century and a hali~ was not to pass before another convulsion; he himself was first to gather the crop of retri- bution which he had sown, and then, in less than sixty years, France was to bow before a second German Empire. The way to true German national union was opened by this wholesale contempt for local prejudice and the wholesome but ruthless violation of dy- nastic ties. It was ostensibly to perfect his communi- cations with this new ally that the Emperor now for the first time established a perma- nent garrison on the right bank of the Rhine. The spot he chose was Wesel, in the grand duchy of Cleves and Berg. To be sure, he gave a formal assurance that he did not intend to extend the borders of France beyond the Rhine. This doubtless was literally true; but the French empire was another thing than France. The attitude of the Emperor was perfectly illustrated in his continued negotia- tions with Yarmouth, whose easy compliance had to be neutralized by a new commissioner, Lord Lauderdale, specially instructed by Fox to be peremptory about preserving the exist- ing conditions of sovereignty on the Conti- nent. Napoleon did not hesitate to offer Eng- land, as a substitute for Sicily, either Albania or Ragusa or the Balearic Isles. In other words, he made clear to the world that the whole idea of territorial sanctity was in his opinion antiquated, except when so-called sov- ereigns could make good their claim. Han- over had passed to Prussia by French con- quest and treaty agreement, the Hanseatic towns were free cities, Albania belonged to Turkey, Ragusa was nominally independent under Austrias protection, and the Balearic Isles acknowledged the sovereignty of Spain; but he offered any one of them as if it were his own. Alexander of Russia had much the same conception. Seeing his Oriental designs men- aced by the treaty of Presburg, he had evac- uated Naples to strengthen Corfu, and now proceeded to occupy the Bocche di Cattaro as an outpost. This station, though so far au- tonomous, was held by Napoleon to be a part of Dalmatia, and that province was to go to Italy with the rest of Venetia. This act of open hostility by the Czar was the comple- ment to a haughty rejection of the treaty with Napoleon which Oubril submitted for his signature. In consequence, Francis, the third of the three emperors, was informed that the French army would not evacuate his fortress of Braunau until he could fulfil his obliga- tions and deliver Dalmatia intact. The great NAPOLEON THE WAR LORD. 219 army of France, therefore, was not with- drawn, and still continued to occupy Swabia, Franconia, and all southern Germany. This fact assured the existence of the Rhine Con- federation and reduced Prussia to impotence. Moreover, it was one among many reasons which finally ended the negotiations with England. Lord Lauderdale gave the surren- der of Sicily as his ultimatum, and when it was refused, demanded his passports on August 9. Fox had for some time been convinced that a stable peace with the empire was impossible, and finally grasped in its fullest meaning the aggressive, all-inclusive policy of Napoleon. The cabinet of All the Talents finally saw it- self compelled to accept, item for item,the pro- gram of Pitt; and during the short remainder of Foxs life, although he did not appear in Parliament after June, he was the hearty, persistent supporter of a policy he had so bitterly opposed when followed by his prede- cessor. His death on September 13 made no change in the attitude of England. The co- alition which was dissolved at Austerlitz was cemented again, as far as two of its members were concerned, early in the following autumn; this time, n6t exhausted Austria, but her rival Prussia, who had so far preserved a selfish neutrality, was to be associated with England and Russia. THE BUSINESS OF EMPEROR. WHEN Napoleon returned to Paris on Jan- uary 27, 1806, he promptly laid aside the character of general, abandoned the avoca- tion of war, and reassumed his favorite role of emperor. On New Years day the repub- lican calendar had ceased to exist; there was not even that to remind him of the past. This time his carriage was more stately, as his figure was beginning to grow more portly, and his demeanor more distant. The great Corsican began to emulate, if not to surpass, the Oriental conquerors of oldmen of the people, who, like himself, had risen to giddy heights by usurpation and military conquest in surrounding himself with mystery and hedging himself about with various ranks of courtiers. Nearest him, absent in person, but present in their representatives, were the subsidiary reigning kings, princes, and grand dukes. iNext in order, present in the flesh and first in actual splendor, were the newly made honorary princes and dukes. The for- mer were but three in numberTalleyrand, Bernadotte, and Berthier, with the titles of Beneventum, Ponte Corvo, and Neuchatel, re- spectively. The latter were twenty, all either marshals or ministers of state. Some of the old nobility continued to smile contemptuously at this array of former republicans and Jaco- bins who had thus risen by inborn talent, whether for war, for politics, or for the cour- tiers art, and who, with human weakness and to their own hurt, had then donned the garb and orders of feudalism. But many of the very oldest and most famous aristocracy, and those not the least able and influential, nor perhaps even the fewest in number, hurried to accept office at the court, where their pres- ence was earnestly desired. Etiquette be- came a matter of the highest importance, and reached an artificial perfection which showed how unnatural it was to those who practised it. In the Tuileries, as was wittily said, everything moved to the tap of the drum. The parvenu princes and dukes had all their proper state, and being now assured of ample income and hereditary office, dis- played a self-assertion, a self-indulgence, and an independence which augured ill for their continued and submissive devotion to their creator. Behind this impenetrable screen the activ- ities of the Emperor were resumed with a greater intensity and a higher velocity than ever. Not content with a daily task, his hours of recreation became shorter and shorter, un- til he ceased to have any capacity for plea- sure, and found no comfort for his mind except in labor. Paris was in raptures of loyalty, and from senate, tribune, and newspapersin fact, from every conceivable sourcecame proposals for triumphs, statues, or other honors to ((Napoleon the Great.)) The church vied with the populace. Among many sim- ilar utterances one bishop declared him the chosen of God to restore his worship and lead his people; another announced that recent events, occurring on the anniversary of the Emperors unction, had given him a divine character; xvhile the cardinal archbishop of Paris cried aloud, ~O God of Marengo, thou declarest thyself the God of Austerlitz; and the German eagle with the Russian eagle, both of which thou dost desert, is become the prey of the French eagle, which thou ceasest not to protect.)) Before long the Em- peror was everywhere called the ~~man of God, the anointed of the Lord,)) and occasionally he was designated as ((his sacred Majesty.)) The opportunity was therefore ripe for radical changes. ((My house,)) ((~~ line,)) ((~~ people,)) were phrases which had for a year past been on his lips and in his letters. He now began to take measures for lending a theocratic character to his reign, which, in 220 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. view of his religious belief,were simply shock- ing. Not only did he express the wish that his imperial standards should be regarded with ((religious reverence,)) but he closed his let- ters with the royal, absolutist, and Roman Catholic formula, I pray God to have you in his holy keeping,~ and was styled in public papers, ((Napoleon, by the grace of God Em- peror.)) For this he could plead the universal though antiquated customs of the existing European dynasties, which still claimed to reign by divine right. But he went further, and in personal co6peration with an obse- quious church dignitary prepared a catechism from which every French child learned in a few months such medieval and now blasphe- mous dogmas as these: Napoleon is the minister of the power of God, and his image on earth)); ((to honor and serve the Emperor is to honor and serve God.)) The climax of this insincerity was to be found in the awful menace, instilled with absolute solemnity into the mind of every learner throughout all the dioceses, that as to disobey the Emperor was to resist the order ordained by God, such dis- obedience would prepare eternal damnation for the gifllty. Although Napoleon ever re- fused to admit that he himself had any moral responsibility, and seemed to act on the doc- trine that he had been born what he remained to the end, he nevertheless attributed immense influence to education in others. ((There can be no settled politics,)) he said of the univer- sity, ((without a settled body of teachers.)) Thus while the coming generation was im- bibing such ideas, the Emperor was not for- getful of the present one. His passion for writing had never been extinguished since the first rude beginnings of childhood. Although he never learned to spell, he did eventually learn the secret of that concise and master- ful style which characterizes so much of his voluminous correspondence. The thirty enor- mous volumes of his letters published by a commission under the Second Empire, though giving most of what he wrote before 1804, are for the remaining years of his reign little more than scanty selections obsequiously and ingeniously chosen to increase his fame and hide his faults. But from these and from the testimony of contemporaries the astonishing extent and the exact character of his occu- pations are clearly shown. Above all else, he was solicitous for the army. ((The reports on the situation of my armies,)) he said, ~~are for me the most agree- able literary works in my library, and those which I read with the greatest pleasure in my hours of relaxation.)) He was so assiduous and thorough that, as it has been declared, and probably without great exaggeration, he knew to a man his effective force; and when his armies were scattered over half the world he was more familiar than his ministers with the station of every battalion. This was only the beginning of his cares; his chief concern was for the equipment and well-being of the mennot only for their uniforms, accoutre- ments, and arms, but for their food, shelter, and pay. It was with the same thoroughness that accounts, inventories, and all the other dry details were examined; his fighting-ma- chine must not only be perfect, but he must know that it was so. The enormous levies raised in the late campaigns were turned into an army-chest for the benefit of the army, and the management of that fund was in- trusted to Mollien, his most skilful financier. The pleasures of his soldiery were also a matter of interest to him. But carefully as he had studied their psychology, both personal and collective, he was mistaken when he asked the city of Paris to provide Spanish bull-fights and contests of wild beasts for his returning soldiers; and recognizing his blunder, he revoked his order. For, after all, by the rigid enforcement of the conscription laws the nation and the army were not far from being identical, and the softening influ- ences of home life, which were not entirely absent from the conscripts even when fight- ing and marching like the perfect machines they were made to be, were powerfully pres- ent when on furlough with their mothers and sweethearts. No captain ever understood the art of appealing to the pride and affection of his men as did Napoleon; but his success was in the field and on the eve of battle, not in peace and among the normal influences of civil life. As the clever physician understands that the bodily organs are interdependent, and that the welfare of all is essential to the sound- ness of each, so Napoleon apprehended the same doctrine in regard to his empire. In applying it, like the physician, he first re- garded diet and digestion. Quite as much as for the army he spent his energies upon the finances. But here he was not an expert. There were no pains he would not take, no toil he would not endure, to master the endless lines of figures, which, as one of his ministers said, he sought to marshal like battalions. Whether in military or in civil life, he desired to prearrange and order every detail. For this end he employed, in addition to his offi- cial machinery, an extensive unofficial corre- spondence. Among other things, he had news NAPOLEON THE WAR LORD. 221 of the stock-market, of the banks, and of all prices current. When a fact was incompre- hensible he had it explained by an expert. The intensity of his interest in finance, and the just appreciation he had of its importance, appear in his acts. The very evening of his arrival in Paris after Austerlitz, a midnight message summoned the ministers to council for eight next morning. Their congratula- tions were brusquely cut off by the dry state- ment: ((We have more serious matters to con- sider. It appears that the greatest danger to the state has not been in Austria. Let us hear the report from the minister of the treasury.~ The document, read by Barb6-Marbois, was able, and mercilessly displayed the situation: the insufficiency of income, the venality of officials, and the shifts to which he had been put in order to avoid, not a panic, for that had come, but an utter crash. Three of the guilty office-holders were summoned on the spot. The scene, according to Mollien, who was present, could be described only as ((~ discharge of thunderbolts from the highest heaven for a whole hour.)) One culprit burst into tears, a second stammered weak excuses, the third was stiffened into blank silence, and all three were dismissed with a threatening gesture. The session of the council, which lasted nine hours without a break, was not ended until five oclock in the evening. When Marbois, who, though honest him- self, had failed to keep others so, finally left the room, the Emperor turned to Mol- lien and said: ((You are now minister of the treasury. Find sixty millions stolen by the officials, and I will appoint a successor to you in the management of the sinking fund I have destined for the reward of the army.)) He would listen to no excuse, and could not then, or in fact at any time, be brought to under- stand the rise or fall, and even disappearance, of values. He thought government bonds could be kept at one price no matter what happened, and that an annual budget was simply a nuisance. ~It could not be more difficult to govern the little corner of Paris they called the Exchange than to govern France,)) he said. The lesson which he had to learn cost him many millions of his hoarded contributions. By pouring his treasure into the gulf he succeeded in re~stablishing public confidence for the time. These were the serious occupations of the first half-year; its avocations were of a social naturechiefly banishing the possessors of those biting tongues whose clever sayings could not be hushed, and arranging matri- monial alliances between what the Emperor designated as the old and the new aristoc- racy. Napoleons words and mien had at last become so menacing and awe-inspiring that the accustomed quip and jest of the old no- bility were now uttered only in whispers be- hind the closed doors of their residences in the Faubourg St. Germain. Well might they be cautious; for the Emperor, unlike many great talkers, was a great doer. The most famous and clever society of the consulate and early empire was accustomed to gather in the drawing-rooms of Mine. R~camier, wife of the great banker. The wealth of her hus- band and the distinction of her own manners made her a personage of great importance among the returned emigrants, who flattered and caressed her. By her spirit and beauty she wielded enormous influence, but not in Napoleons behalf, for she considered him a parvenu. She was in reality one of the most insidious, and consequently one of the most dangerous, of his foes. He tried to buy her silence, through Fouch6s intermediation, by the offer not merely of a place as lady in waiting, but of the influence she might hope to exercise over himself. Her persistent re- fusal was really the cause of her husbands bankruptcy, for the Bank of France refused him assistance in his straits. She was not an intimate friend of Mme.de Sta~3l, although the latter, when banished from Paris, had visited her at St. Ecouen; but many of those who had frequented her parlor were. Neckers great daughter, that ((rascally Mine. de Sta~l,~ as Napoleon called her in a letter to Fouch6, had since her retirement to Switzerland played the r6le of exile so well that she had rendered herself almost a divinity to her friends. They made annual pilgrimages to Coppet, returning to Mine. R6camiers parlors with new arrows of spite and wit to discharge against the empire. In the end both the hos- tess herself and the frequenters of her hus- bands house were therefore visited with con- dign punishment, on the charge that they had excited public alarm and discredited the Bank of France. With several of her friends the great lady was banished from Paris, and later was sent into exile. From 1806 onward the police became ever more rigorous and active. Every word ut- tered about the state was apparently over- heard by them, and high and low alike suffered for any indiscretion. This made clear to the ancient aristocracy and gentry that criticism of the new court must cease; and under the influence of fear many gave their daughters in marriage to the imperial generals. The most conspicuous wedding of this sort was 222 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. that of Savary, the man of mystery at the Duc dEnghiens execution, the conspirator suspected of complicity in the death of Piche- gru and Captain Wright, who married Mile. de Coigny, a great heiress, and the daughter of a most ancient family. Another of the Emperors avocations was the consideration of ways and means to put into execution the law of May 1, 1802, estab- lishing the University of France. It is said, not without probability, that he was deeply impressed by the Jesuit system of education, which so perfectly subordinated every detail to a central power. Having already substi- tuted in the schools the study of military science for that of history and philosophy, he hoped so to organize the university as to secure the absolute devotion of all its in- structors, with a subordination of all its parts to the support of his political sovereignty. Although more important matters compelled the postponement of his plan until 1810, he eventually succeeded on the lines which he was at this time considering. (To be continued.) William M. Sloane. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT. By the Author of ((Social Evolution.~ is one A. M. We are on the open chalk downs under the stars, and twenty miles due south from London as the crow flies. The low summer moon, which has been but a few hours above thehorizon, is already sinking away in the southwest. There is but little light, for the pale yellow beams do not illuminate; now, even before the dawn has come, they are waning, and a ghostly air has settled upon the almost invisible landscape. The northerly breeze has come through the wood which meets the sky in the foreground, and the aroma of leaves, still in all their delicate summer freshness, lingers on the night air. The distant bay of the watch-dog comes over the hills, to be answered by another still farther away, and yet now by another in the valley below. But the sounds themselves are part of the solitude; they seem only to increase the silence. Under the clear sky the heavy dew has made the grass dripping wet, and in the uncertain light it is difficult to keep to the steep pathway through the upland meadows. In the low ground below, where the trees rise specter-like through the mist, the railway runs. It is but a few hours ago since the roar and crash of wheels echoed up here, and the tail lights of the Continental Express flashed through the trees; but shadowy and unreal seems the world to which such life belongs, a part of a far-off existence which has no touch or communication with these rural fastnesses. It is a silent land. Celt and Roman and Saxon alike have carried high- ways of the world through it. But it is still silent; now, as ever, the life of the highways tarries not in these solitudes which sleep between London and the southern sea. Chur-r-r-r-r ! distinct and eerie, the sound comes up the hillside, the air vibrating with the harsh, rolling note. Now it is answered by a similar sound, and the belt of small oaks and bracken below seems suddenly possessed by a troop of invisible spirits. It is the fern- owl, or night-jar, calling to his matea sound which has caused a growth of superstition to follow the bird into every land in which it has traveled. The female, who nests on the ground, is usually sitting when the male makes the night air thrill with his strange note. The bird is heard here only about this season. Out of the unknown it comes with the rising year, and thither it returns with its decline, reaching here on the crest of that great migratory wave of life from the south, of which we know so little, and which now, almost with the summer solstice, will turn again as mysteriously as it came. Slowly the splendid summer night opens out as the ground still rises. Far away in the north, in the direction of London, a soft opal light hangs upon the horizon. It is the fringe of twilight from the midnight sun circling below the horizon, though it is still more than two hours to sunrise. The moon has almost ceased to shine, but the planets burn more brightly as the light wanes, and a deeper hush seems to fall upon the darken- ing landscape. Hark! in the still night air at this altitude the ear catches now for the first time a solemn undertone of the night. It is like the subdued echo of the surf, but from a shore so distant that the sound is here only the gentlest sigh in the air; the ear strains after it when at times it seems to

Benjamin Kidd Kidd, Benjamin A Midsummer Night 222-226

222 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. that of Savary, the man of mystery at the Duc dEnghiens execution, the conspirator suspected of complicity in the death of Piche- gru and Captain Wright, who married Mile. de Coigny, a great heiress, and the daughter of a most ancient family. Another of the Emperors avocations was the consideration of ways and means to put into execution the law of May 1, 1802, estab- lishing the University of France. It is said, not without probability, that he was deeply impressed by the Jesuit system of education, which so perfectly subordinated every detail to a central power. Having already substi- tuted in the schools the study of military science for that of history and philosophy, he hoped so to organize the university as to secure the absolute devotion of all its in- structors, with a subordination of all its parts to the support of his political sovereignty. Although more important matters compelled the postponement of his plan until 1810, he eventually succeeded on the lines which he was at this time considering. (To be continued.) William M. Sloane. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT. By the Author of ((Social Evolution.~ is one A. M. We are on the open chalk downs under the stars, and twenty miles due south from London as the crow flies. The low summer moon, which has been but a few hours above thehorizon, is already sinking away in the southwest. There is but little light, for the pale yellow beams do not illuminate; now, even before the dawn has come, they are waning, and a ghostly air has settled upon the almost invisible landscape. The northerly breeze has come through the wood which meets the sky in the foreground, and the aroma of leaves, still in all their delicate summer freshness, lingers on the night air. The distant bay of the watch-dog comes over the hills, to be answered by another still farther away, and yet now by another in the valley below. But the sounds themselves are part of the solitude; they seem only to increase the silence. Under the clear sky the heavy dew has made the grass dripping wet, and in the uncertain light it is difficult to keep to the steep pathway through the upland meadows. In the low ground below, where the trees rise specter-like through the mist, the railway runs. It is but a few hours ago since the roar and crash of wheels echoed up here, and the tail lights of the Continental Express flashed through the trees; but shadowy and unreal seems the world to which such life belongs, a part of a far-off existence which has no touch or communication with these rural fastnesses. It is a silent land. Celt and Roman and Saxon alike have carried high- ways of the world through it. But it is still silent; now, as ever, the life of the highways tarries not in these solitudes which sleep between London and the southern sea. Chur-r-r-r-r ! distinct and eerie, the sound comes up the hillside, the air vibrating with the harsh, rolling note. Now it is answered by a similar sound, and the belt of small oaks and bracken below seems suddenly possessed by a troop of invisible spirits. It is the fern- owl, or night-jar, calling to his matea sound which has caused a growth of superstition to follow the bird into every land in which it has traveled. The female, who nests on the ground, is usually sitting when the male makes the night air thrill with his strange note. The bird is heard here only about this season. Out of the unknown it comes with the rising year, and thither it returns with its decline, reaching here on the crest of that great migratory wave of life from the south, of which we know so little, and which now, almost with the summer solstice, will turn again as mysteriously as it came. Slowly the splendid summer night opens out as the ground still rises. Far away in the north, in the direction of London, a soft opal light hangs upon the horizon. It is the fringe of twilight from the midnight sun circling below the horizon, though it is still more than two hours to sunrise. The moon has almost ceased to shine, but the planets burn more brightly as the light wanes, and a deeper hush seems to fall upon the darken- ing landscape. Hark! in the still night air at this altitude the ear catches now for the first time a solemn undertone of the night. It is like the subdued echo of the surf, but from a shore so distant that the sound is here only the gentlest sigh in the air; the ear strains after it when at times it seems to A MIDSUMMER NIGHT. 223 melt back again into the silence. The ground here is the watershed between two rivers, the northern Thames and the eastern Medway. It has been raining heavily during the past week; every little rill is full, and the river in the valley below is still in flood. It is the faint sound of the plash and fall of many waters which reaches here in the stillness. This is that voice which, once heard at night on the open hills or moors, is never forgotten; that sound which, more than any other audi- ble to human ear, suggests the infinite The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Lonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be. The pathway through the fields runs close to the hedge now. The scent of white clover comes down the breeze. In front, where the ground rises highest, the Southdown sheep lie huddled against the sky-line. They have given a historic name to a breed famous for its mutton; yet even in such descendants survive the instincts of long-forgotten an- cestors. It is the highest spot of the pasture they have chosen to rest in, and they lie with noses to th~ wind, waiting, they know not why, for an enemy that will never more dis- turb the slumber of their degenerate lives. Faint brushing sounds come through the grass; shadowy forms which the eye does not catch seem to move before; a hollow, sepulchral double knock comes from the depths of the hedge: it is only the angry, warning stamp of the rabbits that have been disturbed feeding. As the road goes north the scene changes. These rolling chalk downs, with the deep combs nestling at intervals between, have given trouble to the ancient road-makers: now the track mounts suddenly and steeply, and in an instant descends again almost pre- cipitously. Here the hills have closed round again, the breeze is no longer felt in the valley, and the shadows seem to come closer. The long, lush grass, almost ripe for cutting, still stands by the road, and the green wheat, already in the ear, makes a somber gloom on the southern slopes under the hazel copses. Crake-crake, crake-crake ! far and wide the sound echoes through the still air. It is not a stones throw off now, and it comes from the thick cover by the roadside, harsh, loud, and strident, drowning all other noises of the night. It is only the love-note of the land- rail, one of the most familiar of all the night sounds in this strange, wanton honeymoon of our Northern year, when for a few short weeks all nature stirs and glows and seeks to utter herself of a life that passeth under- standing. Thus still for a little does the male bird cheer the female as she sits on the eggs. Yet a few weeks more, and he will be no longer heard; for he will change and relapse into silence and other moods when the young are hatched out. The sound ceases suddenly now, only to render audible a similar note in the distance. When it is renewed, after a short interval, the bird has moved. He trav- els quickly through the long grass. Well do you remember how in other days you hunted him, what good sport he made, how fleetly the long legs carried the slim, brown body, how loath he was to fly, and how heavily he rose. The country-people said, indeed, that his wings were of little use; that, left to him- self, he never used them; and even that he shed his feathers, and slept through the win- ter in the rabbit-burrows. Yet not the least of natures mysteries are the now well-estab- lished wanderings of this familiar land-rail of our homestead meadows. By what strange routes has he been tracked over land and ocean with the waning year, south along the Nile valley, and even across the equator into southern Africa! And yet, withal, what faith- ful ardor drives him, that he should return again to woo his mate and rear his chicks in this gray twilight of our Northern night. The path leaves the road and crosses the fields again. The shrill cry of the partridge comes up the breeze. A little while ago, leaving the beaten track, the foot stumbled into a cut thorn-bush on the open ground. Now where the grass is smooth and short the same accident happens again. We are in a land where the love of wild nature has left many a strange mark on charactera land in which respect for law still struggles unsuccessfully with the inborn belief that a man may take wild game and yet scorn to be a thief. The poacher loves these long, even slopes as they will be kiter in the year, and the cut thorn-bushes have relation to his visits. The men walk them at night, two abreast and far apart, carrying a long, nar- row net between them, slightly lifted in front and weighted behind. The birds lie on the open ground and do not rise. As soon as the net is over them they are doomed, and a whole covey may be captured at once. The thorn-bushes are the snares which wreck the net. In the dim light mansions begin to loom out of the trees, and to take up the best po- sitions on the higher grounds. The outskirts of the metropolis have met us; just now, where no landmark showed the spot, the first 224 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. boundary line was crossedthe line which marks the limits of the London Metropolitan Police area, a circle within which sleeps a population of nearly 6,000,000. Under the oak copses the way winds. It is sheltered here from the north, and the air is warm and still. Hark! From the depths of the strag- gling thicket which skirts the wood there comes now a sound in which there is some- thing curiously weird when heard for the first time and from a distance. It is a bird singing in the night. Clear, soft, and dis- tinct, the notes rise and fall in the silence. It is the nightingale; this is a favorite haunt of the birds. It is surprising how far the sound travels; even after a quarter of a mile has been traversed in its direction it is still a considerable distance off. Similar sounds come now from the copses above, but the birds have each appropriated a situation; solitary they sit without changing position, each in continuous song throughout the night. It is the male bird which thus sings to the female as she sits on the nest. It is only a few steps from the thicket at last, and the songster cannot be more than twenty yards off~ You do not wonder now at the estimate of the extraordinary quality of the birds song, nor that it should have stirred the tongues of men to strophes in many lan- guages. Full, rich, and liquid, the notes fall with a strange loudness into the still night. Yet it is not so much the form of the song itself which is remarkable as the passion with which it seems to thrill. Sweet, sw-e-e-t, sw-e-e-e-tlower and tenderer the long- drawn-out notes come, the last of the series