The Living age ... / Volume 179, Note on Digital Production Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 848 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0179 /moa/livn/livn0179/

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

The Living age ... / Volume 179, Note on Digital Production 0179 000
The Living age ... / Volume 179, Note on Digital Production A-B

The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2310 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 848 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0179 /moa/livn/livn0179/

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

The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2310 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 6, 1888 0179 2310
The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2310, miscellaneous front pages i-viii

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. E PLURIBUS UNUM. These publications of the day should from time to time he winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, sod the chaff thrown ~ Made up of every creatures best. Various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change, And pleased with novelty, may be indulged. FIFTH SERIES, VOLUME LXIV. FROM THE BEGINNING, VOL. CLXXIX. OCTOBER, NOVEMBER, DECEMBER, 888. BOSTON: LITTELL AND CO. $,,~ xo TABLE OF THE PRINCIPAL CONTENTS OF THE LIVING AGE, VOLUME CLXXIX. THE SIXTY-FOURTH QUARTEELY VOLUME OF THE FIFVH SERIES. OCTOBER, NOVEMBER, DECEMBER, i888. EDINBURGH REVIEW. Recent Advances in Surgery and Medi- cine QUARTERLY REVIEW. Nonsense as a Fine Art, . - Provincial Life under the Roman Re- public, 553 515 643 LONDON QUARTERLY REVIEW. The Apocrypha 387 Cruising and Dredging, - - - 427 Richmond Palace and its Royal Resi dents 619 CHURCH QUARTERLY REVIEW. Boswell and his Editors, - CONTEMPORARY REVIEW. A Winter in Syria, Applied Geography, Literary Immortality, State Socialism Impressions of Petersburg, A Dip in Criticism, My Predecessors Among the North-Sea Trawlers, Hamdi Bey The Genesis of the Puritan Ideal, Contemporary Life and Thought France FORTNIGHTLY REVIEW. Shakespeares Wisdom of Life, Palmyra: Past and Present,. 544 28, 286 67 .160 195 214 352 415 478 - 613 707 in 8o8 131 579 NINETEENTH CENTURY. Chaucer and the Italian Renaissance, 3 Robert Rlsmere and the Battle of Belief 88 Pages from a Work-Girls Diary, 115 Jean-Fran9ois Millet 164 The First-born Son of Death, . . 255 The Reign of the Nouvelles Couches in France 468 The Memoirs of the Comte de Brienne, 666 NATIONAL REVIEW. The Place of Music in Culture, 110 Story-Telling in the East, . - 176 Sir Herbert Edwardes 486 The Income of a Univex~sity, and How it is Spent . 537 The French Clergy Exiles in England, A.D. 17921797 630 ASIATIC QUARTERLY REVIEW. A Page of Afghan History, . . - 771 REVUE DES DEUX MONDES. Queen Christina of Sweden,. - 676, 735 BLACKWOODS MAGAZINE. My Treasure, 14 Mr. Forster and Ireland, . . - 45 Under Canvas in a Proclaimed District, 222 Aut Diabolus, aut Nihil, 270 The English Peasantry, 451 On the Dark Mountains, - 589 Professions for Dogs 689 Quinine, GENTLEMANS MAGAZINE. - 753 CORNHILL MAGAZINE. Working Princes The Great American Language, Sketches of Indian Life, The Phantom Picquet, - Not Understanded of the People, MAcMILLANS MAGAZINE. The Savile Letters. 16601689, Shakespeare Unawares, A Modern Pilgrimage, . Gray The Scottish Horace Walpole, Mrs. Browning TEMPLE BAR. A Chapter on Proposals, - A Great Yorkshire Vicar, Griselda Our Diplomatists III - 186 .298 345 - 463 504 235 305 374 - 745 802 - 75 - 102 143 - 259 lv CONTENTS. Montaigne 323, 405 Mud-Larking in Bohemia, 609 A Visit to Monserrat 698 William Whewell, D.D., . 790 GOOD WORDS. Bishop Ken 248 SUNDAY MAGAZINE. Francis Turner Palgrave, . . 566 LONGMAN5 MAGAZINE. John Ward, Preacher 37 Poor Harry 204 Reminiscences of the Lakes in 1844, 357 The Last of the Costellos, 396 Wardour-Street English, 499 Barbara, 531 783 ARGOSY. A Little Maid, an Old Maid, and the Major, . . . . 654, 724 ENGLISH ILLUSTRATED MAGAZINE. Modern Aspect of Longevity, . . 823 MURRAYS MAGAZINE. Quin Lough 331 The Late Dean Burgon, 365 Pathos 499 A North-Country Flood, . . . 796 SPECTATOR. Commercial Hydraulics, The Emperor Fredericks Diary, Mental Laziness Mr. Balfours Sermon, Krakatoa Roman Catholics on Agnosticism, Up the Feeder The Praise of Insensibility, EcONoMIST. The Increase in Wheat-Growing, SATURDAY REVIEW. The Presidents Address to the British Association, . PALL MALL GAZETTE. Professors Huxleys Advice to Public Speakers, . 190 311 317 440 445 570 573 701 765 122 572 ST. JAMESS GAZETTE. The Production of Caviar in Russia, . Mr. Ruskin as a Society Man, . . 436 Assamese Opium-Drinkers, . . . 446 A Competitive Examination in Turkey, 703 CHAMBERS JOURNAL. The Australian Dingo at Home, 245 An Adventure in the Flooded Theiss, 252 Recent Discoveries in Egypt, 443 Salt-Manufacture 819 ALL THE YEAR ROUND. Sketches in Tenerife, . . . i8o, 377 ATHENiEUM. Mr. W. Gifford Palgrave, . . 383 NATURE. The Services of Catholic Missionaries in the East to Natural Science, 59 The Centenary of the Calcutta Botanic Garden 319 Empiricism versus Science, . - . 507 Desiccated Human Remains, . . 636 The Astronomical Observatory of Pekin, 638 QUEEN. Corsican Women 447 TIMES. Savage versus Brute 315 The Prison of Bokhara, . 442 Dutch Independence DAILY NEWS. An Autumn Evening in Whitechapel, - 313 MORNING POSY. General Prejevalsky, the Russian Ex- plorer, . . . . 125 STANDARD. The Hervey Isles and the British Pro- tectorate 439 ILLUSTRATED LONDON NEWS. The Toad in the Rock 511 CASSELLS SATURDAY JOURNAL Some Customs of Inns of Court, . . 576 JAPAN WEEKLY MAIL Piracy and Hidden Treasure, - - 126 INDEX TO VOLUME CLXXIX. AUSTRALIAN Dingo, The, at Home, 245 Aut Diabolus, aut Nihil, . 270 American Language, The Great 298 Apocrypha, The 387 Assamese Opium-Drinkers, . . . 446 Agnosticism, Roman Catholics on . 570 Astronomical Observatory, The, at Pe kin 638 Afghan History, A Page of . . . 771 BATTLE of Belief, The . . . . 88 British Association, the, The Presi dents Address to . . . 122 Botanic Garden at Calcutta, the, The Centenary of . 319 Burgon, Dean, The Late . 365 Balfours, Mr., Sermon, 440 Bokhara, The Prison of . 442 Barbara, - 531 Boswell and his Editors, . Bohemia, Mud-Larking in 609 Brienne, the Comte de, The Memoirs of 666 Browning, Mrs 802 CHAUCER and the Italian Renaissance, ~ Catholic Missionaries in the East, their Services to Natural Science, . Chapter on Proposals, A . . . Caviar, The Production of, in Russia, . Calcutta Botanic Garden, the, The Cen- tenaryof . . . . . 319 Criticism, A Dip in . . . 352 Ceylon, A Modern Pilgrimage in . . 374 Cruising and Dredging,. . . . 427 Corsican Women, . . . . 447 Christina, Queen, of Sweden, . 676, 735 Competitive Examination, A, in Turkey, 703 Crotalus, a, An Adventure with . . 768 DINGO, The Australian, at Home, . 245 Diplomatists, Our. . . . 259 Dredging and Cruising, . . . 427 Dutch Independence, . . . . 575 Desiccated Human Remains, . . 636 Dogs, Professions for . . . . 689 EGYPT, Recent Discoveries in 443 Electric Sunstroke 448 English Peasantry, The . . . 451 Edwardes, Sir Herbert. . - . 486 English, Wardour-Street . . . 499 Empiricism versus Science, . . . 507 FOSTER, Mr., and Ireland, . . . 45 Fredericks, The Emperor, Diary, . 311 France, The Reign of the Nouvelles Couches in . 468 Feeder, Up the 573 French Clergy Exiles, The, in England, 630 Flood, A North-Country .. 796 France, Contemporary Life and Thought in 8o8 GEOGRAPHY, Applied . 67 Griselcia, 143 Gray 6oi HooK, Dr. Walter Farquhar . . Hydraulics, Commercial . . . 190 Hervey Isles, The, and the British Pro- tectorate 439 Huxleys, Professor, Advice to Public Speakers 572 Hamdi Bey 613 ITALIAN Renaissance, the, and Chaucer, 3 Indian Life, Sketches of . . . Inns of Court, Some Customs of . . 576 Insensibility, The Praise of . . . 701 JOHN WARD, Preacher, . . . 37 783 KEN, Bishop . . 248 Krakatoa . 445 LITERARY Immortality, i6o Leprosy in India 255 Laziness, Mental . . Lakes, the, Reminiscences of, in 1844, . 357 Last of the Costellos, The . . . 396 Little Maid, A, an Old Maid, and the Major, . . . . 654, 724 Longevity, Modern Aspect of . . 824 MY Treasure, . . . . . 14 Music, The Place of, in Culture, - . Millet, Jean-Fran9ois . . . 164 Mental Laziness, . . . 317 Montaigne . 323, 405 Modern Pilgrimage, A . . . 374 Medicine and Surgery, Recent Advances in . . . . . . 553 Mummies, Natural, in Mexico, . . 636 Monserrat, A Visit to . . . . 698 NOUVELLES Couches the, The Reign of, in France 468 Not Understanded of the People, . 504 Nonsense as a Fine Art, . . . 515 V VI OPIUM-Drinkers, Assamese On the Dark Mountains, PREJEVALSKY, General, the Russian Explorer Piracy and Hidden Treasure, Prirces, Working Poor Harry Petersburg, Impressions of Proclaimed District, in a, Under Can- vas Palgrave, W. Gifford . Predecessors, My Peasantry, The English Phantom Picquet, The . Pathos Prayer-Book, The, Not in the Language of the People Palgrave, Francis Turner Palmyra: Past and Present, Pekin, The Astronomical Observatory at Provincial Life under the Roman Re- public, Puritan Ideal, the, The Genesis of QUIN Lough, Quinine, ROBERT ELSMERE and the Battle of Belief Ruskin as a Society Man, Roman Catholics on Agnosticism, AUTUMN, . After Rain Autumn Bloom, Autumn Woods, Antony, The Death of Autumn Voices, Athena, A Prayer to Cynthia, To, Five Years Old, Commonwealth, In the Chevaliers Lament, The Dead Divided Eternity Florence the Beautiful, Garden Memories, Gleaners of Fame, Gain Grey, Lady Jane, to the Birds, Helen Halcyon Day, A, in Summer, Holidays, INDEX. 446 Richmond Palace and its Royal Resi 589 dents 619 Roman Republic, Provincial Life under the 643 125 126 SYRIA, A Winter in, . 28, 286 186 ShakespearCs Wisdom of Life, 131 204 Story-Telling in the East, 176 214 Socialism, State I9~ Savile Letters, The . . . . 235 222 Shakespeare Unawares, . . 305 383 Science versus Empiricism, . . . 507 415 Surgery and Medicine, Recent Ad- 451 vances in . 463 Salt-Manufacture o19 495 TENERIFE, Sketches in. . . 180, 377 504 Theiss, the Flooded, An Adventure in. 252 566 Trawlers, the North-Sea, Among 47& 579 Toad, The, in the Rock, . 511 Turkey, A Competitive Examination in 703 638 UNIVERSITY, a, The Income of, How 643 it is Spent . 707 WORK-GIRLS Diary, a, Pages from 115 331 Working Princes i86 753 Whitechapel, An Autumn Evening in 313 Wardour-Street English, . . 499 Walpole, Horace, The Scottish . 745 88 Wheat-Growing, The Increase in . 765 436 Whewell, William, D.D., . 790 570 YORKSHIRE Vicar, A Great . . 102 POETRY. 258, 770 386 450 . 514 . 642 770 . 194 . 322 . 578 . 450 . 578 706 706 66 194 578 642 - 130 322 322 Flowers and Land, In Sight of . . Love Lion, The, among the Flowers, Loss and Gain Loss Muriel My Big Dog, To . . Mist Milton and Beethoven, . Meadows, The, of Long Ago, Merry-go-Round, The . Nightingale, On a Blind and Captive, Night Thought, A . Potato Harvest, The Refugium Peccatorum, Sonnets in my Library, . She hath Grown Cold, . Swallow, The Song of the Sea, The . Thorwaldsens Last Work, Wind, The, has Blawn my Plaid awa, 130 258 258 - 450 57& 66 66 194 258 514 770 130 770 2 706 2 2 386 386 514 514 INDEX. AUT Diabolus, aut Nihil, Barbara Chapter on Proposals, A Griselda VII TALES. 270 Last of the Costellos, The . . . 396 Little Maid, A, an Old Maid, and the 53 Major 654, 724 75 My Treasure 4 143 Poor Harry 204 Phantom Picquet, The 463 783 Quin Lough 33~