prolonged till the air vibrates as if a wire ha4 been struck, au4 the solitary. singer seems almost to choke with the overmaster- ing intensity of feeling in the final effort. The stars shine through the feathery branches of the silver birches as you listen; the hoarse bay of the watch-dog still comes at inter- vals on the breeze; far down the valley burns the red eye of the railway signal; in the dis- tance a coal-train is slowly panting south- ward, a pillar of fire seeming to precede it when the white light from the engine fire shines upon the steam: but the bird still sings on and on. It is lost in a world to which you have no key; it has not changed its position nor ceased its song since sunset, and it will be singing still with the dawn. Strange infinity of nature! Thus must its kind have sung here while the name of Eng- land was yet unfashioned on mens lips, and it was still a pathless wood to the northern Thames. Thus do the birds sing still on the fringes of modern Babylon, oblivious and in- different to all that men consider the vast import of the seething life beyond. The nesting season, when the birds sing, is drawing to a close. As the road winds near the copses, the voices of other nightingales are heard, but they are not nearly so numer- ous as a few weeks ago. The birds are slowly retiring before the growth of the metropolis. The writers experience must have been that of many a Londoner in the outer zone. He has heard the bird from his bedroom win- dow at night for a season; then the builder has come, its favorite grove or thicket has been cut down, and it has flown farther out, to return no more. The nightingales begin song here by the end of April, and they are almost silent by the end of June. They do not migrate till much later, and they continue year after year to frequent a locality until driven away; for, like the swallow, the same nightingale returns each year, faithful to its old haunts. The nightingale is not the very shy bird it is often supposed to be; although it usually keeps in the depths of its thicket, it may be easily seen moving about in the daytime. It sings then also, but its song is usually not continuous as at night. The opal light in the northeast is spreading to the zenith. The path is through the fields againanother of those public footways which render England dear to the lover of nature. Although it is yet an hour and a half to sunrise, a red tinge is on the horizon, but everything is still ghostly and indistinct. Flip, flip !a pair of larks flutter up from under the feet in the half light; they do not rise skyward, but they are already on the alert waiting to wekon~e the 4awn. Hark!. There is the first songster away on the right, the herald of the approaching day. This ridge is the last wrinkle of the chalk downs, the land which the larks love; from the next we shall overlook the outer rim of the great clay basin on which the metropolis is built, and London will have straggled to our feet. A large gray bird, slimmer than a pigeon, sails out of the elms by the wayside into the morning twilight. It is the restless cuckoo, already astir. She does not callit is too early. Besides, she has grown silent; the purpose of her strange, feckless life here is spent; a fortnight more, and her voice will no longer be heard in the land. The chorus of larks grows louder in the growing light. Already the southern slopes of London are in sight, shadowy and indistinct in outline, yet with a clearness rarely seen, and pecu- liar only to the smokeless summer dawn. A MIDSUMMER NIGHT. 225 Away still on the horizon runs the inner rim of the London basin, the line along which rise the heights of Richmond, Wimbledon, Sydenham, and Blackheath. Not so long ago, and its southern limit was still a wooded soli- tude; now the life of London has flowed far over its crest to the south, west, and east. The bats are still wheeling in the streets of Croydon; a railway signalman swinging a red lamp crosses the way in front, and passes homeward; two men carrying lanterns and searching the ground pass down a yet unfin- ished side street. They are looking for the water-valves; this is the hour at which they can try the water in the new--laid connections with least fear of protest from the sleeping householder. Through the deserted roadways and sleeping squares the way mounts to the hill on which the water-tower stands. No other footsteps have broken the silence. Our janitor has kept his promise, and the key grates in the lock in a moment. Up we go the many steps,almost in the dark, it seems, for it is still nearly an hour to sunrise, and then out into the open at the top. It is a strange world, dim and silent, which unrolls itself before the eye here. There are in many ways few aspects of life more im- pressive than the awakening of nature on the fringes of a great city, and there are not many points of vantage better than this. Far below, the rows of houses and streets spread away on every side, the southern outskirts of the great circle, twenty miles across, which London occupies. Away to the north, farther in, though still only in the outer zone, rises the last ridge which shuts in the Thames valley; on its crest the gaunt glass structure of the Crystal Palace sits darkly on the hori- zon. Behind, to the south, stretch the downs we have traversed in the night. Between lies a great suburban land of brick buildings, new, for the most part, here ranged in great solid blocks deep and wide, there straggling loosely apart. Everywhere between rise tall trees, now dark in their full summer foliage, the last survivors of that great North Wood in which, down almost into recent times, the charcoal-burners plied their tradethe North Wood which still gives its name to the district of Norwood, and which was so called to dis- tinguish it from the other great wood, the Southern Weald, which stretched through Kent, Surrey, and Sussex. It is a fair land still, as it sleeps now under a cloudless sky. out of which the stars have not yet faded, a battle-field, withal,a land upon which the invading -Celt and Roman and Saxon has in turn left his hand, it is true, but a battle- VOL. LI.2930. field, most of all, where nature fights year after year a losing stand against the blight- ing and despoiling forces of civilization. Hark! There comes now the first sound from below. It is a thrush tuning for the opening symphony. After a few tentative notes it bursts into full song. Cherry-dew, cherry-dew! Be-quick, be-quick! Strangely clear and distinct, the full notes ring out in the still morning. Soon it is joined by an- other, and in a moment another and another have answered from the high elms around. The volume of sound continues to grow, but as yet it is only the thrushes which greet the dawn. Soon there reaches the ear a faint, harsh murmur; now it is louder, and soon it swells into a hoarse din. It is as if a great army of workmen had suddenly begun to labor below, and the harsh chip and fret of countless iron tools rose upward in blended discord. It is the multitudinous voice of the house-sparrow. He rears three families in the year, and he has begun his days work of eighteen hours. He it is who, alone of wild birds, can regard the nineteenth century as an era of unexampled prosperity. He has multiplied in incredible numbers with the growth of towns. Nay, more: following the Anglo-Saxon, he has spread with the extend- ing race to the ~nds of the world, till over two continents, with a certain appropriate inaccuracy, he is known and banned as the English sparrow. From the lower shrubs of the private gardens the rich, mellow note of the blackbird begins now to blend with the others. Louder and louder swells the chorus of voices, as the finches, robins, and other small birds join in at last. It is a strange harmonyone which is seldom heard by the sleeping world. The strangest feature is, indeed, the almost complete absence of any human sound; save for the occasional scream of the whistle of a belated locomotive shunt- ing on the distant line, all but the voices of the birds is silent. Round the tower the bats are still hawk- ing. From below there reaches up a familiar twitter. It comes from a line of swallows which stand huddled up after the night on the paling, their white breasts showing in marked contrast to the black-painted fence. One takes wing now, at last, to begin that long chase after flying insects which the bats have not yet abandoned. Thus do the fringes of the night overlap the coming day. As the light grows, the features of the land open out. One does not wonder here why the migratory wild birds come to us in the far Northwest in such numbers. Why should they 226 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. linger amid the barren larch plantations and the petite culture of the Continent? Where else, despite the growth of the towns, has the country been preserved so unchanged as in England? To the right stretch the natural woods and copses in the direction of Chisel- hurst; nearer at hand lie the Addington hills and the splendid wooded lands of the manor of Croydon, still an appanage of the see of Can- terbury, and doubtless not greatly changed since the great Lanfranc held them of the Conqueror. Away to the left roll the level plains toward Windsor, the great trees so thickly strewn over the land as almost to give it the appearance of a thickly wooded countrytrees which rise unkempt in the free air of heaven, with limbs unlopped, in all their natural beauty. To the south stretches the open land, the commons of Epsom and Banstead, and the range of the North Downs, with the little village of Purley, associated with the fame of Home Tooke, sleeping on the edge. It is all little changed since the days of the author of the ((Diversions,)) al- ways and except for the vast growth of Lon- don. What would the eccentric parson and politician ?iave thought of the age if he had lived to see the metropolis almost at his doors, and all that the whirligig of time had brought with it? Would he have thought any better now of the crime which split the Anglo-Saxon peoples in two, or of his coun- trymen who fined and imprisoned him for opening a subscription for the widows and orphans of the Americans ((murdered by the Kings troops at Lexington and Concord))? The rooks are spreading out across the sky as they sail from their nests to the distant pastures. As the light ripens, the view en- larges of greater London stretching away to the north. Like the arms of a great octopus, its fringes strike far into the open land. Far- ther in, caught between them, rises bravely many a pleasant grove; parks, open spaces, and even fields gleam a fitful green among the bricks in the morning lightbut surrounded all; doomed, injected morsels waiting to be digested at leisure, to serve the strenuous purposes of another life. And yet only the outer suburban zone is visible here a land of beauty without refinement, of wealth with- out distinction; a land of groves and spires and villas hedged round with reformatories, schools, and asylums. And everywhere, from horizon to horizon, the unfinished brick and timber of the builder, emblems of the ever- rising flood, of a movement of which the springs are at the ends of the earth, of a life which takes toll of every land under heaven. Now at last, away in the northeast, the fiery red rim of the sun shows above the horizon. There has been no gorgeous pre- paratory display, no massing of shades and colors for the opening ceremony. With scarce an anticipatory flush he rises full into a gray, expressionless sky, and a moment afterward disappears into a bank of fog which hangs on the horizon over the Essex marshes. A fitting tribute, perhaps, to the race and clime. For he has risen over the first meridian, over the mother city of the Northern vikings. It is from here that -the nations have learned to count their distance. It is from here that they measure his course in his race round. the trackless seas. Benjamin Kidd. SHAKSPERE. liE heard the Voice that spake, and, unafraid, Beheld at dawning of primeval light The systems flame to being, move in flight Unmeasured, unimagined, and unstayed. He stood at natures evening, and surveyed Dissolv~d worldssaw uncreated night About the universes depth and height Slowly and silently forever laid. Down the pale avenues of death he trod, And trembling gazed on scenes of hate that chilled His blood, and for a breath his pulses stilled; Then clouds from sunbright shores a moment rolled, And, blinded, glimpsed he One with thunder shod, ... Crowned with the stars, and with the morning stoled! Henry Jerome StockarcL

Henry Jerome Stockard Stockard, Henry Jerome Shakspere 226-227

226 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. linger amid the barren larch plantations and the petite culture of the Continent? Where else, despite the growth of the towns, has the country been preserved so unchanged as in England? To the right stretch the natural woods and copses in the direction of Chisel- hurst; nearer at hand lie the Addington hills and the splendid wooded lands of the manor of Croydon, still an appanage of the see of Can- terbury, and doubtless not greatly changed since the great Lanfranc held them of the Conqueror. Away to the left roll the level plains toward Windsor, the great trees so thickly strewn over the land as almost to give it the appearance of a thickly wooded countrytrees which rise unkempt in the free air of heaven, with limbs unlopped, in all their natural beauty. To the south stretches the open land, the commons of Epsom and Banstead, and the range of the North Downs, with the little village of Purley, associated with the fame of Home Tooke, sleeping on the edge. It is all little changed since the days of the author of the ((Diversions,)) al- ways and except for the vast growth of Lon- don. What would the eccentric parson and politician ?iave thought of the age if he had lived to see the metropolis almost at his doors, and all that the whirligig of time had brought with it? Would he have thought any better now of the crime which split the Anglo-Saxon peoples in two, or of his coun- trymen who fined and imprisoned him for opening a subscription for the widows and orphans of the Americans ((murdered by the Kings troops at Lexington and Concord))? The rooks are spreading out across the sky as they sail from their nests to the distant pastures. As the light ripens, the view en- larges of greater London stretching away to the north. Like the arms of a great octopus, its fringes strike far into the open land. Far- ther in, caught between them, rises bravely many a pleasant grove; parks, open spaces, and even fields gleam a fitful green among the bricks in the morning lightbut surrounded all; doomed, injected morsels waiting to be digested at leisure, to serve the strenuous purposes of another life. And yet only the outer suburban zone is visible here a land of beauty without refinement, of wealth with- out distinction; a land of groves and spires and villas hedged round with reformatories, schools, and asylums. And everywhere, from horizon to horizon, the unfinished brick and timber of the builder, emblems of the ever- rising flood, of a movement of which the springs are at the ends of the earth, of a life which takes toll of every land under heaven. Now at last, away in the northeast, the fiery red rim of the sun shows above the horizon. There has been no gorgeous pre- paratory display, no massing of shades and colors for the opening ceremony. With scarce an anticipatory flush he rises full into a gray, expressionless sky, and a moment afterward disappears into a bank of fog which hangs on the horizon over the Essex marshes. A fitting tribute, perhaps, to the race and clime. For he has risen over the first meridian, over the mother city of the Northern vikings. It is from here that -the nations have learned to count their distance. It is from here that they measure his course in his race round. the trackless seas. Benjamin Kidd. SHAKSPERE. liE heard the Voice that spake, and, unafraid, Beheld at dawning of primeval light The systems flame to being, move in flight Unmeasured, unimagined, and unstayed. He stood at natures evening, and surveyed Dissolv~d worldssaw uncreated night About the universes depth and height Slowly and silently forever laid. Down the pale avenues of death he trod, And trembling gazed on scenes of hate that chilled His blood, and for a breath his pulses stilled; Then clouds from sunbright shores a moment rolled, And, blinded, glimpsed he One with thunder shod, ... Crowned with the stars, and with the morning stoled! Henry Jerome StockarcL CAPTAIN ELIS BEST EAR. A CHRISTMAS STORY. BY FRANK R. STOCKTON. WITH PICTURES BY E. W. KEMBLE. ~Z~~F9HE little seaside village of Spon- kannis