The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2310 1-64

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No, 2310. October 6, 1888. From Be& ning, Volume LXIV & Vol. CLXXIX. CONTENTS. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE, M~ TREASURE A WINTER IN SYRIA JOHN WARD, PREACHER. By Archdeacon Farrar MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND, THE SERVICES OF CATHOLIC MISSIONARIES IN THE EAST TO NATURAL SC1ENCE, SONNETS IN MV LIBRARY, THE PorATo HARVEST, MISCELLANY, Nineteenth Century, B/ackwoods Magazine, Contemporary Review, Longmans Magazine, Biackwoods Magazine, Nature, P0 E TRY. 2 f SHE HATH GROWN COLD, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LIT TELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remit/ed directly to the Publishers, the Lsvsseca AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,Jree ofjlos/age. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can he procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, x8 cents. 3 14 37 45 59 2 SONNETS IN SONNETS IN MY LIBRARY. 2 MY LIBRARY, ETC. High just as we are high the song starts from. SHELF OF SONNETS. Voice that voyagest oer crystalline seas, IF thou have art mosaic-wise Joy well content with thine own sweet en- only joyment, To cramp just fourteen lines in rhymes just Tuned triumph, wingd, transcendently at five ease, If thou our Shakespeares sonnet half despise, All the way up from daisies to the sun, Because he strongly spurnd so strict a Glorious perfection in minute employment. gyve; Thou and thy poem are entirely one I Because in fourteen lines seven rhymes he WILLIAM DERRY AND RAPHOR. used Because in that pressd couplet at the close Spectator. He loved to gather up his sweets diffused, And pack them in the compass of a rose; THE POTATO HARVEST. If thou thus count upon thy fingers cold A HIGH bare field, brown frotn the plough, That music countable by souls alone, and borne Those sonnets with their cadences of gold, Aslant from sunset; amber wastes of sky Little, yet living many an epic down, Washing the ridge; a clamor of crows that Give thine own sonnets to the fire that lies fly Fit grave of difficult stupidities! In from the wide flats where the spent tides mourn II. To yon their rocking roosts in pines, wind If thou canst mould thy work as Winter does, torn Who helps not hide its beauty, line on line A line of gray snake-fence, that zigzags by Intricately maintaining his design A pond, and cattle; from the homestead Thro all the fretwork and intaglios nigh Figured on frozen panes; if to a rose The long, deep summonings of the supper A diamond thou canst cut: it may be thine horn. The sonnets subtle secret to divine, Black on the ridge, against that lonely flush, Chiefly if thou thy central thought dispose, A cart, and stoop-necked oxen; ranged be- So that thro words by brevity made pale, They who look wisely shall perceive at last side, Thy thought as sometimes in a dim Some barrels; and the day-worn harvest sea zone Here folk, Thro the grey mist there slowly grows a emptying their baskets, jar the hush mast, With hollow thunders; down the dusk hill- Obscurely carrying noble heights of sail side Miles thro the dim, magnificent unknown. Lumbers the wain; and day fades out like smoke. C. G. D. ROBERTS. III. A VOLUME OF CRITICISM. Society man! my critic of the town! SHE HATH GROWN COLD. How fare the poets with him? Butterflies Like sapphire spangles falln from splendid SHE hath grown cold whose kindness won me s~ues to her. Fare like them on stiff card-board well pinnd Wherefore is this? down. Wishing them more, I find her favors fewer. He patronizes songs of old renown, What is amiss? Them disenchanting of the rich surprise, If, when we liked, to love my friendship The dawn-flush of the dateless centuries, flowered None like a lily weaves his own great crown, With too fond haste, None like a royal vintage, as of right Oh, say, should hers by cruel Fate oerpow- Hath of his proper self a scent divine. ered, Here is his painted flower, this way he As sudden waste? does it; Shall I complain? Oh, no! true love Thus stole he literary red to rose it; complains not, His song is not himself but composite; Being denied. A manufactured bouquet haunts his wine. Shall I disdain?~ Oh, no! true love dis- dains not, IV. Only false pride. Shall I less love her for her long denial?~~ ~Nay; year by year, Since she is worthy, thou shalt find thy trial Ever more dear; Till, it may be, the master spirit in thee, Fresh from Loves fast, Out of her eyes his look of looks shall win thee, Win thee at last. Spectator. A. P. G. Vexd by this voluble critic I left home, And walkd afield, disturbd by a half Yes. Hush! a lark sings. Uplifted littleness, Airy Longinus of the azure dome, Small poet born who didst nof so become! Thou tellst me what yon trickster did not guess, Our songs are just ourselves, not more or less, From The Nineteenth Century. CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAIS SANCE. THREE stages may commonly be noticed in the life of those very few books whicb, in every national literature, really survive which men still read for pleasure, not for study; which we visit not as repositories of fact or monuments of language, but as shrines of genius. In their own age, on the whole, such works will, I think, be found to have had their most vivid, most penetrating power; they then, in their own birth-country at least, are most in mens mouths and minds at the same time ; are most thoroughly intelligible and enjoyable. The nation moves on; senti- ments, ideas, taste, language, change; the great author becomes antiquated; he may count still amongst those whom we meta- phorically allow ourselves to call immor- tal; but he is an immortal out of fashion, a god relegated to a Lucretian Olympus. Then in the third stage, the days (to take Pindars deeply felt phrase) that are still left, the fiery force revives; the heav- enly origin~~ is again recognized, and all the stores of research and commentary and criticism are lavished in the noble effort to give genius its due and lasting place among those influences by which nations are at once moulded and refined and elevated. Books of this supreme rank, poetry in particular, do admit of a genuine revival: Igneus est ollis vigor et caelestis origo; and the revivalist efforts of later days have hence been fruitful of good. Yet we must, somewhat sadly, confess that these efforts lack spontaneity, that something of antiquarianism inevitably clings to them; that nations as such can never live their past again; that the fame of the greatest poet, if now more widely and securely established, will not reach its first vital and delightful freshness. A similar evolution, analogou sgradesof life, are exhibited in other fine arts; the likeness between architecture and poetry being here most closely marked. Ely or Salisbury must have been most completely impressive as cathedrals in the centuries when they were built, their whole purpose most intelligible. Then followed an age 3 of neglect or contempt or incongruous and blundering repair. And if the structural restorations and additions of our day are not always happy, they are at least the evidence of scientific and devoted re- search. The use of the cathedral, in its degree, has been revived; the beauty and the glory of it as a monument is again acknowledged, and even more ~videly than of old. For about a century, Chaucer has been in the third stage above indicated, and an immense mass of valuable matter is now piled up about the text and meaning of his works, his life, and his place in poetry.* And although the biographical infec- tion, the natural frailty to mispraise and overpraise, has not failed to show itself although research has rather demolished personal tradition about the poet than added facts of value, yet we may heartily and honestly rejoice that amongst all En- glish-speaking races Chaucer is once more readable, once more to those few whom the nineteenth century does not wholly ab- sorb a living genius and power. What is here offered t~ such readers is not a review of Chaucer, but an atteml)t, mainly, to set forth his debt to the early Italian Renaissance movement, whether by way of actual suggestion or of general tone. But Chaucer, though deeply and vitally moved by Italy and her culture, is yet essentially English in mind; to un- derstand how much he owed to foreign sources, we must therefore compare his native, his home elements; in this lim- ited sense a criticism of him must be at- tempted. The task will be aided by the copious and well-known Renaissance liter- ature of the present century, from the works of Roscoe and Sismondi to those of Symonds and Creighton; and I shall assume that those ~vho may care to read this paper have familiarity with Chaucer sufficient to dispense with the illustrative quotations for which space is inadequate. * Amongst recent Chaucerian work, I venture spe- cially to name the Life, by Professor A. XV. Ward, which may be reckoned amongst the successes of that very unequal series, the English Men of Letters. His little hook throughout shows careful study and true feeling for poetry; and to this he adds go3d sense and sanityvirtues in which specialists do not commonly shine. CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. 4 CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. But the leading word Renaissance is itself ambiguous, and used in varying senses. It is here looked at as one por- tion of a long, continuous movement, the aim of which was to preserve and to ad- vance European culture; a movement divisible indeed (so far as the eighteenth century) into three periods, yet only intel- ligible when considered in its continuity. We have, I hope, outgrown the narrow fashion of terming these three periods the Dark Ages, the Middle, and the Renais- sance; we recognize, though perhaps in- sufficiently, that culture (to use perforce another word which is also unsatisfactory, as denoting processes rather than results) that culture is a single development, advancing and receding, checked and ac- celerated, but that it iS never strictly a Renaissance; that knowledge is never strictly born again. To culture at least, the somewhat over-fatigued phrase evolu- tion may be applied with full and indis- putable right. Mental life, like physical, has at no time died out. And, if so, ~ve have further to confess that to speak of the stream of modern thought and knowl- edge is another inaccuracy, tending, as it inevitably does tend, to conceal the fact that the new Europe, with all its history literature included is but the child of the old, the heir to ancient civilizations. But it would be pedantic if we disused these well-established phrases; th~ insuf- ficiency of which, indeed, is shared by all attempts to clothe thought in language. The first of these three periods we may date from the fall of the Western Empire roughly to the year 1100, during which time the barbarians, in their youthful vigor, first overthrew and then were pene- trated by the ancient civilization. The second stage runs from that time to about i~~o; and this may be called the first or general Renaissance. The Italian Re- naissance~ the modern movement, is the third. With this we shall be most con- cerned; but it is itself wholly misinter- preted, if, after the fashion of some ~vriters, we dissever it from its predeces- sors. We might also define these periods as (I) that of chaos, conservation, and recon- struction, in ~vhich the great early monastic foundations were the sole agents; (2) the medi~val movement throughout Europe, in which universities and the romances of chivalry play the leading part; (~) the first example (given by Italy) of specially na- tional culture, of which the classical revival ~vas the distinctive note. Or, again, we may look at each of these stages as representing a great political moment in xvestern and central Europe the successive invasions of the Teutonic tribes; the free formation of the European community under popes and emperors; the evolution of separate and more or less firmly established kingdoms. Like the times to which he belongs, Mr. Ward accurately notes, Chaucer stands half in and half out of the Middle Ages. His work corresponds thus not so much to the Renaissance in its later, its popular sense, as to the work of the years during which the second or medi~- val movement in Italy reached its final flowering in Dante, and the revival of let. ters began under Petrarch and Boccaccio; in a word, Chaucer reflects the Italian genius of the whole fourteenth century. But his was also an eminently receptive nature; men, as he read of them or saw them, are the constant subject of his tale; it is the workings of human character which he so shrewdly observed, more than the ~vorkings of his own mind, which he loves to set before us. Hence a short glimpse at the England of Edward the Thirds time, in which he found himself, may here be useful. Dates are of course only general and approximate when used in reference to great national movements. Keeping this in view, we may take 1375 for the dividing time when the Italian mind essentially broke with medi~eval ideas, when culture in the modern sense had its birth in that country. The same great change then begins also to show itself in England; a country which we may, I think, assert stood next to Italy at this period in wealth and civilization. The course of the Re- naissance amongst us was, however, im- mediately much interrupted by political causes. Edwards reign was the turning- point of the Middle Ages in England; but the change wrought itself stealthily and CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. 5 unconsciously; it was not prepared for us, as it was for the Italians, by that long his- torical tradition which descended from imperial Rome. There was, in truth, as has been forcibly put by Macaulay, no Roman province in which the break be- tween the old world and the new, between classical and medi~val, though not abso- lute, was so marked as in England. Thus the beginning of our Renaissance move- ment could not be traced here on the surface of life. Edwards reign, at least during those successful years in which Chaucers youth was moulded, has often been described, and probably appeared at the time, as emphatically an age of chiv- alry. Cr6cy and Poitiers, the captive kings, the order of the Garter, the Arthu- nan Round Table set up at Windsor, the tournaments and festivities of the court this dazzling pageant is the first impres- sion given by Edwards reign. And it was this, and this almost only, that im- pressed Chaucer. Yet it proved but a tinsel, an artificial, a reactionary, show of chivalry; it had no more real hold over England than those illusory conquests gave her over France or Spain. When we look a little deeper, these Edwardian splendors, culminating by 1363, stand in contrast, strange and pathetic, with the ravages of the black death, which in its four visits between 1348 and 1376, slew, it has been reckoned, at least one-half of our population; and they are not less contrasted with the dreary end of Edward his brilliant heir cut off in the prime of life, and he himself alone, and plundered as he lay, dying in deserted Eltham. That revolutionary period which opened so rapidly under Edwards grandson was but the natural result of Edwards reign; Wy- cli~ffe, with his anarchic speculations on religion, with his communistic followers the Tyler riots; the dynastic civil war that ended in Richards murder; all were signs, as we can read them now, that our medi~val period was essentially com- pleted. And although a brilliant reaction set in under Henry the Fifth, yet this again was soon overclouded in the even more stormy and disastrous epoch of the Lancastrian and Yorkist wars; and it is truly another England, politically, morally, socially, commercially, which emerges when peace and despotism established themselves under the first of the Tudors. This outline has run on past the age of Chaucer, and may serve to indicate briefly the great difference between England and Italy in regard to the soil which the Re- naissance movement found, and the course which it took in each country. The prog- ress that was there continuous from Pe- trarch and l3occaccio onwards, was with us interfered with and stayed by these political revolutions the Renaissance, as initiated by Chaucer, turned out in some sense to be premature. If we now look back to his period of active life and au- thorship, say between 1360 and 1400, it is remarkable how very little the signs of the time impressed him. Great poet as he tvas, there is nothing of the prophet about him the mens divinior is absent. With Dante and Petrarch he justly ranks in what has been called the triumvirate of the medi~val poets; but his work shows no sign whatever of their patriotic passion, none of their interest in statesmanship and politics; to take a phrase from the Commedia, he cannot discern even the tower of the heavenly city. Thus, al- though Chaucer heads magnificently the long list of our poets, and has never wanted some of the honor which was paid to Homer in his own land vet I think he must be regarded as essentially retrospec- tive; nay, in a certain sense, if I may venture on the word, superficial. In his brilliant criticisms of the humors of his day, in his freshness and lucidity of style, in the movement of his narrative, he is modern. But in the choice of subjects, in the general matter of his tale, in the feelings with which he seems to look upon life, he scarcely rises above the showy court atmosphere of Edwards reign. It is less the dawn of modern ways in thought and literature which we see in him, than the gorgeous sunset of chivalry; his poetry reflects the earlier rays of the Italian Renaissance, but its massive substance is essentially medi~val. I now propose to trace the influences of his age upon Chaucer by means of a short sketch.of his literary development as it is shown in his princil)al poems. In this, 6 CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. for convenience sake, ~ve shall follow the chronological order given by Mr. Fleay in his useful little Guide, although the arrangement must, of necessity, be often conjectural. We may roughly say that Chaucer found his models and motives largely in French literature till about 1370. To this period belongs his free and abridged ren- dering of the famous Romance of the Rose, a translation which, despite the great authority of Mr. Skeat, I prefer to hold as substantially Chaucers. The argument, at any rate, on the strength of which it has been denied to him, namely, that he uses the weak rhyme my here and not afterwards, to those who consider how a poet naturally works, modifying his rhyme-system at his fancy, would rather prove its early date than its spuriousness. Whether, however, this particular ver- sion be authentic or not, matters little; as from Chaucers own words we know that the poem was translated by him. There is not space here to analyze the very curious contents of the Roman de la Rose, of which a clear account will be found in Mr. Wards Chaucer. It must be enough to say that it is the first con- spicuous example of the medi~eval alle- gory. Allegory is a vessel so elastic that anything may be poured into it; and in the Middle Ages the fine sense of poetical form and poetical unity, in which the great writers of Greece and Rome are supreme, had little existence. Hence the Ro- mance of the Rose is a strangely motley structure ; in part a psychological study of human virtue and vice; in part a kind of encyclop~dia or treasury of the knowl- edge of the day; in part a coarse and materialistic story of love. Thus it ad- dressed readers of all tastes and classes and, in spite of the contempt ~vith which Petrarch regarded it, not only enjoyed a long popularity in Europe, but was the too fruitful parent of that allegorical style which for so many centuries alter- nately delights and wearies us in Euro- pean literature. But the production and wide diffusion of a poem such as this points to a decline in the sense of chiv- alry; it shows that the romances proper were beginning to be outworn; that read- ers were satiated with stories of action and adventure; that analysis of motive and character was asserting its interest. It has, in short, already a subjective char- acter. In this last respect, however, 4llegory was wholly alien from Chaucers realistic, unspeculative genius; and although he returns to the style in his House of Fame and Assembly of Foules, yet, in each case, although unable to conquer the inherent feebleness of the style, he gives life and individuality to his characters, and his allegories hence remain, at any rate, readable. Chaucers free translation of the Ro- mance of the Rose seems to mark the height of French influence over him; it points to the flexibility of his mind, to his readiness to accept new ways in literature; but his model could hardly lift him into a new and fruitful path; and, like other Frenchfab/iaux which he used through- out his career, it supplied him rather with material than ~vith method. For the mo- tive power which enabled him tofound the art of English poetry we must look to that Italian impulse which made him the con- necting link betwen England and the Re- naissance in the earlier and most fruitful phase of that movement in Italy. This we may name Chaucers second period. Noth- ing is more tantalizing, I must here note, than the wretchedly imperfect state in which the lives of our writers, our poets especially, have come down to us, almost to the very end of the Elizabethan age. From Chaucer to Shakespeare we really know little more about them with certainty than we do about Homer himself. To take a figure from him, we might, indeed, almost say that they are hidden in the mist with which the gods shrouded their favorites. Hence we can only conjecture that this new iml)ulse, this electric shock, was due to the foreign missions which, be. tween 1370 and 1373, carried Chaucer to Genoa and Florence on commercial or political business. Whether in these journeys he met either Petrarch or Boc- caccio is absolutely uncertain; and by 1378, when a third embassao~e led him into Lombardy, both were no longer living. What we can clearly see is that it was the three greatest writers whom Italy had yet produced Dante, Petrarch, and Boc- caccio by whom the Englishman was moved and penetrated. It is on this point that I desire particularly to insist. He went at once to the master-sources a sure sign that a man has that sanity in judgment, that largeness of aim, without which nothing great can be compassed in art. Chaucers Italian journeys hence naturally remind us of those which Goethe took at about the same age, and to which the German poet assigned so large a place in his own mental development. The main difference is that Goethe was moved mainly by the later and feebler poetry and CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. 7 art of the imperial time; and that he was hence impelled towards the attempt to classicalize, to neo-paganize, his native and natural Teutonic genius; an effort which, to my mind, despite his great powers, led him into that essentially false, eclectic, dilettantist direction (glossed over by par- tisans as r~any-sidedness ), above which, during his later years, he rarely lifts him- self. Chaucer, on the other hand (himself also a man of a robuster fibre), came under the spell of a magnificent living literature, which did not yet stand at too great a dis- tance from the best thoughts and most characteristic elements of medi~eval Eu- rope to be out of harmony with English feeling. Hence, although its influence was not altogether healthy, yet to his 1tczZi~niza/ion Chaucer (to put it briefly) owes that variety of range, that heighten- ing of style, that improvement in poetical form, which liberated and gave full play to his splendid natural gifts. No impor- tant poem written by him after his visit to Italy, as Mr. Ward remarks, is without traces of the vivifying and regulative effect which that magncz ~arens of art produced upon him. But as we noticed in reference to the men whom he may have met and known, so how his Italian studies ~vere made is wholly uncertain. A14 that I can venture decidedly to assert, in opposi- tion to even so good an authority as Pro- fessor G. L. Craik,* is that he must have mastered the Italian language. This I rest very much upon the passages which he has rendered or tranfused from Dantes Commedia, of which at that date no translation appears to have existed. But to this I shall recur presently. Dante is so absolutely the greatest amongst medi~val poets, whilst standing amongst medi~val thinkers in the very first rank, and is also, happily, so much a living influence still amongst bs, that I pause a little upon this subject. It is a pleasure to note, as Dean Plumptre ob- serves in his very interesting and com- plete translation of Dantes poems (1887 8), that the earliest and fullest apprecia- tive welcome given to the great poet of Italy came from the first, in order of time, of the great poets of England. . . - That he, an English gentleman, filling this or that office in the court of Edward the Third, should thus have known the three great names in the Italian literature of the * Compendious History of English Literature, e86i. It is remarkabie that neither Mr. Craik nor Sir H. Nicholas, who also denies to Chaucer the knowledge of Italian, takes any notice of his quotations from Dante. times, shows that there was a more real fraternization between the men of letters of the two countries than has been com- mon since ~ a fact which the dean justly traces to the cosmopolitan character (as we say) of medi~val university life, when there was as yet no overt religious schism, when scholars naturally visited, in turn, such centres of study as Paris, Bologna, and Oxford. Although it remains very doubtful whether Chaucer met Petrarch face to face, yet, looking at all the circumstances, there is much probability that he held some communication with him, and be- came thus acquainted with the writings. of Dante; and it is tolerably certain that. he must have brought to England a man- uscript, which might be presumably the first seen here, of the Commedia. Yet his Italian studies still left him in what would have seemed to Petrarch or Boc- caccio a very primitive stage of classical- ism. Chaucer has no scholarship in the strict sense, no historical insight into an- tiquity. In his Troylus, Dares, Dic- tys, Lollius, fabulists who wrote long after the Christian era, are all quoted side by side with Homer as authorities together. Troy with him has all the air of a French or English Gothic city; the ~varriors are knights in medi~val armor. Cressida talks of reading the lives of holy saints, whilst rejoicing that she is not a nun herself; Amphiorax (meant for Amphia- raus) is Bishop of Thebes. In the mythol- ogy of the House of Fame, written after his Italian journeys, Dan (Knight) Cythe. rus seems to stand for Mount Cith~ron; Marsyas appears in the feminine form Marcia; Orion the giant is mistaken for Anon the musician4 It is, however, in the Troylus and Cryseyde, written prob- ably between 1378 and 1382, that the Ital- ian influence over Chaucer seems to culminate. Here the tale is dstinctly founded upon the Filostrato of Boc- caccio, whom, however, for some now in- explicable reason, Chaucer never names. The plot of Troilus and Cressidais well known. Perhaps none so unpleasant in itself, so unchivalrous and unideal, so little suited to any but a satirical treat- ment, such as Shakespeare gives with a power extraordinary even in him, has ever been handled by the poets. It is the pic- ture of a gallant knight ruined by the baseness of man and the sensual faithless * vol. ii., p. 424. t All the six texts of Mr. Furnivalls Hexapla give this last remarkable error, which cannot, therefore, be~ reasonably considered as a blunder of. transcription. 8 CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. ness of woman; the ruin is ignoble, the catastrophe pitiable; justice, whether po- etical or moral, is left wholly unsatisfied at the close. With material so opposed to our natural instincts, so alien from the eternal requirements of poetical art, no genius could really succeed. But Chaucer has thrown all his power into it; after the Canterbury Tales the Troylus is by far his longest and most sustained work. Among his poems it is also perhaps the most modern in style; we see in it a strenuous attempt to delineate and analyze passion, and the hateful figure of Panda- rus is drawn with a truth to nature and a force of humor which has been rarely equalled. In this poem, the effect of Chaucers Italian journeys ~vas perhaps most freshly, as it is also most fully, displayed. It is hence very curious to note the differences between his Troylus and that of Boc- caccio.* According to the statement of Mr. W. Rossetti, who some years since printed an interesting but uncompleted essay on the subject, more than two-thirds of Chaucers poem is his own work. His tale is also much longer than the Italian, extending over eight thousand lines; and although the plot is managed with great skill and variety, and the poets vigor and vivacity rarely at fault, it is impossible entirely to escape the sense of what I may perhaps call primitive diffuseness in this immense narrative, built also as it is upon such unsatisfactory material. Comparing his treatment with Boccaccios, Chaucer has changed Pandarus from the youthful cousin of Griseide into her uncle; a change which gave at once a far more dramatic character to the story. He has also dwelt at much greater length than Boccaccio upon the long series of inci- dents and the gradual growth of passion by which Troilus and Cressida are brought together. He tries even to soften the heroines fall by treating it as a surprise; but this (as Mr. Rossetti justly remarks) has really the result, that in the end we cannot help feeling Cressida more base and inexcusable when we find her selling herself, with perfect readiness, to the lust of Diomede for reasons of the merest self- interest, and even ~veeping crocodile tears over Troilus when wounded by her new paramour.t * chaucers Knights Tale and BoccacciosTe seide offer a similar field for comparison, which I have not space here to undertake. Some hints towards is are given by Warton. t It is surprising to find Mr. Ward, who throughout his book has manifestly tried to contend against the fatal influence of biographical idolatry, describing It was perhaps with the unconscious wish to cast a little glamor over his unfor- tunate theme that Chaucer has in this poem borrowed several touches from his two nobler Italian models. In the first book he has translated from Petrarch that sonnet in praise of Laura which begins 5 amor non ~, che dunque ~ quel ch i sento? This, however, is not one which can be reckoned among Petrarchs best; it must be rated with those in which subtlety of phrase rather than refinement of feeling predominates; and Chaucer has charac- teristically lengthened the fourteen lines into twenty-one. The transfusions from Dante are more remarkable. In Book III. we find For, of Fortun~s sharp adversit~, The worst~ kvnde of inforteine is this, A man to have been in prosperit~, And it remember, whanne it passed is. This is the rendering of Francescas fa- mous Nessun maggior dolore, Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria. The next, which occurs near the begin- ning of Chaucers fourth book, paints the desolate condition of Troilus when de- serted by his love: As in wynter leav~s ben byraft [bereft], Eche after other, tell the tree be bare, So that there nys [is nothing] but barke and braunche ylaft. This translation is less distant than the former from the music and beauty of the original; which in its turn derives from Homer: Come d autunno si levan le foglie L una appresso dell altra, infin che il ramo Rende alla terra tutte le sue spoglie. The Inferno has furnished these fragments to Chaucer; but at the close of the Troylus we have a few lines that seem to echo the fine phrase of the Para- diso which Dante, again, took as a sug- gestion from Cicero : Col viso ritornai per tutte quante Le ~ette spere, e vidi questo globo Tal, ch io sorrisi del suo vil sembiante. So the English And down from thenn~s faste he gan avyse [look on] This litel spot of erth, that with the sea Embraced is; and fully gan despise This wretched world. Cressida as not ignoble, even in the season of her weakness. CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. 9 Some other references to the Comme- dia by Chaucer may he here conveniently noticed. In the Second Nuns Tale the legend of St. Cecilia (dated i~7475 by Mr. Fleay), he translates freely, but with grace and tenderness, a part of the hymn addressed to the Blessed Virgin by St. Bernard in the last book of the Para- diso. In the Squires Tale, Frances- ca s exquisite phrase of self-defence for her fall, the Amor, ch al cor gentil ratto s apprende, is rendered and distinctly referred to in the lines, That pity runneth soon in gentle heart, (Feeling his similtude in pain~s smart,) Is proved every day, as men may see, As well by work [fact], as by authority. A triplet from the Purgatorio (vii. 12123) is quoted by the Wife of Bath from the wys~ poet of Florence, that highk Dante, in proof that human excellence (prowess Chaucer calls it, as his rendering of probitate)rarely runs in families. It is so eminently unlikely that a passing re- mark like this would have found its way into Chaucers story, had he been himself unable to read the original, that the quota- tion of it seems to me by itself sufficient to decide the point in favor of his mastery over Italian. The starvation of Count Ugolino and his children, narrated in the Monks Tale, is however the most important and curious of Chaucers translations from Dante. That famous narrative ranks among the very greatest passages in the Divina Commedia; it ranks amongst the very greatest tragic scenes in the lit- erature of the world. Perhaps Chaucer felt this, and did not care to measure him- self seriously against a masterpiece of such tremendous power; certain it is that he has almost wholly missed the awful intensity, the stern brevity, the strokes of pathos and terror that, after near six hun- dred years, pierce us as we read with a poignancy almost physical. Even that Shakespearian touch, when the children weep, and the father can only say, I non piangeva, si dentro impietrai, is changed into the commonplace Therewith the tear~s fell~ from his eyen; * * The Monks Tale seems to me much below Chaucers ordinary level in brilliancy and interest. This, however, should excite no suspicion to a sane criticism few indeed are the artists, however gifted, who have been at all times equal to themselves, and the Canterbury series was svritten at scattered dates, and left unfinished and unrevised. Yet such a whilst the mystery of that dreadful closing suggestion, the Poscia, pitt che il dolor, potit il digiuno, Chaucer has omitted. He has not in fact succeeded here; in such rivalry what translator could? and perhaps he may modestly have referred to this when, at the endof his much-abridged version, he directs those Whoso will hear it in a longer wise, Reads the greats poet of Jt~le, That Dante hight, for he can it devise [tell] From point to point; not one word will he fail. Chaucer doubtless knew that, in power and elevation of mind, Dante held a rank immensely above Boccaccio. Yet we must confess with a certain regret that it is ~vith him, in fact with the lower spirit of the advancing Renaissance, that Chaucer has the nearest affinity. The unforced humor, the strong, simple strokes, the shre~vd cynicism of the Decamerone, we may, I think, justly hold without lapsing into the weakness of national vanity, are fully rivalled in our countrymans work. We have noticed that he has nothing of the high patriotism of Dante or Petrarch; an- other point in which he reminds us of Goethe. But Chaucer also is wanting in their spiritual elevation of tone, their depth and purity of passion, their finer insight into the soul. If, again, we com- pare his tales of chivalry with their old Celtic predecessors, the Mabinogion of Wales, the mysterious magical atmo- sphere of the Welsh legends, so beauti- fully touched on in one of his essays by our lamented Arnold, never appears; it was in the trappings, the outward circum- stances of chivalrous romance, in human nature naturally displaying itself, that Chaucer found his proper element. Yet we can hardly imagine now how fresh and striking such a tale as the Troylus, and so told, must have seemed to English readers, and this especially at the time when English first fully asserted itself as the language of the country;what a revelation of the Renaissance it must have been both in style and in sentiment. Chaucer, above all, proved himself here our first eminent poet of love. And if this, with him, is not that ideal passion which immortalizes the names of Beatrice and Laura, of Una and Imogen, yet he has no small share in Shakespeares exquisite naturalism something of his pathos, though little of his intensity. In Chan- blot as this is enough to make one doubt the authen- ticity of the tale tn qutattun. I0 CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. cers Goodly Ballad he gives us as his own motto Je serve Joyesse. And thus what he paints by preference is love suc- cessful, love as happiness, love in its comic, perhaps in its sensual aspect. And here, once more, it is the spirit of the lit- erature of France, the spirit of the later Italian Renaissance, which reveals itself. After the great effort of the Troylus, those foreign influences are in some de- gree less marked upon Chaucer, and his third, his most characteristic, his English period, may be said to date. The picture of womans frailty which he had so power- fully presented gave offence to some read- ers; and he began his long but unfinished Legend of Good Women as a kind of recantation. These tales are wholly taken from Ovid; and except the prologue, justly celebrated for its interest and bril- liancy, they may be ranked as the least successful of his longer works. But Chaucers heart too clearly did not go with his subject. This palinode in favor of women (as Mr. Ward acknowledges) every- where shows signs of perfunctoriness and flippancy, and its incompleted state may point to the weariness of the poet. It is certain from various allusions that his own married life whoever may have been to blame was not happy; and this was, perhaps, one cause of Chaucers too frequent unchivalrous attitude towards ~vomen. That attitude was indeed com- mon in the Middle Ages; it may have been a reaction against the exaggerated tone of chivalrous romance or Proven~al troubadour love-poetry, and it has also been ascribed to monastic influences, to the coarse tone of the cloister. By this last motive, however, it is not likely that Chaucer ~vould be influenced; and ~ve can hence hardly be wrong if here again we read the spirit of the Italian Renaissance. It is impossible, therefore, to agree with those writers who, led away by the charm of this great genius, speak of Chaucer, in the words of Mr. Stopford Brookes spir- ited criticism, as having a true and chiv- alrous regard for women, whether of his own class or any other; a view which, in truth, was only excusable in the uncrit- ical days, when the Flower and the Leaf and the Complaint of the Black Knight were reckoned amongst his au- thentic writings. The Canterbury Tales are of course the great achievement of Chaucers later life, although two or three of the finest be- long to his preceding period, whilst of the hundred stories which he had planned barely one-fourth were executed. But I shall not attempt the needless task of praising or describing this famous series of poems. They make a first step in the literature of his country, second only in importance to that which Dantes Coin- media made for Italian literature. Keeping then the Tales generally be- fore our minds, let me now try to put together what the effect of the Italian Renaissance was upon Chaucer, and in what points he especially shows our En- glish genius. Chaucer is like Boccaccio in his political indifferentism, in his anti- monastic ani mus, which increased towards the close of his life, until he also reached the final repentance (whatever may have been its value) of his recantation. He resembles Boccaccio again in his animal spirits, in his satire, in his fun, and his evident enjoyment of itlaughinz at his own jokes after the way of all true humor- ists. He reminds us of the Decame- rone in a love of coarseness, which, though not new in the Middle Ages, seems to have somewhat shocked his con- temporaries, and which he has attempted to defend by the old sophistical device of declaring that he is bound to tell stories it character. Once more, Chaucer is like Boccaccio, like the Italians of the Renais- sance, in his intense passion for study. No one has described more delightfully the fascination which the advent of spring has for every feeling mind; every one knows or ought to know his address to the daisy; how in May-time he was always up and walking in the mead To see this flowr against the sunn~ spread, When it upriseth early by the morrow, That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow: yet, despite the joy and comfort which he found in nature, despite his pleasure in observing the ways of men, his own writ- ings are enough to prove that books must have been his most absorbing interest. To study and read alway I purpose to do day by day, is the moral with which he ends his House of Fame; he shares to the full that desire for encyclopaedic knowledge by which the earlier Europea~ stage of culture was so eminently characterized. Proofs of his vast reading in ancient and modern literature, of his attention to phys- ical science, are scattered through his po- etry ; the treatise on the astrolabe (written 1391) for the use of his son, shows asound and rational, perhaps we might say an almost scientific, judgment. With him, in short, as with Dante, the poet as such CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. II is regaided as emphatically the wise and learned manthe ao~p6~ an idea of his vocation which, I may remark by the way, runs through literature from Pindar to Spenser. From Chaucer, as a man of the Renais- sance, the French and the Italian, we turn to Chaucer as our own countryman. He is English, he is what no Italian writer of the Renaissance revival was or perhaps could be, in the breadth and depth of his insight into human nature. Chaucer is our first great character-painter. The Italians of his time, and indeed for two centuries and more afterwards, gave many brilliant sketches after real life, but it is from the point of view of humor, often passing into caricature, that their pictures of man, I think, are mainly drawn. The inward nature, the groundwork from which every mans humor springs, is rarely indi- cated. The Italian Renaissance, in fact, loves to play over the surface ; its litera- ture is wanting in seriousness, except when it takes the form of satire. Chaucer, as we have seen, shares in these qualities yet he also, especially in his later work the immortal prologue to the Tales above all has that depth and strength of penetration into human nature which is often spoken of as Teutonic, but which we find eminently in the great Greek and Ro- man writers; which we find not less in Dante. This gave him agenuine dramatic power in which the Italians, with all their gifts, were on the whole signally deficient.* Compare the characters in his prologue just mentioned with those in the equally famous introduction to the Decame- rone, and this diffei~ence, the presence of this strikingly English gift, will be felt at once. The vision of the temple of Mars in the Knights Tale has a similar dra- matic force and concentration; it is wor- thy of Miltons great hospital scene, near the close of Paradise Lost, in power though not in beauty of art. If, in fine, we read dramatic impulse in place of oratorical, Quintilians fine criticism upon Homer may be transferred to our own first great poet: Idem laetus et pressus, iucundus et gravis, tum copia tum brevi- tate mirabilis; nec poetica modo, sed ora- toria virtute eminentissimus. t Chaucer, again, is English esp.cially in this, that he has the conservative spirit Mr Symonds (so far as I have compared his criti- cisms svith the original plays) seems to me to have been led, through affection for the literature which he has studied so fully, into considerable overet Imate of the dramatic faculty shown by the writers of c e Italian Renaissance. t Inst. Orat. x. i. 46. which, if not our dominant temper, yet at any rate is the temper underlying our pro- gressive development; the common sense which makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of. In fact, at least as I have long read him, he never really breaks with medi~evalism. From Dante he may have caught the higher tone, the more marked union of the ideal with the real which we occasionally feel in his later writings. The other ele- ments which he learned from the Renais- sance seem to lie in his secular tone, in the contrast and variety of his subjects, in his power of going from grave to gay without losing unity of effect; perhaps also in certain metrical advances, espe- cially his adoption of that noble seven-line stanza which bears the name of rhyme- royal, and was formed by dropping the fifth line of the ottava nina ,~ a metre ~vhich from Boccaccio onwards became only too dominant in Italian narrative poetry. It was, in short, in the region of art that he profited most; and improvement here was what our literature, rich in ideas, feeble in form, rich in language, ~vanting in selection and appropriateness, in conciseness and good taste, indisputably most required. But the distinctive note of humanism, as it first appeared in Petrarch and Boccaccio, he probably never felt nor understood. He could not share the Italian sense of a continuity in culture with ancient Rome and its paganism; he has not the belief or the profession of belief which the hu- manists affected in the old mythology. It is certainly no Christian spirit which pervades the Troilus and Cressida, yet this is the moral with which it con- cludes : Lol here of paynims cursed old~ rites! Lo! here what all their godcl~s may avail! Lo! here this wretched xvorld~s appetites! Lo I here the fine [end], and guerdon for tra- vail, Of Jove, Apollo, Mars, and such rascaille! Lo here the form of old~ cIerk~s speech, In poetry, if ye their book~s seech [examine]! This abjuration would have seemed utterly strange, barbarous, and inartistic to Boccaccio. In other points also, which can be only briefly noted, Chaucer, if we compare him with his Italian models, re- mains medi~val. He is wanting in form. The art of concealing art has not dawned upon him. There is little perspective in his work; we might say that it always consists of lively foreground- His great skill in narrative saves him from rambling 12 CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. on like the older romance-writers, yet his sense of poetical unity is in some degree immature. Hence he does not succeed in short pieces ; he has no command over the pure lyric; despite his knowledge of Petrareb, he does not attempt sonnet or canzone. Chaucer stands thus between the old world and the new; but on the whole, to use again a phrase of the day, he is reactionary in temperament; he is singularly wanting in enthusiasm. He may laugh at and satirize the monastic abuses of the time, in agreement with his patron John of Gaunt, but he never seems to look to reforming them ; the horrors of the black death have left no trace on his poetry; the cry of the poor, never louder than in his time, is never heard in tale or allegory. I have called him reactionary; but we might perhaps better define him as a man ~vho, with all his wonderful acute- ness of vision, yet does not care to look before or after; one to whom the present was all-sufficient. He is eminently En- glish, and with this he has the defects of his quality; he has the weak side of our national character. Chaucer, like all men of high genius, has enjoyed to the full his share in that ~vorst kind of enemy, those who overpraise him. Lie is even not without those who, like country churchwardens, have thought to improve the image they admire by whitewashing it. Yet, after all that has been said and written, Hallams judgment remains by far the most honestly and finally true; the most weighty in and through its moderation, in one word, its sanity. We have had a few other critics they might be counted on one hand, and barely exhaust the fingers who show flashes of finer insight. Eve n,how- ever, from a born rhetorician like Lord Macaulay, Hallam extorted the praise that here only was the judge with one weight and one balance, Jjustissimus unus. Let me then quote some lines from a crit- ~cism which is in curious and instructive contrast with some which recent in- discriminate admiration has given us. Chaucer, says Hallam, seems to me to have wanted grandeur, where he is original, both in conception and in lan- guage. But in vivacity of imagination and ease of expression, he is above all poets of the middle time, and comparable per- haps to the greatest of those who have followed. - . . It is chiefly as a comic poet, and a minute observer of manners and circumstances, that he excels. In serious and moral poetry he is frequently languid and diffuse; but he springs like Ant~eus from the earth, when his subjec changes to coarse satire or merry narra tive. He is among our greatest poets but no other among them keeps so stead- ily to the mere average level one might almost hint, the bourgeois level, of his time, as Chaucer; he is of his age, not above it. Chaucer, as Dryden said, is our father in poetry; there has been no century dur ing which English poets have not done him honor, no period in which he has wanted students. We have thus far looked mainly at his own development, more especially at the new currents of thought, subject, and style, which he re- ceived from the Italian Renaissance. Let us now lastly ask which of our poets he most resembled or most influenced. It is with difficulty that men ascertain and measure the loftie~t peak of some great mountain; and it is with similar diffidence that I venture to name Chaucers dramatic faculty as his highest gift. Hence we naturally compare him first with Shake- speare. He has Shakespeares gaiety, his versatility and vividness, his energetic movement, his skill for unfolding a situa- tion; he has his eye for humorous charac- ter, and strong, straightforward manliness: his geniality, his readiness to take the world as it goes in a word, his human- ity. Both have the same wonderful gift, by which the figures who move before us as men, living as the men we know, at the same time, are types true to all time; like Titian at his best, they paint classes, whilst they offer us portraits. He is like Shakespeare also in always preferring rather to take than to make his plots. On the other hand, his voice, if I may be allowed the figure, wants the Shakespear- ian lower note, the deep bass, as it were, which underlies the gaiety and humor of Shakespeare; his recognition of the mys- tery of life. Chaucer, although exquisite in occasional touches of simple pathos,* is also incomparably inferior in inward force and delicacy of passion; in his sense of womans worth. He never gives the unmistakable impression of one who had himself loved deeply; the note of true personal passion, I think, is nowhere heard in his verse. Again, with all his charming fluency and lucidity, his style is rarely imaginative in the highest sense * Yet we must agree with Mr. Ward that the fidel- ity of Griseldis utader the trials imposed U~Ofl her is the fidelity of a martyr to unreason. Chaucer here fol- lows Iloccaccin, whose power over the pathetic and the poetical (except in his passionate Fiammetta), it seems to me, has been often much overrated. CHAUCER AND THE ITALIAN RENAISSANCE. 13 the noble style, in which every phrase receives a certain indefinable, poetical heightening, as Arnold has finely said, is very rare in Chaucers writing. If this criticism be correct, despite Spensers famous references to his great precleces- sor, the tone and the gifts of these two men were widely different indeed, in some ways antagonistic. Between the Faerie Queene and the Canterbury Tales lies the gulf which parts idealism and realism. But into this I cannot here enter. Chaucers style, in fact, by natural law answers to his general mood of mind, which, as I have noticed, moves by con- stant preference, when not engaged with humorous anecdote, in the sphere of bril- liant, cultivated, courtly life ; as he said himself, he was one wh.o served Joyesse; the burthen of the mystery, The heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world, had, or seems to have had, no existence for him. Like the company whom Boc- caccio painted as flying from the plague of Florence to the Armida palace of the Decameron, his pilgrims ride with light hearts, and legendary tales, and lively jests to Canterbury, as if to a worlds fair. Hence, perhaps, his affinity with Shake- speare is hardly nearer than ~vith Dryden and Pope, who also rarely go beyond the world of society and letters; in whom, with all their merits, the mens divinior is scarcely to be found. It is in their best satires or narratives that Chaucers direct influence over our older literature is most distinctly marked. Nor is it fanciful, I think, to trace a close analogy between his world and that which, in prose of sim- ilar brilliancy and lucid grace, was painted for us in our own days by Thackeray. With reluctance I leave Chaucer, un- satisfied myself, and with a notice which to those who have studied him must inev- itably be unsatisfying. But his work will receive more justice, his novelty in tone of thought and in form will be made clear- er, if I give a few words to two of his contemporary poets: the unknown writer of the romance of Sir Gawayne and the Green Knight, and William Langland. The Gawayne * (which Ten Brink dates about 1360) belongs to the great Arthu- nan cycle, but it is immediately founded upon that beautiful legend of the Holy Grail, which was added to or developed ~ For this sketch I venture with some hesitation, to rely upon ren Brinks Early English Literature, B. iv C. 2. from the Welsh original published by Geoffrey of Monmouth. This very curious romance, little known in proportion to its merit, tells how, at the court of Arthur, held at Camelot (the hill ~vhich still bears the name in Somerset), a savage knight makes his appearance; how Gawayne strikes off his head, which the savage immediately replaces; Gawayne promising to seek him out and give hint his revenge in turn. Gawayne presently sets forth; in a castle on his way he i s courteously received; he bravely resists the passion which the lady of the castle at once avows for him; yet consents to ac- cept from her a magic girdle which will insure his life; and this girdle, when he presently meets the savage or green knight, accordingly saves him from cer- tain death. Then the moral of the story reveals itself. The lord of the castle and the savage knight were the same; the protecting girdle ~vas his own; the amor- ous snare his device. But Gawayne in resisting that temptation has conquered where victory is most difficult; hence his punishment for having feared death is slight, and he is foi-given by his spiritual antagonist. Full of shame and remorse, Gawayne stands motionless; all the blood rushes to his face. Cursed be coward- ice, he cries, and returns to Arthurs court to confess how far he had fallen from the full height of ideal chivalry. The thought and the plot, the sentiment and the manner of this fine allegorical tale are in a higher mood, and perhaps show more force and skill of original invention than any of Chaucers; and whilst it be- longs wholly to the early, the medi~val Renaissance, on the other hand it is equally an anticipation of Spenser. Lang- lands contemporary Vision of Piers the Plowman~~ is again in a widely different key, at once from the Canterbury Taless and from the Gawayne ; although Lang- lands also is a long allegory, and, like it, untouched by the Italian movement. Not less closely devoted to the real life about him than Chaucer, Langland in his rude, alliterative verse a metre by the middle of the fourteenth century fallen into dis- use declaims against the evils in Church and State, the sins of the rich and power- ful; paints ol)pression of tenants by land- lords, and of the poor by tradesmen; satirizes the marriage market of the day with the keenness of Thackeray or Ten- nyson, and prophesies approaching redress at the hands of the divine hero of his song. Under different forms, the Vs ion shows forth always with unflagging 4 MY TREASURE. earnestness the battle of the soul, the cru- sade of life. Thus we might say that the Pilgrims Progress is foreshadowed by Langland, whilst Chaucer, once more, is resplendent in the last rays of declining and enfeebled chivalry. Perhaps I may here quote my own at- tempt to set forth the contrasted attitude of these two poets. Chaucers work, as it seems to me, was to paint With Natures freshness, what before him lies; The knave, the fool, the frolicsome, the quaint; His the broad jest, the laugh without restraint, The ready tears, the spirit lightly moved: Loving the world, and by the world beloved. So forth fared Chaucer on his pilgrimage Through Englands humors; in immortal song Bodying the form and pressure of his age, Tints gay as pure, and delicate as strong; Still to the Tabard the blythe travellers throng, Seen in his mind so vividly, that we Know them more clearly than the men we see. It is Langland himself who tells us in what sad, ominous colors, as he walked through the little London of those days, the pageant of life presented itself to him, the pageant which had seemed so brilliant to Chaucer, at the very moment when it was about to pass away forever. O Poet of romance and courtly glee, And downcast eager glance that shuns the sky, Above, about, are signs thou canst not see; Portents in heaven and earth I And one goes by With other than thy prosperous, laughing eye, Framing the rough web of his rueful lays, The sorrow and the sin; with bitter gaze As down the Strand he stalks, a sable shade Of death, while, jingling like the elfin train, In silver samite knight and dame and maid Ride to the tourney on the barrierd plain; And he must bow in humble mute disdain, And that worst woe of baffled souls endure, To see the evil that they may not cure.* Thus each poet had his contrasted mis- sion; and the fate of their poems also presents a curious contrast. The lesson of Langlands allegory is in reality more true for us, more true for all time, while the world runs its old course, than the jests and legends of the pilgrims to the shrine of St. Thomas. It is also written with great vigor; the scenes shown are picturesque * I here faintly follow one of the most deeply felt and Vathetic passages in literature, the EXOLUT?1 d6iwy i-t~v cv ttvOptProtot, woa2ii ~lpovfovra Fsy6ev6f IcpaTeetv (Herodotus, ix. x6). and dramatic; the language hardly more antiquated than Chaucers. Yet the Vis- ion of Piers has long been a mere curios- ity of literature.* Chaucers richer gifts, his genial humor, the infinite gracious- ness of his tongue (to take one of his own phrases), explain in part why he survives, whilst Langland is obliterated. But the main reason is one to which I invite at tention, because when studying books as books, when dealing with the historical career of poetry, we are always apt to lose sight of poetry as an art to forget that its aim must always and in the long run be pleasure; its first and last word, beauty. Langlands poem sacrifices these aims to moral usefulness, to solving the deep problems of the soul. It is too deeply saturated with the evils of life Times out of joint, a universe of lies; we may learn, but we do not enjoy whilst learning. And it therefore pays the pen- alty which, as the ages go by, never has failed, and never can fail, to overtake the artist who, even for the highest motives, forgets the natural and necessary laws of his vocation. For art, like nature, has her revenges. F. T. PALGRAVE. * Langlands anti-monastic satire, however, gave his hook some popularity during the Reformation period, and it was reprinted so late as s56r. vet this was only a party move. His devout Catholicism is as marked as Dantes; they aimed at reform, nut at disruption. From Blackwoods Magazine. MY TREASURE. CHAPTER I. MY COUSIN PHILIP. I AM a very ill-used woman, and the worst of it is that I cannot indulge in a good fit of ill-temper, because I have pro- fessed to be delighted, and moreover, in one way I am delighted. Yet now that the excitement is over, I have a distinct feel- ing that I have been ill-used, not by any one in particular, but by circtlmstances. I think it might relieve my feelings to write the story of my woes. Mary, give me my blotting-pad, please there I go again. No Mary answers me, nor will an- swer me any more. Well, I can reach my writing-things, as it happens, so I shall set to work at onc3. I am a middle-aged woman (on the wrong side of middle age, so to speak) and a writer of novels. Once for all, let me MY TREASURE. 5 say, a successful writer. Ten years ago I met with an accident which crippled me for life. I was alone in the world, and when I had recovered as completely as I ever shall, I had to consider what I should do to make my life tolerable. Hitherto I had gone a good deal into society, but that was over now. I ought to say that al- though I am not poor, 1 am not very well off, and I write in order to add to my income.1 began to think that I would set up a secretary or companion. I have always been a scrupulously careful writer, never describing a place without visiting and examining it. I wanted my compan. ion to do this for me now, therefore she must not be a mere girl. She must be musical. She must read well. She must have an angelic temper, because I have no such thing. In fact, she must be a treasure! And rather than have any one who did not seem likely to prove a treas. ure, I would get on alone as best I could. I was hard at work embodying these wants in the form of an advertisement, when a knock at the street.door made me hastily conceal my paper; it was not to every visitor that I would give so good an opportunity of laughing at me. Will you see Mr. Mauleverer, maam? inquired my parlor-maid, and in a moment more he was in the room. My cousin Philip the Honorable Philip Mauleverer, to give him his full distinction was the only son of my first cousin, Lord Mauleverer. In his early days he had been one of the most delight- ful young men you can imagine. Gay, kindly, bright, and clever very clever, they told me. I forget the record of his Oxford successes, but it was a good one. He was also a first-rate cricketer, and a splendid horseman, as befitted his name. He was particularly proud of his driving, and many a time have I suffered a small martyrdom perched up beside him in a high, sketchy-looking vehicle, while he made his two frisky Irish horses spin along driving tandem, too, a thing which I think ought only to be lawful in very quiet country places. That was let me see ten years or so before my accident. Philip was making holiday then, having left college, and not yet having got the appointment in the diplomatic service of which his fathers services and his own promise had secured him an offer. He was a splendid-looking fellow in those days. Not handsome, for his fea- tures were by no means regular, but he had such a winning look and such an irre- sistible smile as full of glee and mirth as most laughs. He was very tall, and there was a look of easy strength about him that to look at him was quite refresh- ing. I was very fond of Philip, and only that morning I had been thinking of those old days; and I suppose this made the change in him strike me more than usual. He looked as strong as ever, and as kind, yet he ~vas changed so utterly that it was hard to believe that he was the same man. It was hard to say in what the change con- sisted. Something was gone, that had made the brightness of his face; some- thing was added, that made his smile as sad as once it had been gay. His eyes had a patient look in them, and his voice had quite lost the old glad ring, and was level, gentle, and somewhat monotonous. Well, Frances, he said, how goes the world with you? What! have you betaken yourself to your pen already? You are certainly a brave woman I must write, you know, or leave this house and live in a very different way. Besides, I should miss the occupation. But I am only drawing up an advertise ment now; I want a companion. He took the half-written paper from under my pad, and read it; the shadow of his old smile passed over his face as he laid it down. Fan, why not say simply, I want something between an angel and a blue- stocking ?it would save trouble. I know it is absurd; but if I cannot get something like what I ask for, I shall rub on as best I can alone. I knew you would laugh at me, and youre dying to say, like some one I have heard of, If I find what you want, I shall make her my wife, not your companion. As I said the word wife, I knew what had been the trial that had changed Philip his face betrayed him. Only his face he answered in his usual tone. Remember, you are to write me an account of the interviews between you and those who are bold enough to reply to that challenge. I shall be very curious to hear of them. You are returning to Vienna, then? Yes; my leave is over. And he sighed slightly. You think your father quite well? all at home well ? said I, rather anxiously. My father? he is surely the most wonderful man in England. To see him ride to hounds he has not his equal in the field, even yet. But at his age, he ought to know bet- ter, said I, laughing. It is surely too i6 MY TREASURE. much for him. But your father is more of a boy than you are, Philip. Yes; there is not much of the boy left in me, is there? But then, I am two- and-thirty and a diplomatist, at your service.~7 True; yet I could wish to see some- thing of the bright young cousin who led me such a life when he first discovered my scribbling propensities, and that I wished them to remain secret for a time.~~ What fun we had! he said, in the same indescribably level way. Do you remember the morning when I persisted in reading a chapter of your first novel at the breakfast-table? and my father thought I had gone crazy? And said, I should not have thought that sentimental stuff would have suited you, Philip. And you nearly betrayed yourself in your wrath at the sentimental. Those were happy days, he concluded absently. Yet, even then, do you know what I thought of you, Philip? Of me? that I was a good model for the bold, bad man, with the sinewy arms, muscular legs, and columnar neck, I sup- pose. No; I thought that you had a secret, and that one day in the music-room, when I had been singing for you, you were very near telling your faithful friend and cousin all about it. You even said that I might help you, but Edith came in, and you said no more. Next day you left us. Phil, it seems to me that if you wanted help then, you want it more now, and you know Stop, Frances; no one can help me. You have guessed so much that I may as well be frank. I cannot speak of it the grief that has clouded my life; but I can say this much, neither you nor any one else can help me. I must dree my weird. 0 Philip! at your age? Life may be practically over at two- and-twenty, he said; it was so with me. I could not help crying, for I was weak from much suffering, and I am very fond of him. Dear Fan, how kind you are! Some day, when I am so old that the wound has ceased to throb, I will tell you all about it. Till then, let me be silent; that is the only kindness you can show me. I dried my eyes and began to speak of other things, and he followed my lead with his usual gentle indifference. We talked of his younger sisters marriage, of his own professioii and prospects. You used to have plenty of healthy ambition, said I ; how comes it that you have not yet made your mark? I have none now no ambition, I mean. I am very well as I am. Now I must say good-bye, dear Fan. I wish I left you as active as when I went to Vienna first; but thats a foolish speech, for these things do not come upon us by accident. Give me a kiss for old affec- tions sake, and mind you tell me how your advertisement speeds. When I was alone, I cried again very heartily. I was full of pity and of wonder (you can call it curiosity if you like), for it was plain that Philip had a story, and a sad one; and I knew that not one of his own people suspected it. Presently I went back to my writing, pruned and altered, wrote and rewrote, sending finally a much shorter paper than my first, yet long enough to cost me a mint of money. In a day or so answers began to pour in. I had desired the writers either to state their age or to send a recently done photograph. Well, I got thirty-eight let- ters in two days. Eight stated that the writer was under twenty, ten that she was no longer in her first youth, while the rest sent photographs. I ranged the twenty photographs before me, anddid not see my treasure. Some were manifestly done years ago the dress told me that. In fact there were but three of my unknown correspondents whom I wished to see. So I wrote my thirty-eight letters, and stopped the ap- pearance of my advertisement, whicb, however, did not save me from both visits and letters. I began to wish I had never advertised. Of the three ladies I had asked to come to speak to me, one was at least seventy, and as deaf as a post; another informed me that she ~vas herself a novelist, though, ow ing to the jealousy and unfairness of people whom she would not name not until we had become realfriends she had never yet published anything. The third, who said she was under t~venty, might with equal truth have said under fifteen ; a mere schoolgirl, who presently admitted that pa and ma knew nothing of her visit to me. But she was so tired of taking care of the children! To this aspirant I administered a long lecture, reducing her to tears; then I had to give her tea and cake to console her; and finally I sent her home in a very proper frame of mind. If it lasted, her mother had reason to bless my name. Three weeks passed. I began to think MY TREASURE. 7 there were no treasures to be found. Anything so thin, so pinched and wan, I Friends began to send me their former had never seen; and her hair, which was governesses, but I would izot have a very thick and wavy, was perfectly white. governess. I did not want to be set Wont you sit down? said I. Take right every time I opened my mouth. that low chair. It is a bitter day. One lady even recommended her own I have called because I saw your ad- maid, who was quite a marvel of intel. vertisement, Miss Mauleverer. But it is ligence, though unfortunately too delicate only fair to tell you that I have no recoin- for her place. mendations. I can give no references. Ill do ~vithout a companion. Essie, Her beautiful voice trembled a little- said I to my servant, for really I am she looked over at me, and found me gaz. plagued to death about it, and not one of ing searchingly at her. Without a word. these people would suit me. she quietly took off her bonnet, and sat iii Really, mem? replied Essie and I silence while I gazed puzzled, and a changed my mind at once. I could not little nervous, if the truth must be told. live without some more congenial compan- The silence was beo-in ion than Really, mem. ward, when she spoke ning to be awk again. 1 will tell you ~vhat 1 can about myself, CHAPTER II. madam. 1 have worked for many years MARY SM iT H. for one of the great outfitting houses in the city. I have earned barely enough THE next day I was lying on my sofa for I had my father to support, and he was thinking ~vhether a new and less ambitious in bad health. For him it was better for description of the wished-for treasure me to remain where I was, because I had might not be more successfu,l in luring her more liberty; but he is dead, and the life into my netsuch really superior people is killing me. I am a well educated wom- are perhaps modest when Essie ap- an. I ~vas at school in Germany, and peared, saying, afterwards in France; and as a child I A lady down-stairs, mem, wishes to lived in Naples. I amor was, I ought know if you will see her. About the to say, for it is years since I played or advertisement, mem; and her name is sanga really good musician. I read Smith. well, and write a good hand. I should Ive seen four Smiths already. Essie, like to serve you, Miss Mauleverer; I do use xour senses for once; is there any have read most of your books. I would use in my seeing her. try to be gentle and faithful. But, as I XVell, really, mem, I could not take said, I can give no references. upon me to say. Only I wish yo.u would Surely the firm which has employed see her, mem. you would recommend you? Ah, well bring her up, said I; and - I think so; but I shall not ask them lay grumbling to myself that these inter- to do so. They know me by my real name, views would be the death of me. For which I mean henceforth to forget. Mary though I do not care to dwell on it, it was Smith is not really my name. hard to meet so many pairs of anxious You must be aware, said I, that this eyes, only to disappoint them, is a most extraordinary avowal. Miss Smith, mem, said Essie, and a I am indeed. I am sure my employ. lady came up the room. It is a long room, ers would, if I asked them, recommend and I lay by the fire, at the end furthest me as Mary Smith, for they know me very from the door. I was struck by the grace well, and would understand. But I have of her movements and then I saw, in not asked them. If you think that the spite of a painfully shabby jacket, that she objection is insuperable, I can stay where had a figure so perfect that she could not I am. But I will not begin by deceiving have been awkward if she tried. An old, you. poor, black silk dress but very neat; a A rather long pause ensued; then I said summer cloth jacket, and there was snow with a laugh, on the ground! I wonder what people would say if I I observed all this as she came slowly did so wild a thino~? towards me; she stopped at a little dis- No one need ever know about it. tance from my sofa, and said, Now, Miss Smith since so it pleases Miss Mauleverer, I believe? you to be called what put it into your The most delicious voice ! so soft, so head that I could possibly agree to your clear; a very young voice too, and I looked proposal ? up eagerly in her face. I fairly started. In a moment she colored crimson, and LIVING AGE. VOL. LXIX. 3278 i8 MY TREASURE. when she colored she looked quite young. After some hesitation she said, It was partly your books. You seem to have a great sympathy with your less fortunate sisters, and it seemed to me pos- sible that you might be able to understand that a woman may wish to lose her old self, without being to blame in the matter. Andlong agoI knew some one who knew you. So I made up my mind to try. Do you, know French? I asked. Yes, and German, and Italian was the language of my childhood. And I used to sketch very fairly. Landscape? Yes, she answered. A woman like you must be very mis- erable among the people employed by oh, by the way, I dont know by whom. There are some that I could have liked; but I have been obliged to keep aloof. Oh, madam, my life has been one long penance since I grew to woman- hood. It was her voice that did it. If she had spoken in tones less crystal pure, if she had once said idear, or if she had be- gun to cry over her woes, I should have frozen at once. But to have that delicious voice to speak to methat quiet pres. ence ever with me it was a great temp. tation. And I suppose her reference to my books had insensibly softened me. Will you go to the piano and let me hear you play? said I. It is ten years since I last played, she answered. But she rose and opened the instrument, playing some simple airs with the most wonderful feeling. Then she began a brilliant n~azurka, but broke down, and said, I have forgotten that; and almost as if unconsciously, she began to sing. It was a very simple little ballad but as to the exquisite beauty of her voice, I can find no words to describe it. I was conquered; but I did not care to tell her so at once. I said, Now, do you think you could go to any place I want to mention in my writ- ing, sketch the most remarkable features, and describe it all to me? It would be delightful work ! she exclaimed, her eyes brightening. Still, I was anxious not to appear like a fool. So 1 said, I will consider the matter. Could you call again before the end of the ~veek? Not until Sunday. I could not ask for leave to go out again, and we are work- ing very late. Miss Mauleverer, will you promise me not to tell what I have told you to any one? I promise, on condition that you an- swer me one question. In your past, which you ~vish to forget, is there any- tAing that ought to stand between you and me? She looked at me and said, I do not quite understand? You wish to abandon your name. For- give mebut this looks as if Miss Smith, is there any stain upon that name? you must understand me now. Again she crimsoned, exclaiming, Oh no none, none. My troubles have been many, but it was my father nothino of that kind. She was silent for a few moments, and then said quietly, On my life there is no stain. I swear it solemnly. On my name there isbut it was not of my making. Well will you call on me on Sunday, then? Oblige me by ringing the bell I am quite helpless, you see. We will have some tea before you go. Essie brought tea, and I asked my vis- itor to pour it out. As I watched her quiet, graceful, noiseless movements, I said to myself, I must and will risk it! Miss Smith, suppose you come to me, shall you be in no danger of meeting peo- ple who know you? No one not even No one liv- ing would recognize me, she answered; besides, I did not at any time move in your circle. In what circle, then? said I; for I am very sure that you did not acquire your accent and manner in any but I beg your pardon. I forget myself strangely. Very likely your circle was rather above than below mine; and I felt myself blush like a girl at my awkward blunder. By birth, she answered, I belong to the mercantileclass. But my mother was an Italian, and of good birth; and I spent much of my childhood with her family. Will you have another cup of tea? I asked. I was watching her very closely. Every movement was ladylike, and she seemed completely at her ease ; her man- ner could not possibly be assumed for the occasion. Having finished her second cup of tea, she rose. I think, Miss Mauleverer, that I have some sketches of mine among my few possessions. May I send them to you, that you may see whether I can do ~vhat you want in that line? And may I call on Sunday? V MY TREASURE. 9 Yes, I said. At four, if that will whose mind has ever been affected laughs suit yOU. like that. It does. Good-morning, Miss Mau- Oh, no, she said, never, indeed. leverer. Do I look like it?well, I knew I was Yet she lingered for a moment, as if very much changed. I hardly can yen- there was something that she longed to ture to ask you, for som~how, since I was say. But she did not speak; with a little here last, my hope that you might engage sigh, which expressed as much patience me has come to seem very wild and pre- as anxiety, she turned away and in a sumptuous but yet I must ask have moment I was alone. I shiveredit you made up your mind about me, Miss seemed so cruel to let her go from my Mauleverer? warm, cosy room out into the bitter wind. You positively can give me no refer- In that jacket, too I ence? said I. I pretended to myself that I meant to None. The fact is, that unless I can consult some of my friends during the get employment that I can like, on my interval between Miss Smiths visit and own terms, I prefer to remain where I the following Sunday. But I never con- am.~ sulted any one. I amused myself by On your own terms, as to your name, imagining what this or that person would etc., you mean for the question of sal- say if I told my story. Mrs. Chichester, ary has never been mentioned yet between formerly Edith Mauleverer, and Philips us. sister, would say, Youd be murdered in I should leave that to you altogether. your bed, Fanny! robbed and murdered. I have no one to think of but myself. For mercys sake, dont do anything so I remained silent, half unwilling to com- rash! Lady N would declare that mit myself finally; but I happened to look the l)OO~ soul had escaped from some at her in a few moments. Her great soft lunatic asylum, and entreat me not even eyes were fixed on my face, her lips were to see her again. Every one would de- pressed firmly together, her hands clasped. dare, and with great justice, that to engage She was in an agony of hope and fear, a companion on her own recommendation, though she sat still and silent. It was without even a reference as to character, cruel to delay particularly as my mind a woman of whom I knew nothing except was made up. that the name by which she called herself Miss Smith, said I, you must never was not her own, was a mad, rash act; tell any one what a silly thing I am doing. and yet I knew in my heart that this was My friends, I expect, would begin to in- exactly what I meant to do. quire about a lunatic asylum for me. I The drawings were left at my door late am going to engage you on the strength the next evening by Miss Smith herself, of your candid eyes and pleasant voice! They were uncommonly good. I knew She suddenly covered her face with her the places where some of them were done, hands, and began to sob in a strange, tear- and knew that they were correct, as well less way. as spirited and pretty. Some were done Oh, do forgive me. I cannot help it. in sepia, others were colored, but there I shall be myself again in a moment. was nothing finished about them, and it Miss Mauleverer with Gods help seemed to me that they were leaves from you shall never regret this. a small sketch-book, newly torn out. And I must admit I never did. Sunday came; four oclock came, and, punctual to a minute, Miss Smith came. CHAPTER. III. She was far less calm than on her first appearance she seemed half afraid to FIVE QUIET YEARS. look at me, and her hands trembled as she How strange it is no~v to look back to filled the cups with tea; for I ordered tea those early days when Mary Smith came at once, seeing how very cold she was. to me a stranger, and I watched her every When Essie left us, I said at once, action with a small degree of suspicion, Miss Smith, if you will assure me of which, I suppose, was unavoidable under one thing, you ~vill oblige me. I know it the circumstances! It was very charac- is a strange question to ask, but forgive teristic of Mary that she never seemed me. Have you ever been ina lunatic aware of my watching, nor in the least asylum? degree put out by it. And I never dis- I blurted this out all in a breath. She covered anything that was not pure, and started looked at me, and then laughed; s~veet, and good. Just at first I was a and her laugh answered me. No one little distressed, because she went out MY TREASURE. 20 every morning before breakfast, and never said anything about it; but when I found that she only went to the early daily ser- vice at St. Ms, I said to myself that it was no sin, though very amazing. I soon became a~vare that she was deeply and truly religious; and I am not ashamed to confess that I learned much from her. Not that she ever directly tried to do me good, a process which I should have resented at once, and for ~vhich she ~vas far too humble-minded. But one could not live with Mary my Mary, as I used to call her without being the better for it. Edith Chichester, and a number of other friends, saw my new acquisition for the first time on the Monday after her arrival. Every Monday I was at home,. and dispensed tea and cake and talk to all and sundry, from four to seven. Very crowded my room was, and is; for, really, people are very kind to me, and they know I cannot go to them. If there is one thing of which I am proud, it is this, that, with the exception of a few who have left Lon- don, or ceased to come up for the season, or alas gone over to the majority, my visitors are the same as the visitors of that time. I have never lost a friend, except by death. Girls and boys, who were children then, are grown up now, and come with their mothers; dear me! they do flirt audaciously, some of them. But to return to my first Monday. Mary had come to me on Saturday, and my first glance at her relieved me from an embarrassment which had been annoying me a good deal during the interval be- tween the day on which I engaged her, and this on which she came to me. I somehow felt that she was not a person with whom one could take a liberty, and yet truly her dress was lamentably shabby. I need not have vexed myself; Mary ap- peared in new attire, tasteful and elegant, though rather plain. I never saw her un- suitably or unbecomingly dressed, and really, in spite of her ~vhite hair and her ~vorn look, she was very beautiful; at least I thought so, for I remember Edith Chichester asked me if I meant to study anatomy, that I had set up a ready-made skeleton. But this was the only fault Edith found; on the whole she approved, and said that it was the skeleton of a per- fect lady, which was a great comfort. But before Mary had been with me a year, there was no doubt at all about her beauty. As the hollows in her poor face filled up, and a soft pink stole into her cheeks, she began to look so much young- er, that one day I said to her Mary, you are a most deceitful wom- an! I think not, she answered, smiling. What have I done? Well, that snowy day that first saw you in this house, I fancied that you were a woman of three or four and forty, at the least. Now I see that you are nothing of the kind. Pray, madam, how old are you, if it is fair to ask? Twenty-eight, she answered; quite elderly, dont you think? When I was seventeen, I considered a woman of twen- ty-eight quite old, I remember. But I am not seventeen far other- wise, said I, and I consider twenty-eight ridiculously and scandalously young. If it were not for your hair, you would not look your age. What was the color of your hair, Mary? Al) hair ? she said slowly. Oh, whiteit was always white. There was a girl long ago who had golden-brown hair, but shes dead, poor thingand buried at least I hope so; and rising, she went over to a mirror and looked at herself rather anxiously. Oh, quite dead, quite ! she said ; there is no danger that any one will think of that girl when they see Mary Smith. I had written to Philip, telling him that I had found my treasure, and he had an- swered my letter. From that time we kept up a kind of correspondence, ex- changing letters perhaps three times in the year. But when Mary had been about five years with me, Philip came home for a few days. He was leaving Vienna, and going toa new place in a higher position in fact, he had begun to make his mark, and his career seemed to lie be- fore him fair and prosperous. Yet he was in miserable spirits, and could hardly rouse himself to take his usual kindly in- terest in my affairs, though he laughed at me a little when I sang the praises of Mary Smith, who was in Scotland taking some sketches and notes for me Well, if you had seen her, you would not wonder at my affection for her, said I. But she thought that when I should have you with me, it was a good time for her to go to F; and she is such a desperately tidy creature, that she has l)ut away every sketch and every note-book. I have made the servants search, but not a scrap can they find. I wanted to show you her sketches, for you could appreciate themhalf the people who see them say, MY TREASURE. 21 How unfinished! Do you ever sketch China what china? she said. Oh, now, Phil? my hand is bleedino Never. Gave it up, with other youth- And without more ado she fainted away ful follies, long ago. Well, dear. Frances, she never could bear the sight of blood good-bye. I shall not have a moment to leaving me to shout and scream for myself to-morrow, for I am to be with the Essie until I ~vonder the policeman out- chief all the morning. I am so glad to side did not walk in. Mary went off to find you so cheery. Miss Smith has my bed with a headache. Ah me I how blind very best thanks for making your life so I was! tolerable. Tell her so will you? Certainly. Must you really go, Philip? CHAPTER IV. Well, it has be en delightful to see you YOU KNOW THIS NAME? again; but may I say it, dear? has the time not come for telling me the story As time xvent by, I believe I forgot you promised me? Do you remember? that there was any mystery about Mary I remember. No; not yet, Fan. I Smith, or that the golden-haired girl ~vho came home this time full of a well, I was dead and buried had borne an- suppose I may call it a hope. I had heard other name, to me unknown. Mary ac- something. I3ut I have failed again. I commodated herself to my nee4s, likings, think I shall al~vays fail. and even fancies, so completely, that it Dear Philip, dont be angry! but why seemed impossible that a few years ago do you allow your life to be so overshad- she was to me a perfect stranger nay, owed by a by what is past and gone? that in some sense she was a stranger You are still a young man. I want to see still. For except the chance conversation you a ha~j5y man. that I have recorded, she never talked of Im not unhappy, you know. her youth, nor of anything that had hap- I want you to marry, said I boldly; pened to her before she came to me. to have a home and forget and have I got very, very fond of her; she was an interest in life once more. to me as a dear younger sister, and I Sometimes, he said simply, I wish sometimes found myself expecting her to I could. If I even knew that she was remember things that had happened when happy, cared for at rest anyhow I I was a girl at home in my fathers rectory, think I could do it; but not as things are, just as if she had been little sunny-haired Frances. you are a kind creature, and Lily, who died while quite a child. some day I shall tell you all. Well, the months grew to years, and ~ve My poor, brave Philip! what business were quietly happy together. When she have men with such tender hearts? One had been with me ten years, there came a comfort is, not many men are so troubled. change that pleased me greatly. I heard When Mary came home, I gave her his from Philip, who had been offered a very message, thus, fine appointment in the Foreign Office, By the way, Mary, my cousin Philip and meant to accept it, perhaps get into left a message for you. Parliament, and in any case live in Lon- Mary started so violently thatshe upset don. the china basket she was filling with flow- This story is about my dear Mary; but ers, breaking its twisted handle, and.mak- though I hate speaking of my own suffer. ing a perfect mess on the table-cover, Of ings, I must say here that they had of late all this she seemed quite unconscious; been worse than at any time since I first and though usually so neat-handed and so got a little better after my accident. I quick to repair any little misfortune, she had been very ill, and Mary had nursed now let the water meander about the table me night and day. I hated having stran- and run off into her own lap, spoiling her gers about me. We had the pleasant dress completely. prospect, too, of a recurrence of this ill- A message! she cried, her eyes ness; for the bone which I had so thor- fixed on me anxiously. oughly smashed was beginning to make Well, you are nervous to-day, Mary! itself troublesome, after taking nine years I shall send you to bed early you are to think about it. overtired. It was only to thank you for Mary, said I, give me my writing- making my life so happytolerable, he case; Ill answer this myself. I am so said. Zsay happy. Now, ring for Essie, pleased. My cousin Philip by the way, and go and change your dress; you are you have not met him yetis coming to all wet. Oh, Mary, youve cut your hand London for good, as the phrase goes with the china. Come here, dear. to live, at all events. He thinks he ~vould 22 like a small house better than chambers. \Vhat does he want with a house? Per- haps he means to take my advice, and get married. Married? echoed Mary. Does he say so? No; but what does a single man want ~vith a house? I must admit that he says a very small one, so I suppose it is only that he likes quiet. 1 wrote my letter, and then looked round for Mary, fancying that she might have left the room. There she was, how- ever, and employed in the most unex- pected manner. She was standing before a tall mirror which filled the space be- tween two ~vindows, and was gazing into it earnestly. Her beautiful eyes were somewhat short-sighted, and she had bent forward until the tp of her nose almost touched the glass. Whats the matter, Mary? said I. Have you got something in your eye? Come here; I shall get it out better than you can.~~ There is nothing, thank you. Have you finished your letter? You are very fond of your cousin; why do you not ask him to live with you? XVhy, even if it would be convenient, I have not room, you know. Oh, hut then you would not want me, she said, rather unsteadily. My dear girl, dont be silly! Philip is to be chief-something-or-other in the Foreign Office, and in the House pres- ently. 1 shall consider myself very lucky if I see him once a month; and I never heard that he was much of a sick-nurse. Mary, dear, dont talk as if you and I could part I never feel as if we could. You have made me quite uncomforta- ble. Mary kissed me. She was very silent and absent all that evening. Before we separated she said to me, Do you know, I believe you are right about saving my eyes. I am getting at least I feel them sometimes. I think I will have advice about them. Indeed I wish you would, if you have any strange feel in them, said I ; and I see that the lids are red, now that I look at you. You shall go to-morrow. And she did go, returning the happy possessor of a pair of smoke-colored spec- tacles, with the most enormous glasses, which she said she was to wear when she felt inclined. When you feel any weakness in your eyes, you mean, said I. Well, you dont look a bit like yourself, Mary ! and what, pray, is the new way of doing your hair? For her very abundant hair, instead of being swept loosely back and coiled up at the back of her head, was dressed high up on her head, and was, moreover, so thoroughly combed up, that not a ~vilful little ripple showed itself. As to the dear, wee, white rings that used to come peep- ing round her pretty ears, they had van- ished. As I was out, she said, I thought I would go to Ds and learn some new way of putting up my hair. Ive never changed it since I was a girl. The fash- ion now is for every one to wear caps, and I have bought some. I think they will suit my venerable locks, dont you? Well, have you anything ready to be writ- ten? I did not like her nearly so well in her caps, with all the natural waviness ban- ished from her hair; but for once she was obstinate, saying that as she had bought the caps she was bound to wear them As to the spectacles, they made her look so comical that I always laughed at her when she wore them, and they generally remained in the pretty case which she wore at her side. XVhy is it that some people look so absurd in spectacles? Philip came to London in due time, and soon wrote a line to say he would be with me in the evening. Mary, who was always very careful not to be in the way, said she would take the opportunity to go to some lecture that she wished to hear; and she went, and did not come home again until Philip had gone. The same thing hap- pened several times, until Philip remarked gravely that he began to think that Fan- nys ti-easure had no real existence, and ought rather to be called Mrs. Harris than Miss Smith. Well, she really runs away on pur- pose, 1 said. She has a perfect horror of being in the way, and she says that you and I must have much to say to each other. Come on Monday she is always here when I have visitors. But I just wish you had seen her before she altered her way of dressing her hair. Her old way was far more becoming to her. Whether he really had a curiosity to see my treasure, or ~vhether it was purely accidental, I know not; but one Monday he appeared with his sister Edith. I was, as usual, lying on my couch near the fire, it was April, and chilly enough still, and when Philip and Edith came up to my end of the room, I did not for some time remark that Mary had left her post at the MY TREASURE. MY TREASURE. 23 little tea-table and was nowhere to be seen. But when I wanted tea for Edith, I missed the tea-maker. Hardly had I noticed her absence when she came back. I per. ceived that she had gone for a thick knitted shawl, in which she had wrapped herself up as if very cold. And indeed she looked chilled and pale; moreover, she had put on the grey glasses. Edith turned and whispered to me: Philip will have a laugh at me; for I told him that Miss Smith was very good-looking, and to-day she is simply a fright. She must be get- ting a cold, I think. She went to the tea-table, stood talking a little to Mary, and then came back. Yes, indeed, a sudden chill. The poor soul is shivering like a leaf, and can- not speak above her breath. It is really enough to frighten one, I replied; and so sudden, too, but I will see to her presently. Take no more no- tice of it now, Edith, for she is very shy it would only make her worse to make any fuss now. Then I turned to talk to Philip, who was standing towering over me, with his eyes fixed upon Miss Smith in a puzzled stare which I knew would reduce her to misery if she became aware of it. It was so un- like Philip too, to stare so. Sit down, Philip, said I. I really cannot make you hear me up there. Are you wondering where the o-oo hid themselves? b d looks have He sat down, but seemed so stupid and unlike himself that for a moment I felt vaguely uneasy. Presently Edith took him away, stopping at the tea-table to introduce him to Mary. Both bowed Mary stiffly, like a person with a bad head- ache, and Philip slowly, like a person in a dream. Then they were gone, and soon Mary and I ~ve-re left alone together. She looked very ill, and trembled without ceasing; but she got better after a while, and seemed quite herself the next day. To my great amazement Philip appeared next Monday this time without Edith. He sat beside me for a few minutes, very silent and very absent. It seemed to me as if the numbers present depressed him; and vet if this were the case, why did he come? And once he would have been the life and soul of the party. Far otherwise now. A complete wet blanket! And, fond as I am of him, I was glad when he went away which he did somewhat sud- denly, forgetting to take leave of me. He walked up to Mary and held out his hand, saying, Good-evening, Miss Smith. Mary did not seem to see his hand. She bowed, and said good-evening, in a low voice. I did wish her spectacles were in the fire! It was provoking to have talked to a man of a persons beauty, and for her to be all grey spectacles when- ever he looked at her. However, he de- parted. That evening Mary was singing for me, I lying lazily enjoying myself. I never heardthe door open, but I saw, her start slightly, and then her voice broke down and she stopped singing. There was a looking-glass over the piano, and thus I saw that she hurriedly put on those abom- inable spectacles; and then I became aware that there was a man in the room. XVho is that? I cried. XVhy, Philip ! you at this hour! I thought you were intending to dine at Lord Ms to-night. I forgot, he said; and then he went up to the piano, and said something. I could not catch the words. Mary rose, faced round, and said icily, What did you say, sir? Her manner surprised me ; it was out of the question that Philip could have said anything that ought to have offended her, and yet her manner was distinctly defensive. You are you know that name? he said. I do not understand you in the least, she answered coldly. Frances, he said appealingly, you know this name? What name, Philip? I asked, and wondered if he were suddenly going mad. Una Varian; surely you know this name? Una no, Philip, I dont. Varian sounds familiar, though I cannot remem- ber why. Philip, what on earth do you mean? You are making us both quite nervous. You dont know the name! he said; and as to getting him to explain or even to understand that I was getting thor- oughly frightened, I might as well have tried to move the heart of a wooden post. He simply paid no attention to a word I said. This is very strange! he muttered. I must think I must _____ He sank into an easy-chair, and covered his face with his hands. I beckoned Mary over to me. Is he ill? Whaton earth is it, Mary? I whispered. To my utter astonishment, her ans~ver was, Perhaps I had better leave you. 24 MY TREASURE. Oh no, for mercys sake! I am really frightened, Mary. Dont let her go, said Philip sud- denly, and you need not be frightened, Frances. I have made a mistake thats all; you forgive me, Miss Smith? I am very sorry, and if you will allow me I will explain my error.~~ Oh no, she said hurriedly; there is no need for that. I will think no more about it. But yet, allow me to explain, he said, in rather a decided tone. And, Frances, I am going to tell you the story I once promised to tell you. The time has come for it. I had better leave you, said Mary, gathering up her work, over which she had seemed very busy for the last few minutes. I cried in great haste, Oh no, Mary please stay! and Philip said, My story and my explanation are one and the same. I want you to hear it, Miss Smith. Jhave nothing to do with it, she said. Mary, you really must stay, said I. Mary looked at me, sat down, and took up her knitting at which she began to work as if for her daily bread. CHAPTER V. UNA VARIAN. I MAY as well confess that I was beside myself with fright. Philip had been de- cidedly odd the last two or three times that I had seen him, but this evening he was more than odd; and what might not happen if the poor dear fellow were get- ting some awful fever delirious vio- lent and not a man, no, not so much as a page-boy in the house! The only thing I could do, I did; and I felt that it was not much. I contrived to possess myself of a little bell, which I sometimes used for summoning Mary if she ~vere in the other room. I knew that the sound did not ordinarily reach the kitchen ; but then I determined to ring in no ordinary man- ner if it became necessary to ring at all; and so the bell was a very little comfort to me. Had I been less absurdly fright- ened I should have perceived that Mary, though agitated, was not frightened, whereas usually I am far less timid than she. Philips demeanor, and even his first words when at last he broke the silence, were not such as to set my mind at rest. First he pushed his chair back, so that his face was in shadow; then he covered his eyes with his hand, so that I could not tell whether he was looking at me or at Mary, and although he addressed him- self to me, I had an odd conviction that what he said was meant for her. As for Mary, she knitted away with a kind of fell energy most unnatural to behold. Frances, do you remember, began Philip abruptly, how fond I was of driv- ing tandem long ago? Oh yes, said I, ~vith painful alacrity. I do indeed. I would not have let him see how terrified I was for all the world. I wished that Mary would lay aside her knitting, the click, click of her pins was maddening. Well, I was driving one day, when I met with an adventure which has colored my whole life. I had taken you, Frances, to Richmond, and brought you back to my fathers house, where you were staying. I was driving through Q Square when I fell in with a crowd of carriages and cabs there was evidently a stoppage of some kind. I drew up near a crossing, on ~vhich I soon perceived the cause of the impedimenta beautiful white Per- sian kitten, evidently too much terrified to get out of the way. In trying to avoid the little creature, the coachman of a very nice turnout had contrived to lock his carriage-wheels with those of a hansom cab. The horses were restive, and the occupants of the carriage frightened. No vehicle could pass; and I was wondering how it would end, when the gate of the square opened and a girl came out. She ran forward, picked up the kitten, and re- treated a few steps. Her eyes were fixed upon the two vehicles, and a considerable crowd had gatj~ered by this time round them. The girl stood just in front of my leader, but plainly she did not know this, for she never glanced round; her whole mind was fixed upon what was going on in the roadway. You remember Brian Dhu, the black horse I drove as leader? He kept stretching out his nose and nearly touching her hat, and I was really afraid that she would get a fright if he succeeded in reaching her, though he wouldnt have hurt her, poor old fellow, for the world. The girl had such a beautiful figure; she looked so unconscious and so pretty as she stood waiting for her path to be cleared, that I got quite a longing to see the face belonging to that figure. Well, at last the carriages were free and the crowd began to disperse. In a moment more she would have passed on, when Brian Dhu I was greatly obliged to him suddenly saw the kitten and gave a MY TREASURE. 25 loud snort. She turned her head, saw me and my horses, looked startled for a mo- ment, and then smiled, becoming aware, I think, that she had kept me standing there for some time. She said, I beg your pardon, walked on, and knocked at the door of a house opposite. By this time I was getting interested, and, though I still fondly cherished my bell, I began to get over my nervousness. I said, And was she pretty, Philip? No, said he half indian was lovely! antly, she He was silent for a few minutes. I didnt see her again for some time, but I found out who she was. She was the only child of a great merchant, one of the merchant princes of that day, Redvers Varian. What? I cried; no wonder I thought I knew the name. Oh, my poor Philip! I can guess the rest. No, no; let me tell it. I succeeded in getting an invitation to a party where Mr. Varian and his daughter were ex- pected. I was introduced to her, and to her father. You know, Fan, I was rather a pleasant fellow in those days. Truly you ~vere, Phil. And Mr. Varian took a fancy to me, and I to him. Yes, I did. I was in love with her, but I truly and honestly liked him; and so did all who knew him. And he was very, very kind to me. Yes, I know all about him, Frances; you need not say a word dont say a word. But I can never forget his kindness, never. Well go on, Philip; did you did she Oh, we were very happy, he said quietly. My Una! my lovely, sweet, bright Una! We were very happy, she and I. I told Mr. Varian that my father might object, but he did not seem to fear that the objection would last when he knew Una. Still, I thought I would say nothing till I got the appointment I was expecting; for, if my fathers consent was a rather unwilling one, I felt it would be more pleasant for Una to leave England for a time as soon as we were married. It was during this time that I was once very near confiding in you. Do you re- member, Frances? Yes, I remember. I suppose the Va- nan crash came in time to prevent your marriage? It would not have prevented it if I had had my own way. But Una she was only eighteen, but she was not like other girls of that age she had very strict ideas of right and wrong. She. wrote to me said that now Lord Mau- leverer could never consent; that our mar- riage would injure me; and she said good- bye she would see me no more. I hur- ried to the house in Q Square. Miss Varian had left it that morning, and no one there knew where she meant to go. But I did not give her up. My little prin- cess! to leave her to poverty and to I did all I could to find her. When all else failed, I ~vent to the prison and saw Mr. Variantried to see him, I mean, for he refused to admit me. I was at the trial, but Una was not there. I knew that she had not a relation left in the worldthe aunt in Naples with whom she used to live was dead. Of all her fathers riches not a penny remained the claims against him swallowed them all. I was half mad. At last I succeeded in seeing Mr. Varian before he was re- moved from London. He told me he had done his utmost to persuade Una to let him tell me where to find her, and that she had solemnly declared that she would disappear even from him unless he kept her secret. Philip, the girl cannot have loved you, said I. It was her love that gave her strength to be cruel, he answered. I knew that; I never doubted it. She loved me, and she loves me; I know it. Well, I searched still; but though sometimes I got a clue, she baffled me completely. Then I got my appointment, and next day came a letter from her begging me to ac- cept it and go away; that I would forget her, and that she was ill from the fear of being found by me. She said her father, when released, would have none but her in fact, she made it my duty to go, and I went. You went to Vienna, I put in, as he seemed to forget to go on. Yes. After getting that letter I felt that I could do nothing until as long as Mr. Varian lived. I heard that he was released in consequence of his health having failed, and then I heard that he was dead. That was ten years ago. If you remember, I came home then, but I failed to find her. And you have failed always, I sup- pose? said I. Five years ago Charles I~erronet came to see me, and in the course of conversa- tion he let me know that he had seen Una at Messrs. Cassell & Pynes shop, where she was working at that time. It was some years since he saw her, and he knew 26 MY TREASURE. nothing more of her; but I came home. But Cassell & Pyne had entirely lost sight of her. Not long after her fathers death she left them. I fancied that there was some reticence in Mr. Cassells manner, but he declared he knew nothing more. If you remember, Frances, Miss Smith was in Scotland or Wales, on a sketching expedition, when I came here to see you. Yes; I remember the time very well, said 1. But though I spoke in an every. day fashion, I was beginning to wonder what all this might mean. I looked at Mary; she was still knitting feverishly. But, said I, what I want to know is, why you have told me all this, Philip? You said that some day, when it was no longer a painful subject, you would tell me all; but I fear that you are very far from having forgotten this girl, who, mind you, can be a girl no longer, nor even a very young woman. Perhaps she mar- ried when she left these people Cassell, or whatever you call them. If I knew that she is married, I should never wish to see her. If she has out- lived the memory of me and our one happy year, twenty years ago, then I will say no more. But unless I failed to un- derstand Unaand I loved her too well for that she would not change nor for. get. And I speak to-night, and I begged Miss Smith to be present, because I have no doubt that she can tell me where Una Varian is, and I want Una to understand how things now are. She can no longer fear that she can injure my career. I am too high in my profession to be injured in that way. She cannot say now that I shall repent having estranged myself from society for her sake, because society and I have been estranged these twenty years. I have been a lonely man, though I have never learned to love loneliness. I have longed for a home, a companion, a wife my wife, for none but Una could I think of in that way. I am no longer a very young man. If Una chooses, she can make me happy even now; if she wont, no one else shall. I must get on as best I can, finding life dreary work, as I have found it for twenty years very nearly half my life. And, finally, listen to this note from my dear old father, written after hearing my story for the first time, this very day: Mv DEAR Miss VARIAN, Make my boy happy. I am very old, and I should like to see Philip happy before I die. MAULEVERER. There! I have said my say I can do no more. I understood matters now. I held my breath and looked at Mary. I whis- pered, Mary, speak you cannot you must not refuse! Mary had dropped her knitting and was bent forward with her face hidden i~ her hands. What can I say? what ought I to do? she said wildly. Philip got up and walked over to her; he took her two hands and gently raised her till she stood before him. Then he pulled off the shawl she was wrapped in, and quietly removed the hideous specta- cles. Finally, he took off her cap, and all these goods and chattels he flung recklessly into a corner. Did you think these things could hide you from me, Una? he asked. I knew your hands, dear, the moment I sa~v them, as you sat over there making tea. I am so changed, Philip. But you are still the one woman in the world for me, he answered. At last, Una! For she had flung her arms round him and for some time I had the comfort- able assurance that my presence was en- tirely forgotten. Of course I at once wanted to cough, but I choked myself gallantly. Not for worlds would I have reminded them that I was there, and, alas! could not steal away. Philip had told his story so fully that there was very little left for Mary I shall never be able to call her anything else to explain to me. She assured me, when next morning we had a long talk, that but for the state of my health she would have left me when Philip returned to England. But she felt certain that he would not recognize her, she was so al- tered. And I thought, too, that he probably no longer cared to find me, she went on; but somehow, the moment I saw him, I knew that he did care. And it seemed to me such a pity. I looked round the room at so many bright young faces, and I said to myself, He might marry one of these girls, and yet his heart is so true and so full of pity that he would think himself bound to me, even now. I wonder ought I to have gone away then? I won- der if I am doing right now? If you are doing wrong, Mary, I must really insist upon your persevering in the ways of error. I think I see myself fac- ing Philip with the news that you have MY TREASURE. 27 again disappeared. My dear, you are one of those women who have a morbid love of self-sacrifice; but I have none, and I decline to be demolished by Philip in his despair. I shall keep a sharp lookout, and on the first suspicion, Essie shall lock you up in your room. Yon dont escape until you are safely transformed into Mrs. Philip Mauleverer as you ought to have been twenty years ago.~~ You dont really think that, said Mary. Well ten years ago, then. When you came to me. You were free then. \Vhat would his father have said? Philip was then quite young, and you re- member what I looked like. And xvith my dear fathers sin and disgrace still a thing of yesterday? No; the kindest thing I could do was to keep out of his way. It is different now I see that. Even his father sees it. As nothing else will sat- isfy him Ah, I hope I shall be able to make him happy! Of his happiness I have no doubt, said I. The person to be pitied is, I think, my poor old cross-grained self. Will you do one thing for me? said Mary, kneeling down beside me and kiss- ingm e tenderly. Do not get any one in my place till we come home. Philip told me he means to be married quietly, at once, and then his heart is set on taking me to Vienna that he may show me the places where he used to make a fool of himself, Im afraid. Then, when we come home, will you ask us to stay here with you for a while, and then well see about my successor? To all this I consented; and I must say that Philip lost no time in carrying out his part of the programme. In one poor fort- night from the evening on which he fright- ened me half out of my wits, they were married by special license here in my drawing-room, Lord Mauleverer and my- self being the only witnesses, except Essie. who wept in the background. And they are no doubt in Vienna now. Well I will not be selfish! But I do feel very lonely, and no one will ever be to me what Mary was. No one gets such a treasure twice. And a treasure you were to me, Mary Smitha sister and a friend. Una Varian belongs to Philip, but Mary Smith is all my own. I do not find myself much the better for having written this account of my woes; and I shall lay it by, that I may add an account of Marys successor. For 1 cannot do without some one that is the worst of it. And how I shall detest that poor some one.~~ CHAPTER VI. THE READING OF THE MANUSCRIPT. Six months later. Frances, what is this manuscript, all in your own writing? And I see our names in it. Oh, I know what it is; my safety- valve. I wrote it while you and Philip were abroad. May I look at it? Why, its a regu- lar history of ourselves, I can see that. I shall get Philip to read it to us this even- ing; so, now, if you have been saying anything nasty of either of us, youll be put to shame. Very good, said I. Una kept her word, and as we sat cosily by the fire I lay, but that did not de- stroy the cosiness Philip was informed that I had been turning him into a novel. And the manuscript being pro- duced, he set to work to read it. When he had finished the first chapter, he re- marked, Was I really such a xvet blanket as you have depicted, Fan? Oh, I declare I dont think I have exaggerated, Philip. Dear me! said he thoughtfully; and all about um well, ~vell ! Mary laughed and said, Go on, Philip; I want to hear more about Mary Smith. Philip went onbut how he did laugh at the idea of my asking Mary if she had just escaped from a lunatic asylum which was his version of the question I put to her. And in all sincerity, Frances, what a rash woman you were! I declare you proved yourself fit for an asylum yourself! Well, alls well that ends well, but this story ought to conclude with the discovery of a plot on the part of Miss Smith to let in her friends the burglars to rob the house and murder you. Instead of which she very foolishly married the barber, said I ; but go on reading, if you wish to finish this thrilling tale, for I cannot sit up all night. He took up the manuscript, and this time he finished it. Una cried more when the scene-between Philip and herself was thus brought back to her mind, than she did at the time. Philip was intensely di- verted to find that I had been in such a fright. But when the story was finished, Mary came over to me and took my hand. So you really thought, she said, that after all your kindness making me like 28 A WINTER IN SYRIA. your sister, and loving me when I so sorely needed love that Philip and I ~vere going to leave you to a stranger? Frances, I protest solemnly I was not in the plot, said Philip. I did not make up my mind to quarter myself and my wife upon you. Nay, as you know, I hon- estly searched for a suitable house when we first came home, and in my guileless- ness could not imagine why Una was so hard to please. She is a very designing woman, Fan. I have little doubt that from the first she intended to live here. I intended to see if it would answer, said Una boldly; and it did, and does, and will. XVe are very happy together, and I have plenty of time for all that Frances wants done except the sketch- ing; and, Philip, do you know she is growing quite unprincipled? She actu- ally took the description of a place in France out of the great encyclopedia this very morning, and worked it up until I fancied I had gone there and seen it all This comes of having an unprincipled companion, remarked Philip. Ah, well! I did not lose my treasure after all! I hope it was not selfish of me to accept her offer but I was so utterly lonely. I have never once been allowed to feel myself one too many. And Mary is one of those who will and must be sac- rificing their comfort for some one so it may as well be for me, who love her so dearly and need her so much. From The Contemporary Review. A WINTER IN SYRIA. I. Ox the 27th of September, 1887, we were staying with friends in Devonshire, much puz-zled where to pass the winter, when a letter reached us from Mr. Lau- rence Oliphant, in which he kindly offered the loan of his house at Haifa, under Mount Carmel. We knew most of the usual health resorts, but this ~vas a new idea. It took our fancy; we telegraphed our acceptance of the proposal, and pres- ently returned home to make the neces- sary preparations. These did not take very long, and by the 6th of November nearly all our tolera- bly large party had reached Syria. I had myself, however, persons to see and things to do in several parts of Europe, before I could conveniently re-embark for Asia, so that it was not till the evening of Novem ber 10th that I found myself slowly steam- ing out of the Golden Horn. A voyage of something under six days, through scenes partly familiar and partly ne~v to me, but always intetesting, passed rapidly away; and on the morning of the i6th I saw, ~vhen I came on deck, the pale blue range of the Lebanon, lifting itself over a bright blue sea. The lofty Sannin was already capped with snow. Two or three hours after that I had landed at Beyrout. Beyrout is an extremely pretty place, the most really prosperous provincial town, I should think, which still remains under the direct government of the Porte; but I had been there only a few months before, on my ~vay back from India, had seen most of the objects of interest which the place has to show, and had visited the principal officialsthe governor of the town, the governor of the Lebanon, and the vali of Syria. I had accordingly noth- ing to do, on this occasion, save to pay my respects to our own consular authori- ties and to make the usual arrangements for a land journey in the East. Early on the morning of the iyth, just as the dawn was beginning to flush the clouds over the Lebanon, I mounted and rode away to the southward. It ~vas long before the suburbs, the gardens, and the pine wood of Beyrout, were left behind; but at length our party emerged on the open country and wound along a path with sand-dunes on the right, and on the left the picturesque slopes of the Mountain, dotted with many villages, mainly Druse and Christian. At last we were on the shores of the sea; there had been a fresh north-west breeze behind us as we steamed from Rhodes to Cyprus; but by this time it had fallen, and the ripples did nothing more than just kiss the land. Ere long we came to the ford at the mouth of the Damour, in which, luckily for us, there was very little wat@r; for this river, the ancient Tamyras, although it has a course of only twenty-five miles, drains a great extent of highly precipitous country, and a very little rain turns itinto a furious torrent. Once on its further side we struggled over a horrible road, across one of the many promontories of this much indented coast, the scene of a battle between Antiochus the Great and Ptolemy IV., one of the hundred which have been fought for the possession of Syria by the temporary owners of the countries on the north and on the south of the Levant, from the days of the nine- I teenth Egyptian dynasty to the days of A WINTER IN SYRIA. 29 Ibrahim Pacha. It was the comparative immunity of this narrow coast land from eastern invasion at a remote period of history which gave Ph~nicia its start in the world. The Lebanon and Anti-Leba- non defended it from the tribes of the desert beyond Damascus, while the prom- ontory, or rather promontories, between Tyre and Acre were also somewhat seri- ous obstacles to horsemen. This and the tiny creeks, hardly to be called harbors, which ~vere dotted at rare intervals along it, together with the enterprising spirit of its peol)le, were really its only advantage, for its food-producing power was trifling. The scene of the battle above alluded to once left behind, we soon reached the midday halt of Neby Yunus. At this place one of several conflicting Mahom- medan traditions has located the landing of Jonah, after his adventures on the way to Tarshish, and doubtless its claims are quite as good as those of any other local- ity. Unluckily it is just the least impor- tant part of the very remarkable book which bears the name of this prophet which has attracted most notice. The historical Jonah lived before the captivity of the northern kingdom during the reign of Jeroboam II., the greatest of Israels kings. The apologue of Jonah, which is really one of the most interest- ing portions of the Old Testament, ~vas written after the captivity not only of Israel, but of Judah, and represents the feelings of the best portion of the exiles who returned to Jerusalem in their opposi- tion to the narrow policy of Ezra. His desire was to isolate his coreligionists and to rivet on their limbs the shackles of priestly po~ver. Their object was to draw their neighbors as far as possible into the community of Israel and to the worship of the one God. The energetic fanaticism of Ezra won the day, and the protest of those who disagreed with him has been misunderstood up to quite recent times. It has been taken, by the vast majority of its readers, not for an apologue but for a grave history. The attention of ages has been fixed upon its mere accidental mech- anism, and especially upon the whale. The real points of the book are First. The humanity of the heathen sailors, who were most unwilling to throw Jonah into the sea. Secondly and chiefly. The lesson of toleration with reference to the heathen, supposed to be given by the Almighty himself to Jonah. The third and fourth chapters are quite up to the level attained by the best minds amongst the Jews at the commencement of our era. They might have been written by a disciple of Hillel. A little grove of tamarisks affords at Neby Yunus a grateful shade, which may remind the traveller, if he pleases, of the prophets gourd, and dispose his mind to such musings; but ere long he must be again in the saddle, and toiling over roads worse rather than better than those whose acquaintance he had made in the morning hours. On either side of these roads the wastes which they traverse are covered by a low and viciously thorny bush,* a near relation of our unarmed meadow-loving and harmless burnet, but very unlike it in disposition. This bush is the lord of this whole region, which, if all had their rights, would never have been supposed to be called Ph~nicia from its far from numer- ous date-palms, but have been really called Poteria from this masterful under-shrub. I say supposed to be called, for it is now believed that the palm took its name from the country, not the country from the palm, and that the word Pheenicia means simply the land of the red-brown men. Hardly a flower was to be seen. Here and there in the environs of Beyrout there was a belated straggler from the autumn vegetation; but the only flower which did anything to beautify the road was a little Merendera, which forces its way through the hardest ground here, just as I have seen it do in Algeria. It is one of the Me/an/ha cec~, a relation of the co/chicurn, the pale crocus of Matthew Arnold not that it is a crocus; but it may well take rank as such, seeing that he who was beyond all comparison the most accurate of English poets in his reference to plants has spoken of it by that name. All things come to an end, even the stony ways of the Jedra, which is the name of the cape beyond Neby Yunus, and at last we found ourselves once more on the flat hard sand of the sea. Presently the dragoman rode up to me, and pointing to a village among the mountains, said, That is Djoun, where Lady Hester Stan- hope lived; and the lines came back to my mind His sole Egeria (oh supreme caprice!) A cracked uncanny war-witch of a niece; Who at his death found Syrian sands alone Replace the lost grand desert she had known. For rule in wastes by previous Empire fit, Had she not ruled a lonelier world in Pitt? Few, I suppose, are now interested in this * Poterium spinosum. 30 A WINTER IN SYRIA. eccentric lady; but those who are should read the account of her funeral in 1839, given by Dr. Thomson, the American mis- sionary who performed the ceremony, in his work entitled The Land and the Book. A pleasanter recollection than any di- rectly connected with her, is that her fame and old family associations brought King- lake to these regions and within sight of the spot which I was then passing. Of all hooks on the nearer East, Eothen is far the best. Shall we ever have such another about India? Hardly, I fear. In- dia, with all its merits, has never been long enough in the main stream of history for that. Soon we approached a little thread of water. This was the modest embouchure of the Owely, the ancient Bostrenus, a stream which, peaceable as it looks here, has a wild youth in the Lebanon, one branch of it falling over more than two hundred feet perpendicularly; while near the end of its course it does excellent work in the way of irrigation. Near this point we were joined by a gentleman, who turned out to be Mr. Ayoub Abela, the American vice-consul, who came from Sidon to meet us, in the absence of his nephe~v, to whom we had been recommended. My new acquaint- ance had seen much of Renan when he was here a quarter of a century ago, and had made the antiquities of the neighbor- hood a special study. Accompanied by him I walked over the whole of Sidon, and saw at a glance how it was that it became so important. Certain reefs lying in front of it and on its south-western side gave it, very little aided by art, no less than three harbors, and those of a kind quite sufficient for such vessels as were used in the days of Phcenicia~s very rela- tive greatness. The modern town occupies merely the seaward portion of the ancient city, which ran back towards the hills, enclosed in which, under the two mountains known as the Paps of Sidon, is a summer retreat, which Mr. Abela described as charming, surrounded by fruit trees and watered by three hundred and sixty fountains. The streets of the modern town are to a great extent roofed in with pointed arches, and are kept scrupulously clean, every scrap of manure being treasured for the benefit of the great gardens which lie on the level behind the town, and are its pride. In the spring, Mr. Abel a told me, the per- fume of the orange-flowers can be easily perceived from the deck of a passing steamer. Its scrupulous cleanliness is a curiously un-Oriental trait, but in a good sense Sidon is one of the most Oriental towns I have ever seen. I looked with interest at the little fort which covers the whole of the island, and which rests on Ph~nician foundations. It is of no strength ; but, like all such places in this country, it is difficult of ac- cess, thanks to the babyish suspicion of the Turkish military authorities. Quite at the other end of the town there are fine remains of the castle reared by St. Louis, but I doubt whether there is anything in the neighborhood more inter- esting than the vault from which the sar- cophagus of Ashmanezer ~vas carried off to Paris. There are many versions of the wonderfully striking inscription on it; I quote from one of them In the month of Bul, the fourteenth year of my reign, I, King Ashmanezer, King of the Sidonians, son of King Tabnith, King of the Sidonians, spake King Ashmanezer, King of the Sidonians, saying: I have been stolen away before my time a son of the flood of days. The whilom Great is dumb; the son of Gods is dead. And I rest in this grave, even in this tomb, in the place which I have built. My adjuration to all the Ruling Powers and all men: Let no one open this resting- place, nor search for treasure, for there is no treasure with Us; and let him not bear away the couch of My rest, and not trouble Us in this resting-place by disturbing the couch of My slumbers. . . . For all men who should open the tomb of My rest, or any man who should carry away the couch of My rest, or any one who trouble Me on this couch; Unto them there shall be no rest with the departed; they shall not be buried in a grave, and there shall be to them neither son nor seed. . There shall be to them neither root below nor fruit above, nor honor among the living under the sun. . I am glad that these magnificent male- dictions were not first disregarded in the interest of science. Dr. Thomson, who was at Sidon at the time that the sarcoph- agus was discovered, mentions that it had been opened by some previous rifler of tombs, probably in the search for hid treasure. The whole affair is only one illustration more of the too true words, Tant les provisions humaines sont vaines jusquau tombeau et au del~Q A great many other sarcophagi, impor- tant, though not nearly so important, have been discovered lately near Sidon, and have been taken to Constantinople, where I saw them characteristically enveloped in packing-boxes, to become in the fulness of time the property of that power to which A WINTER IN SYRIA. 3 destiny shall next give the golden apple of empire. After all, it is better that the Turks should keep antiquities in packing- boxes rather than allow them to be broken and built into walls. The conversation at dinner turned upon the Druses and the Ansariyeh. One of the guests observed that he had examined as many as fourteen Druse books written in Arabic, ~vith which he ~vas well ac- quainted, without being able to get any sort of notion what they were all about. I have no doubt, he added, that the explanation of their hopeless obscurity is simply that in order to understand them it is necessary to have some key which the Druses possess, but which none of them have revealed. The following ex- tracts from a Druse catechism, published in the Quarterly Statement of the Pales- tine Exploration Fund for January, i886, seem to confirm this view Q. And if we talk about religion, how shall our answer be? A. Our Lord has commanded that we should cloak ourselves with the prevailing religion, whether it be Christianity or Islamism, for our Lord the Governor has said: Whatever re- ligion prevails, follow it openly, but keep me in your hearts. Q. How is it to us to agree with the Chris- tians or Moslems in their religion, while we have signed a bond against ourselves, that we worship none other but our Lord? A. We do this outwardly and not inwardly, as our Lord has said, Keep me in your hearts; and he has given us an example of a man who puts on a garment, whether it be white or black, or red or green; the color of the garment has no effect upon his body; whether the body be sound or diseased, it re- mains the same, and likewise the several religions resemble the garment. Your religion resembles the body, therefore put on whatever garment you please, and embrace openly and outwardly any religion you please, provided you be at ease. Q. But if we be required to perform the prayers of that religion (we embrace outwardly) are we to comply with that? A. Agree with them, for there is no objec- tion to any outward religious performances. Q. But how can we agree with the Mahom- medans by confessing that Mahommed is a prophet, and that he is the noblest of all prophets, and of all creatures? And is he a prophet? A. No, he is not a prophet; but our prophet is the Governor, who has neither a son nor is begotten, but is destitute of everything that is attributed to man; but this Mahommed is de- scended from the Arab tribe of Korisheb, and his fathers name is Abdailah, and he had a daughter whose name. was Fatima, which was given in marriage to Ali, the son of Abi Talib. Outwardly we confess that he is our prophet, merely to he at peace with his people only; but inwardly we believe him to be a monkey, and a devil, and one not born in wedlock, and that he has allowed what is not lawful, and has committed all kinds of shameful deeds. He has done all the evil he could, and has considered all women to be lawful to him; and therefore our Lord has cursed him in every age and time. But a Druse believer can confess that he is a prophet without com- mitting a sin, as has been mentioned above. Q. Since he is a monkey and a devil, and not born in wedlock, why do we therefore chant his name? A. By the name of Mahommed, which we chant, we mean our Lord, Mahommed Baha- tid-Deen (Brightness of Religion), surnamed our Lord the faithful, Q. Where does our Lord reside now and when will he manifest himself to us? A. He now resides in China. He appeared or manifested himself five times. The first time he appeared in Persia, and was known by the name of Selman el Farisi, and he was a geometrician; the second time he appeared in Egypt, and was called El Hakim Beamrihi (the sole Governor), and his occupation was the Civil Government. The third time he ap- peared in Algeria, and was known by the name of Baha-tid-Deen (Brightness of Religion), and his occupation was a silversmith. The fourth time he appeared in Andalusia, and was known by the name of El-hikmet (wisdom), and was a physician. The fifth time he appeared in El Hijaz or Hedjaz (on the eastern shore of the Red Sea), and was known by the name of Mewla el Akil (Lord of Reason or Under- standing), and his occupation was camel- driver, and he had under his command i,oao camels, and thence he disappeared. lIe fore- told his disappearance for a time, and bath commanded us to abide by his obedience till he comes. Of the Ansariyeh I shall find a more convenient opportunity of speaking further on. Early on the morning of the i8th we left Sidon; Mr. Ayoub Abela escorting me until we were Opposite a village di- vided between the general government of Syria and that of Lebanon. The general government of Syria was last autumn in the hands of Nachid Pacha, who resided chiefly at I)amascus, but he died a few months ago, and Beyrout, with its depend- encies, including the country of which I am speaki-ng, became a vilayet by itself. I may explain that each vilayet, or small governmentfor in Syria, be it remem- bered, every thing except history is small is divided into several circles, over each of which is a mutessarif, while each mutessarif has charge of several smaller areas, each under its own kaimakam, and 32 A WINTER IN SYRIA. each kaimakam has under him several that was left of this venerable edifice, in mudirs. some part of which the Frederick Barba Most persons will remember that after rossa of history ~vas laid in a now Un- the horrible massacres of i86o had led to known grave. The Frederick Barbarossa European intervention, the small but of legend sits, as we know, enchanted in highly troublesome government of the the Kyffhauser, or beneath the Unters- Lebanon was separated from that of the berg, and bides his time not to arrive, neighboring country and placed under a as was once hoped, in our century. Christian ruler Daoud Pacha. He has Tyre is unfortunate in not possessing had several successors, all of whom have any gardens in its neighborhood, and the managed to keep Druses and Maronites cleanliness of its streets is accordingly on fairly good terms thanks largely to far less cared for than is the case at Sidon, the ~vise arrangements sanctioned by Lord nor is it by any means so picturesque a Dufferin, who began in these regions his place. Historically, ho~vever, it is so brilliant career. It need hardly be said important that the reader ~vill perhaps not that the Maronites are the lineal represen- object to linger a little with me within its tatives of the old Christians of Antioch, wails. who, having been a good deal oppressed It used to be a custom earlier in this by their brother Christians of Byzantium, century, with a certain class of tourists, to long ago accepted the Roman obedience. expatiate on the forlorn condition of Tyre, Hence a connection of old standing has and to consider it to be a proof of the existed between them and France a fulfillment of prophecy. Those, how. connection which is kept up to the present ever, who adopted that dangerous style of day, for the French government, although argument forgot that the l)assionate de. bitterly hostile to Christianity at home, is nunciations, which they took for supernat.. by no means indisposed to use priests as ural previsions of the future, had led to catspavs in foreign parts. scant results. Nay, that Tyre had, after The road from Sidon to the southward they were uttered, a long and absolutely. ~vas much easier than that which we trav~ if not relatively, far more splendid career ersed the day before, and the distance to than she had before. A catena of testi- be got over was shorter. On the other monies to its prosperity, from the time hand, there was nothing of interest along that Ezekiel in his natural anger said our route save the site of Sarepta and the Thou shalt never be any more, down to river Litany, or, as it should be called at the end of the thirteenth century AD., can the point where we crossed it by a pictur- be found by any one who will look for it esque bridge, the Kasimich. This is in the volumes of the Survey of West~ one of the only four real rivers of Syria. em Palestine. The second is the great Orontes, which One of the most curious of these testi- flows by Antioch, and will, thanks to Juve- monies comes from St. Jerome, who, see- nal, always be remembered with the ing the flourishing condition of the place Tiber; the Baracla, once the Abana, the in his day, and falling into the mistake, river of Damascus, is the third; and the which was then universal in the Christian Jordan, the most famous and least useful, world, of supposing that the function of is the fourth.* Ezekiel was not to warn and to teach, but We had hardly left the bridge above accurately to describe coming events, was mentioned an hour behind, when we came obliged to save the prophets credit by upon the isthmus which has grown out of putting an unnatural interpretation upon Alexanders causeway and unites Tyre to his ~vords. Now that the real character the mainland. After we had done so, an- and importance, vast in its own way, of other half-hour brought us to the monas- the persons ~vho, for the confusion of tery where we were to pass the night. Western intelhgences, have been de- Ere we had arrived there we passed the scribed as prophets, and not by their ruins of the great cathedral which was old Hebrew name, is thoroughly under- reared probably on the site of the church stood, we can read the denunciations of a in which Origen was buried, and at the hostile, or at least unsympathetic people, consecration of which Eusebius of C~sa- by the Hebrew nabi with all due allow- rea preached. A large number of work- ances, and find several of them, but more men were engaged in destroying the little especially the twenty-seventh chapter of Ezekiel, to be very precious documents, * There are ten perennial streams in Western Pales- as throwing a mucI~ needed light on the tine over and above the Jordan, of which the Kishon is the most considerable; but they have nut the true extent and character of Tyrian commerce. river character. What really happened was this. For A WINTER IN SYRIA. long ages Tyre and Israel were, in spite of the Canaanitish origin of the former, very close friends, and that for a good reason. Each wanted what the other could give. Tyre wanted the produce of the rich cornfields in the Hafiran ( the wheat of Minnith of Ezekiel), while Israel wanted the skill of the Tyrian artif. icers and the luxuries in which the Tyrian merchants traded. As time went on the connection became, in the eyes of the best men alike in Israel proper and in Judah, dangerously close, for they saw that it was giving a great impulse to the spread of polytheistic ideas. Their fears led to a violent reaction, which, fierce even as far back as the fall of the house of Omri in the north, went at last in the southern kingdom, in the days of Josiah; to very great lengths indeed. A Tvrian must have looked at the proceedings of that monarch just as a devout Spanish Catholic looked at those of Elizabeth, or as a devout Protestant in England looked at the dragonnades of Louis XIV. The Tyrians retaliated on their, as they thought, sacrilegious neighbors, and turned an honest penny by selling them as slaves when they got a chance. Hence the mutual dislike of the old allies grew more and more bitter, and when Nebuchadnez- zar took Jerusalem the feeling at Tyre ~vas one of profound satisfaction. That naturally excited bitter resentment in the breasts of Ezekiel and of all whom he represented, the outcome of which was the passage which has given rise to much mis- placed moralizing in prose, but also, let it be remembered, to the fine lines in the Lvra Apostolica: Tyre mockd when Salem fell: where now is Tyre? Heaven was against her. Nations thick as waves Burst oer her walls, to Ocean doomd and fire: And now the tideless water idly laves Her towers, and lone sands heap her crowned merchants graves. This once famous spot was at its lowest ebb in the middle of the last century, when Hasselquist, the Swedish naturalist, passed that way and found only ten in- habitants. Soon after its site was occu- pied by the curious sect known as the Metawileh, who are very nearly allied to the Shiahs of Persia, and who still abound in this neighborhood. They were followed by others, and now it is a respectable little town. That it should ever again rise into much importance seems far from prob- able. LIVING AGE. VOL. LXIV. 3279 33 The valley of the LitAny, on the map, looks highly inviting, and the engineer in far-off lands might dream of running a railway up it into the interior. Before, however, attempting to translate his dream into reality, he had better visit Syria, or read the account which Dr. Thomson gives of that wild river and the gorges through which it forces its passage from. Baalbek to the sea. The harbor of Tyre was excellent for the tiny vessels in which its bold mariners~ commuted themselves to the waves ; but,. even if it could be restored to what it was in its happiest hour, it would be perfectly useless for the purposes of the modern trader. The plain behind it is unhealthy. There are not, so far as I know, any places in the neighboring hills so well adapted for summer residence as that which I have mentioned near Sidon, and although no doubt systematic excavations would bring to light a good deal, it seems im- probable that anything of first-rate impor- tance would be found. Phcenician Tyre, if anything of it is left, lies far down below half-a-dozen other Tyres which flourished and decayed on this venerable site. I find it difficult, then, to imagine how, even under a good government, any great amount of prosperity could return to it. It is pleasant, meantime, to observe that some of its oldest associations are still preserved in a harmless form. Herodotus. came hither to see the Temple of Mel- karth, the Syrian Hercules, and still, upon the festival of St. Mekhlar, they fish in his honor for the shells of the murex,. which was so important a source of Tyrian wealth, while Adonis gardens are still arranged on the feast of St. Barbara. The superior of the monastery where I slept was a native of Bethlehem, but spoke Italian well. He was a Franciscan, and I talked to him about the curious way in which, during the last decade or two, men of the most various ways of thinking have united to praise the founder of his order; amongst others, Hase in Germany, Gas- telar in Spain, and Renan in France. Yes, he replied, St. Francis was unique; ~ve think him the greatest poli- tician of his age. I asked if the Imita- tion had been translated into Arabic. He answered in the affirmative. Then I put the same question about the Fioretti di S. Francesco. He said no; but he had read them in Italian; and, I think he added, also in Spanish. My friend was a cheerful creature. I told him the well-known story of the pope, A WINTER IN SYRIA. 34 who having offered his snuff-box to a car- dinal was met by the reply, No, your Holiness, I have not that vice. To which the pope rejoined, If it had been a vice you would have had it! He capped this by repeating the not less well-known but al~vays worth-recalling story of the bull which was launched against persons who smoked in the churches of Seville, and elicited the quotation from Job: Contra folium quod vento agitur tuam iram osten- des et stipulam siccam persequeris? As I stood on the roof of the monastery, on the evening of the i8th, I observed a long bank of clouds in the south-west, but having been assured that the fine weather would continue for at least three days, I paid no attention to it. In the middle of the night, however, I was awaked by heavy rain, and had to face the difficulties which Elijah suggested to Ahab, with reference to my next days journey. The storm, however, rolled away into the interior, and by five in the morning rain had ceased to fall. We left Tyre at early dawn and crossed the plain to the great reservoirs which may possibly mark the site of the rather mysterious Pal~tyrus. Thence it was but a short ride to the foot of the White Promontory, which according to some was, properly speaking, the Ladder of the Tyrians, although others give that name to the more conspicuous, though to the traveller not so formidable, promontory called Ras en Nakurah. I think it more than probable that the name designated all the rough bit of coast between Tyre and the plain of Acre. The mountains on the left belonged to Galilee, and at an earlier period were assigned to the tribe of Asher. Out of them was carved the bit of bad country which Solomon gave to Hiram, and which that amiable monarch accepted with a jest; but the district which we traversed had always been Gen- tile, until about an hour beyond Ras en Nakurah we passed near El Zib, the north- ern boundary of Galilee upon the coast. A ride of two hours from that point, over a flat country, fertile where it was irri- gated by streams, but in many places bearing little at this season but the not very interesting Passerina hirsz~/a, which was covered with its inconspicuous flow- ers, took us to the gates of Acre. Long lines of aqueduct here still in use recalled the Campagna. Close to them we trans- ferred ourselves to a carriage sent to meet us from HaYfa, and preceeded thither. The ancient fortress of Acre looks straight across the only deep indentation on the harborless Syrian coast to Mount Carmel, which bounds that indentation on its southern side. Carmel is a long ridge sloping gradually down from about seven- teen hundred to something like five hun- dred feet, where it falls in a fine promon- tory into the sea. Near the end of this promontory, looking down upon the waves, lies the house which has given its name to the famous order. It is from Acre that Carmel is seen to the best advantage, and 1 have sometimes thought it a very fine object as viewed from thence. To look its best, however, it requires the adjuncts of storm-cloud and threatening weather. On November i9th these adjuncts ~vere not present, but nothing could have been more delightful than the drive, of some ten miles, round the bay, not over a road, but over the hard sea sand. The gale of the previous night had agitated the waters, and the innermost of five lines of surf broke gently around our horses feet as we proceeded. I did not enter the town of Acre on this occasion, though I shall have something to say of it presently, and the first object of interest ~vhich arrested my attention was the little river Belus, from the sand of which, according to an ancient but doubtful legend, glass was first made. A stretch of seven or eight miles separates this stream from the far more important Kishon, which di-ains the great level of Esdraelon. Between the shore and the interior in- tervenes a thick belt of sand-hills, spar. ingly but picturesquely dotted ~vith date- palms, and bearing, in the spring, vast quantities of the beautiful white broom Re/ama roe/am, mistranslated juniper in our Bibles. These sand-hills used to be famous as the resort of robbers, and the unarmed, unattended traveller had better not be too confident in their security even now. In Syria, however, (I am not speak- ing of the Lebanon), there are few places where the unarmed, unattended traveller is safe, and few where the armed, attended traveller is in any sort of danger, at least on the west of the Jordan. The Kishon and the Belus are both quite easily crossed, save in exceptionally heavy floods, provided always you keep well out to sea, on the bank, only slightly covered by the waves, which they have raised at their mouths. Soon after the further bank of the Kishon is gained, you find on the left a singularly pretty palm grove, said to be the prettiest in Syria, and certainly very much the prettiest which I saw. A further drive of two A WINTER IN SYRIA. miles brings you to the gate of Haifa, a dirty but picti resque little town, inhabited largely by Christians belonging to various Oriental communions (of whom much may be read in Mr. Oliphants Haifa, of which I shall speak in my next paper), partly also by Mahommedans and Jews. Night had fallen before we reached it and passed through its narrow streets to our destination, which was the suburb built to the ~vest of it by the German colonists, known as the Temple Christians. This little sect took its origin in a pie- tistic reaction from the teaching of the famous author of the Leben Jesu, D. F. Strauss. After passing through va- rious phases, the community betook itself to the Holy Land, where it flourishes in three places in the vicinity of Jaffa, of Haifa, and of Jerusalem. Some of its members differ much upon matters of doctrine, but they are, I apprehend, all agreed in thinking that in Syria men have a better chance of leading religious lives than amidst the complicated social arrange- ments of Europe. Their ideas in this respect seem to me very much like a trans- lation, into the Swabian peasant dialect, of the views which took Lord Beaconsfields hero, Tancred, to the Holy Land. I saw nothing of the colonies near Jaffa or Jerusalem, and took little interest in the speculative tenets of the colonists at Haifa; but I never lived amongst a more good -natured, harmless, well-mannered set of people. Whether they lead better lives than they would have been leading in Wiirtemberg, whence they chiefly came, I am sure I do not know; but I should think they were leading quite as good lives, while they certainly escape the hor- rors of winter as well as those of the blood- tax, and set an excellent example to the fellaheen around them. They could hardly have a worse material to work on than these lineal descendants of the old Canaanites. Amidst that degraded popu- lation for some account of which see Conders Tent Work in Palestine ~ theirs is about the only good influence at work, and it works, in consequence of the intense jealousy of the Turkish govern- ment, under every sort of discouragement. I have my doubts about much good coming from Jewish colonization in Pales- tine. Will it not take as many ages to make the Jewish money-dealer an agricul- turist as it did to make the Jewish agricul- turist of the days of Josephus a money- dealer? But if any one wants to see what German stout-heartedness, rectitude, and hard work could do for Syria, he had bet- 35 ter go and live for a while in the German colony at Haifa. It was at a house in this colony, built like an ordinary little English villa, that we alighted. Between it and the small inn hard by we found accommodation for all our own J)arty, including the English servants whom we had brought with us; and German servants were easily found to help in the house, garden, and stables. Mr. Oliphants house, so kindly lent to us, lies quite close to the sea, on the nar- row plain which slopes almost impercep- tibly up from it to the first sharp rise of Carmel; but Carmel rises only about six hundred feet above the German colony, and when we have surmounted those six hundred feet by a steep path through the vineyards, and a brief scramble amidst brushwood, a very noble view is com- manded. First, let us turn to the north. Imme- diately beneath our feet is the principal street of the little German settlement, and a good many other buildings constructed of the easily cut white limestone of Car- mel lie to the right of the same. Beyond that, to the east, is the town of Haifa, very white and attractive-looking, like so many towns in the East, until you enter it. Be- yond the colony spreads the bay, usually dazzlingly blue, but often in winter swept by wild gusts, and taking in such hours of storm very strange and gloomy colors. We must suppose, however, that we see this view for the first time on a fine day, and the chances, even in winter, that we shall do so are perhaps twenty to one. On such a day not only will Acr~ be seen perfectly clearly, but the whole great level behind it stretching up to the line of the Galilean hills which comes to an end in Ras en Nakurah, already mentioned. Behind this range stands up the rounded summit of Jebel Jermak, the highest moun- tain in Galilee, some four thousand feet above the sea; and further away still comes Hermon, clad through most of the year in snow. That mountain is commonly spoken of as a cone, but from this point it shows as two separate eminences, and by no means suggests a cone or cones. Still further away and to the north-west, the southern end of the Lebanon range can usually be descried. If we turn to the east we shall see the point where the Kishon finds its way through a very narrow pass out of the plain of Esdraelon into the plain of Acre, between Carmel and the low hills of Zeb- ulon, but we cannot see the plain of Es- draelon itself without going for a good 36 A WINTER IN SYRIA. way to the south-east along the heights. likely to be of much value to them, and so This we need not do on our first visit to they came usually, though by no means the top of Carmel, but content ourselves always, to hand. by crossing the ridge, here very narrow, But the Turkish officials were naturally until we can look down on the great Mcd- anxious to assist English people who tried iterranean and the narrow strip of level Haifa as a health-resort, in the hope that land cut off between it and the southern other English people might be tempted to prolongation of Carmel. In this brief do the same, and create at last a Nice or walk we shall see just the roof of the Car- Cannes beneath Mount Carmel? melite monastery a~vay to the west of us, The very last thing which the Turkish while we shall be able to grasp the fact officials desire to do is to help any En- that Carmel is cut up by numerous very glish people to come to Palestine, except tortuous ravines, and that if only the as mere tourists for a rapid run of a week charcoal-burners and the goats would or two. They abhor all Europeans, and cease their devastations it would soon be- at this moment they abhor Englishmen a come a fine forest. good deal more than any other Europeans. The commoner arborescent species on More than any other Englishmen, I think, the part of the ridge of which I am speak- they abhor Mr. Ohphant, and they had ing are Pistacia ie;ztiscus; Laurus nobilis, persuaded themselves that I was engaged the true laurel ; the Aleppo pine, Arbu- with him in some villanous design for the tus andrachne; and Quercus pseudo-coc- annexation of the country. What more cifera, the prickly oak. To most travel- natural, when he went off to England to lers in Syria it will be matter of surprise bring out the remarkable book which he to learn that this unhappy shrub would, if has lately published, than that they should let alone, grow into a gigantic tree. One suppose he had gone to render an account specimen, I believe, is known which incas- of his stewardship to his wicked employ- ures thirty-seven feet in circumference. ers in London, and that I had come to But now some reader, of a practical carry on his evil work? Everything I turn of mind, will ask, Well, after having did, accordingly, was watched and reported reached your destination and gone half- most carefully by telegraph to the vali of way back to India, what advantages had Syria. Uncommonly dull reading that Haifa to offer to recompense you for a poor man must have had! People say he very long and very costly journey? Was died of poison; I prefer to consider that there any society? he died of those telegrams. Readers of Absolutely none. We made it our Henry Heine will remember the quatrain:, headquarters from November to the end Er liest ihm Gcdichte von Matzerath of April, and our wildest dissipation con- Em Doich ist jede Zeile! sisted of having, on one occasion, three Der arme Tyrann friih oder spat passing travellers at dinner. Stirbt er vor Langeweilel Were your communications with the outer world as easy and regular as when XVhat, then, was your reward? In the you were in India? first place, the winter and spring climate Very much the reverse. They were of Haifa is beyond all comparison the kept up by a Turkish post from Beyrout finest I know, and I know, amongst oth- and a little Austrian mail steamer from ers, those of Hy~res, Algiers, Nice, Rome, Port Said. The Turkish post was about Naples, Sicily, Egypt, and Ootacamund. as irregular as most Turkish institutions, In the second place, Haifa forms an cx- Austrian mail-steamer very sen- cellent basis for a series of journeys in and the sibly preferred not encountering heavy Syria and Palestine. In the third place, weather to delivering our letters ~vith cx- the interest of the history of these coun- emplary punctuality, tries is so great that it is a real delight to But at least all letters and parcels came be forced back to the study of it by find- at last? ing oneself in the scenes amidst which it No, indeed they did not! Hardly any- was enacted. In the fourth place, I knew thing came which some of the worthy something of the flora of the French Rivi. people, through whose hands they had to era, as well as that of Algiers; and I had pass, considered to be worth taking. a great curiosity about the flora of the They were considered as tax, tribute, and eastern lip of the great Mediterranean custom by goodness knows whom, but basin. Our reward was received in health certainly by some one. Luckily, however, and gratified curiosity. newspapers, books, and ordinary letters It took but little trouble to arrange the did not strike these worthy people as scaffolding of life. 1-lorses were easily JOHN WARD, PREACHER. bought, sufficient for all purposes; one admirable, a finer Arab than any one could have bought in India for more than twice the money I gave for him. The necessa- ries and usual comforts of civilized exist- ence, with the single exception of butter about which there ~vas some little trouble at first, were readily obtainable, and, as I had not the faintest desire to buy land, to intrigue politically, to found schools, to convert anybody, or to do anything of any sort or kind that could improve the coun- try, my relations with the Turkish officials were few. I was kept well informed of the way in which they watched all my proceedings, but these proceedings lSeing directed solely to the objects I have mentioned abovethe finding of a good winter cli- mate, the examination of the flora, histor- ical study, and a long series of excursions they were chi;naerae bombinantes in vacua. If it amused them to try to read a political meaning into the harmless and humdrum telegrams which I occasionally received or sent, just as it amused them to suppose that a friend of Mr. Oh p hants was building fortifications near the south- east end of Carmel, when he was making vineyard terraces, why should they not have had that gratification? After the usual exchange of civilities with the kai- makam of Haifa and the mutessarif of Acre, I left them to dream dreams as to my designs to their hearts content, and betook myself to my own pursuits after the fashion which I propose to relate in a future paper. MOUNTSTUART E. GRANT DUFF. From Loogmans Magazine. JOHN WARD, PREACHER.* BY ARCHDEACON FARRAR. 37 their power of insight and skill in minute delineation, remind us of Thackeray; while the pictures of country life con- stantly recall Mrs. Gaskells fresh and charming tale of Cranford But John Wad is no mere fugitive story. Behind the story lie some of the deepest problems which beset our life, and some inkling of the general purpose for which the writer has used her art is revealed by the motto from Omar Khayy~m, I sent my soul through the invisible, Some letter of that after-life to spell: And by-and-by my soul returned to me, And answered, I myself am Heavn and Hell. The scenes here brought before us are confined to the quiet, sleepy American village of Ashhurst, and the neighboring country town of Lockhaven. The whole society of Ashhurst is composed of the rector, Dr. Howe, his niece Helen, and his daughter Lois; his sister Mrs. Dale, and her husband; an old lawyer with hardly any practice, named William Denner; two dear old maiden ladies, Miss~Deboiah and Miss Ruth XVoodhouse, and their nephew Gifford; and a visitor to the place, the worthless Dick Forsythe, with his wid- owed mother, who pleases herself with the conviction that she is a chronic in- valid. In Lockhaven we are introduced to the struggles and agony of John Ward, ~vho marries Helen; to his elder, Mr. Deans, and his daughter Alfaretta ; and to the drunken lumberman, Tom Davis. All the other characters are subordinate and accidental. XVe are presented to no lords and ladies and eminent personages. The level of society never rises above that of humble and middle-class life. But in these obscure places, and amid these prosaic surroundings of rustic security, The generations are prepared, the pangs, The internal pangs are ready; the dread strife THE interesting and remarkable story Of poor Humanitys afflicted will of John Ward, Preacher, is the work of Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny. a lady, Margaret Deland, the author of The result i~ a story full of grace, sug- The Old Garden. Even if the name gestive of many serious thoughts ,and had not stood upon the title-page, the pe- rising at times to a tragic pathos, which culiar delicacy of the vorkmanship would brings to the eyes of the reader a rush of have led to the inference that the author tears. was a woman. This tale, in one volume, Looked at solely as a novel, the book has excited great interest in Boston, where has two high artistic merits : one is that it it ~vas first pubished, and it has now been contains very little that is otiose, and noth- reprinted in an English edition. The pub- ing that is mere padding, but proceeds lishers deserve our thanks for thus bring- steadily, with scarcely an episode, to its ing it tinder the special notice of British natural ddnoue;nen; the other is that it readers. There are pages in it which, in reminds us of one of those exquisitely acted plays where every character, even * x vol. Cr. Svo. London: Loogmans, Green, & co. the humblest, is impersonated with equa 38 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. ble and conscientious care. There is not a single personage in Job ii Ward who is not distinctively portrayed; not even the lawyers little nephew, who, at evening prayer, stumbles through a chapter of Chronicles in the big, dark study, with the maidservant asleep at the other end of the room; not even the maidservant who rules her old master with a rod of iron, and whose one romance, nightly studied, is Deathbeds of Eminent Christians. The book abounds in skilfully arranged contrasts. Gifford XVoodhouse, the plain, manly, common-sense lover of Lois, who is so straightforward that when appealed to he will not flatter even Lois by not telling her when she has done ~vrong, offers a fine contrast to the worldly, shal- low, rattling, and dishonest Dick Forsythe, whom Lois is for a time entrapped into accepting. But the most powerful con- trasts are those furnished by Dr. Howe, the Episcopalian rector, and John Ward, the Presbyterian preacher; and between John Ward and Helen, his Episcopalian and somewhat latitudinarian wife. The outline of the main story is briefly as follows John Ward, a Calvinist of the sternest and gloomiest school, and yet a man of an infinitely tender and sensitive nature, has cherished a love of the most sacred depth for Helen, the rectors niece, and this love is returned with all the warmth and pas- sion of the girls nature. Yet they are wholly unlike each other. He holds to his terrific creed with absolute conviction. It has become his second nature. His earnestness is positively aggressive, and there seemed a sort of undress of the mind in its entire openness and frank- ness, which ignored the courteous deceits of social life. I respect Ward, said Dr. Howe to his sister, I cant help re- specting him; but, bless my soul, I wish he was more like other people. But John Ward, starting with the unalterable premiss that the Bible is verbally inspired, held with a pathetic and patient faith to the doctrines of the Presbyterian Church, and not only did not desire more light, but did not even conceive that there could be more light. A story told of him by Dick Forsythe to Mr. Dale (an old gentleman who has been cowed by his overpowering ~vife, a sister of Dr. Howes, into a sort of general suppression) illustrates the fact that men can hold the most horrible forms of belief in rigid systems, and yet can retain hearts which overflow with a divine compassion. The remorseless logic of the unnatural theologian has not ~vholly killed within the heart of John Ward the Heaven-implanted graces of the natural man. Why, says Dick, ~vho had known John Ward when he was a youth, I saw that man, there were a lot of us fellows standing on the steps of one of the hotels; it was the busiest time of the day, and there was a woman coming along, drunk as a lord. Jove you ought to have seen her walk! She couldnt walk that was about the truth of it; and she had a miserable, yelling brat in her arms. It seemed as though shed fall half-a- dozen times. \Vell, while we were standing there, I saw that fellow coming down the street. I give you my word, sir, when he saw that woman he stood still one minute, as though he was thunderstruck by the sight of her, not hesitating, you know, but just amazed to see a woman lookin0 like that, and then he ~vent right up to her and took that dirty, screeching child out of her arms, and then Im damned if he didnt give her his arm, and walk down the street with her. Mr. Dale felt the shock of it. Ah I he said, with a quick indrawn breath. Yes, continued Dick, who enjoyed tell- ing a good story, he walked down that crowded street, with that drunken, painted creature on his arm. I suppose he thought shed fall, and hurt herself and the child. Naturally everybody looked at him, hut I dont believe he even saw them. We stood there and watched them out of sight and but of course you know how fellows talk! Though so long as he was a minister Dick grinned significantly, andlooked at Mr. Dale for an answer; but there was none. Suddenly the old man stood still and gravely lifted his hat. Hes a good man, he said, and then trudged on again, with his head bent, and his hands clasped behind him. Dick looked at him and whistled. Jove l he exclaimed, it doesnt strike you as it did l)r. Howe. I told him, and he said, Bless my soul! hadnt the man sense enough to call a policeman But Mr. Dale had nothing more to say. The picture of John Ward, walking through the crowded street with the woman who was a sinner upheld by his strong and tender arm, was not forgotten; and when Dick had left him, and he had lighted his slender silver pipe in the quiet of his basement study, he said again, lies a good man. Helen is totally and in all respects dif- ferent from John Ward, to whom yet she gives an entire affection. Even in the conversation at the rectory on the eve of the wedding, with which the book opens, the difference between them is revealed. A question has arisen about the Civil War between the North and South. Dr. Howe sweepingly condernis slavery, and thinks it twaddle to talk of the Southerners as animated by principle. Ward, on the JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 39 other hand, defends the motives of the deep misgivings. lie regarded her as Southerners, because they found authority entirely unconverted. He considered it for slavery in the Bible. a certainty that if she were to die in her If you thought the Bible taught that present frame of mind she ~vould burn slavery was right, what could you do? he forever in hell-fire. It often seemed to asks the rector. him that in spite of the spell exercised I ncver could think anything so absurd, over him by her sweet, rich, and beautiful the rector answered, a shade of contempt in nature, his duty to himself and his people his good-natured voice, demanded that at all costs he should tear But if you did, John insisted, even if his love for her out of his heart. The you were unable to see that it was right, if the text Be not unequally yoked with Un- Bible taught it, inculcated it? Dr. Howe laughed impatiently, and flung believers is constantly ringing in his the end of his cigar down into the bushes, ears. If he can resist the warning, it is where it glowed for a moment like an angry only because he hopes and believes that eye. ~ I I? Oh, Id read some other part he will be able, sooner or later, to con- of the book, he said. But I refuse to think vince, convert, and save his wife. It such a crisis possible; you can always find never once occurs to his intellect some other meaning in a text, you know. cramped and besotted as it is by the hor- But, uncle Archie, Helen said, if one ror of an unnatural creed that she, with did think the Bible taught something to which her pure and loving soul, may be infinitely one s conscience or one s reason could not more dear to God, and infinitely more assent, it seems to me there could be only one thing to dogive up the Bible! worthy of the name of Christian and of Oh, no, said Dr. Howe, dont be ~ elect, than any one of the hard, igno. extreme, Helen. There would be many things rant, and vulgar persons by whom he is to do; leave the consideration of slavery, or surrounded, and who mistake for religion whatever the sul)posed wrong was, until youd their own insufferable ignorance and re- mastered all the virtues of the Bible; time volting Pharisaism. enough to think of an alternative theneh, John and Helen are what they are, and Ward? Come I its time to go into the house. nothing can make them otherwise. Her Helen is always equally outspoken. belief and character are the result of tem- When discussions rise between her hus- perament and the divine education of ex- band and herself about endless torments, perience his are the results of a creed and he tries to settle them by the Bible ~vhich has petrified to adamant, and in says, she interrupts him, many directions renders impossible the It does not seem worth while to say, the spontaneous workings of a human heart. Bible says, she said, smiling a little as she After their marriage they are, for a short looked into his troubled face. The Bible time, perfectly happy in their humble was the history and poetry and politics of the home. They live upon Helens small Jews, as ~vell as their code of ethics and their jointure, and Ward gives up the salary to liturgy; so that unless we are prepared to be- which he would have been entitled. Their liev@ in its verbal inspiration, I dont see how intense love for one another is undis- we can say, as an argument, the Bible says. turbed by the fact that she does not for a And you do not believe in its verbal in- moment conceal her opinions, and is spiration, he said slowly. No, Helen answered, I could not. frankly horrified by the brutally realistic hymns which are sung in his chapel. Helen, it will be seen, was not likely to After various vain and agonizing argu- have gained a very firm hold upon religion ments he refuses to let him discuss with under the teachings of her uncle. Those her any more the question of endless tor- teachings had indeed been remarkably ments, a belief which formed the keystone undogmatic, and had mainly resolved of his religious system. She seeks the themselves into Be a good girl, my dear. truth, but when no change of conviction is When she had been subjected to deeper conceivable on either side she declines to influences she built up a belief for her- discuss details, which, after all, she says, self. There were for her no details of are of no possible importance, no more religious thought. Ideas presented them- I)art of the eternal verities than a mans selves to her mind with a comprehensive- buttons are of his character. Hoping to ness and simplicity which would have win her step by step, and not to shock her been impossible to Mr. Ward. To her hopelessly on the threshold, he for some mind love of good was really love of God. time leaves out of his sermons the flaming Heaven meant righteousness, and hell an doctrines on which he is fed by the only absence of what was best and truest. books in his library, the works of Jona- John Ward had not married her without than Edwards and Dr. Emmons, or those 40 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. in which Hodge and Shedd water down the same doctrines substantially to suit the tastes of a generation which is more easily disgusted and horrified. But his people miss their favorite excitement. They like the sensation of shuddering when fire and brimstone is preached to them, and they are discontented. Helen gives up the weekly prayer-meeting, which she detests, because she cannot bear to hear Elder Deans give the Almighty so much miscellaneous information; and cannot stand his incessant pictures of souls wreathing in sulphurous flames, followed by praising God for his justice (his justice !) right afterwards. The el- ders vanity is grievously wounded by so contemptuous a rejection of his horrors and pomposities. This makes him grow jealous and suspic;ous. His daughter, Alfaretta Deans, lives with the Wards as their one servant, and loves theni loyally, but he removes her from their service lest her soul should be imperilled. A fire takes place in the lumber-yard, and in the belief that a boy is sleeping on the saw- dust heap the drunken raftsman, Tom Davis, wraps his coat round his head and rushes into the flames. The boy is not there, but the poor man rushes out terri- bly scorched and falls dead upon his face. This awful example to unbelievers fur- nishes a tempting opportunity to Elder Deans, and he revels in it to his hearts content. Chancing to see Helen, he alludes to her absence from the prayer-meeting, and says : I hope we shall see you soon. A solemn season of revival is approaching. Why hate you stayed away so long, Mrs. XVard? Annoyed at the impertinence of his ques- tions, Helens face flushed a little. I do not like the prayer-meeting, she an- swered quietly; but before the elder could recover from the shock of such a statement, Mrs. Nevins had come up to speak to him. Have you seen Mrs. Davis yet, Mr. Deans? she asked. She took on awful last night; the neighbors heard her. Twas after twelve fore she was quiet. Yes, I saw her, said the elder, shaking his head in a pompous way; I went to ad- minister consolation; Im just coming from there now. It is an awful judgment on that man: no chance for repentance, overtook by hell, as I told Mrs. Davis, in a moment. But the Lord must be praised for His justice: that ought to comfort her. Good heavens! cried Helen, you did not tell that poor woman her husband was overtaken by hell! Maam, said Mr. Deans, fairly stutter- ing with astonishment at the condemnation of her tone, IIdid. Oh, shame! Helen said, heedless of the listeners around them. How dared you say such a thing? How dared you libel the goodness of God? Tom Davis is not in hell. A man who died to save anothers life? Oh, that poor wife! How could you have had the heart to make her think God was so cruel I John Ward, though in the tenderest manner, also feels himself obliged to tell the poor widow that the soul of her hus- band is eternally lost. Helen cannot bear the strain of her indignant sympathy, and visits Mrs. Davis The poor woman de- scribes the miserable life and surround- ings of her husband since his childhood, and says : What chance had Tom? God never give him any, but He could have, if Hed had a mind to. So I cant love Him, Mrs. Ward, I cant love Him; Him havin all the power, and yet lettin Toms soul go down to hell; for Tom couldnt help it, and him livin so. I aint denyin religion, nor anything like that Im a Christian woman and a member but I cant love Him, so theres no use talkin I cant love Hun. Helen tries to comfort her with larger hopes. You dont think, said Mrs. Davis in a hoarse, hurried whisper, youre not saying Tom isnt in hell? I know he is not, said helen. Jus- tice I it would be the most frightful injustice, because, dont you see, it is just as you said, Tom had no chance. . . . It is not true that while Toms soul lives, he cannot grow good. Space forbids me to quote the rest of the scene, but it is not difficult to see the results of this state of things. The elders conspire to have Helen brought before a session, that her soul may be dealt with. Goaded to despair, and agonized by the reproach of his conscience that he has neglected to preach the truth out of love to his wife, John preaches a sermon lurid ~vitn the reddest flames of hell-fire. It is nominally a missionary sermon, but, as Elder Deans explains to Gifford Wood- house, such sermons were not meant to raise large contributions for the benefit of the heathen, but theyre for the pur- pose of instructing us that the heathen is damned, so that we will rejoice in our own salvation, and make haste to accept it if we are unconverted. Helen goes for a visit to her uncle at Ashhurst, and while there receives a letter from her hus- band, written with intense agony of soul, in which he forbids her to return to him till she has accepted his belief, and, as he expresses it, seen the truth. He has acted in perfect faith and loyalty in com- ing to this crushing resolve, because he thinks that it is the only way to save Hel JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 4 ens soul. I will not narrate the very powerful scenes in which this crisis is described. The decision is final, and nat- urally neither the Howes nor any of Hel- ens friends can understand, as she does, that John has made this tremendous sac- rifice, not because he is cruel or indiffer- ent, but out of the purest love. Poor Helen falls into the hopeless misery of selfish isolation, living only for her dreary sorrow. From this she is rescued by Mr. Dale, who alone of the Ashhurst circle sympathizes both with her and her hus- band. When Mrs. I)ale has poured out her reprobation to Dr. Howe and her husband, on Helen for having opinions of her own, and on Ward for his Methodism, You see it is pretty bad, Dale, said the rector. It is, it is, said Mr. Dale, his mild eye glistening; but, oh, how he loves her I Loves her! cried the other two together. Yes, continued Mr. Dale slowly, one feels as if we ought not even to discuss it, for we are scarcely capable of understanding it. The place whereon we stand is holy ground. Henry, said his wife, theres no fool like an old fool. You dont know what youre talking about. . . . Love indeed! Well, I dont understandlove like that. But Mr. Dale does, and his quiet sym- pathy alone saves Helen from the ship- wreck of character which would have re- sulted from morbid absorption in her own anguish. On strained terms even with her uncle and Lois because they condemn her husbands conduct, she lives in lonely weariness and spends whole hours beside her mothers grave. One autumn after- noon she is vaguely listening to the birds, and watching the squirrels, and the falling beech-leaves, when Mr. Dale finds her with her head resting forlornly on her hands. My dear, said Mr. Dale gently, they told me at the Rectory they thought you were up here, so I came to see if you would let me walk home with you. Helen started as he spoke, and the squirrel scampered away. Did you come for that? she said, touched in spite df her bitter thoughts. Mr. Dale pushed his broad-brimmed hat back on his head, so that his face secmed to have a black aureola round it. Yes, he replied, regarding her with anxious blue eyes yes, I am grieved to have you so much alone; yet I know how natural it is to desire to be alone. Helen did not answer. I hope, he went on, hesitating I hope you will not think I intrude if I say I came because I wanted to say that I have a great respect for your husband, Helen. Helen turned sharply, as if she would have clasped his hands, and then put her own over her face, which was quivering with sudden tears. Mr. Dale touched her shoulder gently. Yes, a great respect. Love like his inspires reverence; it is almost divine. Helens assent was inaudible. Not, my dear, the old man continued, that I do not regretyes, with all my heart I deplorethe suffering for you both by which his love is proved. Yet I recognize with awe that it is love. And when one has come so near the end of life as I have, it is much to have once seen love. We look into the mysteries of God when we see how divine a human soul can be. Perhaps I have no right to speak of what is so sacredly yours, yet it is proper that you should know that the full meaning of this calamity can be under- stood. It is not all grief, Helen, to be loved as you are.~~ She could not speak, she clung to him in a passion of tears, and the love and warmth she had thought she should never feel again began to stir about her heart. So you will be strong for him, Mr. Dale said gently, his wrinkled hand stroking her soft hair. Be patient, because we have per- haps loved you too much to be just to him: yet your peace would teach us justice. Be happier, my dear, that we may understand him. You see what I mean? Helen did see; courage began to creep back, and her reserve melted and broke down with a storm of tears, too long unshed. I will try, she said brokenly, oh, I will try! The beneficent interference of the dear and good old man does not cease here. He becomes Helens best friend, and to check her from the restless self-conscious- ness which cannot be content with the quiet duties of Ashhurst, he points out to her how useful her life may be to all whom she loves. You see, he went on in his gentle voice, your life cannot be negative anywhere. You have taken your stand for a vital principle, and it must mimake us better. Truth is like heat or light; its vibrations are endless, and are endlessly felt. There is something very beautiful to me, Helen, speaking of the truth, that you and your husband, from absolutely opposite and extreme points, have yet this force of truth in your souls. You have both touched the l)rinciple of life, be from one side, you from the other. But you both feel the pulse of God in it! You know, she said gratefully, you understand. The scene is not over when Lois comes in with a telegram which announces that John Ward is very ill. Helen receives the news calmly, because Inves horror of death s~veeps away all small things 42 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. time, hope, fear, even grief itself. She flies to her husbands dying bed, and spends the last hours alone with him, until he dies in her arms. The shock of his immense self-sacrifice had been too much for him. He had given up, for conscience sake, all that his heart held most dear, but his heart had broken in the effort. Helen returns to Ashhurst after a time. There is one last idyllic chapter in which Gifford wins the hand of Lois, and now the little misunderstandings between them melt away. Helen takes the place of a daughter in her uncles home. There is much more in the book than has here been indicated. I have said nothing of the delightful dinner-party given by Deborah and Ruth Woodhouse; and nothing of the tragic comic perplex- ities of poor Mr. Denner in trying to make up his mind whether he should ask Miss Deborah or Miss Ruth to share his lonely home. But two characters deserve special mention. Alfaretta Deans, daughter of the intol- erable elder, is servant in John Wards house. When we first make her acquaint- ance she has her arms full of fresh white tea-towels which had been put out to dry on the row of gooseberry-bushes at the end of the garden, and is singing cheerily, with all the force of her strong young lungs, the following hymn My thoughts on awful subjects roll, Damnation and the dead; What horrors seize the guilty soul Upon the dying bed! Where endless crowds of sinners lie, And darkness makes their chains, Tortured with keen despair they cry, Yet wait for fiercer pains! Then swift and dreadful she descends Down to the fiery coast, Amongst abominable fiends Oh, Alfaretta! her mistress cried, in indignant astonishment, how can you say such terrible words? Alfaretta stood still, in open-mouthed amazement, an injured look in her goo& natured blue eyes. The incon- gruity of the rosy-faced happy girl, standing in the sunshine, with all the scents and sounds of a July clay about her, and singing in her cheerful voice those hopeless words, almost made Helen smile; but she added gravely, I hope you will not sing that again. I do not like it. But, maambut, Mrs. Ward, said the girl, plainly hurt at the reproof, I was prac- tising. I belong to the choir it the words of it you dont like? said Alfaretta, rather relieved since her singing had not been criticised. Yes, Helen answered, it is the words. Dont you see how dreadful they are? Alfaretta stood with her plump red hands on her hips, and regarded Mrs. Ward with interest. I hadnt ever thought of em, she said. Yes, maam, I suppose they are awful bad. . . . Worst of it is you get used to em, and dont notice em much. Why Ive sung that hymn dozens of times in church, and never thought of the meanin. And theres Tom Davis. . . I dont supppse he notices the words of this hymn, though I know he sung it, for he keeps right on in his sin; and he couldnt, you know, Mrs. Ward, if that hymn was true to him. Alfaretta becomes profoundly attached to her young mistress, and out of love for her ventures even to defy her fa- ther, who calls Helen the Jonah of the Church and talks about her false and lying tongue. Alfaretta fires up into sudden indignation and says, How can you say such things about her? A saint and an angel if ever there was one. The Lord dont send no one to hell, let alone such as her. The elder, alarmed lest Helen should send his child to hell be- fore his very eyes, declares that she shall leave Mrs. Wards service, and asks her if Helen has ever said anything to her , about the Lord not sending peol)le to hell. I dont know, she answers desperately, I dont know anything except shes good. Listen to me, said Mr. Deans, in his harsh, monotonous voice; did Mrs. Ward ever say anything to you about hell? Answer me that. Then the loving little servant-maid, truthful as the blood of Scotch ancestors and a Pres- byterian training could make her, faced what she knew would bring remorse, and, for all she could tell, unpardonable sin upon her soul, and said boldly, No, she never did, she never said one blessed word to me about hell. The wind seemed suddenly to leave the elders sails, but the collapse was only for a moment; even Alfarettas offering of her first ~lie upon the altar of her devotion to her mis- tress was not to save her. Well, he said, opening his mouth slowly, and looking about with great dignity, if she hasnt said it to you she has to other people, Ill be bound. For she said it to Mrs. Davis, and the elder inflated his chest and held his head high and me. It is my duty as elder to take notice of it for her own souls sake, and to open her husbands eyes if hes too blind to see it. . . . An Ive exhorted; but the elder raised his eyes piously to heaven Paul may plant and Apollos may water, but it dont do no good. Alfaretta is a very subordinate person in the little narrative. Dr. Howe, on the other hand, is a very important one, and JOHN WARD, PREACHER. 43 is a sort of foil to the high-strung, spiritual intensity of John Ward. It is impossible not to love the good genial rector even if we are made to feel all along that he is more or less of a Sadducee, yet he too has his tragic side. Though many of his duties are dead and bt~ried, they have left behind them thestingofmemory. He has shirked the toil and anguish of soul which leads a man to face his doubt~, and has turned aside to the plain duties of life. But his punishment is that when some questioning soul comes to him he has nothing to offer except some formula some text book spirituality. It tries him terribly to have to tell his lifelong friend Mr. Denner that he is dying, and to at- tempt the administering of spiritual con- solation after the long years in which they had been on terms of the utmost intimacy, but never touched upon religious subjects. Helen tells him that he can only help Mr. Denner with the old friendship, that it is too late for religious aid, and nothing is left but the human sympathy xvhich will make death easier. Dr. Howe will not admit this for the moment, yet the unusual- ness of havino to enter on religious topics with his old friend tries him sorely. He breaks it to his friend that he must die soon, and tells him that he is sure he does not need to dread death. It must come to us all, sooner or later, he said gently, and if we have lived well we need not dread it. Surely you need not, of all the men I have ever known. I have always endeavored, said Mr. Denner, in a voice which still trembled a little, to remember that I was a gentleman.~ Dr. Howe opened his lips and shut them again before he spoke. I I meant that the trust in God, William, of a Christian man, which is yours, must be your certain support now. The lawyer looked up, with a faint surprise dawning in his eyes. Ah, you are very good to say so, Im sure, he replied courteously. Dr. Howe moved his hands nervously, clasping and reclascing them upon the head of his stick. Yes, William, he said, after a moments silence, that trust in God which leads us safely through all the dark places of life will not fail us at the end; the rod and the staff still comfort us. Ab, ycs, responded Mr. Denner. The rcctor gained confidence as he spoke. And you must have that blessed assurance of the love of God, William, he continued; your life has been so pure and good. XTou must see in this visitation not chastisement, but mercy. Dr. Howes hand moved slowly back to the big pocket of one of his back coat-tails, and brought out a small shabby Prayer-book. You will let me read the prayers for the sick, he said, and without waiting for a reply began to say, with more feeling than he often put into the reading of the service: Dearly beloved, know this, that Almighty God is the Lord of life Archibald, said Mr. Denner faintly, you will excuse me, but this is not not necessary, as it were. Dr. Howe looked at him blankly, the Prayer- book closing in his hand. I mean, Mr. Denner added, if you will allow mc to say so, the time for for speak- ing thus has passed. It is now with me, Archibald. There was a wistful look in his eyes as he spoke, and Dr. Howe, thinking that the Vis- it~ion of the Sick must wait, answers with a commonplace. Ah, yes, said the sick man; but I should like to aplsroach this from our usual point of view, if you will be so good. I have every respect for your office, but would it not be easier to speak of of this as we have been in the habit of speaking on all subjects, quite in our ordinary way, as it were. You xviii pardon me, Archibald, if I say anything else seems ah unreal? William, the rector answered, have I made religion so worthless? Have I held it so weakly that you feel that it cannot help you now? Oh, not at all, responded Mr. Denner, I have the greatest respect for it. But but if you please, Archibaldit is unneces- sary to be anything butnatural. After a little furt.her conversation, Mr. Den- ner says, How does it seeni to you, doctor? Do you feel sure of anythingafterwards? The rector could not escape the penetrating gaze of those strangely bright brown eyes. He looked into them, and then wavered and turned away. Do you? said the lawyer. The other put his hands up to his face a moment. Ah I he answered sharply, I dont know I cant tell. I I dont know, Den- net! No, replied Mr. Denner, with tranquil satisfaction, I supposed not I supposed not. But when a man gets where I am, it seems the one thing in the world worth being sure of. The old man falls into dreamy meditations, and once he said softly, In the hour of death, and in the day of judgment Good Lord, deliver us I finished Gifford gently; for the young man had been sitting by his bedside, and nursing him with all the affection of a son. Mr. Denner opened his eyes and looked at him. Good Lord, he said, ah, yes, yes, that is enough, my friend. Good Lord; one leaves the rest. But Dr. Howe walks home with a strange look on his face, and locks himself into his own study. 44 JOHN WARD, PREACHER. Very remarkable, too, is the scene in which Dr. Howe tries to shake John Wards agonized determination not to re- ceive back his much-beloved wife till she has come to the light, for which result he has prayed with his whole soul. He grew more intolerant with John each mile of his journey; he repulses Alfarettas greeting, and thinks the people of Lockhaven in- sufferable. Seeing a volume of Jonathan Edwards open at the frightful and well- known passage in which he speaks of God holding a sinner over the fire of hell as one might hold a spider or some loathsome insect, Dr. Howe bangs the book down, and gives it a furtive kick as it falls upon the floor. John Ward comes in and is met by the full flood of the rectors impa- tient, indignant, and contemptuous re- proaches. Considering that John had sat up all night in prayer to God before he had come to his determination, and had written his last letter to Helen on his knees and in floods of tears, it is not likely that he would give way. He is shocked that Dr. Howe should even allude to any worldly considerations, and when the rector too diplomatically appeals to him by the argument that if he is so trou- bled by Helens unbelief he ought to keep her in hourly intercourse with himself, Do not play the part of the Tempter, said John gently; it ill becomes Christs minister to do that. Would you have me pray for guidance, and then refuse to follow it when it comes? God will give me the strength and courage to make her suffer, that she may be savedl Dr. Howe stared at him for a moment. Then he said, I I do not need you to teach me my duty as Christs minister, sir; it would be more fitting that you should concern yourself with your duty as a husband. The veins in his forehead were swollen with wrath. The way in which you pride yourself upon devising the most exquisite pain for your wife is inhuman, it is devilish l And you drag her family into the scandal of it, too. John was silent. Sit down, addei Dr. Howe brusquely, you look tired; and indeed the pallor of Johns face was deadly. The argument continues, but all argu- ments and entreaties are unavailing, and Dr. Howe resolutely checks his denuncia- tions. But ~vhen the rector urges that Helen, if she returns, may observe all proper forms, and keep silence about ~vhat was, after all, an immaterial difference, John is roused to sudden passion by the old temptation. Alfarettas announcement of supper stops the discussion. Dr. Howe makes a last appeal against the preachers monstrous decision, and John, desiring to put an end to the terrible strain, under which he felt that his strength was leav- ing him, cries with a pathetic desire for sympathy, I love her too much to change. Dont you understand? But I cling to more than hu- man strength when I say, I will not change. Then, by Heaven, cried the rector, nether shall she I With my consent she shall never return to a man who reads such books as those and he pointed to a row of Jonathan Edwards a man who denies good in anything outside his own miserable concep- tion of religion; the very existence of whose faith is a denunciation and execration of every one who does not agree with him. You are firm, sir. So is she l I bid you good-day. He turned to the door, breathing hard through his shut teeth. John Ward followed him, and laid his hand upon his arm. Do not go, he said; there is much that I would like to say; and you will spend the night here with me. I beg that you will not go. The roof which refuses to shelter my niece, answered Dr. Ho~ve, his voice shaking with anger, shah not be over my head Then, said John, slowly and gently, you must listen now to what I have to say. Must l cried the rector. Yes, for it is your duty to listen as it is mine to speak. I dare not hear a servant of God set the opinion of the world above a con- ception of duty no matter how strained and unnatural the duty may appear to him and keep silence. - . . You evade the troth; you seek ease in Zion. I charge you, by the sa- cred name of Him whose minister you are, that you examine your own soul. Dr. Howe looked at him, his face crimson ~vith anger. Sir, he stammered, flinging his detaining hand from his arm, Sir l And then, for the first time since Archibald Howe took orders, an oath burst from his lips; he struck his stick madly against the table, and rushed from the room. Get out of my way, girl I he cried to Alfaretta, and, slamming the gate behind him, he strode down the street. I have made considerable quotations from this story some of which I have been obliged to abbreviatebecause I wished to give the reader an opportunity of estimating its importance. But he may rest assured that he will find much more to interest him if he goes to the book itself, and also that the passages quoted assume a finer force amid their proper surround- ings. I will conclude with only two re- marks, for my sole ~vish has been to introduce the book to wider notice, not to discuss the many problems on which it touches. i. Although, like all worthy stories, John Ward may be regarded as a novel MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. 45 with a purpose, yet, in accordance with the truest principles of art, the purpose is neither single, nor does it lie glaringly upon the surface. The writer never ob- trudes upon us the lesson which she wishes to enforce. She gives a photo- graph of life and leaves the reader to draw his own inferences from the facts which she has selected and arranged, ex- actly as he would have been obliged to do if they formed a chapter of his personal experience. 2. Her work must not be set down as one of the too numerous romances which choose the vehicle of fiction to insinuate religious conclusions of vast importance which in the pages of a novel cannot pos- siblv be sifted and reasoned out in any adequate manner. No doubt the sympa- thies of the writer are opposed to the gloomy and ruthless doctrines of Jonathan Edwards, and the Moloch logic of Calvin- istic Presbyterianism. But she is never unfair to the doctrines which she so evi- dently repudiates. If Helen is singu- larly outspoken in her rejection of the doctrine of endless torments, John XVard is yet furnished with full opportuni- ties to expound and plead for his own views; and so far from representing him as a monster because he pursues to the bitter end the views which she detests, the writer chooses him for the hero of her narrative, and shows him as a man of the noblest nature and the most intense sin- cerity. Indeed, so fair is she in this respect that, though she paints the agony of a dying Calvinism, it might even be supposed that it was her object to show how that form of creed is capable of inspiring the most exalted heroism, and can be held in a heart of the tenderest sensibility. Certainly one lesson ~vhich results from her pages is that men may rise superior to what might seem to be the inevitable consequences of their religious opinions; that purity and nobleness are equally compatible with the widest differ- ences of theory as to the nature of God and the ultimate destinies of man ; that God is no respecter of persons, but in every nation he that feareth him and work- eth righteousness is accepted of him. From Blackwoods Magazine. MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. THIS book * is a very valuable contribu- tion to a right understanding of the Irish * Life of the Right Honorable William Edward Forster. By T. Wemysa Reid. In a vola. London: Chapman & Hall (Limited), i888. problem and difficulties. The latest con- flict with conspiracy in that island has now been proceeding for nearly ten years, with varying fortunes, and with most trying and tragical incidents and results. During a controversy so prolonged, people forget, or if they dont forget they are liable to be overwhelmed with a mass of detail, and either way to lose sight of the great prin. ciples which are at stake. Under such circumstances it is very useful to obtain a true insight into the earlier portion of the struggle. It helps us to appreciate its true nature and importance, to see how and with what success or failure it was first grappled ~vith, and thence to under- stand its present development, and, if possible, to find some clue to its further progress. We think that Mr. Reid was ~vell ad- vised not to delay publication until inter- est in the subject had declined. It is true that we must acquiesce in such draw- backs as this (vol. ii., p. 238), The full truth cannot yet of course be revealed i.e., in reference to the Irish administra- tion; and also (vol. ii., p 164), There are comparatively few of his memoranda on those subjects viz., discussions, often very perplexing and unsatisfactory, which took place amongst the Liberal leaders of opposition after Mr. Gladstone had with- drawn in 1875 which it ~vould be fair to those who survive to reproduce here. In that view publication is premature, for the disclosures are not complete. Never- theless it is in our judgment opportune and useful, and we are much too glad to get it, to indulge any unavailing regret for what is withheld. The main subject of interest in the book, from the point of view of present politics, is, of course, Mr. Forsters ad- ministration of Ireland. That was prac- tically the first chapter in the conflict. It stands entirely by itself, and assuming the disclosure to be sufficient, ~ve are in a position to pass judgment upon it. There are, however, many other subjects in the book; but we must with one exception pass them over in deference to that which is of overwhelming interest. It is impera- tive to notice his career as minister of education, and the author of the act of 1870, for that was the most successful part of his life, and its results upon his personal position throw light upon his political surroundings as chief secretary for Ireland. It is unnecessary to go much into detail. The main feature of it was this. Forster was an extreme Radical. In that charac 46 MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. ter he had forced his way by the aid of Radical support into the Liberal govern- ment of i868. The Radicals therefore looked to him as their representative champion, in a government the composi- tion of ~vhich, after the Reform Act of 1867 and the decisive results of the gen- eral election of the following year, disap- pointed their expectation. The education policy of the Cabinet had been looked for- ward to as a means of dealing a blow to the Establishment, by taking the question of education practically and completely out of its hands. Forster, on the other hand, was more intent on establishing schools than on disestablishing the Church. His view was that the hour had come and the man to effect a system of national education, and he declined to allow his view of what it was practicable to accomplish to be influenced by any ulte- rior views of Church policy. He was deter- mined to pass the bill of 1870, which ~vas founded on compromise. It supplemented the existing schools by Board Schools. The Birmingham League wished to de- stroy the former and to establish a general State-controlled system of education, from which religion should be excluded. The act of 1870, the first great constructive measure after the Reform Act of 1867, was carried with Conservative assistance over the heads of the Radical party, and in a way which precluded the accomplish- ment of their wishes. Birmingham ~vas furious and Bradford disapproved. Fors- ter ~vas vehemently assailed and de- nouncecl by his own party, members of the League, and private friends. The charge was that he was false to his principles, and, to gratify his own ambition, was urg- ing on a measure which directly violated them. He refused either to abandon his bill or to recast it in a way which might have satisfied the Liberationists and the Birmingham League, but which would have led to its rejection probably by the Commons and certainly by the Lords. The acrimony of the dispute was ex- traordinary. The Liberal party was in an enormous majority, and for one of its most advanced leaders to frame and carry a measure which conciliated opponents rather than satisfied supporters created quite exceptional bitterness. It was at its height when Forster was raised to the Cabinet. During the rest of his career in Mr. Gladstones first government, he was the object of increasing vituperation, ani- mosity, and dislike from his own section of the party, who regarded themselves as betrayed. The sentiment did not die out during that partys long tenure of the op- position benches while Lord Bt~aconsfield was in power. 1-le was regarded by them as a traitor to the principles of his youth, which bound him over to forego a system of national education, rather than suspend his hostility to the Established Church; as a time-server, who had sacrificed his party to his own personal ambition. One result was that he lost a few years after- wards the leadership of the Liberal party, but at the same time he achieved his one great political success. We have often expressed in these pages approval of his education policy, and we never thought that the rancorous animosity of his old friends was at all justified. Great, or at all events successful, measures are not carried in this country by the tri-umph of extreme opinions. They are mostly founded on compromise, which is neces- sary alike to carry them and to work them. If Forsters sincerity and public spirit needed any vindication, they receive it in this book. At the time, all the irri- tation and anger of the disappointed sup- porters of the government were discharged on his head; and those who remember the absurd agitation which was got up over the twenty-fifth clause of the act, mainly to express their hostility, may appreciate the unreasonable extent of the animus which was displayed. It was a clause which, at the time it was passed, was ab- solutely unnoticed by any single member of the House; it has since been forgotten; during the height of the agitation words would fail to describe the portentous con- sequences which it was foreshadowed would necessarily flow from it. The real fact was that Forster had completely alienated the allegiance, sympathy, and regard of a large section of his party. A ~ropos of this twenty-fifth clause, there is one little incident worth record- ing. Though it was the chosen battle- ground of Forsters opponents when the League party, after the fall of the Glad- stone government, moved for its abolition, they were actually supported by some of Forsters old colleagues, ~vho had been heartily with him when the act was passed, but who presumably were more anxious to close a party discord than to support their old colleague. They were beaten by 373 to 128 votes. I could not help telling Goschen, remfirks Forster, that they had not got much by throwing me over. On the contrary, he considered, in words applicable to more than the particular in- stance, that so sudden and marked a change as twelve members of the late MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. government voting against a clause which that government maintained up to the end of last session, was not an advantageous step for the party, and I think the di vision- list supports that view. The effect of this proceeding was to confirm the League party in what the biographer demonstrates to have been the erroneous belief that Forster alone was responsible for the character of the Education Act, so far as the religious question was concerned. They had combined at the general election to expel him from his seat at Bradford, which he only retained by the aid of the Tory party. Their irreconcilable animos- ity threatened open antagonis m in case he assumed the leadership of the party, and he was obliged, in order to avert party schism, to withdraw his candidature in favor of Lord Hartington a step which further alienated from his side those of his party who, notwithstandfng all that had happened, would have preferred his appointment as a definite repudiation of Whig ascendancy. These personal relations of Mr. Forster to his party must be borne in mind when we consider historically his fitness for the post of chief secretary of Ireland at the particular conjuncture of events in 188o. Years of Opposition had not removed, they had hardly mitigated, the feeling towards him. It as much incapacitated him then for wielding the full force of a united Cab- inet in conflict with conspiracy, as it had incapacitated him for the leadership of a united party five years earlier. And the explanation, it is clear from this book, lies deeper than the surface. We have to look not merely at his policy, which his critics denounced as treacherous and self-seeking. Something was attributable to the man and his manner, as well as to his policy; and that something was peculiarly odious to the Irish members, who were con- stantly, when they descended from the more scandalous extremes of abuse, in- veighing against what they called his affectation of rugged virtue. Then he was self-contained and reticent, and had all the awkwardness which short-sighted- ness frequently l)roduces. As his biogra- pher observes It was unfortunate for him that amid his many absorbing preoccupations and anxieties he could not command that light and easy manner, which in superficial society passes current for politeness. If he was pressed in private by some member who caught him in the lobby or the club with a troublesome, or it might be simply an unneces.~ary, question, at a time when his thoughts were occupied 47 with the grave and pressing duties of his office, he did not always show the patience which his interlocutor expected of him. Sometimes he would brush a troublesome questioner aside without thinking of his feelings. Intention- ally discourteous he never was to any human being; and when he heard as he sometimes did that So-andso had been wounded by the bluntness of his manner, he would show first surprise, and then the keenest concern. We must here digress for a short space to notice one important episode in his life, to which, if Ireland were not the all- absorbing topic of the hour, we should have been tempted to refer at greater length. A great deal has been said and written about Forsters influence in effect- ing a settlement of the Alabama disputes with the United States. Of course every one is glad that the sore was healed; but if we want an example of high-minded and sagacious statesmanship, the last instance we should cite would be that of the Glad- stone government and the Geneva arbitra- tion. There was a treaty concluded, of which we recollect as if it were yesterday, one of the negotiators, an Oxford pro~ fessor, in a lecture explaining that, for the sake of agreement, the parties had ac- cepted words which bore different mean- ings, and in that way the indirect claims had been sprung upon us. And in this book we are forcibly reminded of the little wisdom with which the world is governed. When the arbitration court met at Geneva no one knew exactly what would happen. There was a vague understanding, never fulfilled, that the American government would withdraw the indirect claims, and the greatest uncertainty whether the arbi- tration would proceed or not. The En- glish government did not dare withdraw the direct claims; they never agreed to submit them ; they were reduced to hop. ing the arbitrators would reject them. Some painter surely is required to do justice to the following impossible scene recorded in Forsters diary. A few of the Cabinet lunched with Lord Granville at the Foreign Office, waiting for telegrams which never arrived, as to whether or not we were floundering before the arbitrators in the bottomless bog of the indirect claims. They had exhausted subjects of talk, and were listlessly looking at one another. The opposition would snigger if they saw us, said Granville; and soon after he said to me (we are quoting Fors- ters diary), I wonder whether West has brought a chess-board. Four days afterwards the joyful news arrived that the arbitrators had rejected the indirect 48 MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. claims, which, notwithstanding our di- plomacy, had actually been submitted to them. We escaped a disastrous war or a disastrous humiliation by the skin of our teeth; and we pass without astonishment from the unutterable folly disclosed by this confession to the exulting statement that Gladstone announced this brilliant success in the House of Commons amid great cheers on our side and the disgust of the Tories. The whole annals of di- plomacy might be ransacked in vain for a transaction more ridiculously fatuous, and, at the some time, more momentous in its possible consequences. The chess-board bears the same relation to the Alabama controversy that a celebrated fiddle did to a conflagration at Rome. Before returning to our subject, we must notice some very interesting remarks, having regard to the quarter from which they emanate, of Mr. Cobden as to Mr. Gladstones style of speakingthe pe- culiar charm of his eloquence. Writing in 1865, towards the close of life, he re- marked to Forster that Your utterances and Brights have a distinct meaning. Gladstones speeches have the ef- fect on my mind of a beautiful strain of music. I can scarcely remember any clear unqualified expression of opinion outside his political, economical, and financial statements. And, alluding to his explanation of leav- ing Sir R. Peels government in 1845, he said: I sat for an hour listening with real pleasure to his beautiful rhetorical involutions and evo- lutions, and at the close, turning to one of my neighbors, and exclaiming, What a mar- vellous talent is this I Here have I been listening with pleasure for an hour to his ex- planation, and I know no more why he left the Government than before he commenced! It is, however, a talent of questionable value for public leadership. To return to Irish policy. At the time of Mr. Forsters entrance upon his Irish career, the position, so far as it is at pres- ent ascertained, was this. Secret conspira- cies, with active agents in Paris, London, and Dublin, had been at work for years. In 187778 Fenian prisoners, including Da- vitt, had been released. Bad seasons had occurred in Ireland, and a general elec- tion was approaching. There ~vas a great opportunity for lighting up the flame of a land agitation, with a view to support that form of Home Rule policy which Mr. Par- nell had substituted for that of Mr. Butt. No one knows at present to what extent the Irish Parliamentary party (if at all) were working in concert with these secret conspiracies. That will be the subject of investigation by a royal commission. All that it is material to draw attention to is that great activity was observable in Ire- land; obstruction had been resorted to in the House of Commons, with all-night sit- tings beginning in 1876; extremely vio- lent speeches had been made in America by Mr. Parnell and others. Those had culminated in the emphatic declaration of Mr. Parnell at Cincinnati, on the 23d February, i88o, that the last link which keeps Ireland bound to England must be destroyed. Rebellion was thus openly avowed. What Mr. Bright has lately called a rebel party existed then as much as it exists now. The extent and power of the conspiracy were the unknown fac- tors. Lord Beaconsfield dissolved Parlia- ment, declaring that a movement in its ultimate consequences more disastrous than pestilence or famine must be resist- ed. Mr. Gladstone, in his addresses, made light of it, declared that it ~vas all exaggeration, for the purpose of withdraw- ing the attention of the constituencies from the foreign policy of the govern- ment. Mr. Gladstone obtained the ma- jority ~vith the aid everywhere of the Irish vote. This, no doubt, was a great vic- tory, and encouragement to the Irish leaders but there ~vas one element of the Liberal victory which probably disturbed their calculations viz., that the Liberal majority was large enough to be indepen- dent of the Irish party. The relations between the Gladstone party and the Irish party, however cordial during the elec- tions, were marked by estrangement im- mediately afterwards. It was no part of Mr. Parnells policy to open his mouth and shut his eyes and see what his friends would give him. His plan ~vas to estab- lish his authority as the uncrowned king of Ireland, and prevent the estab- lishment of the authority of government. Subsequent events have shown that the materials were at hand where they came from is another matterto establish a reign of terrorism in Ireland. There is every reason to be convinced that the Gladstone government were quite blind to the magnitude of the evil with which they had to contend. Events were in l)repara- tion which inflicted untold misery upon Ireland misery worse than that of pesti- lence or famine. As they rolled along they have wrecked the Liberal party, and have raised the momentous question of the integrity of the British Empire and the unity of its Parliament. At the time, however, these things were MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. hid from the eyes of the new government, each member of which settled down to his own department, thankful (all of them ex- cept Forster) that the Irish office had not fallen to him, and that the country had decided that things in that island were not nearly so bad as had been represented by the late ministry. Mr. Gladstone, who had spent his days and nights, as he had told the country, in thwarting the policy of Lord Beaconsfield, being now in power, was laboring to reverse it both in Asia and Europe, pulling up the rails to Quetta, impeding the execution of the Berlin Treaty, meddling and muddling in South Africa and Egypt. It is clear that the new government had no settled plan of policy for Ireland. The modified coer- cion, permitted by the Peace Preservation Acts then in force, was allowed to drop, notwithstanding the protests of the outgo- ing ministers. It ~vas impossible to exas- perate the Parnellites by their retention. Ireland ~vas simply banded over to Mr. Forster, who was selected for the office of chief secretary, apparently as a man of recognized authority and experience, who would take the whole subject off their hands. Administration was never Mr. Gladstones forte (in fact he has not held an administrative department for more than forty years), so his panacea was, as usual, a piece of sensational legislation which he was obliged to keep till next year. It cannot be doubted now that Ire- land was in a condition to require the closest attention of the government. And if all its powers were to be delegated to a single member of the Cabinet, they ought, at least, to have been intrusted to some one more likely than Mr. Forster to com- mand the good-will and sympathetic sup- port of all its members. The mere fact that he was sixty-two years of age was an objection to placing him in an office which required such constant travelling and im- mense physical exertion. No man could have displayed more energy and courage than he did. Manyof the qualities exhib- ited excite the highest respect. But he failed to conciliate support; his want of tact, blundering, and roughness exasper- ated his enemies to the utmost. The consequence was that, untiring as were his efforts, the result of this first chapter in the history of this struggle was the inglo- rious surrender at Kilmainham and the sacrifice by the government of their cham- pion and representative to the common foe. Not that it was deserved by any means. But a man in that position must count up his resources if he is to succeed. LIVING AGE. VOL. LXIV 3280 49 He soon found he could not govern with the ordinary law. In October he wanted a Coercion Act. There were members of the Cabinet who would not let him have one. We wont assume that there was any desire to thwart him, or that any new members of the Cabinet seized an oppor- tunity to assert their influence. Anyhow, he had to go on governing with the or- dinary law, and mean~vhile the forces of disorder were getting the upper hand decisively. When he got increased pow- ers, they were practically limited to the old blundering device of suspending the Habeas Corpus Act. Then, having got them, late as it was, it was so distaste-. ful to him to be tarred with the coercioa brush that he forbore to use it for some little time. Possibly he thought he could hold it in reserve. Meanwhile time wore on. His extended powers were strictly limited i point of time not much more than eigi wen months, nearly half of which. he allowed to pass before he made, with~ the aid and support of the premier, his. grand coup of arresting the leaders of the Land League in a batch. In the mean. time his act had lost half its force. The moment you get within measuring distance of the prescribed term, the question arises, Are you going to renew the act? and you must pledge yourself one way or the other. If you engage to renew it, up starts organized opposition; if you pledge yourself against rene~val, it must be be- cause it is no longer necessary, and then your weapon breaks in your hands, you cant go on enforcing it. In that way the nominal limit may be eig~iteen months, the real limit of time is much shorter. Add to this, that you have for your chief an old Parliamentary hand, who, before all thi ngs, has an eye to votes colleagues who are not all of them very friendly or sympathetic and the conclusion is that time is not on your side. Mr. Forster was a beaten man from the outset of the contest. His enemies soon learnt to dis- tinguish between him and the govern- ment; and though he locked up nearly a thousand of them, a good many found the quarters and the mildness of the restraint no great hardship, and others felt that with patience they must eventually triumph. Mr. Forster was cheered by some sympa- thetic letters from his chief, a great speech at Leeds, and an assurance that if he re- signed his chief would go too. But for all that, wheni the Parliamentary;position re- quired it, the resources of civilization were at an end, the prison doors were un- locked, negotiations and compromises 50 MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. were entered into, and Forster had only party was implacable. They took offence one resource left, resignation, ~vhile his at the absence of allusion to the land liberated prisoners were welcomed into question in the queens speech. They the Liberal fold. then called for a temporary measure to Such was in general terms the disas- stave off evictions. That led to the Corn- trous character of what we may call the pensation for Disturbance Bill, which ~vas first chapter of the contest for supremacy to continue in operation till the end of the in Ireland. When we come to the details year, and the practical effect of which given in this book, they bear out most would be to stop evictions for that period. completely the view which all competent It was thrown out by the House of Lords; observers took at the time viz., that and although, after amendments moved by Forster was honest, sincere, and deter- the government, it had been opposed by mined, but that he was not the right man the Home Rule party as illusory, every in the right place. It is impossible not to endeavor was made at the time and in this admire the rare courage and devotedness book to fix the House of Lords with to duty which he brought to his allotted responsibility for the disorders of the task. He displayed qualities and per- autumn. But in reality the Irish party formed actions of real heroism in a posi- adopted from the very first an attitude of tion of unexampled difficulty. In reading pronounced hostility to the government, the record of his struggles, for his o~vn notwithstanding their concessions and sake we heartily wish that they had been their promise of a Land Bill for the next crowned with a larger measure of ;uccess. year. Mr. Parnell cast doubts on their He ought to have been secretary for the sincerity; advised the farmers not to give colonies, and some younger man an ad- evidence before the Commission of In- vanced Radical of suitable energy and quiry; introduced the system of boycot- equally averse from coercion, but on more ting, to deter men from bidding for farms cordial terms with his party should from which tenants had been evicted; and have been placed in the van of difficulty renewed his declarations of hostility, not and danger, till, having sorted his ideas merely to~vards English law, but also to as to the adequacy of the ordinary law to the English connection. The Land League cope with Irish rebellion, he should ap- established courts of its own for the trial peal to sympathetic colleagues to support of land cases; outrages upon cattle, at- his demand for extended powers. How- tempts at assassination, moonlighters, the ever, Mr. Forster was appointed; and sending of threatening letters, and all what happened under his rigime is well forms of agrarian crime followed in their and forcibly narrated in this book, and is train, including the sensational murder of shortly as follows. Lord Mountmorris; while the leaders, in- The spirit with which the Gladstone stead of welcoming a policy of concilia- government entered upon its Irish career tion, openly bade defiance to imperial resulted, we are told, from the conviction authority. of all its members that to grant any kind Under these circumstances, the imme- of local autonomy to Ireland would be diate matter in hand was to preserve the ruinous to the interests of the United social fabric from ruin, by maintaining the Kingdom as a whole. No member of the authority of the queen. The measures administration showed any sympathy with proposed by Mr. Forster for that purpose the Irish demand for Home Rule, but they were, first, the prosecution of Mr. Parnell expected from the Irish party a disposi- and others (Dillon, Biggar, Sullivan, Sex- tion to co-operate with the Liherals; and ton, Egan, Brennan, Sheridan, and Walsh) they expected, by making concessions to as men who, without doubt, are great Irish demands, to modify or remove the criminals and mischievous criminals, desire for Home Rule, and diminish (vol. ii., p. 256). Even in October, i88o, that hostility to the law ~vhich was so we find Forster writing to Mr. Gladstone: alarmingly conspicuous. In other words, Parnell has incited to these outrages; they were under the persuasion that they but they may now be beyond his con- had to deal with a purely constitutional trol. Administratively, he proclaimed agitation, bonti fide desirous of an amend- Mayo and Galway, and asked the military ment in the law. They accordingly began authorities to fill the barracks in those with the experiment of governing the counties. He hinted thus early at suspen- country under the ordinary law, contrary sion of the Habeas Corpus, to which Mr. to the advice and remonstrances of their Gladstone replied the very next day, to predecessors. But it was, or might have the effect that legislation should not mean been very soon, discovered that the Irish merely the suspension of the Habeas Cor MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. pus, but that the law should be amended, so as to render criminal certain forms of combination, in case on inquiry the exist- ing law allowed them. In November, Forster wrote that the condition of the country which produced the outrages was owing to the action of the Land League; but the outrages themselves were now be- yond its control. There were old Fenians old Ribbonmen, or rnauzais sulets, about, who were the actual perpetrators, and Forster had evidently been led to believe that they were all kno~vn to the police, and that if a few of them were arrested the remainder would shrink into their holes. He proceeded with the State prosecu. tion, and, as he had expected, failed. But when the Cabinet met in November, there was no chance of getting increased pow- ers. This was the time when the ad- vanced members of that Cabinet were talking of force being no remedy, and were gloating over landlords running for their lives. With them Forster had no influence; possibly they had some satis- faction in thwarting the man ~vhom they, or those whom they represented, had de- nounced in no measured terms as a traitor. The struggle threatened the disruption of the Cabinet, six months after it had been formed. It ended in a compromise: that Forster should struggle on a little while longer, and that Parliament, instead of being resumed in December for special lecrislation, should not meet till January, i88i. One side in the dispute, so far as we remember of the public utterances at that time, insisted that coercion and re- medial measures should go hand in hand. Mr. Forster wanted to combat a system of general terrorism, exercised by means of personal outrage. Mr. Gladstone, who does not seem at this stage to have been at all alive to the urgency of the Irish peril, doubted whether the number of homicides justified the extreme step pro- posed. The offences, in his opinion, were mostly agrarian, and the Land League the source of them. The disruption of the Cabinet was averted by Forster throwing his responsibility on his colleagues, and undertaking to struggle on till the turn of the year. Mr. Reid says that both Forster and his colleagues were soon called upon to feel that grievous injury had been wrought in Ireland by this refusal of additional powers to the Irish government. Boy- cotting grew apace, and could not be touched by the ordinary law; while its relentless cruelty cannot be exaggerated. It was the poor especially who suffered 5 when once they had fallen under the ban of the League. It was a system of organ- ized and remorseless persecution of all who failed to obey Irelands uncrowned king. Reform of the law could not be its object, for nothing was more calculated to impede it. It was veiled rebellion the substitution of an authority which ousted that of the established government. The contest was most unequal, for the established government was fettered by the laws of the realm, the new authority could plan and execute in secret, and could, with complete impunity and free~ dom, adapt its action to any circumstances that might arise. The suffering was in- tense; the number of outrages in D ecem- ber reached 2,573; and when Parliament met, public feeling was running very hicrh indeed. It was in this way that the contest be- gan, which has not yet terminated, for ascendancy in Ireland, between the gov- ernment of the queen on the one side, and the League, by whichever name it is called, on the other, supported by American gold and wielding an authority sanctioned only by crime. The party of disorder gained time; and time in such matters, and with the resources which they possessed and actively wielded, gave them an enormous advantage. The contest can only termi- nate in one of two ~vax-s.: either by the successful vindication of the government of the queen, or by the triumph of the Leaguein the form of separating Ire- land from Great Britain, by dividing the present united sovereignty or legislation, or both. Until that contest is ended, it is in vain to expect any effective solution of Irish difficultieseither by schemes of local government or by remedial meas- ures. While the contest is going on, whatever is done for Ireland is of practi- cal importance, not as regards the welfare of the Irish people, but mainly so far as it can be turned to account by one or other of the political belligerents. The ques- tions raised by the Times, and shortly to be under investigation by a royal commis- sion, as to the degree of personal com plicity in crime on the part of Mr. Par- nell and his political associates, are, in the main, personal questions only; but the answers to them will powerfully affect the political controversy, by disclosing, for good or for evil, what are the true character, aims, and antecedents of the de facto representatives of Ireland. Mr. Forster, when Parliament met, speedily showed that he had made up his mind as to the character of the Irish crisis. He 52 MR. FORSTER AND IR~.AND. observed that the meetings of the League were followed by outrages; that its object was not to bring about alterations in the land law by constitutional means, but to prevent payment of rent except in accord- ance with the unwritten law of Mr. Parnell. He did not openly, as he had in his letters, charge Mr. Parnell with actu- ally inciting to outrage. but with knowing that crime must necessarily result from his speeches and action. Throughout that dreary autumn the leaders of the League had abstained from denouncing crime. Mr. Forsters object, thus early in the struggle, was to drive them from this attitude of diplomatic reserve, and force them to take a side, either as the open enemies of crime, or its avowed sup- porters; in the belief that whichever course they took would be for the benefit of the party of law and order. He drew a glowing picture of the reign of terror which had been established, and then pro- posed and carried his Protection Act, which empowered the lord lieutenant to arrest any person whom he might reason- ably suspect of treasonable practices or agrarian offences, and to detain him as an unconvicted prisoner for any length of time, but not later than September 30, 1882. It was during the progress of this meas- ure that the system of Parliamentary ob- struction which had begun in 1876 was carried to its extremest lengths. The re- sult of such proceedings, which had been persisted in for years, would have been to bring Parliament into contempt, and to paralyze its efficiency and powers. The time-honored rules of the House of Com- mons had to be altered several times in the course of a few years to meet this mode of conducting hostilities against the established government and legislature of of the realm. The Protection Act was passed, and in the same year was also passed Mr. Gladstones second great Land Act, the result of which, in the opinion of men of all parties, has been to take away every vestige of reasonable grievance from the Irish tenant, and to place him in a more advantageous position as respects his landlord and his holding than he oc- cupies in any other country in the world. Then followed a remarkable incident. The passing of the Protection Act was succeeded by a lull in outrages, and also by a certain inaction on the part of the government, as if both sides were pausing before resorting to extremities. Before the act passed, Mr. Michael Davitt was arrested as a Fenian convict on ticket-of- leave, and sent back to penal servitude. After the act passed, no ~vholesale arrests were made, and no sudden swoop took place on the centres of lawlessness. Here and there a notorious agitator ~vas arrest- ed and conveyed to Kilmainhain. The leaders of the Land League proclaimed their contempt for the act and for the gov- ernment. Outrages began to mount up again, and there were constant collisions between the processservers and the pub- lic. Several fatal conflicts ensued. Mr. Reid says there were differences between Forster and his colleagues in re- spect of the Land Bill. Forster was still indignant with the House of Lords for having rejected his Compensation for Dis- turbance Bill. Having regard to the dis- satisfaction of the Irish party with that bill, the hostile reception afterwards ac- corded to the Land Act itself, and the view which Forster himself took of the real aims of his opponents, the constant harp- ing on the rejection of this bill, both by himself and his biographer, seems a little absurd. The task of governing a people by means of a Coercion Act was intensely distasteful to him, now that he had got it; and he hoped that after the passage of the Land Act he might retire from the chief secretaryship. If the delay in procuring extended pow- ers had been disastrous, what followed was not much better. Forster early dis- covered that the Protection Act did not give him the full power he had hoped to obtain from it. All he could do was to imprison those whom he reasonably sus- pected. Except in regard to those ~vho made public speeches, he was dependent upon his police as to whom he should suspect. The fact is, that suspension of the Habeas Corpus is in the main a meas- ure for the increase of the power of the police, and of those who can influence the police. Forster relied on their represen- tations that, provided they could arrest on suspicion, they would soon clear the coun- try. The police, however, were at fault they could not reasonably suspect; and, worse than that, it so happened that actual outrages occurred without being followed by arrests or with such delay as to deprive them of most of their ef- fect. He arrested Mr. Dillon for violent speeches which could not be ignored. However, some arrests were made during the summer of i88i ; it is not clearly stated in this book how many or for what causes. One striking feature about those arrests and imprisonments ~vas this. No criminal taint was allowed to attach to the MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. 53 prisoners. They were treated far better than first-class misdemeanants. They had no menial tasks, wore their own clothes, could provide their own food, read books and newspapers, received friends, were allowed out whenever reasonable excuse for temporary liberation arose. Mr. Reid calls this combining firmness and gentle- ness. It seems to us to involve the maxi- mum of illegality with the minimum of deterrent effect. The political advantages of martyrdom were cheaply purchased. Outrages were frequent, and each fell on Forster, we are told, like a personal blow. In June he informed his colleagues he was doing three things: (i) arresting the central and local leaders of the Land League; (2) letting sub-sheriffs and land- lords know that they must tell us what protection they want, and when and where; (~) giving the people to understand that if they drive us to it, we must fire on them. I think, by striking blow after blow every day, I may make the law prevail. But by the end of June it was clear that the fall in the outrage returns which had followed the passing of the Protection Act had been temporary merely; and that murders were increasing. in July showed a considerable falling off agrarian outrages. So in August Fors- ter took a short holiday; and in Septem- ber Mr. Gladstone, uneasy as usual as to votes, wanted to relax coercion. That soon brought his chief secretary back. He dreaded the possible results of any- thing which might be construed into a surrender to Mr. Parnell and the League. Father Sheehy, however, was released. That, of course, ~vas regarded as a triumph over the chief secretary; and the father forthwith accompanied Mr. Parnell on his speaking tours, in which abuse of Mr. Forster, and systematic attempts to preju- dice the people against the Land Act, were continuously resorted to, so success- fully that Parnell had the Land Act at his mercy. This hostility to accomplished legisla- tion touched the prime minister closely, and Mr. Gladstone is not a person to be trifled ~vith when his will is paramount, as there is no doubt it was over all classes of political opponents in Ireland when the Habeas Corpus Act was suspended. The law officers soon gave their opinion that Mr. Parnell had by his speeches been guilty of treasonable practices. Forster could not say that he had ever condemned the explosive dynamite policy, but that, on the other hand, he had called one ex- plo:;ion which had been fatal in its results a practical joke. Unless, said Forster, in words quite as applicable now as then, we can strike down boycotting, Parnell will beat us; for men, rather than let them- selves be ruined, will obey him and dis- obey the law. He accordingly suggested Parnells arrest, and Mr. Gladstone con- sented, earnestly adjuring him to have everything in readiness to arrest, not merely him, but the leaders of the League, directly the consent of the Cabinet had been obtained. There is also a statement by Mr. Gladstone in his letter of 3rd Oc- tober, that his own fancy had been to have an autumn session for the purpose of breaking down the League. This was the heaviest blow yet struck at the po~ver of the agitation; but it was too late, and, under all the circum- stances, a failure. Parnell, Dillon, and Sexton were in prison. Egan, the treas- urer, fled. Then came the No-Rent Man- ifesto, which Forster met promptly by a proclamation, issued on his own responsi- bility, declaring the Land League an ille- gal association, and announcing that its meetings w oQld be suppressed by force. But though the League lay crushed, secret conspiracy prevailed. Gangs of desperate men, says Mr. Reid, were en- gaged in establishing a system of organ- ized terrorism. Bands of moonlighters, men masked and armed, carried out the decrees of secret courts, their victims being, not the landlords and the ~vealthy, but cottiers and small farmers, men of the same rank with their murderers or perse- cutors. Nothing could protect any man who had incurred their vengeance. Out- rages again increased; the terror which they inspired was the foundation of this lawless and illegal authority. Both the prime minister and the chief secretary in- terchanged notes expressing each a desire to resign as soon as things had mended. The work was very arduous. Personal responsibility for every arrest, every de- tention, and the consequence of every detention, was a greater load than should have been laid on the shoulders of any single man, more especially when the ar- rests nearly reached a thousand in nuin- ber. They talk of the czar of Russia, said Forster after his retirement; but the czar is not mOre of a personal ruler than I was during that last winter in Ire- land. My colleagues left me to do as I pleased, and the whole thing was on my hands. The position of things at the beginning of 1882 was by no means a pleasant one, and Forsters position had become ex 54 MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. tremely difficult. The Protection Act had not put an end to outrages; hundreds of prisoners (they eventually reached the number of eight hundred and seventy-two), including Mr. Parnell and other members of Parliament, were locked up, reasonably suspected but not even accused. Irish Nationalists, landlords, party opponents, and political friends combined to denounce the chief secretary. It was contended that Forster was solely responsible, and that other members of the government disapproved his policy. Great efforts, at all events, were made to discredit and drive him from office. It was in the midst of this that Forster determined to go down personally, to Clare, Limerick, and Gal way, to see the state of the country there with his own eyes. Without police protection, he visited the most disturbed districts, remonstrated face to face with the inhab- itants on their silent acciuiescence in the reign of terror organized by the agitators. He walked about unarmed and unpro- tected, and talked to groups of farmers and laborers. At Tullamore, the centre of one of the outraoe districts, he made a speech which produced a profound im- pression, ~vi nding up with the assurance that the suspects ~vould be released as soon as outrages ceased, and men were no longer ruined, maimed, and murdered for doing their duty or asserting their rights. It was at the end of March that the dif- ferences which led to his resignation first began to arise between Forster and the prime minister. Mr. Gladstone, with an eye to the Parliamentary position of the government and the opinions of his sup- porters, began to point out to his chief secretary the impossibility of renewing the Protection Act when it expired in Sep- tember. That of course involved an early pledge not to do so. Forster, of course, objected to any present pledge not to re- new. He said he could not keep the sus- pects in prison after it had been given; also that the act was the best weapon against boycotting and the secret socie- ties that the alternative strong measures should be proposed concurrently with the pledge not to renew, for which it was doubtful if Parliamentary time sufficed. I trust, he wrote to Mr. Gladstone on the 25th March, in terms which foreboded a rupture, we shall not buy votes by any concession to the Parnellites. I see signs everywhere of the approaching defeat of the conspiracy; but we are in the crisis of the conflict, and any such concession just now would be fatal. Placed in the van, in the supreme mo. ment of the conflict, he may have hoped that his colleagues would not strike his weapon out of his hands; but it was hope against hope. The most ordinary ob- server, xvho noted the exigencies of party at Westminster, with the chief secretarys difficulties in Ireland, could not fail to conclude, what the Parnellites doubtless had foreseen during the whole course of their imprisonment, that as far as Forster was concerned, the game of law and order was up. On the 4th April he again pro- tested against giving up the Protection Act. I dare not face the autumn and winter without it, or at least without sus- pending trial by jury, and taking power to arrest persons out at night under suspi- cious circumstances. He accordingly drafted a bill fcr extension of the pow- ers of the executive, and, with the con- sent of Mr. Gladstone and Mr. Childers, provided for the establishment of pro- vincial councils in Ireland. Then came the release of Mr. Parnell on parole, followed by overtures from his friend Captain OShea to Mr. Gladstone. Mr. Forster stoutly objected to the release of Parnell and other leading suspects, unless (i) the country was quiet, (2) fresh powers were given by a new act, (3) the prisoners engaged not to intimidate. Mr. Chamber- lain negotiated with Captain OShea on behalf of the government. A bill, inspired by Mr. Parnell, being brought into the House of Commons by Irish members, on the subject of arrears of rent, Mr. Glad- stone saw in this circumstance evidence that they were seeking by constitutional methods to amend the Land Act, and that they were beginning to abandon their uncompromising hostility to it. Lord Spencer then replaced Lord Cowper as lord lieutenant, in reality with Mr. Fors- ters wish and consent, though at the time it was considered to discredit him. Many members were beginning to grow impa- tient at the continued imprisonment of members without charge and without trial. The Cabinet was divided. Mr. Gladstone was anxious to discuss the prospective policy in lieu of coercion. Forster stuck to it that he would not consent to release except on one or other of his three condi- tions. Then came the treaty of Kilmain- ham, which was the cause of Forsters resignation. He disapproved the nego- tiations, as well he might, between OShea and another member of the Cabinet. As to the result of the negotiations. he said he expected little from them, and found still less. Mr. Gladstone, on the other MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. 55 hand, was gratified beyond measure; and that of course settled the question of Forsters resignation, and the release of the suspects. The concordat thus established between Mr. Parnell and Mr. Gladstone has had great and increasing results, not merely on the welfare of Ireland, but on the course of English party history, and on the nature of the political questions to which the wider democracy of the United Kingdom, established in power by the Reform Act of 1884, has had to direct its attention. That concordat is expressed in a single sentence, which is now of high historical significance and importance; and we shall accordingly transcribe it. If the arrears question [said Mr. Parnell] be settled upon the lines indicated by us, I have every confidence a confidence shared by my colleagues that the exertions which we should be able to make, strenuously and unremittingly, would be effective in stopping outrages and intimidation of all kinds. The accomplishment of the programme I have sketched out to you would, in my judgment, be regarded by the country as a practical set- tlement of the land question, and would, I feel, soon enable us to co-operate cordially with the Liberal party in forwarding Liberal principles and measures of general reform, and that the Government at the end of the session would, from the state of the country, feel them- selves thoroughly justified in dispensing with further coercive measures. It must be added that Captain OShea is said by Forster to have explained in so many words that the conspiracy which has been used to get up boycotting and outrages will now be used to put them down, and that there will be a union with the Liberal party, Parnell hoping to make use of Sheridan for that purpose, and to get him back from abroad. The split between the Cabinet and Mr. Forster arose in this way. Forster never concealed his reluctance to countenance the negotiations between OShea and Mr. Chamberlain. His strong conviction ~vas that the secret bands of outrage- mongers, by whom Ireland was held under the spell of a cruel and demoralizing ter- ror, could not be dealt ~vith by means of any negotiation whatever with the Land League leaders.~ Mr. Gladstone had no such reluctance and denied any such con- viction. He expressed his gratification with the sentence quoted above from Mr. Parnells letter. As to his promised co- operation with the Liberal party, this is a hors dcruvre, he wrote, which we had no right to expect, and I rather think have no right at preseut to accept. The Cabinet agreed with Mr. Gladstone. Fors- ters criticism on it, in his speech of Feb. ruary, 1883, is, that if his colleagues had been in his position they would have done as he did ; if he had been in theirs, he would probably have thought as they did. The transaction recorded is one of the most memorable in our recent history. When it was made known a short time afterwards, strong attempts were made to suppress the passage relative to future co-operation with the Liberal party, but Forster refused to allow it. Its real char. acter was a marked concession to Parnell. If unconditional, it was a complete stir- render. If conditional, it was, as Forster said, a disgraceful compromise. It repre- sented a complete administrative failure on the part o( the government, and the tri- umph of the law-breakers. Such was the close of the first chapter in the history of the conflict between the champions of law and order and the forces of anarchy. Forster made no complaint of having been left in the lurch, and there- fore that personal element may be left out of consideration. Whether the agree- ment was worth the paper it was written on will never be known; for the Phcenix Park tragedy immediately supervening, practically remitted all parties to their original position. It is very doubtful whether the leaders of the Land League, with or without Sheridans aid, could or would have stopped outrages and intim- idation. It was assuming a great deal to suppose that they could. The change of attitude might have ruined their influence over the movement in force. If they had such power, no government could have availed themselves of it without ceasing to govern and without degradation. What the position of the rest of the Cabinet was in regard to this matter is not explained. I-low far they knew of the transaction be- fore all was altered by the tragedy in Phenix Park, does not appear. Yet it must have been in contemplation before that event to trust for a time to the ordi- nary law. There was talk of a new Coercion Bill before Forster left, but he evidently expected (vol. ii., p. 442) that the premier would require both budget and procedure to be first dealt with. This, however, seems clear, that the ministry considered Forsters mode of coercion had failed; they did not or could not have shared Forster s vie~vs of the real character of the so-called Land League agitation, or they must have regarded it as sufficiently repressed to justify a pause in the conflict. Another thing, how ever, 56 MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. is quite clear, Mr. Gladstones great anxiety to secure the co-operation of Mr. Parnell and his Parliamentary party. They knew it, and by the mere promise of afford- ing it, effected their release from prison and the sacrifice of their determined oppo- nent. The understanding then effected, in a very few years, was destined to have portentous consequences. The Phcenix Park murder and Careys revelations in the following year changed the situation, or at least retarded its prog- ress. The murders of Forster and Burke had been in contemplation; Lord Fred- erick Cavendish and Burke were the victims. The crime no doubt was inop- portune for the released suspects; it did not show their power to stop outrages, nor exhibit in any favorable light the value of the concession made by them to secure their triumph over the government. The Cabinet took matters into their own hands; and the new chief secretary, Sir George Trevelyan, was not admitted thereto, but placed in a position more subordinate than Forster had occupied. The new Coercion Act was immediately proposed by Sir Wil4iam Harcourt not a suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act, but a stringent Crimes Act, designed not to imprison suspects, but to detect and punish actual criminals. In the second half-year of 1882, agrarian crimes fell to less than one-third of what they had been in the first half; and under its provisions the perpetrators of the Phcenix Park mur- ders were brought to justice. The act was much more effective than a mere pension of the Habeas Corpus, without anything like the same amount of strain upon constitutional usage and private rights. There was a special court estab- lished, and power was taken, not to arrest on suspicion, but to investigate on sus- picionthat is, to examine witnesses without any accusation being made against particular persons that right of investi- gation with which we are all familiar when conducted by means of coroners juries. The effect of the act, and, it is fair to say, of its administration by Lord Spencer and Sir George Trevelyan, was that in the three years of its continuance crime diminished and order was becoming re-established. The Cabinet, moreover, had learnt the lesson of Ph~nix Park, and recognized the enormous gravity of the situation. Dynamite explosions in En. gland, and the constant police protection of the persons of ministers, had brought conviction to their minds, and compelled a closer attention to the subject. We have it on Mr. Chamberlains authority, in the debate of 1883, that until the Kil- mainham negotiations he had never even heard of Sheridan, a name now familiar, in respect of doings antecedent to that date, to every child who reads a newspaper. Forster might well object to negotiations of which he disapproved being carried on over his head by colleagues who had not a tithe of his knowledge of the subject; but those colleagues, on the other hand, might shrewdly suspect that, left to him- self, he had locked up the wrong men. S:bsequent events showed that he never suspected the constant plots against his own life, or even the existence of the In- vincibles a body of men far more dan- gerous than any whom he had under lock and key. His administration was not a success; the most striking features are his numerous arrests, his failure to put down crime, his miraculous escape from assassination. From the time of the Cabinet taking the state of Ireland into closer consideration, there seems to have been a growing di- vision of policy. The concession of national councils appeared in Forsters draft bill. AVe learn from recent debates in the House of Commons that Mr. Par- nell and Mr. Chamberlain were both in favor of that measure. On the other hand Forster, in the debate of 1883, brought forward grave charges against Mr. Parnell and his associates of recklessness and culpable negligence in allying themselves with persons who had subsequently fled from justice, and were steeped in crime. There seems to be no doubt that those charges, which in 1887 developed into the still graver accusation of the London Ti,nes, told upon his late colleagues and those of his party who were afterwards known as Liberal Unionists; and prob- ably some of the others were convinced of the paramount necessity for putting down crime, and were averse to that stew- ing in Parnellite juice which was fore- shadowed by the abortive Kilmainham treaty. Others, however, entered more into the spirit of that arrangement, and were keenly alive to the prospective ad- vantages of Mr. Parnells co-operation with the Liberal party. From this point of view a significant correspondence has recently been pub- lished between Mr. Herbert Gladstone and Mr. ODonnell (neither of them per- sonages who need be taken seriously, ex- cept so far as the formers utterances may indicate the views of his father), as occur- ring before and after Forsters resignation. We must assume that it was shown to Mr Forster, public life could not go on if such correspondence by his colleagues were possible behind a mans back. From the contemptuous terms in ~vhich Forster alluded to ODonnell in the debate of 1883, it ~vas improbable (and his diary confirms it) that he attached any impor- tance to his letters. But Mr. Herbert Gladstones letters are indicative of con- siderable desire to secure that co-opera. tion which was the basis of the treaty. The tone of the letters which he received showed that his correspondent was aware of it. The letters on both sides imply an understanding between the writers derog- atory to Forster and his policy. There was not merely to be a change of policy all the world knew that; but it was insisted by Mr. ODonnell that you can- not change your policy and supplant the officials and magistrates in Ireland who have worked the present mischief. Ire- land is now in the hands of Forsters men, and they will do all in their power to pro- duce results during the next few weeks to justify Forsters predictions. Parnells difficulties were insisted on, and his utter want of power to carry out his compro- mise. As for hostility and distrust of the Land League, of course, says the writer, addressing the prime ministers son, your excuse was that you accepted blindly the Tory information which Fors- ter got from the permanent officials, and which he served up regularly for your intellectual nourishment. The whole tone of the letter befitted an address t~ a repentant sinner. The time has come for a decisive step and a magnificent speech. Your father can accomplish both the one and the other. Then there were allusions to Englands vast and enormous debt to Ireland, and Irish hatred and detestation of England, though the writer sought to separate him- self from the fierce animosity of the Egans, the Fords, and the Devoys. Mr. Herbert Gladstone, in reply, was apolo- getic about the Crimes Act, but for goodness sake do not let us shut the door of final conciliation. No wonder, if this is any clue to the policy of the govern- ment, that the Land League was allowed to spring up again during its remaining tenure of office under another name. In 1883 Mr. Parnell announced himself as deriving from the coming Franchise Bill the power to decide which party should rule in England. It was known that the effect would be to give him the command of eighty-five votes. No one 57 foresaw the further consequences which would ensue. It seems clear, however, that there was no real unity of purpose in the Cabinet. Some of them, and the prime minister especially, would have been glad to conciliate the Parnellites, and secure the promised co-operation. But Mr. Parnell would have forfeited the confidence of his supporters, American and Irish, if he had effectively come to terms with the coercion ministry. So, in 1885, the ministry resigned sud- denly and unexpectedly on a matter con- nected with beer; and, of course, without proposing to renew their act. It is no lack of charity to suppose that the old Parliamentary hand left that for his suc- cessors to do, and in the course of a vehement opposition to such a profligate manceuvre, he would have established an entenfe cordiczle with the Parnellites more satisfactorily than he could hope to do in office. But order had been so far re-es- tablished that the Conservatives, having no official information that the renewal of the act was necessary, forbore to propose it, circumstances pointing at that time to a truce between the English government and the Irish malcontents, whose game clearly was to wreak vengeance on the Liberals who had so long coerced them. Mr. Gladstone has always alluded to this decision as one of momentous importance. If the Conservatives could undertake to govern with the ordinary law, the weapon of coercion was forever struck from the hands of the Liberals, and that was an end to the whole system. Another way of looking at it was, that one door of ap- proach to the Parnellites being closed, another must be found. It came in due time, a fe~v months later, in the shape of a home-rule policy, which, of course, as far as the Parnellites were concerned, car- ried all before it. Meanwhile, two deter- mining motives of action supervened. There was the interview between Lord Carnarvon and Mr. Parnell. The details of it were so misrepresented to Mr. Glad- stone, that he concluded that he was go- ing to be outbid. Then there was the general election, at which he found that younger and more active rivals were bid- ding for the support of the Liberal party over his head with their unauthorized programme. The boroughs, declared against him; but the counties, whether fascinated by the unauthorized programme or not, declared in favor of extreme men. Mr. Gladstone must have been dissatis- fied not merely with the result of that election, but with the manner in which MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. MR. FORSTER AND IRELAND. the issues which he put forward had been confused by his more impatient colleagues. They refused, as the phrase was, to stand under his umbrella; but, as Punch put it, they proposed to re-cover it while you wait. Evidently, at whatever cost, if the grand old man was to recover his disputed authority, he must square with the Par- nellites, and hoist a banner which was unmistakably his own. While these proceedings were going on, Ireland was governed by the ordinary law for nearly two years. The home-rule policy of Mr. Gladstone, which we are told Mr. Forster strongly condemned, failed; a large sectio n of his own party being entirely dissatisfied with it, and, above all, with the manner in which it had been sprung upon them. The second ministry of Lord Salisbury did not de- mand extended powers till the session of 1887, when, finding that the alliance be- tween the Parnellites and the Gladston- ians, instead of raising the former to the rank of a constitutional party, confining itself to strictly constitutional usages, rather degraded the latter to the position of extenuating crime and encouraging ob- struction in the House and disorder in the country, it proposed and carried the Crim- inal Procedure Bill of that year. The controversy has therefore reached a stage which widely differs from that at which Mr. Forster had the sole handling of it. The extended democracy which was enthronedin power by the act of 1884 has had broad issues and far-reaching pol- icies submitted to its decision. Patient forethought and far-sighted persistency of purpose are required at its hands. The next few years will test its possession of those gifts of self-government and empire which its ~atterers have claimed for it, and which we hope it possesses. It has begun well. It dismissed Mr. Gladstone from place and power decisively. It re- jected his policy, or at least disapproved the manner in which it was proposed, and demanded time to consider it. It has, up to the present, steadily persisted in en- forcing la~v and order in Ireland, and in postponing schemes for its better govern- ment until law has prevailed. And what- ever may be the ultimate issue of the pro- posals which have been laid before it, it is all clear gain that time has been secured. The effect upon the Liberal party has been dissolvent. Those who were dis- posed to tamper and coquet with the power of disorder, to obtain votes, are obliged to stand forth in their true colors. Those to whom the integrity of the em- pire, the unity of Parliament, and the preservation of order are dear, have been compelled to seek alliance with the Con- servative party. If public opinion on the one hand has been shocked by some as- tounding changes of opinion and policy and conduct, on the other hand its con- fidence in the integrity of public men has been universally strengthened by the de- liberate abandonment by many of private interest and ambition in deference to the demands of public duty. And the task which Mr. Forster so manfully struggled to achieve, and for the accomplishment of which he at least paved the way and pro- claimed the necessity, is in a fair way to completion. The act now being adminis- tered has the very minimum of illegality with the maximum of deterrent effect. Two recent utterances by public men, to both of whom we are indebted for this result, are extremely important, and we are not sure that they have received ade- quate attention. One is by Mr. Chamber- lain, addressing a gathering of supporters in his own neighborhood I am glad to think that in Ireland itself a great improvement has been making itself manifest. I have continually accounts from all parts of Ireland. I have many correspond- ents there in all classes of life, and the uni- versal testimony is, that in all parts of Ireland the people, thanks to the firm action of the Government, thanks partly to an improve- ment in the prospects of the harvest, which in Ireland promises to be exceedingly good, thanks greatly to the effect of the recent land legislation, which has placed them in so favor- able a position, the tenants are, as a rule, seeking to make the best of their position, and in many cases are gladly throwing off the yoke of the League. . . . The universal opinion of my correspondents is, that things are very much better in Ireland, and that a few months longer will probably see the death-blow dealt to the pernicious agitation. The other is by Mr. Balfour, in the city of London I believe, if you compare the six months just elapsed in this year with the six months at the beginning of last year, it will be found that we have diminished agrarian crime by more than 30 per cent.; but we have dimin- ished intimidation and boycotting in a far larger ratio. And at what cost has this great gain been obtained? Have we crowded the Irish prisons with offenders? Have we put laws in force antagonistic to the spirit of British freedom? I absolutely deny it. The laws are the laws in force in every free com- munity; and as for the Irish prisons, . . - there are at the present time fewer persons in the Irish prisons than there were before the Coercion Act was passed. The work which Forster undertook is therefore being accomplished, and if so long a time has been allowed to elapse, we must bear in mind the disastrous in- fiuences which at the outset fanned the conflagration, or, at all events, allowed it to spread without resistance. Next to the re establishment of order we attach special importance to the disclosures to be obtained from the royal commission. The personal portionof that investigation will probably excite the most interest. But its real value politically will be the unravelling of conspiracy, the showing to the world and to Parliament who are the real authors of that system of terrorism which has been the curse of Ireland. Statesmen ~vho in past times have been squeamish about being tarred by the coer- cion brush may turn out to have been simply and solely the antagonists of crime and criminals. It must be of the greatest advantage, not merely to Ireland but to public life generally, that the hidden re- cesses of crime should be explored, and that the full light of publicity should be turned upon the events of the last few years, so that all should know not merely who executed those deeds of savagery and violence, but who planned and profited by them. We must know whether the Land League or National League, or any of its members, organized or encouraged intim- idation and crime, and to what extent. No one will grudge indemnity for the past, if we can only get security for the future. If the investigation should disclose once for all the true character of the agitation and of the agitators, we shall know to what extent we are dealing with the true constitutional representatives of Ireland, or the American contributors of gold will know whether they have been getting, or are likely hereafter to get, value for their money from those whom they pay. When once this political agitation, which is so widely denounced as mischievous, can be appraised at its real worth, we shall find it easier to get at the real wants and wishes of the Irish people. It is unreasonable to believe that Irish hatred is of the malignant type represented by Fenians and outrage-mongers; that English debt to Ireland is incalculable; and that the real Ireland is constantly de- manding concessions, only to become more and more impracticable as she ob- tains them. Granted that England was oppressive to her in the last century; so she was, though no doubt in a less degree, to her own people. All through this cen- tury a policy not merely of justice but of 59 expiation has been pursued towards the Irish. It is acknowledged, and both sides of the House of Commons have been equally ready to adopt it. We have hith- erto met with no adequate return, no grat- itude, and no consideration. If the two democracies of England and Ireland are to co-exist on friendly and cordial terms, it is of the utmost importance to come to a clear understanding as to what are the real wishes and aspirations of the Irish people, and ~vhat is the true character and aims of those who assume to speak in their behalf. It seems to be tolerably clear from this book what was Mr. Forsters opinion of the men and the transactions with which he had to deal ; and if it should turn out to be the right one, we may con- fidently hope that the common sense and sound political judgment on both sides of the Channel may work out in the future a more salutary modus vivendi between the two countries than has hitherto been found possible. Meanwhile, it is only just to the memory of a statesman who struggled manf ally against overwhelming odds, to express the respect, admiration, and gratitude which even his political op- ponents must feel for the resolute manner in which he set himself to cope with rebel- lion, for the clear-sighted sagacity with which he refused to be a party to an un- worthy compromise, and for the unflinch- ing sternness with which he sought to fix responsibility upon those ~vhom he believed to be, directly or indirectly, the fomenters of disturbance and the inciters to crime. From Nature. THE SERVICES OF CATHOLIC MISSION- ARIES IN THE EAST TO NATURAL SCI ENCE. M. ARMAND DAVID, the well-known Lazarist missionary and man of science, has published a series of articles in the recent numbers of Les Missions ca/ho- Ziques of Lyons on the services rendered to the natural sciences by the missionaries in the far East. The following is a sum- mary of these long and instructive arti- cles. It is a common mistake that Catholic missionaries are engaged in proselytizing, and in proselytizing only. Undoubtedly the original motive has been to convert pagan nations to Christianity; but, as will be shown, they have worked in other channels with very great success. Ac- counts of scientific work like that of the CATHOLIC MISSIONARIES AND NATURAL SCIENCE. 6o CATHOLIC MISSIONARIES AND NATURAL SCIENCE. writer are not common, because the mis- sionaries are so few that they have very little time to devote to anything outside their religious duties. The advantages of missionaries preceding the ordinary trav- ellers are well known, and have been rec- ognized by various learned societies. It is, however, of eastern Asia in particular of which M. David proposes to treat that is, of China, which contains a third part of the population of the earth, and which is attracting more and more atten- tion every day. The enemies of the Catholic clergy compare the present mis- sionaries in China very unfavorably with the Jesuits who shone at Pekin in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It is undoubted that the Jesuit fathers of Pekin bore an exceedingly high reputa- tion in science and art, and that they pro- duced very considerable results in almost every branch of human knowledge. They completed the most colossal geographical work that has ever yet been seen, by making a complete chart of the Chinese Empire. The Lettres Edifiantes, the M6moires des Missionaires J6suites de P6km, the great works of Father Duhalde and of Father de Mailla show the immense mass of matter they have written upon al- most every subject relating to the Chinese Empire. But, it is asked, why speak of the great achievements of the past? They only accentuate the total absence of any scientific labors at the present time in China. M. David has several answers to this question. (I) Formerly the acade- mies and learned societies of Europe could communicate only with the mission- aries on questions relating to China; no other travellers had then found their way into the Celestial Empire; and it was to aid this communication that the Catholic kings helped the missionaries with their protection and their money, as well as from religious motives. (2) The mission- aries knew that they were compelled, in order to get permission to remain in China, to make their services indispensa- ble to the emperor; and thus they put all their knowledge and skill at his service. (~) Whilst only a small number of mis- sionaries thus resided at Pekin, and gained and kept the confidence of the emperor by their pursuit of astronomy, geography, and the arts, the rest, by the favor in which their brethren stood, got permission to preach throughout China. St. Francis Xavier, the apostle of In- dia, died without being able to enter China. Father Riccf, who entered it in 158o, led to Pekin quite a phalanx of emi nent men, to occupy the posts of honor near the emperor. These high positions did not, however, l)revent the missionaries from laboring in the cause of Christianity, and founding many Christian establish- ments. Amongst them were the Fathers Verbiest, Schall, De Premare, Gaubel, Amyot, and many others. The supres- sion of the Jesuit order stopped their work in China, and the Lazarists, who were sent to succeed them, and who had in their ranks men like MM. Raux, Ghislain, Hanna, and Lamiot, were themselves soon swe Pt away by a revolution. The perse- cution soon became general in China, and some priests who were able to elude the edicts and remain in the country at the cost, very often, of their lives, were fully occupied without attending to scientific studies. The same was the case with their immediate successors, who were sent by various societies to collect and strengthen the scattered congregations. Afterwards when the Anglo-French expe- dition procured freedom of conscience for the Christians and liberty for the mission- aries to remain in China, things were very different from what they had been under the emperors Kang-hi and Kien-lung. The thread of the scientific labors of the old fathers at Pekin could not be picked up. For, on the one hand, China was no~v in communication with the rest of the world, and had not the need nor the desire to have recourse to the missions for their learned and scientific men; and, on the other hand, the Christian missionaries and their flocks now enjoyed toleration, and the priests had nothing to gain by imitating their great predecessors in gain- ing the favor of the emperor. Besides, European diplomatists did not look with a favorable eye on the influence that would be acquired by priests over the emperor if they accepted official posts. The Jesuit fathers, however, who had returned to China when their suppression had been annulled, did not completely separate themselves from their former studies, but continued them as far as their changed condition would allow. For example, in their college of Zikawei, near Shanghai, they succeeded in establishing a very important meteorological observatory, whence Father Dechevrens regularly sends his observations to the men of science all over the world; natural history owes much to the persevering labors of Father Heude, who has published a work on the Mollusques fluviatiles et terres- tres of central China, and others on the stags and tortoises of China. The able CATHOLIC MISSIONARIES AND NATURAL SCIENCE. draughtsman, Father Rhatouis, helped Fa- ther Fleude by drawing the excellent illus- trations of these books, some of which were printed in the Jesuit establishment in China. In other parts of the country, many of these missionaries give them- selves up to forming and sending to our museums collections of plants and ani- mals. At Kwei-chow, Abb~ Perny, of the Foreign Missions, put together a very in- teresting collection of plants, which, with other articles of value, he has presented to the Jardin des Plantes. He introduced into France the great silkworm that bears his name (Attacus Pernyi), and which al- ready is reared in the open air on the oak- trees of the more temperate regions of France. On his return from China, Abbe Perny published a Chinese grammar and vocabulary, and many works on the pro. ductions of the far East. From Tibet, Mgr. Chauveau and his successor, Mgr. Biet, and above all M. Desgod ins, have sent to Europe many precious documents and several collections of animals, which give us an idea of the physical condition of that almost impenetrable region. M. Furet in Japan, M. Larnaudie in Siam, M. Pourthi~ in Corea, and M. Bon in Ton- quin, and several others, have all in the respective countries of their adoption studied the geography and the natural history, and have sent their scientific col- lections to enrich our public and private establishments. At Yun-nan, M. Delavay, of the Foreign Missions, has given up for many years all his available time to the study of the plants of this unexplored province with the most remarkable zeal and success. The plants which he has already sent to the French museum are the most important that have ever been sent from China to Europe, and botanists are surprised at the number of new species they contain. An account of these new species has been prepared by M. Frauchet, and will shortly be published in a big octavo volume. M. David prides himself on being the cause of M. Delavay follow- ing these botanical pursuits which have so enriched science. They met acciden- tally at Hong-Kong, and after some trouble M. David succeeded in inducing him to become a correspondent of the Jardin des Plantes. The professors of that estab- lishment have been so satisfied with the labors of M. Delavay that they have sent him one of their decorations with several money grants to help him to continue his fruitful researches. A few facts will show the value of the labors of this gentleman. Formerly only four or five Chinese repre sentatives of the class Rhododendron were known, but the new species found by M. Delavay, added to those found by M. David at Moupinn, amount to forty- five. So, only one Chinese primrose was known, but now more than thirty new species have been classified by M. De- lavay. Other missionaries besides those of China are actively engaged in the cause of science; for example, Father Mon- trouzier has studied the fauna of several of the islands of Oceania, and Fathers Duparquet, Augouard, and Le Roy, have sent from Africa many valuable collec- tions. Our museums and our naturalists have also received from the interior of America many objects more or less im- portant, but chiefly many remarkable (ole- op/era and Lepidoptera from MM. Sipolis, Gaujon, and Dorme, French Lazarists, who are quite at the head of the ardent collec- tors in the New World. To return to China, through the good offices of the Franciscan missionaries of Shen-si, M. Romanet du Cailland was able to obtain and introduce to France several new species of vine which have been cultivated under the names Vitis Romaneti, Vitis Pagnuccii, Spinovitis Davidis. This last species was found by M. David in a wild state in the central mountains of Tsin-lin, and is notable for having its stems cov- ered with thorns. In spite of its some- what aromatic flavor, it is well adapted for wine-making. M. David then proceeds to particularize his own labors, and before doing so he gives a short history of his life, into which we shall not follow him. Shortly after the Anglo-French expeditition to China he was ordered by his superiors to pro- ceed to that country. Before setting out he was advised by several members of the Institute, amongst them being MM. Stanislas Julien, E. Milne-Edwards, Elie de Beaumont, and Decaisne, to make pe- riodical reports. When he had settled down at Pekin in the year 1862, he began to explore the surroundings of Pekin to prepare materials for a natural-history collection, and to send reports and speci- mens to the Jardin des Plantes. His first consignment of plants and animals was highly praised by the authorities of this institution, and grants of money were sent him to help him to proceed. The increas- ing importance of the results obtained in China made the professors of the Mu. scum believe that it was an Eldorado for naturalists, and accordingly they begged the superior-general of the Lazarists to permit M. David to explore the lesser- 62 CATHOLIC MISSIONARIES AND NATURAL SCIENCE. known provinces of China. M. Etienne consented readily, chiefly because the request was made through the govern- ment itself; and the minister of public instruction officially styled M. Davids proposed journey a scientific mission, and suppiled the necessary funds. With re- gard to the collections sent home by him, he says that only zoologists can appre- ciate the great work of M. Milne-Edwards, entitled Recherches sur les Mammi- fares, which, with the exception of a single species, treats of Chinese animals. The greater portion of these were sent by M. David, the new species alone amount- ing to sixty-five. One of the most remark- able of these is the Semnopli/zecus ro.z-el- lana, a curious monkey with a nose very much turned up and a green face, with his back ornamented with long brown and white hair, whose haunts are in the cold forests of Tibet. It is a sort of counter- part of the long-nosed monkeys of Borneo. Besides this animal, China supplied two others, one of which was capable of bear- ing the severe winters of the north of Tchely, to which point its habitat extends. Another important discovery of the Tibe- tan region is the extraordinary Ursus zuelanoleucus, for which there was no geaeric name. The Ailuropus me/ano- leucus appears to be of great rarity in the very small region it inhabits. All the museums of the world envy the Jardin de3 Plantes the possession of four speci- mensthe only ones M. David met. In Tibet also he saw the Nectogale elegans, a new kind of aquatic insectivorous ani- mal, the hair of which assumes all the colors of the rainbow ~vhen the little crea- ture is in the water. He also secured several varieties of this animal. In the lofty forests of Moupinn he found the Budorcas, a large ruminant of a grayish- white color, with no tail and with im- mense horns. The hunters of the country regard this animal as the tiger is regarded in India. In spite of its ~heavy build it scrambles over the most rugged rocks as lightly as a chamois. In almost every district in China he came on some treas- ure. The deer with large hoofs and a long tail (Elaphurus Davidianus) is now pretty well known; but the species is, unfortunately, threatened with extinction in China. In the genus Mus alone he got twenty-seven species. He noted down two hundred species of Ma;nrn~fera, and in this number there are hardly five or six, omitting the domestic species, which appear identical ~vith their species in Europe. With regard to the birds of China, M. David has prepared, with the help of M. G. Masson, a book on them, in which he recognizes eight hundred and seven spe- cies either living in China or coming there regularly. Amongst the greatest novelties he mentions the large Lopkoj5horus of Tibet, which lives at a height of above twelve thousand feet; the three known Crossop/ilon, of which one is white, an- other blue, and the third black and white; the Tragopan, with a large, many-colored band around the throat, and its head orna- mented with two very thin, blue, and fleshy horns ; two Eu/op hes, crested pheas- ants, which are the most appreciated dish by gourmands; the sacred pheasant, with a tail over six feet long; the Amherst pheasant, no~v become, like the preceding, a common bird in the parks; and a new species of pheasant~dark-colored, and al- ways living under trees. All these birds, and hundreds of others from the same source, are exhibited in the French mu- seum. Some of them, according to the method common among naturalists, are named after the discoverer. Thus the Cygnus Davidi, a very rare swan with red legs, and the Pterorhinus Davidi, a kind of mocking-bird captured in the woods in the neighborhood of Pekin; the Sygrniurn Davidi, a nocturnal rapacious bird of Tibet, described by Mr. Sharp, of the British Museum. M. H. Milne-Edwards, professor at the Sorbonne, has also affixed M. Davids name to two new. species which he has described, Car~odacus Davi- dianus and Oreoftuenste Armandi. China has not our sparrow, chaffinch, goldfinch, or linnet; our warbler, redbreast, and night- in gale are unknown; their thrushes, black- birds, tomtits, and crows, differ very much from ours. In fact, speaking gener- ally, there is only about one-fifth of the Chinese birds found in Europe, and the greater part of these are very different in the two regions. The Eastern Ga/line, Insectivores, and Rapaces have scarcely any species like them in our continent. A very remarkable fact is that we find cer- tain groups of birds within certain narrow limits where they are represented by nu- merous species, whilst they are totally absent from all other parts of the earth, even from those parts where it would be quite possible for them to live. Thus there are forty kinds of the beautiful pheas- ant class, all grouped around Tibet, while there is not a single member of the class in any other quarter of the globe. So the Grateropodes, of which there are thirty or forty species in China, do not appear CATHOLIC MISSIONARIES AND NATURAL SCIENCE. 63 to have any representatives in Europe. These and other facts furnish M. David with what he considers unanswerable ob- jections to the theory that they were all created ab or:gine. Is it not more reason- able, he asks, to admit that the principal types of plants and animals having once appeared on earth, where and when it pleased Providence, have undergone slow variations which have divided them by de- grees into species and varieties? Amer- ica has upwards of four hundred species of humming-birds,while there is not a single other specimen in the rest of the tropical world, where those little creatures could live equally well. Every class of the animal kingdom, he says, furnishes similar examples and analogous facts. The subject of reptiles, Batrachia, and fishes, which M. David only worked up slightly, has been carefully pursued by M. Dum~ril, Dr. Savage, and M. E. Blanch- ard. The last-named gentleman described before the Academy of Sciences, under the name of Sieboidia Davidiana, an im mense salamander which lives on fish and crabs in fresh water. A skeleton of a salamander, more or less resembling this one, has recently been found in Germany, where it was taken for a fossil man. It is the insect world which supplied M. David with the greatest novelties. Great though the collections sent to Europe are, they are but a small fraction of the riches in entomology that China supplies. The Co- leopiera have been described by M. Fair- maire, formerly president of the French Entomological Society, and the Lepidop- tera by M. Oberthur, of Rennes, who has the finest collection in France, and per- haos in the world. Amongst insects, more even than amongst animals and plants, there is a large number called by the names of the missionaries who sent specimens of them to Europe. For ex- ample, Cicindela Desgodinsli, Carabus l)e- lavayl, CVchrus David:, Nebria Chaslei, Enopiotrupes Largeteani, Donacia Pro- vosti,etc.,in Co/eoptera;and in butterflies, A n/hocharis Bieti, A rrnandia Thaidina, etc. With regard to the vegetable king- dom, the first important work we have on the Chinese flora has been finished this year, and styled Plant~ Davidian~e. It has been printed at the expense of the State, and is in two quarto volumes, illus- trated with forty-five very fine plates, and contains a description of all the new spe- cies of plants in M. Davids collection, and an enumeration of all the plants col- lected by him. The collection contains a small proportion only of the plants of China. It should only be regarded as a mere skeleton of the magnificent vegeta- tion of the east-central provinces, but it contains the greater portion of the plants to the north of the empire and in the Mon- golian mountains. Collections made by English and Russian collectors do not include many of the specimens found by M. David. Perhaps the most remarkable find was the Davidia involucrata a pretty tall tree with large leaves, for the introduction of which an English amateur has offered a big prize. Our European plants are not at all common in the East. No trefoils are found in China, nor heath- er, nor broom. There are also many plants there which have no representatives in Europe, but which have representatives in America, as, Pavia, Bz~rnonia, Aralia, Die/yb-a. Northern China, with its dry climate, its cold winter, as cold as that of Upsala, and its summer as warm as that of Senegal, has a poor and little-varied vegetation when compared with the cen- tre and west of the empire. The number of phanerogams collected by M. David in the north of China did not exceed fif- teen hundred species, and he doubts if there are many more. In geography and geology, besides sev- eral occasional reports, the Archives d~ Museum have published full accounts ot his first and second journeys of explora- tion. These voluminous writings are merely journals written for some friends, for whom he wrote day by day everything that seemed worthy of attention, whether botanical, geological, or geographical, in the extensive regions which for five years he travelled over. Itinerary charts, strik- ing altitudes, up to fifteen thousand feet, the direction and importance of rivers and mountain chains, the position of the lesser- known towns and countries, and of the coal and metal mines all have been noted down by him. From the writincrs of M. David, M. Elis~e Reclus took many of his observations on the Chinese Empire in vol. vii. of his G~ographie Univer- selle, and especially the natural-history portion of that volume. Similarly Baron Rich thofen has derived much of the infor- mation in his work on geology from M. David. In Mongolia M. Davids guide was Sambdatchiemda, the famous ex-lama described by M. Huc, and this leads lvi. David to speak of the lamas, and tell some stories about them. M. David describes a curious meteoro- logical phenomenon observed by him when crossing the top of a mountain about fifty-five hundred feet high. A storm had 64 CATHOLIC MISSIONARIES AND NATURAL SCIENCE. just passed, and a little rain had fallen. The clouds were heavy, and lay on the numerous peaks below his feet like an immense sea of silvery white. Little by little the masses of clouds began to move and to split up here and there. They rose slowly and soon came to the right of M. David, who was journeying from south to north. The wind was blowing from the west, and when the clouds reached the summit of the mountain they could not pass over on account of the opposition of the wind, and there they rested, a huge mass of opaque clouds. The sun was set- ting on the horizon, and threw the image of M. David on the wall of white clouds, where it was surrounded by two rainbows, or rather two complete concentric circles. This phenomenon lasted nearly half an hour. M. David had been six months in Mongolia when the revolt of the Mussul- mans broke out and prevented him from penetrating as far as Koukounoor, and even beyond it, as was his intention. These high Mongolian plateaux are of about three thousand feet above the level of the sea. The population is very sparse, and the fauna and flora but little varied. The remarkable animals most frequently seen in this region are the souslik, or yel- low antelope, a kind of little marmot anal- ogous to the prairie dog of America, a brownish weevil, and a curious lizard with round head (Phrynocephcz/us) which is seen everywhere rolling its tail in regular cadences. During the summer the open country is covered either with the blue- flowered iris, or with the liquorice (Glycyr- r/iizcz echinaza) or the yellow rose. M. David found in Mongolia in a wild state, but very rare, a pretty flowering tree, which the Pekinese cultivate as an orna- mental plant (Xanthoceras sorb~folia), and which he introduced into France with much success. In his journey he sat- isfied himself of the existence of wild camels, some of which were afterwards captured by the Russian traveller Prjeval- ski. M. David spent twenty-five months in western China. He had intended to spend three years, but his health broke down. In that time he travelled over twenty-five hundred leagues. He returned thence to Tien-tsin, fortunately for him after the massacres had taken place, his boat having been delayed on the way. A STORY OF THE LATE EMPEROR. A touching story of the late Emperor Frederick has just been published by a retired Austrian officer. As crown-prince of Prussia, Frederick William was chief or honorary colonel of the Austrian 20th Infantry Regiment, and in 1862 the commander of that regiment wrote to him asking whether, as the old colors of one of the battalions, being then more than a cen- tury old, were quite worn out, the crown- princess would be willing to be godmother~~ to the new colors, then about to be conse- crated. The princess graciously consented; and when a deputation of officers of the regi- ment waited upon her at Berlin, she presented them with a border which she had herself em- broidered for the banner. In the war of x866 between Prussia and Austria the first battle of the crown-princes army was that of Nachod. The 5th Prussian Corps was marching through the narrow defile of N achod, and only a small advanced guard had reached the open hill of Wenzelsberg, beyond the defile, when the brigades of the Austrian 6th Corps began to approach the Wenzelsberg. The first Austrian brigade was repulsed after a sharp struggle; and the crown-prince, hearing of the action, hastened to the spot in time to see the attack of the next brigade (Colonel Jonaks). This attack was brave and determined, but was also defeated, one of the regiments leav ing on the ground twenty-four officers and five hundred men killed and wounded and its bat- talion colors. This was the 20th regiment, the Crown-Prince of Prussias Own, and the lost colors were those which the crown- princess had decorated. As soon as the Aus- trians had retreated the crown-prince rode forward and asked a wounded officer of the regiment how the colonel, who had also visited him at Berlin, had fared. He lies yonder, was the answer, and a few yards away the prince found his friend, badly wounded. My poor colonel Count Wimpifen, who could have thought we should so soon and so sadly meet again! It is the luck of war, was the answer. The prince had the colonel tended with all possible care and comfort, but he died of his wounds next day, and the colors (of the loss of which the crown-prince would not let him be told) were sent to Berlin. The crown-prince wrote to the family of the fallen colonel, giving them a full account of the brave conduct of the regiment and of the last hours of its wounded commander. The crown- princess proposed to give the colors back to the battalion, but before the time came when this purpose could be effected the battalion colors in the Austrian army were abol shed, so the captured banner still hangs among other trophies in the Berlin Hall of Victo;. Manchester Guardian.