lies so quietly upon a protected spot on our Atlantic coast that it makes no more stir in the world than would a pebble which, held between ones finger and thumb, should be dipped below the surface of a mill-pond and then dropped. About the post-office and the storeboth under the same roofthe greater number of the houses cluster, as if they had come for their weeks groceries, or were waiting for the mail; while toward the west the dwellings become fewer and fewer, until at last the village blends into a long stretch of sandy coast and scrubby pine-woods. Eastward the village ends abruptly at the foot of a wind- swept bluff, on which no one cares to build. Among the last houses in the western end of the village stood two neat, substan- tial dwellings, one belonging to Captain Eli Bunker, and the other to Captain Cephas Dyer. These householders were two very respectable retired mariners, the first a wid- ower about fifty, and the other a bachelor of perhaps the same age, a few years more or less making but little difference in this region of weather-beaten youth and seasoned age. Each of these good captains lived alone, and each took entire charge of his own do- mestic affairs, not because he was poor, but because it pleased him to do so. When Cap- tain Eli retired from the sea he was the owner of a good vessel, which he sold at a fair profit; and Captain Cephas had made money in many a voyage before he built his house in Sponkannis and settled there. When Captain Elis wife was living, she was his household manager; but Captain Ce- phas had never had a woman in his house, except during the first few months of his occupancy, when certain female neighbors came in occasionally to attend to little mat- ters of cleaning which, according to popular notions, properly belong to the sphere of woman. But Captain Cephas soon put an end to this sort of thing. He did not like a womans ways, especially her ways of attending to domes- tic affairs. He liked to live in sailor fashion, and to keep house in sailor fashion. In his establishment, everything was shipshape, and everything which could be stowed away was stowed away, and, if possible, in a bunker. The floors were holystoned nearly every day, and the whole house was repainted about twice a year, a little at a time, when the weather was suitable for this marine recrea- tion. Things not in frequent use were lashed securely to the walls, or perhaps put out of the way by being hauled up to the ceiling by means of blocks and tackle. His cooking was done sailor fashion, like everything else, and he never failed to have plum-duff on Sunday. His well was near his house, and every morning he dropped into it a lead and line, and noted down the depth of water. Three times a day he entered in a little note-book the state of the weather, the height of the mercury in barometer and thermometer, the direction of the wind, and special weather points when necessary. Captain Eli managed his domestic affairs in an entirely different way. He kept hous~e woman fashion, not, however, in the manner of an ordinary woman, but after the manner of his late wife, Miranda Bunker, now dead some seven years. Like his friend Captain Cephas, he had had the assistance of his fe- male neighbors during the earlier days of his widowhood. But he soon found that these women did not do things as Miranda used to do them, and although he frequently sug- gested that they should endeavor to imitate the methods of his late consort, they did not even try to do things as she used to do them, preferring their own ways. Therefore it was that Captain Eli determined to keep house by himself, and to do it, as nearly as his nature would allow, as Miranda used to do it. He swept his floors and he shook his door-mats, he washed his paint with soap and hot water, and he dusted his furniture with a soft cloth, which he afterward stuck behind a chest of drawers. He made his bed very neatly, turn- ing down the sheet at the top, and setting 227

Frank R. Stockton Stockton, Frank R. Captain Eli's Best Ear 227-238

CAPTAIN ELIS BEST EAR. A CHRISTMAS STORY. BY FRANK R. STOCKTON. WITH PICTURES BY E. W. KEMBLE. ~Z~~F9HE little seaside village of Spon- kannis lies so quietly upon a protected spot on our Atlantic coast that it makes no more stir in the world than would a pebble which, held between ones finger and thumb, should be dipped below the surface of a mill-pond and then dropped. About the post-office and the storeboth under the same roofthe greater number of the houses cluster, as if they had come for their weeks groceries, or were waiting for the mail; while toward the west the dwellings become fewer and fewer, until at last the village blends into a long stretch of sandy coast and scrubby pine-woods. Eastward the village ends abruptly at the foot of a wind- swept bluff, on which no one cares to build. Among the last houses in the western end of the village stood two neat, substan- tial dwellings, one belonging to Captain Eli Bunker, and the other to Captain Cephas Dyer. These householders were two very respectable retired mariners, the first a wid- ower about fifty, and the other a bachelor of perhaps the same age, a few years more or less making but little difference in this region of weather-beaten youth and seasoned age. Each of these good captains lived alone, and each took entire charge of his own do- mestic affairs, not because he was poor, but because it pleased him to do so. When Cap- tain Eli retired from the sea he was the owner of a good vessel, which he sold at a fair profit; and Captain Cephas had made money in many a voyage before he built his house in Sponkannis and settled there. When Captain Elis wife was living, she was his household manager; but Captain Ce- phas had never had a woman in his house, except during the first few months of his occupancy, when certain female neighbors came in occasionally to attend to little mat- ters of cleaning which, according to popular notions, properly belong to the sphere of woman. But Captain Cephas soon put an end to this sort of thing. He did not like a womans ways, especially her ways of attending to domes- tic affairs. He liked to live in sailor fashion, and to keep house in sailor fashion. In his establishment, everything was shipshape, and everything which could be stowed away was stowed away, and, if possible, in a bunker. The floors were holystoned nearly every day, and the whole house was repainted about twice a year, a little at a time, when the weather was suitable for this marine recrea- tion. Things not in frequent use were lashed securely to the walls, or perhaps put out of the way by being hauled up to the ceiling by means of blocks and tackle. His cooking was done sailor fashion, like everything else, and he never failed to have plum-duff on Sunday. His well was near his house, and every morning he dropped into it a lead and line, and noted down the depth of water. Three times a day he entered in a little note-book the state of the weather, the height of the mercury in barometer and thermometer, the direction of the wind, and special weather points when necessary. Captain Eli managed his domestic affairs in an entirely different way. He kept hous~e woman fashion, not, however, in the manner of an ordinary woman, but after the manner of his late wife, Miranda Bunker, now dead some seven years. Like his friend Captain Cephas, he had had the assistance of his fe- male neighbors during the earlier days of his widowhood. But he soon found that these women did not do things as Miranda used to do them, and although he frequently sug- gested that they should endeavor to imitate the methods of his late consort, they did not even try to do things as she used to do them, preferring their own ways. Therefore it was that Captain Eli determined to keep house by himself, and to do it, as nearly as his nature would allow, as Miranda used to do it. He swept his floors and he shook his door-mats, he washed his paint with soap and hot water, and he dusted his furniture with a soft cloth, which he afterward stuck behind a chest of drawers. He made his bed very neatly, turn- ing down the sheet at the top, and setting 227 228 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. the pillow up on edge, smoothing it. carefully after he had done so. His cooking was based on the methods of the late Miranda; he had never been able to make bread rise properly, but he had always liked ship biscuit, and he now greatly preferred them to the risen bread made by his neighbors; and as to coffee and the plainer articles of food with which he furnished his table, even Miranda herself would not have objected to them had she been alive and very hungry. The houses of the two captains were not very far apart, and. they were good neigh- bors, often smoking their pipes together and talking of the sea. But this was always on the little porch in front of Captain Cephass house, or by his kitchen fire in the winter. Captain Eli did not like the smell of tobacco- smoke in his house, or even in front of it in summer-time, when the doors were open. He had no objection himself to the odor of tobacco, but it was contrary to the principles of woman housekeeping that rooms should smell of it, and he was always true to those principles. It was late in a certain December, and through the village there was a pleasant little flutter of Christmas preparations. Cap- tain Eli had been up to the store, and he had stayed there a good while, warming himself by the stove, and watching the women com- ing in to buy things for Christmas. It was strange how many things they bought for presents or for holiday usefancy soap and candy, handkerchiefs and little woolen shawls for old people, and a lot of pretty little things which he knew the use of, but which Captain Cephas would never have understood at all had he been there in the store. As Captain Eli came out of the store he saw a cart in which were two good-sized Christmas trees which had been cut in the woods, and were going, one to Captain Holmess house, and the other to Mother Nelsons. Captain Holmes had grandchildren, and Mother Nelson, with never a child of her own, good old soul, had three little orphan nieces who never wanted for anything need- ful at Christmas time, or any other time. Captain Eli walked home very slowly, tak- ing observations in his mind. It was more than seven years since he had had anything to do with Christmas, except that on that day he had always made himself a mince-pie, the construction and the consumption of which were equally difficult. It is true that neighbors had invited him, and they had invited Captain Cephas, to their Christmas dinners, but neither of these worthy seamen had ever accepted any of these invitations. Even holiday food, when not cooked in sailor fashion, did not agree with Captain Cephas, and it would have pained the good heart of Captain Eli if he had been forced to make believe to enjoy a Christmas dinner so very inferior to those which Miranda used to set before him. But now the heart of Captain Eli was gently moved by a Christmas flutter. It had been foolish, perhaps, for him to go up to the store at such a time as this, but the mischief had been done. Old feelings had come back to him, and he would be glad to celebrate Christmas this year if he could think of any good way to do it; and the result of his men- tal observations was that he went over to Captain Cephass house to talk to him about it. Captain Cephas was in his kitchen, smok- ing his third morning pipe. Captain Eli filled his pipe, lighted it, and sat down by the fire. ((Capn,)) said he, ((what do you say to our keepin Christmas this year? A Christmas dinner is no good if it s got to be eat alone, and you and me might eat ourn together. It might be in my house, or it might be in your house; it wont make no great difference to me, which. Of course I like woman house- keepin, as is laid down in the rules of ser- vice for my house; but next best to that I like sailor housekeepin, so I dont mind which house the dinner is in, Capn Cephas, so it suits you.~ Captain Cephas took his pipe from his mouth. ((You re pretty late thinkin about it,)) said he, ((for day after tomorrow 5 Christmas.)) ((That dont make no difference,)) said Cap- tain Eli. ((What things we want that are not in my house or your house we can easily get either up at the store or else in the woods.)) ((In the woods!)) exclaimed Captain Cephas. ((What in the name of thunder do you expect to get in the woods for Christmas?)) ((A Christmas tree,)) said Captain Eli. ((I thought it might be a nice thing to have a Christmas tree for Christmas. Captain Holmes has got one, and Mother Nelson s got another. I guess nearly everybody s got one. It wont cost anythingI can go and cut it.)) Captain Cephas grinned a grin, as if a great leak had been sprung in the side of a vessel, stretching nearly from stem to stern. ((A Christmas tree!)) he exclaimed. ((Well, I am blessed! But look here, Capn Eli; you dont know what a Christmas tree s fer: it s fer children, and not fer grown-ups. Nobody CAPTAIN ELIS BEST EAR. 229 ever does have a Christmas tree in any house where there aint no children.)) Captain Eli rose and stood with his back to the fire. I did nt think of that,~ he said, ((but I guess it s so; and when I come to think of it, a Christmas is nt much of a Christmas, anyway, without children.)) ((You never had none,)) said Captain Ce- phas, ((and you ye kept Christmas.)) Yes,~ replied Captain Eli, reflectively; ((we did do it, but there was always a lack- mentMiranda has said so, and I have said 50.)) ((You did nt have no Christmas tree,)) said Captain Cephas. ((No, we did nt; but I dont think that folks was as much set on Christmas trees then as they pear to be now. I wonder,)) he continued, thoughtfully gazing at the ceiling, ((if we was to fix up a Christmas treeand you and me s got a lot of pretty things that we ye picked up all over the world, that would go miles ahead of anything that could be bought at the store for Christmas trees if we was to fix up a tree, real nice, if we could nt g~t some child or other that was nt likely to have a tree to come in and look at it, and stay awhile, and make Christmas more like Christmas; and then when it went away it could take along the things that was hang- in on the tree, and keep em for its own.)) ((That would nt work,)) said Captain Ce- phas. ((If you get a child into this business, you must let it hang up its stockin before it goes to bed, and find it full in the mornin, and then tell it an all-fired lie about Santa Claus if it asks any questions. Most children think more of stockins than they do of trees; so I ye heard, at least.)) ((Ive got no objections to stockins,)) said Captain Eli. ((If it wanted to hang one up, it could hang one up either here or in my house, wherever we kept Christmas.)) ((You could nt keep a child all night,)) sar- donically remarked Captain Cephas, ((and no more could I; for if it was to get up a croup in the night, it would be as if we was on a lee shore with anchors draggin and a gale ((That 5 so,)) said Captain Eli; ~~you ye put it fair. I suppose if we did keep a child all night, we d have to have some sort of a woman within hail in case of a sudden blow.)) Captain Cephas sniffed. ((What s the good of talkin?~ said he. ((There aint no child, and there aint no woman that you could hire to sit all night on my front step or on your front step a-waitin to be piped on deck in case of croup.)) ((No,)) said Captain Eli. I dont suppose there s any child in this village that aint goin to be provided with a Christmas tree or a Christmas stockin, or perhaps both, ex- cept, now I come to think of it, that little gal that was brought down here with her mother last summer, and has been kept by Mrs. Crumley sence her mother died.)) ((And wont be kept much longer,)) said Captain Cephas; ((for I ye hearn Mrs. Crum- ley say she could nt afford it.)) ((That 5 so,)) said Captain Eli. ((If she cant afford to keep the little gal, she cant afford to give no Christmas trees nor stock- ins; and so it seems to me, Capn, that that little gal would be a pretty good child to help us keep Christmas.)) ((You re all the time forgettin,)) said the other, ((that nuther of us can keep a child all night.)) Captain Eli seated himself, and looked pon- deringly into the fire. ((You re right, Capn,)) said he; ((we d have to ship some woman to take care of her. Of course it would nt be no use to ask Mrs. Crumley?