The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2311 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 848 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0179 /moa/livn/livn0179/

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

The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2311 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 13, 1888 0179 2311
The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2311 65-128

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No, 2311. October 13, 1888. From Beginning, Volume LXIV~ & Vol. CLXXIX. CONTENT S. APPLIED GEOGRAPHY A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. Conclusion, ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. By W. E. Gladstone,. A GREAT YORKSHIRE VICAR, THE PLACE OF MUSIC IN CULTURE, PAGES FROM A WORK-GIRLS DIARY, THE PRESIDENTS ADDRESS TO THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION GENERAL PREJEVALSKY, THE RUSSIAN Ex- PLORER PIRACY AND HIDDEN TREASURE, THE PRODUCTION OF CAVIAR IN RUSSIA,. Contemporary Review, 7emj5le Bar, Nineteen/h Century, 7mple Bar, National Review, Nineteenth Century, Saturday Review, Morning Post, 7apan Weekly Mail, St. 7amess Gazette, 67 75 88 102 110 115 122 125 126 127 66 P0 E TRY. 66! GARDEN MEMORIES, MURIEL, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LIT TELL & 00., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be psmctaally forwarded for a year,free olpostage. Remittances should he made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can he procured, she money should he sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AGE, s8 cents. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. Ix. x. 66 MURIEL, ETC. MURIEL. BENFATH the sheltering oak she lay, And dreamed the love-long afternoon, That blent the burning height of day With the cool eve of royal June. What are her dreams of? Nay, who knows XVhereon the perfect maiden dreams, Steeped in the perfume of the rose, Lulled by the murmur of the streams? Her longing life before her lies, Her puzzled childhood dies behind; And many messages surprise Her soul from flower and cloud and wind. What are your dreams of, opening bud, Whose happy blossom blooms so fair, When through the blue veins the red blood Flows on as freely as the air? Sweet Muriel by the garden-oak, Unconscious of her nameless charm, Half hears the fairy echoes woke By bangles dangled on her arm. Without the loving sun doth kiss Mouth, cheek, and brow unchidden on: Within the music seems to miss The lovely face he looks upon. For, seated by the piano soft, Old tunes her sisters touch recalls, Whose harmonies some sprite aloft Repeats along the drowsy walls. Dream! Muriel, dream! half-knowing yet Whose image fills thy candid eyes, Yet all unable to forget The first sweet secrets first surprise. He waits and works long miles away, Who touched the pure hearts virgin springs; And something,.from the dawn of day, For both a mystic burden sings. The angel that upon her smiles In Junes own leafy temple down, His few short hours of leisure wiles Away within the sultry town. One thought one angel and one heart, Forgetful of the world of sense, Knit lives so seeming far apart In one bright bond of innocence. Wait! Muriel, wait! an instinct true Straight through the void of man has flown, To pick from out the world, for you, A soul as loyal as your own. And so she dreamed, and so she lay, And so the waiting message fell Along the changes of the day, Upon the face of Muriel. L ENVOI. TO MY BIG DOG. O Poetry! great is thy mission Which colors thy passionate track: But how are thy fancies Elysian Dispelled by the voice of John-Jack I He lies on the floor at St. Leonards, While my genius I try to display; But the more my ideas travel pen-ards, The more he will snore them away. He snorts, and he snorks, and he snoreth, Like the satisfied dog that he be; And my Muse so sonornualy boreth, That shell grant no more favors to me. His tail too, by Jove he can whisk it, Which is rough upon bards that have none; He thumps for a bone or a biscuit, And all inspirations undone. I thought that my notion was splendid, The stanzas so fluently ran, But I dont know how Muriel ended, And cannot think why she began. Hes at it again! so distracted On Poetry turn I my back; Bored audiences never enacted Such eloquent snores as John-Jack I HERMAN MERIVALF~ St. Leonards, Tulse Hill, August 6th. Spectator. GARDEN MEMORIES. A GARDEN old stretches down towards the sea, The flowers untended, the wild thorns growing, The sun burns hot, and the wind from the lea Now and again is restlessly blowing; Trying to wake in this land of death Some song of the past; a scentless breath, Of laughing roses, and lips so fair, And sunbeams playing mid golden hair. The oleanders lie withered and broken, From the thicket hard by comes no thrushes song. Would a ghost not rise if a word be spoken, Or a step resound the dark alleys along? A ghostly hand full of fair withered flowers Scattering its burden pale in showers, Like sea-foam driving upon the wave, To cover a long-forgotten grave. The sun and the wind and the rain come thither To the garden old that stands by the sea; The flowers dream and blossom and wither, And the wild hawk hovers over the lea. But a fair head sleeps in the bosom of death, The red lips will never again draw breath. All are at rest now; naught left to show The love and the sorrow of long ago. Temple Bar. JANET Ross. APPLIED GEOGRAPHY. 67 From The Contemporary Review. APPLIED GEOGRAPHY * THE efforts which have been made dur- ing the last four years to raise geography from the low estate into which it had fallen in this country, both as a field of research and as a subject of education, have been attended with a considerable measure of success. Lectureships have been established in our two great univer- sities; the subject is beginning to be treated with some respect in our public schools; it occupies a prominent place in the University Extension programmes; its teaching in elementary schools has been greatly improved; text-books, at- lases, and wall-maps of a high standard are being issued, and pictures, models, relief- maps, and other apparatus are being in- troduced; while chambers of commerce, advocates of technical education, and the Imperial Institute are convinced that the subject may be turned to practical ac- count. Both in its scientific and in its practical aspects geography has been worked out in Germany by able men for many years, with rich and abundant results. Leaving aside mere text-books and compendiums of facts, the works dealing with the vari- ous applications of the subject that have been produced in Germany during the past half-century would fill many shelves in a library. Ever since Ritters time a specially human turn has been given to the subject by his countrymen; it has been recognized that the ultimate task of geography as a whole is to study the earth as the dwelling-place of humanity. This aspect has come more and more into vogue in Germany, and has given rise to a special section of the general subject under the name of anthropo-geography, which may be said to include everything bearing on the interaction between man and his topographical surroundings. Geog- raphy has been well defined as the physical basis of history; it is indeed the phys. ical basis of all human activity. For does Since this article was in type, General Stracheys Cambridge Lectures on Geography have been pub- lished, and I am pleased to notice that he advocates the use of the term applied geography in somewhat the same sense as I do in this article. it not deal ~vith the surface of the earth, with its manifold features of mountain, plain and desert, ocean and lake and river, forest and prairie, conti- nents and islands, air and ice, rain and sunshine, in all their complicated combi- nations, which, forming mans immediate environment, must largely influence his activities in all directions? It is the thor- ough grasp of this asl)ect of the subject which, in the hands of Ritter, Peschel, and their followers, has proved so increas- ingly fruitful of results in Germany. England, however, is not without her monumental productions in geography. Let us not forget the unrivalled collec- tions of Hakluyt and Purchas, and their many successors, which, filling scores of folios and quartos, form the raw material of geography, and are infinitely more in- teresting and more profitable reading than ninety-nine out of a hundred of the slen- der travellers tales with which we are flooded at the present day. The deeds of our daring forefathers, as they forged their ~vay into every corner of the globe, quite as often, we fear, in the character of buccaneers as of explorers, receive worthy record in these great collections. Not only so, but in the past two centuries this raw material has been worked up into sys- tematic treatises, filling many more quar- tos and folios, which present the facts in copious and instructive detail so far as they were known at the time. But even this geographical industry has ceased in England for many years; when we want such treatises nowadays we have to im- port them from abroad; we have to adapt an intensely German Hellwald, or trans- late the masterly descriptions of Reclus. With all the wealth of material at our command, we have still to find a geogra- pher capable of analyzing it and elaborat- ing it from the philosophical, or scientific, or anthropo-geographical standpoint. En- gland has not yet produced a Ritter or a Peschel, a Ratzel or a Penck. But if our geographers have been blind to the capa- bilities of their science, we have not been without men having knowledge and insight enough to perceive the intimate bearings of geographical conditions on collective humanity, on man in his strivings after 68 APPLIED GEOGRAPHY. political, social, and industrial develop. ment. Our own literature can furnish us with brilliant examples of the successful application of geography to the interpre- tation of history and the elucidation of the progress of civilization. Readers of Green must recall his Mak- ing of England. Why have we still an Irish and a Welsh and a Highland ques- tion with us? Simply, as Green shows, because the geography of England was as it was when the ruthless Teutons landed to harry the Celtic population of these islands. Greens graphic picture of the dense forests in the south of England, and of the swamps and fens in the east, bar- ring the progress of the invaders into the interior of our island, can never be forgot- ten by his readers. These and similar surface obstacles tended seriously to in- fluence the progress and the nature of the conquest, as well as the ultimate distribu- tion and character of the various types which compose the population of the Brit- ish islands. In the west, owing again to the topography of the country, it took centuries to reduce XVales and its essen- tially British or Celtic inhabitants, who, had the Teutonic hordes been able to reach them in the first heat of their con- quering career, would have been com- pletely crushed, if not destroyed; a Welsh question would have been rendered as im- possible as a Kentish or an East-Anglian question. So in the north, it was not till the middle of the last century that the essentially Celtic population of the then inaccessible Highlands ~vas subdued by the successors of the Teutonic invaders, and even yet the geographical conditions favor Celtic survivals, and nourish a crofter question. As for Ireland, her present troubles, which are also ours, are all due to St. Georges Channel and her own hogs. Had the subsidence which began in so recent a geological period not proceeded so far; had Ireland and En- gland been still, as of yore, one continu- ous land, her conquest would have been begun long before it was, and would have been at least as complete as that of Wales and Scotland. Not only would the infu- sion of Teutonic blood have been much greater than it has been, but Ireland would probably have been as ready to succumb to the Reformation as any other part of the United Kingdom. But, indeed, the geographical position has often been pointed out, has had very much to do with the peculiar character of of the British Islands as a whole, and it their political, social, and industrial devel- opment. Had that subsidence so re- cent and so comparatively shallow not taken place which severed England from the Continent, had the Thames continued to be a tributary of the Rhine, and En- gland only a northern extension of France, how very different would have been the course of European history, and the char- acter of those migrations which, under existing conditions, have peopled the bulk of t~vo continents with English speaking peoples! Such are some of the results either brought out or suggested by Greens treatment of English history from the geographical standpoint. The history of any other part of the world treated after the same manner would yield results un- attainable where humanity is dealt with apart from its geographical setting. I certainly do not claim that this is the only aspect in which history ought to be stud- ied; but if this important term in the his- torical problem is neglected, the final equation can never be satisfactory. This will be evident if we remember that geog- raphy is essentially the science of topo- graphical distribution on the surface of the earth ; the distribution of the great features of the globe and all that its face sustains, including man himself. And if we bear in mind that man is the centre, the converging point of the science, that all its investigations must have ultimate reference to humanity, there xvill be no danger of including too much within the field of the subject, of encroaching upon what is strictly the sphere of some other department of science. Since, then, much of political history really originates in mans distribution in bodies or communi- ties over the earths surface, his move- ments on that surface, or other changes in his relation to topographical environ- ment, surely geographical conditions ought to be taken into account by every APPLIED GEOGRAPHY. 69 historian ambitious of being more than a mere chronicler. True, we have histor- ical geographies and historical atlases, some of them by eminent hands; but as a rule these concern themselves with mere changes of boundaries, without taking the trouble to inquire whether geography can shed any light on the causes of such changes, and teach nations a lesson for the future. The success which attended Greens effort to discover how far histor- ical events are influenced by geographical conditions, ought surely to show that historical geography may be made some- thing more than a mere question of bound- aries. How much, to take another example, has the peculiar geography of Holland had to do with the moulding of the strange history of that country? An eminent Dutch geographer once lamented to me he was sorely troubled with rheumatism and asthmathat his country was only a river delta which had been peopled pre- maturely. But it is just because the in- habitants of this delta have been compelled from its very nature to struggle with their geographical conditions that they have acquired those habits which have rendered them the most prosperous and comfortable people in Europe. How splendidly, more- over, did their network of waterways, dominated by the ocean, help them in their long struggle with Spain And is it not due to the peculiar hydrographic conditions of the country that the Dutch have been for centuries a nation of nav- igators, traders, and colonizers? Why is it, again, that a poor country like Norway, with almost nothing to export but fish and timber, and whose trade is only one-fif- teenth of that of the Netherlands, has a mercantile navy surpassed only by that of Great Britain? From the very nature of their country, broken up into a maze of fjords and islands, more water than land, the Norse are compelled to be a race of sailors; and as they have little or nothing of their own to carry, they have become carriers for the rest of the world. When applied to what we may call the course of universal history, the progress of civilization, and the development of the worlds commerce, geography yields some curious and instructive results. Indeed, from this standpoint, an able Continental writer, M. Leon Metchnikoff, divides his- tory into four great periods. The earliest civilizations of which we have any knowl- edge were what we may designate fluvial. The great Assyro-Babylonian states were grouped within the region watered by the Euphrates and Tigris, Mesopotamia. Ages ago Egypt was called the gift of the Nile. The basin of the Ganges may be regarded as the theatre of all the great events of Indian history previous to the advent of Europeans; while the two enor- mous waterways, the Hoangho and the Yangtse-Kiang, must have had much to do with the development of the peculiar civilization of China. These fluvial civ- ilizations, so long as they remained fluvial, were essentially isolated; they could never become cosmopolitan. From the character of the deltas of the Nile and of the Mesopotamian rivers, the communi- ties on their banks could make no use of them as highways to the ocean. The malarious delta of the Ganges was equally a bar to oceanic intercourse, while the enterprise of China was directed to the plateaus and deserts of central Asia rather than to the mysterious Pacific which washed its shores. It was only when, partly by pressure from without, and partly by human efforts to overcome disadvantageous geographical conditions, Mesopotamia and Egypt were placed in uninterrupted communication with the ocean, that they became Mediterranean States ; for the Persian Gulf is essentially of this character. What intercourse these peoples had before this was carried on al- most solely by land. This isolated con- dition may be said to have ended about 8oo B. c. By that time the Phcenicians had begun what may be regarded as the Mediterranean period of hi story using the term in its widest sense, as applying not only to the land-locked sea between Europe and Africa, and its offshoots which debouch into the Euxine, but also to the Persian Gulf and the Red Sea on. the one hand, and the essentially inland North Sea and Baltic on the other. This Mediterranean period lasted for over two thousand years, and developed as much 70 APPLIED GEOGRAPHY. cosmopolitanism as was possible within has been approached from the historical its essentially narrow geographical limits, and not the geographical standpoint. In This period came to an abrupt termination Germany, where a voluminous literature four hundred years ago by the discovery is growing up as the fruit of the precise of the other half of the globe, and the in- and detailed cultivation of the geograph- itiation of what may be regarded as the ical field, some of the results attained, in Atlantic or oceanic period, during which their bearings on humanity, have been Europe has been spreading itself out in correspondingly precise, quantitative, and all directions; the isolat~onof nations has tangible. Not only are these results likely been broken down, geographical barriers to prove of service to the historical stu- to cosmopolitan intercourse have been or dent, but their bearings on industry, on are beinc~ swept away, and sanguine phi. commerce, on colonization, are of the most lanthropists are hoping that the federa- intimate character. Commercial geog. tion of the worlds is approaching. raphy, in Germany for example, is some- All who have read Buckles History thing that the merchant and the mer- of Civilizations will remember the bril- chants clerk can take with him into his liant use which he makes, in the famous office and apply to his every-day transac- second chapter of the first volume, of tions, and not the useless thing ~vhich goes geographical conditions as determining under that name in our own commercial political and industrial development, academies. Then the vast importance of Egypt is one of the examples which he the subject with reference to the recent there works out in detail, the greatness as colonial enterprise of Germany has been well as the despotism of which he shows recognized by the publication of a multi- were due entirely to its peculiar geograph- tude of books on what may be regarded ical conditions. And if, like Buckle and as the economical geography of the van- Green, we include in history not merely ous regions which have been brought the growth of States and of their political ~vithin the German sphere of influence. institutions, but also their industrial, so- Englands geographical connections p0- cial, and intellectual development, then the litical, colonial, commercial, missionary paramount influence of geography be- are world-wide, and her politicians, her comes unmistakable. Buckle brings this merchants and manufacturers, and all who out with his usual brilliance, not only in are interested in the development of her the case of Egypt, but also of India, Cen. colonies, could not but profit by a complete tral America, and Peru; and Green, both and precise knowledge of those conditions in his histories and in his Short Geog- upon which the success of their operations raphy of the British Islands, endeavors, so largely depends. with much success, to show how the Geography, as I have stated, may be gro~vth of our industries and the situation defined as the science of the topograph- of ourgreat cities have been largely deter- ical distribution of the great features of mined by conditions which are essentially the earths surface, and of all that it sus- geographical. Comte was not likely to tains mineral, vegetable, and animal, overlook the intimate relations ~vhich sub. including man himself. If we bear in sist between geography and history in its mind that, as geographers, it is distribu- widest sense. It would be impossible, tion and not constitution, groups and not he wrote, to conceive of any adequate individuals, ~ve have to do with, we shall history of humanity apart from the real be able to limit our field within reasonable history of the terrestrial globe, the inevita- compass. This one feature of distnibu- ble theatre of progressive human activity, tion will be found to be applicable to every and the various conditions of which must section of our wide subject; for of course certainly have exercised an important in- it includes causes as well as facts, rela- fluence on the production of the various tions as ~vell as positions. It will guide phases of human history, from the period us in dealing ~vith the purely scientific when the physical and chemical conditions aspect of our subject, with what is in- of our planet were such as to permit the cluded under physical geography. What continuous existence of humanity. is political geography but the department It will thus be seen that the important which deals with the distribution of men results to be derived from the application into communities or states? While com- of geography to history have been in a mercial geography the science of dis- general way recognized even in this coun- tances, as a German writer calls it has try. But the application has hitherto to do with the distribution (in a double been altogether qualitative and not qtian- sense) of the economical products of the titative, and mainly because the subject earths surface. XVith man as the centre of its field, taking upon itself the task of investigating the interaction between hu- manity and its geographical environment, surely the subject ought to yield many practical results. As the term interaction implies, man is in a different position ~vith reference to his environment from any other creature on the earths surface. The lower animals can do so very little to modify their envi- ronment, that it amounts to practically nil. Man in his savage state is in this respect on a par with his humbler fellow- creatures. He must either adapt himself to his geographical conditions, or succumb to them. Buckle brings this out strikingly in his second chapter with reference to South America. Contrasting the condi- tion of Brazil before the European intru- sion with that of Peru and other civilized States, he maintains that the primeval forests of Brazil were on such a gigantic scale, their trees so towering, so close- set, so matted with creepers, and so im- bedded in bush, that the poor savages who peopled the country were overwhelmed with hopelessness. Though Buckle exag- gerated the extent to which Brazil is cov- ered with forests, there is no doubt much truth in his contention. But it seems to me there were other causes at work here, apart from the gigantic scale of nature, to account for the savage stagnation of most of South America. In the geographical conditions there was a lack of stimulus to united action for the development of the country, or the stimulus was not strong enough to act effectively on the low state of intelligence of the natives. Why was it that those wonderful civilizations were developed on the banks of the Nile and the Euphtates, the Ganges an dthe Ho- angho, while the exuberant basins of the Amazon and the Congo remained stagnant in the hands of savages? This is doubt- less partly to be accounted for by the fact that the people into whose hands the one set of rivers fell were of a very different type from those whose petty tribes lived in a state of constant war with each other on the banks of the Congo and the Ama- zon. But the results are also to be in part accounted for by the fact that on both these rivers food was so abundant that one of the most po~verful stimuli to united action, especially in an enervating tropical region, was wanting; and no country can ever be developed except to a very lim- ited extent by isolated action. What can be effected by the introduc- tion of a different type of people into an environment that either overwhelmed its 7 primitive population, or from which they were able to glean but a scanty sustenance, may be seen in any part of the globe. As civilization advances, indeed as one con- dition of its advance, man has been more and more able to overcome the natural effects of his geographical environment, though of course there are limits to this, and it ought to be the business of geog- raphy to discover what these limits are. Thus, for example, distances form one of the elementary factors with which we have to deal in studying the surface of the earth, and the enormous contraction of distances accomplished by the applica- tion of steam to locomotion, and the dis- covery of the electric telegraph, has been a potent aid to man in modifying some of the geographical conditions to which he has to adapt himself. The piercing of an obstructive isthmus may effect a radical change in the geographical conditions which influence commerce. The construc- tion of the Suez Canal has restored to the Mediterranean that commercial activity which was diverted by the discovery of the Cape route. By disafforesting here and planting there, we have been able appreciably to modify rainfall, and there-- by climate. Insanitary regions, fatal to the European constitution, have been sweetened and rendered wholesome by transplanting the eucalyptus from Aus- tralia. Arid deserts have been rendered.. fruitful by judicious irrigation and storage.~ Railways and steamers, by bringing sana- toria within a few hours distance,. andl home itself within reach of a short holi- day, have rendered it possible for Euro- peans to live and work in the tropics.. Such are some of the directions i.n which inventive humanity has been able to mod- ify its geographical conditions, and render them more easily adaptable to its- require ments. And this suggests the important ser- vices which geography may render when. applied to colonial enterprise. In their eagerness to divide the world up into col- onies, and protectorates, and spheres of influence, European nations have lost their heads during the last five years~ They have been grabbing blindly at what- ever lands remain unannexed, apparently regardless of their adaptability, and as if anxious only to add as many squ~tre miles as possible to the statistics of their for- eign possessions. Germany, for example, has acquired in Africa about a million square miles, half of it a hopeless desert; and France has been trying to conjure into instantaneous existence a rival to our APPLIED GEOGRAPHY. 72 Indian empire, in a region where the geo- graphical conditions are totally different, and forgetful of the fact that British India has been the slow growth of two centuries. But what are some of the geographical problems to be solved in connection with colonization? If we bear in mind that colonies are of at least two distinct kinds, and that the key-word of geography is distribution, it will help us to answer the question. There are, first, what the French call colonies of exploitation in other ~words, plantations; and, secondly, colonies of settlement, or those adapted to receive a new population from the mother-country and elsewhere. The for- mer, as M. Leroy Beaulieu points out, are adapted to a wealthy country, with no surplus population, while the latter de- mand a constant excess of population, as well indeed as a certain amount of cap- ital. Nearly all the foreign possessions of France and those of Holland are of the former type, while those of England em- brace colonies of both types. The first question to answer, then, with reference to any colony is, to which of these two types does it belong? And this, it should be remembered, is not always a question of latitude, though as a rule it is; for in Brazil we find well within the tropics colonies of Germans and Swiss, who work and flourish as if in their native land. But then it should be remembered that the altitude of the Brazilian table-land counteracts the natural results of latitude. Such colonies would be impossible on the low-lying coast. We have been told by enthusiasts that in the plateau land even of tropical Africa there is no reason ~vhy Europeans should not work and retain their health; others again, of a more sci- entific turn of mind, tell us that European labor in tropical Africa is impossible. At all events, if such adaptable table-lands exist, they have not been tested. Even if they ~vere proved suitable to the Euro- pean constitution, the geographer would have to tell us whether they could be turned to any account, whether they were within the region of abundant or the re- gion of scanty rainfall; still more, if any- thing could be produced therein which would be wanted by the outside world, and, if so, whether there are means of taking it to where it was required, without weighting it, beyond possibility of profit, with expenses of conveyance. As a rule, tropical colonies can only be colonies of exploitation, or plantations; and the ques- tion which geography should help to solve is, under what conditions can they be turned to account, or exploited, by the country to which they are annexed? Here, again, it is largely a question of distribution. What are the great physical features of the colony and their distribu- tion, and how do they help or hinder its exploitation? What is the nature of the climate? What is the distribution of temperature and rainfall in space (i. e, with reference to the various physical fea- tures) and in time? What native products are there, and how are they distributed, especially with reference to accessibility and communications, and can they be worked and brought to market at a rate that will place them in favorable competi- tion with similar products from other parts of the world? What is the distribution and character of the soil, and for what exotic products is it adapted? This last is an all-important question, for the mere collection of the natural vegetable and animal products of a tropical region will only develop a colony within very narrow limits. Then comes the subject of popu- lation and its distribution. For a colony of the plantation kind this is a critical question, for it involves at once that of labor, without which, in abundance, the colony is a barren possession. If the na- tives cannot be induced to give them- selves voluntarily to systematic labor, there are evidently only two courses open if the colony is to be carried on at all they must either be compelled to work, or labor must be imported from the outside. Germany seems inclined to solve this ever-recurring difficulty, so far as her east- African possessions are concerned, after the former fashion; in Mauritius and oth- ers of our colonies we have adopted the latter alternative. Either course is at- tended with danger and difficulties, and too often involves what is simply a form of slavery. But in order that a plantation colony may be worked effectively, white super- vision is absolutely necessary; and here again we are faced with another question of distributionthe distribution of men adapted to the conditions of Europe, over a region in which the conditions are en- tircly different. It is well to repeat that it is not the business of geography to deal with individuals, but with groups; it is the function of the physiologist to inves- tigate the action of climate on the indi- vidual constitution, just as we look to the meteorologist to provide us with the data from which we may draw conclusions as to climate. The geographer has to do with results in both cases; given certain APPLIED GEOGRAPHY. APPLIED GEOGRAPHY. of to conditions pography and certain types of men, what is the ratio of adaptability of the one to the other? Such are some of the directions in which geography may yield valuable help when applied to colonies of the plantation class; and the field thus covered embraces to some extent colonies of settlement, col- onies of the type of Australia, the Cape, and Canada. Here the problem of adapt- ability must be worked out on a much larger scale; it is no mere question of the temporary residence of a few directing Europeans, but the wholesale transference of a people from one set of geographical conditions to another. Evidently the first thing to do is to discover in the minutest detail what are these geographical condi- tions, how far they can at once be turned to service by a new population, and how far they must be modified in order that the colony may be carried to its maximum development. What, for example, is the distribution of rainfall and of surface wa- ter (rivers, lakes, etc.) over such a con- tinent as Australia? Before inducing farmers to migrate to any particular dis- trict, it would be only fair to let them know ho~v far that district is adaptable to their conditions. Is the soil suited for agricultural operations, and, if so, is there a certainty of the minimum supply of rain- fall necessary to render such operations successful? If not, is irrigation possible? If all these conditions are favorable, what about communications, and ~vhat about sanitary conditions? All this implies a very thorough, and detailed, and long.con- tinued geographical study of a colony, and much more minute and ample information than is generally furnished by emigration agents. We are told by an eminent sta- tistician that in the year 2000 Australia, at the present rate of increase, will have a population of about one hundred and ninety millions. True, Australia is not much smaller than Europe, but does what we know of its geographical conditions render such an increase desirable even if it is probable? Europe, with the most favorable conditions of soil, and climate, and highly developed industries, has only a population of three hundred and fifty millions, ~vhile nearly one-half of Aus- tralia is desert. From neglect or~~gno- rance of known geographical conditions, or from taking no steps to counteract them, the most serious disasters to crops and flocks are of constant occurrence in Australia. It is therefore the most short- sighted policy imaginable in a young col- ony to neglect the survey of its territories; 73 public money cannot be better spent than in the maintenance of an efficient survey service, and a carefully selected network of meteorological stations. For evidently the first requisite to the development of any country is a complete knowledge of its resources, and the essential ground- work of such knowledge is mainly geo- graphical in its character. One of the best examples of the utility of efficient survey and meteorological services is to be fdund in British India, the immense development of the agriculture of which is mainly due to the application of the knowledge thus acquired; while the con- ditions that lead to famines are now so well known that they can be to a large extent met and their lamentable conse- quences avoided. An equally thorough and precise knowledge of the geograph- ical conditions, in their widest sense, of all our colonies would prevent many seri- ous mistakes mistakes as to the type of people for whom they are adapted, as to the kinds of culture for which they are suited, as to the imposition of tariffs, the fostering of particular industries, and the limits within which outside commercial enterprise is possible. It is information of this character which the Imperial Insti- tute will be expected to supply; not the vague and partial statements to be found in official pamphlets for emigrants, but data as precise, detailed, and exhaustive about every section of every one of our colonies as a mathematician would expect to be furnished with were he asked to work out a mathematical problem. A lit- tle more knowledge of geography on the part of public men and journalists would have prevented much of the foolish talk and foolish writing recently indulged in over the annexations of France and Ger- many; for then they would have known that scarcely anything that has been an- nexed was worth having, so far as we are concerned, either from a colonial, coin- inercial, or strategical point of view. In- deed, a broad consideration of the require- ments of the British Empire from any of these standpoints shows, in my estima- tion, that except at one or two points ~ve may well be content with what we have, and let the rest of Europe scramble for the remainder. Commerce has become cosmopolitan; it has ceased to be the monopoly of any one nation, and it carries its operations into every corner of the globe. Every nation and every merchant feels the in- tensity of the competition, and we are all convinced at last that, while swiftness and APPLIED GEOGRAPHY. 74 strength are important, they are of little both in China and in Africa, compel the avail without knowledge; superior knowl- British trader to give way, simply because edge, in the end, must win the race. The they are better acquainted with local con- Germans, we are assured, are runningus ditions, and know how to adapt themselves hard in all the markets of the world, and thereto. that mainly because their manufacturers The basis of commercial geography, and their commercial men are better in- like the basis of every other application formed, and know better how to adapt of the subject, must be a thorough knowl- themselves to geographical conditions edge of physical conditions, of the distri- than we do. The young Germans who bution of products of all kinds, and of the come to England and take the City by various types of humanity of which these storm have all had a thorough training in conditions form the environment. The one of the admirable commercial schools more minute and thorough this knowledge on the Continentschools to which ~ve is in the case of each country and each have nothing corresponding in this coun- region, the better able will the student be try. In the curriculum of these institu- to apply his knowledge to practical uses. tions commercial geography occupies a For this purpose everything that can place of the first importance; not the throw light on local conditions ought to be barren thing that passes under that name introduced, as is done in the Vienna com- in this country, but embracing a field that mercial school, where, for example, illus- touches the practical business of com- trated local journals from all parts of the merce at every point, world are largely made use of. All the The history of commerce is inseparable great lines of communication, past and from the history of civilization, and as present, should be studied in all their that history to a large extent deals with aspects and practical bearings; and if a the opening up of the world by new trade- commercial student is likely in the future routes and the development of the prod- to have to deal mainly with some particu- ducts of the earths surface, it is mainly lar region or country, the relation of its geographical: and no one desirous of hay- internal communications to its sources of ing a thorough comprehension of the con- supply and its markets ought to be mas- ditions and course of commerce at the pres- tered in detail. Postal communications, ent day can afford to neglect its historical telegraphs, tariffs, are essentially geo- aspects. A knowledge of the causes that graphical from the standpoint of distribu- have led to the growth and decay of com- tion, as facilitating or hindering transfer- merce in particular regions in the past, of ence, and must be attended to; as are also the influences that have been at work in commercial and industrial associations and the opening up of new trade-routes and trade-leagues. Even the religion, super- the abandonment of old ones, of the effects stitions, and prejudices of people may be of facilities and hindrances of all kinds to of serious account in trade transactions, free distribution, cannot but be of service and therefore deserve attention. True, in endeavoring to forecast the future. some of these matters may be dealt with Commerce is essentially the exchange of from other standpoints, and are so dealt the surplus economical products of the with in efficient commercial schools, but various regions of the globe Coin mer- they all come more or less within the cial geography, therefore, implies a knowl- sphere of applied geography, of topograph- edge of these regions, and of the various ical distribution, and that ought to be the local conditions under which the commod- starting-point in dealing with them. In ities are produced; as also of the places fact, geography in its most comprehensive to which it would be most profitable to sense ought to be the basis of mercantile transfer. them, and of their local condi- technical education; it will be a guide in tions; and, lastly, of all the circumstances dealing not only with central Africa, with that help and hinder such transference. South America, and with New Guinea, but How frequently, of late, have we had also in one or other of its branches with complaints from our consuls of the serious the oldest States of Europe and the most blunders made by British exporters isolated countries of Asia. through their ignorance of local con- As a sequel to the study of commercial ditions, ignorance of the best trade-routes, geography from the purely geographical ignorance of the wants of particular local- standpoint, the geography of each product ities, ignorance of the people whom they ought to be worked out from its origin to desire to have for customers; and that in its destination. Our cottons, and wool- countries both civilized and barbarous. lens, and iron manufactures ought to be Germans and Americans, for example, followed from the factory to their possible A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. 75 markets, through all obstacles to their diffusion. In like manner the various raw materials which we import should be taken up in their native habitat and traced throughout their career until landed at their destinations. This would involve an investigation of the conditions under which the commodities are produced, of all local, circumstances connected with country and people affecting quality, quan- tity, cost, and facility of transmission ; of the means by which they are conveyed to the port of export; of tariffs, and other expenses to be there levied; ocean and other routes to the importing country ; any hindrances in the ~vay of tariffs, etc., to be met with there; and internal routes to the final destination. Some ports, from their geographical position, might be much more convenient and less expensive than others. Thus, Havre as compared with Antwerp has so many disadvantages, ow- ing to its geographical position, for French commerce, that steps are being taken for the construction of a new commercial port to take its place. Take wheat as a specimen of a com- mercial product. We find it produced in exportable quantities in Russia, North America, Australia, and India four re- gions differing markedly in geographical character. To start with, what are the conditions of soil and climate and culture most favorable to the maximum product per acre of the best kinds of wheat, and how far does each of the four regions com- ply with these conditions? What are the various local hindrances and facilities to the production of wheat in the four re- gions? At what seasons are the crops available for export? What are the quan- ti ties obtainable, according to trust~vorthy averages, and what is the price on the spot? Then would come the subject of communication to the port of shipment and the expenses attendant thereon, the various ocean routes and lines of vessels available ; risks from transhipment and from oth~r causes connected with transit; tariff and other dues at destination; and the internal facilities or hindrances for conveyance to the market. So with tea, with rubber, with copper, with timber, and other products. Distribution is, again, the keyword here as elsewhere; and com- mercial geography might be made condu- cive not only to commerce in its ordinary sense, but to other enterprises and trans- actions dependent to any extent on local conditions and topographical distribution. Such are a few of the directions in which geographical knowledge may be applied with practical results. Of course this may be done on the most advanced scale; it may be for the discovery of a scientific frontier; for the organization of an extensive line of defence; for the ex- ploitation of a colony; for the industrial development of a continent; or it may be reduced to the elementary dimensions re- quired for a middle-class school. But in whatever direction geographical knowl- edge may be applied, the application must be based on the subject as a department of science dealing with the physical fea- tures of the earths surface as the topo- graphical environment of humanity. J SCOTT KELTIE. From Temple Bar. A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. (BEING A MAIDEN MEDITATION.) PART IL THE year after I was two-and-twenty I fell in love, and badly, as Algie described it. I suppose there is an attraction about the impossibilities that helps to send us head foremost towards them. Certainly it was Marks poverty, his lack of success, and his fathers disappointment that first set inc thinking of him. From the marry- ing point of view he was altogether to be avoided, but of course I refused to see it. Tall, handsome, and clever, with unfailing spirits and ready wit, he made every other man seem commonplace and uninterest- ing. He was indolent and selfish, he had perhaps every fault that could not be called a vice, and yet he was delightful. I cannot describe him. I only knew that I loved him with all my heart, ~vould have died for him, lived for him, suffered and thought it sweet, have been his slave, had he wished itbut what is the good of going over it all? He was the son of an old friend of my father, and after he came to town was always at our house. He swore he loved me, and I believed him. I did not give in easily, but when I did I stood by him. My father stormed and my mother entreated, but I just said simply that there was no one else in the world, there never would be, and I would wait until he had made money enough and then I would marry him. He asked me a hun- dred times if I could bear to be poor for his sake, and a hundred times I answered yes. Even now that I hate him, and think of him with a boundless scorn, there are moments when I stop to think and cry 76 A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. out, Oh, if he had been what he never was for a single moment, and I put aside the hate and scorn to love him with a hopeless madness. But this is too ridic- ulous. The day after to-morrow, and how calm and ~vell-ordered a life will I begin We insisted on being engaged, Mark Elliston and I; my father might as well have talked to the whirlwind, so he gave in ; but it was a bitter trouble to him, for Mark had done worse than badly at Ox- ford, had no profession, no expectations, nothing but an allowance from his father. He used to say something would turn up; there was often an easy post floating ready for the watching ones to seize, and if not he would write a book, or we could go abroad, or do something when he had thought the matter over. I think there was a fascination even in his indefinite future that caught me. Besides I used to think that with his cleverness he was sure to make a career somehow. At ~vorst it would be fun to be poor, we used to say. Sometimes Mark wondered if he could get out to the far West and start a ranche. I used to pi.ture a vast track of land, the rough life, the blue sky, and he, in a broad-brimmed hat that did not pre- vent his dear face from getting sunburnt, coming home in the noontide heat to the meal that I had cooked oh what a fool I was, and how sweet I should have thought it just to lie down and die for him had he but wished it! That May my fathers crash came. I need not enter upon it here. He lost, I think, seventy thousand pounds in the Derby week; we had been in debt before, and there was the usual result. Relations were applied to, and reproached and up- braided us, but still they were very good. My brother Algernon had luckily taken his degree; he vanished abroad for the summer with a reading party, and after- wards went to India for a year to coach a native prince. The others, with the ex- ception of my sister Rose and myself, were dotted about among the irate rela- tions. Things ~vere so bad that my father thought it best to go abroad for a time, while my mother, Rose, and 1 went down to a small place five-and-thirty miles irom London, called Hillford, and lived on a pittance. Everything had been sold, even our dresses, our books, our music, and we were afraid to let any one know where we were. Mark was very true all that time. He wrote every day, and came from Saturday to Monday all July and part of August, till he went to the Engadine with some friends, and from there his letters were constant and full of protestations. We would be married, he said, as soon as he could raise a couple of hundred, and amuse ourselves by seeing what would happen next. It would be an excelLent idea, he thought, and something would be sure to turn up if ~ve seriously made ready for it. Meanwhile it was terribly dull at Hill- ford. We knew no one and carefully avoided doing so. The lodging was shabby, we had no money for luxury, scarcely any for comforts. My mother fretted and Rose chafed at the long, empty days, especially when the ~veather was bad. We had no books, no piano, noth- ing to do but sew and wonder if anything good would ever happen to us again, when this relation would relent, or that one do something for us, and what the chances were of our ever getting back to any posi- tion at all in the world. One day in a London paper I saw an advertisement for a gQverness, and an ad- dress was given at Hillford. I looked at it vacantly, then the thought struck me, why should I not answer it? I was ener- getic and accomplished, and could prob- ably do all that was required. The very t~hought of work cheered me, and the idea of giving my mother some of those things she missed so much determined me. I applied for the post, and became daily governess to four motherless children. The papa, Mr. Simpson, was something in the City, a tea-broker I think, for he had offices in Mincing Lane. He was a tall, thin, severe-looking man of about forty- two, with a large nose and many lines about his eyes. He always ~vore a frock- coat. He was very grave and reserved, but when he talked he used too many ~vords to express himself, and his manner was slightly patronizing. Still this did not affect me. He was very business-like, and each month when he sent me my salary enclosed a form of receipt with a stamp affixed ready for my signature. At first I saw little of him; then, instead of going to town every day, he stayed at home and frequently joined us in our walk. I sin- cerely wished him at Jericho, for we all felt kept in order by his presence. On Sundays at church I noticed that he care- fully watched me, but with so sombre and critical an expression on his face that I thought he was merely considering my fitness to conduct the education of his children. One evening, after I had been going to his house for about four months, a letter came for me. When I opened it A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. 77 and saw its length, I thought that I had done something wrong and this was my dismissal. Instead, it was an offer of marriage from Mr. Simpson, and business- like enough in all conscience. My cheeks burnt as I read it, the scalding tears filled my eyes and half blinded me. It was an odd vista into the world of the practical and commonplace. Holly House, Hiliford, Nov. 20th, x88. DEAR MADAM, I must ask you to give this letter your most earnest attention and serious consid- eration, and to send me an explicit answer concerning which there shall be neither question nor doubt, nor yet any room for discussion as to your meaning at a future date. I have been much struck with your conduct in reference to my children; you have advanced them, not merely in their studies, but in their manner, bearing, and general behavior. I have also observed with great pleasure your own deportment since you came to Hillford; it has been quiet, dignified, and ladylike, and besides this, I have not been able to help admiring your modesty, and I must add and that without flattery your personal attrac- tions. You have gained my sincere re- spect, nay, more, my true regard. I had made up my mind not again to commit the momentous and lifelong step of matri- mony, and in this resolution till I saw you I never wavered. I have, however, been lately considering that it might be for my childrens happiness and my own if I al- tered my determination, and the good looks and good qualities noted above have caused me to do so. I am therefore pre- pared, if you think it will be for your happiness as well as mine, to make you my wife ~vithin three months from this date, and I will engage to make suitable provision for you in case of widowhood. You would find me a kind, considerate, and affectionate husband, if sometimes hasty; and in you I am persuaded I should find a good and amiable wife. It is un- necessary to say that my position is excel- lent, and that with me you would have every comfort, not to say luxury. I need hardly add that from the circumstance of your being a governess I am prepared to hear that you have neither fortune nor expectations. Awaiting an early reply, I am, yours faithfully, JAMES T. SIMPSON. He had an early reply, and I fear a brusque one, for after all he had written the best letter he could, according to his lights. I remember sitting over a fire that would not burn, but smoked and flickered round the dreary room, and wondering whether I should show that letter to.- Mark. At first there had been perfect confidence between us, but lately it had been differ- ent, and I only told him those things that were certain not to vex him. His letters too were growing cold. Try as I would to disguise it, they were growing cold, and he criticised all my words and doings as an ardent lover never does. By Jove fancy your being a governess, Kathy, he said, when I told him that I was going to teach the Simpson children, rather a come-down you know. Why is it a come-down? I asked; I shall be as good as I always was better. Humph! I shouldnt like the arch- deacon to know it. The archdeacon was his father, but he seldom spoke of him in that formal fashion. I did not say any more, I did not love him less, but be- tween us there grew up a reserve, and in my heart there ~vas a spark of resentment that only needed fanning to burn fiercely. Perhaps he was snobby enough to object to my earning money. I am glad I did not marry him, I should have found him out, and in my nature there is a terrible capacity for contempt. The dreary Christmas dragged by, and the new year came. Every morning I waited with a nameless dread for my love- letter, and was afraid lest my mother and Rose would notice how I had changed. We moved from Hillford; it was so un- pleasant to encounter the Simpsons when- ever we ~vent out. We went nearer to London, but Mark did not come very often, and he only wrote twice a week now twice a ~veek with even exactness, as though it was a duty to be fulfilled. One day, there was a postscript to a letter: A widow, precious ugly and eight-and- thirty if she is a day, but good-natured, is spoony on me, I believe. What would you say if I married her, my pussy-cat? She has a snug little box in Park Lane, and a lanky son of seventeen. I thought it a joke, and forgot it, but still his letters grew shorter and his visits fewer and farther between. At last one day he came: I noticed that his eyes did not meet mine. We went out together. There was a long, lonely road, with here and there a seat by its side. We sat down silently, the fond looks gone from our eyes, the laughter from our lips. Kathleen, he said suddenly, and turn- ing quickly round, he took both my hands 78 A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. and held them fast, do you think you she is ten years older than I am, so it is could be content never to marry? just five hundred for each year; and he 1 felt my heart stand still. tried to laugh again. Why? I asked. Yes, no doubt it will be delightful, I Because, darling, I do not think you answered. How long have you been would marry anybody but me and it is engaged to her? no use marrying me. I am head and ears He gave a little gulp before he ans~vered, in debt, I hate work and shall never do for he knew to how much hypocrisy he anything. was confessing. I will ~vork for us both, I said, if you XVell, since the beginning of Decem- love me still, if you have not changed? ber; but you know I didnt see the good I have not changed at heart, but of telling you till it was absolutely settled but the fact is, I am engaged, and going it is now, he went on in a determined to be married on the fifteenth of next voice. We are to be married on the month; it is all arranged. fifteenth of next month, just three Yes, I said calmly; and to whom? weeks; she says she is counting the To Mrs. Powis, that widow. Shes days; and he gave a short, little laugh. not a bad sort, she has lots of money, and You wont make a fuss or anything, will you know, darling, we should never come you, darling? and I say dont look like to anything. It is much the most sensi- that, Kathy; I believe I shall always care ble thing to do. for you, and I looked up at him, but could not speak. Yes? He put his arms round me, and all things But the other thing is all settled now. seemed to swim. I could not be angry or The fact is, I hate work and cant stand feel anything except that I had reached poverty, and shell pay up some things for the end of the world, a bad and worthless me I had got up slowly; he stopped world, if you like, but still the end of the and looked at me. What is the matter?~ whole wide world. he asked. Dont look at me like that, he said. I felt my lips curl, though cold, hope- I shall never love any one but you. less tears gathered in my eyes. Thank But still I could not speak, I felt so Heaven he did not see them! unutterably tired, so worn and dazed. I Nothing is the matter, only you must did not quite know if I was awake or let me go home, I said quickly; you dreaming, and through the mist that gath- must let me go home, and alone; if I stay ered before my eyes, I saw his face, and any longer I shall hate you. heard his voice, and felt his hands grasp It seemed as if I were choking, as if mine warm, firm hands that had always the tears were blinding me. I could not seemed to hold my whole lifes happiness help it, for I had believed in him so in their grasp. steadfastly. 1 turned to go but he tried Is money so precious to you? I asked to stop me, he caught my hand and coy- at last. ered it with kisses; they made me shud- Well well, I dont think I could der. stand poverty, and debts, and lodgings, Please let me go, I said entreatingly. and all that; see what you have suffered. I forget what he answered. Yes? It is all like a dream. I only know that And then you know it would please I nearly broke my heart, not for love of our people on both sides if we broke it him, as I might have done had I seen him off. But dont fret, dear, I shall never lying dead, but just for bitter scorn. care for any one else. Shes a nice, sensi- It was strange how silently the days ble woman and all that, but went by; the summer and autumn waned; Does she think you love her? the trees, bare and brown, shivered into He laughed uneasily. their winter garment of snow, the snow Of course she thinks so; a woman melted, and the sun shone; and it was ~vill think anything, you know, but no one spring again. It seemed as if time took falls in love with a woman of that sort. no account of me. Dont you care for her at all, Mark? My father talked of returning, an aunt Well, no, I dont think I do, he said. came to see us, and carried Rose back But it is no good our going on as we with her for the season. Rose was nearly are, we never really could marry, you seventeen, an age at which girls often know, Kathy dear, and shes not bad, good- married, the aunt said as she took her tempered, and easy to get along with, and away. It was like a dream seeing her go. I hear she has quite five thousand a year; When Rose had gone I roused myself A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. 79 and tried to live for my dear mother, who feeling awkward, he went away, telling his had borne all things without complaining, father that he wanted to see the world, and I shall always look back to those days no one guessed at any other reason. I when we were alone together, and read, forgot him, he passed altogether out of and talked, and took long walks, seeking my life and thoughts until his letter for first spring flowers in the hedgerows. came: I gave some music-lessons in the mo~-n- ings, and was very pioud of the money I earned and the little luxuries it bought. How good it must be to belong wholly to working-folk! They may have more trou- bles than rich people, but they have many pleasures that are entirely their ow-n. They must be so proud in their hearts if ever they sit down to think, for they have made all things in the world; who could live in it but for their busy brains and toiling hands? The rich are of little use except to spend the money they do not even earn. I used to think thus as I walked to and fro to my daily pupils, with an odd sense of usefulness that 1 had never known in all my life before. I grew to understand many things in those lonely walks, and realized keenly how easily the finger of poverty could mould a democrat. One day a letter came; it had gone to a relations with a request that it might be forwarded, and at last it found me. It had an American postmark; I knew no one in America, and opened it wonder- ingl y. It was signed Will Dallin. For a moment I was puzzled, and then remem- bered. Years before I had sometimes stayed ~vith a bachelor uncle down in Somersetshire. In the little town there was a doctor whom he liked very much, and who often came over in the afternoon for a game of billiards. The doctor had a tall, good-looking son, very young and fair. We amused ourselves while our elders ~vere absorbed in their game. We took long walks in the grounds to see the dogs, or a colt my uncle had bought, or to the mountain-ash at the far end of the copse. I flirted with him, as I did ~vith every one else who came in my way (how I hate myself as I sit and think of it !). At last there was a wild declaration with equally wild protestations that he kne~v it was no good and he should go away for- ever, but he loved me, he should love me all his life long. I did not know what to do, it took me by surprise, the simple, honest lad, his deep, true voice, the look that came into his clear blue eyes. I liked him, and told him so, but I did not love him, or mean to marry any one just then, and in truth he did not ask me, but having poured out his love, seemed satisfied. I avoided seeing him again; but I need not have done so, for, as if to prevent me from New York, U. S. A. DEAR KATHLEEN, Many a time, for my own delight, and just to keep my heart in an atmosphere of pure love, have I written that sw-eet name; and now I venture to write it down for your own dear eyes to rest on. I hope (against hope) that you have not allowed the youth you knew years ago, ages, they seem to me, to pass out of your mind altogether. I used to flatter myself sometimes that I held a place even in your warm heart; but in those days you were still very young, and cruelly rich, and it was only once my tongue dared tell you all my heart felt towards you. I was little more than a boy, just twenty, and had nothing in the way of worldly goods only an honest name, and a heart filled with love for you, and an ambition beyond my years. I contented myself with lov- ing you, and felt strangely lifted into a higher life by the adoration I gave you. I did have my hours of i;~ferno when I heard of others who were blessed with the gifts and wealth which had been denied me, crowding round and being near you, and in a way seeming to shut me out even from your thoughts; but I loved you bet. ter than myself, even in my green young days, and contentment came to me in some degree if I could but hear that you were happy. Well, dear, I am a man now (but so far away from you); yet still I love you have loved but you during all those long yeal-s. I would it were possible to be in- stantly in your sweet presence that my eyes might help my poor words to make you feel how sincerely and deeply I love you! I have just heard that you are no longer rich, and this emboldens me to write of that which has been during all these years my help and comfort. When I think of you, your goodness of heart, your exceeding beauty, of all that you are, I feel how poor am I with only my great love to offer you. I have achieved an honorable place in my profession, and am ambitious enough to strive for the highest point; but only that I may be worthy of entertaining a love for you, which after all may not find an echo in your heart. The passion I bear you has helped me through these long years of struggle, and I have 8o A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. been true to you, and true to my own bet- ter self. I have always hoped to win you, but failing that, to be worthy of loving you, and I have loved you, and none but you, and shall go on, in the face of youryea or nay, loving you truly to the end of time. In any case I can but feel most grateful to the power invisible which has enabled me to love profoundly a person so beauti- ful, a character so noble, and a heart so tender and true. If it be possible for you to love me, let me know it at once, dear heart; but if you must say no to me (and Heaven forbid it), write out of the tenderness of your heart that you are sorry for me and can pardon me for presuming to set mine so high. Either way you shall find a loyal lover or a true friend. Always lovingly yours, WILL DALLIN. I sat with that true-hearted letter before me and hesitated. I was very tired of life, the passionate agonized tiredness of youth after it has first sipped bitter pain. I could have married him, could have found rest and comfort in going away into the far-off world, away from all things that had played me false; but there was my mother, and there was this he loved me so dearly. I felt that it would be an insult and morea cruel shame totake his hon- est life into my hands when I had no heart to give him back. So I wrote to him and said no; but I wrote gratefully, even affectionately. I told him that I had no love for him of the sort a wife should give her husband, that I was not good enough, not nearly good enough for him, and that I should remember him all my life long, and I shall. Dear honest, manly Will, I hope some sweet womans heart is yours, and that you love her back with all the love that I was never worthy of for a sin- gle hour in my whole life. Suddenly our worldly affairs took a vio- lent turn for the better. An aunt of my mothers died, leaving us all she had. This proved to be quite four thousand a year, and she prudently tied it up very tightly so that we were forever lifted above poverty, and placed again in a comforta- ble position. We never went back to our old extravagant habits, but we all came together again, and made a pleasant home in Onslo~v Gardens. I sit there to-night thinking over the old days and tearing up the old letters. We have not been very rich here, for among ten children four thousand a year does not go very far; but we have been very happy all the hap- pier for having tasted poverty. An alto- gether different set has gathered round us here from that of Princes Gate; it may have been less fashionable, but it has been more interesting, composed of clever peo- ple of people who have thought and felt and put into the world more than money can buy or the grave can hide. The new life pleased us all; it chased away even my gravity, and I gave myself up to the excitement of making the new home pretty and gathering round us new friends. One day in Piccadilly I came upon Mark and his bride face to face. She looked older than her age; she was very plain, almost ugly, with a hook nose (which I have always particularly disliked), and deep lines on her face. Beside them strode a tall youth, who looked absolutely ridiculous in an Eton suit. I was looking my very best, and I saw that Mark knew it. In the early spring after we came here, I had a really delightful time. My cousin Jim, who was stationed at Malta, was to marry the governors daughter there. His mother was to go to the wedding, and by P. & 0. She invited me to go with her. Of course I joyfully accepted, and never in my life did I have a better time than on that voyage to Malta. The ship was crammed with men going to India; there were very few women on board, and prov- identially they were all thoroughly sea- sick. I am never sea-sick, and nothing puts me into such good looks and excel. lent spirits as being on the water. We were only four days getting to Gibraltar, but before we put in there I had quite a little following. A man is never more in- clined for sentiment than when, his heart still tender from recent partings, he paces a long white deck in the twilight or moon- light, and talks in a low tone of the life he has left, of the life before him, and of the world in general, until at last his thoughts gradually concentrate themselves on just one woman, the one who is beside him. Gradually he thinks that the sea and sky and twilight and all the rest are whisper- ing that he and she and fate were all meant for a mystic union that only needs a proposal to set it going, and a marriage ceremony to cement it forever. I think the nicest man on board, take him altogether, was Ernest Strange. He rendered us some trifling service at South- ampton, so the acquaintance began at once, for my aunt knew his name, and it turned out that some cousins of his were A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. 8i neighbors of hers in Scotland. This for board ship was quite sufficient to consti- tute an intimacy. He was rather a spoilt young man, and visibly expected to be fallen in love with; he conveyed to you in delicate terms that all women of good taste did it. He was handsome and had a charming though slightly affected man- ner. He had been abroad a good deal, and talked of Italy, pictures, and music, and declared that he always thought in Italian. We stayed two days at Gibraltar instead of the usual few hours, owing to a trifling accident on board, and this pro- longed our voyage. Of course we were ashore those two days, and Mr. Strange was always with us, or rather with me, for my aunt was only too glad to rest quietly at the little hotel on the New Mole parade while he and I went about to- gether. We rode to the cork woods, drove to Europa Point, hung about the curiosity shops in the main street, and lingered in the public garden on the side of the rock to listen to the band or to ~vatch the misty African shore. Before we reached Malta it seemed as if we had known each other for years. I did not think he meant marriage. I thought he was one of those men who flirt, who fall half-way in love and then fall out again. But he was not, with the last night on deck the proposal came, and he was aghast at not finding himself immediately accepted. Happily, as I though t,we were interrupted by my aunt; but when next morning the stewardess brought in the early tea, she brought me also a letter, and announced that we should be at Malta in about three hours time. How I hated myself as I read it, and yet I had thought we both were but playing a pleasant game Wednesday Night. DEAR KATHLEEN, To-morrow you will decide my fate. Oh that to-morrow were past, yet then I shall perhaps be speeding on to India, regretting the troubled hope of to-day. In the gloomy cabin, lighted by the wavering lamp, with the swell of the sea tapping the bulwarks and keeping company to my beating heart, I think of the one whom I adore fair, blue-eyed Kathleen. Do you remember the walks under the orange- trees at Gibraltar, the long ride to the green cork woods, the stern old fortifica- tions, and far off in the distance, the Afri- can shore? You knew I loved you. Do you remember when you stood dreamily listening to the distant band, and to my LiVING AGE. VOL. LXIV. 3282 half-whispered talk, looking up now and then at the dim shore across the sea? All the time I was wondering what life would be like were you by my side on those dis- tant and endless sands, were we two alone, with the great ~vastes stretching far out into the mist. You would be all my company then, my joy, my lifes everlast- ing romance. Oh, how I yearn for you! How long the hours seem when you are not with me! To-night on deck how charming you looked your blue dress, your shady hat, the sea-breeze gently playing with your soft hair. All my life the memory of this night will remain im- printed on my heart. To-morrow we part you stay at Mal- ta, I go on to India. And there may I toil to make a position for the one I love, for she should live like a fairy princess, with all her wishes instantly fulfilled? Oh, surely you will not be so cruel as to dash all my hopes to the ground, and leave me a man without object in life, a machine dragging on a miserable existence, in a. foreign clime, far from all that he knows- and loves! To-morrow before breakfast 1. shall be up early on deck hoping for you, and for the answer I so longed for to-- night. I love you, I adore you, and your surely know it. Good night, dear, sweet. Kathleen; I cover this paper with kisses.. ERNEsT. No, poor boy, I do not think he feare& rejection when he wrote that letter. He did not believe me even to the last, and when he said good-bye at Malta, I saw by his eyes that he felt I should bitterly regret him, after, having taken my no for earnest, he had gone on his way to India. I hope he did, it would comfort his soul;~ though I do not think he suffered for me long. I heard some time afterwards that he was considered a great lady-killer at Poonah ,gave himself terrible airs, and~ that all the girls were in love with him. I wonder if he is married yet. Let his. letter go into the fire. At Malta there was an offer from quite a nice young poverty-stricken lieutenant for whom I had rather a fancy. He was full of fun, and as he was a cousin of my cousin Jims bride, we called ourselves relations and were very chummy indeed. I might have married him, I think, had I been younger and merrier, but I had been out so long, and known so many flirtations, that I felt old and experienced beside him, even a shade patronizing, though, as his letter shows, he did not feel it 82 A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. DEAREST COUSIN KATHLEEN, I cant let you go back to England without trying my luck. I think you are the greatest darling I ever came across, and I am head and ears in love with you. No doubt I am a nass and a nidiot, but sometimes lately it has struck me that you rather like me. If you do (only it is too good to be true) we will be the two happiest people on earth. I have no money to speak of, and I sincerely hope you have not, but I think we have both a knack of amusing ourselves, so we can get on very well without it, and if youll be my own dear, sweet, little duck of a wife we ~vill enjoy ourselves every day of our lives, and Ill be your devoted slave and loving old man. Send me half a line, and if it is all right I shall be the happiest fellow on earth, and will tell you again what I want to tell you as long as I live, that I love you with all my heart. JACK. Poor dear boy he went to Cyprus and died of fever. Dear Jack, in fancy I can hear your merry laughter yet; there is a kiss for your letter before it goes into :the fire, and may your true heart rest well. There are only two letters left. The first is from Mr. Bridgeman, the sub-ed- itor of the Moment, which he told me was the most important of daily papers, seeing that the Times and all the rest had long ceased to have any influence at all. He was a man of about five-and-thirty, with keen, clear eyes, a pleasant smile, -and singularly pompous manners. He was virtually editor of the Moment, for his chief had delicate health and seldom did more than spend an occasional hour at the office. He had an unbounded be- lief in journalism, which he said was the favorite profession of the day, the resource of the learned and leisurely, the mainstay of the intellectual but impecunious, who made it the ladder by which they climbed, and the refuge of the destitute. The journalist, he would point out, now went everywhere, was a fashion, the figure of the period, was even creeping into novels as the hero of romance. I asked him once if he did not think that this was sim- ply owing to the fact that men and women who went everywhere and would have been heroes and heroines of novels in any case now took to journalism, so that it was in fact the profession that was taken into society, not people who were taken into society on a newspapers shoulders, and whether if after all journalism did not occasionally lose rather than gain by the kind attentions of the cultured whose writings were often so palpably their own that they merely carried the weight of an individual opinion. But I was violently snubbed for my pains. But do you think any one is really influenced, I asked, by what the people he met at dinner last night said in leaded type this morning? Only a small minority dine out, he said scornfully. But even the majority, Mr. Bridge- man, dont you think that in these days of cheap travelling, abundant oratory, and leave to think tor themselves, the working men, for instance, are uninfluenced by lead- ers? If a paper does not agree with them, they drop it and take another that does, and when that in turn does not agree with them, they think it is foolish and hug their own opinions with all the fervor of inde- pendence that has not yet outlived its salad days?~ But he merely shook his head. I never argue with a young lady, he said, especially when she is charming. Why he wanted to marry me I never could imagine, unless it was that he might have a right to beat me for all my rude- ness to him. I am not sure that he did not admire my courage in trying to tease him, but as I did not want to write for his paper, and never did anything to pro- voke either praise or blame in print, I felt free to amuse myself. One day I nearly made him angry by asking if after all he did not think the most powerful days of journalism were those when editors and their chief writers were almost unknown personalities, and were supposed to be strange, impressive beings who sat up beside the driver of the van, seeing clearly, listening to the route, sometimes pointing a warning finger , or even helpi ng to turn a difficult corner, and then getting down to tell the people behind of the road ahead; or when they went silently among the crowd to feel the pulse of the country be- fore they attempted to become its mouth- piece? But Mr. Bridgeman laughed. You ought to be a poet, he said. Or an editor? I answered. No, an editors wife, he suggested. Oh, matrimony would be thrown away upon me; but dont let us talk any more journalism, please, or I shall do something provoking, perhaps start a paper that will be the death of yours. A death it would recognize as inevita- ble and be proud to die. It is the only one that could stop the triumphant career of the Moment, I said A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. 83 cruelly; and he thought I meant it. They talk of the vanity of women, but we could write whole b~g volumes of the vanity of men. Gradually it dawned upon me that all this talk of journalism was directed to me in strict confidence, that all these views were his inward and secret convic- tions which he never confided to the world, his usual part being that of an im- maculateand far seeing editor, who treated with lofty disdain, as not worth mention- ing, the little mistakes of his own paper. And not only so, but it dawned upon me too that this talk was designed to serve as training and moulding for an exalted post which, though no doubt he felt my unwor- thiness for it, he had determined to offer me. I grew alarmed, and remarked on every possible occasion that I did not in- tend to marry; I unfolded my plans for years to come, and dwelt on my longing and intention of seeing far countries in other quarters of the world. Mr. Bridge- man listened to all my remarks with an airy and indulgent smile, and sent me this offer of marriage written on office paper: [Private.] DEAR MISS VANBOROUGH, You are probably expecting this letter, and I think it is better for both parties that matters should be settled between us. Marrying has not been much in my way; hithei-to indeed I have been inclined to think that on the whole I was better off single. Still, if you like me, I will con- fess that I like you; and if you are willing to try matrimony, why, so am 1. I think we should get on pretty well together. You are not a strong-minded woman, which I should hate, and I do not think you would be very exacting, which I should never allow. As you know (for we have often discussed it), journalism is now the profession that carries all before it. It is the journalist who virtually governs the empire; it is most important therefore that he should marry a clever woman of tact and discretion. I feel sure that you would justify my opinion of you; and of me you would have at least no cause to be ashamed. It is hardly necessary here to enter into particulars regarding money matters; but sufficient to say that when I do they will be found to be quite satisfac- tory, and that though at present it is not my intention to make settlements on a wife, I should of course not neglect to provide for her or a possible family. Yours always, F. BRIDGEMAN. P.S. I shall in all probability get the editorship of this paper when the pres- ent incumbent dies, and seeing how com- pletely the Times has had its day, and the manner in which without exception the other dailies are edited, I need not point out to a quick and clever girl like yourself what a really illustrious future the Mo. ment has before it. That remark about the present incumn- bent would have sealed Mr. Bridgemans fate if nothing else had. I do not think he is married yet, and the Moment, as we all know, died the death of the unsuc- cessful. A comic paper kindly said its title had denoted the length of its popu- larity. There is only one letter left, and that is from Adrian Sterne. He was a very poetic creature indeed, people said be ~vas a genius, but I think he was overrated in the little set of which he was the centre. He had published two volumes of poems, but I never saw them, and do not even know what they were called. He told me that they were not for the uninitiated, but I never understood what he meant by that. I dont think he was in love with me, but he ~vas much in love with his ow~ idea of me, and used me as a peg on which to hang his sentiment. We met first at a ball. He was one of those men who hang about doorways and shrug their shoulders at the dancers. I heard that he said I was beautiful, which I never was, though I suppose I was pretty. Still no one ob- jects to being thought beautiful, even if it s only by an error of judgment, and I felt a sudden interest in the long-haired gen- tleman with a pale face who raved of my attractions to various friends who kindly repeated his ravings to me. Besides many people thought a good deal of him at that time, he was invited everywhere, and his judgment in all matters concerning my sex was considered beyond contradiction. He was not uninteresting to look at; he was tall and sligh,t, very pale, with long, lank dark hair. f-Ie looked as if he had been very ill, and might be so again. His clothes were always much too loose for him and hung in lines. He had a deep rich voice of singular beauty; he talked but little, but in every ~vord he said there was a stamp of earnestness that impelled one to listen to him. At first he was con- tent silently to follow me about from house to house, as far as engagements would ad- mit of it. At four out of every six places he was to be seen clinging to the doorpost or supporting himself by the mantelpiece. We were introduced, but he seldom at- 84 A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. tempted to speak to me; he merely gave me a long slow bow of greeting and an- other of good-bye. After a time, however, he would draw near, and, with a steadfast expression on his face, listen to my re- plies to the few remarks he addressed to me. Then suddenly he took to talking poetry, modern poetry chiefly, which he said was far better than any other that had not had the change of at least three hundred years to sanctify it. He had an astonishing number of quotations at his fingers ends, and these and an almost scornful mention of books, for he said so few were good and true, made up his talk for some months. He never tried to become a shade more cordial, which, though I only laughed at him, made me feel a shade piqued and think that per- haps he admired me less on acquaintance than when he had worshipped me from a doorpost. But he spoke at last, and in most exalted language. Kathleen, he said suddenly one day, in a deep, rich voice, which I think he only used to express very strong emotion. I started, for hitherto he had never called me by my Christian name. Let us cast aside this foolish pretence of ceremony; do you suppose that in my heart I call you Miss Vanborough? I never thought about it, Mr. Sterne, I said stiffly; and really you must not talk in that manner. I tried to laugh and not to look offended. People never talk about hearts nowadays. Do you know how beautiful you are, dear Kathleen? he asked sadly, not tak- ing the least notice of my reply. I kno~v perfectly that I am not beauti- ful at all; and indeed you must talk sen- sibly, Mr. Sterne, or I shall be very an- gry, I answered. He smiled a large disdainful smile. It is too late for anger, my beautiful one. You may struggle as you will, but your fate and mine are interwoven in a web that can never be disentangled. I was very angry, and refused to speak to him again; but it was impossible to take him very seriously. Gradually, and by dint of being much refused, 1 think he really did love me in his own way. The odd thing was that he never ~vould believe in my refusal being real or final, but al- ways returned to the attack, declaring that I loved him unawares. At last it became quite insupportable. We were staying in the same country house, and he almost succeeded in making me look ridiculous before every one. I told him that I should have to speak to my father. He answered me with great sadness. Do not be unkind to me, he said, you do not know what you are doing. Sometimes I think it would be wise if I went away for a time and left you to com- mune with your own heart. I think it would be excellent, I an- swered. Do you? he said almost eagerly. I will go to-morrow; but when shall I re- turn ? Oh, please dont return, I laughed. How you will change I he said dream- ily. How little you know yourself, dear! I will go to-morrow morning, and you shall see me no more for three months till the end of the year. On the last day of the year I will write to you I will write to you out of the depths of my heart; promise me to answer it out of the depths of yours? Yes, I will promise that, I answered. The next morning, to my utter surprise, I he1ard that he had departed; I think he must have gone abroad, for he disap- peared completely. It was quite effec- tive. Soon after Adrian Sterne made his dra- matic exit, I first met Herbert. How well I remember him, as he entered the room with a friend who brought him one Sun- day afternoon I Algernon, who had de- veloped a good deal, liked him much, and was the means of his coming pretty often to our house. He was so utterly oblivious of me, and, indeed, in the ordinary sense, of every other woman, that I tried hard to make an impression on him and failed signally. But though he refused to show the slightest sign of flirtation, he was an excellent companion, and taught me to take an interest in many things of which I had hardly thought at all before. He seemed to crush down my old passionate, longing, half-disappointed self, and to awaken some new one that was cold and calm as he was, with new interests and new views of life, a self that found rest and profit for its soul in companionship with him. Suddenly I wanted to study, to work hard in some indefinite manner. He helped me, and never failed to look a shade contemptuous if I was stupid or idle. I wanted to find some business in life outside mere personal enjoyment, some usefulness to which knowledge would be a stepping-stone, something to do that was better worth doing than any- thing I had yet found, and that would concern others and be good for them and not contain thought of myself alone. I A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. 85 gathered courage one day and talked to him of all the vague longings, the yearn- ings to know more and to do more that were forming themselves in my heart and brain. He treated my aspirations in a lofty manner, as if he thought them dis- tinctly beyond me, and emotional phases he looked on at with wondering eyes as being altogether incomprehensible in a well-conducted person, and probably the result of a morbid state of health or mind. But he encouraged me to study, he lent me some books, and made out a list of others it would be advisable to get from a library, and though I only went on grop- ingly, not knowing to what en d,as one that feels his way down a dim passage to- wards the closed door of a room he has never entered, yet did some meaning of life, some dream of things worth living for and living to vaguely suggest themselves; and these interests, that I had thought were but for philanthropists and students, or old and lonely folk, from whom all joy- ousness had departed, took hold and set me longing to use my hands and eyes and head. My heart was quite still and calm, it had nothing to do with all this, and of Herbert Fellowes himself I thought little. He was going abroad for a couple of months at Christmas, and I was anxious to see him gone, in order to think still more completely over the questions he had first suggested. No, not then, not since, nor ever has he caused my heart to beat one moment quicker. How strange it is to stop and think that in a few hours more our wedding morninghis and mine will da~vn! I wonder what he is doing to-night. Is he too raking up the past, or burying it? I know how he is occupied well enough. I can almost see him. He sits reading a yellow-paper- covered treatise on German philosophy. Perhaps he thinks to himself that he will pack it up, with another for me, in his portmanteau when we start on our honey- moon. What a dull honeymoon it will be! I wonder if I shall be a prig when I come back from it? By the time Christmas came it seemed. as if years had passed since my absurd parting with Adrian Sterne. I had almost forgotten him, and, for one is so apt to think that ones own state of mind is also another persons, I supposed he had quite forgotten me. Certainly I did not expect to hear from him as he had threatened. Herbert went off to Munich (of all cold places) and I settled down to life without him. So many interesting people were coming to our house, and I was beginning to find out the advantage of being over five-and-twenty. Till that age but few thinking men condescend to talk seri- ously to a woman. It is one of their great mistakes. For even if we do not under- stand all you say, dear and clever men, we should be glad, even while ~ve are still girls, if you would sometimes give us more than the fringe and froth of your conversation, and leave off merely flirting with us and paying us compliments, which do but turn our silly heads. Be- sides, you would do yourselves some good, for you would find us :more companion- able wives, or more endurable as maiden aunts to your children, if by-and-by we are delegated to that extensive range of femi- nine relationship. Still, after all, it does n& t matter I seem to be in a hundred moods at once to-night the time is com- ing, is almost here, when we can find our intellectual way about alone, even in our twenties or before; to doubt it would be insulting to the many be-spectacled dam- sels one meets, the many brave ~vomen one knows who are usefully fighting out their battle of life alone. But to return to my last lone love-letter. When New Years morning came I did remember my romantic adorer, and searched quickly among my letters and cards. There ~vas nothing from him. There was a little packet of books; opened it quickly it was a beautiful copy of Goethe in eight little volumes, and in the first one there was this simple in- scription: H. F. to K. V. My dear prig, far away in the Fatherland, had thought of me! I was not in love with him, I never have been, God help me, for I am not now, but I was so glad to see that he had not forgotten me. His gift made me happy all day. Late in the morning I sat in this same room reading my Goethe and oblivious of all things be- sides when a letter was brought in. It was written on very thick and beautiful paper with a ragged edge, it was enclosed in a thick and beautiful envelope of un- couth shape, with a ragged edge to its flap. It was insufficiently stamped, and there was twopence to pay for extra post- age. It is a mistake to send a love-letter insufficiently stamped, for ones sentiment feels dashed when one has just been hunt- ing for two horrid pennies, and the enve- lope does not look dainty when it is marked with a big 2in blue pencil. I sat down, half in a dream, but a cross dream, to read Mr. Sternes letter. It was a most magnificent epistle, but made me feel as if everything were unreal, and per- $6 A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. haps I was very heartless (I am), but I laughed a little. He must have taken so much trouble to compose it. KATHLEEN, The fatal hour has come, the spell may be broken, and I sit down to write what all these months, since you would have it so, I did not dare to say. Kath- leen, are you thinking of me to-night this last night of the old year, of the old life I pray it may be, this year on which the itew year and the new life may dawn? It is growing late, my hearts love growing late, for I have lingered in pleas- ant imagery thinking of you, of your face, of your voice, of the sound of your fleet young step as, unseen by you, I heard it last adown the garden pathway; lingering, too, to wonder how your words will sound if the new year towards which I turn my straining eyes shall let me hear you say, I love you, Adrian, I love you. Yes, it is growing late, but an hour to that strange meeting the meeting at which all time changes, ~vhen between yesterday and to-morrow is born to-day, and not only so to.night, for there will be born, too, a weanling year. My darling, my beautiful one, is the analogy to go farther? Will there meet also to-night the umpires of our destinies? Will the past and the present meet meet to give us a glorious future, a future in which hand in hand and heart to heart we shall forever go forward together? Forever, Kathleen, forever, for if but once our souls touch, you will know that love like mine is not for mortal life only but for all eter- nity. I think sometimes that when at last old and worn I reach the violet city and am counted unworthy to enter, that per- haps the name of Kathleen will be whis. pered about, and all past lovers sweet and true will pray, Let him in, for though he did all things ill, he loved one woman well. I stop to think, to send out a long, loving thought to you. Is it fancy, or does it meet one that you have sent to me meet in a mystic union that is but a symbol of an eternal union to come? My darling, my one love, my beautiful Kathleen, I love you. Write to me, dear one, write. Tell me that the world, that life, that Heaven itself has not played me false, that you are mine as I am yours forever forever, ADRIAN STERNE. That letter bewildered me, it was so confusing. It really seemed irreverent to reply to it in commonplace words, but none others were at my command. I hope I wrote kindly, I know I wrote firmly, and I stayed awake half that New Years night thinking how miserable he would be in the morning when my refusal reached him. I might have spared myself the trouble, for the next afternoon, waiting in the brougham while my mother xvent into a Bond Street shop, he and a friend passed by. They were shaking with laughter, and his voice rang out in a far merrier tone than I had thought it possessed. He was so absorbed in his joke that he did not notice the carriage, which he knew well enough, or see me. I hear he is going on the stage, partly because he has a talent for it, hut chiefly on account of his admi- ration for a certain charming actress. I wonder what he would have done if I had accepted him? It would have been truly embarrassing for us both. So I have torn up the last of my letters, and stand free of the old life, ready to begin the new. I do not feel very joyous. I wonder why I accepted Herbert. It was not, as I said when I first sat down to-night, be. cause he is well off or well placed, for there have been many men with those qualifications. I think it ~vas the remem- brance of feeling less lonely when he came back from Munich last spring that decided me. While he was away there was no one who could talk as he could talk of the things concerning which I was growing keen, none free as he was of fervor and exaggeration, of cant and self-conscious- ness. I am so tired of the exaggeration of all things that has crept into life until the whole of it is fevered and untrustwor- thy. To be with him after being with other people is like entering a bare, prim room after living in the luxurious ones of modern fashion, with their rich stuffs and colors, their semi-darkness and faint per- fumes; a little cold and comfortless, no chance of sentiment, no dreams, no ro- mance, but yet a sense of pure, fresh air. of clear light, of wholesome thought, of silence and work to be done. If there is any good in me it will rise to the surface with him, and the bad will shrink ashamed away. Yet how I cling to the last hours here, and I think with a little dread of the life that will begin almost immediately now, though it is the life that I have deliber- ately chosen and that I kno~v to be best for me. The men who gather round me wonder what my marriage means, and look amused. My women friends laugh and say, We never thought you, of all A CHAPTER ON PROPOSALS. 87 people, would marry that solemn Herbert Fellowes. Aunt Mary came to see me when she heard of my engagement. My dear Kathleen, she said with a little shudder, he is a terrible prig; why are you going to inflict him on your whole life? But I answer all of them with a laugh, If ones heart goes, one must needs follow it, and the prig has stolen mine, for none shall know how little I care. It would seem like an insult to him to let them think his wife did not love him. I would rather die than do him that humil- iating injury. Besides, they would never understand, the lotus-eaters, how good is the calm, cool land, far from the glare and heat and noise, to those who have known the wild fever of sunstroke. I do not mean for one single moment that I am grieving for Mark. Thank God I did not marry him, that our paths are wide apart. All love for him is dead, at least I think and hope so, and a withering scorn gathers when I think of his face and voice as we sat together last and he told me in that determined voice of his coming marriage. I am grateful to him for his falseness. If I had never seen him I might not have married Herbert, and I think life may be a better if less joyous thing ordered as it is. Yet why should I marry at all? We have been a very happy houseful here, all of us together. The little ones are the dearest and brightest of children ; we have a kind, careless father whose hair is grow. ing grey, and a sweet mother whom we all worship. Why am I going away? I shall not be happier in the quiet house at Camp- den Hill, furnished with brand-new fur- niture, dotted with wedding-gifts, spick and span, with the comfortlessness of things bought yesterday. Herbert and I How strange it will seem, no merry feet running up and down stairs, no laughing voices, no hurrying to dress and rushing in and out of each others rooms to com- pare the effect of our finery. Herbert and I, and nobody else! He and I alone, se- date and well-behaved, at breakfast ; he going off to his chambers, rather silent, but politely inquiring my plans for the day before he starts, perhaps politely kiss- ing my cheek with a kiss I have no busi- ness to refuse. Herbert and I again in the evening, going out to dine, or facing each other at our own brand-new table, with an air of emptiness and the gleam of the very bright silver pervading the room, always rather silent and sensible and well- behaved, doing things as others do them, and never launching into excitement or foolishness. What excellent books we shall read, ~vhat classical music we shall hear, what well-conducted people we shall know, how methodical and well-regulated our household will be, the same, and for- ever and ever the same, though grief or joy are our neighbors, though it be our birthdays or burying-days! Evolution and the excavations in Egypt, the influence of politics on the criminal classes, the restoration work in the British Museum, the changes at the universities how calmly keen I shall be about all these things in three months time! But my sister Rose is two-and-twenty, even Isabel is eighteen, it is time to make my spinster bow and, join the matron ranks. Sometimes I wish that Herbert were brighter, merrier, goier, as my younger brothers call it. There have been men about me who were full of life and fun, and their wives are the merriest of happy married women; if I had married one of them but no, I was in a grave and restless mood when I accepted Her- bert; but I am glad I took him. I have done with over-much laughter, and shall be content enough with the life that knows not excitement that he will give me. Per- haps all this humor of long seriousness may change, and I repent but no, for if it does change, and the old merry self awakes to find the world a pleasant place for holiday-making once more, then 1 will rout up my prig too, and he shall make merry also and move quickly. Yes, I lvii make him do what I please if I do but come to life my old strange quick self again. A boundless supply of animal spirits carries all before it; ~vho knows but that mine may come back? Meanwhile, the man whose wife I shall be is an honor- able gentleman, truthful and faithful, per- haps in his silent heart he is tender too. There will be rest and quiet and safety with him that do not exist any~vhere else for me. I wish I were good enough for him, for I always feel that in his quiet soul there is at least the greatness of self- forgetfulness. Dear Herbert, if I am nothing else in the world, I will be truest true to you, and if there is happiness to be found for you at my hands you shall find it. Perhaps in my heart I like you better than I think I do; for sometimes I feel that all this longing after the intellectual life and its amenities is but a form of hun- ger for hum an companionship and sym- pathy, perhaps for love that I may be proud and thankful to know is mine. It may be so with him too but I must stop. I have done with sentiment, the old letters are burnt, the old life is finished. The 88 ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. here) be accepted in a sentence, and then abandoned in a page. But we the com- mon herd of readers, if we are to deal with the consequences, to accept or repel the influence of the book, must, as in a prob- lem of mathematics, supply the missing steps. Thus, in perusing as we ought a propagandist romance, we must terribly increase the psice; and it is the pace thx From The Nineteenth Century kills. ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE Among the works to which the preced OF BELIEF.* ing remarks might apply, the most re BY W. E. GLADSTONE. markable within my knowledge is Robert Elsmere. It is indeed remarkable in HUMAN nature, when aggrieved, is apt many respects. It is a novel of nearly and quick in devising compensations. twic~ the length, and much more than The increasing seriousness and strain of twice the matter of ordinary novels. It our present life may have had the effect dispenses almost entirely, in the construc- of bringing about the large preference, tion of what must still be called its plot, which I understand to be exhibited in with the aid of incident in the ordinary local public libraries, for works of fiction. sense. We have indeed near the close a This is the first expedient of revenge, solitary individual crushed by a wagon, But it is only a link in a chain. The next but this catastrophe has no relation to the step is, that the writers of what might be plot, and its only purpose is to exhibit a grave books, in esse or in posse, have en- good death-bed in illustration of the great deavored with some success to circumvent missionary idea of the piece. The nexus the multitude. Those who have systems of the structure is to be found wholly in or hypotheses to recommend in phil?50 the workings of character. The assump- phy, conduct, or religion induct them into tion and the surrender of a rectory are the the costume of romance. Such was the most salient events, and they are simple second expedient of nature, the counter- results of what the actor has thought right. stroke of her revenge. XVhen this was And yet the great, nay, paramount func- done in Tdl~maque, Rasselas, or tion of character-drawing, the projection C~lebs, it was not without literary ef- upon the canvas of human beings endowed fect. Even the last of these three appears with the true forces of nature and vitality, to have been successful with its own gen- does not appear to be by any means the eration. It would now be deemed intol- master-gift of the authoress. In the mass erably dull. But a dull book is easily of matter which she has prodigally ex- renounced. The more didactic fictions of pended there might obviously be retrench- the present day, so far as I know them, ment; for there are certain laws of dimen- are not dull. We take them up, however, sion which apply to a novel, and which and we find that, when we meant to go to separate it from an epic. In the extraordi- play, we have gone to school. The ro- nary number of personages brought upon mance is a gospel of some philosophy, or the stage in one portion or other of the of some religion; and requires sustained book, there are some which are elaborated thought on many or some of the deepest with greater pains and more detail, than subjects, as the only rational alternative their relative importance seems to ~var- to placing ourselves at the mercy of our rant. Robert Elsmere is hard reading, author. We find that he has put upon us and requires toil and effort. Yet, if it be what is not indeed a treatise, but more difficult to persist, itis impossible to stop. formidable than if it were. Fora treatise The prisoner on the treadmill must work must nowhere beg the question it seeks to severely to perform his task; but if he decide, but must carry its reader onwards stops he at once receives a blo~v which by reasoning patiently from step to step. brings him to his senses. Here, as there, But the writer of the romance, under the it is human infirmity which shrinks; but convenient necessity ~vhich his form ~ here, as not there, the propelling motive is poses, skips in thought, over undefined within. I)eliberate judgment and deep distances, from stage to stage, as a bee interest alike rebuke a fainting reader. from flower to flower. A creed may (as The strength of the book, overbearing Rohert Elsmere. By Mrs. Humphry Ward, every obstacle, seems to lie in an extraor- Author of Miss Bretherton. In 3 vols. London; dinary wealth of diction, never separated Smith, Elder & Co., x888. from thought; in a close and searching night has past while I sat here and soon the day will dawn and oh, how cold it is! A long sleep while the light begins ,and then once more I shall be strong. Only another day now, I wish it were a century, yet no, I am content. ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. faculty of social observation; in generous appreciation of what is morally good, im- partially * exhibited in all directions; above all in the sense of mission with which the writer is evidently possessed, and in the earnestness and persistency of purpose with which through every page and line it is pursued. The book is emi- nently an offspring of the time, and will probably make a deep or at least a very sensible impression; not, however, among mere novel-readers, but among those who share, in whatever sense, the deeper thought of the period. The action begins in a Westmoreland valley, where the three young daughters of a pious clergyman are grouped around a mother infirm in health and without force of mind. All responsibility devolves accordingly upon Catherine, the eldest of the three; a noble character, living only for duty and affection. When the ear heard her, then it blessed her; and when the eye saw her, it gave witness to her.t Here comes upon the scene R.obert Els- mere, the eponymist and hero of the book, and the ideal, almost the idol, of the au- thoress. He had been brought up at Oxford, in years when the wholesale discomfiture of the great religious movement in the uni- versity, which followed upon the secession of Cardinal Newman, had been in its turn succeeded by a new religious reaction. The youth had been open to the personal influences of a tutor, who is in the highest degree beautiful, classical, and indiffer- entist; and of a noble-minded rationalizing teacher, whose name, Mr. Grey, is the thin disguise of another name, and whose lofty character, together with his gifts, and with the tendencies of the time, had made him a power in Oxford. But, in its action on a nature of devout susceptibil- ities as well as active talents, the place is stronger than the man, and Robert casts in his lot with the ministry of the Church. Let us stop at this point to notice the terms used. At St. Marys the sight and the experience touched his inmost feeling, and satisfied all the poetical and dramatic instincts of a passionate na- ture. 4 He carried his religious pas- sion - - . into the service of the great positive tradition around him. This gre at, and commonly life-governing de * Mrs. Ward has given evidence of this impartiality ~n her dedication to the memory of two friends, of whom one, Mrs. Alfred Lyttelton, lived and died un- shaken in helief. The other is more or less made Loown in the pages of the work. t See Joh Xxix. LI. ~ j. 121, 123. cision, is taken under the influence of forces wholly emotional. It is first after the step taken that we have an inkling of any reason for it.* This is not an isolated phenomenon. It is a key to the entire action. The work may be summed up in this way: it represents a battle between intellect and emotion. Of right, intellect wins; and, having won, enlists emotion in its service. Elsmere breaks upon us in Westmore- land, prepared to make the great commis- sion the business of his life, and to spend and be spent in it to the uttermost. He is at once attracted by Catherine; atten- tion forthwith ripens into love; and love finds expression in a proposal. But, with a less educated intelligence, the girl has a purpose of life not less determined than the youth. She believes herself to have an outdoor vocation in the glen, and above all an indoor vocation in her family, of which she is the single prop. A long battle of love ensues, fought out with not less ability, and with even greater tenacity, than the remarkable conflict of intellects, carried on by correspondence, which ended in the marriage between Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle. The resolute tension of the two minds has many phases; and a double crisis, first of refusal, secondly of accept- ance. This part of the narrative, wrought out in detail with singular skill, will prob- ably be deemed the most successful, the most normal of the whole. It is thor- oughly noble on both sides. The final surrender of Catherine is in truth an open- ing of the eyes to a wider view of the evolution of the individual, and of the great vocation of life; and it involves no disparagement. The garrison evacuates the citadel, but its arms have not been laid down, and its colors are flying still. So the pair settle themselves in a fam- ily living, full of the enthusiasm of hu- manity, which is developed with high energy in every practical detail, and based upon the following of the incarnate Say- iour. Equipped thus far with all that renders life desirable, their union is blessed by the birth of a daughter, and everything thrives around them for the formation of an ideal parish. But the parish is adorned by a noble old English mansion, and the mansion inhabited by a wealthy squire, who knows little of duty, but is devoted to incessant study. As an impersonated intellect, he is abreast of all modern inquiry, and, a Tractarian in his youth, he has long aban * i. 128. 89 90 ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. doned all belief. At the outset, he resents profoundly the rectors obtrusive concern for his neglected tenantry. But the cour- age of the clergyman is not to be damped by isolation, and in the case of a scanda- lously insanitary hamlet, after an adequate number of deaths, Mr. Wendover puts aside the screen called his agent, and re- builds with an ample generosity. This sudden and complete surrender seems to be introduced to glorify the hero of the work, for it does not indicate any perma- nent change in the social ideas of Mr. Wendover, but only in his relations to his clergyman. There is, however, made ready for him a superlative revenge. Robert has en- joyed the use of his rich library, and the two hold literary communications, but with a compact of silence on matters of belief. This treaty is honorably observed by the squire. But the clergyman invites his fate.* Mr. Wendover makes known to him a great design for a History of Tcs- timony, ~ worked out through many cen- turies. The book speaks indeed of the long wrestle of the two men, and the like.t But of Elsmeres wrestling there is no other trace or sign. What weapons the rector wielded for his faith, what strokes he struck, has not even in a single line been recorded. The discourse of the squire points out that theologians are men who decline to examine evidence, that miracles are the invention of credulous ages, that the preconceptions sufficiently explain the results. He wins in a canter. There cannot surely be a more curious contrast than that between the real battle, fought in a hundred rounds, between Els- mere and Catherine on marriage, and the fictitious battle between Elsmere and the squire on the subject of religion, where the one side is a p~an, and the other a blank. A great creed, with the testimony of eighteen centuries at its back, cannot find an articulate word to say in its de- fence, and the downfall of the scheme of belief shatters also, and of right, the highly ordered scheme of life that had nestled in the rectory of Murewell, as it still does in thousands of other English parsonages. It is notable that Elsmere seeks, in this conflict with the squire, no aid or counsel whatever. He encounters indeed by chance Mr. Newcome, a Ritualistic cler- gyman, whom the generous sympathies of the authoress place upon the roll of his friends. But the language of Mr. New- * ii. 243. t ii. 240. ~ ii. 244, 243. come offers no help to his understanding. It is this: Trample on yourself. Pray down the de- mon, fast, scourge, kill the hody, that the soul may live. What are we miserable worms, that we should defy the Most High, that we should set our wretched faculties against His Omnipotence ? * Mr. Newcome appears everywhere as not only a respectable but a remarkable character. But as to what he says here, how much does it amount to? Consid- ered as a medicine for a mind diseased, for an unsettled, dislocated soul, is it less or more than pure nonsense? In the work of an insidious non-believer, it would be set down as part of his fraud. Mrs. Ward evidently gives it in absolute good faith. It is one in a series of indications, by which this gifted authoress conveys to us what appears to be her thoroughly genu- ine belief that historical Christianity has, indeed, broad grounds and deep roots in emotion, but in reason none whatever. The revelation to the wife is terrible; but Catherine clings to her religion on a basis essentially akin to that of Newcome; and the faith of these eighteen centuries, and of the prime countries of the world, Bella, immortal, benefica Fede, ai trionfi avvezza,t is dismissed without a hearing. For my own part, I humbly retort on Robert Elsmere. Considered intellectu- ally, his proceedings in regard to belief appear to me, from the beginning as ~vell as in the down~vard process, to present dismal gaps. But the emotional part of his character is complete, nay redundant. There is no moral weakness or hesitation. There rises up before him the noble max- im, assigned to the so-called Mr. Grey (with whom he has a consultation of fore- gone conclusions), Conviction is the con- science of the mind. He renounces his parish and his orders. He still believes in God, and accepts the historical Christ as a wonderful man, good among the good, but a~ri,nus inter pares. Passing through a variety of stages, he devotes himself to the religion of human- ity; reconciles to the new gospel, by shoals, skilled artisans of London who had been totally inaccessible to the old one; and nobly kills himself with over- work, passing away in a final flood of light. He founds and leaves behind him the New Christian Brotherhood of El- * jj 270. t Manzoni s Cinque Maggio. ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. 9 good Street; and we are at the close ap- prised, with enthusiastic sincerity, that this is the true effort of the race,* and Others I doubt not, if not we, The issue of our toils shall see. Who can grudge to this absolutely pure. minded and very distinguished writer the comfort of having at last found the true specific for the evils and miseries of the world? None surely who bear in mind that the Salvation Army has been known to proclaim itself the Church of the fu- ture, or who happen to know that Bunsen, when in 1841 he had procured the founda- tion of the bishopric of Jerusalem, sug- gested in private correspondence his hope that this might be the Church which would meet the glorified Redeemer at his coming. It is necessary here to revert to the squire. Himself the ~soipa po~wvn, the supreme arbiter of destinies in the book, he is somewhat unkindly treated; his mind at length gives way, and a darkling veil is drawn over the close. Here seems to be a little literary intolerance, some- thing even savoring of a religious test. Robert Elsmere stopped in the downward slide at theism, and it calms and glorifies his deathbed. But the squire had not stopped there. He had said to Elsmere,t You are playing into the hands of the Blacks. All this theistic philosophy of yours only means so much grist to their mill in the end. But the great guide is dismissed from his guiding office as sum- marily as all other processes are con- ducted, which are required by the purpose of the writer. Art everywhere gives way to purpose. Elsmere no more shows cause for his theism than he had shown it against his Christianity. Why ~vas not Mr. Wendover allowed at least the conso- lations which gave a satisfaction to David Hume? Not yet, however, may I wholly part from this sketch ot the work. It is so large that much must be omitted. But there is one limb of the plan which is peculiar. Of the two sisters not yet named, one, Agnes by name, appears only as quasi-chaperon or as dummie. But Rose, the third, has beauty, the gift of a musical artist, and quick and plastic social faculties. Long and elaborate love rela- tions are developed between her and the /~oco-curante tutor and friend, Mr. Lang- ham. Twice she is fairly embarked in passion for him, and twice he jilts her. * iii. 411; COiflp. 276. t iii 226. Still she is not discouraged, and she finally marries a certain Flaxman, an amiable but somewhat manufactured character. From the standing-point of art, can this portion of the book fail to stir much misgiving? We know from Shakespeare how the loves of two sisters can be comprised within a single play. But while the drama requires only one connected action, the novel, and eminently this novel, aims rather at the exhibition of a life; and the reader of these volumes may be apt to say that in working two such lives as those of Cath- erine and Rose through so many stages, the authoress has departed from previous example, and has loaded her ship, though a gallant one, with more cargo than it will bear. It may indeed be that Mrs. Ward has been led to charge her tale with such a weight of matter from a desire to give philosophical completeness to her repre- sentation of the main springs of action vhich mark the life of the period. For in Robert Elsmere we have the tempered but aggressive action of the sceptical in- tellect; in Catherine the strong reaction against it; in Rose the art-life; and in Langham the literary and cultivated indif- ference of the time. The comprehensive- ness of such a picture may be admitted, without withdrawing the objection that, as a practical result, the cargo is too heavy for the vessel. Apart from this question, is it possible to pass without a protest the double jilt? Was Rose, with her quick and self-cen- tred life, a well-chosen corpus vile upon whom to pass this experiment? More broadly, though credible perhaps for a man, is such a process in any case possi- ble by the laws of art for a woman? Does she not violate the first conditions of her nature in exposing herself to so piercing an insult? An enhancement of delicate self-respect is one among the compensa- tions which Providence has supplied in woman, to make up for a deficiency in some ruder kinds of strength. Again, I appeal to the laws of art against the final disposal of Catherine. Having mcich less of ability than her husband, she is really drawn with greater force and truth; and possesses so firm a fibre that when, having been bred in a school of some intolerance, she begins to blunt the edge of her resistance, and to tolerate in divers ways, without adopting, the de- nuded system of her husband, we begin to feel that the key-note of her character is being tampered with. After his death, the discords become egregious. She re 92 ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. mains, as she supposes, orthodox and tenaciously Evangelical. But every knee must be made to bow to Elsmere. So she does not return to the northern valley and her mothers declining age, but in London devotes her weekdays to carrying on the institutions of charity he had founded on behalf of his new religion. He had him- self indignantly remonstrated with some supposed clergyman, who, in the guise of a Broad Churchman, at once held Els- meres creed and discharged externally the office of an Anglican priest. He there- fore certainly is not responsible for hav- ing taught her to believe the chasm be- tween them was a narrow one. Yet she leaps or steps across it every Sunday, attending her church in the forenoon, and looming as regularly every afternoon in the temple of the New Brotherhood. Here surely the claims of system have marred the work of art. Characters might have been devised whom this seesaw would have suited well enough; but for the Catherine of the first volume it is an unmitigated solecism; a dismal, if not even a degrading compromise. It has been observed that the women of the book are generally drawn with more felicity than the men. As a work of art, Rose is in my view the most successful of the women, and among the men the squire. With the squire Mrs. Ward is not in sym- pathy, for he destroys too much, and he does nothing but destroy. She cannot be in sympathy with Rose; for Rose, who is selfishly and heartlessly used, is herself selfish and heartless; with this aggrava- tion, that she has grown up in immediate contact ~vith a noble elder sister, and yet has not caught a particle of nobleness, as well as in view of an infirm mother to whom she scarcely gives a care. On the other hand, in her Robert, who has all Mrs. Wards affection and almost her wor- ship, and ~vho is clothed with a perfect panoply of high qualities, she appears to be less successful and more artificial. In the recently published correspondence * of Sir Henry Taylor, who was by no means given to paradox, we are told that great earnestness of purpose and strong adhesive sympathies in an author are ad- verse to the freedom and independence of treatment, the disembarrassed movement of the creative hand, which are required in the supreme poetic office of projecting character on the canvas. If there be truth in this novel and interesting suggestion, we cannot wonder at finding the result * P. 17 exhibited in Robert Elsmere, for never was a book written with greater persis- tency and intensity of purpose. Every page of its principal narrative is adapted and addressed by Mrs. Ward to the final aim which is bone of her bone and flesh of her flesh. This aim is to expel the pre- ternatural element from Christianity, to destroy its dogmatic structure, yet to keep intact the moral and spiritual results. The Brotherhood presented to us with such sanguine hopefulness is a Christian brotherhood, but with a Christianity emp- tied of that which Christians believe to be the soul and springhead of its life. For Christianity, in the established Christian sense, is the presentation to us not of ab- stract dogmas for acceptance, but of a living and a divine person, to whom they are to be united by a vital incorporation. It is the reunion to God of a nature sev- ered from God by sin, and the process is one, not of teaching lessons, but of im- parting a new life, with its ordained equip- ment of gifts and powers. It is, I apprehend, a complete mistake to suppose, as appears to be the supposition of this remarkable book, that all which has to be done with Scripture, in order to effect the desired transformation of religion, is to eliminate from it the miraculous ele- ment. Tremendous as is the sweeping process which extrudes the resurrection, there is much else, ~vhich is in no sense miraculous, to extrude along with it. The procession of palms, for example, is in- deed profoundly significant, but it is in no way miraculous. Yet, in any consistent history of a Robert Elsmeres Christ, there could be no l)rocession of palms. Unless it be the healing of the ear of Mal- chus, there is not a miraculous event be- tween the commencement of the Passion and the crucifixion itself. Yet the notes of a superhuman majesty overspread the whole. We talk of all religions as essen- tially one; but what religion presents to its votaries such a tale as this? Bishop Temple, in his sermons at Rugby, has been among the later teachers who have shown ho~v the whole behavior of our Lord., in this extremity of his abasement, seems more than ever to transcend all human limits, and to exhibit without argu- ing his divinity. The parables, again, are not less refractory than the miracles, and must disappear along with them; for what parables are there which are not built upon the idea of his unique and transcendant office? The Gospel of St. John has much less of miracle than the Synoptics ;but it must of course descend from its pedestal, ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. 93 in all that is most its own. And what is gained by all this condemnation, until we get rid of the baptismal formula? It is a question not of excision from the Gospels, but of tearing them into shreds. Far be it from me to deny that the parts which remain, or which remain legible, are vital parts; but this is no more than to say that there may remain vital organs of a man, after the man himself has been cut in pieces. I have neither space nor capacity at command for the adequate discussion of the quer~ions which shattered the faith of Robert Elsmere; whether miracles can happen, and ~vhether an universal pre- conception in their favor at the birth of Christianity governing the work of all men of all schools, * adequately accounts for the place which has been given to them in the New Testament, as available proofs of the divine mission of our Lord. But I demur on all the points to the au- thority of the squire, and even of Mr. Grey. - The impossibility of miracle is a doc- trine which appears to claim for its basis the results of physical inquiry. They point to unbroken sequences in material nature, and refer every phenomenon to its immediate antecedent as adequate to its orderly production. But the appeal to these great achievements of our time is itself disorderly, for it calls upon natural science to decide a question which lies beyond its precinct. There is an extrane- ous force of will which acts upon matter in derogation of laws purely physical, or alters the balance of those laws among themselves. lt can be neither philosoph- ical nor scientific to proclaim the impos- sibility of miracle, until philosophy or science shall have determined a limit, be- yond ~vhich this extraneous force of will, so familiar to our experience, cannot act upon or deflect the natural order. Next, as to that avidity for miracle, which is supposed by the omniscient squire to account for the invention of it. Let it be granted, for arguments sake, that if the gospel had been intended only for the Jews, they at least were open to the imputation of a biassing and blinding appe- tite for signs and wonders. But scarcely had the Christian scheme been established among the Jews, when it began to take root among the Gentiles. It will hardly be con- tended that these Gentiles, who detested and despised the Jewish race, had any pre- disposition to receive a religion at their ii. 246, 247. hands or upon their authority. Wei-e they then, during the century which succeeded our Lords birth, so swayed by a devour- ing thirst for the supernatural as to ac- count for the early reception, and the steady if not rapid growth of the Christian creed among them? The statement of the squire, which carries Robert Elsmere, is that the preconception in favor of mir- acles at the period governed the work of all men of all schools. * A most gross and palpable exaggeration. In philos- ophy the Epicurean school was atheistic, the Stoic school was ambiguously theistic, and doubt nestled in the Academy. Chris- tianity had little direct contact with these schools, but they acted on the tone of thought, in a manner not favorable but adverse to the preconception. Meantime the power of religion ~vas in decay. The springs of it in the general mind and heart were weakened. A del- uge of profligacy had gone far to destroy, at Rome, even the external habit of public wo ship; and Horace, himself an indiffer- entist,t denounces the neglect and squalor of the temples; while further on we have the stern and emphatic testimony of Ju- venal Esse aliquid Manes, et subterranea regna, Et contum, et Stygio ranas in gurgite nigras, Nec pueri credunt, nisi qui nondum ~re lavan- tur4 The age was not an age of faith, among thinking and ruling classes, either in nat- ural or in supernatural religion. There had been indeed a wonderful evangelical preparation in the sway of the Greek language, in the unifying power of the Roman State and Empire, and in the utter moral failure of the grand and dominant civilizations; but not in any virgin soil, yearning for the sun, the rain, or the seed of truth. But the squire, treading in the foot- prints of Gibbons fifteenth chapter, leaves it to be understood that, in the appeal to the supernatural, the new religion enjoyed an exclusive as well as an overpowering advantage; that it had a patent for mira- cle, which none could infringe. Surely this is an error even more gross than the statement already cited about all men of all schools. The supernatural was inter- woven with the entire fabric of the reli- gion of the Roman State, which, if weak and effete as a religious discipline, was of extraordinary power as a social institu o ~j 247. t Hor., Od. i. ~ iii. 6. ~ Sat. ii. iso. 94 ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. tion. It stood, if not on faith yet on na- upon, says Tacitus, secuta harus icum I 1~ tionality, on tradition, on rich endowments, in/er~retatio; sometimes through events on th& deeply interested attachment of a only preternatural from the want of as- powerful aristocracy, and on that policy signable cause, as when the statue of Ju. of wide conciliation, which gave to so lius C~esar, on an island in the Tiber, many creeds, less exclusive than the turned itself round from west to east.* Christian, a cause common with its own. Sometimes with an approximation to the Looking for a comprehensive descrip- Christian signs and wonders, as when tion of miracles, we might say that they Vespasian removed with spittle the tabes constitute a language of heaven embodied oculorum, and restored the impotent in material signs, by which communica- hand.t It does not readily appear why in tion is established between the Deity and principle the Romans, who had the super- man, outside the daily course of nature natural for their daily food in a shape and experience. Distinctions may be sustained by the unbroken tradition of taken between one kind of miracle and their country, should be violently attract- another. But none of these are distinc- ed by the mere exhibition of it from a tions in principle. Sometimes they are despised source, and in a manner less alleged to be the offspring of a divine formal, less organized, and less known. power committed to the hands of particu- In one important way we know the ac- lar men; sometimes they are simple cepted supernatural of the Romans op- manifestations unconnected with human erated with direct and telling power against agency, and carrying with them their own the gospel. Si cceiurn ste/it, si terra mo- meaning, such as the healings in Be- vit, Ghristianos ad leones. Or, in the thesda; sometimes they are a systen-. of unsuspected language of Tacitus, durn events and of phenomena subject to au- latius metuitur, tre~idatione vulgi, inva- thoritative and privileged interl)retation. lidus quisque ob/riti. When the portents Miracle, portent, prodigy, and sign are all were unfavorable, and there was fear of various forms of one and the same thing, their extension, the weak had to suffer namely an invasion of the known and from the popular alarms4 common natural order from the side of The upshot of the matter then appears the supernatural. In the last-named case, to be something like this. there is an expression of the authorized The lowly and despised preachers of human judgment upon it, while in the Christian portent were confronted every. earlier ones there is only a special appeal where by the highborn and accomplished to it. They rest upon one and the same caste sworn to the service of the gods, basis. We may assign to miracle a body familiar from centuries of tradition with and a soul. It has for its body something the supernatural, and supported at every accepted as being either in itself or in its point with the whole force and influence incidents outside the known processes of of civil authority. Nor has there ever ordinary nature, and for its soul the al- probably been a case of a contest so un- leged message which in one shape or an- equal, as far as the powers of this world other it helps to convey from the Deity to are concerned. Tainted in its origin by man. This supernatural element, as such, its connection with the detested Judaism, was at least as familiar to the Roman odious to the prevailing tone by its exclu- heathenism, as to the Christian scheme. siveness, it rested originally upon the tes- It was indeed more highly organized. It timony of men few, poor, and ignorant, was embodied in the regular and normal and for a length of time no human genius practice of the ministers of religion, and was enlisted in its service, with the single especially, under the jurisdiction of the exception of Saint Paul. All that we of pontifical college, it was the regular and this nineteenth century know, and know standing business of the augurs to ob- so well, under the name of vested interests, serve, report, and interpret the supernat- is insignificant compared with the embat- ural signs, by which the gods gave re- tled fortress that these humble Christians puted instructions to men outside the had to stOrIn. And the squire, if he is to course of nature. Sometimes it was by win the day with minds less ripe for con- strange atmospheric phenomena; some- version than Robert Elsmere, must pro- times by physical prodigies, as when a duce some other suit of weapons from his woman produced a snake,* or a calf was armory. born with its head in its thigh,j- where- With him I now part company, as his * Tac., Ann. Xiv. 12. t Ibid. Xv. ~ * Tac., Hist. I. 86. 1 Ibid. iv. Sr. $ Tac., Ann. XII. 43. ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. thoroughgoing negation parts company with the hybrid scheme of Mrs. Ward. It is of that scheme that I now desire to take a view immediately practical. In a concise but striking notice in the Times it is placed in the category of clever attacks upon revealed religion. It certainly offers us a substitute for re- vealed religion; and possibly the theught of the book might be indicated in these words: The Christianity accepted in England is a good thing; but come with me, and I will show you a better. It may, I think, be fairly described as a devout attempt, made in good faith, to simplify the difficult mission of religion in the world by discarding the supposed lumber of the Christian theology, while retaining and applying, in their undimin- ished breadth of scope, the whole personal, social, and spiritual morality which has now, as matter of fact, entered into the patrimony of Christendom; and, since Christendom is the dominant power of the world, into the patrimony of the race. It is impossible indeed to conceive a more religious life than the later life of Robert Elsmere, in his sense of the word religion. And that sense is far above the sense in which religion is held, or practically ap- plied, by great multitudes of Christians. It is, however, a new form of religion. The question is, can it be actually and beneficially substituted for the old one. It abolishes of course the whole authority~ of Scripture. It abolishes also Church, priesthood or ministry, sacraments, and the whole established machinery which trains the Christian as a member of a reli- gious society. These have been regarded by fifty generations of men as wings of the soul. It is still required by Mrs. Ward to fly, and to fly as high as ever; but it is to fly without wings. For baptism, we have a badge of silver, and inscription in a book.* For the eucharist there is at an ordinary meal a recital of the fragment, This do in remembrance of Me. The children respond, Jesus, we remember thee always. It is hard to say that prayer is retained. In the Elgood Street service it is rather an act of adoration and faith, than a prayer properly so called, ~ and it appears that memory and trust are the instruments on which the individual is to depend, for maintaining his communion with God. It would be curious to know how the Ne~v Brotherhood is to deal with the great mystery of mar iii. 358. t iii. 360. 95 riage, perhaps the truest touchstone of religious revolution. It must be obvious to every reader that in the great duel between the old faith and the new, as it is fought in Robert Elsmere, there is a great inequality in the distribution of the arms. Reasoning is the weapon of the new scheme; emo- tion the sole resource of the old. Neither Catherine nor Newcome have a word to say beyond the expression of feeling; and it is when he has adopted the negative side that the hero himself is fully intro- duced to the faculty of argument. This is a singular arrangement, especially in the case of a writer who takes a generous view of the Christianity that she only desires to supplant by an improved device. The explanation may be simple. There are abundant signs in the book that the negative speculatists have been consulted if not ransacked; but there is nowhere a sign that the authoress has made herself acquainted with the Christian apologists, old or recent; or has weighed the evi- dences derivable from the Christian his- tory; or has taken measure of the relation in which the doctrines of grace have his- torically stood to the production of the noblest, purest, and greatest characters of the Christian ages. If such be the case, she has skipped lightly (to put it no higher) over vast mental spaces of literature and learning relevant to the case, and has given sentence in the cause without hear- ing the evidence. It might perhaps be not unjust to make a retort upon the authoress, and say that while she believes herself simply to be yielding obedience to reason, her move- ment is in reality impelled by bias. We have been born into an age when, in the circles of literature and science, there is a strong antidogmatic leaning, a preju- dice which may largely intercept the ac- tion of judgment; partly because belief has its superstitions, and the detection of these superstitions opens the fabric to at- tack, like a breach in the wall of a fortress when at a given point it has been ~tuffed with unsound material; partly because the rapidity of the movement of the time predisposes the mind to novelty; partly because the multiplication of enjoyments, through the progress of commerce and in- vention, enhances the materialism of life, strengthens by the forces of habit the hold of the seen world upon us, and leaves less both of brain power and of heart power available for the unseen. Enormous ac- cretion of wealth is no more deprived of its sting now, than it was when Saint Paul 96 ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. penned his profoundly penetrating admo- nition to Timothy.* And when, under the present conditions, it happens that the environment of personal association rep- resents either concentrated hostility or hopeless diversity in religion, there may be hardly a chance for firm and measured belief. What we find to be troublesome, yet from some inward protest are not pre- pared wholly to reject, we like to simplify and reduce; and the instances of good and devoted men who are averse to dogma, more frequent than usual in this age, are powerful to persuade us that in lightening the cargo we are really securing the safe voyage of the ship. About dogma we hear dispute, but the laws of high social morality no speculation is disposed to question. Why not get rid of the disput- able, and concentrate all our strength on grasping the undisputed? We may by a little wresting quote high authority for this recommendation. Whereto we have already attained . . . let us mind the same thing. . . . And if in anything yebe oth erwise minded, God shall reveal even this unto you.t It is not difllcultto conceive how, under the action of causes ~vith which the time abounds, pure and lofty minds, wholly guiltless of the intention to impair or lower the motive forces of Christianity, may be led into the snare, and may even conceive a process in itself destructive to be, on the contrary, conservative and re- paratory. But it is a snare none the less. And first let us recollect, when we speak of renouncing Christian dogma, what it is that we mean. The germ of it as a sys- tem lies in the formula, Baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. ~ This was speedily developed into the substance of the Apostles Creed; the creed which forms our confession of individual faith, in baptism and on the bed of death. Now belief in God, which forms (so to speak) the first great limb of the creed, is strictly a dogma, and is on no account, according to Mrs. Ward, to be surrendered. But the second and greatest portion of the creed contains twelve propositions, of which nine are matters of fact, and the whole twelve have for their office the set- ting forth to us of a personage to whom a great dispensation has been committed. The third division of the creed is more dogmatic, but it is bound down like the second to earth and fact by the article of Tim. iv. 9. t Phil. iii. i~, x6. $ St. Matt. xxviii. ig. the Church, a visible and palpable insti- tution. The principal, purely dogmatic part of this great document is the part which is to be retained. And we, who accept the Christian story, are entitled to say, that to extrude from a history, tied to strictly human facts, that by which they become a standing channel of organic connectionbetween Deity and humanity, is not presumptively a very hopeful mode of strengthening our belief in God, thus deprived of its props and accessories. The chasm between Deity and the human soul, over which the scheme of redemp- tion has thrown a bridge, again yawns beneath our feet, in all its breadth and depth. Although the divinity of Christ is not put prominently forward in this book, but rather the broader objection to supernat- ural manifestations, yet it will be found to be the real hinge of the entire question. For, if Christ be truly God, few will deny that the exceptional incidents which fol- low in the train of his appearance upon earth raise, in substance, no new diffi- culty. Is it true, then, that Christians have been so divided on this subject as to promise us a return of peace and prog- ress by its elimination? To answer this question rightly, we must not take the humor of this or that particular time or country, but must re- gard the Christian system in its whole extension, and its whole duration. So regarding it, we shall find that the asser- tion, far from being true, is glaringly un- true. The truth in rude outline is surely this. That when the Gospel went out into the world, the greatest of all the groups of controversies which progress- ively arose within its borders was that which concerned the true nature of the object of worship. That these contro- versies ran through the most important shapes which have been known to the protessing Church of later years, and through many more. That they rose, especially in the fourth century, to such a height, amidst the conflict of councils, popes, and theologians, that the private Christian was too often like the dove xvan- det-ing over the waters, and seeking in vain a resting-place for the sole of his foot. That the whole mind and heart of the Church were given, in their whole strength and through a lengthened period, to find some solution of these controve~- sies. That many generations passed be- fore Arianism wholly ceased to be the basis of Christian profession in spots or sections of Christendom, but not so long ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. before the central thought of th ebodyas a whole had come to be fixed in the form of what has ever since, and now for over fourteen hundred years, been known as the orthodox belief. The authority of this tradition, based upon the Scriptures, has through all that period been upheld at the highest point to which a marvellous continuity and universality could raise it. It ~vas not impeached by the questioning mind of the thirteenth century. The sci- entific revolution, which opened to us the antipodes and the solar system, did not shake it. The more subtle dangers of the Renaissance were dangers to Christianity as a whole, but not to this great element of Christianity as a part. And when the terrible struggles of the Reformation stirred every coarse human passion as ~vell as every fond religious interest into fury, even then the Nicene belief, as M6hler in his Symbolik has so well observed, sat undisturbed in a region ele- vated above the controversies of the time; which only touched it at points so excep- tional, and comparatively so obscure, as not appreciably to qualify its majestic au- thority. A Christianity without Christ is no CIiristianity; and a Christ not divine is one other than the Christ on whom the souls of Christians have habitually fed. What virtue, what piety, have existed out- side of Christianity, is a question totally distinct. But to hold that, since the great controversy of the early time was wound up at Chalcedon, the question of our Lords divinity (which draws after it all that Robert Elsmere would excide) has generated the storms of the Christian at- mosphere, would be simply an historical untruth. Ho~v then is the work of peace to be promoted by the excision from our creed of that central truth on which we are generally agreed? The onward movement of negation in the present day has presented perhaps no more instructive feature than this, that the Unitarian persuasion has, in this country at least, byno means thriven upon it. It might have been thought that, in the process of dilapidation, here would have been a point at which the receding tide of belief would have rested at any rate for a while. But instead of this, we are informed that the numbers of pro- fessed Unitarians have increased less than those of other communions, and less than the natural growth of the population. And we find Mrs. Ward herself describing the old Unitarian scheme * as one wholly des , iii. 55. LIVING AGE. VOL. LXIV. 3283 97 titute of logic; but in what respect she improves upon it I have not yet perceived. In order to invest any particular propa- gandism with a show of presumptive title to our acceptance, its author should be able to refer it to some standard of appeal which will show that it has foundations other~vise than in mere private judgment or active imagination. The books of the New Testament I understand to be, for Mrs. Ward, of no value except for the moral precepts they contain. Still less may we invoke the authority of the Old Testament, where the ethical picture is more chequered. She finds no spell in the great moral miracle (so to phrase it) of the Psalms; nor in the marvellous pro- paideja of the Jewish history, so strikingly confirmed by recent research ; in the Le- vi tical law, - the prophetic teaching, the entire dispensation of temporal promise and of religious ~vorship and instruction, by which the Hebrew race was kept in social isolation through fifteen centuries, as a cradle for the Redeemer that was to come. She is not awakened by the Chris. tian more than by the Jewish history. No way to her assent is opened by the great victory of the worlds babes and striplings over its philosophers and schol- ars, and the serried array of emperors, aristocracies, and statesmen, with their elaborate apparatus of organized institu- tions. All this cogent mass of human testimony is rendered, I admit, on behalf not of a vague and arbitrary severance of Christian morals from the roots which have produced them, but of what we term the Christian dogma, that is to say, of be- lief in God supplemented and brought home by the great fact of redemption, and of the provision made through the Church of Christ for the perpetual conser- vation and application of its living powers. And it must be observed that, in adduc. ing this evidence from consent, I make no assumption and beg no question as between reformed and unreformed Chris- tianity. By any such preferential treat- ment of a part, I should ~veaken the authority and betray the sacred cause of the whole. All that can be said or shown of the corruptions that have gathered round the cen~ral scheme, of the failure rightly to divide the word of truth, of the sin and shame that in a hundred forms have belied its profession, affords only new proof of the imperishable vitality that has borne so much disease, of the buoy- ancy of the ark on whose hull has grown so much of excrescence without arresting its course through the waters. And again, 98 ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. the concord of Christians ever since the great adjudication of the fifth century on the central truth has acquired an addition of weight almost incalculable, from the fact that they have differed so sharply upon many of the proposidons that are grouped around it Without doubt human testimony is to be duly and strictly sifted, and every de- fect in its quantity or quality is to be recorded in the shape of a deduction from its weight. But as there is no proceeding more irreverent, so there is none more strictly irrational, than its wholesale de- precation. Such depreciation is an infal- lible note of shallow and careless thinking, for it very generally implies an exaggerated and almost ludicrous estimate of the ca pacity and performances of the present generation, as compared with those which have preceded it. judges in our own eause, pleaders with nobody to reply, we take ample note of every comparative ad- vantage we possess, but forget to register deteriorating and disqualifying influences. Not less commonly is our offence avenged by our own inconsistency. The solemn voice of the ages, the securus1udzcatorbts Ierraru;fl, amounts simply to zero for Robert Elsmere. Yet he can absolutely surrender to his own selected pope the guidance of his understanding; and when he asks himself, at the funeral in the third volume, whether the more modest, that is the emasculated, form of human hope in -the presence of the Eternal, may not be as real, as sustaining, as the old one, his reply to this great question is: Let Greys trust answer for me. * This great buttress of the old religion, whatever its value, is then withdrawn from Ahe new one, which starts like a painted ship Upon a painted ocean, accredited by a successful venture among the London artisans, who differ (so we are told) not only from the classes above and beneath them in the metropolis, as to their disposition to accept the Christian doc- trines, but from their own brethren in the north.t It is not, therefore, on testimony that the Elsmere gospel takes its stand. Does it, then, stand upon philosophy, upon inherent beauty and fitness, as compared -with the scheme which it dismembers and then professes to replace? Again, be it borne in mind that the essence of the proposal is to banish the supernatural iii. 284. t iii. 59. idea and character of our Lord, but to im- bibe and assimilate his moral teachings. From my antiquated point of view, this is simply to bark the tree, and then, as the death which ensues is not immediate, to point out with satisfaction on the instant that it still waves living branches in the wind. We have before us a huge lar- cenous appropriation, by the modern schemes, of goods which do not belong to them. They carry peacocks feathers, which adorn them for a time, and which they cannot reproduce. Let us endeavor to learn whether these broad assumptions, which flow out of the historic testimony of the Christian ages, are also prompted and sustained by the reason of the case. It is sometimes possible to trace pecul- iar and marked types of human character with considerable precision to their causes. Take, for instance, the Spartan type of character, in its relation to the legislation attributed to Lycurgus. Or take, again, the Jewish type, such as it is presented to us both by the ancient and the later his- tory, in its relation to the Mosaic law and institutions. It would surely have been a violent paradox, in either of these cases, to propose the abolition of the law, and to assert at the same time that the character would continue to be exhibited, not only sporadically and for a time, but normally and in permanence. These were restricted, almost tribal, systems. Christianity, though by no means less peculiar, was diffusive. It both pro- duced a type of ~character wholly new to the Roman world, and it fundamentally altered the laws and institutions, the tone, temper, and tradition of that ~vorld. For example, it changed profoundly the rela- tion of the poor to the rich, and the almost forgotten obligations of the rich to the poor. It abolished slavery, abolished human sacrifice, abolished gladiatorial shows, and a multitude of other horrors. It restored the position of woman in so- ciety. It proscribed polygamy; and put down divorce, absolutely in the West, though not absolutely in the East. It made peace, instead of war, the normal and presumed relation between human societies. It exhibited life as a discipline everywhere and in all its parts, and changed essentially the place and function of suffering in human experience. Ac- cepting the ancient morality as far as it went, it not only enlarged but transfigured its teaching, by the laws of humility and forgiveness, and by a law of purity per- haps even more new and strange than these. Let it be understood that I speak throughout not of such older religion as may have subsisted in the lowly and un- observed places of human life, but of what staml)ed the character of its strono~holds. of the elements which made up the main and central currents of thought, action, and influence, in those places, and in those classes, which drew the rest of the world in their train. All this was not the work of a day, but it was the work of powers and principles which persistently asserted themselves in despite of contro- versy, of infirmity, and of corruption in every form; which reconstituted in life and vigor a society found in decadence ~vhich by degrees came to pervade the very air we breathe ; and ~vhich eventually have beyond all dispute made Christen- dom the dominant portion, and Christian- ity the ruling power, of the world. And all this has been done, not by eclectic and arbitrary fancies, but by the creed of the Homoousion, in which the philosophy of modern times sometimes appears to find a favorite theme of ridicule. l3ut it is not less material to observe that the whole fabric, social as ~vell as personal, rests on the new type of individual character which the gospel brought into life and action; enriched and completed ~vithout doubt from collateral sources which made part of the evangelical preparation, but in its central essence due entirely to the dis- pensation which had been founded and wrought out in the land of Judea, and in the history of the Hebrew race. What right have ~ve to detach, or to suppose we can detach, this type of personal character from the causes out of which as matter of history it has grown, and to assume that without its roots it will thrive as well as with them? For Mrs. Ward is so firmly convinced, and so affectionately sensible, of the ex- quisite excellence of the Christian type that she ~vill I)ermit no abatement from it, though she thinks it can be cast in a mould which is human as well as, nay, bet- ter than, in one which is divine. Nor is she the first person who, in renouncing the Christian tradition, has reserved her allegiance to Christian morals and even sought to raise their standard. We have, for instance, in America, not a person only, but a society, ~vhich, while trampling on the divinity and incarnation of Christ, not only accepts his rule of life, but pushes evangelical counsels into absolute pre- cepts, and insists upon them as the rule of life for all who seek, instead of abiding in the lower-floor churches, to be Chris- tians indeed. The fundamental princi 99 ples of Shakerism are virgin purity, non-resistance, peace, equality of in- heritance, and unspottedness from the ~vorld * The evidence of travellers ap- pears to show that the ideal of these projectors has to a certain degree been realized ; nor can we know for how many years an eccentric movement of this kind will endure the test of time without palpa- bly giving way. The power of environ- ment, and the range of idiosyncrasy, suffice to generate, especially in dislocat- ing times, all sorts of abnormal combina- tions, which subsist, in a large degree, upon forces not their own, and so impose themselves, with a show of authority, upon the world. Let us return to the point. The Chris- tian type is the product and the property of the Christian scheme. No, says the objector, the improvements which we wit- ness are the offspring of civilization, It might be a sufficient answer to point out that the civilization before and around us is a Christian civilization. What civiliza- tion could do without Christianity for the greatest races of mankind, we know al- ready. Philosophy and art, creative genius and practical energy, had their turn before the Advent; and we can register the re- sults. I do not say that the great Greek and Roman ages lostperhaps even they improved the ethics of meu;n and t7uem, in the interests of theleisuredandfavored classes of society, as compared with what those ethics had been in archaic times. But they lost the hold which some earlier races within their sphere had had of the future life. They degraded, and that im- measurably, the position of woman. They effaced from the world the law of purity. They even carried indulgence to a worse than bestial type; and they gloried in the achievement-f Duty and religion, in the governing classes and the governing places, were absolutely torn asunder; and self-will and self-worship were established as the unquestioned rule of life. It is yet more important to observe that the very qualities which are commended in the beatitudes, and elsewhere in the Sermon on the Mount, and which form the base of the character specifically Christian, were for the Greek and the Roman mind the objects of contempt. From the history of all that has lain within the reach of the great Mediterranean basin, not a tittle of encouragement can be drawn for the ideas * The quotation is from a preface to Shaker Ser- mons, hy H. L. Lads, Bishop of South Union, Ken- tucky. Fourth edition, 1887. 1 See for instance the Eptorr of Lucian. ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. 100 ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. of those who would surrender the doc- the rays of an example in the preterite trines of Christianity and yet retain its tense, set by a dead man in Judea, for that moral and spiritual fruits. scheme of living forces by which the Does then that severance, unsustained powers of a living Saviours humanity are by authority or by experience, commend daily and hourly given to man, under a itself at any single point by an improved charter which expires only with the world conformity with purely abstract principles itself. Is it possible here to discern, of philosophy? and is the new system either from an ideal or from a practical better adapted to the condition and the point of view, anything but depletion and needs of human nature than the old? impoverishment, and the substitution of a Does it better correspond with what an spectral for a living form? enlightened reason would dictate as the If we proceed to the second question, best provision for those needs? Does it the spectacle, as it presents itself to me, mitigate, or does it enhance, the undoubted is stranger still. Although we know that difficulties of belief? And if the answer James Mill, arrested by the strong hand must be given in the negative to both of Bishop Butler, halted rather than rested these inquiries, how are we to account for for a while in theism on his progress to- the strange phenomenon which exhibits to wards general negation, yet his case does us persons sincerely, nay painfully, desir- not supply, nor can we draw from other ous of seeing divine government more and sources, any reason to regard such a posi- more accepted in the world, yet enthusias- tion as one which can be largely and per- tically busied in cutting away the best manently held against that relentless force among the props by which that govern- of logic which is ever silently at work to ment has been heretofore sustained? assert and to avenge itself. The theist is As regards the first of these three ques- confronted, with no breakwater between, tions, it is to be observed that, while the by the awful problem of moral evil, by the older religions made free use of prodigy mystery of pain, by the apparent anoma- and portent, they employed these instru- lies of waste and of caprice on the face of ments for political rather than moral pur- creation; and not least of all by the fact poses; and it may be doubted whether the that, while the moral government of the sum total of such action tended to raise world is founded on the free agency of the standard of life and thought. The man, there are in multitudes of cases en- general upshot ~vas that the individual vironing circumstances independent of his soul felt itself very far from God. Our will which seem to deprive that agency, bedimmed eye could not perceive his called free, of any operative power ade- purity and our puny reach could not find quate to contend aoainst them. In this touch of his vastness. By the scheme of bewildered state of things, in this great redemption, this sense of distance was enigma of the world, Who is this that removed. The divine perfections were cometh from Edom, with dyed garments reflected through the medium of a perfect from Bozrah? - . . Wherefore art thou humanity, and were thus made near, famil- red in thine apparel, and thy garments like iar, and liable to love. The great all- him that treadeth in the winefat? ~ * pervading law of human sympathy became There has come upon the scene the figure directly available for religion, and in link- of a Redeemer, human and divine. Let it ing us to the divine humanity, linked us be granted that the incarnation is a mar- by the same act to God. And this not for vel wholly beyond our reach, and that the rare and exceptional souls alone, but for miracle of the resurrection to-day gives the common order of mankind. The di- serious trouble to fastidious intellects. rect contact, the interior personal coin- But the difficulties of a baffled understand- munion of the individual with God was ing, lying everywhere around us in daily re-established; for human faculties, in experience, are to be expected from its their normal action, could now appreciate limitations; not so the shocks encoun- and approach to, what had previously been tered by the moral sense. Even if the inappreciable and unapproachable. Surely Christian scheme slightly leno4hened the the system I have thus rudely exhibited immeasurable catalogue of the first, this was ideally a great philosophy, as well as is dust in the balance compared with the practically an immeasurable boon. To relief it furnishes to the second; in sup. strike out the redemptive clauses from plying the most powerful remedial agency the scheme is to erase the very feature ever known, in teaching how pain may be by which it essentially differed from all made a helper, and evil transmuted into other schemes; and to substitute a didac- tic exhibition of superior morality, with * Is. lxiii. ~, 2. ROBERT ELSMERE AND THE BATTLE OF BELIEF. I0I good; and in opening clearly the vision of another world, in which we are taught to look for yet larger counsels of the Al- mighty wisdom. To take away, then, the agency so beneficent, which has so soft- ened and reduced the moral problems that lie thickly spread around us, and to leave us face to face with them in all their orig- inal rigor, is to enhance and not to miti- gate the difficulties of belief. Lastly, it is not difficult to understand why those who prefer the pagan ideal, or who cannot lay hold on the future world, or who labor under still greater disadvan- tages should put aside as a whole the gospel of God manifest in the flesh. But Mrs. Ward is none of these; and it is far harder to comprehend the mental attitude, or the mental consistency at least, of those who like her desire to retain what was manifested, but to thrust aside the mani- festing person, and all that his living per- sonality entails; or, if I may borrow an Aristotelian figure, to keep the accidents and discard the substance. I cannot pre- tend to offer a solution of this hard riddle. But there is one feature which almost uniformly marks writers whose mind as in this case is of a religious tone, or who do not absolutely exclude religion, while they reject the Christian dogma and the au- thority of Scripture. They appear to have a very low estimate both of the quantity and the quality of sin; of its amount, spread like a deluge over the ~vorld, and of the subtlety, intensity, and virulence of its nature. I mean a low estimate as com- pared with the mournful denunciations of the sacred writings, or with the language especially of the later Christian confes- sions. Now let it be granted that, in in- terpreting those confessions, we do not sufficiently allow for the enormous differ- ences among human beings differences both of original disposition and of ripened character. We do not sufficiently take account of the fact that, while disturbance and degradation have so heavily effected the mass, there are a happy few on whom natures degeneracy has but lightly laid its hand. In the biography of the late Dr. Marsh we have an illustration apt for my purpose. His family was straitly Evangelical. He underwent what he deemed to be conversion. A like-minded friend congratulated his mother on the work of divine grace in her son. But, in the concrete, she mildly resented the re- mark, and replied that in truth divine grace would find very little to do in her son William. In the novel of The Unclassed by the author of Thyrza, which, like Rob- ert Elsmere, is of the didactic and specu- lative class, the leadino- man-character, when detailing his mental history, says that sin ~ has never been for him a word of weighty import. So ingenuous a con- fession is not common. I remember but one exception to the rule that the negative writers of our own day have formed, or at least have exhibited, a very feeble esti- mate of the enormous weight of sin, as a factor in the condition of man and of the world. That exception is Amiel. Mrs. Ward has prefixed to her translation of his remarkable and touching work an in- troduction, from which I make the follow- ing extract His Calvinistic training lingers long in him; and what detaches him from the Hegelian school, with which he has much in common, is his own stronger sense of personal need, his preoccupation with the idea of sin. He speaks (says M. Renan contemptuously) of sin, of salvation, of redemption, and conversion, as if these things were realities. He asks me, What does M. Renan make of sin? Eh bien, je crois que je le supprime. The closing expression is a happy one; sin is for the most part suppressed. We are bound to believe, and I for one do believe, that in many cases the reason why the doctrines of grace, so profoundly embedded in the gospel, are dispensed with by the negative writers of the day, is in many cases because they have not fully had to feel the need of them; because they have not travelled ~vith Saint Paul through the dark valley of agonizing con- flict, or with Dante along the circles down- ward and the hill upward; because, having to bear a smaller share than others of the common curse and burden, they stagger and falter less beneath its weight. But ought they not to know that they are physicians, who have not learned the l)rincipal peril of the patients case, and whose prescription accordingly omits the main requisite for a cure. For surely in this matter there should be no mistake. As the entire Levitical institutions seem to have been constructed to impress upon the Hebrew mind a deep and definite idea of sin, we find in the New Testament that that portion of our Lords ~vork was, so to speak, ready-made. But he placed it at the foundation of his great design for the future. When the Comforter is come, he will reprove the ~vorld of sin, and of righteousness, and of judgment. * Mrs. Ward seeks, and even with enthusiasm, to * John xvi. 8. 102 A GREAT YORKSHIRE VICAR. make for righteousness; but the three terms compose an organic whole, and if a part be torn away the residue will bleed to death. For the present, however, we have only to rest in the real, though but partial, consolation that, if the ancient and continuous creed of Christendom has slipped away from its place in Mrs. Wards brilliant and subtle understanding, it has nevertheless by no means lost a true, if unacknowledged, hold upon the inner sanctuary of her heart. We had considered this article too theo- logical for our columns, but give it in com- pliance with requests from many quarters. L.A. From Temple Ilar. A GREAT YORKSHIRE VICAR. BY THE REV. GEORGE HUNTINGTON. STEPHENSS life of Dr. Hook * is one of the best biographies I know. The great Yorkshire vicar lives in its pages, talks with you in its conversations, and takes von into his confidence in its letters. In readinc~ it, you feel him to be more than a mere acquaintance; but once to have met with him was a life-long memory. And yet his appearance, striking as it was, was not prepossessing. The boy Walter Far- quhar Hook, says an old acquaintance, might almost have been described as one of those on whom nature is said by the poet to have tried her prentice hand. True, she bestowed on him a strong con- stitution and an enormous chest, with a voice of wonderful power and endurance, but flexible and sweet withal a most important endowment for the future J)reacher. But of the gifts which charm the eye and find a ready way to the heart, she had been somewhat niggardly. When I first saw him he was in the prime of life, although his hair ~vas turn- ing grey; he was inclining to be stout, and promised to be stouter. When I last last saw him his hair and whiskers were sno~vy white, and his features more decid- edly marked. He was, indeed, very fond of comment- ing on what he called his ugliness, and after seeing the frontispiece to the life, one can appreciate a story he used to tell of himself, how one day he noticed a little girl looking very earnestly up in his face. * Life and Letters of Walter Farquhar Hook, DD., FR.S. By his son-in-law, W. R. W. Stephens. Well, my dear, I dont think youve seen me before. Oh, yes, I have. Why, where? I saw you the other day climbing up a pole, and I gave you a bun. Another little girl was told to go and kiss Dr. Hook. She hesitated, shrugged her shoulders, and exclaimed, Tell mam- ma to go and kiss him first. His biographer more than once com- pares him with Dr. Johnson. In his massive frame, and in some respects in his features, especially in the low but bossy forehead, he resembled Samuel Johnson, and there were some other points of likeness between them; such as occa- sional twitchings and contortions of the face, fits of depression, a choleric temper, a constitutional dread of dying, and an antipathy to foreigners. Of this last characteristic there are some amusing ex- amples in his letters. I am too much of a John Bull to take any interest in mon- sieurs and madames and mademoiselles, I suppose the heroine is a French woman (he had been asked to read a French novel), and how could I take any interest in the adventures of a woman born and bred in that country where Buonaparte tyrannized, and that atheistical villain Voltaire spat his dirty venom at Shakespeare? Cer- tainly this was worthy of Sam Johnson but Hook was only twenty-four at the time the letter was written, within seven years of the Battle of Waterloo. Even when I was a lad English boys had not outlived the belief that one Englishman was a match for five Frenchmen. The national dislike was shared alike by those who abhorred Popery, and by those who feared the Encyclop~dists. Moreover the ignorance of each others characteristics in which two nations divided only by a narrow slip of sea habitually lived, and the way they caricatured each other, may be seen in the plints of the day. And such absurdities are still reproduced in remote places. On a rural stage a Frenchman looks like a dancing-master, an English. man like Mr. Punchs John Bull. Seven years later Hooks antipathies had not softened down. I am heartily sick, he says, of Paris. (It was during his honeymoon.) I hate France, and think Frenchmen the most detestable of human beings. In three weeks I hope to be in dear old England, and never shall I wish again to leave its shores. It is well Hook did not ~vrite A Sentimental Jour- ney. He was just as emphatic in his Toryism, though in the course of time his A GREAT YORKSHIRE VICAR. 103 intercourse with the working classes led him to modify his opinionsprejudices, one might call them. His intense honesty could never be doubted, nor his willingness to follow his convictions. Thus, after he became Dean of Chichester he wrote to Bishop Wilber- force I ~vas to my misfortune born and bred a Tory. When I devoted myself to the manu- facturing districts, my sympathies being easily excited, I became heart and soul a Radical. But I have been timid in declaring myself, not liking to offend old friends. Had I been a public character [what was he else?] I should have swum down the stream from Toryism to Radicalism in a style easily understood by a good fat swimmer, who seems scarcely to dis- turb the water. They might have pelted me from the shore, but I would have swum calmly on, and I should have shown how my princi- ples of philanthropy were not changed but developed. I first heard him in the parish church of Hull, my native town. It was in the midst of the hurly-burly raised about his sermon before the queen. It had run through twenty-eight editions, of which about one hundred thousand copies were sold. It was exposed for sale in the local shop windows, and people made a fuss about it that astonished no one more than Hook himself. Everybody was talking about it, and the most ridiculous stories stories in every sense of the word were being told; one was that he had been sent for into the presence, and rebuked by the young queen with a sharpness more char- acteristic of Elizabeth Tudor than of Queen Victoria. These reports, however, must have been pretty widely spread, for Samuel Wilberforce writes in his journal, Heard that the queen was very angry at it; and he wrote to Hook himself, Is there any truth in the newspaper state- ments that you are no more to offend the ears of royalty with such plain reasoning? I suppose that it is quite impossible that this should be so. Shrewd old Henry of Exeter (Phillpotts) wrote that he had at first heard that her Majesty had been displeased with the sermon, but he had since heard from a quarter which could hardly be misinformed that this was not the case. In his Reminiscences of Oriel, the Rev. T. Mozley says The queen is said to have been much pleased with the sermon. She might well be, for everybody li~tened to Hook with admiration and even with pleasure, whether agreeing with him or not. The queens advisers were not pleased. But perhaps the most ingenious quota- tion ~ propos of the supposed feeling at court was the following, sent to Hook by a friend O thou Seer, go flee thee away into the land of Judah, and there eat bread and prophesy there; but prophesy not again any more at Beth-el, for it is the kings chapel, and it is the kings court. (Amos vii. 12, 13.) Dean Hooks appearance in Hull was a marked success. The huge church was crammed by an attentive congregation who listened for upwards of an hour, my own impression being that it was only half the time. The way he read the lessons I never heard equalled. His reading, says Mr. H. B. W. Churton, was touch- ing and effective, just because no effect was aimed at; and it was commonly re- marked that it was as good as a sermon, or a sermon of itself, to hear him read the lessons. An old woman was listening to him reading the twenty-sixth of St. Mat- thew, and never took her eyes off him during the whole seventy-five verses. But when he came to Peter remembered the words which Jesus had said, Before the cock crow thou shalt deny me thrice, and he went out and ~vept bitterly, her pent- up feelings could restrain themselves no longer, and with a deep-drawn sign she ejaculated, Ay, poor thing, and well he might. Every one has not the powers of Hook, but every one might, one would think, avoid the monotonous sing-song or the dry, rasping tones with ~vhich the sub- lime vaticinations of the prophets, the picturesque narratives of the Gospels, and the argumentative statements of the Epis- tles are too often slurred over with the same absence of feeling and perception. There were other causes for excitement, for the Church was only just awaking out of the deep slumber that had fallen on her, and the State had passed through great political changes, and greater ones were impending. Those were the days of time- honored abuses, when bishops ~vere little seen or wished to be seen, when visita- tions were seldom made, and confirmations held once in seven years, when patronage was regarded chiefly as a means of enrich- ing relations and dependents, and when the fortunate possessors of stalls and big benefices thanked God for their good luck. The stately l)relate who presided over the province of York (Vernon Harcourt), and whose likeness may be discerned in Mr. Friths great picture, was thus spoken of by a country churchwarden who had been deputed by the vestry to a visit to Bishop- 104 A GREAT YORKSHIRE VICAR. thorpe. His Grace received us with the utmost urbanity, and we were asked to sit down to a famous dinner (luncheon), and we supped good ale out of silver mugs. * Yet Hook himself speaks most warmly of his Graces kindness and sympathy when he first bore the brunt of the battle at Leeds as a great help to him. He con- stantly consulted the archbishop, who, as is well known, offered him a canons stall at York. The Reform Bill and the Test Act were but recent, and the clergy, for their oppo- sition to both measures, were looked on as the opponents of progress, and the ene- mies of the people.j Riots had been raised in different places; the palace of the Bishop of Bristol had been sacked. Cobbett and Ackland scattered their pam- phlets broadcast over the country. The Black Book, with the most absurdly exaggerated statements on ecclesiastical revenues, was greedily read and discussed at Socialist gatherings, and at political clubs, chiefly of working-men. The factory system had superseded the old hand-looms, and mills had been gutted, and machinery destroyed. Cholera, fever, and famine had done their worst, almost unchecked, for the cottages were built on the banks of canals fcetid and poisonous with the refuse of dyeworks and the sew- age of mills, and sanitary regulations were entirely unknown. The Lords Day was commonly spentin the morning in sleeping off the Saturday nights debauch and in the afternoon in dog-fighting, pigeon-flying, and boxing-matches, and free fights. There was a grievous lack of that sym. pathy between classes which Judge Tal- fourd pronounced from the seat of judg- ment, just before his death, to be the great want of the age. It amazes one to reflect how such acts as those for the reg- ulation of mills and mines should have been opposed as they were, the Ten Hours Act especially, by Sir Robert Peel, Lord Melbourne, Mr. Cobden, and Mr. Bright; but then there were class interests to serve. The miserable procrastinations and obsti- Crabbes vicar fairly represents the Churchmanship of the day, though of course his poems had been written long hefore Hooks time. What is a Church? A flock, our vicar cries, Whom bishops govern and whom priests advise, In ~vhich are various forms and due degrees, The hench for honor and tlse stall for ease. Mine he that ease which after all his cares The peaceful praying prebendary shares. t The Radicals were of that extreme class described by Wordsworth, who could never mention a bishop, or a king from King David downwards, without some atrabilious prefix or other. nate rejection of these beneficial measures from year to year may be read in the Life of Lord Shaftesbury, and the ridi- cule he was exposed to in Grevilles Journal of the .Reign of Queen Victoria, the Mr. Worldly-Wiseman of his genera- tion, as he has been called. We are just now, GreviMe says, overrun with philan- thropy, and God knows where it 4vill stop or whither it will lead us But Shaftes- bury and Hook fought bravely on, and on the same lines. Both were uncompromis- ing advocates of the Ten Hours Act, and of national education; both worked against tremendous odds; both won the causes for which they strove. Let your laws [says Shaftesbury] assume the proper function of laws, protect those for whom neither wealth nor station nor age has raised a bulwark against tyranny, but above all open your treasury, erect churches, send forth the nministers of religion, reverse the conduct of the enemy of ntankind, and sow wheat among the tares. All hopes are ground- less, all legislation weak, all Conservatism nonsense without this alpha and omega of policy; it will give content instead of bitter- ness, engraft obedience on rebellion, raise purity from corruption, life from the dead.* These were exactly the ways Hook worked. He got up at four in the morn- ing for his studies, and, as one who knew him well says: The vicar of Leeds would never have been so great a worker if he had not been a solid and patient thinker. The hours in which the light burnt in his study before the world was up, had much to do with the fruitful activity of the busy day which followed. He was always at his place in church, he was daily on his pastoral rounds, and he soon became as well known as the policeman on his beat. His indirect influence ~vas so great that men rebuked each other foi~ swearing, and boys ceased to ill-treat donkeys by the reminder, Doant ye see toulcl vicar? ~ He made himself acquainted with the mer- chants and manufacturers at their places of business, and rallied around him the shopkeepers and tradesmen. He saw the working classes at their homes after their days work was over, and mixed with them at their club dinners, where, by the way, he always managed to keep them sober. He threw himself heart and soul into every scheme for the benefit of his peo- ple, and that without any sacrifice of prin- ciple. But they did not understand him at first, and so he had to undergo the bullyings of Chartists and Socialists, whom * Life of Lord Shaftesbury, vol. i., p. 346. A GREAT YORKSHIRE VICAR. 105 he met with firmness and good humor, and managed in the end by his tact to turn into friends and supporters. He soon found that under the guise of seem- ing indifference there was a deep feeling of attachment to the Church. This showed itself in several old customs. On Midlent or Mothering Sunday the young men and maidens used to meet at home and go to their mother church, hence the name it bore. At Easter and Whitsuntide they used to come from any distance to be married, or to have their children chris- tened. So Hook availed himself of these time honored traditions for good, and tried to free them from the abuses that had gathered round them. His first great act after taking possession of his benefice was to build a church ~vorthy of the place a fabric which, although it may not satisfy the architectural tastes of the present day, has been cited by no less an authority than the late Mr. Beresford Hope as almost perfect in its arrangements for a dignified congregational worship, and as one in which three thousand people may both see and hear. Then, although he did not himself know the difference between God save the King and the Old Hundredth Psalm, he had the shrewdness to meet the popular taste for music by providing in his newly built church the finest choral services known in the north of England. People who do not know the West Ridingers can have no idea of their passion for music. I once went to preach for a friend, who, by the way, tolerated the excess under pro. test. Please, sir, said the clerk, not to preach for more than a quarter of an hour, for our people, you see, come for the music. There were two choirs and two anthems; one choir sat down to crit- icise the other; service began at half past six, but I did not get into the pulpit till the clock had struck eight, and all the time I was preaching the singers were consulting their music.books and their watches by turns. A parson came from another part of the country to the neighborhood of Leeds, and not noticing the stringing up of the fiddles and the tuning up of other instru- ments going on in the west gallery or singing-loft, stood up to read the Venite, on ~vhich the conductor or precentor, wav- ing the bow of his violoncello, bawled out, Sit thee down, man; when its thy turn, well tell thee. Some one remindea Dr. Hook of the length of the service on Sunday morning. Pudding cold, doctor, pudding cold. Hook considered the ob jecUon a valid one. This reminds me of what my old dean (Dr. Bowers) said to me when some one had coml)lained of the length of my discourse, Our l)eople will listen to you with interest for a quarter of an hour, ~vith an effort for twenty minutes, but beyond twenty-five minutes St. Pau himself could not compete with a burning pudding. Dr. Hook possessed another gift, with. out which he could never have got on in Yorkshire, and that ~vas a sense of humor. Sydney Smith said that it needed a sur. gical operation to get a joke into a Scotch- mans head an opinion in which no one who has read Dean Ramsays Reminis- cences of Scottish Life and Characters can possibly agree, and there is something akin in the grim Caledonian and West Riding humor. I was preaching one of a course of sermons in the open air in a non-church-going part of a town parish, when I was pleasantly struck by the polite attention of the landlord of a small public house close by, who had l)laced a chair and table at my disposal for a temporary pulpit. So I remarked on it to one of my hearers. Why, you see, said he, he reckons on some of em dropping in for a glass when youve done. A curate was trying to make a reliolous census of his flock, and asked a working-man what reli- gion he was. Why, you may put me down as the religion of a wheelbarrow; I goes ~vhiche ver way they shoves me, i.e., whichever way suited his interest. An- other man, with a grin on his face, boasted of his regular attendance at church; his comrades burst out laughing the fellow had just left prison, where attendance at public worship was, of course, compulsory. But Yorkshiremen are civil after a fash. ion. One day I paid a visit to a hand- loom weaver busy thro~ving his shuttle, while his loom creaked and groaned so that I could not get a word in. So I asked him if he earned a penny in five minutes. No, he said, how should I? So I laid down a penny. Now, I said, let us talk for five minutes. The man stopped, looked at the clock Five minutes is up, he said at the end of the time, but take back your penny; your talk has been worth more than the brass [money]. You may look in again if youve a mind. Hook was roundly denounced at a ves- try meeting as a High Churchman. I do not suppose that his opponent knew very much what a High Churchman was, but the vicar let him go on unchecked, heap- ing epithet upon epithet on him as vicar i o6 A GREAT YORKSHIRE VICAR. and chairman. When he had done speak- didnt he? Yes, a capital sermon; ing, up jumped Hook. Now, said he,I only nine minutes and a half. Didnt am going to act upon a Church principle, Liddon preach in the evening? Oh, a High Church principle, a very High yes, he preached fifty minutes and two Church principle indeed. Every one was seconds. Another of his dictums was, silent, wondering what on earth was coin- Preach to the many, but always try to ing next, when he crossed over to where bring in something for the few. his antagonist was sitting, and said, I How to manage a rector. Do your am going to forgive him, and put out his rectors work ; but let him get the credit hand, which was earnestly taken, and both for it, and then you are sure to be good became fast friends. There is no better friends. way of appeasing a Yorkshiremans wrath Hooks means were never large, and than by a joke but then it must be a they became less by degrees, o~vingto his good joke, and you must joke at the proper surrender of revenues on his division of time, or it will be no joke for you. At a his parish, and to increasing family claims. church meeting more seats were needed, Here is his simple estimate ot the pleas- so some extra benches were borrowed ures of greater abundance from a chapel hard by. You see, said I really do not care for any luxuries, if I did the vicar, if the Dissenters wont adopt not on principle deny them to myself, but I our ceremonies, we dont object to their do confess that I like to have people to dine forms. A l)arsons gravity is sometimes with me and to give a ~ man occasionally not a little tried. I was once capping rather a large fz~z5. It makes him so happy. Yorkshire stories with Bishop Atlay, I remember how I liked a tip at school, and Hooks successor. Our talk turned on so I cannot help thinking how l)leasantly an the strange errands a clergyman is some- unexpected half-crown must come into a poor times sent on. Said the bishop, Have mans hand, and I must confess that when you ever been sent for to shave a man? walking with the children, if they want a toy, I have some difficulty in saying No, and I On my answering no, Then I have, also confess that I do not like to say No~~ and it happened this way. You know to subscriptions. All very amiable confes- they never called me or Hook by our sions, like experiences told at a Methodisticam names; it was t vicar or t doctor. So a class meeting, but all proving that I am not damsel came with a message to me to go by nature economical, and that my wife is at once to her master who was very bad. quite right in saying that very often there is When I got there I found I was expected more religion in refusing than in subscribing. to shave him. She had been told to go What is a regular brick? When Hook, to a shop kept by a man of the name of as Dean of Chichester, was enga~ed in Vicars, or to Vicarss; but she knew of rebuilding the spire of his cathedral, he no Vicar but me. Ho~vever, it gave me had made himself responsible for a con- the opportunity of ministering to the sick siderable sum of money. The time for man in another way. Ah, I thought, So, payment came, but he had no money in my lord, you ~vere sent for to shave, and hand. So he bethought himself of his you remained to shrive. publisher, and asked him for an advance, Hook had a fine epigrammatic way of on the credit of his Lives of the Arch- putting things. Here is what he said to bishops, then in progress. Th is request an artisan, who talked to him of his sur- was at once complied with, to which Hook prise in seeino the liTht burning in the wrote back: Dear B., I never knew vicarage study, as he went to work, at five before what a Regular Brick was. You in the morning. Well, my lad, it takes are a Regular Brick. a deal of courage to get up at all, and it Hook, like many of us, formed a high only requires a little more to get up at estimate of public men, on the grounds, I four. suppose, of the zgn o/um~ro ma Here are his directions about preach- In a letter to his friend Lord Hather- ing. First state your case; then state ley, then Sir XV. P. Wood, he gives an your facts; then make out your case; then account of an interview with Ranke the sum up. If your sermon is not in your historian: opinion a good one, deliver it as if you Wh thought it a good one. 1-le deprecated told en I was in the Rolls House, Mr. Hardy me that a German was in the next room the impatience with which sermons are collecting materials for a life of William III. heard. If you have something to say, He said Macaulay had only written the Life you must have time to say it. In these of William for the English. No, said days men only measure sermons by mm- Mr. Hardy, not for the English but for the utes. Mr. A. preached this morning, Whigs. The German was Ranke. I had A GREAT YORKSHIRE VICAR. 107 thought of Ranke, the author of the His- tory of the Popes, as an old classic. It never crossed my mind that he could be living and working. That work of his is one of the few of this age which will live forever. Shall I ask him to step in here, said Mr. Hardy, or will you call on him? Of course I chose the latter alternative as the more respectful. I expected to see a gigantic German, a kind of knock-me-down author, when I was presented to a diminutive, untidy, good-natured, chatty, unpretending man, more like a Frenchman than a German. You know my bump of veneration is strong for great men, and I bowed low, but he being nearer the ground bowed lower still. I mentioned my obligations to the History of the Popes (Hook was writing his Lives of the Arch- bishops ). Ah, he said, you will make use of me now that you are coming to my period. I am impatient to see the fifth vol- ume; you will have to touch on Germany. At this proof of my fame being European, I raised my head and could not lower it suffi- ciently to see my little friend until I sat down. I did sit down, and information oozed out of him from every pore. Besides his heavy parochial and literary work, his advice was so constantly asked that it entailed on him a most fatiguing amount of anxious correspondence. Once, at the beginning of Lent, a friend who had a sister in a Roman Catholic convent, told the vicar that this nun had been bidden to abstain from writing any letters during Lent as a piece of penitential discipline. Dear me, said Hook, I only wish there was somebody whom I was bound to obey, who would impose such a Lenten penance on me. It would no doubt have been a wonderful relief to him. His well-earned preferment did not come a day too soon, for time and hard work were telling on him. Necessary, however, as the change was, it was a great grief to him. He says, in his journal, This day I bade farewell to dear, dear Leeds. And his biographer writes, Next day, with many a tear, and many a longing, linger. ing look behind, he tore himself away from the smoky town, with its forest of chimneys and its great grim piles of ware- houses and mills; not an endearing place to the strangers eye, but full to him of tender memories dear to him as the scene of many hard-earned victories in the cause of the Church, and of education and social reform; dear to him as the abode of lov- ing and grateful hearts. And what a con- trast between the Leeds, as he entered it in 1837, as he left it in 1859! He found it a stronghold of Dissent, he left it a stronghold of the Church; he found it one parish, he left it many parishes; he found it with fifteen churches, he left it with thirty-six ; he found it with three schools, he left it with thirty ; he found it with six parsonage houses, he left it with twenty- nine. So in the comparative seclusion of Chi- chester, he resumed his originally studi- ous and literary habits, broken in upon very early in his residence, however, by the rebuilding of the spire, and by invita- tions to preach, which his family, as a real question of self-preservation, coin- pelled him, after a time, absolutely to re- fuse. He was indebted for his deanery at Chichester to the Earl of Derby; subse- quently, but when he was too old and in- firm for change, Mr. Gladstone offered him the deaneries of St. Pauls and Can- terbury. He felt the compliment, but declined the responsibility. Opinions differ as to Hooks merits as a historian. Certainly his style is graphic, his portraits lifelike, and there is ever and anon a quaint conceit about him which recalls old Thomas Fuller, so that in reading his Lives of the Archbishops, one must bear in mind what manner of man he was. You could not expect him to be quite impartial, any more than you could Dr. Johnson. But then, and unlike some modern historians, he was incapable of slurring over a fact, or of defending a character at the expense of truth. Besides which, he was far too outspoken to fear running counter to popular notions. Thus some readers, who were aware of his avowal that he intended to write as a Protestant of the Church of England, must have rubbed their eyes when they came to his estimate of their favorite Cran mer. For what [he says in a letter to his pub- lisher] or in what cause was he (Cranmer) a martyr? Poor fellow, burning must be a ter- rible death, so we must not be severe upon him, but never did a man ever tell such a heap of falsehoods, lie upon lie, as he did to escape martyrdom. He died at last, because, like the rest of us, he could not help it, but he lied like a trooper to put off the inevitable hour as long as he could. He had sent others to death because they disagreed with him in opinion, and his opinions were always chang- ing. - . - But I really do not think he was so bad a man as Lord Macaulay, Mr. Pocock and others make him out to have been. He was, I am convinced, a well-meaning, good- natured man, though the harm he did through his want of fixed principle, his time-serving, his indolence, and his worldliness was great. Few historical parallels are better than the following comparison between Eras- io8 A GREAT YORKSHIRE VICAR. mus and Pole in a letter to Mr. E. A. Freeman There is something deeply interesting to my mind in reading contemporary letters. I had last year to make myself thoroughly acquainted with Erasmus. What a fine old fellow he was with all his faults! How charming are his letters! Very different are the letters of Pole. Erasmus was a man of genius, creating the language in which he wrote. It is Eras- mean Latin. Pole, a good man, but not more than a man of talent, affects the Ciceronian style. You know that Erasmus says what he thinks. Pole before writing, thought only of what a man in his situation ought to write, and then affected Ciceronian phrases. I was brought up by Dr. Gabell (at Winchester) to be an intense admirer, as I was at one time a great reader of Cicero. So I read Pole with a certain amount of pleasure. But if I met Erasmus I should go up to him, shake hands with him, and make a joke. To Pole I should take off my hat, and say I felt much honored by making his acquaintance; feel shy and get away as fast as I could. Hook had devoted a good deal of time and study to early Church history, and was exceedingly well read in the annals of the English Church during the time of the Reformation, and subsequently. But the medkeval Church he had not studied with equal depth and care. All its better side (its poetry, its art, its philosophy, its protection of the weak against the strong), which had been fully appreciated by Guizot, by Michelet, by J. S. Mill, by Trench, by Voight, by Arnold, he had not learned to grasp. Hence, for a full appre. ciation of such an archbishop as St. An- selm we must have recourse to I)ean Church and to Professor Freeman, rather than to the late Dean of Chichester. Mr. Gladstone says of him He has left behind him monuments in litera- ture which would have done honor to any clergyman who had a hundred times the leis- ure uf Dr. Hook. Hardly any one rises to eminence in the rank of historians without de- voting his entire life to the task; yet, first in the merest fringes and scraps of his time, and then in the calm of his closing years at Chi- chester, Dr. Hook contrived to write his ~ Lives of the Archbishops of Canterbury,~~ which really almost means a history of the Church of England, and certainly entitles him to take rank as an historian of much credit and merit, though not perhaps thought fit to enter into the first rank of historians. No student of the profoundly important period of the sixteenth century can possibly pass by his labor, and he will long be quoted as an au- thority on that critical and prolific time.* * Lecture delivered at Hawarden. The deanery of Chichester was just the preferment he liked, worn out and prema- turely old as he felt himself to be. It brought together in a very remarkable way the beginning and the close of his ministry; his curacy at Whippingham the chtirch, by the way, though since re- built, which the queen attends and his retirement at Chichester, whence he cou~jd gaze across the sea at the Isle of Wight, so full of his earliest recollections. As a very young man he had written from Ox- ford: My bowels yearn for our lovely island. To peace and quiet, to the parish that I love and the studies I delight in, to l)ursuits which are congenial to my soul, and to that retirement for which I am best adapted, to divinity, to Shakespeare and the Muse, to green fields instead of dirty streets, to the calm of the country instead of the noise of the town, to the love of my simple flock instead of the heartlessness of the world I shall return with increased joy and redoubled zest, there to lay the deep foundations for future distinction in the vocation to which I am heart and soul de- voted. And, indeed, the quiet of Whippingham was as needful for the development of Hooks character as the subsequent activ- ities of Birmingham, Coventry, and Leeds. It helped him to attain that union of action and contemplation which Bacon calls the l)erfection of human nature. So to the near neighborhood of Whipping. ham the good old man returned, though we are not told that he revisited it after he became dean. Perhaps he only wished to bury dead memories, for he must long ago have outlived all personal recollec- tions. Those who were privileged to share his hospitality found him, though with a few harmless eccentricities, no shovel-pan- hatted dignitary, but as genial as when he was plain vicar of Leeds. Ring for what you want, he is reported to have said to Bishop Atlay, who had been his successor at Leeds, when a guest at the deanery, and be thankful for what you can get. I often think [says a Yorkshire l)arson] of my interview with Hook years and years ago, in a small private room with stone floor, and no carpets, and dark oak furniture; how he received me like a father, and listened to my story, and counselled me, and then, before I left, instead of a shake of the hand, he bade me kneel (I was filled with wonder), and he pronounced his benison, and I came away trembling. I saw him again at C hichestei, and reminded him of my first interview. lIe gasped out, for his breathing was very difli A GREAT YORKSHIRE VICAR. 109 cult, May the blessing remain. Oh, that we had more clergy of his stamp! After sixteen years of usefulness, and four after the death of his wife, a true helpmeet, he was taken to his rest. There was something singularly touching and peaceful in his end. He had been accus- tomed to say that he did not fear death, but was afraid of dying. This pang was spared him. His son ~vrites He had been accustomed to give me his blessing after prayers, till towards the end, when he asked me to act more ministerially towards him. But on this evening he stopped me as I began, and spreading out his hands he pronounced the benediction over us. It was a moment of consciousness and almost the last that he had. The whole of the last fourteen hours he was unconscious, and one may almost say that he passed away in sleep. So mercifully did our heavenly Father have respect to the only weakness of the flesh that had given terror to the thought of death. In passing in review the life of this great Churchman one sees how much more than a mere ecclesiastic he was, in fact that he was a many-sided as well as an extraordinary man. I not think that his biographer exaggerates when he pro- nounces him to be at once an active par- son, an eloquent preacher, a laborious stu- dent, a voluminous letter-writer, an able historian, a witty humorist, a wise prac- tical moralist, an earnest Christian, an ardent patriot, and every inch of him a sturdy Englishman. Mr. Gladstone calls him a hero, and a hero he certainly was, if we accept that celebrated statesman s definition, one who pursues ends beyond himselfpursues them as a man, and not as a dreamer; not giving to some one idea an unruly weight to ~vhich it has no title, and balanced development, and for- getting everything else that belongs to the perfection and excellence of human na- ture. His still more intimate friend, Lord Hatherley, says, There ~~as in him a rare combination of genius in devis- ing, and industry in carrying into effect, schemes for the full development of the Church; first in evangelizing those large masses of our population whose hearts so few had been able to reach, and then in building up their faith upon a firm founda- tion. For the one great characteristic of his course ~~as inallthingsreality. And, as Mr. Gladstone concludes, his heroic sacrifice has earned him a secure and lofty place as a worn soldier in the annals of the bloodless warfare of the gospel, and as a benefactor in the fond recollection of tens of thousands of his countrymen. I cannot refrain from giving the follow- ing passage from one of Hooks earliest sermons at Chichester: The Christian man will hear in the circum- stances under which he is placed the voice of the Lord saying, In performing the duties of thy station, thou art performing the duties to ~vhich I call thee! This it is which gives dignity to the humblest office. It matters not what our work may be to sit on a throne, or kneel a petitioner before it; to repel the enemies of our country, or to conduct its affairs; to fight the battle, or to watch the stuff; to command, or to obey; to manage an estate, or to cultivate a farm; to conduct a commercial firm, or to serve in the shop, or labor in the mill; to give the mind to a pro- fession, or the hand to a trade; to plead as an advocate, or sit as a jndge; to argue or to de- cide; to read or to write; to sweep a street, or to walk over it; to preach the Gospel or to hear it; to administer the sacraments, or to receive them the single question relates to the principle upon which the action is done, and all actions, however insignificant in them- selves, are raised to the same elevation when what is done is done simply because it is Gods command, the marching orders of the Captain of our Salvation. Well may Mr. Gladstone add, That is the grand secret of Dr. Hooks life. NOTE. I have been led into an amusing discussion as to the derivation of the word brick as applied to a l)erson. Mr. Charles Mackay in the May Blackwood, on English Slang and French Argot, says that Brick, the highest encomium paid to a good fellow, is from brig/I, spirit, energy, courage, and brig-hell, magnanimous. In Murrays New Dictionary, brick, as applied to a person, signifies a genuine character, one made of good stuff; the image is suggested by the usefulness and hardness of the brick. But Archdeacon Anson, Dr. Hooks son-in-law, reminds me that Aristotle speaks of the rerp& ycovof lmvrv ip6yov, the four- angled figure, i. e., cube, without blame or fault, Anglic?, a regular brick (Ethics, i. so II). Mv friend, Mr. N. A. Roch, tells me that Dr. Arnold gave the sixth form as an exercise to ~vrite a description of Oxford in the style of Herodotus. One of the boys tried to describe a cap and gown. Dr. Arnold suggested for the cap i-ei-piy& vo~, a word no doubt very familiar to him whose thoughts were always full of Thucydides and Aristotle. hO THE PLACE OF MUSIC IN CULTURE. From The National Review. THE PLACE OF MUSIC IN CULTURE. THE theory is admitted to be decidedly old-fashioned which laid it down that mu sic ~vas all a question of ear; that some people ~vere born with an ear for music, and others without; and that the appre- ciation, enjoyment, and even tolerance of the art, depended entirely on the posses- sionof that mysterious and unfathomable endowment. Such a view might have its supporters a generation or two ago, before the practice and cultivation of music be- came so universal an accomplishment as it is to-day; but since the present illu- mination set in, the discovery has been made that the inscrutable and heaven-sent ear is a property common to every human being, and that the will to like speedily produces the power to compre- hend. There have been other epochs, when views as liberal have prevailed, and when the exuberance of musical culture has been a matter of remark. On examination, these various eras would be found to be- tray a strange community of characteris- tics. A receptive age is not a musical age. Still less is a philosophical age. But the type of all musical eras is the Re- naissance, a time of large literary activity, of great practical undertakings, of scien- tific discovery, of creative energy in art and poetry. In such companionship does music ever appear, when it surges to the surface of life as a leading art of the day. What participation has it with the spirit of its companions, seeing that it is an efflux of the same mental motions which produce all? Let us consider the matter more closely than creneralities allow, and ask under what circumstances music is daily and hourly brought into being, not only at favored epochs, but at all times, that so we may discover its spirit. A great deed is done; the toil and the labor of it are over; success crowns the completed achievementthen comes in music to celebrate it. Men and women meet in social gatherings; amusement, entertainment, festivity, banish for a while the cares and troubles of lifeand then, for that while, is music heard to sound. Music is the expression of joy. Nay, more, it is the expression of joy reduced to an art. The same feeling which vents itself in the most elementary forms we see around us that prompts the ploughman to whistle when his furrows are completed, the housewife to sincr as she cheerfully accomplishes her daily labor, nay, even the crowd to shout and huzzab at any gal- lant action or admirable performance the same feeling is eternally present, as the very soul of the art at large. A curi- ous phonograph has been unconsciously at work for ages upon ages, which has little by little noted down, developed, im- proved, refined mans varied expression of his joy and happiness; and the result, in a ~vondrously idealized form of beauty, is the art of music. And at those epochs of the worlds history, when joy is most ex- uberant when the toilings and pointings of the past have reached a climax, when success is cro~vning long endeavor, when labor is lightening, and life itself is blithe and gaythen it is that music cOmes prominently forward as a dominant art of the age. Can we pass from regarding music as the independent expression of something, to viewing it as a direct influence pos- sessed of a certain dynamic value towards impressing life and thought, actions and ideas? With regard to thought not to go deeper than manifest appearance the mere addition of music to thought, like pouring wine into water, or blending blue and yellow to a new color, turns thought at once into poetry. Given, let us say, a certain quantity of thought. Directly music is allowed to play amidst it, the words begin to marshal into feet and lines, and the ideas to court prece- dence or subordination according to the needs of their own importance relatively to the exigencies of the measure. What was before a sort of chaos of disorder, has developed into clear and rounded form, by benefit of the musical rhythm playing like a pendulum through it, and reducino- all to symmetry by the regularity of its beating. In this aspect of its influence, then, we should not do ~vrong to describe music as the spirit or power of form, since it thus gives easily and unconsciously form to the imao-inings of the thinker, without the troublesome effort of cold and deliberate arrangement. And adding music to action, in like manner as to thought, what is the guise that it then appears in? And here our ans~ver is pal- pable and popular enough, needing no demonstration, but merely remark. For music in action is simply the power of musical performance, the ability to play, to sing, or to compose music ; and for such the popular term, accomplishment, is ample description and explanation, which thus recognizes it as a grace or adornment of the character, and as con tributing to enhance and improve that THE PLACE OF MUSIC IN CULTURE. III general pose of the faculties which we call this music by proxy, there are many ele style. ments of incitement to courage. Such simple and apparent facts as we If such was the reputed function of place down here, are the plain and pro- music among the Spartans, what was it saic residue of a former and vanished with the Athenians? At Athens, its rt~le world of dreams and imaginations; and was a tamer one, yet none the less implic- have been chosen by us because they may itly credited. All the graces of life in commend themselves even to the sceptical which that refined people so much de- and practical mood of modern thinking, lighted, easy elegance of carriage, beauty But at the threshold of civilized music of bodily pose, melody of voice, clearness such dreams were in the air, about its of pronunciation, even lucidity of thought po~ver and influence, as well may compare and language, were sought to be acquired with the visions and vaunts of the aiche- by means of music. Therefore, although mists in the infancy of science, or the music was not the exclusive engine of almost divine prerogatives arrogated by education, as at Sparta, it was so conspic- the astrologers in the days when astronomy uously the principal one, that the la~vs of was ambitious and young. Yet the fan- Solon laid it down as the one compulsory tasies of music had much more appearance subject of instruction; and the common of reason in them than these; and, what Athenian expression for the entirely in- is more, were linked with infinitely purer dispensable attainments of culture, an- and higher motives. The favorite prob- swering to our three Rs, was good lem of thinkers and teachers, since thought singing and good dancing. Dancing, in- began, has been to find some engine of deed, was a most obvious promoter of education which should reach the char- some of the results that they desired to at- acter, as effectually as the ordinary means tam, by cultivating symmetry of motion of trainino tou~b the understanding; and and flexibility of limb; and this is a point in the opinion of many, not men alone but which is often overlooked by detractors nations, music was such an engine. It and deriders of Greek musical education. is music, said the Spartans, which dis- But singing and general theoretical knowl- tinguishes the brave man from the cow- edge were no less fertile of the aim in- ard. A mans music is the source of tended, for the first would conduce to a his courage. It was their music ~vbich clear voice and delivery, and the second enabled Leonidas and his three hundred to that harmonious structure of sentences, to conquer at Thermopyl~. It was music which is one of the earliest means to per- ~vhich taught the Spartan youths how to spicuity of thought. die in the wrestling-ring or the field of But it was with the Pythagoreans, in the battle. These claims are audacious surely. privacy of that mysterious brotherhood, Yet when we consider how the rhythmical which for influence and unseen extensive- tread of the brave man differs from the ness in antiquity might well be compared agitated shamble of the coward, how music with the order of the Jesuits or of the is the art of human joy, and how joy and Templars in more modern times, that the repose of mind are the main elements of repute of music as a means of culture manly fortitude, we shall, at any rate, reached its climax. Here, and in the ten- admit that there is a strong affinity some- ets of their order, such things were said where; our only difficulty will be to of it, and such marvelious results of its acknowledge that music, deliberately ap- operations were implicitly believed in, as plied, could ever be the direct cause of may well amaze the most credulous, and these reputed results. To achieve the tend, from their very extravagance, to dis- end desired, Spartan boys passed their credit all faith in a nostrum reported soy- youth in learning tunes, hymns, and songs ereign for the attainment of every moral this was their sole mental culture. and intellectual knowiedge. Passing by They were taught to dance and keep step their conception of music as the visible to the measure of the songs as they sang form of the spirit of the universe, the prin- them; and grown to manhood, now per- ciple of creations order, and the mainstay fect warriors, marched into battle with and supporter of the material world, as smiling faces, crowned with flowers, calm, topics far beyond the wildest sympathies joyful, and serene; and, intoning their of our fancies, let us view their dealings songs, moved steadily thus into the thick- with it rather in the educational aspect. est of the fight, undisturbed and irresist- And transplanting ourselves to their days ible. The band that leads our armies and to the localities of their activity in to the field of battle nowadays is a scant southern Italy, we shall be aware of a survival of Spartan practice; yet even in large body of men, under the presidency 112 THE PLACE OF MUSIC IN CULTURE. of a renowned philosopher, and with the approval of many cities and much enlight- ened opinion, conducting an education, which was to qualify pupils as lawyers, statesmen, artists, soldiers, thinkers, and what not, by means of music alone. The pupils ~ve are told, in the Pythagorean schools, rose at an early hour in the morn- ing, and having assembled together, sang many songs and hymns in chorus, which freed their spirits from heaviness, and at- tuned them to harmony and order. The music selected was regulated to the prescription of a calendar, wherein each day had its appointed harmonies; and a rotation of well-chosen songs was travelled through in the course of a year. After the musical service was over, the pupils separated for a morning walk. Each went his walk alone, choosing for the purpose such sequestered places where he might find silence and tranquil- lity, as in the neighborhood of temples, or in solitary groves, or by running waters, and other such retired spots. The reason of the solitude, we are expressly told, was to prevent bad noises getting into the mind and jolting it, and further to pre- pare the spirit by a long spell of silence for the more acute reception of the music that was to follow during the rest of the day. After their walk was over, they all met together in some place agreed upon, a temple, a portico, or an avenue, and practised sedulously singing, theory, and playing. The theory was designed to educate the intellect, by teaching it to work on musical and harmonious princi- ples, while the singing and playing were to operate upon the passions and feelings. Any perturbations of mind which might have arisen despite all their care, any lurking tendency to jealousy, pride, con- cupiscence, excess in appetite, angry feel- ings, looseness of thought for these and many more, there were ineffable melo- dies and rhyth ins, sovereign musical specifics, which Pythagoras had prepared like so many drugs; and these the students applied to one another, in the serious understanding that the results pre- dicted would follow. After some hours spent in this way, they betook themselves to lawns and gardens to exercise their bodies. In musical rhythm and with carefully prearranged steps and motions, they would leap with dumbbells in their hands, or practice calisthenics, till the hour of noon arrived, when they ~vould meet in the common hall for dinner. At this meal, which ~vas the first and only repast during the day, they used singular abstemiousness, eating only bread and honey, or a piece of honeycomb. After dinner they walked again by rivers and in groves, not in solitude as in the morning, but in twos and threes, singing songs and extemporizing melodies on their lyres. while the whole neighborhood resounded with the echoes of their music. When the evening came, they again occupied them- selves with musical concerts for some hours till it was time to retire for the night; and they slept on pure white beds with linen coverlets. And this was the manner of life they passed from day to day. That all the great results which Pythag- oras claimed to flow from his system of musical education were, in many cases, imaginary, will not be hard to believe, since to write a list of them would include every good quality and every mental abil- ity in man. Indeed, such wholesale exal- tation of the power of music as a means of culture, and such exclusive use of it, has done much to alienate sympathy from the serious discussion of the subject ; and the very name, Pythagoreanism, has become almost synonymous with quackery. Bitt among the rest, there are three results in particular which he strongly accentuated, and which will be found to agree pretty closely with the position laid down at the beginning of this paper. Music, said Pythagoras, produces especially three most useful things to men ; it ensures the power of form to thought, it engenders the instinct of social tact, and it invites to tranquillity of soul. Had he been con- tent with limiting his claims to so small a compass, some practical and permanent issue, perhaps, would have folloived from his theories, instead of their vanishing en- tirely, one and all, into the limbo of for- gotten fancies; since the things here enumerated are confessedly so unteach- able, and, at the same time, so contributive to the well-being of humanity, that were any means even practically suggested of ensuring their acquisition as a part of cul- ture, it would be the beginning of an untold boon to the world. Now he did not stand alone in his advo- cacy of these claims, since, curiously enough, we find Plato joining company with him at least in one of them. The enigmatical assertion in the Laws has often moved the gravity of scholars, but must, in fact, be taken au s6rieuz, as con- taining a radical element of Greek belief. Music, according to Plato, was the fount of all knowledge of etiquette a perfect counterpart to the Pythagorean theory of THE PLACE OF MUSIC IN CULTURE. 113 the social tact. Boys who receive a proper musical education, he says, will know when to be quiet in the presence of their elders, ~vhen to get up, and when to sit down ; they ~vill know the respect they must pay their parents; and in smaller things also they ~vill be equally adept, as, for instance, in the fashion of cutting their hair, what clothes to wear, and what style of shoes ~o have, and they will be versed in all the niceties of the toilet. More lucid than his mystic predecessor, he con- descends to explain in part this apparently extraordinary vie~v. For music natu- rally shades off into the love of beauty, he says. And if we ~vere to continue his exposition more fully, we might say that a grace or accomplishment implanted and sedulously cultivated in any man or woman will naturally tend to produce in all their actions, thoughts, and feelings the con- stant reflection of its own gracefulness. Such are some of the dreams which meet us on the threshold of the arts his- tory, about its operations and effects. In those days music was young, and its pow- ers, viewed ~vith amazement and curiosity, were necessarily much exaggerated. Some few centuries earlier land us amid the un- speakable fables of Orpheus and his lute, compared to which these educational day- dreams are the veriest unimaginative prose. But if prosaic and homely, all the more reason that they should command our attention, as the grave givings-out of reputed wisdom, and not the wild halluci- nations of poets. Perhaps a closer exam- ination of the most rational residue of the musical doctrine and we may take the three emphasized effects we have just mentioned, to represent such a residue may reveal the dreams as near approxi ma- tions to realities, and very respectable offers at truth. One thing at least is curi- ous, that the talent of intellectual form, the knowledge of grace or etiquette, and the condition of tranquillity or joy, are but various avatars of the same principle, according as it appears in an intellectual, a social, or a moral surrounding. If we take the power of form as the root and ground principle ~vhich springs up in consequence of musical culture, we shall easily see that, intellectually, it will appear as the genius of order and arrangement, the capacity to give harmonious shape to thought, and to mould it, if the tendency is carried to its legitimate climax, into that musical rhythm of utterance which we call poetry; morally it will embody itself as composure of mind, unruffled tranquillity of feeling, it will conduce and LIVING AGE. VOL. LXIV. 3284 finally lead to the consummate mental state of joy or rest; while socially it will eno~tnder the love and respect for that which may best be summed up, perhaps, by a vulgarism, good form, it will in- cline to the adhesion to manner and cere- mony, and will be the constant suggester of what to do, how to act, in the form most generally received, acknowledged, and admired among men. Finding such a fine vein of consistency running through these apparently opposing claims, ~ve may take heart to scrutinize them more nearly. And considering them by the light of our own observation, we may ask: Does music in ordinary experi- ence produce these results? Do poets,. for instance, write poetry through l)ossess-- ing a knowledge of music? Or does the. power of the historian or man of science, to formulate his materials and ideas, and give a plastic contour to the often clash- ing elements that he has to work with is this at all referable to any previously acquired musical culture? We submit that though the answer comes as a deci- sive ne~atmve the value of such a negative is materially weakened, until the following proposition can be negatived likewise:. that poets would write much better poetry if they knew music, and that historians and savants would mould their materials with infinitely greater art, if the same principle of harmony and order were pres- ent with them. We maintain that the experiment has never been deliberately tried, so as to admit of any assertion of its valuelessness. In modern times, music has never been made an indispensable part of general culture. At certain happy epochs, fortunate accident and music in. the air have concurred to produce a sort of workable substitute for ~videspread mu- sical education; and at these very periods,. lo I our best poets, our most consummate literary men, our best and purest heir- looms of thought for a perplexed posterity. Limiting our view to English history alone, the reign of Queen Elizabeth was certainly the most musical age we have ever had. From the queen playing the virginals to the peasant singing carols~ the whole nation were connoisseurs, compos- ers, and performers of music. Tallis, Bird, Gibbons, and the other fathers of English music were in their prime;, and masques, revels, feasts, and junkettings combined to spread the passion for the art among every order of society. In the galaxy of great poets ~vhich arose con- temporaneously with these things, all men of the people and all owing their culture I 14 THE PLACE OF MUSIC IN CULTURE. not to any systematic education but to the sion of beauty to which it accustoms its general influences round them, fancy will performer, in the familiarity with sym- not take too far a flight if it finds one metrical melody to which it breeds its great and emphatic result of the universal student, in the matching of phrase with music in the air. No contrast in the art phrase and building up therefrom an airy of literary expression could at any rate architecture, in the laborious acquaint- have been more marked, than between this ance with the almost impalpable outlines and the preceding age of controversial of its structure in these daily infusions writing and learned disquisition, when it of a rare and recondite knowledge, certain could be said that beyond the wheezing as they are to bear fruit in other fields of of a hymn and the droning of a bagpipe, culture, lies the possibility of all plasticity there was no music in England. Another in literature and thought; let alone the great musical epoch in our history ex- training of the ear the most elementary tended from the closing years of the sev- result that would be obtained to appre- enteenth century till the second or third ciate the melody of language, and the con- decade of the eighteenth, although at this sequent desire and capacity to couch all period the music was not so much an in- thought in a fair and melodious form. We digenous growth as an exotic culture submit that this attainment alone would be forced upon us from without. Yet the era the seed that would ripen in time to a gen- of the stormy Italian opera feuds, the age eral faculty of beautiful and harmonious of Handel and Bononcini, was emphati- arrangement. As the power to construct cally a great musical age in England, and a sentence lucidly and grammatically will set a thrill of sympathy stirring from one develop to the ability to write a paragraph end of the community to the other; and in similar style, and from thence to the contemporaneously we have our second writing of a chapter; so the genius of great roll of poets and writers displayed, arranging in melodious order and in beau- and Pope, Gay, Swift, Addison, Steele, tiful balance a single sentence, will reveal and others brightening the pages of our its excellent gift no less when dealing with literature. Once more, at the beginning large sweeps of thought and wresting into of the nineteenth century, we have a cohesion great literary forms. golden epoch of English music; and once The other results of music, outside the more a noble company of poets as its corn- strictly intellectual confine, are more panions, in the persons of Byron and his superficial and more obvious, since com- contemporaries. But without travelling mon experience, when directed to the ob- further, we may easily see that the two servation, will sufficiently show that such things are intimately connected, and one results are always forthcoming in a greater the constant consort of the other. Can or less degree; yet in its desultory and poetry be taught? Can the art of literary undemurring assent to their presence will form, the best genius of a writer, be it be entirely unaware what great possi- taught and engrafted like other elements bilities of culture are lying latent beneath of learning? Such things have been left its view. To admit that music is one of to accident hitherto; and accident has the graces of life, to confess to a vague always brought them to the front contem- pleasure in its performance these are poraneously with the finest efforts and starting-points of concession sufficient at events of music. Perchance education least partially to authenticate the old has higher possibilities within its grasp Greek view, that music is the fount of all than pedagogues have hitherto ever good manners, that it is the sovereign dreamed of, and, besides instilling the specific of joy and tranquillity to the soul. materials and substances of knowledge, If in its present state of comparative de- may possess the power of showing its pu- preciation and a limitation of all influence pils how to use them. The mere acqui- beyond ~vhat an occasional performance sition of the genius for form would amply to a casual listener can bring, it can yet repay all labor bestowed on its achieve- extort testimony to the rudiments of its ment so useful is it, not only to the power, what concessions might ~ve expect, poet, but to the prose-~vriter, in all the what startling results might ~ve anticipate, higher walks of literature. It is the first were it made part and parcel of serious step to the conception of literary expres- education, and inured into the mind and sion as an art, without which, nothing character along with the other ingredients great or abiding can be performed there- of culture? For it is among the laity in; and such an acquisition cannot but rather than with the professional musi- follow from the inclusion of music as a cians that we should expect such results, part of liberal education. In the expres- and look for the telling influence of music. The latter represent, rather, obj~-ctive music; they carry on the skill and are the repositories of the knowledge ; they show us where music may be found when we want it. But they are by no means eligi- ble instances of the effects of music, for the exclusive cultivation of the art, or indeed of anything, deprives that thing of all its general and liberalizing value. Mu- sic, when exclusively cultivated, ceases to be a grace and accomplishment of life, but becomes, instead, a narrow theory of living, self-convinced, independent, and alone; music, when separated from gen- eral culture and made to arrogate the place of it, is like a beautiful and life-giv- ing wind blowing over deserts, where there are no herbs to freshen and no boughs to fan; music, when converted into an ex- clusive pursuit instead of an auxiliary pastime to study, becomes a lab0r, not a delight, and is more likely to bring rest- lessness and ill-ease than rest and tran- quillity to the mind. But to have its full and fair effect, it must be superadded to a liberal life, as a decoration and adorn- ment merely; it must insinuate itself into culture, not serve as a substitute, and there must be culture existent for it to play amidst; and, finally, if it is the art of joy, and fertile of rest and contentment to the mind, it must be used with that temper- ance which commends all pleasures to our appreciation, not suffered to degenerate and lose its virtue by the needless em- ployment of excess. J. F. ROWBOTHAM. From The Nineteenth Century, PAGES FROM A WORK-GIRLS DIARY. IT is midday. The suns rays beat fiercely on the crowded alleys of the Jew- ish settlement; the air is moist from the heavy rains. An unsavory steam rises from the do~vn-trodden slime of the East End streets and mixes with the stronger odors of the fried fish, the decomposing vegetables, and the second-hand meat which assert their presence to the eyes and nostrils of the passers-by. For a brief interval the whirr of the sewing-machines and the muffled sound of the pressers iron have ceased. Machin- ists and pressers, ~vell-clothed and deco- rated with heavy watch-chains ; Jewish girls with flashy hats, full figures, and large bustles; furtive-eyed Polish immi- grants with their pallid faces and crouch- ing forms; and here and there poverty- 115 stricken Christian women all alike hurry to and from the midday meal; while the labor-masters, with their wives and daugh- ters, sit or lounge round about the house door, and exchange notes 6n the incom- petency of season hands, the low price of work, the blackmail of shop foremen, or discuss the more agree able topic of the last deal in Petticoat Lane and the last venture on race-horses. Jostled on and off the pavement, I wan- der on and on, seeking work. Hour after hour I have paced the highways and by- ways of the London Ghetto. No bills up except for a good tailoress, and at these places I dare not apply, for I feel myself an impostor, and as yet my conscience and my fingers are equally unhardened. Each step I take I am more faint-hearted and more weary in body and limb. At last, in sheer despair, I summon up my courage. In a window the usual bill, but se4ed on the doorstep a fat, cheerful- looking daughter of Israel, who seems to invite application. I)o you want a plain and? say I, aping ineffectually a work-womans man- ner and accent, and attaining only supreme awkwardness. The Jewess glances quickly, first at my buttonless boots, then at my short but already bedraggled skirt, upwards along the straight line of my ill-fitting coat, to the tumbled black bonnet which sits ill at ease over an unkempt twist of hair. No, is the curt reply. I can do all except buttonholes, I insist in a more natural tone. She looks at my face and hesitates. Where have you worked? In the country, I answer vaguely. She turns her head slowly towards the passage of the house. Rebecca, do you want a hand? Suited an hour ago, shouts back Rebecca. There, there, you see, remarks the Jewess in a deprecating and kindly voice as her head sinks into the circles of fat surrounding it. You will find plenty of bills in the next street ; no fear of a decent young person, as knows her work, staying out o door this time of year; and then, turning to the woman by her side Its rare tho to find one as does. In these last three days, if weve sat down one, weve sat a dozen to the table, and not a woman amongst them as knows how to baste out a coat fit for the machine. Encouraged by these last words I turn round and trudge on. I ask at every house with a bill up, but always the same PAGES FROM A WORK-GIRLS DIARY. i PAGES FROM A WORK-GIRLS DIARY. scrutinizing glance at my clothes and the ING. In the window two shop boys are fatal words, We are suited! arranging the show garments; coats and Is it because it is the middle of the vests (sold together) 17s. to 22s.; trousers week, or because they think Im not gen- from 4s. 6d. up to us. 6d. uine? think I. And at the next shop Coats evidently made out: I wonder window I look nervously at my reflection, where and at what price? ponders the and am startled at my utterly forlorn investigator as the work-girl loiters at the appearance destitute enough to be door. sweated by any master. Youd better come in, says the Sure, theres not much on er back to friendly voice of a fellow-worker as she take to the hold uncle, remarks an Irish brushes l)ast me. Youre a new-coiner; servant to her mistress, as I turn away the missus will expect you to be there from the last house advertising for a sharp. good tailoress. I follow her into the retail shop and I feel horribly sick and ill; and I am thence through a roughly made wooden so painfully conscious of my old clothes door. The workroom is long and irregu- that I dare not ask for refreshment at an larly shaped, somewhat low and dark near eating-house or even at a public. Any the entrance, but expanding into a lofty way I will have air, so I drag one foot skylight at the further end. The walls are after another into the hackney thorough- lined with match-boarding; in a promi. fare. Straight in front of me, in a retail nent place, framed and under glass, hang slop-shop of the lowest description, I see the Factoty and Workshop Regulations. a large placard : Trouser and Vest Close by the door, and ~vell within reach Hands Wanted Immediately. In an- of the gas-stove (used for heating irons), other moment I am ~vithin a large work- two small but high tables serve the press- room crowded with women and girls as ers; a long, low plank table, furnished ifl-clothed as myself. At the head of a with a wooden rail for the feet, forms on long table, examining finished garments, either side of it, chairs top and bottom, stands a hard-featured, shrewd-looking runs lengthways for the trouser finishers; J ewess, in a stamped cotton velvet and a high table for the basters; and, directly with a gold.rimmed eyeglass. under the skylight, two other tables for Do you want trouser hands? machinists and vest hands complete the Yes we do indoor. furniture of the room. Through an open Im a trouser finisher. door, at the extreme end of the workshop, The Jewess examines me from head to you can see the private kitchen of the foot. My standard of dress suits her. Moses family, and beyond, in a very lim- Call at eight oclock to-morrow morning. ited backyard, an outhouse, and, near to And she turns from me to look over a pair it, a tap and sink for the use of all the of trousers handed up the table. inmates of the establishment. What price do you pay? say I with Some thirty women and girls are crowd- firmness. ing in. The first arrivals hang bonnets Why, according to the work done, to and shawls on the scanty supply of nails be sure. All prices, she answers lacon- jotted here and there along the wooden ically. partition separating the front shop from Then to-morrow at eight. And I the workroom; the later comers shed leave the shop hurriedly to escape that their outdoor garments in various corners. hard gaze of my future mistress. Again There is a general Babel of voices as each in the open street; the dazed-headiness, hand settles down in front of the bun- the dragging back-ache, and the sore feet dle of work and the old tobacco or candle all the physical ills and moral depres- box that holds the cottons, twist, gimp, sions of the out o workseem suddenly needles, thimble, and scissors belonging s~vept away. At length, after this weary to her. They are all English or Irish pih~rimage, I have secured work. The women, with the exception of some half. cool evening breeze, the picturesque life dozen well-dressed young ladies (daugh- and stirring activity of the broad highway, ters of the house), one of ~vhom acts as even the sounds and sights of east Lon- forewoman, while the others are already don, add to my feelino~ of intense exhil- at work on the vests. The missus is aration. Only one drawback to perfect still at breakfast. A few minutes after the content : Gan I finish trousers ? half-hour the two pressers (English lads At a few minutes past eight the follow- are the only men employed) saunter lazily ing morning I am standing in front of into the room, light up the gas-jet, and MOSES AND SON. CHEAP CLOTH- prepare the irons. PAGES FROM A WORK-GIRLS DIARY. The forewoman calls for a pair of trou- sers, already machined, and hands them to me. I turn them over and over, puzzled to know where to begin. The work is quite different from that of the bespoke shop, at which I was trained much coarser and not so well arranged. Be- sides, I have no cotton, thread, twist, or gimp. The woman next me explains: Youll ave to bring trimmings; we haint supplied with them things yere; but Ill lend you some, jist to set off with. \Vhat ought I to buy? I ask, feeling rather helpless. At this moment the missus sweeps into the room. She is a big woman enor- mously developed in the hips and thighs; she has strongly marked Jewish features, and, I see now, she is blind of one eye. The sardonic and enigmatical expression of her countenance puzzles me with its far-off associations, until I remember the caricatures, sold in City shops for por- traits, of the great Disraeli. Her hair is crisp and oily once jet black, now, in places, gray it twists itself in scanty locks over her forehead. The same stamped cotton velvet, of a large, flowery pattern, that she wore yesterday; a heavy watch-chain, plentiful supply of rings, and a spotlessly clean apron. Good-morning to you, she says gra- ciously to the whole assembly as she walks round our table towards my seat. Sarah, have you given this young person some work? Yes replies Sarah; fourpence half- pennys.~~ I have not got any trimmings. I did not know that I had to supply them. Where I worked before they were given, I ejaculate humbly. Thats easily managed; the shops just round the corner Or, Sarah, she calls across the table, youre going out just get the young person her trim- mings. The lady next you will tell you what you want, she adds in a lower tone, bending over between us. The lady next me is already my friend. She is a neat and respectable married woman with a look of conscious superiority to her surroundings. Like all the trouser hands she is paid by the piece; but in spite of this she is ready togiveme up time in explaining how I am to set about my work. Youll feel a bit strange the first day. Ave you been long out o work? Yes, I answer abruptly. Ah! that accounts for your being a bit 7 awkward-like. Ones fingers feel like so many thumbs after a slack time. And certainly mine do. I feel nervous, and very much on trial. The growing heat of the room, the form so crowded that one must sit sideways to secure even a limited freedom for ones elbows; the general strangeness of my position all these circumstances unite to incapacitate a true hater of needlework for even the roughest of sewing. However, happily for me no one pays me much attention. As the morning wears on, the noise in- creases. The two pressers have worked up their spirits, and a lively exchange of chaff and bad language is thrown from the two lads at the pressing (immediately be- hind us) to the girls round our table. Offers of kisses, sharp despatches to the devil and his abode, a constant and mean- ingless use of the inevitable adjective, form the staple of the conversation be. tween the pressers and the younger hands; while the elder women whisper scandal and news in each others ears. From the further end of the room catches of music- hall songs break into the monotonous whirr of the sewing-machine. The some- what crude and unrhythmical chorus Why should not the girls have freedom now and then? And if a girl likes a man, why should she not prol)ose? Why should the little girls always be led by the nose? seems the favorite refrain, and, judging from the gusto with which it is repeated, expresses the dominant sentiment of the work-girls. Now and again the mistress shouts out, Sing in time, girls ; I dont mind your singing, but sing in time. There is a free giving and taking of each others trimmings, a kindly and general supervision of each others work alto- gether a hearty geniality of a rough sort. The enigmatical and sardonic - looking J ewess sits at the upper end of our table, scans the finished garment through her gold-rimmed eyeglass, encourages or scolds as befits the case; or, screwing up her blind eye, joins in the chatter and broad-witted talk of the work-women im- mediately surrounding her. The missus as sixteen children, re- marks my friend Mrs. Long confidentially height by Mr. Moses, and height by the master she buried years ago. All them girls at the bottom table ar er daughters. They are a nice-looking set, say I, in a complimentary tone. I iS PAGES FROM A WORK-GIRL S DIARY. Yes, its a pity some of the girls in the shop haint like them, mutters my respectable friend. Theyre an awful bad lot, some of them. Why, bless you, that young person as is laughing and jok- ing ~vith the pressers jist beind us and here follow horrible details of the do- mestic vice and unnatural crime which disgrace the so-called Christian life of East London. Eh, eh ! joins in the woman next her, with a satisfied sniff at the scandal (a reg- ular woman of the slums, with nose and skin patched by drink), its hill thinking of what you may ave to touch in these sort of l)laces. \Vell, to be sure, rejoins Mrs. Long, nettled both by the tone of superiority and by the unwarranted interruption of her disreputable neighbor, Ive worked at this same place for height years and never yet ave I ad words with any one. Theres regler work the week round, and regler pay on a Saturday; and yre money kept for you, if you appen to be a-clean- ing. Theres no need to mix yrself up with them whose look you dont like, she adds, with just a perceptible edging away from the slum-woman, as if to emphasize her words theres some of all sorts yere. HIm one of that sort, blusters the woman of the slums, that hanswers a person back when they call me bly names. HIl1 give the last word to no one. I dont choose to old conversation wi the like of they, says Mrs. Long, pursing up her thin lips as if to end this undesired intercourse; it haint as if 1 ad to work for my living. My usbands in regler work; its only for the hextras like that I work, and jist for them times, l)eraps a month the ole year through, that the building trades slack. This effectually silences the woman of the slums. Her husband, alas! comes home drunk every night and spends the irregularly earned pence lounging about the l)ublics (so I am afterwards informed by Mrs. Long). She has an ill-favored daughter by her side, with a black eve and a swollen face, with whom she exchanges work and bad language and shares greasy victuals. One oclock, shouts a shrill boys voice. Stop ~vork, orders the mistress. I wish I might finish this bit, I say pathetically to my friend, painfully con- scious of the shortcoming in the quantity if not in the quality of my work. You mustnt; its the dinner hour. The pressers are already off, the mis tress and her daughters retire into the kitchen; the greater number of women and girls turn out into the street while one or two pull baskets from under the table, spread out before them, on dirty newspa- pers, cracked mugs, bits of bread and butter, cold sausage or salt fish ; and lift, from off the gas-stove, the tin teapot wherein their drink has been stewing since the early morning. Heartily thank- ful for a breath of fresh air and a change from my cramped posture, I wander up and down the open street, and end my dinner hour by turning into a clean shop for a bun and a fresh cup of tea. Back again at two. You mtist work sharper than this, remarks the mistress, who is inspecting my work. I color up and tremble percep- tibly as I meet the scrutinizing gaze of the hard-featured Jewess. She looks into my eyes with a comically puzzled expres- sion, and adds in a gentler voice You must work a little quicker for your own sake. Weve had worse buttonholes than these, but it dont look as if youd been customed to much work. But now the drama of the day begins. The two pressers saunter in ten minutes after the hour. This brings down upon them the ire of the Jewess. They, how- ever, seem masters of the situation, for they answer her back in far choicer lan- guage than that in which they were ad- dressedlanguage which I fear (even in a private diary) I could hardly reproduce: they assert their right to come when they choose; they declare that if they want a day off they will see her to th.e devil and take it; and lastly, as a climax to all insults, they threaten her with the factory man, and taunt her with gambling away on racehorses the money she sweats out of them. At these last words the enigmatical and sardonic expression of the Jewess changes into one of outbursting rage. All resem- blance to the City caricatures of that great passionless spirit vanishes, The deep furrows extending from just above the nostril to the corner of the mouth lines ~vhich must surely express some race ex- perience of the children of Israelopen out into one universal bubble of human fury. A perfect volley of oaths fly in quick succession between the principal combatants; while woman after woman joins in the fray, taking the missuss side against the pressers. The woman of the slums actually rises in her seat and pre PAGES FROM A WORK-GIRLS DIARY. 119 pares to use her fists; while her daughter seizes the opportunity to empty the small bottle of brandy hidden under her moth- ers trimmings. Mrs. Long purses up her thin lips still more tightly, and looks do~vn steadily at her work. At this critical point enter the master. Mr. Moses is a corpulent, ~vell-dressed English Jew. His face is heavy and sen- sual, his eyes sheepish, his reputation among his wifes hands none of the best. At this moment, his one desire is to keep the queens peace in his establish- ment. I suspect, also, from the sleepy viciousness of his expression, that he him- self suffers occasionally from the missuss forcible tongue; and with this bevy of women shouting on all sides he feels the masculine side of the question. Any way, he is inclined to take a strictly impartial view of the row. Sit down, Mrs. Jones, he shouts to the woman of the slums, sit you clown, or you and that daugh- ter of yours leave the shop this very in- stant. Now, lads, just you be quiet; go on with your work and dont speak to my wife. And then, turning to his wife, in a lower tone, Why wont you leave them alone and not answer them? and the rest of his speech we cannot hear; but, judging from the tone and the look, it takes the form of deprecating expostula- tion. I catch the words push of work and season hands. Why, if you were only a bit of a man, cries the mistress, raising her voice so that all may hear, youd throw those t~vo bly rascals out. Id throw them out at any price, if I were a womans husband. The idea of saying how I spend my money whats that to him? And that Jo says hell call the factory man in. He may call the devil in (and hes welcome)the only person as hell notice will be himself. The idea of him saying that I spend my money on horses; as if I couldnt spend money on anything I like. As if you wouldnt give me money as I earn, when I asks you, Mr. Moses, gasps the Jewess, as she looks threateningly at her partner, and never ask where it goes to. The betting on horses is evidently a sore point. It isnt their business what you do with your money, rejoins the master soothingly. But just let them alone, and tell those girls to be quiet. Its more than half the girls faulttheyre always at the fello~vs, he adds, anxious to shift the blame into a safe quarter. The storm lulls, and Mr. Moses returns into the front shop. But the anger of the Jewess is not yet exhausted. A stray word, and the quick firing of abusive lan- guage between the mistress and the press- ers begins afresh; though this time the women, awed by the masters interference, are silent. The tall, weak-looking young man, Jo by name, shouts the longest and loudest; but, as Mrs. Long whispers to me without raising her eyes from her ~vork, Its Arry as makes the bullets jist listen to im but its Jo as fires em! At last it subsides. Women (outdoor hands) troop in with bundles of finished trousers. The bubbling rage of the in- jured ~voman yields to the keen-eyed supervision of the profit-making Jewess. Id have nothing but indoor hands, if I knew where to find them and had a room to put them into, she mutters to Esther as she turns over garment after garment. Just look at this work, its all soap! Call again on Monday morning, Mrs. Smith. But mind it is Monday and not Tuesday morning. You understand En- glish, dont you ? Monday morning. A small boy creeps into the shop laden with unfinished work. What dyou say to this, Sarah? Mrs. Hall sends ~vord she was washing on Monday, cleaning on Tuesday, and I suppose playing the devil on Wednesday, for heres Thursday, with shop-day to-morrow, and the works un- touched. Now, girls, be quick with your work, continues the mistress as she throws the bundle on to our table all this to be done extra before Friday. Per- kins wont wait for no one l The name of a wholesale shipping firm; so she works for export as well as for retail and pays same price for both, inwardly notes the investigator as she glances at the shoddy garments. (The work-girl meanwhile pushes her needle into her thumb-nail, and in her agony digs her elbow into her neighbors half-turned back, which causes a cannonade all round the table.) Law! how awkward she still be, growls the woman of the slums, anxious to pick a quarrel and vent her unspent wrath. At length tea-time breaks the working. day. Pence have already been collected for the common can of milk; innumerable teapots are lifted off the gas-stove, small parcels of bread and butter, with a relish or a sweet, are everywhere unrolled. My neighbors, on either side, offer me tea, which I resolutely refuse. The mistress sips her cup at the head of the table. The obnoxious pressers have left for the half-hour. Her feelings break out: 120 PAGES FROM A WORK-GIRLS DIARY. Pay them ~s. a day to abuse you As if I couldnt spend my money on what I like; and as if Mr. Moses would ever ask Id like to see him ask mehow the moneyd gone I All the ~vomen sympathize with her and vie with each other in abusing the absent pressers. Its hawful, their language, cries the slum-woman; if I were the missus, id give the bly scoundrels tit for tat. Whativers the use of bein a missus if youve got to old in yre tongue? As for the factory man, continues the irate Jewess, turning to the other sore l)oint, just fancy threatening me with him! Why they arnt fit to work in a respectable. shop; theyre dd spies. Id throw them out, if it cost me iool. And if Mr. Moses were half a man, hed do it too. At the word spy, I feel rather hot; but conscious of the innocence of my object, I remark, You have nothing to fear from the factory inspector; you keep the regu- lations exactly. I dont deny, she answers quite frankly, that if were pressed for work I turn the girls up-stairs; but it isnt once in three months I do it; and it all tells for their good. Two hours afterwards, and I have fin- ished my second pair. This wont do, she says as she looks over both pairs to- gether. Here, take and undo the band of that one ; Ill set this one to rights. Bctter have respectable persons who know little to work here than blaguards who knQw a lot and a deal too much, she mutters, smarting over the taunts of the factory man and the money laid on horses. Eight oclock by the Brewery clock, cries the shrill voice. Ten minutes to, shouts the missus, looking at her watch. However, it aint worth ~vhile breaking the law for a few minutes. Stop work. This is most welcome to me. The heat since the gas has been lit is terrific, my fingers are horribly sore, and my back aches as if it would break. The women bundle up their work; one or two take it home. Every one leaves her trimmings on the table, with scissors and thimble. Outside, the freshness of the evening air, the sensation of free movement, and rest to the weary eyes and fingers constitute the keenest physical enjoyment I have ever yet experienced. Friday morning, and I am hopelessly tired. Jammed between my two neigh- bors, with the garment of hard shoddy stuff on my knee, and with the whole days work before me, I feel on the brink of deep disgrace as a work-girl. I am shaky like all over, my fingers, worn in places into holes, refuse to push the thick needle through the objectionable sub stance; damp hands (the more I rub them in my apron the damper they become) stretch the thin linings out of place ; my whole energy is riveted on my ~vork, ~vith the discouraging result that it becomes worse and worse. Mrs. Long works si- lently by my side at high pressure to bring a pair of ordered trousers in to time. And she begins to scent dismissal. I keeps myself to myself, she told me yesterday. Down yre theyre all a-going down ill; except them Jews as is going hup. And to-day she applies her theory strictly, and is unwilling to mix herself up with even a respectable fail- ure. So I bungle on without help until I have finished after a fashion. This will never do, angrily remarks the mistress. And then, perceiving the culprit by her side, she adds sternly: This wont do this work wont suit me; you want to go and learn somewhere first. This ~vill never do this wont suit me, she repeats slowly as she pulls the work to pieces. She dismisses me from her side with a wave of her eyeglass, as if to say, Its no good answering me back again. Without a word I arrange my trimmings ready to depart if the missus persists. Is it over-fatigue, or is it the perfect realization of my position as a disgraced work-girl? An ominous lump rises in my throat, and my eyes fill with tears. There is a dead silence. The younger hands look up from their work sympathetically; Mrs. Long, with her head down, stitches on steadily; the woman of the slums gazes on me with bleared expression of mingled stupor and pity; fumbles under- neath her work on the table and pushes somethincr towards me. I hear the rattle of the brandy-bottle against the scissors as I see the old tobacco-box that holds her trimmings advancing to~vards me. Meanwhile the Jewess has screwed up her left eye and is looking at me through her eyeglass. The deep furrows of inher. ited experience agan relax in favor of personal feeling. But this time it is hu- man kindness instead of human fury. She becl~ons to me. In a second I am by her side. Ill see what I can do with you. If PAGES FROM A WORKGIRL S DIARY. 121 you like to stay and ~vork on threepence- halfpennies, the same as I give to outdoor hands, you can take better work ~vhen youre fit for it. Im sure I dont want to be hard on any decent young person as is trying to earn her living in a respectable way. There aint so many respectable persons in the world that we can afford to starve em, the Jewess adds, casting an angry glance at the pressers. Sarah, give her a pair of threepence-halfpennies. Ill alter these for you. You sit between those two young ladies and theyll show you. You must help one another, she says to the girls as they make room for me; tho of course they all come here to make their Own living; you cant expect them to teach yc forever. The girl who takes me under her espe- cial charge is a respectably dressed and delicate-looking young woman, with none of the rowdy slovenliness or tarnished finery of the typical Gentile girl of East London. Slightly made, with a pale, weary face, she looks at least thirty (she tells me she is only just nineteen); she stitches silently, and seems hardly con- scious of the boisterous life of her fellow- workers; but instead of Mrs. Longs air of ever-present superiority, her form, face, manner, denote physical depression, lit up now and again by the dreamy conscious- ness of another world beyond the East End workroom. Youll soon learn, she says kindly; you must watch me fix this, and then you can do the next yourself. Directed and encouraged by her kind- ness, I work on, in a calmer frame of mind, listening to the conversation of my neighbors. Among the younger hands who sit at this end of the table it chiefly concerns the attraction of the rival music- halls, or the still more important question of the presents and attentions of their different blokes. For monotonous work arid bad food have not depressed the phys- ical energies of these young women. With warm hearts, with overflowing good na- ture, with intellects keenly alive to the varied sights of East London, these genu- ine daughters of the people brim over with the frank enjoyment of low life. During the day their fingers and eyes are fully occupied; in the evenings, on holidays, in the slack season, their thoughts rush out and gather in the multitudinous excite- ments of the East End streets ; while their feelings unburden themselves in the pleasure of promiscuous love - making. You cannot accuse them of immorality, for they have no consciousness of sin. The veneer of morality, the hidden but secretly self-conscious vice of that little set that styles itself London society (in the city of millions !) are unknown to them. They live in the Garden of Eden of unciv- ilized life; as yet they have not tasted the forbidden fruit of the tree of the knowl- edge of good and evil, and the heaven and hell of an awakened conscience are alike undreamt of. There is only one fall pos- sible to them drink, leading slowly but inevitably to the drunkards death. I say, Milly, shouts one to the other, you tell that bly brother of yours that 1 waits alf an our for im houtside the Paragon last night. Ill be blessed before I serves as is round the corner* agin. Owever, at last, I say-s to myself, A watched kittle niver biles, SO 1 walks in by myself. The dressin there is grand, she adds enthusiastically. Eh! but you shd see the piece theyre running at the Standard! rejoins Milly. Jims promised to take me up to one of them grand places up West next Satur- day. Will you come alono-? Ill git Tom to come. Youll want to be a-making of it up by that time. Toms in regler work and a rare catch has a sweeteart, laughs the sister of the faithless swain. its too much trouble to go up XVest, answers the girl, anxious to prove her in- difference to Toiris attentions. I dont care to turn hout fore alf past nine. It takes a full hour to clean up and git a bit of supper, and that leaves three hours for our houting like ; for mother dont hex- pect us back fore alf l)ast twelve. But I dont say I wouldnt come, as its the alf day, if Toms very pressin, she continues. Ive eard it said them grand ladies as sits in the boxes and the stalls as low dresses on, like so many hactrices, and hits as good has a play jist to look on em. So Arry told me, and es a rare un for liking the look of them lords and la- dies as lives up there. The pale, ~~eary girl stitches silently by my side. She ~vorks harder than the others finished four pair yesterday and hopes to finish the same to-day. Are you chapel ? she asks presently. Yes, I reply, attending more to the spirit than to the letter of her question. Do you belong to the army? she says inquiringly, glancing at my plain grey dress, and no doubt remembering my close black bonnet. No, I ans~ver, do you? * The East End term for the lady you take to the theatre or the music-hall. 122 PRESIDENTS ADDRESS TO THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION. Now what have you been? she continue~ with gracious inquisitiveness. I hadnt to work when my father was in work, I answer with literal truthful- ness. A tidy-looking young person like you ought to get some respectable man to marry her like my daughter here ; youre more fit for that than to be making your o~vn living in this sort of place. But, since you have come, Ill see what I can do with you. Come, youre getting on nicely, she says encouragingly, as she looks over my work. I am drinking the cup of tea forced on me by my neighbor. The pale, weary girl is munching her bread and butter. Wont you have some? she says, as she pushes the paper towards me. No, thank you, I ans~ver. Sure? and without more to-do she lays a thick slice in my lap and turns away to avoid my thanks,a little bit of hu- man kindness that goes to the heart and brings tears into the eyes of the investi- gator. Work begins again. My friend has finished her third piece and is waiting for the fourth. She covers her head with her hands as she bends backward to rest the strained figure. In her grey eyes there is a look of intense weariness weariness of body and mind. Another pair is handed to her and she begins again. She is a quick worker; but, work as hard as she may, she cannot clear much over Is. a day after she has paid for trimmings. (A shil- ling a day is about the price of unskiJled womans labor.) Another two hours and I say good-night. Ill be married in a week, are the last words I hear passing from Jo to Harry, and then my wife shall keep me. Ill go to the bly workhouse, jokes I-larry, if I dont get a gal to keep me. I wont sweat here any longer for 5s. a day. BEATRICE POTTER. She shakes her head: Theyve tried to get me to join since Ive been in Lon- don. But were a quieter set than they. Mother and I have only been in London these two years since fathers death, she adds in an explanatory tone. Mothers a skilled vest hand; not this sort of work she wouldnt look at this. She can make 2/. a week in good times; but now her eyesights going fast. And it isnt much as I earn. I was brought up to teaching. And why did you not go on with it? I failed in the first examination. Then father died, and mother heard there was skilled hands wanted in London, so we left our home. But Ive found a Bible- class in our street and I teaches there twice a ~veek. That and the chapel on a Sunday is like a bit of the old home. The work-girl sighs, and the far-off look of another world gleams in the clear depths of her grey eyes. If youre going out for the dinner hour, I might show you the chapel and the class-room, she adds with hesitating gentleness; are you go- ing home for dinner? No, I shall get a cup of tea at Lock- harts, and a bun. Why, youre niver a-goin to dine off that! cries the girl on my other side. And there is a whispering all round the table. Only a cup of tea and a bun means great poverty. You ad no tea last evening, con- tinues the same girl; now you must take a cup o mine this afternoon. The hours of the day pass away quietly in work. There are no words between the mistress and the pressers, and the work- shop life becomes monotonous. During the interval between dinner and tea a golden-haired young lady (married daugh- ter of the Jewess). beautifully gloved and bonneted, covered with jewels, but with a somewhat unseasonable tippet of sable- tails, enters the work-room. She seats herself by her mother at the head of the table and chats confidentially. I hear the names of various racehorses and of forth. coming races. Apparently her husband belongs to the genus of betting men,~~ and, judging from her dress, he is a sue- From The Saturday Review. cessful one. The mistress is in high good THE PRESIDENTS ADDRESS TO THE humor. At tea-time she turns to me : BRITISH ASSOCIATION. Now, Im very much interested in TWENTY-FOUR years have l)assed since you; there is something in your face thats the British Association met at Bath Dur- uncommon, and your voice too, thats odd ing this period numerous changes have no word higher than another. The occurred among its members; many who ~voman here ~vill tell you, if I hadnt taken then occupied a conspicuous place, in- a fancy to your face and your voice I cluding the eminent president for the year should have bundled you out long ago. 1864, Sir Charles Lyell, are no longer liv- PRESIDENT S ADDRESS TO THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION. 123 ing, and the gaps in the ranks have been filled by recruits, some of whom at that time were still boys at school. But the energy of the Association is in no way im- paired its influence on the advancement of science, although gatherings of a similar nature, but more limited and special in scope, are now far more common, can hardly be said to have diminished. If the very results of its own work have rendered a scientific missionary society one of its principal aims at the outset almost needless, it still occupies a position and performs a duty which is peculiar to itself, of bringing together for exchange of ideas students in the various branches of sci- ence, of keeping them in touch with the general public, and of collating and re- cording the results of their labors. The quiet old city will also be found to have changed, though less conspicuously than the personnel of the Association; it has increased in size, though its more impor- tant characteristics are retained ; the old objects of interest remain, but have been augmented by new discoveriesas, for instance, will be seen in its excellent mu- seum, in the recently excavated remains of the baths of the Roman Aqu~ Sulis, and, at a few miles distance, in the now famous church of Bradford-on-Avon. Sir Frederick l3ramwell, the president at this meeting, as might be expected. restricts his address to the relations of science to the work of that profession of which he is a distinguished member. In- deed, the opening paragraphs are virtually a d~fence of the occasional election of a civil engineer to the office of president of the British Association. Such a defence ~vill probably see in to most persons hardly needed. At the present day it is iinprob- able that the claims of the more eminent members of the Institute of Civil Engi- neers to be regarded as men of science, in the full sense of the term, would be seri- ously disputed. Indeed, their last repre- sentative in the presidential chair, the late Sir William Siemens, whom, however, his successor appears to regard as more strictly a representative of physics, said, in effect, that in the ~vork of the engineer there was no more place for the rule of thumb practitioner. As was also to be expected, we find in the address a passing jest at the metrical system and a passing blow at the oppo. nents of the Channel Tunnel. The former is amusing as a specimen of the authors well-known dry humor, though it may be remarked that, rnuta/is mntandis, it might be equally well employed by an advocate of the other system of measurement; the latter would have been better omitted, or at least expressed in different terms. To say that the scheme for a tunnel under the Straits of Dover has lately fallen into disfavor with an unreasoning public, who have not taken the pains to ascertain the true state of the case, is an assertion which, though perhaps permissible on the part of an advocate or a scientific witness, is less accurate than ~ve should expect from a man of science. The construction of such a tunnel would undoubtedly be a grand feat of engineering; it might tend advantageously, as Sir F. Bramwell as- serts it would, to augment the common interests of England and France, and thus cement friendship rather than promote hostIlity; nay, the work may be even, as he suggests, poetic in conception; and yet, in the present epoch of the worlds history, its accomplishment may be a very appre- ciable addition to the dangers of this coun- try. The opposition to this scheme is led by men who are best qualified to ap- preciate the military aspect of the ques- tion. With them are men of science, not less eminent than Sir F. Bramwell him- self, and some of the more prudent and far-sighted of our statesmen. We con- gratulate Sir F. Bramwell on the recent convert from the ranks of the last named, though we doubt whether so eminent an advocate will greatly strengthen his cause with those who are anxious to ascertain facts and regard them in a scientific spirit. Sir F. Bramwell, as has been implied, claims that engineering has even its poet- ical side. Perhaps this is true, but we fear that many will assert that the poetry is rather of the thought than of the ex- pression. A lighthouse may be a fair shaft, graceful as a palm and sturdy as an oak, but, invaluable as it may be as a pro- tection to life and property, it is certainly open to doubt whether it adds to the pic- turesqueness of the reef. A railway gen- erally injures the beauty of scenerywe cannot think it has improved the valley of the Reuss, or that the charms of the Menai Strait or the grandeur of Niagara are enhanced by the adjacent bridges ; nay, we have some doubt whether, as a ques- tion simply of ~sthetics, that marvellous structure which is now spanning the Firth of Forth ~vill add greatly to its charms. Turning, however, from these more con- troversial matters to the main subject of the address, this may be described in the opening words of the speaker: The late Lord Iddesleigh delighted an audience, 124 PRESIDENTS ADDRESS TO THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION. for a whole evening, by an address on Nothing. Would that I had his talents and could discourse to you as charmingly as he did to his audience, but I dare not try to talk about nothing. I do, how- ever, propose, as one of the two sections of my address, to discourse to you on the importance of the next to nothing. The other section is far removed from this microscopic quantity as it will enhance the eulogy of the civil engineer and will point out the value to science of his works. The two subjects, thus quaintly enumerated, are deliberately intert~vined by the author, and it is this idea the intimate connection of small things with great results the task of the least, as it might be called, which gives by its ad- mirable elaboration a high value to the address as a whole. One illustration of the above is given in a brief history of economies effected in the working of the steam-engine. The very best engines of Watts days con- sumed about six or seven pounds of fuel per horse-power per hour. This is now ieduced to about one-fourth, and in porta- ble enolnes for agricultural purposes has been brought down to 1.65 pounds per in- dicated horse-power per hour. But, if further economy is to be effected, and there is still serious waste of po~ver, this can only be done, as he shows, by the most exact registration and careful watch- ing of every percentage of loss ; for, though individually minute, these, when summed up, are serious in amount. But Sir F. Brarnwell is not sanguine as to the continued use of the steam-engine. He ventured to predict at the York meeting that, in 1931, when the centenary of the British Association arrived, its members, unless some substantive improvement, at present unthought of, were made in the steam-engine, would see the l)resent steam- engines in museums, treated as things to be respected, and of antiquarian inter- est to the enoineersof those days. This ])rophecy, he adds, now that seven years have elapsed, he neither regrets having made, nor desires to withdraw. The suc- cess of gas-engines and of those worked by the vapors of products similar to pe- troleum. has already been so great, that he considers he ~vas not wrong in l)redict- ing that the heat-engine of the future will probably be one independent of the vapor of water. But the thesis of the lecture received its most strikino and interesting illustra- tions in the remarks upon the materials required by the increasing needs of the engineer. Here the effects of alloys upon the strength, tenacity, and other proper- ties of metals are described at full length. The old rough-and-ready methods of judg- ing of the properties of metals would now be useless. Till it was realized that the quality of steel depended upon very small variations in the amount of carbon pres- ent in the iron, and methods were found of securing the presence of the right per- centage, such works as the Forth bridge, the big gun, the compound arm or of the ironclad with its steel face, would have been impossible. These large guns, in- deed, furnish an excellent illustration of the task of the least a piece of steel ribbon, which looks more suitable for the framework of an umbrella, is used in reinforcing the main tube of a gun, which, if put into position at Richmond, pointed and ranged, by the ordnance map, for the Royal Exchange, could be depended upon for dropping a shell, weighing three hun- dred and eighty pounds, somewhere in an area round it, five hundred yards long and two hundred yards wide As the pres- ident remarks, in passing, the arrival of such a messenger every five minutes would be a serious obstacle to conducting business with that calmness and coolness which are necessary to success. Not less striking and more recent ot discovery is the effect of the presence of alloys in minute quantities in metals, a matter to which Professor Roberts-Aus- ten has recently devoted so much atten- tion. The president confines his remarks chiefly to the alloys of iron, as having a more immediate bearing on his subject, and merely glances in passing at the re- sults with other metals. It has been found that in certain cases the presence of an alloy in so small a quantity as one part in a thousand is sufficient to change some of the most marked properties of a metal; as, for example, to render it brittle instead of malleable. These changes are most strikingly illustrated in the manufacture of steel. The addition of a very small percentage of aluminium gives to a steel alloy a much greater hardness, and en- ables it to take a much higher and more silverlike polish. One twentieth part of one per cent. of aluminium when added to molten wrought iron will reduce the fusing- point of the whole mass some five hundred degrees, and thus render the material so fluid as to be capable of making castings of the most intricate character. Perhaps even more striking are the effects of man- ganese. It has been known for years that when present in steel in quantities less GENERAL PREJEVALSKY, THE RUSSIAN EXPLORER. 125 than 2~5 per cent. it rendered the metal more ductile and altogether more fitted for forging. H ere, however, improvement stopped, and if the percentage were in- creased deterioration commenced. But recently further experiment has shown that after an amount of seven per cent. of manganese has been added, the quality of the metal again begins to improve. Such results, anomalous at present, have an interest which extends far beyond their practical application, and appeal even to a wider audience than that which listened to this address, for they indicate that arguments founded on the invariabil- itv of the order of nature are apt to be mis- leading. Doubtless from similar causes similar consequences will result; but these remarkable experiments indicate that a variation of the antecedents ~vhich would be imperc~ptible to all but the most specially qualified observers is capa- ble of producing the most important effects. From The Morning Post. GENERAL PREJEVALSKY, THE RUSSIAN EXPLORER. MORE than ordinary interest attaches at the present time to the Russian expe- dition to Thibet which is on the point of starting for that little-known country. The expedition is commanded by the well- known traveller, General Prejevalsky, who has twice before made an attempt to reach Lhassa, and who will again, and for the third time, try to make his way to the cap- ital of the Dalai Lama, in which no living European has set foot. The Russian party consists of twenty-seven persons, of whom twenty-four are Cossacks, and is to start next week. General Prejevalsky will try to get to Lhassa by way of west- ern and southwestern Mongolia, and ex- pects to be absent about two years. XVhether the general ~~ill be ir~ore success- ful this time than on the previous occa- sions ~vhen he has endeavored to enter the central Thibetan provinces remains to be seen, but the hostility which the Lhassa authorities have been sho~ving towards all foreigners ~vho have tried to pass their borders in the last few years does not render us very hopeful on this point. It is exactly eighteen years since Prejeval- sky, then a captain in the Russian army, but already known as a bold explorer, started on his first memorable journey through Mongolia, with the idea of mak. ing his way ultimately to the untravelled region beyond the sand Sea of Gobi and the Nan-Shan Mountains. With half-a- dozen companions, and without even a qualified and competent interpreter, he started for Pekin in the winter of 1870, and in the following spring began a tour of Mongolia and the Tangut country as far as the Koko-nor waters. It was not a favorable time for such an enterprise, for the iViohammedan rebellion in north-west China and the neighboring parts was at its height. In May Prejevalsky began the ascent of the table-land of eastern Mongolia, travelling due west, and through the Tumet country until he reached the extremity of the Inshan mountain range, on the north banks of the Hoang-ho. Crossing the river, and thence over the dreary plains of the Ordos, the explor- ing party made their way, still west, for over three hundred miles parallel with the southern bank of the stream. At Ding-hu the Yellow River was crossed, and the explorer found himself in the province of Ala-shan, of which, for the first time, he gave an intelligible account. Traversing the mountains of this region, he returned to the capital of the province with his means totally exhausted; and there was nothing for it but to return to Pekin. This he did, following, Colonel Yule asserts, the old route taken by Marco Polo on his first visit to the court of the great khan. Anott~er start for the Thibetan borders was made in 1872. Prejevalsky joined a Chinese caravan going to the monastery of Lobsen, whence he made an excursion to the mountains of Tatung, where, for the first time, the rhubarb plant was seen in its native region. Ip October he pitched his tents on the shores of Koko- nor, at an elevation of ten thousand feet above the level of the sea. Though his means were now exhausted, and the coun- try through which he was travelling was the home of hostile tribes, he resolved to push on. Crossing the salt marshes of Tsai-dam, which run north-west to the famous but then undertermined Lake Lob the Lob-nors of the maps Prejeval- sky passed into the highlands of northern Thibet, a lofty and uninhabited desert, a veritable solitude stretching far over five hundred miles at a height of fifteen thou- sand feet above the sea level, only then to find that further progress was barred. The travellers had no provisions but what their guns could secure for them, and had to live upon brick tea and sour barley meal. The camels were worn out, the money exhausted, and the health of the party was 126 PIRACY AND HIDDEN TREASURE. weakened by hardship and a trying cli- mate. And thus, with Lhassa, the capital, within twenty days journey of them, they were obliged to turn their backs on the city which they had set their minds on reaching, and which was the objective point of their three years travelling. So ragged and torn were the Russians when they entered Din yuan-ying on the return journey, that the residents called them the very image of Mongols. fhe route homewards was over the terrible depres sion of the Galpin Gobi, a region so barren that the northern Thibet deserts may be termed fruitful in comparison. It contains not a single oasis, neither water nor pas- ture ground, everywhere only the silence of the valley of death. When Preje- vaisky reached Kiakhta in October, 1873, he had been away three years, had ex- plored seven thousand miles of routes, half of which had never been travelled before, brought home five thousand speci- mens of plants, one hundred and twenty of mammals large and small, one thousand specimens of fish, and three thousand five hundred of insects. About one-fifth of these were new to science. Altogether, Prejevalskys journey, though he failed to reach central Thibet on the Lamaish cap- ital, was one of the most remarkable ever accomplished, and an undertakingof which Russia may justly be proud, as English geographers have been among the first to admit. The generals next attempt to make his way to the unknown regions of Bodyul proved also abortive, though he succeeded in reaching the shores of Lob- nor, the great inland lake of which the Russian traveller has given one of the most graphic pictures ever sketched. He left Kulja in August, 1876, with instruc- tions from the government to explore, if possible, the gold-region lying between Rhoten and Thibet, on which the Musco- vite rulers have for many years cast long- ing eyes. But Prejevalsky got no further than the waters of Lob-nor; and in sight almost of the Nan-Shan Mountains, which form the northern borders of the Chinese dependency, he found it advisable to make his way back to Kulja, where he arrived, the following July, tired and ragged, as he humorously says in the account he has given of his wanderings in this interesting region of central Asia. Considering the difficulties that must necessarily attend any attempt to reach Thibet from the north-east or north-west, it is scarcely sur- prising that Prejevalsky should have failed to reach the central city and capital of the trans-Himalayan State. The natural and physical obstacles interposed are such as well might deter even the boldest from making trial of the routes chosen by the Russian exploi-ing parties both in 1870 and 1876. The frightful deserts, the try- ing mountain passes, the absence of water and want of provisions, to say nothing of the hostile people to be encountered, make it surprising that Prejevalsky accom- plished as much as he did. I3ut consider- ing that Lhassa is only between three and four hundred miles, as the crow flies, from the Indian frontier, it is rather remarkable that in so few cases have travellers reached the Thibetan capital from Hindostan. But a single traveller ever passed from India to Thibet, thence into China and back, and that was the Dutchman Samuel van de Putte, who was mayor of Flushing in 1715. Love of travel led him abroad, and he accomplished the most remarkable journey ever undertaken in Thibet, trav- ersing the country from India to China and back again. Since his time the num- ber of Europeans who have set foot in the sacred city of the Dalai Lama from India may be counted on the fingers of ones hand. There was George Bogle, the En- glishman sent by Warren Hastings, Mr. Manning, another countryman of ours, Captain Turner, and the French clerics Hue and Gabet. Even Csoma de K6ros, the most accomplished Thibetan scholar that ever lived, failed to set eyes on the capital of Great Thibet. And if General Prejevalsky and his party now starting succeed where so many have failed, they will have achieved a notable feat in geo- graphical explorations. PIRACY AND HIDDEN TREASURE. THE 7apan Weekly M4il contains a report of the abrupt termination of a voy- age from the port of Yokohama in search of hidden treasure. The British schooner Nereid had got from Japan as far as Guam, a small island belonging to the Marianne group, in the Pacific Ocean. Here the captain went on shore, intend- ing to sail for Yap, in the Carolines, but on returning,to where he had left his ~essel he found it had been carried off either by his mate or two Japanese, or by all three. These were the only persons on board, and as no trace of the vessel has been found there is still some mystery about the affair. The voyage which was brought to a premature end by this act of piracy was a curious one. The captain THE PRODUCTION OF CAVIAR IN RUSSIA. 127 had sailed in search of a treasure which is alleged to have been lost under these circumstances: In 1823, during a revo- lution in Peru, a number of wealthy resi- dents of Li ma combined to charter a brig of three hundred tons, on ~vhich they placed their property in money and je~vellery, a large quantity of monastic plate being also sent off for safety. The intention was to convey this treasure to Spain. It is said that there were doubloons to the value of 2,000,000, and a vast sum in plate. But after the treasure was on board, and when its owners came down to the beach, they found the vessel gone. An English- man, a lieutenant in the Peruvian navy, hearing of the intended flight, had gone on board with a chosen band, and had cut out the brig within hail of a Peruvian man-of-war. He steered right across the Pacific, and in course of time reached the Marianne Islands, where the treasure was buried, and a course was made for Hono- lulu. Before reaching this port quarrels broke out among the pirates, and the lieu- tenant, with his two officers, and a cabin- boy, got into a boat and left the crew, having first set fire to the vessel. One of the officers was murdered and thrown overboard, before the boat reached Hono- lulu, where the party represented them- selves as the survivors of a shipping disaster. The lieutenant, before leaving Lima, had been in love with a lady, the vife of a Peruvian officer who was slain in the revolution, and before taking any further steps with regard to the treasure, decided to send for her. The cabin-boy was despatched as his emissary to Lima; but on his arrival there he was seized and imprisoned, and the lady refused to have anything further to do with a man whom she styled a detestable pirate. The lieutenant and his sole remaining com- panion accordingly chartered a small fore- and-aft schooner, the Swallow, commanded by one Captain Thompson, and proceeded to the Mariannes for his treasure. Thomp- son tried hard to get a charter for a speci- fied port or ports, but the lieutenant insisted on a broad charter, including any or all the Mariannes. One evening, when they were in sight of the islands, the lieu- tenant, who was sitting on the lee-rail chatting with his companion, was, it is conjectured, tipped overboard by the lat- ter and disappeared, the usual alarm being raised; but the lieutenants body was never recovered. Thompson, from sun- dry scraps of conversation which he had overheard, suspected the object of the voyage, overhauled the dead lieutenants effects, and among them found a chart of the island on which the treasure was hid- den, but with the name omitted. Soon afterwards he sighted another brig, with the master of which he was acquainted, and proposed to him to search for the treasure and divide it between them, giv- ing the surviving pirate a share on con- dition that he consented to point out the spot, but with a threat that if he did not do so he would forthwith be handed over to the Spanish authorities. At a concerted moment the pirate was seized by both captains, and the conditions named. He nodded. They asked him if he would in- dicate the situation of the treasure. He nodded. They asked if this was the island, pointing to the nearest of the group. He again nodded. They invited him to step into a boat which had been lowered and guide them to the treasure. He nodded once more, went below, filled his pockets with lead and iron, and then go- ing down the ladder, pushed off the boat with one foot from the side of the schocner, and dropped feet first into the sea. This put an end to the treasure-hunting; the chart went into the possession of the Spanish authorities. Meanwhle the cap- tain of the Nereid, who holds or believes he holds the clue to the secret of all this wealth, has lost everything. Whatever may be thought of this extraordinary story, what is beyond any questionAis, that an English shipmaster in Yokohama, at the commencement of the present year, set out in a schooner, built under his own supervision and belonging to himself, to search for the treasure supposed to be hidden more than sixty years ago among the coral islands of the north Pacific, and that his crew ran away with his vessel and have not since been heard of. Possi- bly they, too, having some suspicion of the object of the voyage, determined to recover the treasure on their own account. The story which is here summarized was taken down from the mouth of the captain himself. From St. Jamess Gazette. THE PRODUCTION OF CAVIAR IN RUSSIA, CAVIAR, which is derived from the eggs of the sturgeon (Acci~enser husso) is an article of considerable importance in the export trade of many Russian towns and of Astrakan. The 7ourna/ de la 67zarn- bre de Commerce de Cons/an/inoAle says that from thirty to forty thousand pouds 128 THE PRODUCTION OF CAVIAR IN RUSSIA. (the poud being equivalent to thirty-six pounds avoirdupois) are annually exported from south Russia, principally from Ta- ganrog. Tl~e greater part finds its way to Turkey, Greece, and certain parts of Italy and Germany. But little is sent to England, and still less to France. The following is the method employed in taking the sturgeon on the Volga. The fisheries are situated at the mouth of the river, and in the rear on the land are erected large warehouses, or caves dug in the soil, and troughs extend from one end to the other to contain the strong brine necessary for the preparation of the caviar. Fishing operations are usually conducted in the spring, autumn, or ~vinter. The autumn fisheries are con- sidered the best, because they produce a greater supply of eggs. In the winter season the Russian fishermen fish for the sturgeon with a harpoon, a large hole be- ing cut in the ice. During the other fish- ing seasons on the Volga nets are used, these consisting of a large engine com- posed of cables about a hundred metres long, to which are attached cords furnished with fish-hooks. These cables, fastened one to the other, are fixed at the bottom of the stream by anchors, and kept in place by beams. Each hook is calculated to be able to sustain the weight of a fish three or four metres long, and this method of fishing is very productive. Each fish- ing establishment is provided with boats of different dimensions. As soon as the fish are taken they are placed on board, and then transported to one of the larger vessels accompanying the flshin~ fleet, where they are laid down and covered with salt. After having split the head of the fish with a hatchet, it is then cleaned, the belly is opened as far as the tail, and the eggs, the entrails, bladder, and dorsal nerve, called ves~gcz, which is ir~ade by the Russians into pies, and considered a great delicacy by them, are removed. These operations last about a quarter of an hour. Before the fish ceases to writhe, the eggs are made into fresh caviar, which, not be. ing intended for exportation, is generally consumed soon afterwards. Caviar is pre- pared in two ways, differing very slightly from each other. For export, caviar grdnu and caviar corn~ac/ are prepared, and the following are the methods of preparation. In making caviar gr~nu the eggs are cleaned in water to remove the outer cov- ering, and are then left in strong brine for about three-quarters of an hour. They are then drained in sieves placed on a kind of large inclined trench, which lets off the water into a basin. As regards caviar compact, the method of preparation is almost the same. After having sepa- rated the eggs from the skin and the veins, the piles of eggs are salted in the troughs, and are left about three-qtiarters of an hour in the brine; and while there they are kneaded in order to soften them, after which, instead of being allowed to drain off at leisure, they are twisted in cloth bags. Thus prepared, the caviar is heaped lightly in small wooden barrels, and is ready for delivery. A third method of preparing caviar consists in preserving the eggs just as they are taken from the fish, and after lying for seven or eight months in brine, they are dried in the sun. This is the coarser kind of caviar, which, however, is very largely exported. Other substances are also extracted from the sturgeon, in which a large trade is carried on. In addition to the eggs, another important product, from an indus- trial point of view, is the swimming blad- der, situated above the dorsal spike of the sturgeon. These organs, plunged in wa- ter and separated from their external skin, cut lengthways, covered with cloth, soft- ened by the action of the hands, made up into tablets or small rolls, constitute almost the whole of the isinglass which is con- stimed in Europe, and which is known under the name of ich/hyoco/le. Mixed with glue, this product is of great adhe- sive power, and is used for uniting broken glass and porcelain. The fat of sturgeons when it is fresh is used as a substitute for oil and butter, and is largely consumed by the inhabitants of the southern dis- tricts of Russia, while the skin is used as leather; and in some cases the skin of the young fish, when it is thoroughly cleaned and well dried, is a substitute for window-glass in parts of Russia and of Tartary.