~ Captain Cephas laughed. I should say not.)) ((And there does nt seem to be anybody else,)) said his companion. ((Can you think of anybody, Capn?)) ((There aint nobody to think of,)) replied Captain Cephas, ((unless it might be Eliza Trimmer; she s generally ready enough to do anything that turns up. But she would nt be no goodher house is too fur away for either you or me to hail her in case a croup came up suddint.)) ((That 5 so,)) said Captain Eli; ((she does live a long way off.)) ((So that settles the whole business,)) said Captain Cephas. ((She s too fur away to come if wanted, and nuther of us could nt keep no child without somebody to come if they was wanted, and it s no use to have a Christmas tree without a child. A Christmas without a Christmas tree dont seem agree- able to you, Capn, so I guess we d better get along just the same as we ye been in the habit of doin, and eat our Christmas dinner, as we do our other meals, in our own houses.)) Captain Eli looked into the fire. 4 dont like to give up things if I can help it. That was always my way. If wind and tide s agin me, I can wait till one or the other, or both of them, serve.)) ((Yes,)) said Captain Cephas; ~~you was al- ways that kind of a man.)) ((That 5 50. But it does pear to me as if I d have to give up this time; but it s a pity 230 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. to do it, on account of the little gal, because she aint likely to have any Christmas this year. She s a nice little gal, and takes as natural to navigation as if she d been born at sea. I ye given her two or three things because she s 50 pretty, but there s nothin she likes so much as a little ship I gave her.s ((Perhaps she was born at sea,~ remarked Captain Cephas. ((Perhaps she was,~ said the other; ((and that makes it the bigger pity.)) For a few moments nothing was said. Then Captain Eli suddenly exclaimed, ((I 11 tell you what we might do, Capn; we might ask Mrs. Trimmer to lend a hand in givin the little gal a Christmas. She aint got nobody in her house but herself, and I guess she d be glad enough to help give that little gal a regular Christmas. She could go and get the child and bring her to your house or to my house, or wherever we re goin to keep Christ- mas, and)) Well,s said Captain Cephas, with an air of scrutinizing inquiry, ((what?)) ((Well,)) replied the other, a little hesitat- ingly, ~so far as I m concernedthat is, I dont mind one way or the othershe might take her Christmas dinner along with us and the little gal, and then she could fix her stock- in to be hung up, and help with the Christ- mas tree, and)) Well,~ demanded Captain Cephas, ((what?)) Well,~ said Captain Eli, ((she couldthat is, it does nt make any difference to me one way or the other she might stay all night at whatever house we kept Christmas in, and then you and me might spend the night in the other house, and then she could be ready there to help the child in the mornin; when she came to look at her stockin.~ Captain Cephas fixed upon his friend an earnest glare. ((That s pretty considerable of an idea to come upon you so suddint,s said he; ~but I can tell you one thing: there aint a-goin to be any such doins in my house. If you choose to come over here to sleep, and give up your house to any woman you can find to take care of the little gal, all right; but the thing cant be done here.)) There was a certain severity in these re- marks, but they appeared to affect Captain Eli very pleasantly. Well,~ said he, ~if you re satisfied, I am. 1 11 agree to any plan you choose to make. It does nt matter to me which house it s in, and if you say my house, I say my house; all I want is to make the business agreeable to all concerned. Now it s time for me to go to my dinner; and this afternoon we d better go and try to. get things straightened out, because the little gal, and whatever woman comes with her, ought to be at my house to- morrow before dark. Sposin we divide up this business: I 11 go and see Mrs. Crumley about the little gal, and you can go and see Mrs. Trimmer.)) ((No, sir,)) promptlyreplied Captain Cephas, 4 dont go to see no Mrs. Trimmer. You can see both of them just the same as you can see onethey re all along the same way. I 11 go cut the Christmas tree.)) ((All right,)) said Captain Eli; ~it dont make no difference to me which does which; but if I was you, Capn, I d cut a good big tree, because we might as well have a good one while we re about it.)) When he had eaten his dinner and washed up his dishes, and had put everything away in neat, housewifely order, Captain Eli went to Mrs. Crumleys house, and very soon fin- ished his business there. Mrs. Crumley kept the only house which might be considered a boarding-house in the village of Sponkannis; and when she had consented to take charge of the little girl who had been left on her hands she had hoped it would not be very long before she would hear from some of her relatives in regard to her maintenance; but she had heard nothing, and had now ceased to expect to hear anything, and in conse- quence had frequently remarked that she DRAWN BY E. W. KEMBLE. WHEN HE HAD EATEN HIS DINNER AND WASHED UP IllS DISHES. CAPTAIN ELIS BEST EAR. 231 must dispose of the child some way or other, for she couldnt afford to keep her any longer. Even an absence of a day or two at the house of the good captain would be some relief, and Mrs. Crumley readily consented to the Christmas scheme. As to the little girl, she was delighted. She already looked upon Cap- tain Eli as her best friend in the world. It was not so easy to go to Mrs. Trimmers house and put the business before her. ((It ought to be plain sailin enough,)) Captain Eli said to himself, over and over again; e but for all that it dont seem to be plain sailin.~ But he was not a man to be deterred by difficult navigation, and he walked straight to Eliza Trimmers house. Mrs. Trimmer was a comely woman, about thirty-five, who had come to the village a year before, and had maintained herself, or t least, had tried to, by dressmaking and plain sewing. She had lived at Stetford, a seaport about twenty miles away, and from there, three years before, her husband, Cap- tain Trimmer, had sailed away in a good-sized schooner, and had never returned. She had come to Sp~nkannis because she thought that there she could live cheaper and get more work than in her former home. She had found the first quite possible, but her success in regard to the work had not been very great. When Captain Eli entered Mrs. Trimmers little room, he found her busy mending a sail. Here fortune favored him. ((You turn your hand to most anything, Mrs. Trimmer,)) said he, after he had greeted her. ((Oh, yes,)) she answered, with a smile; ~I am obliged to do that. Mending sails is pretty heavy work, but it s better than nothing.)) 4 had a notion,)) said he, ((that you was ready to turn your hand to any good kind of business, so I thought I would step in and ask you if you d turn your hand to a little bit of business I ye got on the stocks.)) She stopped sewing on the sail, and listened while Captain Eli laid his plan before her. ~( It s very kind in you and Captain Cephas to think of all that,)) said she. I have often noticed that poor little girl, and pitied her. Certainly I 11 come, and you need nt say anything about paying me for it. I would nt think of asking to be paid for doing a thing like that. And besides ~ she smiled again as she spoke if you are going to give me a Christmas dinner, as you say, that will make things more than square.)) Captain Eli did not exactly agree with her; but he was in very good humor, and she was in good humor, and the matter was soon set- tled, and Mrs. Trimmer promised to come to the captains house in the morning and help about the Christmas tree, and in the after- noon to go to get the little girl from Mrs. Crumleys and bring her to the house. Captain Eli was delighted with the arrange- ments. ((Things now seem to be goin along before a spankin breeze,)) said he. ((But I dont know about the dinner; I guess you will have to leave that to me. I dont believe Captain Cephas could eat a woman-cooked dinner. He s accustomed to livin sailor fash- ion, you know, and he has declared over and over again to me that woman-cookin does nt agree with him.)) ((But I can cook sailor fashion,)) said Mrs. Trimmer ((just as much sailor fashion as you or Captain Cephas; and if he dont be- lieve it, I 11 prove it to him; so you need nt worry about that.)) When the captain had gone, Mrs. Trimmer gaily put away the sail. There was no need to finish it in a hurry, and no knowing when she would get her money for it when it was done. No one had asked her to a Christmas dinner that year, and she had expected to have a lonely time of it; but it would be very pleasant to spend Christmas with the little. girl and the two good captains. Instead of sewing any more on the sail, she got out some of her own clothes to see if they needed any- thing done to them. The next morning Mrs. Trimmer went to Captain Elis house, and finding Captain Ce- phas there, they all set to work at the Christ- mas tree, which was a very fine one, and had been planted in a box. Captain Ce- phas had brought over a bundle of things from his house, and Captain Eli kept running here and there, bringing each time that he re- turned some new object, wonderful or pretty, which he had brought from China or Japan or Korea, or some spicy island of the Eastern seas; and nearly every time he came with these treasures Mrs. Trimmer declared that these things were too good to put upon a Christmas tree, even for such a nice little girl as the one for which that tree was intended. The presents which Captain Cephas brought were much more suitable for the purpose: they were odd and funny, and some of them pretty, but not expensive, as were the fans and bits of shell-work and carved ivories - which Captain Eli wished to tie upon the twigs of the tree. There was a good deal of talk about all this, but Captain Eli had his own way. 4 dont suppose, after all,)) said he, ((that 232 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. the little gal ought to have all the things. This is such a big tree that it s more like a family tree. Capn Cephas can take some of my things, and I can take some of his things, and, Mrs. Trimmer, if there s anything you like, you can call it your present, and take it for your own; so that will be fair and com- fortable all round. What I want is to make everybody satisfied.~ 4 m sure I think they ought to be,~ said Mrs. Trimmer, looking very kindly at Captain Eli. Mrs. Trimmer went home to her own house to dinner, and in the afternoon she brought the little girl. She had said there ought to be an early supper, so that the child would have time to enjoy the Christmas tree before she became sleepy. This meal was prepared entirely by Captain Eli, and in sailor fashion, not woman fashion, so that Captain Cephas could make no excuse for eating his supper at home. Of course they all ought to be together the whole of that Christmas eve. As for the big dinner on the morrow, that was another affair, for Mrs. Trimmer undertook to make Captain Cephas understand that she had always cooked for Captain Trimmer in sailor fashion, and if he objected to her plum-duff, or if anybody else objected to her mince-pie, she was going to be very much surprised. Captain Cephas ate his snpper with a good relish, and was still eating when the rest had finished. As to the Christmas tree, it was the most valuable, if not the most beautiful, that had ever been set up in that region. It had no candles upon it, but was lighted by three lamps and a ships lantern, placed in the four corners of the room, and the little girl was as happy as if the tree were decorated with little dolls and glass balls. Mrs. Trimmer was intensely pleased and interested to see the child so happy, and Captain Eli was much pleased and interested to see the child CAPTAIN CEPIIAS JIAD BIIOUC LIT OVER A BUNDLE OF THINGS. CAPTAIN ELIS BEST EAR. 233 so happy, and Captain Cephas was greatly to fasten that when they had gone, and had interested, and perhaps a little amused in a given her a boatswains whistle, which she superior fashion, to see Captain Eli and Mrs. might blow out of the window if there should Trimmer and the little child so happy. be a sudden croup, and it should be necessary Then the distribution of the presents be- for any one to go anywhere. He was sure he gan. Captain Eli asked Captain Cephas if he could hear it, for the wind was exactly right might have the wooden pipe that the latter for him to hear a whistle from his house. had brought for his present. Captain Cephas And when they had gone, Mrs. Trimmer put said he might take it, for all he cared, and be the little girl to bed, and was delighted to welcome to it. Then Captain Eli gave Cap- find in what a wonderfully neat and woman- tam Cephas a red bandana handkerchief of like fashion that house was kept. a very curious pattern, and Captain Cephas It was nearly twelve oclock that night thanked him kindly. After which Captain Eli when Captain Eli, sleeping in his bunk oppo- bestowed upon Mrs. Trimmer a most beauti- site that of Captain Cephas, was aroused by ful tortoise-shell comb, carved and cut and polished in a wonderful way, and with it he gave a tor- toise-shell fan, carved in the same fashion, because he said the two things seemed to belong to each other and ought to go together; and he would not listen to one word of what Mrs. Trimmer said about the gifts being too good for her, and that she was not likely ever to use them. ((It seems to me,)) said Captain Cephas, ((that ~OU might be giving something to the little gal.)) And then Captain Eli remem- bered that the child ought not to be forgotten, and her SO 1 was lifted into ecstasy by many gifts, some of which Mrs. Trimmer de DRAWN DY E. ~. RAMBLE. dared were too good for any child in this wide, wide world; but Captain Eli answered that they could be hearing a sound. He had been lying with his taken care of by somebody until ((the little best ear uppermost, so that he should hear gal)) was old enough to know their value, anything if there happened to be anything Then it was discovered that, unbeknown to to hear; and he did hear something, but it anybody else, Mrs. Trimmer had put some pres- was not a boatswains whistle. It was a pro- ents on the tree, which were things which longed cry, and it seemed to come from th had been brought by Captain Trimmer from sea. somewhere in the far East or the distant West. In a moment Captain Eli was sitting on the These she bestowed upon Captain Cephas and side of his bunk, listening intently. Again Captain Eli, and the end of all this was that came the cry. The window toward the sea in the whole of Sponkannis, from the foot of was slightly open, and he heard it plainly. the bluff to the east, to the very last house ((Capn!)) said he, and at the word Captain on the shore to the west, there was not one Cephas was sitting on the side of his bunk, Christmas eve party so happy as this one. listening. He knew from his companions atti- Captain Cephas was not quite so happy a~ tude, plainly visible in the light of a lantern the three others were, but he was very much which hung on a hook at the other end of th interested. About nine oclock the party room, that he had been awakened to listen. broke up, and the two captains put on their Again came the cry. caps and buttoned up their pea-jackets, and ((That s distress at sea,)) said Captain Ce- started for Captain Cephass house; but not phas. ((Harken!)) before Captain Eli had carefully fastened They listened again for nearly a minute, every window and every door except the when the cry was repeated. front door, and had told Mrs. Trimmer how ((Bounce on deck, boys!)) said Captain Ce- iT WAS PROLONGED CRY. 234 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. phas, getting out on the floor. ((There s some one in distress offshore.~ Captain Eli jumped to the floor, and began to dress quickly. ((It could nt be a call from land?)) he asked hurriedly. It dont sound a bit to you like a boatswains whistle, does it?) ((No,)) said Captain Cephas, disdainfully. It s a call from sea. And then, seizing a lantern, he rushed down the companionway. As soon as he was convinced that it was a call from sea, Captain Eli was one in feeling and action with Captain Cephas. The latter hastily opened the drafts of the kitchen stove, and put on some wood, and by the time this was done Captain Eli had the kettle filled and ~n the stove. Then they clapped on their caps and their pea-jackets, each took an oar from a corner in the back hall, and together they ran down to the beach. The night was dark, but not very cold, and Captain Cephas had been to the store that morning in his boat. Whenever he went to the store, and the weather permitted, he rowed there in his boat rather than walk. At the bow of the boat, which was now drawn up on the sand, the two men stood and listened. Again came the cry from the sea. ((It s something ashore on the Turtle-back Shoal,)) said Captain Cephas. ((Yes,)) said Captain Eli; ((and it s some small craft, for that cry is down pretty nigh to the water.)) Yes,~ said Captain Cephas; ((and there s only one man aboard, or else they d take turns a-hollerin.