The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2312 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 848 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0179 /moa/livn/livn0179/

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

The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2312 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 20, 1888 0179 2312
The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2312 129-192

LITTELLS LIYIN G AGE. Fifth Series, No1 2312. October 20, 1888. From Beginning, Volume LXIV3 & Vol. CLXflXS I. SHAKESPEARES II. GRISELDA III. LITERARY IMMORTALITY, IV. JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET, V. STORYTELLING IN THE EAST, VI. SKETCHES IN TENERIFE, VII. WORKING PRINCES, VIII. COMMERCIAL HYDRAULICS,. WISDOM OF LIFE, CONTENTS. Fortnightly Review, . . Temple Bar, . . Contemporary Review, . . Nineteenth Century, . . National Review, . . All The Year Round,. . . Cornhill Magazine, . . Spectator, P0 E T R Y ON A BLIND AND CAPTIVE NI GHTIN- IN SIGHT 0 LAND, GALE .. 130 HELEN,. . . 130 . . 130 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & 00., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remitted directly to the Ps~4SiisAers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year,free olpostage. Remislances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE LIVING AG; x8 cents. - . 131 143 160 164 176 ISO - - 186 . 190 130 ON A BLIND AND CAPTIVE NIGHTINGALE, ETC. ON A BLIND AND CAPTIVE NIGHTINGALE. Glad songs of home float on the air From those UJ)Ofl the deck who stand; FROM THE MODERN GREEK OF A. SOUTSOS. And eyes grow dim and wistful there CAGED within a dreary prison, with thy sad In sight o land. unceasing wail, Half the music of thy singing thou forgettest, An hour and friend with friend will meet, nightingale. Lip cling to lip, and hand clasp hand. Once unfettered in the forest, in my lay ~ 0 how the heart throhs sorely sweet took delight, In sight o land Gladdening all the world around me, till men rohbed my wing of flight. But lo! athwart the radiant heaven Now that flight and freedom fail, (Alas for hopes hy mortals planned) 1-lapless I lament and wail. The thick clouds of the storm are driven, I beheld, ere I was blinded, pleasant nsead- In sight o land. ows clad in green, Hill and vale, and arching oer me saw the Cursed by confusion dark, as though summer skies serene; God had awhile resigned command, Near a bowr of fragrant roses, near a stream- The furious waves crash to and fro, let was my nest, In sight o land. Fanned hy cool, refreshing breezes, blowing from the balmy west. And that proud ship, which oft has crossed Now within my darksome jail, The changeful sea from strand to strand, Hapless I lament and wail. With every soul on board, is lost When my savage captors doomed me in In sight o land. captivity to dwell, The morning comes, with joyant breath I foresaw that loss of freedom brought me loss But cold and silent on the sand of sight as well. Lie some who saw the face of death Thou xvast right, for black and bitter is the In sight o land. fortune of the thrall, And oer slaverys dominion, darkness casts Chambers JoQrnal. W. F. E. I. a gloomy pall. Weep, then, hapless nightingale, In thy dark and dreary jail. If I cease awhile from singing, and in mourn- ful silence brood, Then my master, like a tyrant, wrathfully de- nies me food. Thus what other way is open ? am I driven to begin Songs of bitterness and sorrow, daily nourish- ment to win. And within my sightless jail, Hapless I lament and wail. There was once a singer like thee, famous in the ancient time Helicons unequalled song-bird, godlike father of all rhyme, Yet mid poverty and blindness, till his race was fully run, By his minstrelsy melodious, food and sus- tenance he won, And though beggared, blind and frail, Sang as sings the nightingale. Temple Bar. CHARLES L. GRAVES. IN SIGHT 0 LAND. ABOVE the restful summer sea The skies are clear, the winds are bland; And the ship rides on full merrily, In sight o land. HELEN. WHILE time shall last, one thing remains to me; The tale of Troy fades not; the hearts of men Shall heat more quickly when my name they hear A name that lives forever. I gained that, Though all else perished. Lover, frieiids, and foes, Alike died fighting for me, that the name Of Helen might have fitting pyre whereon to blaze Through all succeeding time, and beacon-like To glow across the darkness of the unborn years. Forever will the light from those that fought Before the walls of Troy show Helen standing there. Oh! to be again back on those walls, to hear the clang of arms, And see Hector and Priam in the van of strife, Mid that great host which leaguered Troy for years. Heroes and gods fought side by side for me, AntI I was worthy prize. The bravest there Could meet no fitter death than thus to fall For me, whose beauty will the world still dazzle When Troy shall be forgot; but to the end of time My name will sound a trumpet blast to men. Academy. F. P. From The Fortnightly Review. SHAKESPEARES WISDOM UF LIFE. WHEN, a few years after his death, a monument to Shakespeare was erected in the parish church of Stratford, below the bust were engraven two lines of Latin elegiac verse in celebration of the dead. It is certain, says Mr. Halliwell-Phil- lipps, that they must have been inscribed with the full sanction of his eldest daugh- ter, who, according to tradition, was at the sole expense of the monument. What kind of eulogy did Shakespeares kinsfolk think most appropriate? How did they hope that he might be remem- bered by his fellow-townsmen? As a poet? Yes, but not in the first or second place as a poet. Arte Maronem, says the inscription, not over happily in art a Virgil. But before it comes to Virgil it has given Shakespeare another kind of praise: lvdicio Pylium, genio Socra- tem in judgment a Nestor, in genius a Socrates. He is first made equal to the ~vise ruler of men, to whom the leader of the Trojan expedition was wont to apply for advice in any difficulty, and who had presided over three generations, so that his counsel and authority had come to be thought like those of the immortal gods in judgment a Nestor; and next he is compared to the wisest questioning spirit among the Greeks, Socrates, con- cerning whom his disciple Plato has these words: I never could have thought that I should have met with a man like him in wisdom and endurance. Does it not look as if the neighbors at Stratford, among whom Shakespeare had walked, and with whom he had talked and acted, men in whose sight this monument was to stand, had recognized in the author of King Lear and The Tempest a man of pre-eminent good sense and sound judgment, before all else a ~vise man? Glancing up from the monumental tablet ~ve are confirmed in our impression by other evidence; for the bust exhibits one of those capacious heads, at once broad and lofty, which we sometimes see on liv- ing shoulders, and always associate with wisdom and geniality and vast but quiet power; heads within which everything has room to fit without jostling; heads in 3 which so much is contained that one thing balances another, and no single idea or tendency can ever grow eager, exorbitant, or shrill. For us such a man must needs be a teacher of the conduct of life, although we know for our comfort that he never aims at teaching us anything. It is we lesser men who, having caught a fragment or two of truth from the mighty sum of things, forth with gro~v passionate to im- press our little doctrine upon our fellows. But the greatest men see the wide vision of life, and as they gaze upon that vision it calms them and satisfies them, and they care not to teach or to preach, but only to say what they have seen. Yet it is true, as Wordsworth declared, that every great poet is a teacher, and he who draws most largely from life and na- ture is the greatest of such teachers. Every eminent poet is a master in the for mation of character; he trains his pupil in methods of looking at things; and per- haps there is no better mode of estimatin a great writers sanity and strength and breadth of mind than to observe what manner of man he helps to form. We might endeavor to guess at Shakespeares wisdom of life from little sentences on this topic and that drawn together from his writings ; but with a dramatic writer such an attempt is difficult and is hardly right. It is more profitable to put the question, What kind of pupil is formed by the master? For the answer to this question will include the effects not merely of the contents of his teaching, but also the effects, which are perhaps more im- portant, of his methods. We know the type of character which the influence of Dante tends to form: high -strung, intense, ~vith eye of piercing spiritual vision; se- vere, yet with springs of exquisite tender- ness welling from the rock; one who has the girdle always knotted about his loins and his lamp ever burning. We know the type of man formed by companionship with Miltons spirit: strong with an en- thusiasm of obedience to the great Task- master; now mounting heavenwards on the wings of aspiration, now standing on earth an armed champion of Gods cause against all powers of the world, the flesh, SHAKESPEARE S WISDOM OF LIFE. 132 and the devil. In our own day the dei- fication of Shelley is complete; but Shel- leys influence in forming character, as far as it can be distinguished from a few leading ideas which are the common property of this century of revolution, has been indeterminate and subtle as that of music. Chameleons food is light and air; the molar teeth of a man indicate a more substantial diet; we need even silicious particles to form the bones; and a youth who should feed solely on Shelleys poetry (admirable though it be as a concomitant) would run some danger of exhibiting be- fore long symptoms of mental or moral rickets. On the whole the Wordsworthian stands well in a comparison with the dis- ciples of other masters. The visionary light of XVordswortYs poetry is not in cloudland; it plays over cliff and scaur, and when the light fades, as it did with Wordsworth himself in the midway of his life, something substantial and venerable remainsthe venerable granite seen in the face of XVordsworth the dalesman, when Wordsworth the mystic was away. There is good grit of character in the Wordsworthian underlying his mood of contemplative enthusiasm. Yet, like his master, the Wordsworthian pure and sim- ple abides overmuch upon the hilltops and in 6ne green valley; his own circle of thoughts and feelings contents him too well. Isolated in the ideal, lie has some of the insular temper, its tenacity with narrowness, its majestic illiberality. Intent on high designs, a thoughtful band, the lords of human kind, in Goldsmiths poem, pass by. Perhaps like these sons of Britain in The Traveller, the Words- ~vorthian clan is superior to all other tribes of modern men. A thoughtful band they assuredly are, and intent on high de- signs. Only, like the sons of Britain, they are often curiously environed by some non-conducting medium, and cannot help making their superiority felt by the natives of other climes Gay sprightly lands of innocence and ease. And, after all, the highest ~visdom goes in for the adventure of life liberally, with a courageous gaiety, which at bottom is seriousness. A time may well arrive when the Wordsworthian valley and mountain height can no longer content our spirit; when we desire to range courageously abroad; when we must needs see the world beyond the hills; when that po~ver of passionate contemplation within us, which turns all things to serene yet ardent ecstasy, is exhausted; when we must throw ourselves more upon reality and action, and see many and strange faces of men and women, and feel the wave of the world. If that mood should come upon us, we can no longer calmly possess the joys and reap the harvests of our upland valley; a strange discontent will poison all our blessedness, and it is wisest and best for us tlAt ~ve should shoulder our knapsack, with one long look at the sun- dawn on the hills, and fare abroad over many a varied track, and explore strange lands and distant seas and streams.* With Shakespeare we are abroad in the world and in the highways of life. Other poets serve us for a time, or serve a frag ment of our nature, or serve a particular company of men; but he is good for all seasons and for all men; ~ve can always sun ourselves in his ripening wisdom and in the glow of his generous temper. Of the scope of Shakespeare, writes Mr. Ruskin, I will say only, that the intel- lectual measure of every man since born, in the domains of creative thought, may be assigned to him, according to the degree in which he has been taught by Shake- speare. This is perhaps an extravagant flight, but one may assert with fullest con- viction and in entire sobriety of truth, that of all influences proceeding from modern literature, that of Shakespeare is the sanest and the most powerful in the for- mation of character. It is such because it is favorable alike to breadth and depth and height. It does not tend to make a man intense or profound but narrow; nor does it tend to make him broad but shal- low; and while it serves to make his grasp of the common realities of earth more firm and sure, it does not check those thoughts that climb to ~he highest heaven of human aspiration. * In this paragraph I have reclaimed as my own a few sentences which appeared in a review of Principal Shairps Lectures on Poetry, contributed by me to the Pall Mall Gazelle, January 2 1882. SHAKESPEARE S WISDOM OF LIFE. SHAKESPEARES WISDOM OF LIFE. Now, into what manner of man will Shakespeare help to fashion one who submits to his influence? In the first place he will lead his pupil away from all doctrinaire theories of life, from all thin abstractions of the intellect, from all luxu- rious solitudes of the imagination, and from all merely contemplative wisdom, and will direct him towards the world of human action and character and passion. He, if any writer, helps to make us real, and to bring us into fruitful relations with our fellows. His dramatic method, com- pelling us to shift our point of view from moment to moment, and yet keeping us steadfast in a research for moral truth, is opposed to that dogmatic temper in ~vhich many persons approach life, and trains us to apprehend with swiftness, ease, and ac curacy the relative aspects of things, and the relative value of feelings which other- ~vise we might wholly deny or else accept as absolute and final. He sets forth hu- man life as an affair of inexhaustible inter- est, and though he does not profess to unriddle its mystery, he communicates to us the courageous temper in which we can accept things not understood. He sends us forth to grapple with the world for its prizes of love and laughter and anguish and tears. It is not every emi- nent poet who does this. To XVordsworth life seems of interest less for its own sake than because it furnishes material for that serene yet ardent contemplation character- istic of his mind. To say of Wordsworth that he cared only for external nature is, indeed, wholly untrue; he cared pro- foundly for man, but nature and man alike are given to the reader only after they have been subjected to certain Words- worthian processes of feeling. He does not so much place us in direct contact with actual life as impart to us his own peculiar manner of contemplating both external nature and the heart of man. And if it be so with Wordsworth, still less does Shelley or Keats plunge us in reality or help to make each of us an experienced denizen of the city of men. The one fixes our gaze upon an ideal of beauty until we grow faint with desire, like Endymion in love with the moon ; and she visits us only in our dreams. The other thrills our 33 nerves as with music, and leaves us in an exquisite excitement of expectation or regret; or else he pleads with us on be- half of certain abstract doctrines, and would fain transform each of us into a missionary of the ideas of the revolution. But Shakespeare interests us directly in men and women of all sorts and condi- tions; and in men and women especially through what is deepest in them, the play of their passions and the inmost virtue of their spirits. We acquire from him a habit of studying our fellows each one at first hand for ourselves, and of thinking far less of their creeds and opinions than of their temperaments and the vital phys- ics of their passions. We come to con- ceive of many of the problems of human life not as if they were logical puzzles, but rather as so many questions of moral chemistry. We have observed a thousand experiments, and can anticipate aright how this group of feelings or that will be- have when this new reagent or that has been added to the retort or the crucible. And thus we advance to be adepts in the art of living. We might name Shakespeare, in the phraseology of modern criticism, a realist, but unhappily this ill-treated word real- ism~ suggests at the present moment a school of writers whose effort seems to be to give us assurance that the real means the brutal and the base. Such certainly was not Shakespeares belief. He studied the realities of human life and character not in the Parisian gutter, under the filthy lamplight, amid reeking slums, in the poisonous tavern, and the house of shame though these Shakespeares im- agination could visit, as in Measure for Measure, with a purpose; not there, but through many centuries, in many lands, and in his own great heart; among Vene- tian palaces, in the moonlit garden of Bel- mont, in the banquet-hall and among the tombs of Verona, in the Capitol of Rome, on the Athenian seashore, in the Egyptian monument, upon the platform of Elsinore, on the wild heath near Forres, by Thames side and in the Windsor streets, among the watchfires of Agincourt, with Autoly- cus at the rural junketing, and in the en- chanted island of Prospero. And having SHAKESPEARES WISDOM OF LIFE. 34 studied life in all its variety, and searched it through all its secret windings and cavernous abysses, having studied it as no other man has ever done, Shakespeare brings back his report of human nature a report which, indeed, has dark things to declare, yet one which, on the whole, en- courages us to think nobly of Gods crea- tures, man and woman. If there is an iron-hearted Goneril, there is also a Cor- delia in the ~vorld If lago eats the dust and stings, and Macbeth plunges both hands deep in blood, Queen Katherine stands before her judges with the dignity of a blameless spirit, and Perdita runs along the greens~vard in her girlish inno- cence and joy, or plucks her cottage gar- den blossoms herself an inland flower for the shepherds festival. Such real- ism as this stands a whole hemisphere apart from the brutality prepense which now usurps the name. One cause of the difference is this Shakespeare ~vas a realist who was con- stantly tempted by his passions and his imagination to become an idealist, and who was saved from this only by his de- termination to see things as they are, to take note of all facts and to inspect each fact on all its sides. The one fragment of autobiography which we have from Shakespeare, his Sonnets, presents him to us as yielding to an unwise and extrav- agant affection, and as blinded for a while by that affection to the defects of his friends character and the grievous errors of his conduct; and when defects and errors can no longer be denied, even then Shakespeare wavers between admitting the cruel facts and endeavoring to idealize them away. It is only after years of es- trangement and suffering that he regains tranquillity, and a joy which, though rap- turous with renewal of love, has yet some- thing in it of maturity and sobriety, the evil in the past being now accepted with the good, all vain hopes and false imag- inations being renounced, and the ruined love, if it can climb no longer to the clouds, being rebuilt on surer and stronger foundations. The Sonnets give us a record of the mistakes of an idealist in reference to friendship, and of the final correction of those mistakes, and ~ve cannot doubt that when he wrote the Sonnets, Shakespeare looked into his own heart. In his plays he regards the idealist and his errors with a mingled gentleness and severity, such as he might feel towards his past self, whose weaknesses he could think of tenderly, inasmuch as they were now overmastered. The gentleness re- sembles that of Cervantes towards his Don Quixote. Innumerable are the errors of that gallant knight, and it needs but the common sense of a Sancho Panza to per- ceive them ; but the very liability to such heroic delusions implies a generosity of soul which honest Sanchohumble real- ist with no risks from the ideal can but imperfectly conceive. To run tilt against windmills in place of giants is, indeed, an unfortunate mistake; but to lack spirit so far as to be incal)able of charging at any evil thing is to be more deeply infected with error and delusion. No~v, in two of his plays, Shakespeare has made studies of idealists one, the Roman Brutus en- amored of virtue and exalting in his fancy alike friends and foes to his own level; the other, the Athenian Timon, driven wild by the sight and sense of vice, and ~vriting for his epitaph the words, Here lie I Timon, who alive all living men did hate. And alike to Brutus and Timon strictest justice is dealt by Shakespeare, while yet he is tender in dealing forth that justice. The idealism of the Stoic Brutus is, however, of a noblerkind than the lax optimism of the Athenian prodigal; there- fore, he undergoes no cruel revulsion of feeling, and can exclaim in the moment of his self-sought death, My heart doth joy that yet in all my life I found no man bet he was true to me. And yet the day is lost, and with it what he conceives to be the cause of liberty, and all through his incapacity from the first to perceive and grasp the facts of the world. Shakespeare is stern to Brutus as he tracks him from delusion to delusion; yet tender as well as stern, and so he secures our assent to that funeral dioge of the dead conspirator, which is put into the mouth of Antony, This was the noblest Roman of them all. In this sense, then, Shakespeare is a realist. He is a master of the facts of life, and among what we term facts must be reckoned not merely those which bulk grossly before us, but also the most eva- nescent feelings and fantasies. The shad- ows which fly over a waving field of wheat are as truly facts of the landscape at a particular moment as the breadth of corn- land itself. It is by quickening our sense of the finer and more evasive phenomena of life that the poet can render us the most important service. In proportion to our perception and acknowledgment of the realities of the world will be our sanity and strength, if only our realism be of a large kind, recognizing alike the coarse and fine, what is base and what is pure, radiant, heroic, sacred. But to perceive the more delicate facts of character and passion, and the play of social forces, we need the eye of imagination trained to the discovery of truth. No one can submit to Shakespeares discipline without grad- ually gaining an enlargement and refine- ment of the power of imaginative vision, and thus he cannot fail to obtain in some measure the power of seeing many kinds of things and of seeing each thing on many sides. Now, one who keeps himself in close and fruitful relation ~vith the facts of life, will necessarily acquire both a cer- tain tolerance, and a certain severity. And this is Shakespeares temper. His severity is a wholesome severity, not in- compatible with a genial disposition; but severe he must be, because he knows that things are what they are, and will be ~vhat they will be; there is no use in pre- tences or make-believes; solid rock is solid rock, and even vapor is vapor, and must be taken account of in our calcula- tions. It calls for some wholesome hard- ness of fibre to resolve that we shall see things as they are. The vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, of which Bacon speaks in his essay, are all so agreeable. Shakespeares adhesion to reality delivers him from the love of un- real words, for a serious heart is due to this good world of ours; from that form of spurious emotion which we name senti- mentality, and from that feebler form of imagination which we name romance; it preserves him from the intoxication of glittering ideas and false philosophies (of which we may observe something in Shel- ley), and it makes him sensible of the be- comingness of moderation and reserve. To ro~nance, it has been well said, is the invariable sign of feeble imagination, inasmuch as it totally separates the real from the ideal, and keeps them apart like two worlds to be occupied in turns the dull and earthly, the glorious and divine. * But it is Shakespeares art to discover the divine in the human, and the ideal in the real. Hence his enthusiasm, when he rises to enthusiasm, has a strength of solidity in it, which comes from the fact that it is not woven out of the substance of a dream, but is backed up, inspired, and invigorated by the veritable forces of the universe. As to sentimental emotion James Martinean: Miscellanies (Boston, 1852) p. 227. 35 with its rhetorical modes of expression, the feeble overflow of spurious passion, Shakespeare has studied it with interest, and, indeed, with sympathy, and has once for all condemned it in the person of his royal sentimentalist and rhetorician, King Richard II. Shakespeare, then, condemns unreality in sentiment and speech, and has a strong sense of the virtue of moderation and re- serve. When one of us has seized some truth which seems to be of vital impor- tance, how eager we grow to cry it aloud on the housetops! Shakespeare, because he is a true dramatist, does not care to utter such a truth at all as a doctrine, but plunges it back into life, and exhibits it in action as one vital fact among many. Life, we may be sure, spoke to him of no higher reality than that of l)ure, self-sacri- ficing love, the glad readiness of man or voman to drink the bitter-sweet of perfect self-surrender for loves sake. If the mar- tyr in such a case as this be a woman, full of gracious life, and youth, and strength; if she be royal, and steps down with an assured step from the throne to the dun- geon; if she should surrender the joy of early wedded love; if the sacrifice be made on behalf of one whose days are almost spent, and who has cruelly wronged and outraged her; and ifmost grievous circumstance of all the sacrifice be made apparently in vain, so that in the light of no joy that is set before her do the pain and loss become easy to bear, then will be presented a situation as full of tragic pathos as can be found within the range of dramatic poetry. It is the situation of Shakespeares Cordelia. Some critics have been staggered by the strange meting out of suffering to one who is in- nocent of all offence, and they have en- deavored to discover a crime in Cordelia, for which she receives the award of retrib- utive justice There was, they allege, a certain lack of tenderness in Cordelias answer to her fathers demand for love when he resigned his kingdom. As if she could have entered into competition with Goneril and Regan in professions of affec- tion, in order to obtain for her husband a wealthier dower; as if the whole play were not penetrated and purified by the divine tenderness of Cordelia; as if Kent had not sprung forward to declare the truth Answer my life my judgment Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least; Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound Reverbs no hollowness; SHAKESPEARE S WISDOM OF LIFE. 136 SHAKESPEARES WISDOM OF LIFE. as if the fools pining since his young lady went to France does not tell of the sun- shine of Cordelias love blessing both high and low; as if we could forget how she received with patience and sorrow the tidings of her fathers ~vrongs, queening it over her passion; as if in all poetry there is a scene of tenderness more poignant through its beauty than that in the tent, where Lear wakens from his rage, weak and still half wildered, to find his injured daughter watching by the bed. But the words which vindicate completely Corde- has reply to her father in the opening scene, because they demonstrate, under most trying circumstances, the habit of her soul, are those which she utters when the battle has gone against her, when she and her father are the prisoners of Gone- ril and Regan, and she stands by the kings side under guard, expecting the triumphant entrance of her sisters. It is precisely the situation to call forth from an inferior dramatist a rhetorical moral tirade, declaring that virtue is its own reward, and that a clear conscience in a dungeon is better than an evil heart upon a throne. But Shakespeare is not be- trayed into any pleading on behalf of vir- tue; his dramatic reserve is not to be overmastered. Cordelia, true to herself, has but one quiet word to say, and that we may feel her undisturbed equanimity Shakespeare puts the speech into rhyme. Why should she not fail and be defeated? On this also she had reckoned as a possi- bility in the course of events We are not the first Who, with best meaning, have incurred the worst. For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down; ~Myself could else outfrown false Fortune s frown. Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters? Whereupon Lear, in his violence of weak- ness, breaks forth with pathetic extrava- gances No, no, no, no! Come, lets away to prison: We two alone will sing like birds i the cage: When thou dost ask me blessing, Ill kneel down, And ask of thee lorgiveness: so well live And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues Talk of court news. Lear, running on thus with his exuber- ant and half-incoherent fancies, is still as he ever was, the plaything of his passions, and cannot br a moment hold his heart in check. Shakespeare, says the great moralist of the eighteenth century, Johnson, has suffered the virtue of Cordelia to perish in a just cause, contrary to the natural ideas of justice, to the hope of the reader, and ~vhat is yet more strange, to the faith of chronicles. And he goes on to ex- press his approval of Tates alteration of the play, which represents the heroine as retiring with victors and felicity, and to relate that early in life he was himself so shocked by Cordelias death that he had not endured to read again the last scenes until he undertook to revise them as an editor. Had Johnson, then, a deeper sense than Shakespeare of the moral order of the world? Is our wisest l)oet here untrue to the deepest facts of life? And is Nahum Tate his reformer, the inventor of the true close of the worlds greatest tragedy? No; but Shakespeare, with his strict fidelity to facts, ~vill deny neither the trial of our faith in the moral order of the world nor that moral order itself; and Johnsons turning away from the last scenes of the play shows that, with all his strong common sense, there was a senti- mental weakness in Johnson. Cordelia dies strangled in prison. Is this, then, the reward of her self-sacrifice? No, for sacrificial love cannot be re~varded. It may spend itself in light and joy, or in darkness and sorrow, but it never seeks and never can receive a reward. And we should observe that though Cordelia and Lear lie dead, her generous enterprise has not been fruitless ; some of the poor hu- man instruments of the eternal justice have done their work and are laid aside, but the evil rule of the wicked sisters is at an end; the cause of righteousness is triuml)hant; from the remorseless strenoth of Goneril and Regans malicious grip the supreme power now passes to the gentle hands of Albany. The good laws of the world, Shake- speare assures us, can never be overthrown by the boldest aggressor, nor evaded by the most cunning trickster. For the con- duct of life surely there is nothing more essential than to have this conviction driven deep into our consciousness. And unto man he said, Behold, the fear of the Lord, that is wisdom. This fear of the Lordis incorporated by Shakespeare in the impression left upon us by his great tragedies in a way far more effectual than if he were invariably to apportion rewards and punishments in the fifth act with a neat and ready hand to his good and evil characters. It was enough for him to engage our loyalty and love for human SHAKESPEARE S WISDOM OF LIFE. 37 worth, ~vherever and however we meet with it, and to make us rejoice in its pres- ence whether it find in this world condi. tions favorable to its action or the reverse. ~l his we might name the principle of faith in the province of ethics, and there at all events we are saved by faith. The inno- cent suffer in Shakespeares plays as they do in real life; but all our hearts go with them. Which of us would not choose to be Duncan lying in his blood rather than Macbeth upon the throne? Which of us ~vould not choose rather to suffer wrong with Desdemona than rejoice in accom- plished villany with lago? But Macbeth, lago, Edmund, Richard III., King Clau- dius, and the other malefactors of Shake- speares plays do not indeed triumph in the final issue. The conscience of mankind refuses to believe in the ultimate impunity of guilt, and looks upon the flying criminal as only taking a circuit to his doom.* Shakespeare here rightly exhibits things foreshortened in the tract of time. Though the innocent and the righteous may in- deed, if judged from a merely external point of view, appear as losers in the game of life, the guilty can never in the long run be the winners. The baser types, which for a time seem to flourish in violation of the laws of health or the spir- itual laws of the inner life, inevitably tend to~vards sterility and extinction. The righteous have not set their hearts on worldly success or prosperity, and they do not attain it ; a dramatic poet may cour- ageously exhibit ~he fact; but what is dearer they attain, a serene conscience and a tranquil assurance that all must be well with those supported by the eternal laws. But the guilty ones, whose aim has been external success, and who have challenged the divine laws or hoped to evade them, are represented as failing in the end to achieve that poor success on which their hearts have been set. I have seen the wicked in great power . . but I ~vent by, and lo, he was not. Follow a malefactor far enough, Shakespeare says, and you will find that his feet must needs be caught in the toils spread for those who strive against the moral order of the world. Nor can pleasure evade those in- exorable laws any more than can crime. A golden ~iist with magic exhalations and strange glamor, pleasure may raise for an hour; but these are the transitory glories of sunset vapors, which Night presently strikes into sullen quietude with her leaden mace. This is what Shakespeare J. Martineau: A Study of Religion, vol. ii., p. 46. has exhibited in his Antony and Cleo patra. All the sensuous witchery of the East is there displayed; but behind the gold and the music, the spicery and the eager amorous faces, rise the dread forms of actors on whom the players in that stu- pendous farce-tragedy had not reckoned, the forms of the calm avenging laws. But Shakespeare, as one of his critics well observes, has no moral demonstra- tiveness, no redundancy of con- science; he does not try to exhibit better morals than are taught by nature and by Providence. He puts his moral platitudes and clap-trap into the mouths of persons who can utter them at small cost with their lips because they have never found a faithful expression in their lives. It is Polonius who preaches, To thine own self be true And it must follow, as the night the day Thou canst not then be false to any man. And though the gallery applaud the sen- timent, its dramatic ~irtue lies less in its moral truth than in the irony which assigns it to the crafty waiter on success. It is the self-indulgent king who, when he has neglected every royal duty and by his wantonness prepared his fall, exclaims, God for his Richard bath in heavenly pay A glorious angel; then, if angels fight, Weak men must fall, for heaven still guards the right. If Shakespeare makes us fall in love ~vith goodness, he does this by presenting it in the person of a man or woman, not by putting into his heros mouth a series of moral tirades. A poets conscience of virtue, writes Mr. Hudson, is better kept to himself, save as the sense and spirit thereof silently insinuate themselves into the shapings of his hand, and so live as an undercurrent in the natural course of truth and beauty. If he has the genius and the heart to see and to represent things just as they really are, his moral teaching cannot but be good, and the less it stands out as a special aim the more effective it will be; but if for any purpose, however moral, he goes to representing things otherwise than as they are, then just so far his moral teaching will miss its mark; and if he takes, as divers well- meaning persons have done, to flourishing his ethical robes in our faces, then he must be content to pass with us for some- thing less or something more than a poet; we may still read him indeed from a mis- taken sense of duty, but we shall never be drawn to him by an unsophisticated love of the beautiful and the true. The virtues 138 SHAKESPEARE S WISDOM OF LIFE. of Shakespeares characters, as Mr. Hud- son goes on to say, sit easy upon them. We do not think of Horatio, Edgar, Kent, or Posthumus as living in the pursuit of virtue; there is no moral stress in their words or deeds. Helena, Portia, Viola, Cordelia, Hermione, Miranda, Desdemo- na, lmogenhow perfectly free their goodness is from anything like stress! . They are ~vise, witty, playful, humor- ous, grave, earnest, impassioned, practical, magi native; the most profound and beau- tiful thoughts drop from them as things too common and famiiiar to be spoken ~vith the least emphasis. Not one of them has heard of womans mission; not one of them prides herself on splashing mud with the ill-handled besom of reform; not one tries to do every one elses busi- ness badly; each is content to do grace- fully her own work ,glad or sad. The two principal rules and lessons of life, says Mrs. Cash, which George Eliot gave to a young friend were, first, Be accurate, and second, My dear child, the great ksson of kfe is tolerance. These lessons, indicated by George Eliot in her ripened wisdom as more important than any others for the uses of life, are taught by Shakespeare in a large and gen- erous manner, although indirectly and without demonstration, after his own dra- matic method. For what is this reality, and adhesion to the fact, and severity, and moderation shown in his writings but a way of saying, Be accurate? Recog- nize the facts and the la~vs of life, and fal- sify nothing; do not wander vaguely in the void or in a shadow-land of fantasies and pale abstractions; know men and women for what they are indeed, blinking neither the evil nor the good. But Shake- speare also says, Be tolerant. For Shakespeares severity is not of a kind which makes him grim. He is at once full of exquisite pity and full of joyous laughter. And in this he shows himself a wiser master of life than Dante. Dante is indeed definite, exact, severe ; he, if ever any teacher, says to his pupil, Be accurate. And in the midst of his se- verity there spring up in Dantes nature wells of the finest pity and tenderness. But Dante, although he can be piteous, is grim, and if he laughs his laughter is tei- rible rather than joyous or genial. But Shakespeare, who says, like Dante, Be accurate, and is as exact and definite as Dante, says also, Be tolerant, and he is at once exquisitely pitiful for human sor- ro~v, and full of measureless laughter at the laughter-stirring play of human life. He addresses himself to meet the world like a young athlete, who has a vigorous delight in the grapple and the tug, and who smiles while yet he is thoroughly in earnest. A portion of this joyous seri- ousness is imparted by Shakespeare to each of his true disciples. We feel that life, as he educates us to see it, is full of countless possibilities of good. This world of ours is a world well worth our inhabiting, and to make it yield up its treasures treasures of love, of truth, of beauty, and of joy we shall do well to bestir ourselves with cheerful zeal. It is not~easy to see how any one can be accurate in George Eliots or Shake- speare s way without being also tolerant. For their accuracy is not that of the pedant or the dogmatist, an accuracy of fixed lines, but the mobile accuracy of the d,ramatist, a swift and unerroneous tran- sition from point to point of sympathy. Half of the intolerance and injustice of the world arises from an inability to con- ceive, or at least to enter into and enjoy other types of character than our own an inability to understand with rapidity and exactness the postures of intellect and the emotional attitudes of our fellows. If we receive a quick enjoyment from the play of various life around us we can hardly be intolerant; but in order to re- ceive such enjoyment we must be sure in our perceptions and correct in our inter- pretations of the visible phenomena~ We learn through our imagination to play a thousand parts in the drama of human existence, and learn even to observe the behavior of our own hearts with an amused dramatic eye. Nor does this dramatic habit of feeling necessarily produce in us a defect of moral force, if we cultivate a spirit of fidelity not only to the multiform minor facts of life, but also to those large and abiding facts which we name the laws of life. It is possible to be lithe and at the same time firm. No other firmness indeed is half so valuable as that which is buoyant and elastic the firmness, not of a corpse gro~vn rigid, but of an athlete ready for the spring. Being thus at once earnest and joyously full of life, Shakespeare is capable of free and generous laughter. It is no trivial part of the education ~vhich he imparts to his pupil that he sho~vs him the humorous side of life, and teaches him to laugh hon- estly and well. A vale of tears this world has often been named; and so it is, but also a vale of smiles, and of jubilant laughter. Shakespeare shows it to us in both aspects, and he makes us perceive SHAKESPEARES WISDOM OF LIFE. that the tears, when illuminated by the light of innocent joy, become purified from all that is contracting, selfish, and ener- vating; and that the smiles and laughter become wiser and more exquisite because of the tears; and sometimes with a mar- vellous alchemy of genius he mingles the two, as in the passion of Lear upon the heath and in the hovel, with his poor fool jesting across the whirling rain and wind, and the flashes of the lightning, until, in the strange commixture of tempestuous rage and grotesque derision, the heart of man seems no less frenzied, and in its frenzy no less vast and wonderful than the elements. Shakespeare teaches us to laugh wisely, to smile through our sympathies, and therefore he wholly abstains from t~vo kinds of laughter the laughter of folly and the laughter of cruelty. Of the laughter of fools, which is the crackling of thorns under a pot, ~ve hear nothing in Shakespeare, save on those rare occasions when it is introduced dramatically to ex- pose the poverty of soul of some minor drarnatis persona. Thus in The Tem- pest the base conspirators betray their baseness by the contemptible jesting, which vexes the ~vise old Gonzalo and wounds the heart of the king, who still supposes that his son has been swallowed by the waves. Shakespeares laughter has always a basis of good sense; and again, it has always a basis of kindliness. There is a laughter of demons, such as may he seen on the faces of Ciampolos tormentors in Blakes illustration of the twenty-second canto of the Inferno. And there is a laughter of despair, such as may be heard in the mockery of Swift (the more appalling because it is so ex- actly calculated) when the darkness was closing in upon him. Of these there is none in Shakespeare, for even Timons mockery of humanity has in it no touch of coldness. But setting aside the laughter of devils and the laughter of incipient lunacy, what species of human laughter is there in which we are not indulged or ed- ucated by Shakespeare, from the impish jest in merry mischief-making of a Robin Goodfellow, to the grave, glad smile of Prospero, when from his height of spiritual attainment he looks down and observes Miranda, in the first joy of a girls love, eager to shoulder the logs for Ferdinand Poor worm, thou art infected! rhis visitation shows it. And assuredly if, as George Eliot as- serted, the second great lesson of life is 39 Be tolerant, he helps us well to learn that lesson who instructs us to laugh hon- estly and smile kindly, rather than grow wrathful and indignant at the lesser errors and frailties of our fellow-mortals, or at our own. To temper our harsh judgments by a sense of human fraternity, and to do this by means of smiles, or of smiles min- gled with tears, is one of Shakespeares noblest moral gifts. Falstaff is notavery estimable person; he would have been placed perhaps by Dante in the third circle of hell, among the shadows whom the heavy rain subdues; and Shakespeare condemns him when King Henry refuses to admit the old man to his friendship or his counsel. But how wise and tender Shakespeare renders our judgment of Fal- staff by that last pathetic scene, which tells how he played with flowers and bab- bled of green fields; and how, through Falstaff, the poet pleads for all that is genial in humanity! If we cannot laugh with Falstaff in the tavern, ~ve had better look to ourselves lest our virtue have not something illiberal in it. The moral pedant runs the risk of vices of another kind, and in the fatuity of his self-love may play tricks before high heaven, in yellow stockings and cross-gartered, which will make angels weep or smile. No; we cannot imagine that joyous boon compan- ion sackless and sugarless in the third circle of the Inferno; rather we incline to Mistress Quicklys opinion of his case: Nay, sure hes not in hell: hes in Ar- thurs bosom, if ever man went to Arthurs bosom. In Grays poem, The Progress of Poesy, the Mighty Mother is represented as unveiling her face to the boy Shake- speare on the banks of Avon, and as giv- ing him her gift of the power of the keys: Thine too these golden keys, immortal Boy! This can unlock the gates of Joy, Of Horrour that, and thrilling Fears, Or ope the sacred source of sympathetic Tears. The sacred source of sympathetic tears who has opened it as wide as Shake- speare? If he educates us through his humor, teaching us to laugh wisely and to laugh kindly, he also tells us that there is a time to weep as well as a time to laugh. And from the culture through art of our sympathy with grief the gain is great. Not that any power of art can directly or im- mediately loosen the contracting grip of anguish, but indirectly it may do much by training the imagination to act in the ser 140 SHAKESPEARE S WISDOM OF LIFE. vice of the heart, so that we shall feel in some degree how our private and personal woe is a fragment of the great sorrow of the world, how we are one of a community of mourners, and that our outcry of grief should therefore be no shriek or solitary iron cry across the gloom, but a part borne gravely, and if possible graciously, in a solemn choral lamentation. And thus the mere brute cry of pain the cry, as it were, of a wild beast over its slaughtered mate or for its ravished young one, is elevated into something human, some- thing harmonious, while yet profoundly mournful. Through culture of the imagi- nation we come to bear a worthy part in earths perpetual chant of mourners; by its means we come to feel that we are not isolated individuals; that the great heart of humanity beats in sympathy with our sorrow; that we must therefore purge a~vay what is impure or extravagant in our grief, lest it should be out of tune with that great heart of sorrow, pity, and love, the common human heart, on which our own reposes. It is the nurse in Romeo and Juliet whose lamentations for her young mistress, supposed dead, are most loud-tongued and obstreperous. O woe! 0 woful, woful, woful day! Most lamentable day, most woful day, That ever, ever, I did yet behold. From this ground level there is a long climbing of the heights of sorrow before ~ve hear such words as those in which Constance mourns for her lost Arthur Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words, Remembers me of all his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form. And yet the grief of Constance lacks something of that firm-fibred pain, ready to transform itself into heroic action, which we recognize in these words of Macduff Malcolm. Dispute it like a man. Macdz~ft I shall do so~ But I must also feel it as a man. I cannot but remember such things were, That were most precious to me. This tune indeed goes manly. But the sorrow ~vhich transforms itself into frater- nal love, not revenge and hate, is of a yet higher strain. It is Brutus who has told in plainest words the tidings of the death of Portia, and who ~vould now complete the reconciliation with his alienated com- rade Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine, In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. And so the spirit of Portia lives on in the love of two strong men. Shakespeares ~visdom of life, as seen in his writings, is in the main occupied, as it ought to be, with the affairs of the individ- ual rather than ~vith public concerns or the history of a nation. He instructs us, before all else, in the physiology of the passions, and under his influence we come to feel that the wisdom of life re- sides less in mere prudence or the sup- pression of the passions than in finding for them their right direction. But he also exhibits the conduct of men in public station, their virtues and defects as states- men and rulers, and he has traced, in his dramatic way, the entire life of the En- glish people during a critical period of history. And yet it would be hard to say whether, according to our modern nomen- clature, we should label Shakespeare as Liberals or Conservative, or whether Hartley Coleridge was right or wrong ~vhen he described him playfully as a Tory and a gentleman. Shakespeare will not make proselytes for any political party, as a propagandist of abstract principles might do. No boy who reads his English or Roman historical plays will be sent forth into the world on an eager mission, as Shelley was sent forth by his study of Godwins philosophy of revolution; but if he reads intelligently, his judgment will in some measure have been soundly trained. He will learn that character, integrity, good sense, and passion directed to high ends are more important than the contend- ing doctrines or catch-words of parties and thus if Shakespeare does not make potitical converts, he may do something towards making the Whig a wiser Whig and the Tory a wiser Tory. There is far more in common, writes a great living historian,* between the wise and sound of opposing parties than there is between the sound and the corrupt of th~ same between the thinkers of opposite parties and the thinkers and fools of the same. Shakespeares study of the rulers of En- gland during a century of strife and trou- ble, from the second Richard to the third, is not a doctrinaire study of abstract prin- ciples, but a studyof human character and action. The tendency of his teaching is to form such politicians as we might ex- pect to be formed by the right reading of * Bishop Stubbe: Lectures on Medi~vat and Mod- ern History, p. 19. SHAKESPEARE S WISDOM OF LIFE. 4 history, and of what kind they are let the same great historian tell whose words have just now been cited What we want to see is men applying to history and politics the same spirit in which wise men act in their discipline of themselves: not to cease to be partisans, not to cease to hold and utter strong opinions, but to be as careful in their party behavior anti in their support of their opinions, as they are in their behavior in social circles, their conversation in social life. The first object of the true politician, as of the true patriot, is to keep himself and his party pure, and then to secure victory; to abolish meanness and corruption where he has influence, rather than to make capital by denouncing it where his denuncia- tion can only provoke a retort. The sound politician, on whichever side he may be and however thorough he may be, believes that his scheme of politics is the one in which the ben- efit of this country is most entirely involved, and he wishes the position of his country to be impregnable: to be impregnable it must be sound; if his party represents to him his country, his party must be sound, and it con- cerns him much more closely to purify his own ranks than those of the enemy. Success is certain to the pure and true: success to falsehood and corruption, tyranny and aggres- sion, is only the prelude to a greater and an irremediable fall. Or, as Shakespeare tells us, it matters less for England whether a Yorkist or Lancas- trian be at the head of affairs than whether the ruler be a man of integrity and strength, like his Henry V., or a pattern of royal incompetence, who cannot check corruption and violence, like Henrys pseudo-saintly son. In all his plays Shakespeare appears as at once a lover of order and a lover of freedom not of the mere name as bawled upon the political platform, but of such freedom as is needed for the vigorous play of all human faculties. Reverence he calls the angel of the world. And into the mouth of Ulysses, his ideal of the practical ~visdom of this world, he puts a profound and justly celebrated en- comium of degree, that is, the distinc- tions of rank and station : Take but degree away, untune that string, And, hark, what discord follows! each thing meets In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores And make a sop of all this solid globe: Strength should be lord of imbecility, And the rude son should strike his father dead; Force should be right; or rather, right and wrong, Between whose endless jar justice resides, Should lose their names, and so should justice too. Then everything includes itself in power, Power into will, will into appetite, And appetite, an universal wolf, So doubly seconded with will and power, Must make perforce an universal prey, And last eat up himself. Here is a memorable analysis of the his- tory of revolutionary movements whose ultimate motive is greed, and no part of Shakespeares analysis is yet out of date. But in the midst of this panegyric of degree we find words which vindicate freedom, right and wrong, Between whose endless jar justice resides. And in truth the passage is not a pleading on behalf of any kind of arbitrary power, but a pleading against the vice of faction and in favor of that justice which comes only through freedom at one with order. In the Shakespearean drama life is rich, and various, and fruitful, because mans thought and passion have an open career within the bounds of justice. In this free conflict and clash of life it is that man grows prudent, just, orderly, and strong. Had Shakespeare been the courtier-dram- atist of a great monarchy, it could not have been so; but writing, as he did, for the motley assembly of a London theatre, at a time when England was overflowing with new ardor, energy, and enterprise, he mirrors in his pages the multitudinous life of a free people. The lines which have been quoted from that strange and l)erplexing play Troilus and Cressida, are spoken by Ulysses, who is profoundly skilled in worldly ~vis- dom, and a master of the arts of statecraft. There is more, perhaps, of cynicism in Troilus and Cressida than can be found elsewhere in Shakespeare, a~d a higher than worldly wisdom would have been out of keeping with the general tone of the piece. Troilus, when his fresh young love receives its death-wound as he sees Cressida doing dishonor to faith and wom- anhood in the camp of the Greeks, needs to have at hand the aid of a cool temper and exl)erienced brain, and these lie finds in Ulysses. XVhat a master of policy he is! How easily he can turn around his finger Agamemnon or the duller Achilles! How quick he is to discern the true char- acter of ~ressida, and to bring forward to view the noble nature, still immature, of Troilus I A skilful and practised player in the game of life, Shakespeare recog SHAKESPEARE S WISDOM OF LIFE. 142 nizes the value of such worldly wisdom, and would have us rate it at its true price. No doubt the wild fellow who left Strat- ford to earn his bread among the London actors, and who came back wealthy, digni- fied, and respected, had gained a suffi- ciency of this worldly wisdom, and knew how to put it to good account. But Shakespeare could conceive a higher wis- dom of life than that which he exhibits in the Grecian soldier and statesman, and this higher wisdom he has embodied in the person of his enchanter Prospero. Here is something larger, loftier, serener than mere astute policy can ever be. For, indeed, Prospero, all dedicated to close- ness and the bettering of his mind, is somewhat unskilled in statecraft, with its winding ways; else he had not lost his dukedom in days gone by. Nor is it diplomacy which he could learn on the enchanted island. But he has acquired power over nature, extending from the genius of this brute earth, Caliban, to the elemental spirit of air, who can transform the fine texture of his being to fire, as when he flames upon the mast-head, or to a creature of ocean, as when he lures Ferdinand onward with songs of sea- things rich and strange. And thus with his subject spirits at command, Prospero can play the part of a providence over the fortunes of those who had wronged him and dismissed him from his dukedom. From his height of serene and solemn wis- dom he regards life tenderly, yet not with- out a certain sternness, for he knows both the evil and the good; and his intent is by his wise providence to bring good out of the evil. He stands aloof from life, but through his syi~pathies profoundly and pathetically interested in it; interested now more for others than himself, seeing how transitory and yet how keen are their griefs and joys. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep. What a contrast is Prospero to that other famous magician of the Elizabethan drama, Marlowes Faustus! The Ger- man doctoI will surrender his soul to great Lucifer if the fiend will but let him live for four-and-twenty years in all voluptuousness, as emperor of the world, having Mephistophelis by his side, To give me whatsoever I shall ask, To tell me whatsoever I demand, To slay mine enemies and aid my friends, And always be obedient to my will. It would almost seem as if Shakespeare, at the close of his wonderful career as a poet, had looked back to his early days, when he was in discipleship to Marlowe, and would now show of what kind an en- chanter may be who has attended to the voice of his good angel instead of the seduction of his attendant devil. In the end Prospero elects to be no wonder- working magician, but a mere man; and therefore he will break his magic staff, sink his book deeper than ever plummet sounded, and dismiss his beloved Ariel to the elements for which he pants. Pros- pero will discase him from his enchanters robes, and present himself with hat and rapier as he was sometime Milan. What more indeed can he gain from spell or conjuration, who has learnt the highest secrets of human existence? For now his care is set on two things, and in these he finds the highest joy of which the soul of man is capable: he would perfect and preserve from spot or blemish the joy of young and innocent hearts Ferdinand and Miranda shall love each other with all the ardent purity of stainless spirits, and find their happiness in such love. This first; and secondly, Prospero would extend the bounty of his forgiveness to the repentant wrong-doers, who had so pitilessly dealt with him when he was in their power. To he the creator and fash- ioner of joy for those who are worthy of it, and to return good for evil these are the last attainments of that noble magic practised by Shakespeares enchanter; these are the ripened fruits of all Shake- speares wisdom of life. For his own part, Prospero will return to his dukedom, and guide it with a firm hand aright; he will omit no princely duty, while yet he must needs bear in mind that this mortal life is like the beautiful masque of spirits a pageant, with a meaning in it indeed, but a pageant soon to fade, and leave not a rack behind. And so when he returns to Milan, every third thought shall be his grave; every third thoughi, but the other two are claimed by life and duty. In his conception of Prospero we touch at last the topmost reach of Shakespeares moral and spiritual attainment. He sees life widely, calmly, ~vith a temperate heart, with eyes purged and purified. And he sees perhaps not only the vision of life, but through it to deeper and larger things beydnd. Shakespeare does not tell us what he saw when he looked beyond life ~vith those calm, experienced eyes. It was not his province to report such things to us, as if he were Gods spy. But assur- edly he saw nothing which confused or GRISELDA. clouded his soul; else he could not feel towards this our mortal life so purely, wisely, gently; else Prospero could not so tranquilly resign his supernatural sources of knowledge and his supernatural power, and piously accept the duties of mere manhood. EDWARD DOWDEN. From Temple Bar. GRISELDA. BY THE AUTHOR OF BETWEEN TWO STOOLS, THE NEW SCHOOL OF AMERICAN FICTION, ETC. CHAPTER I. The shadow of a monarchs crown is softened in her hair. WHAT is the good of a birthday with- out presents? I ask disconsolately, lean- ing a pair of shabby elbows on the shabby tablecloth. I never could see any good in birthdays myself, answers my brother, the Honor- able Patrick MacRonan, setting light to a very indifferent cigarette, and looking at me compassionately with his dark-blue eyes. They must be especially unpleas- ant to a girl, I should say. Poor old Gri- zel, shes getting on in life, and nothing to show for it ! I used to think twenty such a terrible age when I was seventeen, I say, casting myself back in our one armchair, a preca- rious structure of stained deal and horse- hair. Oh, Pat, Pat, my dear old Pat, why werent we born common folk who might have kept a shop, or stood on our heads, without exasperating the manes of a lot of old ancestors ? Hark to the daughter of a hundred Irish kings; to the Honorable Griselda MacRonan, sister to the most noble Vis- count Goll, and niece to half the peerage of the Emerald Isle I cries Patrick, puff. ing hard at his strong-smelling cigarette. A great deal of good it does one! I cry, looking round at the dreary lit- te lodging-house parlor. It was bad enough when we had to let Ronantown because of those poor creatures of tenants and their rents; but when it comes to hiding away like this, and to dear old Golls hanging about the Chancery Court all day for what he may never get why, then I declare I sometimes wish we had been born grocers ! You might at least confine your wish to yourself. I never wish I had been born a grocer! says a clear, proud voice from the other end of the room, as my 43 sister Katherine sends a scornful glance from her beautiful eyes at the reclining figure in the easy -chair. And, Gri- selda, she goes on, raising her handsome head from her sewing, you have no right to talk in that way about Goll. He is doing his best for us all. The money is ours, and must fall to us if there is any justice in the land. In the mean time, says Patrick, I cant say I find Welby a particularly pleas- ant land of exile, especially since you and Goll are so determined we shall not soil that ancient purple of ours by contact with other peoples brand-new satins. You know as well as I do, answers Katherine, that the people in Welby are not of our own sort. We have no right to begin acquaintances which it would be impossible for us even to acknowledge afterwards. There can be nothing in com- mon between u~ and the townspeople. I dont expect they would be grateful for any little attentions we might show them, I cry. You forget, Katie, that to them we are only the Mac Ronans, obscure Irish strangers, in poor lodgings. Mv dears, havent we had enough of this discussion? says my mothe-, who is darning stockings at the table. As she speaks, her gentle face flushes, and I feel guilty. Of all the many shifts, contrivances and humiliations of our poverty, this is the one that has entered like iron into my mothers proud soul that it has been deemed expedient to drop our lawful style and title, and present ourselves to the Welby world as Mrs., Mr., and the Misses MacRonan. It is a miserable business, Goll had said on the morning of his departure for London; but it would never do in a place like this to let the people know who we are. Afterwards, when you come to take your right place in the world, it might be unpleasant in many wayS. And mother submits, as we all have submitted, to this handsome, tyrannical brother of ours, ever since I can remember. I have some ne~vs! Would any one like to hear it? I ask, breaking in on the uncomfortable pause which has followed my mothers remark. A most important, exciting, unique piece of news. Aw, really! drawls Patrick, assum- ing his most man-of-the-world air. Aw, of course we shall be most happy to hear anything Miss MacRonan may have to tell us. Now, dont be silly, Pat. When I got to the Watsons this morning, I found 44 GRISELDA. everybody up in arms; servants running to and fro, and Margaret Watson career- ing up and down-stai~rs in that fussy way of hers. The pervading excitement had penetrated even to the schoolroom, where ~he table was covered with all sorts of glass pots like fish-bowls. The children ~vere more troublesome than usual over their lessons, and at last little Jo, unable to contain himself any longer, informed me that mamma had a party to-morrow night. I reproved him severely and made him go on with his dates. Oh! a fine schoolmarm you must be, Miss Grizel! Now I come to think of it, you are the very image of Miss OBrien. Dont you remember poor old OBrien and the schoolroom at Ronantown? Dont interrupt, Pat. I went down before lunch to give Margaret Watson her singing, and in the middle of the lesson Mrs. Watson came in, with her most gra- cious smile on, and said what do you think she said? 1 am on the rack to know. Well, she said, Miss MacRonan, I am giving a little party to-morrow nibht in honor of the New Year. I should be so pleased if you would join us! I paused and looked round at my au- dience. Katherines head is bent over her sewing; my mother is threading a needle with great deliberation; Pat gives a prolonged ~vhistle. And ~vhat did you say? he asks after a pause. Oh, I thanked her, and told her my arrangements did not depend on myself, I answer rather hurriedly, and that I would write this afternoon. Pat whistles again; my mother and sis- ter l)roceed with their work in silence. Is it possible, says Katherine at last, raising :ier proud head and looking at me, is it possible, Griselda, that you wish to go tothis party? Mrs. Watson meant to be kind; it would have been ungracious to refuse straight away, I answer evasively; and besides oh, Katie, I do feel a little dull sometimes! My dear, says my mother, of course it is out of the question that you should go. Think how shocked your brother would be. He would be vexed enough if he knew that you had persuaded me to allow you to teach these Watsons very good people, no doubt, but not of our world. Come, Griselda, write a gracious little note at once, and say that you do not go out. And word it carefully;i should not wish you to hurt any ones feelings. Hurt any ones feelings! Oh, you dear, proud mother! Dont you see that Mrs. Watsons point of view cannot be the same as ours? She will think I have no gown, if she thinks at all, I cry rue- fully. She will be quite correct on that point, says Katherine. But I have a gown, I protest. The white tarlatan did very well for Ronan- town; surely it would be good enough for Welby. a very pretty gown, and shure it cries Patrick, launching into his fa- vorite brogue. Och, do ye remember the dancing at Ronantown, and Teddy MacMorna the rogue! Oh, dont talk of it, Pat, I cry, my feet begin to dance at the very name of Teddy MacMorna, and I give a sigh to the memory of that fascinating but im- pecunious youth, as I take up a pen and slowly inscribe date and address on a sheet of paper. IJear Mrs. Watson, then I look round at my family. They have made me des- perate and left me but one course open. Mother, I cry, laying down my pen, you will be shocked, I know, but I want to go to this party. I want to go dread- fully I My dear, says my mother, distressed, I confess you surprise me. I do not think you would enjoy yourself among those people. And it would not be just to them. But, mother, it is not a little matter, so unimportant one way or the other. It is such a long time since I have danced, I think I have forgotten how to dance. If you will only have a little patience, Griselda, you will have as much dancing as even you can desire.~~ I cannot imagine, Griselda, says my sister, how you can for a moment wish to go. I confess, I answer, that I am a little surprised at my own depravity. But, Katie, think of waltzing, of waltzing to real music, on a real floor. With a partner who will shovel you out your money at the bank the next morning, or bring you a mustard poultice when you have a cold. I cannot say that the notion dazzles ~ lt is not much money they will shovel out to me! And you know I never catch cold, Katie. During this discussion Patrick has re- mained silent, but he comes suddenly for- ward and flings himself into the breach. I Let her go, mother, he says. By GRISELDA. 45 the time we are in London she may be forty and have the gout. No one can dance with the gout. Whether it is Pat- ricks advocacy or my mothers tender- heartedness that pleads for me, I know not. I only know that in a few minutes more she has yielded, and I have gained my point. Patrick, I say, the note of acceptance being written, let us go out and post it before tea. Pat gives a yawn and nods an affirma- tive to my invitation, and in a few minutes he and I are speeding through the damp, dismal streets of the dismal little town. We go up the high street to the postoffice, past Boulters Bank with the lighted plate- glass windows, and pause at the grocers to buy a pot of jam, which I manage to conceal under my cloak. Patrick, I say, I wish mamma and Katie would take another view of my teaching the Watson family. And I wish it were possible to tell Goll. I hate se- crets, especially from him. He is a good fellow, answers Pat, with not an atom of the elder brother about him. He never wants anything for himself, and of course he expects us to respect his prejudices. We walk on a little in silence; then he bursts out again ~vith some impatience, Its a shame you should have all the work, Grizel, it is indeed! You know, when I saw there was no immediate pros- pect of Sandhurst, I wanted to try emigra- tion, the backwoods, or the gold-fields, or something of the sort. But Goll said, wait, and he pointed out that mother and you girls could not be left alone. I will wait another six months, Grizel, and if nothing is settled, I shall get Uncle Fitz to pay my passage to America. You might get work at home, Pat. It would be more difficult. Im not much of a hand at anything but riding and shooting and dancingat using my legs and arms, in short, and not my brains. My sort of talents pay better abroad than at home, I believe. Its you have all the cleverness, Grizel. Oh, Pat, I say, I am not clever at all. How can I help knowing French when I have had Antoinette to dress me all my life? And is it any credit to a MacRonan if he or she knows more about music than most people? I think ~ve are all born sin~,ing. And music and French are my only accomplishments. Yes, you do know how to sing, says Pat with condescension ; and I suppose to-morrow night you will be expected to sing for your supper like the young man LIVIN(i AGE. VOL. LXIV. 3286 in the nursery rhyme, whose enforced celibacy has so often moved me to tears: Little Tommy Tucker sings for his supper; ... How shall he cut it without eer a knife? f-low shall he marry without eer a wife? How shall she marry without eer a husband ? ought to be th& modern version, in these days of surplus female popula- tion, I say feelingly; but, Pat, do you think the Watsons will expect me to sing: to-morrow? Havent a doubt! I say, Grizel, you ought to be grateful to me. I almost wish- I were going myself; though, to be sure, theres not a pretty girl in Welby, except- ing Katherine and well, perhaps Kath- erines sister. Do you really think me pretty, Pat?~ I say anxiously, for this has always been a doubtful point in our family. Youre not like Katherine certainly, Pat answers judicially. No one would think of wanting to model your head as that English lord did Katies at Dublin. But theres something rather pleasing about you on the whole. I like the way your dimples dance about, and your hair curls round your forehead, and your eyes shine; I think I may say without flattery, my dear Grizel, that your eyes are the crown and glory of the MacRonan fam- ily. Oh Pat!, I cry, overwhelmed, and nearly dropping my jam-pot. It is such a long time since any one has said any- thing nice to me! If I were not afraid of attracting undue attention, I should give you a kiss this very moment! CHAPTER II. A WELBY FESTIVAL. IT is New Years eve; a clear, cold. night. The Honorable Griselda Mac-- Ronan is engaged in adorning her youth- ful person with such garments of festival as her scanty resources afford. Her fin- gers are rather stiff, for there is no fire in the small grate; moreover the cracked looking-glass on the wall is both so minute and so misleading as to b~ a hindrance rather than a help to successful hair-dress- ing; add to these discomforts the absence of a maid, and insufficient light, and no wonder the business of the toilet proceeds neither quickly nor satisfactorily. I am coming, Pat; dont be impatient, theres a dear boy, I cry, wrestling with that rebellious, dusky Irish hair of mine with both hands, and squinting to obtain a view of myself in the mirror which 146 GRISELDA. presents me with a pleasing image of a young woman with lop-sided cheeks, and a twisted mouth. I am sorry to keep you waitino The door opens, and Katherine comes in. Why didnt you ask me to help you, you silly child? she said rather sadly. I did not even know you had gone up to dress. I did not think you would wish to come, Katie. I think you are unwise to go; but I would sooner you did not look a little fright~ as you are going, she answers, while her clever fingers twist up the abundant hair, and adjust the white tarla- tan gown, which is more crumpled than 1 had realized. I give Katherine a kiss of silent grati- tude and put my arm round her waist as we go down the little staircase together. She thought to break the Welby hearts For pastime eer she went to town cries Pat as we enter the sitting-room. Dont be silly, Pat. Seriously, do I look a fright? The gown isnt much, to be sure, an- swers Pat candidly; but you dont look half bad, and your eyes are shining like like the fifth of November. Good-night, mother, I cry, kissing ~her; dont look distressed, please dont, or I shall feel remorseful. I shall be like Jane Eyre, you knowwithout Roches- ter. I should hope so! says my mother with a shudder. Oh, my dear, I hope I am notdoing wrong in letting you go. The Watsons big white villa is a blaze of light as our fly makes its slow way up the carriage drive. The French windows of the drawing-room are shut fast, but a confused sound of music and merriment has struggled out into the chilly garden, where a little crowd of shabby people tands gazing intently at the unshuttered windows. The Watsons are important people in Welby, fort together with their cousin, Mr. Fairfax, they represent the Co. of Boulters Bank in the High Street, and ~from time immemorial Boulters, I hear, has taken the lead of Welby society. - Dont be late, Pat, I say with some trepidation as the plate-glass panelled door is flung open. I promise not to keep you waiting a moment. Pat gives my hand a sympathetic squeeze, and I step into the gaily paved, gas-lit hall. Little Charlotte, my pupil, comes running in while 1 am removing my clock in the schoolroom converted for the evening into a dressing-room. She [wears an aggressively stiff white frock, with pink ribbons, and pink ribbons adorn her elaborately crimped hair; she brings in with her an overpowering odor of patch- ouli scent, and carries a smart fan in her little gloved hand. Oh, Miss MacRonan, she cries, danc- ing about on the toes of her bronze boots, its such a grand party fifty ladies and gentlemen; I heard mamma telling Cousin Jack. She skips across the room, then comes back to the toilet-table, where I am smoothing out the crumpled folds of my gown before the mirror. You have a white frock too, Miss MacRonan. Dont you wish you had some pink ribbons? I wish you wouldnt make the candles flicker so, I say, regarding the poor tar- latan with some dismay. I think youre pretty, Miss MacRo- nan, announces my pupil with magnifi- cence. Margaret doesnt, nor mamma, but I do. I begin to laugh, and forget all about my gown in a sudden sense of the ludi- crousness of the situation. The door is pushed open, and Jo, my other pupil, rushes in, in all the glory of a black velveteen suit and white kid gloves. Come along, Miss MacRonan, he cries, seizing my hand in its long Swedish glove. Arent you glad youve come to our party? Charlotte takes possession of my other hand, and thus, unannounced, between the two children I am led to the scene of ac- tion. Miss Watson comes across the room on her high heels as I enter, and greets me with infinite condescension. Her short, ~vide skirts of pale silk, her bright velvet bodice, are redolent of that same sickly perfume with which her younger sister has made fragrant her small person. A knot of wired roses and maiden-hair fern is fastened under her ear; she carries a huge black fan in her mttened hand. We are going to dance, she says; every one has paired off. I will intro- duce some gentlemen later on. Lottie, find Miss MacRonan a seat. With a sinking heart I survey the scene before me. Gas, gas: that is my first impression any amount of gas flar- ing hard, in the big central chandelier, in -4- GRISELDA. 147 the gilt branches that project on all sides from the walls ; filling the room with a horrible, stifling heat, casting unnatural radiance on the grass-green carpet, guilt- less of drugget, on which the dancers are disporting themselves. In one corner of the room stands a rosewood piano, on which Mrs. Watson is performing a re- markably deliberate polka, beating time with her great, smart head, and lifting her jewelled fingers very high in the air. Va- rious groups of middle-aged peol)le adorn the walls, and with few exceptions they also are smilingly beating time to the in- spiring strains. But It is on the dancers that my attention is chiefly concentrated. Two dozen shortskirted, perfumed young women, a dozen warm young men in ill- made dress-coats, are gravelx- careering up and down the green carpet, endeavoring to keep time to the timeless music. In consequence of the overwhelming female majority, many of the young ladies are dancing with one another, making valiant efforts to look as if they enjoyed it. With a sudden rush of memory, that brings the tears to my eyes, I am back in the old hall at Ronantown. I see the great, shadowy room, with the oak-pan- elled walls, the well-worn oaken floor, the dim light shed by the sparse candles in their big silver sconces. I see Katharine and the MacMorna girls in their simple, shabby, graceful gowns; I see Patrick and Teddy MacMorna light-footed, light. hearted, slim and cool; I see Goll, his handsome face aglow, as his white hands fly over the key-board, and the bitter-sweet waltz music rolls forth to lose itself in the echoes of the high roof. They were right, I think with a great sigh; I ouoht not to have come. The linked sweetness of Mrs. Watsons polka has at length drawn itself out. The good-natured musician has risen and made her way to the middle of the room. Ladies and gentlemen,~ she announces in her loud voice, if you will be so good as to step into the next room you will find some refreshment waiting for you. Mar- garet, lead the way. Pink ices, cries Jo very audibly, ad- dressing himself to Charlotte, but making this announcement for the general benefit; and ~vafers, and punch! There is a movement towards the door. From my corner I watch the couples streaming out in the direction of the prom- ised land; I recognize the two Miss foul- ters, the acknowledged queens of Welby society, each of whom has managed to secure a cavalier for escort; Margaret Watson flounces by with young Boulter, a stout, florid youth with an insinuating eye; Jo and Charlotte strut out together arm in arm with a funny imitation of their elders. And little Jane Eyre sits unnoticed in her corner, with shall it be owned? a cer- tain sense of mortification and indignation in her breast. You will be a little humbler after this, Griselda MacRonan, I say to myself; you will begin to recognize that there is considerable difference between Lord Golls sister and a shabby little governess in an old;gown. Pshaw! I shall be grow- ing cynical next, and I have always hated cynics. Miss MacRonan, says a kind voice, wont you come into the next room and have some refreshment? A pair of gentle brown eyes are looking down at me from a gentle, brown-bearded face; an attractive face, though it is nei- ther very young nor very handsome Its owner is Mr. Fairfax, of the bank, the childrens Cousin Jack. We have never been introduced to one another, but I have seen him several times at the villa, where he is a great favorite with my small pu- pils. Yes, please, I say, in answer to his little question, and feeling quite grateful as I take the arm he rather awkwardly offers. It would be impossible to resent the small infringement of etiquette on the part of this respectful and fatherly per- son; is he not Mr. Fairfax, of the bank, and I his cousins unknown Irish gov- erness? What can I get you? asks Mr. Fair- fax gravely, when he has carefully piloted me to a seat in the next room. I have already found out that he is a man of action rather than of words, but there is something soothing in his silent services. I will have an ice, please, I say. I have a faint hope that it will make me a little cooler; only a very faint one. He smiles, amused, as though I had said something witty, and goes off to do do my bidding. You have not been long in Welby, I think? he says, as I eat my ice ~vith a despairing sense of growing hotter every moment. It is about the first indepen- dent remark he has offered for the last five minutes. Six months. I am beginning to get tired of Welby; six months is such a long time.~~ Oh, a very long time! Miss Mac- Ronan, I often see you pass my window in the morning. 148 GRISELDA. I am very punctual, am I not? I say. ter, between you and me, to our friend Punctuality is the one virtue on which I Miss Margarets. pride myself. Ask Jo and Charlotte. Is it possible, or does there lurk in his Whos talking about me? breaks in eye what only requires a little encourage- a shrill, excited voice. I say, Miss Mac- ment to develop into a wink? It is need- Ronan, dont go telling tales! Cousin less to add that this encouragement is not Jack, would you like to be a fool? Heres forthcoming. a jolly fools-cap for you! A small vel- I do a little in the singing line my- veteen form has mounted the chair near self, he continues, unabashed, and I do which Mr. Fairfax is standing, and in an- assure you I havent half your nerve. I other instant two dirty little gloved hands always say theres only two occasions have placed a disreputable tissue adorn- when a man feels funky; thats one. Do ment on the respectable brown head of you know when the other is? my escort. It would be interesting to learn, I Cousin Jack absolutely blushes, and say, looking my companion straight in the glances at me with a look of entreaty, as face. he removes the undignified head-gear, and When a gentleman pops the question administers a mild rebuke to the offender. to a lady eh? Miss Watson comes up to me as I re- A little pause ; Mr. Boulter is vaguely enter the drawing-room, and asks me to aware that his sally is not a success, and sing. I remember Pats warning, and my I am secretly conscious of victory. But I heart sinks. Sing! Before these people, am not elated. Looking round, I perceive in this glaring room, at that jingling piano! that the other people have dropped off, It is evident, however, that a refusal is and that Mr. Boulter and I are standing not expected of me; and accepting the together by the piano. A sense of shame situation ~vith my usual philosophy, I draw rushes over me, and it is with genuine off my gloves, and sit down to the instru- delight that I observe Cousin Jack mak. ment. ing his ~vay towards me with an elderly I ~vill give them something they can lady on his arm. understand, I say to myself, and launch My sister wants very much to know into The Last Rose of Summer. The you, he says abruptly. dear old song! It has carried me away Miss Fairfax is a squarely built woman from the vulgar villa, from Welby. I an-i of middle age, with a kind, homely face, back at Ronantown. Goll is playing the and a quiet manner. She is simply but accompaniment, and Teddy Mac Morna is richly dressed in a black silk gown, with turning over the leaves. The candles a gold chain round her neck, and a big flicker in their silver sockets; the firelight brooch fastening her lace collar. She dances on the dim old walls. holds out her hand and smiles at me with Bravo! bravo! encore! My song her brown eyes, which are like her broth- has come to an end, and with it my rev- er s. erie. A dozen voices are clamoring praise, My dear, you have given us such a a dozen people crowding round me. I great treat, she says. look up, and my glance meets two kind, I am so glad you liked the song, Miss brown eyes. Fairfax. Thank you, says Cousin Jack very You sing beautifully, Miss MacRonan, simply. I have no reason now to com- and you are not ashamed to sing in your plain of being overlooked, and with the own language. We ignorant people who usual feminine contrariness, begin to do not understand Italian are grateful to sigh for my former obscurity. I do not you for that. like these familiar, eager people, who are Ashamed of the dear Irish song! demanding introductions, or dispensing That would be impossible for an Irish- altogether with such an insignificant for- woman, I say, laughing. mality. I do not like their jokes, their I wonder if you would think it worth criticisms, worst of all their flattery. I your while to come and see a lonely old wish that nice, awkward Mr. Fairfax woman, Miss MacRonan? would come to my rescue, but he only I think of Goll, of Katherine. Surely stands on the outskirts of my little circle, even they could have no objection to my looking very grave, and never exerting responding to the kindness of this gentle himself to offer a remark. old lady. I should be very pleased to Now I call your singing A i, says come, I say promptly, and to sing to young Boulter, looking at me from the you if you would care to hear me. corners of his eyes; quite another mat- Will you drink tea with me to-morrow, Miss MacRonan, at five oclock? I live at number fourteen in the high street, next door to the bank. Scarcely have I accepted this invitation, when Margaret Watson comes up and says, not very amiably, Can you play dance music, Miss MacRonan? Yes, I can, I answer with alacrity, for the prospect of dancing with Mr. Boulter and his friends is not an inviting one, and in a few minutes more Jane Eyre is at the piano, obediently dashing her way through the Starlight waltzes, the Bric ~ Brac polka, and the Patience quadrilles; resisting all entreaties on the part of the men to join in the dancing. Supper, supper! announces Mrs. Watson as the grand cl~ainis brought to a close. Gentlemen, choose your partners for supper. It is quite ready. To my horror and surprise, the thick- skinned Boulter makes his way in my direction. Fortunately, however, Mrs. Watson ar- rests him ere he reaches the piano. I havent forgotten you, Mr. Boulter, she says confidentially. Lobster salad such a beautiful lobster salad! He touches his forehead jocosely with his forefinger. Thank you, marm ! Im off to find a fair lady to eat it with. But he is too late, and only escapes from his hostesss clutches to see his victim disappear into the dining-room on the arm of Mr. Fairfax. Supper is a saturnalia of ~vhich I only carry away the vaguest recollection. Mrs. Watson sits at the head of the great table struggling with a turkey, ~vhile her lord and master dispenses lobster salad from opposite. There is a great deal of gas, a great deal of laughter, and a great deal of champagne with the label of the Welby grocer on the bottles. My escort is silent but active, and supplies not only myself, but half-a-dozen ca valierless young women, with good things. Somebody makes a speech about the new year, and somebody else responds. There is a general as- sumption of paper caps from the costume crackers, and healths are drunk freely in the dotbtful champagne. The maidservants confidential an- nouncement that there is a young gentle. man ~vaiting for me in the hall falls upon my ear as the gladdest of glad tidings, and I make my escape while the others are in the full tide of feasting. Well ? says Pat, drawing up the win- dow of the fly, as we go do~vn the drive. Pat, they were quite right I ought not to have gone. It was horrid! GRISELDA. 49 And who was the fellow who brought you across the hall ? Mr. Fairfax, at the bank. He ~vas very kind. Oh, 1 remember him now, says Pat- rick; I saw him there when I went to draw the quarterly instalment of our princely income. CHAPTER III. NUMBER FOURTEEN, HIGH STREET. I ENLIVEN the family breakfast-table next morning with a vivid account of last nights festivity. In consideration of my mothers feelings I omit the incident of Mr. Boulter; but I carefully describe the costumes and customs of the COifll)any, and rehearse Mrs. Watsons polka on the tablecloth till even Katherine cannot re- frain from smiling. Only my mother looks grave and troubled. My dear, she says at last in her gentle voice, is it kind, is it dignified~ to make fun of these poor people, who, after all, offered you the best they had? Mother, I cry, blushing scarlet, you are quite right. I ought to be ashamed of myself; I a;n ashamed of myself! Pat, leave off laughing; dont you see how unutterably mean it is to make a joke of these peoples hospitality? My mother looks very grave when I tell her of Miss Fairfaxs invitation and my own acceptance of it. It would have been impossible to refuse without being ungracious, I protest; and I am not sure that I wished to refuse. By your own showing, Griselda, these people are not fit associates for you. The Fairfaxes are different, mother. They are not bad imitations of smart folk, like the rest. They are just simple and natural. It is a Griselda. breat responsibility for me, Dear mother, I cry with some re- morse, am I such a rebel, such a dan- gerous character? I think I am as proud as any of you, if not quite as fastidious; can you not trust me? Only do not ask me to hurt the feelings of a gentle old lady who has shown me kindness. And my mothers objections are si- lenced. At five oclock in the afternoon of the same day, Patrick walks with me up the high street and leaves me at the door of number fourteen, which stands directly on the left of Boulters bank. It is a square, sober, Georgian house. with a square brown door, raised from 150 GRISELDA. the street by a single shallow step. A neat maid admits me into the cosy, lamp- lit hall, and leads me across it to the sit- ting-room. Miss Fairfax rises as I enter, and gives me cordial welcome. It is very kind of a young thing like you to take pity on an old woman, she says. I cannot but ad- mire the kindly tact which is so anxious to make the little governess ignore all difference between herself and the pros- perous bankers sister. The room, like the rest of the house, presents an air of solid, unobtrusive com- fort which is wholly strange to me. It is an example, I suppose, of that English middle-class prosperity of which I have heard so much and seen nothing at all. The great mahogany sideboards are pol- ished like mirrors; the steel fender and fire-irons shine as bright as silver; a big clock ticks on the mantelshelf, and above it hangs an oil-painting of a brown-eyed old woman in a Quaker cap. That is a portrait of my mother, says Miss Fairfax. She belon~ed to the So- ciety of Friends, but my brother and I were brought up as Congregati onali sts. I am not much the wiser for this ex- planation, but I receive it respectfully. Talk flows on gently after this. Miss Fairfax is not a brilliant or fluent talker she retails no spicy gossip, she asks no questions; but she says nothing but what is kindly; there is something inexpres- sibly soothing in her whole attitude. At my own suggestion, I go over to the little piano and sing three or four songs, the Irish, Scotch, and English ballads for which she has expressed a l)reference. Cousin Jack comes in while I am sing- ing and stations himself by the piano. His coat suits him far better than the country-made dress-clothes of the previous night. He looks almost good-looking as, the music having ceased, he sits by the fireside, and the ruddy light plays over his brown beard, and blunt, straight features. Tea is a solemn, solid performance, quite different from the trifling, informal affair with which one usually connects five oclock. A white cloth is spread on the mahogany table; the neat maid adorns it further ~vith plates of cake and bread and butter; with glass jars of preserve; with an old-fashioned tea-service and an impressive silver teapot. We all take our seats at the abundant board, and the feast is treated with the observance due to a square meal. Mr. Fairfax is rather silent, but is kind enough to greet with a smile the mildest and most trivial attempts at sprightliness on my part. Miss Fairfax beams on us from behind her teapot. After tea Cousin Jack leads me round the room, displaying his little treasure of china, and the few pictures which adorn the wall. Oh how deliThtful ! I cry, stopping short before a big wire-covered bookcase standing in a deep recess. Mr. Fair- fax, it is so long since I have seen any books, excepting Blairs Grave and The Course of Time; may I look through these? Cousin Jack, with his slow smile, un- locks the bookcase, and says Perhaps you would care to borrow some of them. I should be very pleased if you would. I dont know if there is anything there likely to interest you. They are nice, old-fashioned books, well- bound and carefully kept. I pick out a tall ,grey copy of Lambs essays, and an early edition of Miss Burneys Evelina. Will you lend me these? I say. With pleasure. I see you have chosen Elia. It is a great favorite of mine. Charles Lamb is an old dear 1 I quite agree with you. Sometimes when I come in here tired out from busi- ness, I find nothing rests me so much as a little chat with my old friend in the book- case. We are not a very reading family, I say; at least, I am fond of books, and so is G, my eldest brother. I grow red and confused at thought of the incau- tious remark which I have nearly let slip. A sudden look of grave and puzzled ques- tioning comes into the brown eyes at sight of my scarlet cheeks and lifted eye- brows. No, we dont care for books as a fain- ily, I go on recklessly; we are musical or nothing. And we can all dance. Per- haps you dont consider that a very valu- able accomplishment? I know very little about dancing, Miss MacRonan. At this point the clock on the mantel- piece gives seven distinct strokes, and I start in some dismay at the sound. Oh, it is seven oclock, Miss Fairfax, I cry, going over to my hostess ; they will be expecting me at home. I half expected my brother to call for me, but I think he cannot be coming. I wish you could have stayed later, says Miss Fairfax, rising, and helping me on with my hat and cloak, which I have previously removed; but I suppose we GRISELDA. must not detain you. I hope you will come very soon and very often. May I? It has been delightful I say, stooping to receive the little abrupt kiss she half shyly bestows on me. Cousin Jack follows me into the pas- sage, takes his hat, opens the door, and steps with me into the street. Mr. Fairfax, I protest, please dont trouble to come with me. It is quite a little way. (Why, oh why, has Patrick omitted to fetch me?) It is dark, he answers quietly, and Doss essing himself of the books in my hand. It isnt fit for you to walk up the high street alone. We walk along almost in silence. I feel a little offended and a little fright- ened. There is something rather inter- esting in the situation. Cousin Jack gives me one of his slow smiles, and hands me back the books as we part at the door of my lodgings. I do not ask him in, nor does he seem to expect it; no doubt he is aware that the run of Eden Street apart- ments are not suitable for the reception of visitors of his importance. I meet Patrick on the stairs, evidently in a tremendous hurry. Its never you, Grizel, come home by yourself at this time of night! he ex- claims, peering at me in the paraffin-laden gloom. Mr. Fairfax brought me home.~~ Pat whistles. Why on earth couldnt you wait for me, Griselda? Why on earth couldnt you come in decent time ?I retort; I had been there long enough for a first visit. I didnt know when you might take it into your head to put in an appearance.~~ CHAPTER IV. A TELEGRAM. THE weary winter days go on; there is only a ~veek of February left. Golls letters are short, uncertain, vague, indefinably anxious and reserved. That a decision of some sort must shortly be arrived at, he does not seem to doubt; it is only that he has ceased to express himself with the old confidence as to the probable nature of that decision. Griselda, says Katherine one after- noon as I am drawirg on my gloves in our joint bedroom, how can you be so cheer- ful? I sometimes think you ought not to be so cheerful. Oh, Katherine, I cry remorsefully, do you think I am not sorry for you all ? 5 It is your own affair as much as ours, poor little Grizel. Ah, but I have my work. You can have no idea what a consolation it is! I am afraid it makes me appear unfeeling. This dreadful suspense! says poor Katherine, pacing the squalid room. Griselda, how can you bear it? I put it out of my head, Katherine. You put it out of your head? cries my sister; you are a wonderful philoso. pher for your time of life! Katie, I say impetuously, I hate to think of it. I never think of it when I can help. It hurts my pride to feel that every- thing depends on a mere turning upof the cards. We can do something our- selves with our own lives. Katherine looks at me with her sad, beautiful eyes. Grizel, she says, I believe you are a good girl I am sure you are a brave one. But you are very young. I am not old myself, you will say; but I know that fighting with fate, as you would put it, is a hard battle; that the victory is very uncertain. Is any fight worth fighting which is not hard, or where victory is certain, Katherine? Oh, Grizel, you are a child! You cannot understand, cries my sister, re- suming her march up and down the room; a tall, slender figure, which even the shabby gown and sordid surroundinos cannot deprive of its queenly grace. I go down.stairs very sorrowfully, and make my way into the street with a guilty sense of pleasant expectation which it is impossible entirely to repress. Why will one part of my heart persist in feeling happy while the other is aching for my people with all its might? Goll may lose his suit, we may all be reduced to beggary, but the sun will shine as brightly as ever, the first pulses of spring will not cease to beat in ones blood; kind voices will cheer us with friendly words, kind eyes will continue to smile upon us; there will be many things worth living for left in the world. To-night I am going to tea with the Fairfaxes. It is tacitly understood among us that I shall accept Miss Fair- faxs invitations without scruple. I have passed many happy, peaceful hours in the cozy, firelit parlor in the high street, and have grown to regard the brother and sis- ter in the light of friends. On their part they are perfectly kind and natural, and accept without comment the strict reserve ~vhich, alas! I am obliged to maintain with regard to my circumstances and fam- ily. I pass a delightful evening with my GRISELDA. 152 friends, and at nine oclock Cousin Jack walks home with me as usual. If I believed in presentiments, I ob serve, as we go up the street, I should say something was about to happen. But dont believe in them, he an- swers; things are very well as they are. No news is good news, is it not? I am a Kelt, Mr. Fairfax, and even in the nineteenth century we Kelts cling to our superstitions. Have you seen aa banshee, Miss MacRonan? Thats good Irish, isnt it? I laugh with open scorn. One doesnt see banshees, Mr. Fairfax; one hears them! They come wailing wailing over marsh and moor on dark nights. Oh, its enough to make your blood run cold! Theres one at Ronantown, and sometimes I stop short and become violently interested in the red glass lamp of the Welby doctors surgery. Good-night, says my escort presently, taking my hand and looking down at me with those kindly, half-humorous eyes of his; and l)lease dont have any more presenti ments. XVe are standing on the doorstep of my dwelling, and Cousin Jack begins to strug- gle with the ineffectual bell as he ceases speaking. Mrs. Price greets me with some excite- ment as I enter the gloomy little hall. It came this very minute, miss, she says I was,,just about to take it up to your mamma. XVhat is it, Mrs. Price? She lays her hand solemnly on my arm, leads me to the solitary paraffin lamp, and thrusts something thin and soft into my fingers. A bit of yellow paper, a little envelope, a telegram addressed to Mrs. MacRo- nan. In these days of frequent tele- graphing that is not enough to fill any sensible mortal with alarm. Perhaps not only something tells me that I hold our fate folded up in this harmless-looking missive. With a careless word to Mrs. Price I go slowly up-stairs; my heart beats with strange rapidity, my head is in a whirl; the dreary little group round the sitting-room fire exclaims with one voice on my entrance, My dear Griselda, has anything hap- pened? Griselda, are you ill . Have you seen a ghost, Grizel ? This will never do, I think, and an- swer with as much indifference as I am able: 1 came up-stairs rather quickly. I am a little :out of breath, that is all. By-the-by, mother, this has just come for you. My mothers face grows white to the lips ; her hand trembles as she takes tbe telegram from mine and lays it down in silence on the table. I think it would be as well to open the telegram, cries Pat, with a fine as- sumption of masculine common sense, and laying his hand on Katherines shoulder, who sits, white and motionless, bringing her needle repeatedly through the same point in her work. You had better open it, Patrick, says my mother, shading her eyes with her hand. He b~-eaks it open deliberately, extracts the scrap of pink, scrawled paper and pro- ceeds to read aloud the message : From Gerald MacRonan to Mrs. MacRonan, Eden Street, XVelby. The verdict has just been given in our favor. Thank God, all is over. I shall be with you to-morrow at twelve oclock. Dead silence for a minute; the next, my mother is sobbing in Katherines arms. I like old Golls caution, cries Pat- rick, who is pacing the room with a radi- ant face and shining eyes. Its a case of the ruling passion strong in death : Ger- ald MacRonan to Mrs. MacRonan! My dear boy, says my mother anx- iouslv, pray do not relax our caution. We shall only be here a few days longer, I suppose; there is no need to let any one into our secrets. It is twelve oclock, and though we usually go to our rooms as the clock strikes ten, to-night not one of us seems to have the remotest recollection of bed. Oh, mother, says Katherine, I may say it now, may I not? I have hated it all so dreadfully. I ~~ill confess, answers my mother, with unusual emphasis, that these last months have been to me a time of terrible unh appi ness. Horrid little place ! cries Katherine, who looks ten times handsomer than she did this morning ; horrid street, horrid room, horrid magenta cloth and horsehair chairs! This outburst is very unusual in a per- son of your staidness, remarks Patrick; and I feel bound to protest: Poor little fright of a Welby! Its unkind to abuse it for what it cant help. I dare say it has its good points, if one only knew! I believe Grizel has rather enjoyed GRISELDA. herself! says Pat; she always was fond of adventures. I hope you girls will be presented at an early drawing-room, says my mother; I was eighteen when I was introduced. And we are quite ~assies, are we not, Katie? You are actually twenty-two and I am twenty, I answer flippantly. Girls are allowed to be older in these days, announces Pat; Goll said so him. self the last time he was here. I wonder where we shall live, says Katie, and my mother answers, It is many years since I was in London; but Grosvenor Square always seemed to me the most charming place to live ~ Of course we shall go to Ronantown for the hunting? says Pat; at least, when that wretch of a tenant has had his three years.~~ Oh, for a real good gallop, I re- mark sleepily, stretching my arms and giving a great yawn. Good-night, moth. er; I hope this is not all a dream, but I feel by no means sure.~~ Bird of ill-omen, cease thy croaking, cries Pat in his most wide-awake tone as I go from the room, candle in hand. But, in spite of that yawn, I am unable to sleep when I get to bed. Is it that visions of the brilliant future are dancing before my dazzled imagina- tion? Am I dreaming waking dreams of pearls and presentation gowns; of Grosve- nor Square and Buckingham Palace; of dances in great houses with handsome, light-heeled partners? Strange to say, I am thinking of none of these things. To say that 1 am think- ing at all would be to give too definite a name to the vague mixture of regret and surprise which fills my breast; regret, for the life of labor and struggle, which already seems to lie far behind me; surprise, at my own sensations, at the recollection of the false ring in my own gaiety which has jarred upon me all the evening, though my family have seemed quite unaware of it. The door opens and Katherines entry puts an end to my reverie. Her face is flush e d, her eyes are shining like sap- phires; she steps with light, elastic tread, very different from the weary, lagging pace she has fallen into during these lat- ter months. She falls on her knees by the bedside, and bends her beautiful, glad face towards me. Grizel, she cries, you have been braver than I. I have been a coward! I am ashamed of myself. 53 It wasnt courage on my part, Kitty. It was simply that I never hated it as you did. Oh yes, I have hated it! It has hurt me and humbled me; sometimes I have wished to die. Poor Kitty! and now everything is turning out well, just like the events in a novel. Ah, but those events with which nov- elists chiefly occupy themselves are yet to come! This is very flippant indeed for Kath- erine, and I stare at her in astonishment before I turn round and go to sleep. CHAPTER V. COUSIN JACK. WE are all restored to our sober senses the next morning, and take our seats at the breakfast-table with a subdued radi- ance, very different from the light-headed rapture of the previous evening. I am going to my ~vork as usual, I announce, as I make my entrance on the cheerful scene; I want to say good-bye to Jo and Charlotte. They are not very nice children, but I have a sort of likino- for them. Goll will be here before you have re- turned, objects Katherine. I dont mean to hide anything from Goll. And it is more polite to explain to Mrs. Watson in person the reason of my abrupt departure. What are you going to tell her, Gri- zel? I shall tell her that we are obliged suddenly to leave Welby. She will probably question you, after the manner of her kind. Oh, I will be very cautious, Katie; and then no more caution for the rest of ones life ! I go down Eden Street; up the high street; past Boulters Bank, where young Boulter throws me a nod, half-sulky, half- impertinent, from the doorstep; past number fourteen; and onwards to the villa. Mrs. Watson is surprised and annoyed at my news ; she considers she had a right to expect longer notice. Am I aware that, in the eye of the law-, I am not en- titled to the fraction of my salary due to me? Do I know that it is only because of her clemency that I am destined to re- ceive it? Can I not possibly manage to give Margaret Watson her sino-ino--lesson this afternoon? I submit to these remarks ~vith a meek- GRISELDA. 54 ness eminently becoming in a young gov- face. Just as you like, my dear boy. erness, and promise to return at four The question is, where are we to go? oclock for a final lesson with Miss Wat- We had better go straight to London. son. There is a furnished house to be had in Patrick opens the door to me when I Clarges Street which might do for the get home, and putting his arm round my present. Lady Shannon told me of it. waist, compels me to join him in a waltz She kindly gave me permission to tele. across the impossible little passage. graph to her n the event of your consent- Pat, I cry. breathlessly, is he ing to take it. She will secure it and have here? it made ready. He is, answers my brother, drawing How exceedingly kind of Lady Shan- me to a seat beside him on the bottom non! stair. And I say, Grizel, he knows Every one has been remarkably kind, everything about you. answers Goll, who has a fine unconscious- 1 am so glad! And how did he take ness of his own charms. People from it? whom one had no right to expect it have For a moment his cheek blanched ; his shown us the greatest consideration. lip quivered. All the blood of all the Then I may telegraph? MacRonans began to boil audibly in his Certainly, my dear boy. The girls veins. But fortunately the general good- and I had better get everything in Lon- humor has influenced even his frigid don breast. I believe, my dear, you are to be I shall at once seek the embrace of forgiven. Mr. Smallpage, announces Pat; I shall We scamper up-stairs together and en- go straight from the station to his Temple ter the sitting-room. I precipitate myself of the Graces. into the arms of a tall person, who steps Goll, I say, are we very rich forward to meet me. He considers a moment. In these My dear, darling Goll! days of Sir Georgius Midases I dont Little rebel, he says, kissing me sev- think we are what is called very rich. eral times: then holding me from him and We have the means, and more than the looking down at my face- Strong-mind- means, of living according to our position. ed young woman, what have you to say for Have you grown mercenary, Grizel ? yourself? XVell, you havent spoiled your Grizel is a socialist, cries Pat; she complexion, at any rate, which makes it ~vould like to distribute the family funds comparatively easy to forgive you. Why, among the deserving poor. She is a per- Grizel, you are prettier than ever! son of views. And you you are beautiful, Goll ! Goll laughs. Ah, London is the place The MacRonan mutual-admiration so- for views. You will have plenty of oppor- ciety. Am I eligible as a member? tunity for airing y6ur theories, Grizel. enquires Patrick with scorn. And if one hasnt any theories to air? I shall certainly black-ball you, I cry, Katherine, just take away Pats glass. nodding at him from the shelter of Golls The champagne is having a bad effect on strong arms. his over-excited brain.~~ Gerald MacRonan, Viscount Goll is, I A chorus of protest greets me when I firmly believe, the most beautiful person announce my intention of going to the in the United Kingdom. As he stands Watsons in the afternoon. I feel that there, tall and strong, in the little room, Mrs. Watson has been badly used, I say his inc3ngruity with his surroundings in explanation. Clearly, 1 ought to have comes out to a startling degree. told her, when she engaged me, that my We all take our seats at the table. The sudden departure was probable. extreme resources of Welby have been To my surprise, Goll is inclined to take taxed to produce a luncheon worthy of my part. There is something in what our guest. There are roast chicken and you say, Grizel. Noblesse oblige. early peas, a P~rigord pie from the gro- Miss Watson goes through her lesson cers, and two bottles of champagne not rather sulkily, asks me a few pointed from the grocers. questions on the subject of my departure Well, mother, what do you say to from Welby, and informs me that her leaving this charming spot on Monday, mamma will see me in the morning-room. the day after to-morrow? asks Goll, who As I make my way across the hall a con- sits at the head of the table and carves fused noise of merriment reaches me, from with great splendor. the direction of the schoolroom. The un- She turns her proud, glad eyes to his mistakable shrill tones of Jo and Char- GRISELDA. lotte fall upon my ear, mingled with a fuller, deeper sound the sound of a mans voice, of a voice that I know. Cousin Jack, Cousin Jack, is borne across to me, swing me; its my turn now, not Lotties. I turn the handle of the morning-room door and find myself in the presence of Mrs. Watson. When she has written me out my meagre little cheque (of which, by. the-by, I feel remarkably proud) she takes both my hands in hers, draws me towards her, and imprints a sounding kiss on my forehead. Good-bye, my dear, and good luck go with you. Were all sorry to lose you; and I was a little short this morning, but naturally I was vexed at being left in the lurch as it were. However, Im not saying its your own fault, Miss MacRo- nan. Good-bye, Mrs. Watson. I shall often think of you all, and of Welby. She goes with me into the hall, whither the children and Cousin Jack have mi- grated. Mr. Fairfax comes across and shakes hands with me, and the children fling themselves on me ~vith expressions of farewell. Joey, open the door for your govern- ess, says his mother. The child sets to struggling with the door-fastening. Never mind, Jo, I can do it myself, I say, in a voice full of suppressed indig- nation; there is a choking sensation in my throat, my eyes smart, my hands trem ble. To stand there like that, and never a word of farewell! Cousin Jack, are you no better than the rest of the world? You lazy, strong man, to let me struggle with this big, heavy door! Oh, I hope you are feeling ashamed! From the open door of the morning- room behind comes the very audible sound of Mrs. Watsons voice: Ah, poor thing, its a difficulty of some sort or other, Ill be bound. Jack, you mark my words, there is something fishy in that direction. I shut the door and dash down the tall white steps into the dusky garden. Two great tears have forced themselves into my eyes, and are stealincr slow cheeks. b ly down my Down between the laurels I go, with a tread to which anger lends its buoyancy; my head held very high, my eyes very wide open. Th. big iron gates of the garden are closed. I stand fumbling vaguely with the heavy latch. Footsteps are coming down the gravel behind me quick, firm footsteps; in another moment a voice is in my ear: Miss MacRonan, allow me to help you.~~ 55 We pass out together, in silence, on to the twilit road. Miss MacRonan, what is this I hear about you? Ah, and what have you been hearing, Mr. Fairfax? That you are going away! It is certainly true. Will your sister be at home to-morrow afternoon? He does not answer. He stops short in the road and seizes both my hands in his. Griselda, will you stop here with me? The blood rushes to my head; there is a loud singing in my ears, a mist before my eyes; my only answer is a little gasp- ing sob. It isnt much I have to offer you, my dear. I am older than you, I am a dull fellow; but I will make you happy, I will make you happy, Griselda! He draws me towards him, closer, closer; the brown eyes look down into mine: I will take such care of you, my darling ; my brave little girl Hitherto I have remained as one spell- bound; at these ~vords a little sharp cry breaks from my lips. I struggle to free my hands from his. Mr. Fairfax, pray, pray, do not! The tears are streaming down my face; my hands tremble and flutter in his grasp. Griselda, I cant let you go! Oh, it is impossible! You are asking what is impossible! Griselda, I cant go away from you with that answer. Perhaps you dont love me well enough I dont expect that, But you shall love me one day; you shall, indeed! Mr. Fairfax, you dont understand. It is not a personal matter with me! Not a personal matter, Griselda? There is a family complication! To my great surprise he greets this sol- emn announcement with a short laugh. He lets go my hands, lays his own on my shoulders, and looks down at me with shining eyes. What has that to do with you and me, Griselda? We are not a family complica- tion, you and I. I want you, Griselda, you, yourself. I shall always hold it the greatest honor, as well as the greatest happiness of my life, if you will come to me. His hands drop to his side; his voice, ~vhich has vibrated as with a very passion of tenderness, dies away; we stand facing one another in silence. What can I say? What is there for me to say? This gen- erous heart is offering everything home, 156 GRISELDA. shelter, a boundless treasure of love to the little waif, the little lonely Irish girl and she, forsooth, turns away in denial from the goodly gift! A sudden pathetic, humorous sense of the ludicrousness of the situation comes over me; I begin to laugh hysterically. Griselda! he cries, hurt, shocked, is that all you have to say to me? In an instant I am sober again. Mr. Fairfax, how can I ever thank you for your noble kindness, for your generosity? But I must not, I have no right to take what you offer. It would be wrong, wicked! A vision of Golls angry, haughty face rises before me ; another vision of those joyful faces round the fire in Eden Street. Is it for me to mar their long-deferred happiness? Griselda, cries Cousin Jack rather hoarsely, can you expect me to accept such an answer? Say: Jack, I do not love you; I never can love you as long as I live; I do not want your love. My heart beats wildly. Oh, what is this strange, keen joy stealing in upon the misery, the anguish, which fills my heart? Mr. Fairfax, I say, trying to control my unsteady voice, why do you want me to say things which would be cruel and untrue? I love you, I shall always love you, as the kindest, truest friend a woman has ever had. And what you have said to me makes tue very proud as well as very sorry. My voice dies away; I turn ab- ruptly and set off walking down the lonely road. In an instant he is at my side. Griselda, he says in an altered voice, am I too late? Is there some one who has already won this great happiness? Ah, I might have guessed! Oh no, no! there is no one, no one at all! A longing to tell him everything, to repay his generosity with the honesty which at least is its due, comes over me. But the thought of Goll. of his injunctions, of his labor in our behalf, restrains me. I am torn in two. Mr. Fairfax, I cry, be merciful Dont ask me again, it is more than I can bear! Can you give me no better answer, Griselda? No, no. Oh, I know I must appear foolish, thoughtless. I know some expla- nation is due to you, but I can give you no explanation. Then I have asked for too much, Griselda. You will not trust me with your happiness? I cannot. We walk on in silence. I cannot see the kind, sad face in the gloom; but I know ah, how well ! how it looks. Is this to be the last time ! he says as we stand together before the door of the house in Eden Street. By the light of the street lamp I can see his pale face as it bends over me ; the hurt look in the beautiful eyes stabs my heart like a knife. May I come and see your sister to- morrow afternoon? Come. I will leave you in peace, only let me say this: if, at any time, there is anything I can do to serve you, it will be my greatest happiness to do it. if you are in trouble, if you need help, there is always one person to whom you can apply. Griselda, there will be nothing too hard for me to do for you. Will you promise to ask me for help? Will you promise, Griselda? I promise. Without another word, we part. Like a person in a dream, I make my way up. stairs to the landing, ~vhere Goll confronts me, pale and stern, outside the sitting- room door. Griselda, he says, with whom were you talking outside the street door? \Vith Mr. Fairfax (dreamily). And pray who may Mr. Farfax be? (with cold contempt). He is a friend of mine. Then I presume he is afriend of your family? He is my friend alone. You can have no friends who are not also those of your family. I open the sitting room door and walk in. Goll follows me, his eyes blazing with anger. You have no right to walk about the public streets with a man ~vho can be noth- ing more than a casual acquaintance, and your own inferior, he says stormily. Mv inferior! I laugh a little. Goll, I decline to argue this matter with you; you think perhaps you know a great deal about life, about the world; I say, you know nothing at all about human beings. And you to laugh at these provincials hh, Goll, that is almost amusing! Griselda, cries my poor mother, surely you are forgotting yourself. Your brother has given you no cause to speak so to him. Mother, 1 answer, turning towards her, why dont you speak; why dont you tell Goll the truth ? Mr. Fairfax is my friend. Oh, I am proud of my friend He has helped me through these dark GRISELDA. days with his kindness; it has been no secret, mother. Before we knew what was to happen, when things were begin- ning to look desperate, you were glad enough, all of you, yes, glad that I had found these kind people Griselda! cries my brother, stepping forward and laying his strong hand across my wrists, do you know what you are saying? I)o you know what insults you are offering your mother? Our angry eyes flash to one anothers. Goll , 1 cry, it is your fault, yours. Let me go, let me go! You are hard, un- grateful ! and I had made this sacrifice for you I do not know what I am saying; wrest- ing my handsfrom his grasp, I fly from the room, up the stairs, to the shelter of my little bare garret. Oh, Goll, I sob, as I lie face down. wards on the bed; after what I have done for you, after what I have given up for your sake! Oh, Jack, my kind, noble, generous friend, I have hurt you, I have done you wrong. But you are not the only person who is hurt, who is wronged Jack, my darling, I love you! I love you! I love you! CHAPTER VI. Very rich he is in virtues, very noblenoble certes, And I shall not blush in knowing that men call him lowly born. E. B. BROWNING. IT is all over the place. How the secret has oozed out, nobody knows; whether through our own imprudence, or our land- ladys eavesdropping l)ropensities, is un- certain. The pork-butcher next door touches his hat to Patrick and calls him my lord, to his immense delight; when. ever one of us appears at the window, the little dressmaker opposite rushes to her wire blind and stares over it at the illustrious apparition. (Fortunately it is Sunday, and it is to be hoped that this hindering of needle and thread will not have any very serious consequences.) Mrs. Price curtseys deeply whenever she meets us on the stairs; Jane, the maid-of- all-work, eyes us open-mouthed, as she brings in the matutinal bacon. Pat, re- turning from an early stroll, reports the unmistakable signs of interest which have everywhere follo~ved his usually obscure progress; he had never believed himself to be one of the people destiued to wake and find themselves famous; hencefor- ~vard he will put faith in Beaconsfield and the unexpected. It really is no joking matter, frowns 57 Goll, who is deeply vexed. This stay- ing in Welby has been an unfortunate business from beginning to end. But I did not see, at the time, what other ar- rangement to make. All our choice lay in a choice of evils. As for me, I say nothing at all I am in disgrace, and sit at Golls elbow with my eyes on my plate. Breakfast passes off rather gloomily. Reaction has set in after our previous course of high spirits, and we are beginning to realize that even 30,000 a year has its troubles. After breakfast I am taken solemnly aside and forgiven. I apologize to my mother, and Goll kisses me on my forehead, in a bap- tismal sort of way. Katherine and my mother decline to face the curious gaze of the Welby public, and Patrick announces his intention of taking what he calls a Sabbath holiday. So Goll and I set off together for church ; I trotting along meekly enough at his side, with a lurking, ludicrous feminine sense that all the wrong has not lain in one direction in spite of that magnificent forgiveness. All eyes are directed towards us, not only on our entrance, but also (alas for Welby piety!) throughout the service. Even my own insignificance fails to pass unnoticed, and Goll creates a positive furore among the feminine part of the congregation. I cannot help observing these things, for while my brother goes through the business of devotion with the solemnity and thoroughness which char- acterize his every action, I find it impos- sible to concentrate my attention on my Prayer-Book, and my heavy eyes stray aimlessly about the church from begin- ning to end of the service. There is the usual smart, perfumed crowd at the door as we make our way from the church. I follow meekly in Golls stately footsteps, rather abashed by the extremely frank and unreserved staring to which we are subjected, and which my brother treats ~vith the genuine indifference of ignorance. Margaret Wat- son gives me a nod, half-resentful, half- admiring; young Boulter, ~vho is with her, grows red to the eyes, and raises his hat in a sheepish ,grudging fashion, very dif- ferent from his normal jauntiness. Jo and Charlotte are to be heard from afar, lotidly discussing what seems to be the all-important topic in Welby, though their small persons are not visible in the throng. Her brothers a duke, and her moth- ers a duchess! proclaims Lottie. GRISELDA. And shes a princess ! cries Jo. Wha.t nonsense! Shes only a count- ess. Shes a very grand person anyhow. Almost as grand as the queen. I pass on beyond the sound of their voices. I do not even smile. I have no smiles left to-day, not even in the midst of so much which is absurd. There is one thought buzzing in my brain, a little thought, but it leaves no room for any other; it has buzzed, buzzed all the morning like brain-fliesit never ceases for a moment. Does he know? What will he think? We are passing the Congregational chapel, which stands at the top of the high street, and the people are streaming out through the narrow entrance. I can see Miss Fairfaxs ugly bonnet and respectable black silk as they make their ~vay through the crowd, and behind them comes a tall person in a tall hat Cousin Jack, in all the ill-cut glory of his Sunday clothes. Does he know? Something in the pale face tells me yes. What does he think? Ah, if I only knew! Hadnt we better cross the road to make room for these good chapel-going folk? says unconscious Goll with conde- scensi on. Oh, never mind, I answer hurriedly; too nervous to know what I am saying. Miss Fairfax has been detained on the doorstep by a friend; the two old ladies stand chatting amicably in the sunshine; Jack ~vaits patiently by her side, looking in front of him gloomily enough. Across the heads of the little crowd our eyes have to meet. Only fur an instant; the next I have turned away my face and am hurry- ing on with my brother. I have cut Mr. Fairfax dead. Goll, Goll, I cry; do you know what I have done? What on earth is the matter with you, Griselda? Are you going into hysterics? Goll you saw that tall man, with the beard, and the eyes! He stared at us with more than the usual impudenceif that is the fellow you mean. It ~vas Mr. Fairfax! Indeed, Griselda. And and I cut him dead! Goll gives vent to a few feeble general- ities on the subject of my sex. You may not be aware, he says with irony, that, to a lady, there are medium courses open between cutting a man dead and walking about the streets with him at night. Goll, it was all your fault ! Are you crying in the streets? Gri. selda, he goes on, suddenly changing his tone, do you know what inference, ~vhat shocking inference, it is almost impossi- ble not to draw from your conduct of to- day and of last night? I dont know! I dont care! Let me go, Goll; dont hold my arm like that! What ! You wont let me go? I certainly should be sorry to detain you by force, he says, dropping my arm coldly. Griselda, I am deeply shocked! But I do not heed him; I scarcely hear his voice; I am conscious of nothing but a pale face, and questioning brown eyes, an avenging phantom floating before my tear-dimmed vision. Without a word I turn from my brother, and strike off in an opposite direction. He follows me, white and angry. Where are you going, Griselda? Let me go, Goll; I am only going across the meadows. Let me be alone a little or I shall say things I shall be sorry for. I will be back by t~vo oclock. Slowly, reluctantly, he turns away. I tear down the little narrow street with aimless haste, the little street which leads to the flat fields and dull-hued hedgerows which surround the town. I sit do~vn on a solitary stile, heedless of the cold wind, which blows my hair about and makes my nose red. The sense of discomfort consoles me I feel it is no more than I deserve. Footsteps come up the path behind me slow, sauntering footsteps ; a few paces from the stile they come to a sudden stop. I turn my head, and see Mr. Fairfax. He is standing quite still. Our eyes, which are about on a level, meet in a long look. Mr. Fairfax, I say impotently. 1-le raises his hat and smiles faintly. Do you want to pass? 1 say, with my head still turned to~rds him over my shoulder. He swings himself over the stile, disre- garding the aid of the step, and stands facing me. Miss MacRonan, I believe I have to congratulate you! It would be more appropriate for you to box my ears! I think but I say: What do you think of me, Mr. Fairfax? Do you know I cut you in the street just now? Oh ! he says, with a little smile, did you? GRISELDA. 59 I feel horribly, cruelly, and, I may add, deservedly snubbed; the blood rushes to my face. I didnt think very badly of you, Gri- selda. I I understood that you might feel afraid of me after what I .said to you yesterday. We are like people talking in a dif- ferent language, I think ; how could he ever understand my mean and base jar- gon! A rush of love and yearning and regret comes over me. Cousin Jack, I say( the sweet, childish name coming un- bidden to my lips) Cousin Jack, ~vill you marry me He comes nearer and looks into my face. A strange mixture of wistful tenderness and humor lies in his eyes. Oh no, Gri- selda, he says, and shakes his head, and smiles a little. I get down from my stile and turn away from him. You you are very cruel to me, I say in a choked voice; do you like to make me ashamed? I know I know that I am not worthy, that I never shall be; but yesterday He takes my hands in his and makes me turn towards him; his eyes glow with a strange, won& erful light; his low voice vibrates with some deep and. strange emo- tion. Griselda, he says, my dear little girl, be reasonable. Yesterday and are different, you know very well. What I offered you, I offered, God knows, with a whole heart. But I did not know what I know now. My dearest, there lies a happy, beautiful life before you; I am glad that it should be so. And it has made me happier to have known you; you must look back without any sorrow or re- morse on a friend who has loved you very dearly, and who does not want to be re- membered in connection with unpleasant things.~~ Mr. Fairfax, as you say, yesterday and to-day are different. Before you spoke to me I hardly knew what ~vas in my heart; and when you spoke I was frightened and glad all at once. And then I thought of Goll, of my brother, of what he would say; for I love him very much, and he means to do the best for us all. My voice breaks down; Jacks deep tones come across my quavering treble And you were right; you have duties, ties to think of. Mr. Fairfax, I have theught and thought since then. I have grown very wise since last night. Griselda! Mr. Fairfax, are you sure that you meant what you said yesterday? Oh, hush, Griselda 1 I go nearer to him and look up in his face. There is only one thing clear, I say; this can have nothing to do with Goll. Cousin Jack, I love you. The brown eyes meet mine; oh, who shall tell what unspeakable things are spoken in that long gaze? No, he says at length, very slowly, it has nothing to do with Goll. Then he takes me in his arms, and holds me close against his breast. POSTSCRIPT. It was a long time before poor Goll could reconcile himself to what had hap- pened. Those were sad days enough the days before my marriage. I think my mother ceased to regret my choice as she grew to know my dear Jack, but Katherine never got over the shock of (oh, irony!) my misalliance. After the first six months we left Welby for the sweet home in Berkshire, where ~ve have since lived. Miss Fairfax lived with us till her death last autumn. Mar- garet Watson married young Boulter, and they have gone to live in the old house in the high street, much I believe to the former~s disgust. Katherine is a great lady now, and we pay one another short, uncomfortable duty visits at stated intervals. Pat runs down often to Berkshire and entertains: us with accounts of his social triumphs and varied experiences. He is very fond of his small nephew, a young person who promises to be the image of his Uncle Goll, save for his great brown eyes. Uncle Goll himself pays us occasional visits. He leads an active political life, and his wife is the cleverest and most beautiful woman in London. He and Jack are quite fond of one another. As for me, I wonder if a happier woman ever lived. I often marvel at the injustice of fate which has favored me so unduly. It is Jacks birthday to-day; lie is forty years old, and there are several grey hairs in his beard. I was twenty-five last win- ter. We are quite a middle-aged couple. AMY LEVY. i6o LITERARY IMMORTALITY. From The Contemporary Review. LITERARY IMMORTALITY. IT is a commonplace of literature that the truly successful writer is he Whose works live. Popularity by itself, so it runs, is no test of merit; the true test is lasting popularity. Works which are re- membered when the authors have passed away, these are the works of sterling merit, and the great literary works are those which are not for an a~-e but for all time. Now I can readily understand that works which are not really good will soon pass into oblivion. We know that fashion may give a momentary popularity to an affected style or a morbid vein of senti- ment, but it is equally obvious that fashion has commonly but a short term. What is not so obvious is why sterling merit, or even great merit, should have the power of making a literary work immortal. For may not the most striking truths become trite after a certain time by repetition? Some people seem to think that truth and simplicity, or, as they say, nature, is by itself sufficient to immortalize a writer. The primal feelings of human nature are always the same; what comes from the heart will make its way unerringly to the heart. But ~vhy should men be at the pains to read what they have read per- haps a hundred times before, simply be- cause it is naturally expressed? Some time ago an old acquaintance of mine, who had fallen into distressed circumstances, asked me to aid him in procuring admis- sion for his poetry into some magazine. He sent me some specimens, and called my attention to one in particular, ~vhich he said he was sure I should admit to be true poetry. I was in despair. Yes, in a cer- tain sense, it ~vas true poetry; that is, it expressed genuine feeling in natural lan- guage, describing how the writers mind was elevated and soothed when he looked up at the starry heavens. But what then? I felt sure that no editor would admit into his columns the truest poetry on a subject so utterly exhausted. Now by this time many subjects have been exhausted. Om- niez]am zzel~ata / Goethe himself said he knew not what he should have done if he had been born in England, if he had grown up always aware of Shakespeare behind him, always aware that everything worthy to be said had been said already. But will not this reflection, if we give way to it, carry us very far? If no writer can expect to live unless he have some- thing which is and will always remain peculiar to himself, not to be found else- where, who can be safe? Can there be such a thing as literary immortality? And indeed, when I find Southey or Macaulay speaking of their own works as likely to be read a thousand years hence, I confess I feel astonished at such a sanguine an- ti ci pati on. It strikes me that this easy way of speak- ing about literary immortality could never have grown up among us but for the influ. ence of a certain obvious historic fact ~ namely, that a considerable number of writers actually have lived in memory t~vo thousand years, and that these ~vriters, though in general pure in style, are not in all cases of quite transcendent merit. I mean of course the Greek and Latin clas- sics. Livy has lived two thousand years; why should not Macaulay also expect to do so? Southey might fancy himself not inferior to Statius or Valerius Flaccus. Now these ancient classics are kept by our sys. tern of education always before our minds. The importance that is still assigned to them, the prodigious amount of industry that is still bestowed upon them after two thousand years, cannot escape us, and cannot fail to give rise to a theory, more or less unconscious and vague, of the fates that attend books, and of the immortality that awaits some books. We see a whole series of ~vriters in the great times of Athens and Rome acquiring the rank of classics, rising above the fluctuations of fashion into a region of stability, translated to a sort of sky of posthumous fame. We see that no change of time affects them any longer. Why should not this happen again? Indeed, in modern Europe we see a phenomenon not wholly different. Modern Italy, France, England, and Ger- many have their classics, their series of consecrated writers, who are compared to the classics of Greece and Rome. This is why it seems not extravagant for a writer of the present day to look forward to a similar immortality, and to flatter him- self with the hope that he too will be read two thousand years hence. Now, if we reflect a moment we shall recognize that the analogy of Greece and Rome does not really hold. The post- humous fortune of the classics has been very special; it cannot be expected to be- fall the moderns. If they have maintained their ground, it has not been purely by merit, but by a series of very peculiar accidents, which are not likely to recur. I need not dwell upon these accidents, they are known to all of us: the confusion of languages in the later empire, the inroad LITERARY IMMORTALITY. i6r of barbarism, the decay of intelligence, room, reading for convalescence, reading which made men look back upon the age for journeys, long or short, reading for of the classics as a height from which the youth, for boyhood, for infancy, readino world had fallen, on great subjects and on small, reading i~ See with what reverence Dante speaks which great subjects are treated as if they of Statius. And my colleague, Professor were small, reading in which small sub- Skeat, tells me that he continually detects jects are treated as if they ~vere great; the influence of Statius both in Boccaccio and under all these heads an enormous and Chaucer. Now, what great merit over-supply. Against such an overwhelm- has Statius, that his influence should con- ing competition of new books it is difficult tinue so potent twelve hundred years after to imagine how old books can bear up. his death? Well, those generations knew At least, in no former age have candidates no Greek, and those who could not read for a literary immortality been situated so of the Theban War in the Attic tragedians disadvantageously. might naturally prize the Thebais. His It is to be remembered that of the in- immortality, in short, is an accident. numerable new books a considerable num- Thus by the decay and confusion of ber positively must be read, while we are Europe the Latin classics were carried under no compulsion to read an old favor- over the first thousand years. So much ite again for the tenth time. It is also to being gained, they acquired a new title to be considered that the average of books attention, for thereafter they appeared as tends to improve, so that a man would by monuments of an extinct civilization. If no means condemn his intellect to starva- in the present day they are so interesting tion who should resolve to read new books to students, this is partly because of the only, who should make a vow never to vast amount of history of all kinds which read any book twice. Moreover, in an they hold in solution; it is not purely the age when knowledge increases rapidly, result of their literary excellence. many new ideas are prol)ounded, and the Now no similar prospect lies before the point of view changes fast, only a very writers of the modern world. It is not original and peculiar vein of thought is likely either that a long period of decay likely to hold public attention long. That will set in, during which literary produc- is, while new books gain, old books lose, tion will almost cease, or that a thousand in comparative worth. years hence scholars will have to recon- But, it may be urged, after all, the struct with immense labor the lost history Greek and Latin classics are not the only of our age from a fe~v precious writings established classics. It can by no means preserved in the ruins of the British Mu- be asserted in general that a decay of cul- seum. ture or a confusion of languages mist We may expect that literature will have take place before a series of authors can a long continuous life, during which it will receive the sort of apotheosis we have never sink below a certain level, will not described. The modern languages, too, be barbarized, or disabled by the want of have classics whose position is not less a serviceable language, and in which the assured, and would be just as eminent if writings of each period will be preserved only they were admitted to the same place securely, since libraries will not be burned in education. In modern Europe lan- by Norsemen or Arabs. Now these are guages have not fallen into decay, libraries wholly different conditions from those have not often been destroyed, since the which have conferred immortality upon times of Dante or Shakespeare, and yet the ancients. When Horace and Ovid Dante and Shakespeare are reverenced in predicted so confidently their own immor- the same way as Eschylus or Virgil, and tality, they perhaps saw that there was a seem as little likely to be superseded by barbaric world in Gaul, Spain, and Britain, later rivals, or crowded out in the growing where they could not but occupy the posi- multitude of authors. And what Dante lion of teachers, of wells of Latin unde- and Shakespeare achieved we may im- filed. What similar prospects has a agine that Goethe or Hugo will be seen modern writer? Each generation has now to have achieved also when a few more its own writers, and what a multitude of centuries have passed. writers! We are abundantly supplied, so I do not here call in question the possi- that we can occupy every vacant half-hour bility that once or twice in a century some with some book which we never saw be- author may appear so profoundly original fore, and which is expressly adapted to that later times may cherish his works as our circumstances. There is reading of inestimable and irreplaceable. I do not every kind reading for the invalids refer to supreme authors, whether ancient LIVING AGE. VOL. LXIV. 3287 162 LITERARY IMMORTALITY. or modern. Literary immortality of that sort must be considered by itself. It is when less exceptional authors are pro- claimed, or proclaim themselves, immortal that I have my misgivings, when the ordinary man of letters, eminent perhaps in his generation, is described in obituary notices as having produced perhaps two or three works that are likely to live, or when such a man, in reviewing his own career, says that he is, indeed, conscious of many failures, but yet feels a modest confidence that posterity will place him in the rank which he feels he deserves. This is a view which is rendered tenable by the example of such ancients not as Homer or Virgil but as Tibullus or Statius. It is because ~vriters of no pre- eminent genius have lived two thousand years that at the present time the success- ful ~vriter of a season flatters himself ~vith the l)rospect of writing for posterity. XVell, but cannot examples of this, too, be produced from modern times? In modern times, too, do not writers seem to live on from century to century, and to hold the rank of classics, who have little resemblance to Shakespeare or Dante, and a good deal of resemblance to the ordinary successful writer of a season? Every great European nation keeps quite a long list of its classical authors, which form an unbroken series, like the series of kings or presidents. To win a place by the aid of good luck in such a series may seem scarcely more a wild ambition in the ordinary man of letters than to be- come president is out of the reach of the ordinary American citizen. We call Ad- dison and Johnson and Pope English classics. Their works are said to live; yet can we consider these works as so absolutely inimitable, unapproachable? May not a modest man of letters cherish the hope that, a hundred years hence, his essays or poems may have a position in English literature as established as The Spectator or The Rambler or the Essay on Man? Hardly, as it seems to me. The condi- tions of literature are too much altered. There is an age for each nation when its language has not yet been adapted to the purposes of literature. The different styles have not been distinguished. The words proper to prose and poetry, to busi- ness or conversation, or grave argument and philosophy, lie in a confused heap. This age must last till masterpieces ap- pear which may serve as models in the different styles. In each language, there- fore, the earliest masterpieces are of ex ceptional importance, and naturally hold a peculiar rank. The classics of the mod- ern languages, under the Dantes and Shakespeares, are, for the most part, classics in this sense. They are peculiar, therefore, to the immaturity of the lan- guage. A time arrives when their func- tion is exhausted. Addison taught us how to ~vrite easy prose, Johnson how to write weighty and dignified prose, Pope gave us the model of a certain kind of l)oetry. These writers, therefore, were for a long time justly called classics, be- cause in their respective styles they led the way and furnished the models. Now, in the present period of the European languages, not much room is left for dis- tinction of this particular kind. The work is done once for all, ~n~vra d& laaTaL, ~ova~ 6 lrdipal-a 7 vat. And a modern writer might surpass Addison in ease, or Johnson in gravity, or Pope in the brilliancy of his couplets, ~vithout winning a rank in lit- erature at all similar to that of Addison, Johnson, or Pope. But further, classics of this kind, after having discharged a useful function for perhaps a century, are allowed to retain a conventional rank ever afterwards. They keep their title after they have retired from active work. There is such a thing as a classic emeritus. The present gen- eration does not really use Addison as a model for prose, nor Pope for poetry. Their reign is over long since, like the reign of the Stuart dynasty. Yet they are still called classics, but the title is honorary or conventional. And from the habit of using the term in this secondary sense we gradually lose all clear percep- tion of its meaning. On our long list of national classics we allow to appear, by the side of the two or three names which are truly immortal, not only a number of such retired classics, but also a good many who never had any real right to the title. Literary historians think it neces- sary to assign to each period its classic or classics, and to make out their list they are often driven to insert names of which nothing more can be said than that they were famous in their time. And then these names acquire an artificial importance through the industry of the literary his- torian, who classifies them, traces their succession, distinguishes their tendencies in short, discusses them with laborious care. Where, as in Germany, the literary historian is very busy and does his work with conscientious thoroughness, he calls into existence in this manner a whole Val- halla of the illustrious obscure. What LITERARY IMMORTALITY. 163 volumes have commemorated the German authors, as to the course ~vhich posterity classics from the Reformation to Lessino! is likely to take. What writers have al- For two centuries author succeeds author. ready held their ground for a hundred or Now it is Fischart, no~v Opitz, or Gryph- t~vo hundred years? That is, observe ius, or Hoffmannswaldau, or Gunther, or well, with the general public. The ques. Brockes. The most ample justice is done tion is not, what writers are discussed by to each, and the reader is left to discover literary historians, or may chance to be by accident that of all these writers still consulted for their curiosity, for lan- scarcely one is ever looked at by the Ger- guage interesting tophilologers, or for the mans of the present day. historical information they may furnish, Surely, the breeze of modern competi- or for their quaintness. ihe question is, tion will shake all these dead leaves from what books older than a hundred years the wood of literature. As the demands still appeal to us and affect us as if they of contemporary literature grow more im- had been written yesterday? What books portunate, and less time can be allowed to still give us not merely pleasure, but such the so-called classics, we shall begin to keen pleasure, that we would honestly, call in question those honorary and com- rather read them than we would read the plimentary titles. Literary immortality books of the season? I find, for my own will begin to be defined more strictly, part, that a good many old books give me Only those authors will in the long run real pleasure I mean, considered purely stand the fiery trial whom the world can- as literature but that not many give me not do ~vithout. An author will only be so much pleasure that I should prefer said to live when influence really goes them to what is newer. I read many as forth from himthis only will in the end historical documents, and many more pass for immortality; and the term ~vill partly as documents and partly as litera- cease to be applied to the author who has ture, but very few as literature solely. merely been embalmed by literary his- And so I am led to think that real literary torians. immortality is exceedingly rare. I will What do I conclude? Is it that for the illustrate what I mean by saying that from future there will be no more literary im- the Elizabethan age to the end of the mortality? We might indeed almost fear seventeenth century almost the only En. that in the growing abundance of new glish works which seem to me to enjoy books we may be driven to a sort of liter- immortality are Shakespeare, Miltons ary statute of limitations, by which only poems, Bacons Essays, and the Pil- a fixed l)eriod of twenty or thirty years grims Progress; for these are the only might be granted to the best authors. But works (except a fe~v lyrics, such as some I do not go this length. I believe that of Herricks) ~vhich are still interesting other palms will yet be ~von, that writers purely as literature. will still arise who will be read for a hun- You will ask, perhaps, how about Dry- dred years; as to a thousand I had rather den? Well, I do occasionally take down not speak. The conclusion I would draw Dryden, but when I ask myself what in- is rather this Let every one who ~vrites terests me in Absalom and Achitophel, aim as high as possible; let him write to I find that the interest is in a great degree his ideal, and by all means let him treat historical, consisting in the glimpse the with contempt the passing opinion of the poem gives of a past phase of thought day. But I would not have him ~vrite for and politics. When I deduct this, there posterity, or flatter himself that some remains, no doubt, a certain modicum of future age will do him justice if his con- interest which is purely literary; I admire temporaries neglect him. It may indeed the sprightliness of the style and versifi- prove so, but posterity is likely to be very cation. But I (10 not admire this enough. busy; I doubt whether it ~vill find the As pure literature, Drydens works do time for redressing any injustices that the not, to my mind, hold their own in the present age may commit. Rather, I competition with the writers of the day. imagine, it will be so overburdened with What, in short, is literary immortality? good literature that it ~vill be forced to A permanent claim upon the time of hu. lighten the ship, that it will have to con- man beings. No~v, the whole amount of sign deliberately to oblivion much that it time we can give to books is limited, and might have desired to remember, the number of authors who compete for a If we put aside the misleading analogy share of it is constantly increasing, while of the ancient classics we may form some by far the largest half must always be conclusions, from what we already know reserved for contemporary literature. of the posthumous fortune of modern Surely, then, it is the height of presump 164 JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. tion when any writer short of a Shake- speare urges such a permanent claim. But another inference may be drawn namely, that since it is a question of dividing a limited total into parts, the claim which is most likely to be allowed is that which asks for the smallest part. Experience confirms this. Some writers hold a secure literary immortality, be- cause their writings are so small that they are never felt to be in the way. Such are Gray and Goldsmith. And many lyr. ists keep their names in perpetual memory by a few happy stanzas. Indeed, in lyric poetry there really is literary immortality. But room can rarely be found in Fame s conveyance for large works. Thus many persons who open Richardson are greatly struck by his genius; nevertheless, few of them read his works. The simple truth is that life is not long enough. How- ever much I may admire George Eliot, I cannot imagine that a hundred years hence people will find time to read Mid- dlemarch; at the utmost I can conceive that Silas Marner may survive, On the other hand, I find no difficulty in be- lieving that much of Tennyson will be still as familiarly known then as it is now. Scarcely any long hook really lives ex- cept Don Quixote. And among the many happy gifts of Shakespeare the most fortunate for his fame has been that prodigious condensa- tion in which he excels all ~vriters, and which enables him to put into the five acts of a play as much matter as serves other writers for the three volumes of a novel. J. R. SEELEY. From The Nineteenth Century. JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. TWELVE years have already passed away since Millet died. During that time his fame has been growing steadily. Step by step the ground has been xvon. To-day the triumph is complete, and France, so long indifferent, pays the dead painter a homage which she denied him in his lifetime. Last summer, the Ecole des Beaux-Arts opened its doors to an exhibition of his works, and all Paris crowded to see these long-despised and reviled pictures. Many of the most fa- mous were missing. Le Semeur, La Grande Tondeuse, La Femme aux Seaux have crossed the seas to adorn museums in America, where Millet was long ago appreciated. Others are in En- gland and Belgium. But the Angelus, most eloquent and touching of rural scenes, and Les Glaneuses, perhaps the grandest of all his pictures, were there. So too were LHomme k la Houe and LHomme It la Veste, and the young Berg~re, and many other equally repre- sentative works, while in the pastels we recognized the finest and most intimate expression of the painters thought. In spite of the ever-widening gulf which divides the art of Millet from that of contemporary France, the exhibition proved a great popular success. The crit- ics, those /ternels czboyeurs who worried poor Millets life with their unceasing re- criminations, were loud in their accla- mations. The very papers which once denounced him as a painter of cr6/ins and savages, a socialist and a demagogue, helped to swell the chorus of praise, and every Frenchman was proud to think of Millet as his countryman. Before long, a statue reared out of the proceeds of the exhibition will stand in the market-place of Cherbourg, and the great peasant will look down on the green fields of his northern home and the wild seas which he loved so well. So the long injustice of his life is repaired and Millet at length receives his due. But amid all the shouting and rejoicing, among the festal show of banners and mottoes and immortelles with which France delights to honor her mighty dead, it was impossible not to look back and recall the pitiful tale of the mans life, the sad story of hungry days and sleepless nights, of cruel attacks and cold neglect which embittered his whole existence and made him curse the day when he was born. In these days, when every one thinks and paints as he pleases, it is diffi- cult to realize the fierceness of the outcry which, forty years ago, met any departure from the beaten tracks in art as in other fields of knowledge. Yet here in En- gland the same storm was aroused when Mr. Holman Hunt and his companions dared to raise their protest against false and conventional ideals. Different as their practice was from that of Millet, they took their stand on the same ground. Their efforts were alike founded on a firm conviction that it is at first better, and finally more pleasing, for human minds to contemplate things as they are, than as they are not. Truth, said Mr. Ruskin, whom, more fortunate in this than Millet, they had for their apostle, Truth is the vital power of the whole school, Truth its armor, Truth JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. 165 its ~var-word. Paint things as you see them, cried Rossetti, as they actually happen, not as they are set down in aca- demic rules. Go to nature for your impressions, said Millet, it is there, close at hand, that beauty lies; all you find there is proper to be expressed, if only your aim is high enough. But such rank heresy as this was not to be endured, least of all in Paris, where the traditions of the schools reigned supreme. And because the young peasant who came to Paris with his id/es lou/es fri/es sur /ar/ was in advance of his age, be- cause he dared think for himself and was resolved at all hazards to paint in his own way, he found himself treated as an out- cast and alien, and drained the cup of sor- row and loneliness to the dregs. To-day critics and journalists are unan- imous in their desire to bury the past in oblivion. Let us forget his sufferings, they cry with one accord, and only think of his glory. But the story of Millets life deserves to be remembered. The record may be sad, but it is also noble and inspiring, and on the whole we may count him less an object for our pity than many whose lives have been spent in happier conditions. His sufferings sad- dened his days and shortened the number of his years, but they did not crush his spirit or ~veaken the message he had to give. He worked in obedience to a deep and unchanging conviction, and clung in his darkest hours ~vith despairing tenacity to the principles for which he had ventured all. There lies the truth, he said one evening, as, leaning on his garden fence, he watched the sun go down in a flame of fire over the plain, let us fight for it. And so he fought and died, and the truth conquered. I- FORTUNATELY for posterity the life of Millet has been written by a friend who knew him intimately during the latter half of his career, and who had heard the tale of his early years from the painters own lips. That friend, we all know, was Alfred Sen- sier, who, dying himself before the labor of love was ended, left his task to be fin- ished by M. Paul Mantz. From the faith- ful and loving record which we owe to their joint work, most of the following bio- graphical details are borrowed. The story of Millets youth is more than commonly interesting and instructive. For the circumstances of his birth and childhood had a remarkable share in shap- ing the bent of his genius. To the early training of his peasant home he owed the strength of his character and convictions, to the country scenes in which he was born and bred the inspiration which gov- erned his whole career. Oh, 1mw I be- long to my native soil! be wrote in 1871, when, three years before his death, he paid his last visit to Normandy and no truer word was ever spoken. He was born on the 4th of October, 1814, in a hamlet in the parish of Gr~ville, a few miles ~vest of Cherbourg, close to the cape of La Hague~ The district has a special interest for Englishmen as the cradle of some of our oldest families, and many of these Norman villages still bear the names of the barons who followed the Conqueror to England. It is a wild and rugged coast, bristling with granite rocks and needles, stern and desolate to the sailors eye, but pleasant and fruitful enough inland, a country of rolling down and breezy moorland, where quaint old church towers stand on the hilltops and low houses cluster together among woods and apple-orchards and plots of emerald grass in the sheltered valleys. Even now the people are a primitive race, living on their own fields and spinning their own flax. Much more was this the case sev- enty years ago, when, in the troubled times at the end of Napoleons wars, Jean- Fran~ois Millet first saw the light. The house where he was born is standing still in the little village street, and we can look down across the fields where he sowed and reaped, to the wide stretch of sea and the far horizons which filled his young mind with dreams. Here, after the patriarchal fashion of the place, three generations lived under the same roof. Jean-Louis, the painters father, is described as a tall, slight man, with soft black eyes and long dark hair. A singularly refined and gentle soul, he loved music, taught the village choir, and wrote out chants in a hand worthy of a medi~eval scribe. There was a good deal of art about him, although his life was spent in tilling his fields. He modelled in clay, shaped flowers and animals out of wood, and would often take up a blade of grass and say to his son, Look, how fine! Or, pointing to a cottage in the hollow of the downs, he would remark, That house half buried in the fields is good; it seems to me it ought to be drawn that way. His wife, Aim~e Henry du Perron, belonged to an old yeoman race which had known better days, and was a hard-working, pious, and loving woman whose time and thoughts were divided i66 JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. between her household and the field labor which she shared ~vith her husband. But it ~vas the grandmother, Louise du Jurne- lin, ~vho played the chief part in the painters earliest recollections. She it was who rocked and sang him to sleep, whose face he could remember in the high white linen cap, bending over his bedside, on spring mornings, saying: Eveille toi, mon petit Fran~ois! Si tu savais comme il y a longtemps que les oiseaux chantent Ia gloire du bon Dieu! She too it was who gave him the name of Fran~ois after the saint of Assisi, on ~vhose file he ~vas born Francis who called the birds his brothers and sisters and praised God for all living creatures. A woman of strong character and deep affections, she corn- bined an ardent love of nature ~vith a mystic vein of piety, and taught her boy to look for the hand of a great and loving father in the wonders of sea and shore. Hers was a beautiful religion, says the painter, for it gave her strength to love deeply and unselfishly. She followed him with her prayers and counsel to the end of her life, and as late as 1846 we find her entreating him in her letters never to forget that he is painting for eternity, but to keep the presence of God and the sound of the last trumpet ever in his mind. An. other member of the family who watched over little Fran~oiss early years was his great-uncle, Abbe Charles, a priest who hid himself at Gr~ville during the Revolu- tion and was both farm-laborer and vicar of the parish. Every morning he went to church to say mass, and after breakfast took off his soulane and worked in the fields, with Fran~ois for his companion. He taught the boy to read; and when, after his death, Fran9ois, then seven years old, first went to school he was held very clever because he could spell, and further covered himself with glory by thrashing a boy half a year older. At the age of twelve he was confirmed, and his intelligence at- tracted the notice of the priest, who began to teach him Latin and first put Virgil into his hand. The Georgics and Bucolics appealed ~vith strange power to this child of nature, and he never forgot the thrill which ran through him when he read the line : Majoresque cadunt altis de montibus umbra. Even at this early age the impressions which Millet received were all of a serious kind. The sighing of the wind in the apple-trees of his fathers orchard, the eternal murmur of the waves breaking on the shore, the terrible vastness of the big church on a dark winters night, these ~vere the things which struck his childish fancy. He loved the old elm-tree in the oarden, gnawed by the wind and bathed in aerial space. The tall laurel ~vith the big green leaves seemed to him fit for Apollo. Above all, the sea filled him with an awful sense of its grandeur and the littleness of man. He never forgot one All-Saints Day, when all the parish was in church and an old man rushed in to say a ship had struck on the rocks. Boats were put out and heroic efforts were made to save the crew, but many lives ~vere lost and the shore ~vas strewn with dead bodies it was a desolation like the end of the world. Strangers ~vho came to Gr~ville were struck by the boys poetic nature, and the good village curd listened wonderingly to his young scholar ~vhen he talked of his delight in the Bible and Virgil and the changing mystery of clouds and stars, of dawn and twilight. Va, mon pauvre en- fant, he said one day, in words which Millet often recalled, tu as un cceur qui te donnera du fil ?~ retordre. Va, tu ne sais pas ce que tu souffriras. But, true as these words were to prove, his child- hood was thoroughly happy and he looked back to it as the best time of his life. In that simple household there ~vas bread enough and to spare for the stranger and homeless. Fran~ois always remembered the stately curtsey with which his grand- mother invited beggars and strolling ped- lars to sit by the fire and took care that no one should be sent empty away. But, if food was plentiful, no one was allowed to be idle; and Fran~ois, as the eldest boy of a family of eight brothers and sisters, soon had to leave his books and take his share of field work. With his own hands the painter of the Travaux des Champs sowed, and reaped, and ploughed, and grafted, and mowed grass, and made hay, by his fathers and mothers side. But he still read whatever books he could lay hands upon, not only the Vulgate and Vir- gil which remained his favorite volumes, but the Letters of St. Jerome, the Con- fessions of St. Augustine, the works of St. Fran~ois de Sales, of Montaigne, of Pascal, and the Port Royal writers, which had belonged to his grandmothers family. The sight of some prints in an old Bible first led him to take up his pencil while the rest of the family ~vere enjoying their noonday rest. Soon he began to draw the sheep and the geese on the farm, then the garden and the view over sea and moor- land. One Sunday, when he was about JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. 167 eighteen, the bent figure of an old man on his way back from church caught his fancy, and taking up a piece of charcoal, he drew so exact a likeness on the ~vall that the portrait was recognized at once. Every one laughed, but his father thought seriously over the matter, and a few days afterwards told Fran~ois that, now his brothers were old enough to take their place on the farm, he should go to Cher- bourg and learn the trade of painting, which, folks said, was so fine a thing. To Cherbourg the father and son went, taking with them two drawings which Fran9ois had finished, one of two shep- herds playing the flute in an apple-orchard, the other, taken from a parable in St. Luke, representing a man giving bread to his friend at a cottage door, on a starry night. Mouchel, the Cherbourg artist, was an eccentric character, but a man of some power; and when he sa~v these drawings, done without master or model, he began by declaring they could not be the boys work, and ended by telling Jean. Louis in plain language that he deserved to perish eternally for keeping a lad with such stuff in him chained to the plough. He finally agreed to take him as pupil, but the only advice he gave him was to go to the museum and drawwhat he liked. Before, however, Millet had been two months at Cherbourg, he was recalled to Gruchy by his fathers sudden death. An attack of brain fever had ended his Life, and Fran~ois, left to take his place, de- cided to give up painting and stay at home to manage the farm. But this his grand- mother would not allow. My Fran~ois, she said, you must accept the will of God. Your father, my Jean-Louis, said you were to be a painter; obey him and go back to Cherbouro So Millets fate was settled. He ~vent back to Cherbourg, and studied for two years under another local artist called Langlois, who sent him to copy Dutch and Flemish paintings in the museum. 1-le spent his evenings in the town library, and read Homer and Shakespeare, Milton and Scott, Goethe and Byron, Victor Hugo and Chateau- briand, for the first time. His talent now began to attract some attention, and on his masters recommendation the town council voted him a pension of six hun- dred francs, afterwards increased to one thousand by the council-general of La Manche, to enable him to complete his studies in Paris. The step was a grave one, most of all in the eyes of Millets mother and grand- mother, who looked on Paris as another Babylon. But, loyal to his dead fathers wish, they gave him their small savings, and, with many tears and exhortations to remember the virtues of his ancestors, they sent him off on his journey. His own heart was full and his feelings strangely mingled. lie felt some remorse at leaving his family, but then he longed to see Paris, which seemed to him the museum of all that was fine and great. He wanted to know all a painter has to learn; above all, he was eager to see the famous masters of whom he had heard so much. One foggy evening, in January, 1837, he reached Paris. The snow lay on the ground, the lamps burnt dimly through the fog, the crowds in the streets op- pressed him with a strange sense of lone- liness, and he burst into tears. Ashamed of giving way to his feelings, he washed his face at a street fountain, and munched his last apple before the window of a printsellers shop. The pictures he saw there women bathing, grisettes at their toilet repelled him, Paris seemed to him alike dismal and tasteless. Sick at heart, he went to bed in a lodging-house, to dream of his mother and grandmother spinning at home and praying for their absent child, or else of glorious pictures floating towards him from the skies. When he woke, he found himself in a lit- tle hole of a room, without sun or air, and the words of Job rose to his lips, Let the day perish when I was born 11. THE young painter of three-and-twenty had come to Paris with his ideas on art foutesfaites, and he found nothing which inclined him to modify them. The mas- ters of the romantic school, then at the height of their popularity, were distasteful to him. Their pictures seemed theatrical and artificial to this country lad, brought up on the Bible and Virgil. Paul Dela- roche, whose atehier he entered, recog- nized his talent, but gave him little advice this new pupil puzzled him as he had done his former masters. His fellow-stu- dents laughed at this rustic who set up for an original and a schismatic, and called him the Wild Man of the Woods. Their jokes and empty chatter wearied him al- most as much as their worship of the patrons style. His -experience of land- ladies and lodgings proved unfortunate, he was robbed and bullied, and became so conscious of his awkwardness, so sensi- tive to ridicule, that he dared not even ask his ~vay in the streets. In his weari- ness and loneliness he sighed for home i68 JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. and longed for one breath of pure country air. More than once he was on the point of starting to walk the whole ninety leagues which lay between Paris and Gr& yule. One thing only kept him in Paris his love for the old masters. From the hour when, with a beating heart, he first climbed the staircase of the Louvre he felt himself in a world of friends. Day after day he returned there. Fra An- gelico filled him with visions and sent him home to his wretched lodging full of dreams of these gentle masters who painted beings so fervent that they are beautiful, so nobly beautiful that they are good. Mantegna affected him power- fully the arrows of his St. Sebastian seemed to go through him he liked everything strong, and would have given all Watteau and Boucher for one of Ru- bens, or Titians nude women. Among Frenchmen Poussin appealed to him the most, and he never tired of his work. Once he spent the whole day before Gior- giones Concert Champ~tre, and ~vas beginning to try to copy it, when at three oclock the dreadful On ferme I of the guardians turned him out. But the sight of that picture was a consolation and his little sketch gave him as much pleasure as a run into the country. Still greater was the impression made upon him by the first sight of a drawing by Michael Angelo. It ~vas one of a man in a swoon. The expression of the relaxed muscles, of the figure weighed down by physical suffering, tormented him; he suffered in his own body, with his very limbs. Till then he had only known Michael Angelo through inferior engrav- ings, now he realized his greatness for the first time. I touched the heart and heard the speech of him who has haunted me all my life. I saw that he, who had done this, could, with a single figure, per- sonify the good or evil of all humanity. He no longer tried to copy these masters, but he lived with them. He read Vasari and studied the drawings of Poussin, of Lionardo and Albert Durer in the library of St. Genevi~ve; above all, he discovered all he could about Michael Angelo, whose work he considered to the end of his life the highest expression of art. He drew much from the antique at this time, and turned with relief, from Watteau and Boucher to the Venus of Milo and the Achilles, which appeared to him the per- fection of grace and beauty. But meanwhile the promised pension came slowly and irregularly from Cher- bourg, and before long ceased altogether. Millet had left Delaroches atelier and settled in the Rue de lEst with a friend named Marolle, by whose advice he be- gan to make pastels, in imitation of Boucher, to gain a living. The work was little to his taste, but nothing else would sell. When he spoke of drawing reapers and haymakers his more practical friend shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, and Millet with a sigh put away the idea until the fortunate day when he should be free to paint what he liked. For several years he lived by painting portraits at five and ten francs apiece, or little genre pictures which sometimes brought in as much as twenty francs. Often he was thankful to paint sign-boards for shops. A tumbler gave him thirty francs, all in sous, for a scene in the Afri- can wars. A sea-captain ordered a blue and pink lady reclining on a divan. Even by this means it was hard enough to keep body and soul together. In 1841, on one of his visits to Gr~ville, he married a pretty, but fragile Cherbourg girl, Pauline Ono, and returned to Paris with a fresh burden of a sick wife. He naturally soon found himself worse off than ever, and always spoke of this time as a terrible one. In 1844, his wife died, and he went to Cherbourg. His portraits at this pe- riod were marked by a good deal of spirit and brilliancy, and his pastels began to attract notice. One called La Le~on dEquitation a group of children at playwas exhibited in the Salonof I8~z~, where it struck the painter Diaz by its freshness and verve. When at the close of 1845 Millet came back to Paris, bring- ing with him his second wife, the brave and true Catherine le Maire, he found himself no longer altogether unknown. Several artists of note, Diaz, Th~odore Rousseau, Jacque, and his faithful friend and biographer, Alfred Sensier, held out the right hand of fellowship to him and helped him by their sympathy and en- couragement. LAmour Vainqueur, which we saw lately at Edinburgh, an- other Love at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts, LOffrande de Pan at Montpellier, and The Batl~ersin the Louvre, all belong to this period, and are all marked by the same charm of color and grace of feeling, but are as unlike as possible to the work ~vhich we associate with Millets name. A St. Jerome which he sent to the Salon in 1847 was rejected, and on the same canvas he painted an EEdipus taken from the tree, with the express intention of practising the nude, in which he already excelled. His, modelling was masterly, JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. 169 his flesh-tints remarkable for their clear- ness and delicacy, and he was called le maitre a74 mi. The next year he began another study of undraped figures, and had already made some progress when one evening as he stood at a shop-window he chanced to hear a young man remark to his companion that a pastel of women bathing at which they were looking was by a fellow called Millet who always painted naked women. The words were a shock to Millet. He thought of his old aspirations, of his grandmother at home, and resolved to paint no more mytholog- ical subjects or nude figures. That night he said to his wife: If you consent I will do no more of these pictures. Life will be harder than ever, and you will suffer, but I shall be free to ~vork as I have long wished. I am ready; do as you will, ~vas the brave womans answer, and one worthy of Millets grandmother herself. And so then and there, on the same canvas, he began to paint his Haymakers at Rest (Les Faneurs ). His resolve was firmly kept, but the struggle grew more difficult every day. The year 1848 was a hard one for artists, and Millet had already two or three chil- dren. Often he and his wife were reduced to the bitterest straits. Once they lived for a fortnight on thirty francs, the price of a signboard which Millet painted for a midwife. Another time he sold six draw- ings for a pair of shoes, then a picture went in exchange for a bed. Once Sensier found him and his wife sitting together half-starved in a room without a fire. Neither of them had tasted food for two whole days. All Millet said when his friend brought him money was, Thank you, it comes in time. The children have not suffered, until to-day they have had food. And he went out to buy wood. That year his Vanneur found a place in the Salon, and, what was more, a pur- chaser in M. Ledru Rollin, who gave him a second order for his Faneurs. He had just received the price when the Rev- olution of June, ~ broke out. Paris had of late grown more and more distasteful to Millet. He cared nothing for politics, the art and society of the place were alike false and hollow in his eyes; the firing in the streets and the slaughter of the barricades sickened his very soul. He longed for green fields and trees, for a quiet resting- place far from the din and strife of parties. At length he and Jacque agreed to spend the summer at Barbizon, a village on the edge of the forest of Fontaineblean, where Rousseau had already settled. Early in June they left Paris with their familjes, and before the end of the month Millethad taken the cottage which was to be his home for the rest of his life. III. WHEN Millet finally left Paris to pitch his tent at Barbizon, the darkest period of his life was over. Struggle and hardship enough were still in store for him, but he had taken the great step and broken for- ever with the slavery of conventional art. Henceforth he was free to choose his own path and paint in his own way. But those dreary twelve years had not been wasted. He had mastered the technical side of painting, and had gained a firm grasp of the great and abiding laws which are the foundation of all true art. And now he was to apply these principles to the types of human life which had been present to his mind from early youth. The first sight of the forest made an indescribable impression upon him. The majesty of its giant trees, the solemn still- ness of its shades, filled him with awe and wonder; the sight of grassy glades wasa new joy. He rushed to and fro in a frenzy of delight, climbed the granite crags of the rocky wilderness, and lay on the heather crying My God, how good it is under thy heaven! When the first rapture was over, he began to draw, not only the rich and varied forest scenery about him, but the living beings he found there, the woodcutters and charcoal-burn- ers, the cowherds leading their cattle to pasture, the stone-breakers at ~vork in the quarries, and the rabbits starting out of their burrows. Yet more to his taste were the subjects which he found on the great plain which stretches between the forest and Chailly, the sleepy little town where Barbizon folk went to be married and buried in whose churchyard Millet sleeps to-day. On this wide Campagna-like plain, l)easants were to be seen at ~vork all the year round. Here, thirty miles from Paris, something of the primeval beauty and poetry of rus- tic life lingered still. Shepherds were still to be seen abiding in the fields at night, the sower still went forth to sow, and the gleaners followed in the steps of the reapers, as of old Ruth in the defile of Boaz. Here Millet felt at home. He took a three-roomed cottage at one end of the village street opening on the plain, put on sabots, and became once more a peasant. In the early morning he might be seen digging in his garden, and after 170 JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. painting all day in the low barn he called his studio, he took a run in the forest and returned each time 6crasd~ he tells Sensier, by its tremendous calm and grandeur. Old impressions revived and came tomin- gle with the new. 1-le thought of Gr6ville, and painted Le Semeur, which, exhib- ited at the Salon in 1850, was hailed by at least one critic as a fine and original con- ceDtion. We all know that wonderful picture of the sower, who, as night falls and the shadows lengthen on the plain, strides across the newly ploughed field, and, followed by a flight of hungry birds, flings the grain abroad in the furrows. In that figure, with his measured tread and superb gesture, the whole spirit of the peasants calling is expressed with a con- centration of thought, an intensity, worthy of Michael Angelo. Here the true Millet, le graizd rustique, revealed himself for the first time. A letter addressed by him to Sensier soon afterwards shows the direction in which his thoughts ~vere tending: I must confess, even if you think me a so- cialist, that the human side of art is what touches me most, and if I could only do what I like, or at least attempt it, I should do noth- ing that was not an impression from nature, either in landscape or in figures. The gay side never shows itself to me. I dont know where it is. I have never seen it. The gay- est thing I kno~v is the calm, the silence which is so sweet, either in the forest or in the cultivated land, whether the land be good for culture or not. You will admit that it is always very dreamy, and a sad dream, though often very delicious. You are sitting under a tree, enjoying all the comfort and quiet of which you are capable; you see coming up a narrow path a poor creature loaded with fag- gots. The unexpected and always surprising way in which this figure strikes you instantly reminds you of the common and melancholy lot of humanity weariness. It is always like the impression of La Fontaines wood- cutter in the fable: Quel plaisir a-t-il eu (lepuis quil est au monde? Sometimes in l)laces where the land is sterile, you see fig- ures hoeing and digging. From time to time one raises himself and straightens his back, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Thou shalt eat bread in the sweat of thy brow. Is this the gay, jovial work whieh people would have us believe in? But, nev- ertheless, to me it is true humanity and great poetry.* This then was Millets discovery, this the message he had to give the world. Before his time the French peasant had * J.-F. Millet, by A. Sensier. translated by H. de Kay, p. 93. never been held a fit subject for art. Queens and their ladies might play at pastorals if they chose, but the polite world remained of Madame de Sta~ls opinion, and thought with her that lagri. culture sent Ze fumier. The bergeries of Trianon and the ~aysans enrubanis of Watteaus Arcadia were as far removed from reality as possible. A group of peas~ ants drinking and quarrelling, a beggar in rags or even a pair of lovers at a cottage door might be tolerated, but no one was so audacious as to attempt the prosaic theme of a laborer at his work. This Millet was the first to do. Himself a peasant of peasants, born of a long race of yeomen and familiar with every detail of country life, he was admirably fitted both by na- ture and education for the task. He saw the dignity of labor, and knew by bitter experience the secrets of the poor. The pathetic side of human life had an especial attraction for him. The hardship and monotony of toil, the patient endurance which comes of long habit, touched his innermost soul. More than this, he un- derstood the close relation that exists be- t~veen the familiar sights of every-day life and the noblest works of art, saw that there might be action as heroic and beauty as rare in the attitude and gesture of a peasant sowing, or a woman gleaning, as in the immortal forms of Greek sculpture. And with true poetic insight he felt the deeper meaning that lies under it all, the eternal destiny of the human race, the age-long struggle of man with nature which will endure while seed-time and harvest, summer anti winter, follow each other on the face of the earth. Man goeth forth to his labor until the evening. This is the text of all Millets work. During the twenty-seven years that he spent at Barbizon he painted the whole cycle of peasant life. The reaper toiling valiantly with his sickle among the ripe cram; the woodcutter hewing the fallen trunk of some forest king; the haymakers hurrying to carry the last load before the thundercloud bursts ; the hoer ~vho, with- out the help of horse or plough, breaks up the clods; the women planting potatoes, picking beans, and pulling flax in the fields, spinning and carding wool, churn- ing ai~d washing at homethese are but a few of the types of labor over which Millet shed the light of his genius. But there ~vas one calling above all others which had a peculiar charm for his fancy. The loneliness of the shepherds life, the long hours which he spends under the sky, his silent musings with nature, and JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. 7 his carefulness for his flock, impressed Millets imagination deeply and inspired many of his finest pictures. He l)aints the shepherd leading his flock to l)asture in the dewy freshness of the early morning, shows him to us wrapt in his long cloak and leaning on his staff as he stands Un- der the bare trees on a November evening, watching for the diolle dii berger to rise, and again when night has fallen on the plain and he wends his way slowly home- wards, a strange, gaunt figure in the gathering darkness, followed by the long straggling line of sheep and the faithful dog which brings up the rear. Or else it is some young shepherdess, who, in the linen cap and long white hooded cloak of Barbizon, might be Joan of Arc herself, as she knits, resting on her staff, while the sheep bro~vse the short grass of the plain, and ~vhom ~ve see again with the same serious air and pensive face bringing her flock home in the tender moonlight. Sometimes it is the care of the sheep at lambing and shearing time which fills the painters thoughts. A young girl, hardly more than a child herself, is seen bearing home a new-born lamb in her apron and turning round full of tender thought for the bleating mother which follows closely on her steps. And one of his greatest pictures is the life-sized figure of a woman shearing a sheep, which goes by the name of La Grande Tondeuse now at Boston. Young and old, boy and girl, share in the daily task and pass before us in turn. The little goose-girl driving her flock to the pond, the old crone staggering under the load of her faggots, and the woodcut- ter whose face is seamed and ~vrinkled with age, are all here. Nowhere is the pathetic contrast of youth and age more finely expressed than in the l)icttire of Les B~cheurs. Two men of stalwart form are digging side by side in the field, with their hats and blouses lying on the ground. But while the one is young and vigorous and turns the clods with an ease that shows the task is light and the labor pleasant, the other is older, and we see by his stooping attitude and the movement of his body that the effort is a strain and requires all his strength. Summer and winter, morning and evening, are but parts of the same theme and help to ring the changes of the marvellously told tale. Not an hour of the day but has its story. We see the young couple going out to work together ~vith brisk steps and cheer- ful faces in the pleasant morning sunshine, the man in his blouse, bearing his spade under his arm and his fork on his shoulder, his wife, in short petticoats and sabots, carrying a pitcher in her hand and wear- ing her basket as sun-bonnet on her head. We see the tired haymakers, the ex- hausted vi ne-dresser, snatching a brief interval of sorely needed rest in the burn- ing heat of noon, and we see the weary laborer laying down his hoe ~vhen the first stars come out, and pulling on his vest with a gesture admirably expressing his relief that the days ~vork is done. Dear above all others was this twilight hour to Millet, the hour when the sun has set and the evening mist rises and the form of the returning husbandman looms darkly on the mysterious expanse of the broad plain, ~vhen the stag comes forth from his lair and the rooks fly homewards through the sky, when the vesper bell rings from the old church tower and the tired peasant doffs his cap and bows his head rever- ently to repeat the Angelus. In all of this there is not a note of exag- geration or artificial feeling. Avant tout faire vrai ci logique was Millets aiim. I have avoided as I always do with hor- ror, he says of his Femme aux Seaux, anything that can verge on the senti- mental. - - - I want the people I represent to look as if they belonged to their sta- tion and as if their imaginations could not conceive of their being anything else. His peasants are not i-agged beggars, nor yet the beasts of burden described in La Bruy~res famous passage. They are not wilfully ugly, although~ of necessity they must bear the marks of hard toil and ex- posure and of the ravages of time on their faces. The beautiful in his eyes was the suitable ; he is never tired of repeating it. If I am to paint a mother I shall try to make her beautiful simply by her look at her child. Beauty is expression His women are often splendid-looking crea- tures. The Femme aux Seaux and the Grande Tonde use have been fre- quently compared to Pallas, to Juno, and Medea. But he would not stoop to alter facts and prettify types for all the crit- ics in France. He brought the same spirit to the study of nature. The changes of earth and sky were as familiar to him as the character and action of the peasants he represents. The tangled forest growth, the sunlit spaces of the wide champaign, the dead wood in the birches and the scar left by the fallen bough, the rough herbage and potato patches on the plain, the stubble- field where the sheep are feeding, the very clods at the laborers feet, the rich brown- 172 JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. ness of the autumn earth, the dead leaves and the trampled snow he knows them all as intimately and paints them as accu- rately as he does the muscles and struc- ture of the human frame. And he gives not merely the actual fact, but the senti- ment of the landscape, the desolate sad- ness of ~vinter, the chill close of the No- vember day, the silence and solitude of the plain, just as he sums up the whole story of generations in a single figure or gesture. There was yet another side of the peas- ants life which Millet did not forget. The love of wife and child runs like an undertone through all his pictures of rus- tic toil. The sleeping babe in his cradle is there to remind us for whose sake the parents labor; and the presence of the absent father is always felt in the cottage home, were it only by the clothes the goodwife mends by the light of her lamp. The painter himself had nine children, and took delight in painting them at all their different stages. The swaddled baby, lying, monarch of all he surveys, under the walnut-tree among the ducks and hens, is a charming picture of infant felicity, and the father, holding out his arms to the child taking his first steps in the gar- den, will live as the s~veetest of rustic idylls. But his most pathetic poem of the affections was inspired by the memory of his mother and grandmother. Two aged parents, already far advanced in the jour- ney of life, are seen straining their eyes towards the distant horizon where the sun is setting, ~vaiting in vain for a form which never comes, for a step which they will hear no more. Even so Millets coming had been awaited in the old home at Gruchy. But the journey was long and money was scarce, and both grandmother and mother died, the one in i8~i, the other in 1853, without embracing their beloved Fran~ois. His own grief was bitter, and when the next year he sold a picture, the first thing he did was to take his wife and children to Gr~ville. The place was sadly changed, and almost the only friend he found left was his first teacher, Abb~ Jean Lebris- seux. Ah, dear child, little Fran~ois, is it you? asked the good priest, whom he found kneeling at the altar of his church. And the Bible, have you forgotten it? And the Psalms, do you ever read them still They are my breviary, said Millet, I get from them all I do. These are rare words to hear nowa days, said the abb4, but you will be rewarded. You used to love Virgil? So I do still, said the l)ainter. That is well. I am content, said the priest. XVhere I sowed the ground has been good, and you will reap the harvest, my son.~~ They parted, and Millet ~vent back to Barbizon, but not till he had sketched every corner of the old l)lace, the house, the orchard, the fields, and the seashore. We cannot here mention onehalf of the great works, many of them now household names, which came out of the cottage of Barbizon during the next twenty years. One by one these noble pictures were sketched in pencil or charcoal, thought out with the greatest pains and delibera- tion, and often put away for years before they were completed. In 1855 his Pay- san greffant was exhibited at the Salon, and attracted the critics attention. Here is a man, said Gautier, who finds po- etry in the fields, who loves the peasant, and paints Georgics after Virgil. But the public remained indifferent, and the picture would have remained unsold if Rousseau, hiding his identity under the guise of a supposed American, had not bought it. The help was sorely needed, for Millet was in dire straits. His family increased every year, and his letters to Sensier repeat the same sad tale of press- ing bills and impatient creditors. An execution is threatened, the bailiffs are on the point of entering the house, his wife is ill, the children must eat, there is no firing in the l~ouse, and the baker re- fuses bread. It is the end of the mouth, and where is money to be got? And he implores Sensier to sell his pictures at any price, if only to earn a few francs. Decidedly poor Millet, as lie often con- fesses, was no man of business. Fortu- nately he had faithful friends who loved the man and admired his genius. Diaz lent him six hundred francs, Arthur Ste- vens spent months in trying to find him purchasers, Sensier was unceasing in his exertions on his behalf. But the task was by no means easy, and even when buyers were found they often broke their prom- ises or put off payment. Life is a sad thin~,, writes the painter in 1856. We come to understand those who sighed for a place of refreshment, of light and peace. One sees why Dante makes some of his people call the days they spent on earth the time of my debt. Well, let u~s hold out as long as we can; I have a settled weariness, but no anger against any one, for I do not think my lot JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. 73 is worse than that of others, but I am afraid of getting tired out. It has lasted nearly twenty years. At that very monent he was painting his magnificent Glaneuses, a picture which he never surpassed in point of grandeur and completeness. As in all Millets works, the composition is very simplea harvest-field, where three ~~omen are gleaning in the foreground, while corn is being carried in the farm- yard behind. But the atmosphere is transparently beautiful, the serene peace of evening rests on the scene, and the three ~vomen, bending with rhythmic movement to pick up the ripe ears, are heroic types of labor actively pursuing its task until the night cometh when no man can work. In 1859, he finished the Angelus, which as a record of one of his earliest impressions was especially dear to him. He asked Sensier, ~vho came to see the picture, what he thought of it. Why, it is the Angelus, exclaimed his friend, you can hear the bells! Millet was satisfied. It had been his endeavor to give the music of the distant church bells in these bended figures of peasants who leave off work to pray at the sound of the Ave Maria. How well he succeeded we all know. But it was months before the Angelus found a purchaser. Since Millets death it has changed hands again and been resold for 8,oool. The same year he completed La Mort et le Bfi- cheron, a subject taken from La Fon- taines fable of the worn-out woodcutter calling for death to ease him of his bur- den, and shrinking back in horror when his prayer is heard and the grim skeleton appears. This picture, on which Millet had spent infinite pains, was rejected by the Salon. He felt the blow keenly, and saw in the decision of the jury an attempt to crush his art. They wish to drive me into their dra~ving-room art, he said; no, no, a peasant I was born and a peas- ant I will die; I will say what I feel and paint things as I see them. He found able defenders in Alexandre Dumas and M. Paul Mantz, but his art was too new, too original for the Parisian world. Even his friends deplored his excess of auster- ity and complained that he deliberately chose ugly and repulsive types. Corot, who knew him personally, frankly owned that he saw great knowledge and style in Millets pictures, but that they frightened him. His Angelus was described as a heavy and sombre bucolic, and critics jeered at his Nouveau-n& and said his men carried the new-born calf as if it were the bull Apis or the Host. He was reproached on all sides as a demagogue, a Saint-Simonist, and his Glaneuses were assailed as dangerous beasts ~vho threatened the very existence of society. The insolence of his foes waxed fiercest round his Homme ~ la Houe, when that picture was exhibited in the Salon of 1863. It was then that he wrote the famous letter which Sensier calls his confession of faith The gossip about my Homme ~ la Houe seems to me aU very strange. . - . Is it im- possible to admit that one can have some sort of an idea in seeing a man devoted to gaining his bread by the sweat of his brow? They tell me that I see no charms in the country. I see much more than charms I see infinite glories. I see as well as they do the little flowers of which Christ said that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. I see the aureoles of dandelions, and the sun which spreads out beyond the world its glory in the clouds. But I see as well, in the plain, the steaming horses at work, and, in a rocky place, a man, all worn out, whose han has been heard since morning and who tries to straighten himself a moment and breathe. The drama is surrounded by beauty. It is not my invention. This cry of the grounds has been heard long ago. My critics are men of taste and education, but I cannot put my- self in their shoes, and, as I have never seen anything but fields since I was born, I try to say as best I can what I saw and felt when I was at work.* Nothing could make him alter his ideas, but we see by many passages in his letters how deeply the iron entered into his soul: Always evil, when will the good come? 0 life, life, how hard it is at times, and how we need our friends and heaven to bear it! When will He come who will say to me as to the cripple in the Bible, Arise and walk? Constant work and worry brought on attacks of fever and terrible headaches. Twice over, the thought of suicide pre- sented itself to his overwrought brain. But his grandmothers lessons of obedi- ence and submission, and the thought of his wife and children saved him from the fatal step. Come and let us see the sun- set, and then I shall feel better, he would say when haunted by these gloomy fears. And he came home calm and resigned. But hard as the struggle was, and melancholy as is the tale revealed in the letters to Sensier, there was, it is well to remember, a brighter side to the picture. Gleams of momentary prosperity came to J.-F. Millet, p. 158. 174 JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. cheer Millets life. There were days, even Sensier allows, when he came back from Paris with toys in his pocket for the chil- dren and was of a delightful gaiety. Then he loved to assemble his friends at his table, and made them welcome in the most genial manner. More than one vis- itor to I3arbizon has left us a pleasant glimpse of the painters peasant home. They tell us of the low cottage, overgrown by clematis and ivy which Millet could not bear to see pruned, standing in the little garden closed round by the high wall out of which he had pulled some bricks so that he might see the sun set over the plain. They describe the barn- like studio, with no ornament but a few casts from the Parthenon frieze and a heap of blouses and handkerchiefs of every shade of blue from the deepest indigo to sun-bleached whiteness, lying in a corner which Millet called his museum. And they tell u~ of the painter himself, with his grey beard and piercing dark eyes and serious air, looking in h is sabots like some peasant of La Vend~e; a little stern and reserved in manner at first, but full of kinch ness for his friends, and always gentle to his children, in whose presence he took unfailing delight, opening the door of his studio when he ~vas tired that he might hear their voices at play. Strangers from the New World were struck by the patri- archal character of the household, and felt themselves under Abrahams tent ~vhen they sat down to the frugal supper. There were the good ~vife and mother rncz vie/le, as Millet tenderly called her always active, busy about her domestic duties, with only one little maid-of-all- work, who often served as model into the bargain, to help her, yet careful to hide the scantiness of the resources at her dis- posal from visitors. There were children of all sizes and ages, curly-headed little ones who rode on their fathers knee, -zu las, au trot, et auga/o~, and who listened with rapt eyes to his weird tales and songs of Normandy. On summer evenino-s the whole family ~vould take rambles forest, singing and talking as they in the ~vent. Then the grave and silent man would talk freely of his past life, of the old home by the sea, and of the days in Paris when he breakfasted on a roll and the next meal was always a doubtful problem, and when his long dreams in the Louvre were his one consolation. Or else he would talk of the great masters, iesfo;-/s, as he liked to call the prophets of art and literature, and become eloquent as he spoke of his old favorites Virgil and David. He read at this time of his life more than ever, pick- ing up ne~v treasures at the book-stalls in Paris, and sitting up reading till late at night. Theocritus, which a friend lent him in 1864, became a new source of pleas- ure, and he formed a scheme for illustrat- ing the idylls, which had to be abandoned for ~vant of a publisher who would under- take the work. Times were mending now. Millet had pledged himself to work during three years for a friend of Sensiers at the sum of a thousand francs a month, and the contract relieved him from the worst em- barrassmnents. In 1864 his Berg~re was exhibited, and won all hearts by her rustic grace and beauty. For once Millet found himself popular. The same year four decorative panels of the Seasons, in which he treated his favorite themes after a more classic style, gave proofs of his power in a new direction. A drawing of the Resurrection, in ~vhich the arisen Lord leaps from the tomb, bursting the bonds of death, and a mystic FliTht into Egypt made his friends regret that he could not follow out this new line of thought. But already a foreboding that his life would not be long seemedl to haunt him, and, despairing of ever painting all the pictures in his mind, he returned to pastel as a swifter and easier form of ex- pressing his thoughts. In early days at Barbizon he had already executed the fine series of drawings known as the Travaux des Champs, and had himself etched several plates from his own designs. Now he made as many as ninety-five drawings in crayon and pastel for the architect M. Gavet, whose high opinion of Millets ~vork was justified when, half a year after the painters death, his collection sold for three hundred and twenty thousand francs. When on that occasion they were seen in public for the first time the art-world was taken by storm, and Millets most ardent admirers felt that they had never known his greatness before. These dra~vings, in ~vhich so many finer and tenderer shades of the painters thought are present, were chiefly records of impressions at Barbizon or at Gr~ville. His heart turned with ever- increasing love to the scenes of his youth, and he writes to Sensier that he is at work on a drawing of The End of the Vil- lage opening towards the sea. My old elm, he says, begins to look gna~vetl by the winds tooth. What would I give to bathe it in space as I see it in memory! A month later lie vas summoned to Gr6- ville to his sister Emilies death-bed, and found the old elm blown down. Tout passe, he wrote, et nous aussi, nous passons. A journey which he took to Vichy for his wifes health supplied him with fresh subjects. In the rugged scenery of Mont Dor6 he seemed to see the glory of God dwelling upon the heights. His feeling for nature grew deeper and stronger as his strength failed and he felt life slipping from his grasp. His letters d~vell with delight on the fairy-like effects of fog and frost in the forest, and even the dull days of December have their charm for him. There is some talk of a ~vinter in the south for the good of his health, but he cannot tear himself from home. 0 sadness of field and ~voocl ! he cried I should miss too much in not seeing you. It is this strange, sweet sadness which makes itself felt in so many of the drawings of this time in which the sky and earth are the only subjects, most of all in the beautiful pastel of the sun setting in fog and cloud over the lonely plain. The Exhibition of 1867 contained many of Millets masterpieces, including the Angelus, Les Glaneuses, La Mort et le Bflcheron, La Grande Tondeuse, and La Berg~re, which the exertions of his friends had brought together. In the following year he received the Cross of the Legion of Honor, and in 1870 ~vas elected one of the jurors of the Salon. But he cared little for these honors. He had no wish but to bring up his children well and togi ye expression to the greatest possible number of his impressions. His friend Rousseaus death affected him painfully; and when the war of 1870 broke out he felt keenly the disasters which befell his country. When it became impossible to remain at Barbizon he took his family to Cherbourg and spent his days painting the sea, from his rooms au /roisi?me. Once more he visited Gr~ville, but it ~vas to find strangers living in the old home. He thought with tears of the loved ones who had ~vorked in these fields ~vith him, of the dear eyes which had gazed with him over the sea. Here, in the autumn of 1871, Sensier joined him, and the two friends travelled through the district, making sketches of all they saw. Millet returned to Barbizon in December and painted a picture of the church of Gr~ville, now in the Louvre, and other Norman landscapes for American patrons. But l~s cough in- creased and he ~vas distressed to find he could do so little work. A fit of ha~mor- rhage, in June, 1873, completely broke him down. Meanwhile great news reached him from Paris. His Angelus, which had 75 brought him only two thousand francs, sold again for fifty thousand, another of his pictures for thirty-eight thousand; the Museum of Lille bought La Becqu~e at the same time. More than all, in May, 1874, the State, anxious to repair the neglect of past years, gave him a commis- sion for a series of historic paintings in the PantMon. The order filled him with joy, but it came too late. He had worked hard for thirty years, and now the great day of rest was coming. In August, Sen- sier spent a week at Barbizon; and one fine summer day the friends took a long drive in the forest. That day Millet ~vas in bright spirits. He spoke of the beauty of the forest, of the ever-increasing loveli- ness of nature, and thanked Sensier for his long and faithful friendship. Other friends, he said, get tired and leave us. Some die and disappear. You have re mained ~u th2 end. The end was nearer than his friends knew. He faded slowly away as the autumn days grew shorter, and took to his bed in December. One day in January he was startled out of sleep by the noise of guns and baying of hounds. A poor stag had taken refuge in a neighboring garden and was soon killed by the dogs. It is an omen, said Millet, and he was right. A few days afterwards he died, on the morning of the 20th of January. But of this life of ceaseless effort and struggle, of long failure and despair, what then remains to us? Some eighty or ninety pictures and about twice as many drawings. A great deal of toil and suffer- ing, it would seem, for the sake of a very little art. Millet himself felt conscious of this when he was dying. He said one day that his life was ending all too soon, that now he had just begun to see clearly into nature and art. The feeling was a natural one for the great soul near its term and conscious of far heights which it might never scale. But his work was well done, and his message had been delivered in all its fulness First among painters he had opened mens eyes to the unregarded loveliness of common things, to the glory of toil and the eternal mystery of that cry of the ground which haunted his whole life. He had painted man, not as a separate being, but as part of the great and changeless order of the universe, and had shown more clearly than ever the closeness of the tie that binds the joys and sorrows, the labor and emotions of man with the changes of the seasons, and the beauty of the natural world. On a sheet covered with sketches JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET. 176 STORY-TELLING IN THE EAST. this sentence was found in his own hand- writino: Il faut pouvoir faire servir le trivial It lexpression du sublime, cest lIt Ia vraie force. No words could better express the aim and purpose of his art. Chief among realists, he lifts the vivid record of actual fact into the loftiest ideal realms by the passion and poetry of his imagination. And somewhere else he has said: Il faut apercevoir linfini. Not for nothing was he born within sound of the everlasting sea, within sight of those vast spaces which filled his soul with im- mortal longings. The infinite is always present in his pictures. He breaks up the forest shades to let in a glimpse of the blue above, and reminds us by the slender thread of up-curling smoke, by the flight of wild birds across the sky, of the far- spreading horizons, the boundless issues of human life. And this message he delivered, in no hasty inconsidered spirit, but with con- summate knowledge and mastery of hand, in obedience to eternal and unalterable laws. The very slowness of the steps by which his fame has been won is the best pledge of its endurance, and future gen. erations will remember him among the foremost painters of the century. His place with the immortals is sure. His pictures of seed-time and harvest, of morning and evening, will rank with the great art of all time, ~vith the frieze of the Parthenon and with the frescoes of Michael Angelo. JULIA ADY. From The National Review. STORy-TELLING IN THE EAST. A FEW months ago I was encamped in the desert that divides Palestine from Egypt. In front of me lay the vast mounds of Farama, covering the ruins of the ancient Pelusium and rising out of a dreary expanse of sand and mud, once the bed of the Pelusiac mouth of the Nile. Where the industrious fellahin had for. merly cultivated their fields, undulating drifts of loose sand now hold undisputed sway, and it was at the foot of one of these that my tent was pitched. In the course of the afternoon I had been reading to my dragoman one of the stories collected by the late Spitta I3ey from the raconteurs of Cario and published by him at the end of his invaluable Grammar of Egyptian Arabic. The story was interrupted by the arrival of dinner, shortly after the conclusion of which I was asked by the drago man to step outside the tent. There I found the plot of the Arabian Nights actually enacted before my eyes. I had been obliged to leave the animals I had brought from Syria at El Arish, the first town on the Egyptian frontier, built above the river of Egypt of the Old Testament, and to hire camels there for the rest of my journey. The camel-driv- ers were simple, uneducated folk, who chattered like children, and, with the ex- ception of one young Bedoui n, were all unmistakably of Egyptian, or at any rate of non-Arab descent. Their travels had never extended beyond Jerusalem on the one side or the Suez Canal on the other. According to their custom they had lighted a fire in front of the tent, and ~vere squatting around it, with their camel3 kneeling in a circle behind them, each with its head buried deep in a bag of food. The dark-blue sky overhead was brilliant with stars, and in the far distance the light was just visible that loomed over the mud- flats from the lighthouse of Port Said. One of the camel-drivers was engaged in telling stories to a rapt audience. He was a fine-looking man, with light eyes and reddish beard, in whom I thought I could trace the lineaments of that fair- complexioned Amorite race which, as the Egyptian monuments inform us, once dwelt in the mountains of Syria. He proved himself to be an ideal story-teller. With a clear, unhesitating voice, which he raised or lowered as occasion required, he pursued his tale, pausing only when he had made a point and expected the applause of his hearers; now and then he accom- panied his words with a few gentle move- ments of the hand; more often .he stimu- lated the attention of his audience by a comparison taken from their immediate surroundings. Th~ uninhabited city into which one of his heroes wandered was like Farama, the rich man he met there was like Effendi , the drago man. My camel-driver, in fact, was born with a nat- ural gift of imagination, as was shown both by the details he introduced into his stories and by the last tale I heard, which I believe to have been invented on the spot for my special benefit. He would have made his fortune in the days of Harfin-er-Rashid. I took my seat in the circle of his hear- ers, all of whom, the young Bedouin ex- cepted, were entering like children into the enjoyment of them. The adventures of his heroes were as real to them as their own wanderings, and from time to time they interrupted him with exclamations of STORY-TELLING IN THE EAST. 77 approval or the reverse. With eyes fixed dom of the sultan, who was really a sul- upon him they seemed to drink in every taness. word he uttered, and to live for a time in The end of the story was received with the magic world he conjured up. plaudits, and after a short pause, the When I arrived he was describing a story-teller commenced again. This time young prince who had married the daugh- it was about Muhammed es-Shater, Mo-. ter of a sultan, and ~vas on his way home ham med the clever, who is a favorite with her to his fathers kingdom. On the figure in Cairene folk.lore. Mohammed, road his bride presented him with a ring, it appeared, was the son of a merchant which he was told never to lose. But one who was very rich. One day the mer- day, as he held it in his hand to look at, a chant despatched him with twelve ships bird suddenly swooped from the sky and laden with precious things in order that carried it away. In an agony of distress he might discover whether there was any he pursued the bird mile after mile until one in the world richer than himself. Mo- bride and followers had alike been left far hammed was long on his travels; at last away in the desert, and he arrived at last he came to a city where there was a man at a great and fair city on the coast of the who offered to buy the ships and all they sea. The city, however, was silent and contained. But he first asked his servant desolate; the prince wandered through its if there was any room in his house still streets and met no man. At last he stum. sufficiently empty to receive his new pos- bled on a Moslem, who saluted him and sessions. As this excited Mohammeds prayed him to take up his abode in his surprise he was taken over the rich mans house and treated him as his own son, palace. He wandered from room to room, Meanwhile the bride was left disconsolate, each filled with gold and silver and gems, in the midst of the rude soldiers of her and all that was most rare and precious in husband. For safetys sake sh~ assumed the world. As he visited each he was the dress of the bridegroom and feigned asked by his host whether there was any that the bride had run away. In mans like it in his fathers house. But Mo. dress she reached the kingdom of a mighty hammed was a clever lad, so he showed sultan, who was, however, like her visitor, so signs of astonishment, and answered really a woman masquerading in the cos- that such sights were familiar to him at tume of a man. Here she was entertained home. At last they reached the fortieth hospitably, and in course of time host and room, and here Mohammed could restrain guest first became f~st friends and then his amazement no longer. It contained fell in love with one another. The com- seven cups of such magic virtue that any - plications which ensued were dwelt upon liquid poured out of them would turn iron by the storyteller to the great delight of into gold. As Mohammeds father was his audience; but finally all things were nearly as wealthy as himself, the rich man happily arranged, and the sultan and bride gave him one of the cups as bakskish. discovered to each other their true sex. Mohammed returned home, and the magic The story now returns to the prince, cup soon caused the merchant to become who, while wandering in the garden of his very, very rich. So one day he told his host one day discovered a well, and at the son that he must make a return for the bottom of the well seven jars of gold. bakshish he had received. Mohammed With this he equipped a fleet and set sail accordingly again started with a fleet of for his fathers realm. On the way he twelve ships laden with treasures. But touched at a port which happened to be- on his arrival at his destination he could long to the female sultan, who was enter- no longer find the rich mans house. He taming his wife, and who, of course, wandered over the ground on which it insisted upon a visit from the prince. Of had stood, and it was as bare as the desert course, also, the prince fell in love with itself. Then he was told what had hap- her on the spot, as well as with his own pened. The rich man had become verw wife, whom he did not recognize. She, proud, and Allah had smitten him in the however, like women generally, had a midst of his pride. One night his palace better memory or a quicker eye, and as disappeared, and everything in it was she had opportunely recovered the ring turned into ashes. To save himself from the day before the bird which was carry- starvation he had to hire his services to ing it having been stricken at her feet the owner of a cafi for three piastres a by an eagle she bore him no grudge day. In this cafd Mohammed accidentally for his desertion of her. So all things seated himself, and there recognized his ended happily; the prince obtained two former host, who, however, did not recog- wives instead of one, as well as the king. nize the strange L.IVING AGE. VOL. LXIV. 3288 ~ r. Mohammed asked himu 175 STORY-TELLING IN THE EAST. to sit down and eat some sweets with him, stories collected by him are among those but he refused, on the ground that a ser- published at the end of his grammar, and vant could not sit by the side of his mas- have never been translated into any Euro- ter. Pressed to do so, he consented at pean language. By ~vay of a specimen, last, and was then asked what had hap- therefore, I will give here the first part of pened to him Hush ! he replied; it one of them, The Story of the Thief of was the will of Allah we ~vill say noth- the Day and the Thief of the Night. ing about it. Then Mohammed told him There was once a man who strolled of the ships and their contents which he into a caf~, where he found (another) man had brought, and bade him at once leave sitting. He said to him, Good morning. the caf~ and search for a house in which The other replied, Good morning to you; to store them. As they walked about to please come in, and take a drink of coffee. find one, they passed by the spot where He came in and sat by his side. He called the rich mans house had stood, and, be- for a cup of coffee for him ; he drank it, and hold, it was standing there again! Then then the one who had been sitting asked Mohammed married the rich mans daugh- the one who had come in, 0 my brother, ter, and after the death of the two parents what is your trade? He answered, 0 my became the richest man in the ~vorld. brother, my trade must not be mentioned. After this warning against the sin of He said to him, Why not? and then being puffed up by riches, my camel- suggested the names of two professions driver told another story, the moral of which were in extremely ill repute. When which obviously was that as I was a rich the new-coiner had denied having anything man, I ought to give him and his com- to do with either of them, the other said, panions a good hakshish at the end of our Come now, what is it that must not be journey. The story was not so lengthy as mentioned? These are the two which its predecessors, and ran in this wise must not be. He replied, No! your Once upon a time there was a poor servants trade is that of a thief. The man whose neighbor was a rich Jew; but other said, Is this all? He answered, the Jew was hard and pitiless. One day Yes. He said to him, I also am a thief. the poor mans family were starving, and The other asked, Birt what sort of thief he went to the Jew to beg a morsel of are you ? He replied, I am a thief of bread. But the Jew drove him from his the day. The other said, Admirable door. Ernshi, get a~vay, he said, you and I am a thief of the night. He said to hound! Then the Jew and the poor him, Good; let us be companions. He man died, and the All-merciful showed answered, Let us get up now, and go them two palaces, one of which was in- home. They took hold of one another tended for the Jew and the other for the and got up. They walked into the street poor man. The Jew entered his palace, where (the caf~) was, went out of it, and and wandered from one part of it to the passed into another part of the town, and other, becoming continually more en- so continued to go from one street to an- chanted with its beauty and magnificence. other, until they reached the Atfeh quar- But suddenly the All-merciful interrupted ter. Now they were both married to the him, and said, It was intended that this same wife, but they did not know one an- palace should stand by the side of the other, as the one used to come (home) at poor mans palace in Paradise ; but since night, while the other came during the you had no compassion on the poor man, day. So the one who had been invited it must descend into Gehenna. So the thought it over, and said (to himself), palace of the Jew went down into hell, Well, this is amusing; I (am asked to) go while the palace of the poor man mounted with him to his house; yet how comes he up into heaven. to know that this is my house when he is After this I judged it expedient to retire taking me to his? Why is it my house into my tent, but the story-telling was con- that I am coming to now? However, I tinued outside far into the night. My will go with him and see what will hap- only regret was that I had not been able pen. So he ~vent with him until they to take the stories down word for ~vord in reached the house. He knocked at the the actual language of their narrator. door. The woman came and opened (it); Those who wish to know what this was she looked and saw (them) both and recog- like may refer to the stories written down nized them, so did not cover her face. by Spitta Bey, and translated by him into One of them said, Why dont you cover French in his Contes Arabes Modernes your face? The other said, ls it from (Brill, Leiden 1883). It is unfortunate, me or from you that she must cover her however, that some of the best of the face? He answered, From you, of STORY-TELLING IN THE EAST. 79 course. He replied, Why, my brother, or fifteen pieces, and he made o~ them a this is my wife! He said to him, No, bundle of this size. And he put his hand she is mine. The other answered, How to take out the purse of money, (and) drew is she your wife? and at last they began out in his hand the head of the cucumber. to quarrel with one another. (Then) one He exclaimed, What I gracious heavens! (of them) said, Stop, I say; come, good hey, shopman 1 He said, Yes, sir. He woman, whose wife of us (two) are you? replied, Keep the bundle by you, as I She said, You are both my husbands. have forgotten the money; (so wait) till I He said, What are we to think? Well, go and get it, and come (again). He who has allowed this in the law? The mounted his horse once more, and the other replied, We are both clever fellows, grooms ran before him as far as the por- and she has married us behind one an- ters lodge of the governors house. The others (backs), one comes to her in the thief looked; he saw (the soldier) return. night, and the other comes to her during ing xvith anger on his face ; then the thief the day, and she has no knowledge of reli- followed him to the quarter of Radw~n gion. But let us each make trial (of our among the crowd, and put in his hand. cleverness, and) the one who plays the took the head of the cucumber from his best trick shall have the house and the l)Ocket and put the purse in its place, wife. The other said to him, All right. while the soldier kept on going towards So they agreed with one another thus: his house full of raze. The thief alsp they said to one another, It is now day- returned to his place at the porters lodge time ; the thief of the day, therefore, must of the governors palace, and the soldier make his trial first. He said to him, All entered his own house. Fat~m ! I told right, let us go. He took his companion, you to put a purse into my pocket, and and they went on and on to the porters you have put the head of a cucumber! lodge of the governors house, and they She answ-ered, Wallahi ! sir! I did put both sat down. Our story now turns to a a purse of gold for you into your pocket. Turkish soldier, who wanted to buy some He replied, I found it the head of a clothes for himself and his household in cucumber at the shopmans. Then she the bazaar. So after he had drunk his came up to him and put her hand into his coffee and dressed himself, what did he pocket and pulled out the purse of gold. say? Fati~m! She said to him, Yes. She said to him, Now is this a purse of He replied, Put a purse of gold into the gold or the head of a cucumber? He pocket of my trousers, that 1 may buy exclaimed: What! gracious heavens I somethino- She answered, All right. Put it, Fat~m, into my pocket. She l)ut She put a purse of gold into the pocket of it into his pocket again, and he returned, his trousers. The groom made ready his with the grooms in front of him, to the horse; so he mounted, and the grooms porters lodge at the governors palace. ran in front of him, and he (rode) behind The thief saw him ; so he followed (him) them as far as the porters lodge of the as far as the crowd, and took from him governors house. Then the thief of the the purse of gold and put instead of it the day saw the purse lying in the soldiers head of the cucumber. And (the soldier) pocket, and he followed him and came to went on until he reached the shopman. a fruiterers shop (and) stole from it the Then he cried, Hex-, shopman! He head of a cucumber, and he followed the answered, Yes, sir! He said to him, soldier into the crowd, and put out his I have forgotten such and such a tbing, hand, and took the purse from the pocket and such and such another thing. In of the soldier, and put into it in its place short he took from (the shopman) four or the head of the cucumber, and he went five pieces more and made of them a small back to sit with his friend. The story bundle and proceeded to pull out the now returns to the soldier. He went on money. Then he lighted on the head of till he came to the Ghuriyeh to a certain the cucumber in his pocket. He said, tradesman. Shopman! ~(he cried). He Oh, shopman! He replied, Yes, sir! replied, Yes, sir. He said to him, Have He answered, I remember that the you such and such a thing? He said, I money which I have with me is not have. The soldier ordered him, Bring enough to pay for this lot; so keep the a piece of it. He gave him a piece. things until I go and fetch the rest of the Have you such and such a thing? He money. He returned, and the grooms, answered, Yes. He told him, Bring a to the porters lodge of the governors piece (of it) also. The soldier took a palace. The thief saw him, and followed piece of it, and continued asking for one him as far as the Radwan quarter; he thing after another, until he had about ten took from him the head of the cucumber iSo SKETCHES IN TENERIFE. and put instead of it the purse of gold again, and returned to sit with his friend. And the soldier went on until he entered his house. He drew his sword against his wife, and says to her, What? how many times shall I say to you, let me have a purse of gold and you give me the head of a cucumber! She replied, Wall~hi, sir! its a purse of gold, but the thieves have had to do with you. Then he put his hand into his pocket and found the purse of gold. He exclaimed, Gracious heavens ! ~vhat sort of business is this? Grooms! They replied, Yes, sir.~ He said, Which of you will take this purse of gold and look after it while I am going to the shopman? I will give him a shirt, and a pair of drawers, and a jacket, and a fez. One of them, named Gibas the Pilgrim, answered, Hand it (to me), soldier. The groom took (the purse) from him and put it into his pocket, and they went off again to the shopman; but the groom, through fear of (losing) the purse, held the purse thus (with one hand over the breast) as far as the porters lodge of the governors palace. The thief looked and saw that the purse had been transferred to the groom. So he followed the groom as far as the crowd. The groom wanted to clear the way before him; he is put off his guard, and raises his hand to wave back the people on this side and that. Then the thief managed his busi. ness; he took the purse from (the groom) and gave him instead the head of the cu- cumber, and returned and sat in his place. The groom, after coming out of the crowd, put his hand over his pocket again. And the thief said to his friend, Let us get up and walk a little, and see what happens. They got up and went after them. The soldier reached the shop; he said to the shopman, My father! He replied, Yes, sir! Give me ten more large pieces of embroidered cloth, and ten smaller pieces, and ten pocket-handkerchiefs, and ten garters. The shopman produced them and tied them up in the pocket-handker- chief, just three bundles. The soldier called to the groom: Pilgrim Gibas ! He answered, Yes, sir! He said to him, Give me the purse of money. He replied, By the life of thy head, but I wont give it to you unless you let me have what you promised. He answered, Dont trouble yourself; here, shopman, let me have a shirt, and a pair of drawers, and a jacket, and a fez. He gave him these. The groom put his hand into his pocket, ~vishing to take out the purse; out ~t came again with the head of the cucum ber. When the soldier saw the head of the cucumber he went out of his mind and drew his sword, and wanted to strike the groom. In a moment the thief ap- peared; the groom cried out, See, here is your purse ! The soldier shouted, Seize the thief! They looked for the thief, those who wanted to seize him: they found nothing left of him but a grain of salt, which melted away. A story like this loses half its charm when written down and read with the eye. To appreciate it properly, we must hear it improvised with all the needful accom- paniments of tone and gesture, in the midst of the life and scenes which it pre- supposes. The stupid Turkish soldier with his practically-minded wife, the bare- legged grooms running before his horse, with flowing sleeves and long blue tassels, the noisy, jostling crowd, the shopman sitting tranquilly on his open counter, with his goods displayed around him, are necessary if we would understand the spell such stories still exercise upon a Cairene audience. When life is past in the open air it is the story-teller rather than the newspaper-writer or the novelist who influences his countrymen, and if we would know what are the thoughts they think and the motives that move them it is to his tales that we must turn. A. H. SAYcE. From All The Year Round. SKETCHES IN TENERIFE. IN TWO PARTS. PART I. AT first, I was for making the journey by myself. It seemed as unnecessary as unwise to encumber myself with a guide who was sure to be ignorant of the country he professed to know, who might fall ill and need all manner of exacting attendance, and who would certainly be hampered by scruples religious and otherwise which would deter him from entering a town or village at festival time. But Lorenzo Despacho, from whom I hired the mare, put pressure upon me. It is fifty leagues, sefior. The mare is a good mare Caramba! though it is her master that says so. But suppose she were to lose a shoe? In that case, my good Lorenzo, we must replace it, said I. Without doubt, seflor; but how? And who will look after her corn? How will you know that she gets more than half SKETCHES IN TENERIFE. i8i what you pay for? Not by the aspect of her stomach, sefior; for it is a world not altogether good, and there are many evil ways of swelling the mares stomach with- out properly nourishing her. And you do not talk Spanish ~vell enough, sefior if I may be pardoned for being so uncivil to relieve yourself from a difficulty, when you are among strangers. Well in effect what am I to do? Take the boy Jos~ with you, sefior. He will be a comfort to you Ave Ma- ria ! I should think so. Whenever you are in trouble, he will shoutand the boy can make his sister, at work in the fields a mile off, hear him quite distinctly he will call to some one and ask, and the way will be made clear, without doubt. As for the mare, she has an affection for Jose, and will do at his bidding what I do not think, seilor, she would do at your bidding, good, quiet horse that she is! And, for the cost, it shall be only a shil- ling the day the more, which is, of course, nothing.~~ I did not want the boy, as I have said; but he came nevertheless. He was not quite new to me, for only the other day, in visiting the parish church of Porto Orotava, I had seen him, in company with some other little boys, amusing himself at the altar with a number of candles as long as himself. One of these boys, a child of twelve, told me he ~vas the sacristan of the church, and, as such, he, with his playfellows, sho~ved me all the ecclesias- tical treasures of the building, from the monster Maria behind the altar already being robed in sadcolored velvets for the stately processions of Holy Week to the little glass flagon, silver-topped, con- taining the residue of some sacramental ~vine, much bescummed, which had been used I forget how many years ago. When I had seen the church and its dull old pictures to my content, we ascended to the bell-tower to look down upon the town. Here were three bells, the largest bearing date 1671 ; and I was so inter- ested in this large bell that, when the boy Jose suggested that I should sound it, I did not scruple to bang the tongue against the sides of the bell in the common way. The tone was loud and mellifluous; but, on hearing it, all the boys, headed by the sacristan, fled down the steps gasping with mirth. However, as it was nothing to me if I had given untimely warning of some holy hour, I stayed among the bells until I had seen enough of the town, and then descended and ~vent off to my hotel. From this experience I fancied Jost~ might prove a rogue. On the contrary, however, for, in the matter of separating his hours of business from his hours of play, he was a boy singularly gifted. We started betimes on a sunny March morning. The mare took kindly to me from the outset, and I have nothing but praise to say of her. Jos~ carried my knapsack, for it was unbecoming in a ca- ballero to be burdened with aught save a bit of stick, tufted with horsehair, to use in warfare with the flies. The boy kept his yellow-leather boots on until we were out of the town. Then he slung them over his shoulder instead, and chant- ed disturbing madi-igals at the top of his voice. I learnt to know that whenever I wished to depress the boys spirits, I had but to tell him to get into his boots. In- stantly thereafter his lip fell, and in glum silence he trudged after the mare with the nerveless swing of a south-country tramp who has seen all his bright days. But as on such occasions he became also very thick-headed, failing to understand the simplest remark, however well accent- ed, I was generally as willing to have him barefooted as he was glad to be so. A few words about the configuration and natural scenery of the island of Tenerife are, I think, here needful for the better understanding of the scheme and pleasures of our little tour. Every one, of course, knows that there is a famous mountain in Tenerife, called the Peak. Some geologists, indeed, say that the Peak is all the island, that, from the shore line of all the fifty leagues circuit, the land rises upwards simply and solely to help in the perfection of the Peak. But this is a disputed point, soluble only by a very minute investigation into the nature and age of the various mountain ranges of Tenerife. The Peak is thought to be a very steep hill. In fact, however, the average angle of its acclivity, from the sea level to the summit, does not exceed twelve or thirteen degrees. It is twelve thousand one hundred and eighty feet high, and the ascent begins at Orotava, about twelve miles distant from it. The last fe~v thousand feet of the climb are certainly a little precipitous. Their gra- dient varies from thirty to forty-two de- grees. Moreover, the soil is a fine, yield- ing pumice dust, which offers the most insecure of footholds, and the most feeble of leverages for upward movement. It is the cone of Tenerife that one usually sees from the Atlantic, at a distance of from fifty to a hundred miles. The rest of the island is usually mantled in the clouds 182 SKETCHES IN TENERIFE. which the Peak draws around its loins dur- heaths, growing gigantic at a height of ing the greater part of the year. And it is from four to five thousand feet above the the appearance of the abrupt, isolated cone sea. The bright yellow Canarian pines as it were between heaven and earth follow the heaths, and struggle into life that makes one think the mountain must among the arid disintegrating lava and be as complete as possible a test of the powdered pumice which here cover the pluck and tenacity of an alpine climber, hot rocks. As for the scenery of Tenerife, it is re- But when we have left the red roofs of markable. You may choose your climate Orotava some seven thousand feet below on this small island in the Atlantic as us, and have also overtopped the very emphatically as if you had a continent at cloud which girdles the island, there is your disposal. And of course the vege- no vegetation to cheer the eye save the tation varies with the temperature. In silver-grey bushes of the retama. The Porto Orotava, for example, which is a Peak rises from the centre of a parching, coast to~vn, we lived in the midst of palm- infertile plateau of yellow pumice sand trees, bananas, flowering oleanders, aloes, about twenty miles in circuit. in the and fig-trees. The heat here after early whole of this elevated expanse, there is morning, even in March, made movement not one habitation. The solitary tray- a decided trial. Not that the thermome- eller, who from fatigue or other disabling ter marked a high register, but the ait is cause here chanced to die, might, by the so dry that ones strength seemed to ex- action of the sun and the pure, desiccating hale from ones body in search of the air, be transformed into an excellent mum- moisture it desired but could not obtain, my, ere a ~vandering goatherd discovered We lived here under tropical conditions. his body. The man who was so unfortunate as to So varied is the scenery of Tenerife, die might rely upon being buried the same and so compact is the island, that in a evening. And as the evenings are de- days ride one may go from palms and lightful in Tenerife, and a funeral proces- banannas through woods of chestnuts and sion with its attendance of chanting priest, thickets of heaths to these same naked acolytes with lamps and so forth, is a pic. acres of lava detritus, where the big re- turesque ceremony, the dead man might, fulgent lizards that glide over the scori~ if he were able, also assure himself that are the only signs of aniral life, and where he would be followed to the grave by a the atmosphere is so rarefied that a weak large company of friends anxious to do man gasps for his breath. him honor, and to take the air at the same One other characteristic of the country time. must be mentioned the barrancos. But at an altitude of two or three thou- These deep cuts in the body of the land sand feet above Orotava, higher up on the radiate from the old crater or plateau from slopes of the Peak, the climate is very which the cone of the Peak ascends, and different. It is colder, of course, and they terminate only at the coast. I do not more bracing. Potato-fields and barley know how many dozen of them there are cover the land, and instead of bananas in the north, west, and south sides of the hung with ripe fruit, we have forests of island, with depths to be bottomed by the chestnut-trees with never a leaf upon traveller varying from about one thousand them until May is far advanced. We are five hundred to two thousand feet. Some here, too, in the midst of the obstinate are dug with sides nearly perpendicular. cloud which hangs about the Peak for In such cases the track of descent and weeks at a time. From the lower fringe ascent is a perilous zigzag path scratched of it we can look down upon the sunlit in the rock wallsa path, moreover, rocks and sands of Orotava; but above which the prickly pears do their best to and all round the vapor stays dense and expunge by the persistency with which impermeable. It is in this zone of coun- they mat their formidable arms across it. try that the Tenerife goats live and thrive. It is prudent to leave horse or mule to it- They descend to the coast towns every self in these barrancos; ones own feet are day, where their shepherds take them a sufficiently onerous responsibility. And from house to house, and draw the milk to show that the stranger may have his from them to order in the presence of blood upon his own head if he determines each householder. Then they all climb to be reckless in these ravines, there are the ~veary hills to feed themselves into many rude little crosses stuck in awkward condition for the morrows milking, places to commemorate this or that fatal Above the zone of chestnuts is the zone accident, and the peasant whom destiny of laurels. After the laurels come the has given you for a temporary roadfellow SKETCHES IN TENERIFE. 183 between two villages, ~vill be voluble with storres about those of his acquaintance who have fallen over the rocks into the dry blue river bed six or seven hundred feet down, just as you might fall if you slipped to the left that selfsame moment. When I had made acquaintance with two or three of the barrancos of Tenerife, I began to bless Lorenzo that he had given me Jos6 to hold the mare. But we were spared these particular trials on the first day of our journey. We were to sleep at a little town called Icod, whither the highroad goes nearly all the way. For the most part, we kept about a thousand feet above the sea, with a wall of rock many hundred feet high on the left hand, and on the right a jungle of useful vegetation to the shore-line. The green drapery of the reddish rocks of this pre- cipitous wall was very beautiful. Maiden- hair and other ferns grew large from the midst of a hanging garden of bramble, wild vines, scrub fig, and caroub, and the water-drops dripped from the leaves into a canal, which dispersed the precious liquor among the beans and potatoes on the other side of the road. There are two small towns between Orotava and Icod Realejo and Rambla. Realejo is built on a high slope, with a ravine crossing the slope and dividing the town into two parts. It is a pretty place, with its white church-tower rising above the houses, and the eccentric candelabra of the branches of its dragon-trees one over the other. It is also famous histor- ically for here in 1496, the king of the Guanches, or aborigines of Tenerife, re- signed his sovereignty, and consented to be baptized, and acknowledge the king of Spain as king of Tenerife also. Poor old Bencomo! He had made a brave, if rather impolitic, fight against the Spaniards for two years. The first battle was a victory to be proud of; for did he not kill eight hundred of the Spanish army of one thou- sand two hundred? But the natural good. ness (simplicity, if you will) of the king of the Guanches forbade him to take advan- tage of this victory, by driving the rem- nant of his enemies out of the country which they had so impudently laid hands upon. He allowed them to rest, and re- cruit their forces from the Peninsula. Nay, more; he sent back to them some score of prisoners, taken in the battle of Matanza, with the message that he did not war ~vith helpless men such as they; and he aided them with food as unselfishly as if he were a Christian knight, instead of a mere barbarian. Two years after Ma- tanza, the Guanches and the Spaniards met at Realejo, for a contest that was to be decisive. And here Bencomo, heartbroken by the losses he had sustained in the death, by war and pestilence, of so many thousands of his subjects, made a com- promise to spare further bloodshed, and bowed his head in the camp of Lugo, the conquistador. It was on the site of the baptism of Bencomo, that, later, the first Christian church in Tenerife ~vas built to memorialize the event. The old Guanches had a singular aver- sion to bloodshed and bloodshedders. This was strangely brought home to me as Jose and I proceeded through the out- skirts of Realejo. Set in the middle of a bridge over a ra~ine, we came to a little square, solid building, ~vith barred win- dows, like a prison. It was a butchers shop. I do not doubt that its isolation was due to the ancient Tenerifan tradition, whereby a butcher was held to be an out- cast, and was forbidden to have inter- course with other peol)le. If he wanted anything, he had to stand aloof and point at it. In return for his self-sacrifice in undertaking this degrading office, the butcher had all his needs supplied by the rest of the community. When the Guanches wished to treat a Spanish pris- oner with the extreme of indignity, they condemned him to kill the flies which ~vorried the goats in their pasture. Once only, on our way to Icod, did we descend to the sea-level. This was at the cheerless little town of Rambla. It is built on a black promontory of lava, the rough edges and scori~ of which are frightful to behold. Nevertheless, it is not wholly a place of gloom. For the blue sea broke into white foam upon its cruel, distorted rocks; and the industry of the townspeople had erected gardens in the middle of this small wilderness, so that the bright greenery of vines and pota- toes, with the dull red roofs of the houses, and the olive and grey balconies, made a show of color. Inland, we could track the lava flow up the mountain-side until it was lost to sight among the spurs of the Peak. I visited the church of Rambla, but with no lively expectations. As a rule, the church architecture of Tenerife has little originality. It is the ambition of every small town to have a fine bell-tower in which the boys ~ay stand to knock the bells at their convenience. After the bell-to~ver, I think an altar to the Virgin de Ia Concepcion is most fancied. I wonder how many of these figures I have seen in the Canaries, all modelled upon Murillos beautiful Virgin in the Louvre, but with such variety of ex~c1t~~~ -~~ 184 SKETCHES IN TENERIFE. adornment! S. Lorenzo is another fa- mous subject for an altar in Tenerife. In some villages they furnish the statue with a large gridiron of Birmingham manufac- ture, as if the more forcibly to appeal to the sympathies of the people. Indeed, I have seen a young girl on her knees be- fore one such figure, and with a tender glistening of tears in her dark eyes, as she gazed motionless at the saint and the tes- timony of his martyrdom. Here at Rambla, however, I was sud- denly immersed in an atmosphere of per- fume when I pushed aside the heavy wooden door. It was the Friday before Palm Sunday; and in preparation for the day the pavement was littered with the petals of roses and red geraniums, and the many little altars of this little church were bedecked with boughs of bloom of various kinds. A number of women ~vere kneel- ing here and there among the rose-leaves; and in the far end, by the altar, there peeped from the eave of his confessional the round head of a priest, who was lis- tening to the murmur of a penitent at his feet. Of course the ladies, for the mo- ment, forgot their devotions when they saw a man in riding-dress and heavy boots come crushing amid the flowers on the floor. They fell a-whispering, and smil- ing, and fanning themselves, and those of them who were very far gone in worldli- ness felt their faces to ascertain if the po~vder still lay upon their cheeks in a comely manner. But in justice to them and the father in his confessional, who peered forth several times with an un- amiable expression on his broad counte- nance, and in justice to myself also, I did not stay long in the little church. Such a curious, unreal, mannikin place of ~vorship I never saw before. From the coro in the ~vest, with its banisters spotted with white mould, and its rafters a dull scarlet, green, and gold, to the flash of similar colors in the east of the church, with a little blue added to the prevalent green and gold, the whole seemed to me like a somewhat stale old dolls house, with groups of queer movahle dolls set about the pavement. The very lintel of the porch and the cross beams within the church were colored ~vith dry-rot, and the flags under ones feet oscillated as one moved from one to another. It was one oclock before my mare set her hoofs upon the slippery grass-grown cobbles of the streets of Icod. Though we had done but half a days work, we were all tired; the animal, of the rough dusty track and the flies; I, of the heat of the sun and the labor entailed in freeing her from the worst of the flies; and Josd, of an empty stomach. To the Plaza de Ia Constitucion, where there is an inn, we therefore made our anxious way. The landlady proved to be a kind soul, not un- used to English faces, and a little more resolute in her welcome of a guest than a Spanish hotel-keeper is wont to be. In Icod are two or three objects of in- terest which a tourist is supposed to come to see. There is a cave, in old times used as a Pantheon for the Guanche dead, which is reputed to crawl five or six dark miles through the bowels of the land until it comes to the crater of the Peak. But the mummies and dust of the old occu- pants of the graves are now gone from it, and no one has yet had the hardihood to worm his way through its toilsome and perilous passages to test the truth of the legend about its length. Another sight of the place is the famous dragon-tree, which now takes rank as the patriarch of its kind in the island. Its age is reckoned by thousands of years. Early in the century there stood in Oro- tava one of these trees measuring thirty. five and a half feet in circumference at a height of six feet from the ground. Hum- boldt computed its age at ten thousand years. He spoke at random, no doubt; but as there exists a little dragon-tree known to be nearly four hundred years old, and as this tree is not yet a foot in circumference, it is apparent that this vet- eran had lived through many centuries. But since Humboldts time the tree has died of old age and ~veather shocks ; and the Icod dragon-tree reigns in its stead. Many are the legends which this very eccentric species of tree has originated. Even as the Canary Isles are said to be the Garden of the Hesperides, so the dragon-tree is identified ~vith the dragon that guards the golden apples of those happy realms. One antiquarian has as- sured himself that a keen eye may discern the very outline of a dragon in the pulp of the fruit of the tree. A French writer goes a little farther and avers that the tree is no tree, but a con- gregationof livinganimalcuke, six millions of which go to a cubic inch. In truth, however, it seems to be merely a mam- moth breed of asparagus, gifted with ex- treme longevity. As for the dragons blood, that is the reddish sap of the tree. This resinous exusion was for some time one of the most valuable of the exports of these islands. European apothecaries had as strong a fancy for it as for the mum- mies of the Guanches, whom they beat with their pestles into various agreeable SKETCHES IN TENERIFE. 185 medicines of price. In appearance the dragon tree is a most symmetrical cande- labra. The gnarled trunk rises free from branches until a certain stage. Then the boughs diverge with extre me regularity, and in their turn beget harmonious twigs tufted with sharp, olive-colored leaves. It is said that toothpicks made from the dragon.tree have properties beneficial for the teeth. But to my mind, neither the cave nor the dragon-tree together, are a tithe ~f the charm of Icod de los Vinos. It has a wonderful situation on the actual northern slope of the Peak. imagine a glacial mass proceeding straight from the sum- mit of a mountain to the sea between high rocks, and with a town built on it half-way in its course ; such, in some sort, is the aspect of Icod. In a direct line the cone of the Peak cannot be more than six or seven miles from the houses of the town; and from the white roof of the little inn I looked at the broad swelling mountain, ~vith its snowy cap, closing the upland view, and pronounced Icod divine. Me- thought it were easy to climb thence to the cone of the Peak in an hour or two; but I learnt that it was impossible. The slope of pumice on the northern side is too steep. I bore a letter of introduction to a rich citizen of Icod, who came to the inn to see me. He had lived in the United States many years ago; but his English had rusted from disuse, and he was a man of so humble a turn that he chose rather to speak little than to speak ill. I praised the beauty of the place he had fixed upon to cheer him in the autumn of his life. His humor, however, was melancholic, and he retorted that life was hard, very hard. He was a kind man, of whom oth- ers spoke well, but, I am afraid, one of those ~vho learn wisdom and acquire pelf only through much travail of experience. In the evening, I visited him at his house and I shall not soon forget him as I saw him immured in his lofty, well-filled library, reading there by the light of a single candle. There was a skull on his table, and, when my friend came to the door to meet me, all else was so dark that I saw nothing distinctly except the skull. For the moment, he affected a mood of levity, and talked of billiards and whist at the club; but nature asserted itself by-and- by, and he made many distressful remarks as we paced up and down the moonlit streets. This worthy, but sorrow-stained man, gave me a card to the alcalde, or mayor of Garachico, whither I walked on the afternoon of our arrival at Icod. Ga- rachico is a sad town. Three centuries ago it was rich in noble and conventual houses, and ships from many countries came to its port. The green cliffs of the land fell close to the sea. lt was a local vaunt that a man might shoot and fish thereon at the same time. But in 1706, Teide ruined Garachico. A volcano sud- denly appeared on the high ground, some thousand feet above the town, but peril- ously near to it. Then came the lava. It surged over the cliffs, and step by step sur- rounded and destroyed the town. Monks and nuns, hidalgos and peasants, hastened away from the doomed place to Icod. Nor did the lava rest when the town was burnt, and in great part submerged. It ran on into the port, which in course of time it choked, so that thereafter no mer- chantmen could anchor in the place which had been considered the best harbor of Tenerife. In this ~vay, Garachico got its death-blow. It was despoiled of its com- mercial importance. Every yard of its cultivable land was buried many feet deep under the lava. And the convenient cliff, which had been a glory of the town, was now scarred into ugliness by the congela- tion of the fiery cascade which had fallen over its lip. The path from Icod led me down through a lovely valley,4bright with the green~and gold of orange groves, nisperos, tall maize, sugarcane, vines, and fig-trees. Groups of feathery palms stood from the lower slopes, with the blue sea beyond them. The verdure of the precipitous rocks that hedged the vale ~vas astonish- ing. They were draped with vines and brambles, falling in long trails unbroken for scores of feet; crimson and yellow flowers bloomed in the rock-sides; and the persevering verode, a circular evergreen, that seems to exist without a stem, stuck like a plaster to so much of the rock as was otherwise unappropriated. The water, that is the cause of the verdure, was car- ried from side to side of the valley in a thin, spidery aqueduct of pine-troughs, from the many leaks of ~vhich the lower lands enjoy a perpetual shower-bath. A great rock stands by the road where Garachico begins, and a crucifix sur- mounts the rock. In the contracted bay, which is now Garachicos apology for a harbor, there is another rock rising per- haps two hundred feet out of the water. On this also a wooden cross meets the eye. Elsewhere are other crosses, scratched on the lava boulders which have tumbled from the mountain heights, or set by the sea in the black volcanic sand, beyond the i86 WORKING PRINCES. reach of the tide. Thus Garachico pleads with Heaven that it may be spared future devastation. The alcalde of the town told me the story of 1706 with as much feeling and precision as if he had been an interested witness of the wreck. He entertained me with Basss ale and biscuits of Huntley and Palmer; and as we sat in the shade on the roof of his house, with a big En- glish retriever at our feet, he pointed out the rigid current that had sped from the bowels of Teide, and dispersed itself among the houses. Anon we visited the parochial church, and here was the mark, fifteen feet from the ground, which the lava had reached in its flow. In the streets are the shells of many fair build- ings, ~vith Corinthian pillars, chiselled balconies, and dainty heraldic work over their deserted portals; but there is noth- ing behind these imposing fa~ades. The remains of Garachicos cascz fuerfe, or guard-house, still stand by the sea with t~vo or three unlimbered guns by its bat- tlements. But it is now a purposeless fort, since the harbor it protected is gone. The duties of the present recalled Don Gregorio, the alcalde, from his kindly ret- rospect of the past for my behoof. We were passing the municipal buildings, when a sound that was half-bawl, and half- sob, came to afflict us. Caramba ejaculated Don Gregorio, taking his cigar from his lips. Whats that? And he looked down at his dog with such an expression of uncertainty, that the animal barked from sympathy. Ah, I remember, he added, with a smile, and a shrug of the shoulders. Calling to a slipshod man, he sent him to the town-clerk for a key. We then proceeded into an overgrown garden of the inner courtyard of a deserted monastic building, and, using the key, Don Grego. rio exposed a little space of grassy ground, with a stone seat in a corner, and a wailing, red-faced woman sitting on the seat. No sooner did we appear, than the woman went to the alcaldes knees, and entreated him tearfully with a torrent of words. Oh no! she is not so very bad, said Don Gregorio to me. Then to the sup- pliant: Get up, woman, and go to your home ! This, with many benedictory appeals to the Virgin, the woman did not delay to do, taking with her a crust of bread that had lain among the grass. She was the sole prisoner in the prison of ~Garachico; and Don Gregorio had but yesterday sentenced her to three days incarceration, upon bread and water, for being drunk and disorderly. From The Corohill Magazine. WORKING PRINCES. VERILY the world owes a debt of grati- tude to the old duke Maximilian in Ba- varia, if it be for nothing but the education he gave to his sons. It must be the re- sult of their early training that two of these, Prince Lud~vig and the duke Karl Theodor, have been able to solve the problem, How, in this democratic age, can princes earn an honest livelihood? They have solved it simply and manfully, never forgetting the while that, by the old royal signification of their title, they must be the first, not to receive, but to render aid. In the palace of Luxemburg there is a picture of the five elder children of Duke Maximilian, every one of whom, even at that early age the eldest does not look more than fifteen shows signs not only of great personal beauty but of intelli- gence of a most unusual order. It is im- possible to look into the large, dark, earnest eyes they all possess, to note their mingled expression of wistfulness and reckless daring, and not feel that nature herself has stamped them as something apart from ordinary, commonplace mor- tals. Enthusiasm and genius are written too plainly on their faces for them ever to be found among the crowd of those who patiently submit to the monotonous routine of everyday existence. Nor have their fortunes belied their faces. In the lives of each of those five there have been bright touches, vivid patches, episodes tragic or comic as you may view them such as rarely fall to the lot of princes. Caroline, the eldest and perhaps the most beautiful of the daughters, was, whilst still a child, selected as a fitting bride for the heir to the Austrian crown, and al- though there was no formal betrothal her father was informed that she must be educated in such a way as ~vould fit her for her future grandeur. This was more easily said than done, for money was scarce in the ducal palace; but the whole family, from the duke himself to his youngest child, seem to have thrown themselves con ~z~nore into the work, and to have cheerfully economized for the sake of the fortunate Caroline. She had professors and teachers of the best, and she well repaid all the care that was lay- ished upon her, for at nineteen, clever, accomplished, and regally beautiful, she was the very ideal of what a queen should be. But The best laid schemes o mice an men Gang oft a-gley. WORKING PRINCES. 187 When the time for the marriage drew near, the young emperor Joseph came on a visit to the Duke in Bavaria (the family title is in, not of ), that he might make the acquaintance of his future wife. 1-le gazed at the stately young creature ~vho had been so carefully trained for him with respectful admiration, but he fell violently in love with her madcap younger sister, Elizabeth, who, regarded in the family as a mere child, and one, too, for whom no high destiny was in store, had been allowed to pass her days on horse- back scouring the country side. Minis- ters and courtiers stood aghast, but argu- ment and persuasion were alike wasted on the emperor, who refused to see that a lack of accomplishments was a blemish in the one whom he loved; and a few months later Elizabeth, thorough child as she was, knowing no more of the etiquette of courts than the veriest little garnine, entered Vienna in state, as empress of Austria and queen of Hungary. Although this happened more than thirty years ago, she has not yet learnt to submit with patience to the restraints that hedge in the lives of sovereigns; and the Viennese, in spite of their love for their beautiful empress, openly mourn that the emperor should have chosen one who regards a court ball as a penance, and a state ceremony as a thing scarcely to be lived through. From the day of her marriage it seems to have been her constant endeavor to shake off the fetters of her station; and perhaps the happiest hours of her life are those in which, whilst following the hounds in En- gland, or hunting the chamois in her na- tive land, she is able to forget that she is empress-queen. For her age, the empress Elizabeth is the youngest-looking woman in Europe. When one sees her slight, graceful form, eyes brilliant with life and vigor, and com- plexion that flushes and pales ~vith every passing emotion, it seems absurd that she should be the grandmother of big boys and girls. the forsaken one, seems to Caroline, have met her fate with true royal equa- nimity. Perhaps she thought that as her sister gained what she lost it did not really matter. If one may judge by her face, her life has not been a happy one. When she was about four-and-twenty she was married to the prince of Thurn and Taxis, who died some nine years later. Marie Sophie, too,the youngest of the three sisters in the picture, has had her share of adventures. Married before she was eighteen to the prince royal of Na- ples, afterwards King Francis II., she was not destined long to wear a crown; and it is as ex-queen, not as queen, that we all think of her. if report be true, this winter she is going to try ~vhat hunting and horse- racing in England will do towards satisfy- ing her craving for excitement. It is in the sons, not the daughters, however, that the peculiar gifts of the famify come most to the fore. The work Karl Theodor, Duke Maximilians second son, is doing has already attracted no little attention in Europe. The veriest medical student whose life and bread depended upon his work never threw himself into the study of medicine with half the ardor of this young scion of royalty. When a boy, botany and chemistry were his favor- ite pursuits; and no sooner were his school-days over than he undertook med- icine as a serious study, attending the lectures, going through the hospitals, and finally passing the examinations that qual- ified him to practise as a doctor. Nor did his work end here. Having chosen the eye as his speciality, he devoted some years to a careful study of the various theories concerning the treatment of the blind. This done, he travelled through Europe, seeking the advice and help of every oculist of special eminence in his profession; and it was only when he had learned from them all they could teach him that he returned to his l)alace at Tegern, ~vhere he established himself as a regular oculist. Any one may consult him, his door stands open to all the world; the only difference between him and any other practitioner being that his rate of charges varies in direct ratio with the wealth of those who seek his aid. If he perform an operation for a rich man, the princes fee is the same as that of any other doctor of equal skill, neither more nor less; if, ho~vever, the l)atient he one of those whose means do not allow of their indulging in such expensive luxuries as great doctors, well, he lowers his charges to what they can afford to pay; whilst, as for the poor not merely mendicants, but officers with thirty pounds a year, civilians with perchance fortyall such as these Duke Karl Theodor not only attends with- out fee, but whilst they are under his care he receives them as guests, feeding and caring for them with the most kindly thoughtfulness. Surely this is an ideal social arrange- ment I Other princes before now have received fees, but which of them ever ren- dered real honest value in return as Duke Karl Theodor is doing? The old dukes eldest son, Prince Ludwig, is in some re- spects more interesting even than Karl i88 WORKING PRINCES. Theodor. He is now a man about fifty. five, tall and dark, with a haggard, care- worn face, the result of constant ill-health. There is a subtle resemblance, both in appearance and manner, between him and the well-known actor Mr. Henry Irving; one of the princes favorite gestures the ~vay he throws over his left shoulder the long military cloak he generally wears might have been studied at the Lyceum. When about four-and- twenty Prince Ludwig fell violently in love with a beau- tiful young actress who had just taken the world by storm, and insisted upon marry- rying her. But this could not be done without a terrible battle, for a hundred petty restrictions hem in the liberty of German princes; and although his father took no active steps to prevent the mar- riage, the king of Bavaria, his grandfather, opposed it most vehemently, and even the emperor Joseph, in whom one might have thought the prince would have found a stout ally, turned traitor, and declared one love-match in a family was enough. But threats and entreaties ~vere alike powerless to turn Prince Ludwig from his course; even the declaration that if he persisted he would forfeit his majorat failed to move him, and in 1857, in order that he might be able to marry the woman he loved so passionately, he cheerfully surrendered all his rights and allowed his younger brother, Karl Theodor (who did so most reluctantly and only under strong compulsion), to take his place as future head of the family. The marriage seems to have proved a singularly happy one; to this day the princes manner to his wife, the Baroness von Wallersee, as she is styled, is more that of a lover than a middle-aged married man. She, too, unlike the generality of her profession, is a model wife, with a perfect genius for diffusing brightness and happiness around her. They have no children, and live for the greater part of the year in a simple suite of apartments at Bad-Kreuth that strange anomaly, a lucrative business combined with a most generous charity over which Prince Ludwig presides, a royally courteous and kindly host. Bad-Kreuth, perhaps the most ancient of the Alpine health-resorts, consists of some half-dozen houses built by the side of a spring of mineral water, on an ele- vated plateau on the north-western side of the Hohlenstein, one of the higher Alps that form the boundary between Bavaria and the Tyrol. In 754 A.D. the Burgun. dian princes Adalbert and Otkar pre- sented the valley of the Weissach, in which it lies, to the Benedictine monks of Tegern, who were not long in discovering that the water in their new domain pos- sessed strange, if not miraculous, quali- ties. They built a bath-house at Kreuth to which they used to send the invalids of their order. This buWding was acciden. tally burnt down in 1627, but a new one, larger and more commodious, replaced it; and the old monastic chronicle relates that in 1707 Abbot Quirinus IV. further enlarged the baths, built a chapel, and furnished these valuable healing waters with special conveniences for his folks. When, in 1803, the Benedictine order at Teger n was suppressed, Bad-Kreuth passed into the hands of a farmer, who thought more of its fertile soil than of its healing waters. Ten years later, however, King Max of Bavaria bought the land and laid the foundation of the present estab- lishment. At his death it passed into the hands of his widow, Queen Caroline, from her to her son, and then to her grandson, Karl Theodor. But although he, as Duke in Bavaria, is the owner of Kreuth, the real moving spirit of the institution is his brother Prince Ludwig. The whole of Bad-Kreuth houses, spring, land, and everything you can see for miles around belongs to the ducal family. The servants are theirs, and the entire management of the establishment is more or less under their immediate su- perintendence. For three months in the year June, July, and August Kreuth is simply a health-resort for southern Germans, who engage their rooms, give their orders, and pay their bills as in any other hotel. These are the paying guests, and this is the princes harvest-time ; for, as he is his own butcher, brewer, dairy- man, and baker, after defraying all ex- penses a handsome surplus must remain to him. He does not profess that during these months his terms are lower than those of other hotels ; the visitors are in the midst of exquisite scenery, have com- fortable rooms, and are provided with dainty food; for these advantages they must pay; and it is only fair to add that for the additional luxury the halo of royalty that is cast around themthey are not charged. During May and Sep- tember the duke will have none of these paying guests, but fills his house with what he calls his friends, that is, with the people found everywhere, but nowhere in such quantities as in Germany those who are too proud to ask for charity and who yet stand sorely in need of alittle help. Officers who have nothing but their pay to depend upon, university students WORKING PRINCES. 189 trying to combine teaching and learning, poor professors, struggling literary men, artists who have got their way to make, failures of every shape and sort, all make their way to Kreuth. For two months in the year there are between two and three hundred of these visitors at the hotel, where they are all housed, tended, and fed as carefully as the wealthiest guests, and that, too, without its costing them one penny Nor is it only at this time that the princes friends are to be found at Kreuth; if, at the height of the season, a room is left vacant, some poor invalid is invited to occupy it, and you would never guess from the manner of the host or his servants that the new arrival was not a millionaire. Kreuth hospitality does not even end here. There is one unpretentious house, standing a little apart from the rest, that is called Das K6nighaus, and is reserved for the use of the royal family; but as the Bavarian princes never live in it they have made it into a kind of house of refuge for those poor little German princes and nobles, with their long pedigrees and empty purses, to whom an outing gratis is as welcome a boon as to their more plebeian fellows. Occasionally real kings and queens, attracted by the beauty of the surroundings and the marvellous purity of the air, spend a few weeks in Das K6nig haus. The empress of Austria and her youngest daughter are staying there now. During the summer I spent at Kreuth the king of Wiirtemberg, the ex-queen of Na- ples, the princess Frederica of Hanover (who was entered in the list as princess of Great Britain), and a score of other royalties were there; but they seemed to have cast aside all thought of etiquette or rank, and mingled with the other guests on terms of the most friendly equality. The scarlet coat of the princess Fred. ericas one attendant was the only sign of royalty I detected. To one and all, whether paying guest, royal visitor, or friend, Prince Ludwigs r~anner is the same that of a friendly, courteous host. He has the true royar~ift of never forgetting a face or a name, and as he walks on the long covered terrace or in the grounds no one is overlooked; he has a kindly greet- ing, a sympathetic inquiry, a pleasant word, for each in turn. It is strange that Bad.Kreuth should be so little known to English travellers, for it is certainly one of the most lovely of the Alpine health-resorts; and although, fortunately for those ~vho stay there, it is off the tourists highway, it is easy of ac cess. The railway journey from Munich to Gmund, on the Tegern -See, takes less than two hours, and Bad-Kreuth lies some eight miles beyond. From Tegern-See, a large, beautiful lake surrounded by tiny villages, the road winds up the valley of the Weissach, a river, or rather a raging, tearing torrent, which starts on its course high u~ in the Alps beyond Kreuth, and is soon joined by two other mountain streams the Gerlosbach and the Klambach which come dashing down the rocks, forming a thousand cascades, fountains, and water- falls on their way; the three rush on to. gether, always meeting other streams and dragging the m along in their own wild race until they all reach the Tegern-See. The rugged heights of the l3iauberg shut in the valley on the south ; on the east are the Walberg, Setzberg, and Ross. stein lofty, forest-covered mountains; whilst on the west, the great conical Leon- hardstein towers above the Raucheck and the Hirschberg. At the head of the val- ley, standing as it were under the shadow of the Blauberg, is the Hohlenstein, ~vhich on its north-western side, at an elevation of nearly three thousand feet, forms a ter- race-like projection, so regular in form that at a first glance it seems impossible it should be the unaided work of nature. On this terrace is the sulphur well to which the little health-resort owes its ori- gin. Bad-Kreuth lies in the region of mead- o~vs where the beech, birch, ash, silver fir, and pine flourish; the forests arouni being almost impenetrable from the Alpine honeysuckle and other shrubs that cling to the ground. A thousand feet higher, however, few trees are to be found with the exception of firs and pines, and soon even these become stunted and meagre, and the grey, barren mountains are left without cover. It is curious how color seems to vary with height. In the vil- lages around Tegern-See the flowers are quite startling from their brilliancy; the huge beds of scarlet geraniums and pinks at Egern are almost overpowering on a hot summer day; but as you advance up the valley you soon lose sight of these, and their place is taken by the columbine, yellow violet, campanula, orchid, and fern, all of delicate coloring; and these in their turn must make ~vay for the gentian, yel- low, violet, and blue Alpine rose, nigri- tella, mountain forget-me-not, and yellow auricula; whilst in the higher crevices of the rocks, maidenhair and edelweiss flour- ish. Nor is the fauna of th~ Weissach 190 COMMERCIAL HYDRAULICS. valley less varied than its flora. Al- though the bear and lynx are now un- known there, half a century ago it was one of their favorite haunts ; it is still no unusual sight, whilst breakfasting at Kreuth, to see a herd of chamois grazing on the Griineck, and after nightfall stags and red deer may often be encountered in the woods; legends speak, too, of the golden eagles that are there, but it was not my luck to see them. For the restless those unhappy be- ings whose only conception of bliss is movement Kreuth has another charm it is a perfectly ideal centre for excur- sions. Not half a mile from the hotel is the highway from Bavaria into the Tyrol, from which roads and paths of every description branch off in all directions. The Tyroler road itself is well made and ~vell kept, and passes through scenes of marvellous beauty. On this road, about seven miles from Kreuth, is the little ham- let of Glashiitte, only a church and a few cottages now, but eight hundred years ago a flourishing industrial settlement. It was here that the good monks of Tegern had their glass-manufactory perhaps the first in Germanyand the old chronicle says that by the year 1005 their skilful hands could not execute all the orders they received. The Grosse Wolfschlucht, where the valley ends abruptly in an im- mense gloomy cavern, and the Kleine Wolfschlucht, a less majestic but more picturesque ravine, both offer charming expeditions. The Langenau, a lovely lit- tle valley that winds round the foot of the Hohlenstein; the Kaiserklause, where on St. Bartholomews day the peasants, in their picturesque costumes, with zithers in their hands, hold their dances; and Tegern, with its old Benedictine abbey, are all within easy distances. A drive of thirteen miles brings you to Archensee, the largest lake in northern Tyrol, in the midst of the wildest and most romantic scenery. After the bright flowers and green fields of Tegern, Archensee, with all its beauty, is certainly depressing. The high mountains which, rising sheer from the ~vater-edge, tower above the lake seem to have a lowering, sinister aspect, as if the deities who dwell there view hu- manity with little favor. The heights, too, are hard and barren, and have lost those fantastic curves, points, and crev- ices which give such endless variety to the Hohlenstein and its neighbors. Geisalp, Blauberg, Kdnigsalp, Schilden- stein, Halserspitze7, Risserkogel, may all be ascended from Kreuth; but perhaps the finest panorama is obtained from the - top of the Schinderberg, a mountain lying rather to the east. From there you see in the far distance the mountains of Salz- burg and Styria, the Gletscher Range, and the snow-covered Gross Glockner; near at hand the Blauberg, with its sur- face all worn and furrowed by the force of the rushing torrents that spring from its side, and the Allg~uer Alps, stretching up their heads above their neighbors; then, between the Leonhardstein and the Rossstein, is the Schwarzenbach-Thal, with the lovely Schwarze Tenne elm, and the valley in which the Weissach winds and twists as if in no hurry to reach the silvery Tegern. On all sides lofty moun- tai ns towering above forest covered hills, shady valleys, barren peaks, foaming riv- ers, silvery streams, and tiny lakelets re- flecting dark firs and pines; all these combine to render the view unequalled for variety and beauty. As to all these natural beauties is added the attraction of a cordial royal welcome, and the chance of studying an interesting eleemosynary experiment, surely Bad- Kreuth is well worth a visit. From The Spectator. COMMERCIAL HyDRAULICS. XVHEN railways ~vere first introduced, some bold men were found to declare, though to incredulous ears, that, as a mat- ter of fact, the steam-engine would never kill the horse, and that the breed would not die out, in spite of the world ceasing to travel post. But though a remnant thus looked forward to the horse holding his own, it is not recorded that any apologists were found for the continued existence of canals. They, it was universally admitted, must be put an end to by the iron road, and the disappearance of our inland water- ways was only looked upon as a matter of time. Now, however, we are beginning to see that the huge extension of traffic and the whole industrial stimulus caused by the railways, will act with as great effect upon canals as upon the roads, the carriages, and the horses. The only dif- ference is that the effect upon the canals has been somewhat slower. Just as the number of miles of roads open, and of carts and horses, has increased out of all l)revious proportion since the building of the railways, so the water-ways will in the end be enormously multiplied. But though we are content, in spite of our greater COMMERCIAL HYDRAULICS. 191 skill, with the roads and the horses of our forefathers, we do not find their canals at all up to modern requirements. The feats of engineering performed in the building of the railways have taught us that we may now attempt much more than our predecessors dared, and thus, when we contemplate inland navigation, we are no more content with a narrow strip of water and slow barges, than we should be with a track for pack-horses instead of a high- ~vay. We can no longer submit to the delays and troubles of transfer from ship to barge; we must bring the great ships into the heart of the country, and endow our inland tdwns with ports and docks. Already we have got one huge scheme for a ship canal which will bring ocean- going steamers under the windows of the cotton dep6ts at Manchester, half com- pleted; and now plans are being launched for doing the same at Birmingham and Sheffield, and for cutting off the ugly angle of Cornwall and Devonshire by a canal from the Bristol to the English Channel, which will allow ships to bring Welsh coal into the south-coast ports ~vithout the present detour of near four hundred miles. This last scheme, if it is ever carried out, will indeed be a triumph of man over nature. The engineers who advocate one of the two plans for achiev- ing this junction of the seas, declare that the canal they propose need only have two locks, one at each end, and that its waters may be replenished from the sea, we wonder how the birds and wild ani- mals, hares, and stoats, and weasels, that come to drink at the new river will like the taste of the salt ~vater The canal is projected to start at Stolford, a Somerset- shire village on Bridgewater Bay, a little west of the mouth of the Parret. Thence it is proposed to carry it to Taunton, then to Exeter, and lastly, following the course of the estuary of the Exe, to a place called Langstone Bay, on the Channel and oppo- site Exmouth. This course, sixty-two miles in length, is by no means the short- est; but it avoids the ribs of hill with which the portions of Somersetshire and Devonshire to be traversed by the canal are studded, and reduces the deepest cut- ting to no more than two hundred feet. One of the features of the canal is that the projectors propose to utilize, by deep. ening and widening, the existing canals of the district. Exeter already has a floating basin connected with the sea by a canal over five miles long and capable of taking shps of four hundred tons. This canal will be among those acquired, and will be deepened and widened as may be neces- sary. The proposed canal, however, will in reality be much more than a widening and deepening of the existing water-ways; for it will be 125 feet wide at the surface, 36 feet at the bottom, and 21 feet deep, dimensions which it is stated will allow the passage of vessels of from one thou- sand to fifteen hundred tons. The cost will, no doubt, be great it is estimated at over 3,000,000 but the promoters of the project declare that the traffic in Welsh coal alone, which will thus be enabled to get to London and the southern counties without the expense of railway carriage, will be amply sufficient to make the un- dertaking pay. London, it is argued, now only draws one-fifteenth of her coal supply from Wales. If the canal enabled the Welsh colliers to get to London by only travelling 355 miles, or about the same distance as that ~vhich the colliers from the north have to traverse, the metropo- lis, it is c~lculated, would take half her coal from XVales, the steamers in the river using it to replenish their bunkers, and the manufacturers to run their en- gines. Such is the proposal to unite the Severn Sea with the English Channel. Undoubtedly there is a certain charm in the scheme. The thought of Taunton, deep in elm-fringed pastures and apple- orchards, awakening from the dream that has fallen on her since she sent her young men to perish at Sedgemoor, to find the tall ships passing beneath her red-brown tow- ers and unloading their freights at busy wharfs and docks, is indeed fascinating. The country between Manchester and the Mersey is so populous, so intersected by railways and canals already, so sophisti- cated in every way, that to find yet another mighty engineering work wakes no won- der of contrast. The deep salt-water river ~vinding through the So mersetshire pas- tures and by quiet, dwindling, inland vil- lages, sug~ e sts, however, feelings of quite another kind, and sets the mind at work on a thousand curious problems as to how the new road to the sea will affect the lives of the men and women suddenly set, as it were, upon its banks, who will find the salt stream cutting them off from their neighbors, dividing their parishes, and in- troducing into their lives such institutions as the ferry-boat, and such pastimes as rowing and sailing. There is another kind of hydraulic work, too, of which we shall yet see end- less repetitions, and that is the one just completed by the Liverpool Corporation Unable or disinclined to steal a lake,. as 192 COMMERCIAL HYDRAULICS. Manchester has done, Liverpool has re- solved to make one. Perhaps the most beautiful thing in the world is a clear, deep lake, set round about by steep and wooded hillsides. Such a lake the mayor and burgesses of the city of Liverpool have been making out of dry land for the past seven years to serve them as a water reservoir, and by the middle of next month their work will be practically completed. A writer in the Daily News has lately de- scribed the site of what, when it is finished, will be one of the most striking lakes in England. The surface of the lake will be eight hundred and twenty-five feet above the sea, and from its sides the mountains will rise to the height of from thirteen hun~ dred to twenty-two hundred feet. The val- ley which is thus to be utilized, called the Vyrnwy Valley, is in Montgomeryshire, and is about sixty-eight miles from Liver- pool. At present, it contains an inhabited village, with a church, two chapels, shops, an inn, slate-roofed cottages, and a post- office; and through it flows the Vyrnwy stream, spanned by a stone arched bridge. Soon, however, the life of the village must stop forever, and the inhabitants be gone never to return. For a week more the life may go on as usual, and then the opening in the great Cyclopean wall, at the end of the valley, where the stones are laid ten feet long, three feet wide, and one hundred feet high, and fitted together with cement harder than the stone itself, will be shut, and the water will rise and cover the roofs, and the church-tower, and the houses where men have been born and died. The dead are gone already, and the living must follow them, either to a vil- lage to be built round the new graveyard, where the forefathers of the hamlet have been taken and reburied under their own tombstones; or else to new homes where they will not even be able to look down upon, as often as the surface of the lake gro~vs clear, the roofs they once dwelt be- neath. No doubt it is necessary that the lake should be made, and no doubt the poor people have been properly compen- sated. Still, it is impossible not to feel touched at the fate of the villagers. Even men ~vho have voluntarily left it, have a soft place in their hearts for their birth- place, and would hate to hear of its de- struction. What must it be to those who are still home-keepers, to have the houses vhere they were born and where their fathers died, blotted out forever from all human recognition? There is a grey. green lake in the Italian Tyrol formed by great landslip, which drowned a whole village, where tradition says the church- bells still ring to service. Its fate, how- ever, is not half so moving as that of the village which must die that the great city of the north may drink. To founder amid the wreck of nature seems somehow less sad than to perish by a cold and nerveless power engendered of the toil of a swarm of human ants. But if we find a pathos in the fate of Vyrnwy, we must not forego a word of delight and admiration for the work which has enabled man to drown the valley, the great dam built to keep back the waters. People talk as if the work of the present day was never equal to that of the past. Probably the great wall of hewn stone at Vyrnwy, sunk sixty feet below the ground to reach a foundation of rock, towering one hundred feet high, and stretching i,i~ feet long, has never been equalled even in the great tanks in Ceylon; it has certainly never been surpassed in perfection of masonry. Every stone has been squared and draughted all round, the outer face only being left rough, and in look the courses of the mason~Q~are said to resemble the great ~vall of f e emple at Jerusalem at the Jews W4ling.Place. Before each stone was put in its place, it was carefully washed, so that no extraneous matter might possibly interfere with the stability of the structure. Along the top of the great wall runs a road~vay, seventeen feet wide, resting upon arches under which the overflow~of the lake will run, a fea- ture ~vhich, we should imagine, must make the wall, when seen from below a very striking object. Certainly Liverpool is to be congratulated upon having now at last secured it will take over a year to till the lake, but except for that, the work is done a really fine supply of water. We have too long been behind the an- cients in the water supplied to our great cities. It is to be hoped that the next generation will amend our fault, and give the people that without ~vhich there can be neither health nor comfort, a free and unlimited supply of pure water. Some day we suppose that London will realize the risk she runs from relying well-nigh solely on the Thames, will create a lake as grand as herself, and will let pure water run to waste in the city as it does to this day in Rome, for that gift of the Ca~sars has never been taken from the imperial city. That is a socialism worth having. Unfortunately, however, such things just now do not seem to touch the people.