~ ((He s a stranger,)) said Captain Eli, ((or he would nt have tried, even with a catboat, to get in over that shoal on ebb-tide.)) As they spoke they ran the boat out into the water and jumped in, each with an oar. Then they pulled for the Turtle-back Shoal. Although these two captains were men of fifty or thereabout, they were as strong and tough as any young fellows in the village, and they pulled with steady strokes, and sent the heavy boat skimming over the water, not in a straight line toward the Turtle-back Shoal, but now a few points in the darkness this way, and now a few points in the darkness that way, then with a great curve to the south through the dark night, keeping always near the middle of the only good channel out of the bay when the tide was ebbing. Now the cries from seaward had ceased, but the two captains were not discouraged. ((He s heard the thumpin of our oars, said Captain Cephas. ((He s listenin, and he 11 sing out again if he thinks we re goin wrong,)) said Captain Eli; ((of course he dont know anything about that.)) And so when they made the sweep to the south the cry came again, and Captain Eli grinned. ((We need nt to spend no breath hollerin, said he; ((he 11 hear us makin for him in a minute.)) When they came to head for the Shoal they lay on their oars for a moment while Captain Cephas turned the lantern in the bow so that its light shone out ahead. He had not wanted the shipwrecked person to see the light when it would seem as if the boat were rowing away from him. He had heard of castaway people who would get so wild when they imagined that a ship or boat was going away from them that they would jump overboard. When the two captains reached the shoal, they found there a catboat aground, with one man aboard. His tale was quickly told. He had expected to run into the little bay that afternoon, but the wind had fallen, and in trying to get in after dark, and being a stranger, he had run aground. If he had not been so cold, he said, he would have been willing to stay there till the tide rose; but he was getting chilled, and seeing a light not far away, he concluded to call for help as long as his voice held out. The two captains did not ask many ques- tions. They helped anchor the catboat, and then they took the man on their boat and rowed him to shore. He was getting chilled sitting out there doing nothing, and so when they reached the house they made him some hot grog, and promised in the morning, when the tide rose, they would go out and help him bring his boat in. Then Captain Cephas showed the stranger to a bunk, and they all went to bed. Such experiences had not enough of novelty to the good captains to keep them awake five minutes. In the morning they were all up very early, and the stranger, who proved to be a seafar- ing man with bright blue eyes, said that as his catboat seemed to be riding all right at its anchorage he did not care to go out after her just yet. Any time during flood-tide would do for him, and he had some business that he wanted to attend to as soon as possible. This suited the two captains very well, for they wished to be on hand when the little girl discovered her stocking. ((Can you tell me, said the stranger, as he put on his cap, ((where I can find a Mrs. Trimmer who lives in this village?)) At these words all the sturdy stiffness which, from his youth up, had characterized CAPTAIN ELIS BEST EAR. 235 the legs of Captain Eli entirely went out of them, and he sat suddenly upon a bench. For a few moments there was silence; then Cap- tain Cephas, who thought some answer should be made to the question, nodded his head. ~I want to s~e her as soon as I can,~ said the stranger. I have come to see her on particular business that will be a surprise to her. I wanted to be here before Christmas began, and that s the reason I took that cat- boat from Stetford, because I thought I d come quicker that way than by land. But the wind fell, as I told you. If either one of you would be good enough to pilot me to where Mrs. Trimmer lives, or to any point where I can get a sight of the place, I d be obliged.)) Captain Eli rose, and with hurried but un- steady steps went into the house (for they had been upon the little piazza), and beckoned to his friend to follow. The two men stood in the kitchen and looked at each other. The face of Captain Eli was of the hue of a clam- shell. ((Go with him, Capn,)) he said in a hoarse whisper; I cant do it.~ ((To your house ?(( inquired the other. ((Of course; take him to my house. There aint no other place where she is. Take him along.)) Captain Cephass countenance wore an air of the deepest concern, but he thought that the best thing to do was to get the stranger away. As they walked rapidly toward Captain Elis house there was very little said by either Captain Cephas or the stranger. The latter seemed anxious to give Mrs. Trimmer a sur- prise, and not to say anything which might enable another person to interfere with his project. The two men had scarcely stepped upon the piazza when Mrs. Trimmer, who had been expecting early visitors, opened the door. She was about to call out ((Merry Christmas!)) but, her eyes falling upon a stranger, the words stopped at her lips. First she turned red, then she turned pale, and Captain Cephas thought she was about to fall; but before she could do this the stranger had her in his arms. She opened her eyes, which for a moment she had closed, and, gazing into his face, she put her arms around his neck. Then Captain Cephas came away, without thinking of the little girl and the pleasure she would have in discovering her Christmas stocking. When he had been left alone, Captain Eli sat down near the kitchen stove, close to the very kettle which he had filled with water to heat for the benefit of the man he had helped bring in from the sea, and, with his elbows on his knees and his fingers in his hair, he darkly pondered. ((If I d only slept with my hard-o-hearin ear up,~ he said to himself, I d never have heard it.)) In a few moments his better nature con- demned this thought. ((That s next to murder,)) he muttered; ((for he could nt have kept himself from fallin asleep out there in the cold, and when the tide riz he d have been blowed out to sea with this wind. If I had nt heard him, Captain Cephas never would, for he was nt primed up to listen in his sleep, as I was.)) But, notwithstanding his better nature, Captain Eli was again saying to himself, when his friend returned, ((If I d only slept with my other ear up!)) Like the honest, straightforward mariner he was, Captain Cephas made an exact report of the facts. ((They was huggin when I left them,)) he said, ((and I expect they went in- doors pretty soon, for it was too cold outside. It s an all-fired shame she happened to be in your house, Capn; that s all Ive got to say about it. It s a thunderin shame.)) Captain Eli made no answer. He still sat with his elbows on his knees and his hands in his hair. ((A better course than you laid down for these Christmas times was never dotted on a chart,)) continued Captain Cephas. ((From port of sailin to port of entry you laid it down clear and fine; but it seems there was rocks that was nt marked on the chart.)) ((Yes,)) groaned Captain Eli; ((there was rocks.)) Captain Cephas made no attempt to com- fort his friend, but went to work to get break- fast. When that meala rather silent onewas over, Captain Eli felt better. ((There was rocks,)) he said, ((and not a breaker to show where they lay, and I struck em bow on. So that s the end of that voyage; but~ I ye tuk to my boats, Capn, I ye tuk to my boats.)) 4 m glad to hear you ye tuk to your boats,)) said Captain Cephas, with an approv- ing glance npon his friend. About ten minutes afterward Captain Eli said, I m goin up to my house.)) ~By yourself?)) said the other. ((Yes, by myself; I d rather go alone. I dont intend to mind anything, and I m goin to tell her that she can stay there and spend Christmas, the place she lives in aint no place to spend Christmas,and she can make the little gal have a good time, and go long 236 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. just as we intended to go longplum-duff and mince-pie all the same; and I can stay here, and you and me can have our Christmas dinner together, if we choose to give it that name. And if she aint ready to go to-mor- row, she can stay a day or two longer; it s all the same to me, if it s the same to you, Capn.)) And Captain Cephas having said that it was the same to him, Captain Eli put on his cap and buttoned up his pea-jacket, declar- ing that the sooner he got to his house the better, as she might be thinking that she would have to move out of it now that things were different. Before Captain Eli reached his house he saw soniething which pleased him. He saw the sea-going stranger, with his back toward him, walking rapidly in the direction of the village store. Captain Eli quickly entered his house, and in the doorway of the room where the tree was he met Mrs. Trimmer, beaming brighter than any morning sun that ever rose. ((Merry Christmas!)) she exclaimed, hold- ing out bQth her hands. I ye been wonder- ing and wondering when you d come to bid me (Merry Christmas) the merriest Christ- mas I ye ever had.)) Captain Eli took her hands and bid her ((Merry Christmas very gravely. She looked a little surprised. What s the matter, Cap- tain Eli?)) she exclaimed. ((You dont seem to say that as if you meant it.~ ((Oh, yes, I do,)) he answered; ((this must be an all-firedI mean a thunderin happy Christmas for you, Mrs. Trimmer.)) ((Yes,)) said she, her face beaming again. ((And to think that it should happen on Christ- mas daythat this blessed morning, before anything else happened, my Bob, my only bro- ther, should )) ((.Your what!)) roared Captain Eli, as if he been shouting orders in a raging storm. Mrs. Trimmer stepped back almost fright- ened. ~My brother,)) said she. ((Did nt he tell you he was my brothermy brother Bob, who sailed away a year before I was mar- ried, and who has been in Africa and China and I dont knoxv where? It s so long since I heard that he d gone into trading at Singa- pore that I d given him up as married and settled in foreign parts; and here he has come to me as if he d tumbled from the sky on this blessed Christmas morning.)) Captain Eli made a step forward, his face very much flushed. ((Your brother, Mrs. Trimmerdid you really say it was your brother?)) Of course it is,)) said she. ((Who else could it be?)) Then she paused for a moment and looked steadfastly at the captain. ((You dont mean to say, Captain Eli,)) she asked, ((that you thought it was)) ((Yes, I did,)) said Captain Eli, promptly. Mrs. Trimmer looked straight in the cap- tains eyes, then she looked on the ground. Then she changed color and changed back again. I dont understand,)) she said hesitatingly, whyI mean what difference it made.)) ((Difference!)) exclaimed Captain Eli. ((It was all the difference between a man on deck and a man overboardthat s the difference it was to me. I did nt expect to be talkin to you so early this Christmas mornin, but things has been sprung on me, and I cant help it. I just want to ask you one thing: Did you think that I was gettin up this Christmas tree and the Christmas dinner and the whole business for the good of the little gal, or for the good of you, or for the good of Captain Cephas?)) Mrs. Trimmer had now recovered a very fair possession of herself. Of course I did,~ she answered, looking up at him as she spoke. ((Who else could it have been for?)) ((Well,)) said he, ~~you were mistaken. It was nt for any one of you; it was all for me for my own self.)) ((You yourself?)) said she. I dont see how.)) ((But I see how,)) he answered. ((It s been a long time since I wanted to speak my mind to you, Mrs. Trimmer, but I did nt ever have no chance; and all these Christmas doins was got up to give me the chance not only of speakin to you, but of showin my colors better than I could show them in any other way; and everything went on a-skimmin till this mornin, when that stranger that we brought in from the shoal piped up and asked for you. Then I went overboardat least I thought I didand sunk down, down, clean out of soundins.~ ((That was too bad, Captain,)) said she, speaking very gently, after all your trouble and kindness.)) ((But I dont know now,)) he continued, ((whether I went overboard or whether I am on deck. Can you tell me, Mrs. Trimmer?)) She looked up at him; her eyes were very soft, and her lips trembled just a little. It seems to me, Captain,)) she said, ((that you are on deckif you want to be.)) The captain stepped closer to her. Mrs. Trimmer,)) said he, ((is that brother of yours comm back?)) CAPTAIN ELIS BEST EAR. 237 ((Yes,)) she answered, surprised at the sud- her brother on the other, and each of them den question. ((He s just gone up to the holding one of her hands. store to buy a shirt and some things. He got ((It looks as if I was in port, dont it?~ all splashed trying to push himself off last said Captain Eli to his astonished friend. night.)) ((Well, here I am, and here s my fust mate,)) ((Well, then,)) said Captain Eli, ((would you inclining his head toward Mrs. Trimmer. mind tellin him when he comes back that ((And she s in port too, safe and sound; and that strange captain on the other side of her, he s her brother Bob, who s been away for years and years, and is just home from Madagascar.)) ((Singapore,)) amended brother Bob. Captain Cephas looked from one to the other of the three occupants of the sofa, but made no immediate remark. Presently a smile of genial maliciousness stole over his face, and he asked, ((How about the poor little gal? Have you sent her back to Mrs. Crum1eys?~ The little girl came out from behind the Christmas tree, her stocking, now but half filled, in her hand. ((Here I am,)) she said. ((Dont you want to give me a Christmas hug, Captain Cephas? You and me s the only ones that has nt had any.)) The Christmas dinner was as truly and perfectly a sailor-cooked meal as ever was served on board a ship or off it. Captain Cephas had said that, and when he had so spoken there was no need of further words. It was nearly dark that afternoon, and they were all sitting around the kitchen fire, the three seafaring men smoking, and Mrs. Trimmer greatly enjoying it. There could be no objection to the smell of tobacco in this house so long as its future mistress enjoyed it. you and me s engaged to be married? I The little girl sat on the floor nursing a Chinese dont know whether I ye made a mistake in idol which had been one of her presents. the lights or not, but would you mind tellin ((After all,)) said Captain Eli, meditatively, him that?)) ((this whole b siness come out of my sleepin Mrs. Trimmer looked at him. Her eyes with my best ear up; for if I d slept with were not so soft as they had been, but they my hard-o-hearin ear upn Mrs. Trimmer were brighter. ~I d rather you d tell him put one finger on his lips. ((All right,)) said that, yourself,)) said she. Captain Eli, ~I wont say no more; but it The little girl sat on the floor near the would have been different.)) Christmas tree, just finishing a large piece Even now, several years after that Christ- of red-and-white candy which she had taken mas, when there is no Mrs. Trimmer, and the out of her stocking. ((People do hug a lot at little girl, who has been regularly adopted Christmas time,)) said she to herself. Then by Captain Eli and his wife, is studying ge- she drew out a piece of blue-and-white candy ography, and knows more about latitude and and began on that. longitude than her teacher at school, Captain Captain Cephas waited a long time for his Eli has still a slight superstitious dread of friend to return, and at last he thought it sleeping with his best ear uppermost. would be well for him to go and look for ((Of course it s the most all-fired nonsense,)) him. When he entered the house he found he says to himself over and over again. Never- Mrs. Trimmer sitting on the sofa in the par- theless, he feels safer when it is his hard-o- br, with Captain Eli on one side of her and hearin ear)) that is not upon the pillow. Fran/c II. Stockton. PEOPLE DO HUG A LOT AT CHRISTMAS TIME. TOM GROGAN. BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Author of ((Colonel Carter of Cartersville,~ ((A Gentleman Vagabond,~ etc. WITH PICTURES BY CHARLES S. REINHART. carrying away some of the upper planking the false work of the coffer-dam; but this BABCOCK S DISCOVERY. had been repaired in a few hours without B~THING worried flab- delay or serious damage. After that the cock. One could see that Indian summer had set insoft, dreamy from the impatient ges- days when the winds dozed by the hour, the ture with which he turned waves nibbled along the shores, and the away from the ferry win- swelling breast of the ocean rose and fell dow on learning he bad as if in gentle slumberdays when the sky half an hour to wait. He was a delicate violet blue, the sunlight tem- paced the slip with hands pered through the tender land haze and filmy deep in his pockets, his head on his chest. mists from a still sea, and all the air redolent Every now and then he would stop, snap open with autumn smells; when the sails of the his watch, shutting it again quickly, as if to oil-lighters hung listless, the boats drifting hurry the lagging minutes. idly, and from away up the harbor, past lIed- For the first time in years Tom Grogan, bes Island and the Bronze Goddess, came who had always unloaded his boats, had failed the straining tugs towing impatient coasters him. A scow loaded with stone for the sea- eager to catch some vagrant breeze loafing wall that Babcock was building for the Light- seaward outside the Narrows. house Department had lain three days at the He found i difficult to forgive his steve- government dock without a bucket having dores failure. It was no way, he kept repeat- been swung across her decks. His foreman ing to himself, to serve a man, leaving his had just reported that there was not enough gangs idle, when the good-weather days would material to last the concrete-mixers two soon be over. Renewed anxieties took pos- hours. If Grogan did not get to work at once, session of him. How long would this good the divers must come up. weather last? Babcock rose hurriedly, and Heretofore to turn over to Grogan the leaned over the deck-rail, scanning the sky. unloading of material for any submarine He did not like the drift of the low clouds off work had been like feeding grist to a mill to the west; southeasters began that way. so many tons of concrete stone loaded on the It looked as though the wind might change. scows by the stone crushing company had Some men would not have worried over meant that exact amount delivered by Grogan these possibilities. Babcock did. He was that on Babcocks mixing-platforms twenty-four kind of man. hours after arrival, ready for the divers be- When the boat touched the shore he sprang low. This was the way Grogan had worked, over the chains, and hurried through the ferry- and he had required no watching. slip. Babcocks impatience did not cease even ((Keep an eye out, sir,)) the bridge-tender when he took his seat on the upper deck of the called after him, he had been directing him ferry-boat, and caught the welcome sound o to Grogans house, e perhaps Tom may be the paddles sweeping back to the landing at on the road.e St. George. He thought of his men standing Then it suddenly occurred to Babcock that, idle, and of the heavy penalties which would so far as he could remember, he had nevei be inflicted by the Government, if the winter seen Mr. Thomas Grogan, his stevedor ~. His caught him before the section of wall was foreman knew him, and so did his pa mas- complete. Before now the veather had been ter, but he himself had never met him. If on his side, and Grogans delay would not have he had, he could not recall his fa e. le of been so serious, course did not know by sight dozens of other Only one northeaster had struck hi work, men whose names were on his pa~ -rol in 238

F. Hopkinson Smith Smith, F. Hopkinson Tom Grogan 238-251

TOM GROGAN. BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH. Author of ((Colonel Carter of Cartersville,~ ((A Gentleman Vagabond,~ etc. WITH PICTURES BY CHARLES S. REINHART. carrying away some of the upper planking the false work of the coffer-dam; but this BABCOCK S DISCOVERY. had been repaired in a few hours without B~THING worried flab- delay or serious damage. After that the cock. One could see that Indian summer had set insoft, dreamy from the impatient ges- days when the winds dozed by the hour, the ture with which he turned waves nibbled along the shores, and the away from the ferry win- swelling breast of the ocean rose and fell dow on learning he bad as if in gentle slumberdays when the sky half an hour to wait. He was a delicate violet blue, the sunlight tem- paced the slip with hands pered through the tender land haze and filmy deep in his pockets, his head on his chest. mists from a still sea, and all the air redolent Every now and then he would stop, snap open with autumn smells; when the sails of the his watch, shutting it again quickly, as if to oil-lighters hung listless, the boats drifting hurry the lagging minutes. idly, and from away up the harbor, past lIed- For the first time in years Tom Grogan, bes Island and the Bronze Goddess, came who had always unloaded his boats, had failed the straining tugs towing impatient coasters him. A scow loaded with stone for the sea- eager to catch some vagrant breeze loafing wall that Babcock was building for the Light- seaward outside the Narrows. house Department had lain three days at the He found i difficult to forgive his steve- government dock without a bucket having dores failure. It was no way, he kept repeat- been swung across her decks. His foreman ing to himself, to serve a man, leaving his had just reported that there was not enough gangs idle, when the good-weather days would material to last the concrete-mixers two soon be over. Renewed anxieties took pos- hours. If Grogan did not get to work at once, session of him. How long would this good the divers must come up. weather last? Babcock rose hurriedly, and Heretofore to turn over to Grogan the leaned over the deck-rail, scanning the sky. unloading of material for any submarine He did not like the drift of the low clouds off work had been like feeding grist to a mill to the west; southeasters began that way. so many tons of concrete stone loaded on the It looked as though the wind might change. scows by the stone crushing company had Some men would not have worried over meant that exact amount delivered by Grogan these possibilities. Babcock did. He was that on Babcocks mixing-platforms twenty-four kind of man. hours after arrival, ready for the divers be- When the boat touched the shore he sprang low. This was the way Grogan had worked, over the chains, and hurried through the ferry- and he had required no watching. slip. Babcocks impatience did not cease even ((Keep an eye out, sir,)) the bridge-tender when he took his seat on the upper deck of the called after him, he had been directing him ferry-boat, and caught the welcome sound o to Grogans house, e perhaps Tom may be the paddles sweeping back to the landing at on the road.e St. George. He thought of his men standing Then it suddenly occurred to Babcock that, idle, and of the heavy penalties which would so far as he could remember, he had nevei be inflicted by the Government, if the winter seen Mr. Thomas Grogan, his stevedor ~. His caught him before the section of wall was foreman knew him, and so did his pa mas- complete. Before now the veather had been ter, but he himself had never met him. If on his side, and Grogans delay would not have he had, he could not recall his fa e. le of been so serious, course did not know by sight dozens of other Only one northeaster had struck hi work, men whose names were on his pa~ -rol in 238 TOM GROGAN. 239 different localities, but he never thought of that. He wanted Grogan, and he wanted him at once, and he was impatient at the possible delay in finding him. As he hurried along the road he recalled the face of his foreman, a big blond Swede, and the daughter, a fair-haired, bright girl, who once came to the office for her fathers pay; but all efforts at reviving the lineaments of Grogan failed. With this fact clear in his mind, he felt a tinge of disappointment. It would have re- lieved his temper to unload a portion of it upon the offending stevedore. Nothing cools a mans wrath so quickly as not knowing the size of the head he intends to hit. When he approached near enough to the sea-wall to make out the swinging booms and the puffs of white steam from the hoisting- engines, his eye lighted upon the main der- rick at work lowering the buckets of mixed concrete to the divers. Instantly his spirits rose. The delay on his contract might not be so serious. Perhaps, after all, Grogan was at work. As he reached the temporary wooden fence built by th~ Government, shutting off the view of the depot yard, with its coal-docks and machine-shops, and neared the small door cut through its planking, a voice rang out clear and strong above the din of the mixers: ((Hold on, ye wall-eyed macaroni! Do ye want that fall cut? Turn that snatch-block, Cully, and tighten up the watch-tackle. Here, capn, lend a hand. Lively now, lively, before I mount the hull gang of ye! ~ The voice had a ring of unquestioned au- thority. It was not quarrelsome or abusive or bullying only earnest and forceful. ((Ease away on that guy! Ease away, I tell ye!)) it continued, rising in intensity. ~So all gone! Now, haul out, Cully, and let that other team back up.~ Babcock pushed open the door in the fence and stepped in. A scow lay close beside the string-piece of the government wharf. Along- side its forward hatch stood a small derrick with a swinging gaff. The ((fall)) led through a snatch-block in the planking of the dock, and operated an iron bucket that was hoisted by a big gray horse driven by a boy. A gang of men were filling these buckets, and a num- ber of teams were being loaded with their dumped contents. The captain of the scow was on the dock, holding the guy. At the foot of the derrick, within ten feet of Babcock, stood a woman of perhaps thirty- five years of age, with big, clear gray eyes, made all the more luminous by the deep, rich color of her sunburned skin. Her teeth were snow-white, and her light brown hair was neatly parted over a broad forehead. She wore a loose ulster half concealing her well- rounded, muscular figure, and a black silk hood rolled back from her face, the strings falling over her broad shonlders, revealing a red silk scarf loosely wound about her throat, the two ends tucked in her bosom. Her feet were shod in thick-soled shoes laced tightly around her well-turned ankles, and her hands were covered by buckskin gauntlets creased with wear. From the outside breast-pocket of her ulster protruded a time-book, from which dangled a pencil fastened to a hempen string. Every movement indicated great physical strength, perfect health, and a thorough mastery of herself and her surroundings, coupled with a dignity and repose unmis- takable to those who have watched the hand- ling of large bodies of workingmen by some one leading spirit, master not only on the pay- roll, but master in every tone of the voice and every gesture of the body. The woman gave Babcock a quick glance of interroga- tion as he entered, and, receiving no answer, forgot him instantly. ((Come, now, ye blatherin Dagos ~ this time to two Italian shovelers filling the buck- ets shall I throw one of ye overboard to wake ye up, or will I take a hand meseif? Another shovel therethat bucket s not half full ~ jerking one hand from her side pocket and pointing with an authoritative gesture, breaking as suddenly into a laugh over the awkwardness of their movements. Babcock, with all his curiosity aroused, watched her for a moment, forgetting for the time his own anxieties. He liked a skilled hand, and he liked push and grit. This woman seemed to possess all three. He was amazed at the way in which she handled her men. He wished somebody as clear-headed and as capable were unloading his boat. He began to wonder who she might be. There was no mistaking her nationality. Slight as was her accent, her direct descent from the land of the shamrock and the shillalah was not to be doubted. The very tones of her voice seemed saturated with its national spirit a flower for you when you agree with me, and a broken head when you dont.)) But underneath all these outward indications of dominant power and great physical strength he detected in the lines of the mouth and eyes a certain refinement of nature. There was, too, a fresh, rosy wholesomeness, a sweet cleanliness, about the woman, which, added 240 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. to the noble lines of her figure, would have stood for beauty, and that alone, had it not been that the firm mouth, well-set chin, and deep, penetrating glance of the eye, over- powered all other impressions. Babcock moved down in front of her. ((Can you tell me, madam, where I can find Thomas Grogan% ((Right in front of ye,)) she answered, turn- ing quickly, with a toss of her head like that of a great hound baffled in hunt. I m Tom (Jrogan. What can I do for ye?)) ((Not Grogan the stevedore ?~ Babcock asked in astonishment. ((Yes, Grogan the stevedore. Out with it what can I do for ye?)) ((Then this must be my boat. I came downn ((Ye re not the boss ? ~ looking him over slowly from his feet up, a good-natured smile irradiating her face, her eyes beaming, every tooth in her head glistening. ((There s me hand. I m glad to see ye. I ye worked for ye off and on for four years, and niver laid eyes on ye till this minute. Dont say a word. I know it. I ye kept the concrete gangs back half a day, but I could nt help it. I ye had four horses down with the zooty, and two men laid up with dipthery. The big gray Cully s drivin over therethe one that s a-hoistinaint fit to be out of the stables. If ye were nt behind in the work, he d have two blankets on him this minute. But I m here meself now, and I 11 have her out to- night if I work till daylight. Here, capn, pull yerself together. This is the boss.)) ON that same noon, just after whistle- blow, a mere scrap of humanity had ~topped to rest a dinner-pail on a pile of spars heaped lip behind a temporary wooden fence. He was a boy of perhaps seven or eight years of .age, but with the face of an old man pinched, weary, and scarred all over with suf- fering and pain. He wore a white tennis-cap and a short gray jacket that reached to his waist. Under one arm was a wooden crutch. One leg was bent at the knee, and swung clear when he jerked his little body along the ground. The other, though unhurt, was thin and bony, the yarn stocking wrinkling over the shrunken calf. Beside him stood a big billy-goat, harnessed to a two-wheeled cart made of a soap-box. Bending over the little cripple was a woman with her hood thrown back on her shoulders, her long ulster wide open at the throat. 4 thought ye were niver comm wid that dinner, darlint,~ she said softly. ((What kept ye? Stumpy was tired, was he? Well, niver mind.~ She lifted the little fellow in her arms, and pushed back his cap and smoothed his hair with her fingers, her whole face beaming with tenderness. ((Gimme the crutch, darlint, and hold on to me tight, and we 11 get under the shed out of the sun till I see what Jennie s sent me.)) After she had propped him between two big spars, she lifted the cover. ~Pigs feet, as I m alive, and hot cabbage, and the coffee a-bilin too! ~ pulling out a tin flask with a screw top, the whole em- bedded in the smoking cabbage. ((There, we 11 be after puttin it where Stumpy cant be rubbin his nose in it ~ setting the pail, as she spoke, on a big anchor-stone. Here the goat moved up, rubbing his head in the boys face, and then reaching around for the pail. ((Look at him, Patsy! Git out, ye imp, or I 11 hurt ye! Leave that kiver alone!)) She laughed as she struck at the goat with her empty gauntlet, and shrank back out of the way of his horns. At this instant she caught Babcocks eye. He was passing through the yard on his way back to New York. ((Oh, it s the boss ~ half rising from her seat. ((Sure, I thought ye d gone back. Pull the hat off ye, me boy; it s the boss we re workin for, the man that s buildin the wall. Ye see, sir, when I m driv like I am to-day, I cant go home to dinner, and me Jennie sends mebigmanPatsydown)) rounding out each word in a pompons tone, as she slipped her hand under the boys chin and kissed him on the cheek. There was no apology at her being discov- ered unawares, squat in a fence-corner, an anchor-stone for a table, and a pile of spars for a chair. She continued to talk to Babcock in an unabashed, self-possessed way, pouring out the smoking coffee in the flask cup, chew- ing away on the pigs feet, and throwing the bones to the goat, who sniffed them con- temptuously. ((Yes, he s the youngest of our children, sir. He and Jenniethat s home, andmost as tall asmeselfare all thats left. The other two went to heaven when they was little ones.)) ((Cant the little fellows leg be straight- ened?)) asked Babcock, in a tone which plainly showed his sympathy for the boys suffering. ((No, not now; so Dr. Mason says. There was a time when it might have been, but I could nt take him. I had him over to Quar TOM GROGAN. 241 antine again two years ago, but it was too late; it d growed fast, they said. When he was four years old he would be under the horses heels all the time, and a-climbin over them in the stable, and one day the big gray fetched him a crack, and broke his hip. He did nt mean it, for he s as dacint a horse as I ye got; but the boys had been a-worritin him, and he let drive, thinkin, most likely, it was them. He s been a-hoistin to-day there he is on the dock.~ Then, catching sight of Cully leading the horse back to work, she rose to her feet, all the fire and energy renewed in her face: ((Shake the men up, Cully! I cant give em but half an hour to-day. We re behind time now. And tell the capn to pull them mac- aronis out of the hold, and start two of em to trimmin some of that stone to starboard. She was a-listin when we knocked off for dinner. Come, lively! o II. A BOARD FENCE LOSES A PLANK. THE work on the sea-wall progressed. The coffer-dam, which had been built by driving into the mud of the bottom a double row of VOL. LI.31. heavy tongued and grooved planking in two parallel rows, bulkheading each end, had been filled with concrete to low-water mark, absorbing not only the contents of the de- layed scow, but two subsequent cargoes, both of which had been unloaded by Tom Grogan. To keep out the leakage, steam-pumps were kept going night and day. By dint of hard work the upper masonry of the wall had been laid to the top course, ready for the coping-stone, and there was now every prospect that the last stone would be lowered into place before the winter storms set in. The shantya temporary structure, good only for the life of the workrested on a set of stringers laid on extra piles driven outside of the working-platform. When the sub- marine work lies miles from shore, a shanty is the only shelter for the men, its interior being fitted up with sleeping-bunks, with one end partitioned off for a kitchen and a stor- age-room. This is filled with extra blocks, Manila rope, portable forges, tools, shovels, harrows all perishable property. For this present sea-wallan amphibious sort of structure, with one foot on land and the other in the waterthe shanty was of light pine boards, roofed over, and made water-tight by tarred paper. The bunks had been omitted, for most of the men boarded in the village. This gave increased space for the storage of tools, besides room for a desk containing the government working-drawings and specifications, pay-rolls, etc. In addition to its door, fastened at night with a padlock, and its one glass window, secured by a ten- penny nail, it had a flap-window, hinged at the bottom. When this was propped up with a barrel stave it made a counter from which to pay the men, the paymaster standing in- side. Babcock was sitting on a keg of dock spikes inside this working shanty some days after he had discovered Toms identity, watch- ing his bookkeeper preparing the pay-roll, when a face was thrust through the square of the window. It was not a prepossessing face, rather pudgy and sleek, with uncertain, drooping mouth, and eyes that always looked over ones head when he talked. It was the property of Mr. Peter Lathers, the yardmaster of the depot. ((When you re done payin off maybe you 11 step outside, sir,(( he said, in a confiding tone. ((I got a friend of mine who wants to know you. He s a stevedore, and does the work to the fort. He s never done nothin for you, but I told him next time you come down I d Ii PATSY. 242 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. fetch him over. Say, Dan!)) beckoning with his head over his shoulder; then, turning to Babcock I make you acquainted, sir, with Mr. Daniel McGaw. Two faces now filled the windowLath- erss and that of a red-headed man in a straw hat. All right. Ill attend to you in a moment. Glad to ~ee you, Mr. McGaw,)) said Babcock, rising from the keg, and looking out over his bookkeepers shoulder. Latherss friend proved to be a short, big-boned, square-shouldered Irishman, about forty years of age, dressed in a once black broadcloth suit with frayed buttonholes, the lapels and vest covered with grease-spots. Around his collar, which had done service for several days, was twisted a red tie decorated with a glass pin. His face was spattered with blue powder-marks, as if from some quarry explosion. A lump of a mustache dyed dark brown concealed his upper lip, mak- ing all the more conspicuous the bushy, sandy-colored eyebrows that shaded a pair of treach& rous eyes. Hismouthwas coarse and filled with teeth half worn off, like those of an old horse. When he smiled these opened slowly like a vise. What- ever of humor played about this opening lost its life instantly when these jaws clicked together again. The hands were big and strong, wrinkled and seamed, their rough backs spotted like a toads, the wrists covered with long spi- dery hairs. Babcock noticed particularly his low, flat forehead when he removed his hat, and the dry, red hair growing close to the eyebrows. I wuz a-spakin to me frind Mishter Lathers about doin yer wurruk,)) began McGaw, resting one foot on a pile of barrow-planks, his elbow on his knee. I does all the haulin to the foort. Surgint Duffy knows me. I wuz along here las week, an see ye wuz put back fer stone. If I d had the job, Id had her unloaded two days befoore.)) ((You re dead right, Dan, said Lathers, with an expression of disgust. ((This woman business am t no good, nohow. She ought to be over her tubs. ((She does her work, though,)) Babcock said, beginning to see the drift of things. ((Oh, I dont be sayin she dont. She s a da- cint woman anough; but thim bys as is a-run- nin her carts is raisin~ all the toime.) And then look at the teams,)) chimed in Lathers, with a jerk of his thumb toward the dock a lot of staggerin horse-car wrecks you could nt sell to a glue-factory. That big gray she had a-hoistin is blind of an eye and sprung so forrard he cant hardly stand.)) At this moment the refrain of a song from somewhere near the board fence came waft- ing through the air: ((An he whiped np the floor wid MeGeechy.~ tslV ~2. McGaw turned his head in search of the singer. ((What are your rates per ton?)) asked Babcock. We re a-chargin forty cints,)) said Mc- Gaw, deferring to Lathers, as if for confir- mation. ((Whos (we)? ((The Stevedores Union.~ ((But Mrs. Grogan is doing it for thirty,) DRAWN AR C. S. REINHART. DAN MRGAW. TOM GROGAN. 243 said Babcock, looking straight into McGaws eyes, and speaking slowly and deliberately. (Yis, I heared she wuz a-cuttin rates; but she cant live at it. If I does it, it 11 be done roight, an no throuble.s ~I 11 think it over,)) said Babcock, quietly, turning on his heel. The meanness of the whole affair offended him two big, strong men fighting a woman with no protector but her two hands. McGaw should never lift a shovel for him. Again the song floated out; this time it seemed nearer: .... . wici MeGeechy MeGeechy of the Fourth.)) ((Dan McGaw s givn it to you straight,)) said Lathers, stopping for a last word, his face thrust through the window again. ((He s rigged for this business, and Grogan aint in it with him. If she wants her work done right, she ought to send down something with a mustache.)) Here the song subsided in a prolonged chuckle. McGaw turned, and caught sight of a boys heada mop of black hair thrust through a crownless hatleaning over a cement-barrel. Lathers turned, too, and in- stantly lowered his voice. The head ducked out of sight. In the flash glance Babcock caught of the face, he recognized the boy Gully, driver of the big gray. It was evident to Babcock that Gully at that moment was bubbling over with fun. Indeed, this waif of the streets, sometimes called James Finne- gan, was seldom known to be otherwise. ((Thet s the wurrst rat in the stables,?) said McGaw, his face reddeningwith anger. ((What kin ye do whin ye re a-buckin agin a lot uv divils bike him? ~ speaking through the window to Babcock. ((Come out uv thet,)) he called to Gully, ((or I 11 bust yer jaw, ye sneakin rat!)) Gully came out, but not in obedience to McGaw or Lathers. Indeed, he paid no more attention to either of those distinguished diplomats than if they had been two cement- barrels standing on end. His face, too, had lost its irradiating smile; not a wrinkle or a pucker ruffled its calm surface. His clay- soiled hat was in his handa very dirty hand, by the way, with the torn cuff of his shirt hanging loosely over it. His trousers bagged all overknees, seat, and waist. On his stockingless feet were a pair of sun-baked, brick-colored shoes. His ankles were as dark as mahogany. His throat and chest were bare, the skin being tanned to leather wher ever the sun could work its way through the holes in his garments. From out of this com- bination of dust and rags shone a pair of piercing black eyes, snapping with fun. I come up fer de monts pay,)) he said coolly to Babcock, the corner of his eye glued to Lathers. ((De ole woman said ye d hey it ready.)) ((Mrs. Grogans?)) asked the bookkeeper, shuffling over his envelops. ((Yep. Tom Grogan.)) ((Can you sign the pay-roll?)) ((You bet ~ with an eye still out for Lath- ers. It was this flea-like alertness that always saved Mr. Finnegans scalp. Where did you learn to write at school?)) asked Babcock, noting the boys fearless in- dependence with undisguised pleasure. ((Naw. Patsy an me studies nights. Pop Mullins teaches us he s de ole womans far- der what she brung out from Ireland. He s a-livin up ter de shebang; dey re all a-livin dereJinnie an de ole woman an Patsy all cept me an Carl. I bunks in wid de big gray. Say, mister, ye d oughter git onter Patsyhes de little kid wid de crutch. He s a corker, he is; reads potry an everythin. Where 11 I sign? Oh, yes, I see; in dis ere square hole right alongside de ole womans name ~ spreading his elbows, pen in hand, and affixing ((James Finnegan)) to the collec- tion of autographs. The next moment he was running along the dock, the money envelop tight in his hand, sticking out his tongue at McGaw, and calling to Lathers as he disap- peared through the door in the fence, Sompn wid a mus-tache, sompn wid a mus-tache,)) like a newsboy calling an extra. Then a stone grazed Latherss ear. Lathers sprang through the gate, but the boy was half-way through the yard. Once out of Latherss reach, Gully bounded up the road like a careering letter X, with arms and legs in air. If there was any one thing that delighted the boys soul, it was, to quote from his own picturesque vocabu- lary, ((to set up a job on de ole woman.)) Here was his chance. Before he reached the stable he had planned the whole scene, even to the exact intonation of Latherss voice when he referred to the dearth of mustaches in the Grogan household. Within a few min- utes of his arrival the details of the whole occurrence, word for word, with such pictur- esque additions as his own fertile imagination could invent, were common talk about the yard. Meanwhile Lathers had been called upon to direct a gang of laborers who were mov 244 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. ing an enormous iron buoy-float down the cinder-covered path to the dock. Two of the men walked beside the buoy, steadying it with their hands. Lathers was leaning against the board fence of the shop whittling a stick, while the others worked. Suddenly there was an angry cry, and every man stood still. So did the buoy and the mov- ing truck. ((Where s the yardmasterwhere s Pete Lathers?)) It was Tom Grogans voice. The next in- stant she broke through the crowd, brushing the men out of her way, and came straight toward him, head up, eyes blazing, her silk hood pushed back from her face, as if to give her air, her gray ulster open to her waist, her right hand bare of a glove. ((Pete Lathers,~ she said, stopping in front of him, ((why do ye want to be takin the bread out of me childrens mouths?)) Lathers pulled himself together, the stick dropping from his hand: ((Well, who said I did? What have I got to do with your)) ((You ye got enough to do with em to want em to starveyou and your friend lVIcGaxv. flave I ever hurt ye that ye should try aft sneak me business away from me? Ye know the fight I ye made, standin out on this dock many a day an night in the cold an wet, with nobody between Toms children an~ the street but these two handsan yet ye d slink in like a dog to get me ((Here, now, I aint a-goin to n~. no row. It s against orders, an I 11 call the yard- watch and throw you out if you make any fuss.)) ((The yard-watch!)) with a look of supreme contempt, crowding him so closely that Lath- ers hugged the fence out of reach of her fist. ((I can handle any two of em, an you too, an ye know it.)) By this time the gang had abandoned the buoy and were standing aghast, watching the fury of the Amazon. ((When ye were out of a job yerself, an discharged, did nt Tom go to the fort and get ye on the pay-roll agin, when)) ((Well, who said he did nt? Now, see here, dont make a muss; the commandant 11 be down here in a minute.)) Latherss tone was changing. ((Let him come; he s the one I want to see. If he knew he had a man in his pay that would do as dirty a trick to a woman as ye ye done, his name would be Dinnis. I 11 see him meself this very day, and)) Here Lathers interrupted with an angry gesture. ((Dont ye lift yer arm at me,~ she blazed out, ((or I 11 break it at the wrist!)) Latherss hand dropped. All the color was out of his face, his lip quivering. ((Whoever said I said a word against you, Mrs. Grogan, is a liar.)) It was the last resort of a cowardly nature. ((Dont ye lie to me, Pete Lathers! If there s anythin in this world I hate, it s a liar. Ye said it, and ye know ye said it. Ye want that drunken loafer Dan McGaw to get me work. Ye ye been at it all summer, an ye think I have nt watched ye; but I have. And ye say I dont pay full wages, and have got a lot of boys to do mens work, an oughter be over me tubs. Now let me tell ye ~ she faced him squarely, with her fists clenched. Lathers shrank back against the fence if ever I hear ye openin yer head about me, or me teams, or me work, I 11 niake ye swallow every tooth in yer head. Send down some- thin with a mustache, will I? There s not a man in the yard that s a match for me, an ye know it. Try that!)) There was a quick blow, a crash of break- ing timber, and a flood of daylight broke in behind Lathers. With one blow of her fist she had knocked the fence-plank close beside his head clear of its fastenings. ((Now, the next time I come, Pete Lathers, I 11 miss the fence and take yer face, and dont ye forgit ith Then she turned and stalked out of the yard, the men falling back in silence to let her pass. III. SERGEANT DUFFYS LITTLE GAME. THE bad weather so long expected finally arrived. A day of soft, warm autumn skies, aglow with the radiance of the setting sun, and brilliant in violet and gold, had been fol- lowed by a cold, gray morning. Of a sudden a cloud the size of a hand had mounted clear of the horizon, and called together its fel- lows. An unseen herald in the east blew a blast, and winds and sea awoke. By nine oclock a gale was blowing. By ten Babcocks men were bracing the outer sheathing of the coffer-dam, strengthening the derrick-guys, tightening up the anchor- lines, and clearing the working-platforms of sand, cement, and other damageable property. The coarse masonry, fortunately, was above the water-line, but the coping was still unset and the rubble backing of much of the wall unfinished. Two weeks of constant work were necessary before that part of the structure contained in the first section of the contract DRAWN BY C. S. REINHART. LATHEES SHRANK BACK AGAINST THE FENCE. would be entirely safe for the coming winter. Babcock doubled his gangs, and utilized every hour of low water to the utmost, even when the men stood waist-deep. It was his only hope for completing the first section that season. After that would come the cold, freezing the mortar, and ending everything. Tom Grogan performed wonders. Not only did she work her teams far into the night, but during all this bad weather she stood throughout the day on the unprotected dock, a mans souwester covering her head, a rough waterproof reaching to her feet. She di- rected every boat-load herself, and rushed the 245 246 THE CENTURY MAGAZINE. materials to the shovelers, who stood soaking wet in the driving rain. Lathers kept out of her way; so did McGaw. Everybody else watched her in ad- miration. Even the commandant,