The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2313 [an electronic edition] Creation of machine-readable edition. Cornell University Library 848 page images in volume Cornell University Library Ithaca, NY 1999 ABR0102-0179 /moa/livn/livn0179/

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

The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2313 Littell's living age Every Saturday; a journal of choice reading Eclectic magazine The Living age co. inc. etc. New York etc. October 27, 1888 0179 2313
The Living age ... / Volume 179, Issue 2313 193-256

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No. 2313. October 27, 1888. 5 From Beginning, Volume LXIV~ & Vol. CLIXiX. CONTENT S. STATE SOCIALISM. Conclusion, Contemporary Review, POOR HARRY Longmans Magazine, IMPRESSIONS OF PETERSBURG, - . . ~ Review, UNDER CANVAS IN A PROCLAIMED DIS- TRICT, THE SAVILE LETTERS. 16601689, THE AUSTRALIAN DINGO AT HOME,. BISHOP KEN. By Archdeacon Farrar, AN ADVENTURE IN THE FLOODED THEISS, THE FIRST-BORN SON OF DEATH, Blackwoods Magazine, Macmillans Magazine, Chambers 7ournal, Good Words, Chambers 7ournal, Nineteenth Century, To CYNTHIA, FIVE YEARS OLD, MIST P0 E TRY. - 194 j GLEANERS OF FAME, 194 PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LIT TELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS, remilied directly /o Me Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded mr a yesr,free of~osiage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. Au postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order o~ LITTELL & Co. Single Numbers of THE Lsvsas~ AGE, iS cents. I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. Ix. - 195 - 204 - 214 - 222 - 235 - 245 - 24& - 252 255 194 TO CYNTHIA, FIVE YEARS OLD, ETC. 94 TO CYNTHIA, FIVE YEARS OLD. IN Cynthias arbor all the day May Fancy mingle with the play: Around, like friends with sunny faces, May crowds of buttercups and daisies Tell her the tales of Wonderland; H ow merry elfs, clasped hand-in-hand, Whirl in mad dance around the flowers, Or run beneath them if it showers. Then, when the sunshine streams again, And flashes on the glittering rain Till spiders web and lowly grasses No queen in radiance surpasses, Till every common thing of earth Seems conscious of a higher worth, Then from their hidden leafy shelter The elfs come tumbling helter-skelter, And pluck the drops which beaded lie To pelt the slow-winged butterfly; Or creeping, creeping towards the rushes, Where. wral)ped in gossamer and blushes, Beside the little summer stream The water-fairies sit and dream, Till, startled by the elfin laughter gay, They like a lovely vision fade away. Then when it thunders overhead, The elfs, grown timid, climb to bed, Lying quite snug inside the roses, With nothing showing but their noses. If little Cynthia higher looks, Above the land of flowers and brooks, The trees will tell her wondrous stories Of the young world and its past glories: Of knight who rescued lady fair Tkd to a branch by her long hair; It was some ogre, wicked sinner, Who meant to kill her for his dinner, Served up as a delicious roast, Or gently fried on buttered toast; Instead of which the gallant knight Slew the old ogre in a fight, And straightway married then the lady; It always ends so in Arcady. But higher still if Cynthia looks, Above the land of flowers and brooks, Shell see the treetops ever springing To get up where the larks are singing, For they it is who only know What the larks mean by singing so; Why they must leave all earthly leaven, Singing their song twixt earth and heaven. Tis said they come from far-off lands, Where quiet seas touch golden strands, And that some distaut day, when sorrow And pain shall never have a morrow, Theyll all fly home and there remain, For well not need them back again. if even higher Cynthia looks, Above the land of flowers and brooks, Shell see grave Night with stately motion, Hushing the old worlds wild emotion, Draw her dim veil across the skies And bring sweet sleep to wearied eyes. Now to his nest the lark sinks slowly, The very trees seem melancholy, The wild rose folds her leaves so rare And droops ber head, as if in prayer; The streamlet hears with shuddering awe A crow with nightmare mutter, Caw I Still greater wonders Cynthia gazing Will find, for heavenward slowly raising Herself above the hillside, there Is Cynthias namesake, oh so fair! Making a path of silver glory, Like Jacobs ladder in the story. But tis the countless stars on high Complete the tale of mystery; Themselves their message utter, they alone, Who through the ages there have calmly shone. But yet, if Cynthia looks and does not blink, I think shell find the very stars can wink I Spectator. GEORGE J. YOUNG. MIST. I CAN rejoice that I have not been born In southern climes, where heavens are deep and clear, Where stars are brighter, and the hues of morn And sunset shine with richer glow than here; Where spring meets autumn in the circling year; Where myrtles flower, and palm-trees wave on high: For, had I lived in such an atmosphere, The solemn glories of a Northern sky Would bring to me not joy, but gloom and dread; The veils of rainy mist that magnify The mighty hills and glaciers round me spread, While in the clouds is lost the mountains head, And every hollow to the baffled eye Seems like a seas unfathomable bed. Spectator. JOSEPH JOHN MURPHY. GLEANERS OF FAME: A SEPTEMBER SONNET. HEARKEN not, friend, for the resounding din That did the l)oets verses once acclaim: We are but gleaners in the field of fame, Whence the main harvest bath been gathered in. The sheaves of glory you are fain to win, Long since were stored round many a house- hold name, The reapers of the past, who timely came, And brought to end what none can now, begin. Yet, in the stubbles of renown, tis right To stoop antI gather the remaining ears, And carry homeward in the waning light What hath been left us by our happier peers; So that, befall what may, we be not quite Famished of honor in the far-off years. Spectator. ALFRED AUSTIN. From The Contemporary Review. STATE SOCIALISM. 11. FEW words are at present more wantonly abused than the words socialism and State socialism. They are tossed about at ran- dom, as if their meaning, as was said of the spelling of former generations, was a mere affair of private judgment. There is, in truth, a great deal of socialism in the employment of the word ; little re- spect is paid to the previous appropriation of it; antI especially since it has become, as has been said, hoffdhi~, men press for- ward from the most unlikely quarters, claim kindred with the socialists, and strive for the honor of being called by their name. Many excellent persons, for example, have no better pretext to ad- vance for their claim than that they also feel a warm sentiment of interest in the cause of the poor. Churchmen whose duties bring them among the poor are very naturally touched with a sense of the miseries they observe, and certain of them, who may perhaps without offence be said to love the cause well more than wisely, come to public platforms and declare themselves socialists socialists, they will sometimes explain, of an older and purer confession than the Social I)emo- cratic Federation, but still good and gen- uine socialists merely because the reli- gion they preach is a gospel of moral equality before God, and of fraternal responsibility among men, whose very test in the end is the test of human kind- ness: Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these my brethren, ye did it not to me. But socialism is not a feeling for the poor, nor yet for the re- sponsibilities of society in connection with their poverty ; it is neither what is called humanitarianism, nor what is called altru- ism ; it is not an affair of feeling at all, but of organization, and the feeling it breathes may not be altruistic. The rev- olutionary socialists of the Continent, for instance, are animated by as vigorous a spirit of self-interest and an even more bitter class antagonism than a trade-union or a land-league. They fight for a partic- ular claim of right the utterly- unjusti- fiable claim to the whole product of labor 95 and they propose to turn the world upside down by a vast scheme of social reconstruction in order to get their unjust, delusive, and mischievous idea realized. The gauge of their socialism therefore must, after all, be looked for in their claim and their remedy, and not in the vague sympathies of a benevolent spectator ~vho, without scrutinizing either the one or the other, thinks he will call himself a social- ist because he feels that there is much in the lot of the poor man that might be mended, and that the rich might be very properly and reasonably asked to make some sacrifices for their brethrens sake out of their abundance. The philanthropic spectator suffers from no scarcity of words to express his particular attitude if he de- sires to do so; why then should he not leave socialists the enjoyment of their vocable? There is often at the bottom of this sentimental patronage of socialism the not unchivalrous but mistaken idea that the ordinary self-interest of the world has been glorified by economists into a sacred and all-sufficing principle which it would be interfering with the designs of provi- dence to restrict, and that therefore it is only right to side with socialism as a protest against the position taken by the apologists of the present system of things, ~vithout being understood to commit one- self thereby to the particular system ~vhich socialism may propose to put in its place. But while the economists think very rightly that self-interest must always be regarded as the ordinary guide of life, and that the world cannot be reasonably ex- pected to become either better, or better off, if everybody were to look after other Deol)les interest (which he knows nothino- about) instead of looking after his own (of which he at least knows something), they are far from showing any indifference to the danger of self-interest running into selfishness. On the contrary, they have constantly insistedas the evidence we have already produced abundantly proves that where the self-interest of the strongly placed failed to subject itself spontaneously to the restraints of social justice and the responsibilities of our common humanity, it was for society to STATE SOCIALISM. 196 STATE SOCIALISM. step in and impose the restraints that were just and requisite, and to do so either by public opinion or by public au- thority in the way most likely to be prac- ticable and effectual. Another thing our sentimental friends forget is that the so- cialists of the present day have no thought of substituting any other general economic motive in the room of self-interest. If they had their schemes realized to-mor- row, men would still be paid according to the amount of their individual work, and each would work so far for his own hand. His daily motive would be his individual interest, though his scope of achievement would be severely limited by law with the view of securing a better general level of happiness in the community. The ques- tion between economists and socialists is not whether the claims of social justice are entitled to be respected, but whether the claims which one or other of them make really are claims of social justice or no. Still, so firm is the hold taken by the notion that the socialists are the special champions of social justice, that one of our most respected prelates has actually defined socialism in that sense. The Bishop of Rochester, in his pastoral let- ter to his clergy last New Year, takes occa- sion, while warning the younger brethren against the too headlong philanthropy which scouts what is known as the sci- ence of political economy, ~o describe socialism as the science of maintaining the right proportion of equity and kind- ness while adjudicating the various claims which individuals and society mutually make upon each other. In reality, so- cialism would be better defined as a sys- tem that outsteps the right proportion of equity and kindness, and sets up for the masses claims that are devoid of propor- tion and measure of any kind, and whose injustice and peril often arise from that very circumstance. If bishops carry the term off to one quarter, philosophers carry it to another. Some identify socialism with the as- sociative principle generally, and see it manifested in the growth of one form of organization as much as in the gro~vth of another, or at most they may limit it to the intervention of the associative prin ciple in things industrial, and in that event they would consider a joint-stock company, or a co-operative store, or per- haps a building like Queen Annes Man- sions, or the common-stair system of Scotland, to be as genuine exhibitions of socialism as the collectivism or anar- chism of the Continental factions or the State monopolies of Prince Bismarck. But a joint stock company is no departure from it is rather an extension of the present i-~girne of l)rivate prc~perty, free competition, and self-interest; and why should it be described by the same name as a system whose chief pretension is to supersede that re~,i;ne by a better? An- other very common definition of socialism l)erllaps the most common of all, and the last to ~vhich we shall refer here is that socialism is the general principle of giving society the greatest possible con- trol over the life of the individual, in con- tradistinction to the opposite principle of individualism, which is taken to be the principle of giving the individual the greatest 1)Ossible immunity from the con- trol of society. Any extension of the au- thority of the State, any fresh regulation of the transactions of individual citizens, is often pronounced to be socialistic with- out asking what the object or nature of the regulations may be. Socialism is identified with any enlargement, and in- dividualism with any contraction, of the functions of government. But the world has not been made on this socialist prin- ciple alone, nor on this individualist prin- ciple alone, and it can neither be explained nor amended by means of the one without the other. Abstractions of that order afford us little practical guidance. The socialists of real life are not men who are bent on increasing government control for the mere sake of increasing government control. There are broad tracts of the individuals life they would leave free from social control; they would give him, for example, full property in his house and furniture during his lifetime, and the right to spend his income, once he had earned it, in his own way. Their scheme, if carried out, might be found to compel them to restrict this latter right, but their own desire and belief undoubtedly is that STATE SOCIALISM. 97 the individual would have more freedom of the kind then than he has now. They seek to extend government control only because, and only so far as, they believe government control to be necessary and fitted to realize certain theories of right and well-being which they think it incum- bent on organized society to realize; and consequently the thing that properly char- acterizes their position, is not so much the degree of their confidence in the pow- ers of the State as the nature of the theo- ries of right for which they invoke its in- tervention. And just as socialists do not enlarge the bounds of authority from the mere love of authority, so their opponents do not resist the enlargement from the mere hatred of authority. They raise no controversy about the abstract legitimacy- of government encroachments on the sphere of private capital or of legal en- largements of the rights or privileges of labor. There is no socialism in that; the socialism only comes in when the encroach- ments are made on a field where govern- ment administration is unlikely to answer and where the rights conferred are rights to which labor can present no just and reasonable claim. It will be objected that this is to reduce socialism to a mere matter of more or less. The English economists, it will be said, practised a little socialism, because they allo~ved the use of State means to elevate the condition of the working classes, or to provide for the wants of the general com- munity; and the Continental social demo- crats only practise a little more socialism when they cry for a working-class State or for the progressive nationalization of all industries. But in practical life the measure is everything. So many grains of opium will cure, so many more will kill. The important thing for adjusting claims must always be to get the right measure, and the objection to socialistic schemes Is precisely this, that they take up a theory of distributive justice which is an abso- lutely wrong measure, or else some vague theory of disinheritance which contains no measure at all. They would nation- alize industries without paying any respect to their suitability for government man- agement, simply because they want to see all industries nationalized; and they ~vould grant all manner of compensating advan- tages to the working class as instalments of some vague claim, either of economic right from which they are alleged to have been ousted by the system of capitalism, or of aboriginal natural right from which they are said to have been disinherited by the general arrangements of society itself. What distinguishes their position and makes it socialism is therefore precisely this absence of measure or of the right measure, and one great advantage of the English doctrine of social politics which I expounded in a previous article, is that it is able to supply this indispensable criterion. That doctrine would limit the industrial undertakings of the State to such as it possessed natural advantages for conducting successfully, and the States part in social reform to securing for the people the essential conditions of all humane living, of all normal and pro- gressive manhood. It would interfere, indeed, as little as possible with liberty of speculation; because it recognizes that the best way of promoting social progress and prosperity is to multiply the opportu- nities, and with the opportunities the in- centives, of talent and capital ; but, while giving the strong their head, in the be. lief that they will carry on the world so far after them, it would insist on the public authority taking sharp heed that no large section of the common people be suffered to fall permanently behind in the race, to lose the very conditions of further progress, and to lapse into ~vays of living which the opinion of the time thinks un- worthy of our common humanity. Now, State socialism disregards these limits, straying generally far beyond them, and it may not improperly be defined as the system which requires the State to do work it is unfit to do in order to invest the working classes with privileges they have no right to get. The term State socialism originated in Germany a few years ago to express the antithesis not of free, voluntary, or Chris- tian socialism, as seems frequently to be imagined here, but of revolutionary social- ism, which is always considered to be socialism proper because it is the only 198 STATE SOCIALISM. form of the system that is of any serious moment at the present day. State social- ism has the same general aims as social- ism proper, only it ~vou1d carry out its l)lans gradually by means of the existing State, instead of first overturning the ex- isting State by revolution and establish- ing in its place a new political organiza- tion for the purpose, the social democratc republic. There are socialists ~vho fancy they have but at any moment to choose a government and issue a decree, as Napo- leon once did. Let misery be abolished this day fortnight and misery would be abolished that day fortnight. But the State socialists are unable to share this simple faith. They are Stafe socialists not because they have more confidence in the State than other socialists, but because they have less. They consider it utterly futile to expect a democratic community ever to be able to create a political execu- tive that should be powerful enough to carry through the entire socialistic pro gramme. Like the social Conservatives of all countries, like our own Young England party for ex~imple, or the Tory Democrats of the present generation, they combine a warm zeal for popular amelioration ~vith a profound distrust of pol)ular government; but when compared with other socialists they take a very sober view of the capacity of government of any kind ; and although they believe implicitly in the social monarchy of the Hohenzollerns, they doubt whether the strongest monarch ythe world has ever seen would be strong enough to effect a socialistic reconstruc- tion of the industrial system without re- taining the existence for many centuries to come of the ancient institutions of pri- vate property and inheritance. All that is at least very frankly acknowl- edged by Rodhertus, the remarkable but overrated thinker ~vhom the State social- ists of Germany have chosen for their father. Rodhertus was always regarded as a great oracle by Lassalle, the origi- nator of the present socialist agitation, and his authority is constantly quoted by the most eminent luminary among the State socialists of these latter days, Prince Bis- marcks economic adviser, Professor Adolph Wagner, ~vho says it was Rodber- tus that first shed on him the Damascus light that tnre from his eyes the scales of economic individualism. Rodbertus had lived for a quarter of a century in a polit- ical sulk against the Hohenzollerns. Though he had served as a minister of State, he thre~v up his l)olitical career rather than accept a constitution as a mere royal favor; he refused to work un- der it or recognize it by so much as a vote at the polls. But when the power of the Hohenzollerns became established by the victories of K6niggr~tz and Sedan, and when they embarked on their new policy of State socialism, Rodbertus developed into one of their most ardent worshippers. Th~ir new social policy, it is true, was avowedly adopted as a corrective of so- cialism, as a kind of inoculation with a milder type of the disease in order to pro- cure immunity from a more malignant; but Bismarck contended at the same time that it was nothing but the old traditional l)olicy of the house of Prussia, which had long before placed the right of existence and the right of labor in the statute-book of the country, and whose most illustri- ous member, Frederick the Great, used to be fond of calling himself the beggars kino- Under these circumstances Rod- bertus came to place the whole hope of the future in the social monarchy of the Hohenzollerns, and ventured to prophesy that a socialist emperor ~voulcl yet be born to that house who would rule possibly with a rod of iron, but would always rule for the greatest good of the laboring class. Still, even under a dynasty of socialist emperors Roclbertus gave five hundred years for the completion of the economic revolution he contemplated, because he acknowledged it would take all that time for society to acquire the moral principle and habitual firmness of will which would alone enable it to dispense with the insti- tutions of private property and inheritance without suffering serious injury. In theory Rodbertus ~vas a believer in the modern social-democratic doctrine of the laborers right to the full l)rodluct of his laborthe doctrine which gives itself out as scientific socialism because it is got by combining a misunderstanding of Ricardos theory of wages with a mis- understanding of the same economists theory of value and which would abolish rent, interest, profit, and all forms of laborless income, and give the entire gross product to the laborer, because by that union of scientific blunders it is made to appear that the laborer has produced the ~vhole l)roduct himself. Rodbertus in fact claimed to be the author of that doc- trine, and fought for the priority with Marx, though in reality the English social- ists had drawn the same conclusions from the same blunders long before either of them; but author or no author of it, his sole reason for touching the ~vork of social reform at all was to get that particular STATE SOCIALISM. 99 claim of right recognized. Yet for five hundred years Rodbertus will not wrong the laborers by granting them their full rights. He admits that without the as- sistance of the private capitalist during that interval laborers would not produce so much work, and therefore could not earn so much wages as they do now; and consequently, in spite of his theories, he declines to suppress rent and interest in the mean time, and practically tells the laborers they must wait for the full prod- uct of labor till the time comes when they can produce the full product themselves. That is virtually to confess that while the claim may be just then, it is unjust now and although Rodbertus never makes that acknowledgment, he is content to leave the claim in abeyance and to put forward in its place, as a provisional ideal of just distribution more conformable to the pres- ent situation of things, the claim of the laborer to a progressive share, step for step with the capitalist, in the results of the increasing productivity given to labor by inventions and machinery. He thought that at present, so far from getting the whole product of labor, the laborer ~vas getting a less and less share of its prod- ucts every day, and though this can be easily shown to he a delusive fear, Rod- bertuss State socialism was devised to counteract it. For this purpose the first requisite was the systematic manaoement of all indus- tries by the State. The final goal ~vas to be State property as well as State man- agem ent, but for the greater part of five centuries the system ~vould be private property and State management. Sir Rowland Hill and the English railway nationalizers proposed that the State should own the lines, but that the compa- nies should continue to work them; Rod- bertuss idea, on the contrary, is that the State should work, but not own. But then the State should manage everything and everywhere. Co-operation and joint-stock management were as objectionable to him as individual management. He thought it a mere delusion to suppose, as some socialists did, that the growth of joint- stock companies and co-operative socie- ties is a step in historical evolution to- xvard a socialist rigime. It was just the opposite; it was individual property in a worse form, and he always told his friend Lassalle that it was a hopeless dream to expect to bring in the reign of justice and brotherhood by his plan of founding pro- ductive associations on State credit, be- cause productive societies really led the other way, and created batches of joint- stock property, which he said would make itself a thousand times more bitterly hated than the individual l)rul)erty of to-day. One association would compete with an- other, and the group on a rich mine would use their advantage over the group on a poor one as mercilessly as private cap- italists do no~v. Nothing would, answer in the end but State property, and nothing would conduce to State property but State. management. The object of all this intervention, as we have said, is to realize a certain ideal. or standard of fair wages the standard according to which a fair wage is one that grows step by step with the productive capacity of the country; and the plan Rodhertus proposes to realize it by is practically a scheme of compulsory profit- sharing. He would convert all land and capital into an irredeemable national stock, of which the present owners xvould. be constituted the first or original holders,. which they might sell or transfer at pleas- ure but not call up, and on which they should receive, not a fixed rent or rate of~ interest, but an annual dividend varying: ~vith the produce or profits of the year. The produce of the year was to be divided into three parts one for the landowners, to be shared according to the amount of stock they respectively held; a second for the capitalists, to be shared in the same way; and the third for the laborers, to be shared by them according to the quantity of work they did, measured by the time occupied and the relative strain of their several trades. This division was necessarily very arbitrary in its na~ ture; there was no principle whatever to decide how much should go to the land- owners, antI how much to capitalists, and how much to laborers; and although there was a rule for settling the price of labor in one trade as compared ~vith the price of labor in another, it is a rule that would afford very little I)ractical guidance if one came to apply it in actual life. At all events, Rodbertus himself toiled for years at a working l)lan for his scheme of wages; but though he always gave otit that he had succeeded in prel)aring one, he steadily refused to disclose it even to trusted admirers like Lassalle and Ru- dolph Meyer, on the singular l)retext that the world knew too little l)olitical economy as yet to receive it, and at his death noth- ing of the sort seems to have been discov- ered among his papers. Is it doing him any injustice to infer that he had never been able to arrive at a plan that satisfied 200 STATE SOCIALISM. his own mind as to its being neither arbi- the State to realize them for want of an trary nor impracticable ~ effective calculus of either. Now this is a good specimen of State Few State socialists, however, profess socialism, because it is so complete and the purpose of correcting the differences brings out so decisively the broad charac- of native endowment; for the most part, teristics of the system. In the first place, when they found their policy on any theo. it desires a progressive and indiscriminate retic idea at all, they found it on some nationalization of all industries, not be- idea of historical reparation. In this cause it thinks they will be more efficiently country. socialist notions always crop up or more economically managed in conse- out of the land. German socialists direct quence of the change, but merely as a their attack mainly on capital, but English preliminary step towards a particular socialism fastens very naturally on prop. scheme of social reform; in the next erty in land, which in Enxland is concen- place, that scheme of social reform is an trated into unnaturally fe~v hands; and a ideal of equitable distribution which is claim is very commonly advanced for demonstrably false, and is admittedly in- more or less indefinite compensation to capable of immediate realization; in the the laboring class on account of their third place, a provisional policy is adopted alleged disinheritance, through the insti- in the mean while by pitching arbitrarily tution of private property, from their on a certain measure of privileges and ad- aboriginal or natural rights to the use of vantages that are to be guaranteed to the the earth, the common possession of the laboring classes by law as partial instal- race. That is the ground, for example, ments of rights deferred or compensations which Mr. Spencer takes for advocating for rights alleged to be taken away. land nationalization, and Mr. Chamberlain It may be that not many State socialists for his various claims for ransom. The are so thoroughgoing as Rodbertus. Few last comer is held to have as good a right of them possibly accept his theory of the to the free use of the earth as the first laborers right which is virtually that occupant; and if society deprives him of the laborer has a right to everything, all that right for purposes of its own, lie is existing wealth being considered merely maintained to be entitled to receive some an accumulation of unpaid laborand equivalent, as if society does not already few of them may throw so heavy a burden give the new-coiner vastly more than it on the State as the whole production and took away. His chances of obtaining a the whole distribution of the country. decent living in the world, instead of be- But they all start from some theory of ing reduced, have been immensely multi- right that is just as false, and they all plied through the social system that has impose xvork on the State which the State resulted from the private al)propriation cannot creditably perform. They all think of land. The primitive economic rights of the mass of mankind as being disinher- whose loss socialists make the subject of ited in one way or another by the present so much lamentation are generally con- social system, perhaps through the per- sidered to be these four: (i) the right to mission of private property at all, perhaps hunt; (2) the right to fish ; (3) the right through permission of its inequalities, to gather nuts and berries; and (~) the M. de Laveleye indeed goes a step further right to feed a cow or sheep on the ~vaste back still. In an article he has contributed land. Fourier added a fifth which was on this subject to the (ontem~or6?ry Re- certainly a right much utilized in early view, he uses as his motto the saying of times the right of theft from people M. Renan that nature is injustice itself, over the border of the territory of ones and he would have society to correct not own tribe. Let that right be thrown in merely the inequalities which society may with the rest; then the claim with which have itself had a share in establishing, but every English chi Id is alleged to be born, also the inequalities of talent or opportu- and for which compensation is asked, is nity which are natures own ~vork. Ac- the claim to a thirty-millionth part of the cordingly, M. de Laveleye describes him- value of these five aboriginal uses of the self as a State socialist, because lie thinks soil of England; and what is that worth? the State ought to make use of its legit- Why, if the prairie valtie of the soil is imate powers for the establishment of the estimated at the high figure of a shilling equality of conditions among men in pro- the acre per annum, it would only give portion to their personal merit. Equality every inhabitant something under half a of conditions and personal merit are in crown, and when compensation is demand- consistent standards, but if they were har- ed for the loss of this ridiculous pittance, monious, it would be beyond the power of one calls to mind what immensely greater STATE SOCIALISM. 201 compensations the modern child is born to. Civilization is itself a social property, a common fund, a peoples heritage, accu- mulating from one generation to another, and opening to the new-coiner economic opportunities and careers incomparably better and more numerous than the an- cient liberties of fishing in the stream or nutting in the forest. The things actually demanded for the poor in liquidation of this alleged claim may often be admissi- ble on other grounds altogether, but to ask them in the name of compensation or ran- som for the loss of those primitive eco- nomic rightseven though it was done by Spencer and Cobden is certainly State socialism. The favorite theory on which the Ger- man State socialists proceed seems to be that men are entitled to an equalization of opportunities, to an immunity, as far as human power can secure it, from the inter- position of chance and change. That at least is the view of Professor Adolph Wagner, whose position on the subject is of considerable consequence, because he is the economist-in-ordinary to the Ger- man government, and has been Prince Bismarcks principal adviser in connection with ali his recent social legislation. Pro- fessor Wagner may be taken as the most eminent and most authoritative exponent of the theory of State socialism, and he has very recently developed his views on the subject afresh in some articles in the Tiibingen Zei/schriftfiir die Gesammien Stczatswissenschaf/en for 1887, on Fi- nanz-politik und Staatsozialismus. Ac- cording to Wagner, the chief aim of the State at present in taxation and in every other form of its activity ought to be to alter the national distribution of wealth to the advantage of the working class. All politics must become social politics; the State must turn ~vorkmans friend. For we have arrived at a new historical peri- od; and just as the feudal period gave way to the absolutist period, and the abso- lutist period to the constitutional, so now the constitutional period is merging in what ought to be called the social period, because social ideas are very properly coming more and more to influence and control everything, alike in the region of production, in the region of distribution, and in the region of consumption. Now, according to Wagner, the business of the State socialist is simply to facilitate the development of this change to work out the transition from the constitutional to the social epoch in the best, wisest, and most wholesome way for all parties con- cerned. He rejects the so-called scien- tific socialism of Marx, and Rodbertus, and Lassalle, and the practical policy of the socialdemocratic agitation; and he ~vill not believe either that a false theory like theirs can obtain a lasting influence, or that a party that builds itself on such a theory can ever become a real power. But, at the same time, he cannot set down the socialistic theory as a mere philosoph- ical speculation, or the socialistic move- ment as merely an artificial l)roduct of agitation. The evils of both lie in the actual situation of things; they are prod- ucts necessary products, he says of our modern social development: and they will never be effectually quieted till that development is put on more salutary lines. They have a soul of truth in them, and that soul of truth in the doctrines and de- mands of radical socialism is what State socialism seeks to disengage, to formulate, to realize. It is quite true, for example, that the present distribution of wealth, with its startling inequalities of accumula- tion and want, is historically the effect, first, of class legislation and class admin- istration of law; and second, of mere blind chance operating on a legal rdgirne of private property and industrial freedom, and a state of the arts which gave the large scale of production decided technical advantages. In one of his former writ- ings P~6fessor Wagner contended that German peasants lived to this day in mean, thatched huts, simply because their ancestors had been impoverished by feudal exactions and ruined by wars which they had no voice in declaring; and he seems to be now as profoundly impressed with the belief that the present liberty allowed to unscrupulous speculators to utilize the chances and opportunities of trade at the cost of others is producing evils in no way less serious, which ought to be checked effectively ~vhile there is yet time. So long as such tendencies are left at work, he says it is idle trying to treat so- cialism with any cunning admixture of cakes and blows, or charging State social- ists with heating the oven of social democ- racy. State socialists, he continues, coml)rehend the disease which radical socialists only feel wildly and call down fire to cure, and they are as much opl)osed to the purely working-class State of the latter as they are to the purely constitu- tional State of our modern Libera/is,nz~s vukaris, as Wagner calls it. The true social State lies, in his opinion, between the two. What the new social era demands the era which is already, 202 STATE SOCIALISM. he thinks, well in course of development, but which it is the business of State so- cialism to help Providence to develop aright is the effective participation of poor and rich alike in the civilization which the increased productive resources of society afford the means of enjoying; and this is to be brought about in two ways first, by a systematic education of the whole people according to a well- planned ideal of culture, and second, by a better distribution of the income of society among the masses. Now, to carry out these requirements, the idea of liberty proper to the constitutional era must natu- rally be finally discarded, and a very large hand must be allowed to the public author ity in every department of human activity, whether relating to the production, distri- bution, or consumption of wealth. In the first place, in order to destroy the effect of chance and the utilization of chances in creating the present accumulations in private hands, it is necessary to divert into the public treasury as far as possible the whole of that part of the national in- come which goes now, in the form of rent interest, or profit, into the pockets of the owners of land and capital, and the con- ductors of business enterprises. Wagner would accordingly nationalize (or munici- palize) gradually so much of the land, cap- ital, and industrial undertakings of the country as could be efficiently managed as public property or public enterprises, and that would include all undertakings which tend to become monopolies even in private hands, or which, being conducted best on the large scale, are already managed under a form of organization which, in his opin- ion, has most of the faults and most of the merits of State management viz., the form of joint-stock companies. He would in this way throw on the government all the great means of communication and transpGrt, railways and canals, telegraphs and post, and all banking and insurance; and on the municipalities all such things as the gas, light, and ~vater supply. Al- though he recognizes the suitability of government management as a considera- tion to be weighed in nationalizing an industry, he states explicitly that the rea- son for the change he proposes is not in the least the fiscal or economic one that the industry can be more advantageously conducted by the government, but is a theory of social l)olitics which requires that the whole economic work of the peo- ple ought to be more and more converted from the form of private into the form of ~ublic organization, so that every working man might be a public servant and enjoy the same assured existence that other pub- lic servants at present possess. In the next place, since many indus- tries must remain in private hands, the State is bound to see the existence of the laborers engaged in private ~vorks guar- anteed as securely as those engaged in public works. It must take steps to pro- vicle them with both an absolute and a relative increase of wages by instituting a compulsory system of paying ~vages as a percentage of the gross produce; it must guarantee them a certain continuity of employment; must limit the hours of their labor to the length l)rescribed by the pres- ent state of the arts in the several trades; and supply a system of public insurance against accidents, sickness, infirmity, and age, together with a provision for wido~vs and orphans. In the third place, all public works are to be managed on the socialistic principle of supplying manual laborers with com- modities at a cheaper rate than their so- cial superiors. They are to have advan- tages in the matters of gas and water sup- ply, railway fares, school fees, and every- thing else that is provided by the public authority. In the fourth place, taxation is to be employed directly to mitigate the inequal- ities of ~vealth resulting from the present commercial system, and to save and even increase the laborers income at the ex- pense of the income of other classes. This is to be done by the progressive in- come-tax, and by the al)plication of the product of indirect taxation on certain articles of working-class consumption to special working-class ends. For example, he thinks Prince Bismarcks proposed tobacco monopoly might be made the patrimony of the disinherited. In the fifth place, the State ought to take measures to wean the people not only from noxious forms of expenditure, like the expenditure on strong drink, but from useless and ~vasteful expenditure, and to guide them into a more economic, far-go- ing, and beneficial employment of the earnings they make. Now for all this ~vork, involving as it does so large an amount of interference with the natural liberty of things, Wagner not unnaturally thinks that a strong gov- ernment is absolutely indispensable, a government that knows its own mind, and has the power and the will to carry it out; a government whose authority is estab- lished in the history and opinion of the nation, and stands high above all the con STATE SOCIALISM. 203 tending political factions of the hour. And in Germany, such an executive can only be found in the present empire, which is merely following Frederician and Jose- phine traditions in coming forward, as it did in the imperial message of Novem- ber, i88i, as a genuine social mon- archy. In this doctrine of Professor Wagner we find the same general features we have already seen in the doctrine of Rodbertus. It is true he ~vould not nationalize all in- dustries whatsoever; he would only na- tionalize such industries as the State is really fit to manage successfully. He ad- mits that uneconomic management can never contribute to the public good, and so far he accepts a very sound principle of limitation. But then he applies the principle with too great laxity. He has an excessive idea of the States capacities. He thinks that every business now con- ducted by a joint-stock company could be just as well conducted by the government, and ought therefore to be nationalized but experience shows railway expe- rience, for example that joint-stock management, when it is good, is better than government management at its best. Then Professor Wagner thinks every in- dustry which has a natural tendency to become in any case a practical monopoly would be better in the hands of the gov- ernment; but government might interfere enough to restrain the mischiefs of mo- nopoly as it does in the case of railways in this country, for example without in- curring the liabilities of complete manage- ment. Professor Wagner would in these ways throw a great deal of work on gov- ernment which government is not very fit to accomplish successfully, and he would like to throw everything on it, if he could overcome his scruples about its capabili- ties, because he thinks industrial nation- alization could facilitate the realization of his particular views of the equitable dis- tribution of wealth. It is true, again, that Wagners theory of equitable distribution is not the theory of Rodbertushe re- jects the right of labor to the whole prod- uct; but his theory, if less definite, is not less unjustifiable. It is virtually the theory of equality of conditions which considers all inequalities of fortune wrong, because they are held to come either from chance, or what is worse from an un- just utilization of chance, and which, on that account, takes comparative poverty to constitute of itself a righteous claim for compensation as against comparative wealth. Now, a state of enforced equality of conditions would probably be found neither possible nor desirable, but it is in its very conception unjust. it may be well, as far as it can be done, to check refined methods of deceit, or cruel utiliza. tions of an advantageous position, but it can never be right to deprive energy, tal- ent, and character of the natural reward and incentive of their exertions. The world would sopn be l)OO~ if it discouraged the skill of the skilful, as it would soon cease to be virtuous if it ostracized those who were pre-eminently honest or just. The idea of equality has been a great fac- tor in human progress, but it requires no such outcome as this. Equality is but the respect we owe to human dignity, and that very respect for human dignity cle. mands security for the fruits of industry to the successful, and security against the loss of the spirit of personal independence in the mass of the people. But while that is so, there is one broad requirement of that same fundamental respect for human dignity which must be admitted to be wholly just and reasonable the require- ment which we have seen to have been recognized by the English economists that the citizens be, as far as possible, secured, if necessary by public compul- sion and public money, in the elementary conditions of all humane living. 1he State might not be right if it gave the aged a comfortable superannuation allow- ance, or the unemployed aoTeeable work at good wages; but it is only doing its duty when, with the English law, it gives them enough to keep them without taking a~vay from the one the motives for mak- ing a voluntary provision against age, or from the other the spur to look out for work for themselves. It will be said that this is a standard that is subject to a certain variability; that a house may be considered unfit for habitation now that our fathers would have been fain to occupy; that shoes seem an indispensable element of humane living now, though, as Adam Smith in- forms us, they were still only an optional decency in sot~e parts of Scotland in his time. But any differences of this nature lead to no practical difficulty, and the standard is fixity of measure itself when compared ~vith the indefinite claims that may be made in the name of historical compensation, or wild theories of distribu- tive justice, and it makes a wholesome appeal to recognized obligations of human- ity instead of feeding a violent sense of unbounded hereditary wrong. No reason- able person will find fault with the actual 204 POOR HARRY. proposals of social reform put forward by Mr. Chamberlain, for he is far from social- ist in the substance of his proposals. He has disclaimed all sympathy with the idea of equality of conditions ; he hesitates about applying the graduated taxation principle to anything but legacies; and he explicitly says he will do nothing to dis- courage the cumulative principle in the rich, or the habit of industry in the l)OO~ he asks mainly for free schools, free libra- ries, free parks, and other things of a like character that come entirely ~vithin the scope of the English economic tradition; but when he asks for them as a penalty for wrongdoing (so he has defined ran- som ) instead of an obligation of ability, he chooses ground that is both weak and dangerous ; weak, because the rights out of ~vhich society is alleged to have ousted the unfortunate have been compensated a hundredfold already; and dangerous, be- cause it must nurse a spirit of disaffection and a habit of making vague and unmeas- ured demands. 1-lad space permitted, ~ve should now have followed the theory of State social- ism out into the l)ractice, and illustrated from the experience of various countries, the ~vorking and effects of State socialism in the nationalization of industries, in the adjustments of rights and claims, and in the manipulation of taxation; but must forbear for the present. JOHN RAE. From Longmans Magazine. POOR HARRY. ONE Sunday morning, in the month of July, 1883, a dreadful thing happened at the parish church of Motcombe Regis during divine service. The rector had selected for his text that passage from the epistle of St. Paul to the Colossians in which the apostle exhorts his followers to set their affections on things above,not on things of the earth, and he was, as usual, jogging along quite comfortably towards his application, while two-thirds of the con~regation also as usual and quite as comfortably had composed themselves to sleep, when he and they ~vere startled by a clear young voice, com- ing from the ~vest end of the building, which called out audibly, Thats a lie If one were put upon ones oath as an accurate historian, one would be com- pelled to add that the word lie~ was preceded by a forcible and profane adjec- tive; but really the ejaculation is quite bad enough as it stands; and what made it the more unpardonable was that i~ ~vas altogether inappropriate. For what Was poor Mr. Staddon saying when he was thus scandalously interrupted? Why, simply that the objects upon which we are apt to set our affections here below are as often as not those which, if granted to us, would by no means promote our happi- ness, and that most of us have very good reason to be thankful for our disappoint- ments. That, surely, is a truth so ele- mentary that nobody could lose much by having slept through the enunciation of it, and that its enunciator might fairly expect it to pass unchallenged under any circum- stances. Harry Lear, however, thought differently, and took the unheard-of course of expressing his dissent in the manner described. Well, he was hustled out of church by two of his friends (who, perhaps, made rather more noise over it than was neces- sary), and nobody fell asleep again, and the rector, in a somewhat trembling voice, brought his discourse to a conclusion. The rector, good man, ~vas terribly up- set by this episode, the remembrance of which made him miserable throughout the rest of the day. He had some rough fel- lows in his parish, and though none of them had ever gone the length of creating a disturbance in church, he would not have been so very much surprised if they had, because, in truth, their respect for authority was small, especially since cer- tain political agitators had come down to turn their heads ~vith harangues about the rights of labor and the nationalization of the land. But that Harry Lear, who had sung in the choir as a boy, whom he him- self had prepared for confirmation, and whom he had firmly l)elieved to be a fine, steady, manly lad that Harry Lear, of all people, should so grossly misconduct himself, was sad and inexplicable indeed. Or rather, it ~vas not exactly inexplicable; only the explanation the sole conceiva- ble explanation was almost as distress- ing as the offence; for very evident it was to the rector that Harry, when he had come to church that day, must have had too much to drink. Mr. Staddon was a bachelor. It is pos- sible that if he had been a married man, his inductive capacities would have been less limited, and it is also possible that in that case his disposition to condone such sins as drunkenness and profanity would have been a shade less ready. Not, in- deed, that he underrated the heinousness of these crimes, but he could make more POOR HARRY. 205 allowance for temptation than ladies are generally disposed to do; besides which, it was his creed that genuine and hearty repentance is the utmost that one erring mortal ought to demand of another. Now when he awoke on the Monday morning he was as sure as he conid be of anything that Harry Lear must by that time be sin- cerely penitent ; and so after breakfast he set forth to rebuke the delinquent with a tolerably confident expectation of receiv- ing the apology which was his due. He tramped briskly downwards across the heathery moorland (for Motcombe Regis stands high upon the hill country on the borders of Devon and Cornwall), his black coat-tails fluttering and his long grey hair blown back from his rosy cheeks, as he met the west wind, until he reached that sunny and sheltered ravine which old Mr. Lear, by the indefatigable industry of a lifetime, had succeeded in converting into the most prolific market-garden for many miles round. There, as he had an- ticipated, the first person whom he saw was old Mr. Lear himself; and old Mr. Lear, on descrying his visitor, stuck his fork into the manure-heap upon which he had been engaged, straightened his bent back, raised his forefinger to the brim of his battered hat, and said, Mornin, sir. Good morning, Mr. Lear, returned the rector. This is a bad business. I did not see you in church yesterday; but your wife, I believe, was there, and you must have heard what occurred. lt is a most disgraceful affair most disgraceful and shameful Mr. Lear dropped his arms upon the gate which separated him from his inter- locutor. He was a little ~vizened old man aged rather by toil and exposure than by time who at all seasons and in all weathers wore a tall hat, a waistcoat, with black calico sleeves, corduroy breeches, and leather gaiters. So tis, sir, he agreed, in the tone of an impartial ob- server of men and things. Aw, yis, tis shameful, sure enough. So much so, continued the rector, that I am certain Harry ~vould never have behaved in such a way if he had been in his sober senses. But that, you see, unfortunately brings us to the conclu~ sion that he was not sober. Mr. Lear shook his head decisively. To begin with, his boy was no drunkard; in the second l)lace, he had had no oppor- tunity of getting drunk on the previous day ; thirdly and lastly, he certainly had not been drunk. Well, but, Mr. Lear, if he was not in- toxicated, he knew what he was doing; and what motive can you suggest for his having insulted me, and, what is far worse, insulted his Maker as he did? Well, answered Mr. Lear, slowly drawing his hand across his chin, which had been shaved twenty four hours before, and was therefore less stubby than usual, tis a long story to tell ee, sir, and I dont know as I could tell it rightly if I was to try; but to cut it short, what hes got in his mind is to list for a sodger. Goin down to Plymouth and seem of the redcoats maybe I dont know and his mother shes mortal angry with him, and wont so much as hear it spoke of. No ~vonder! ejaculated the rector. Dear, dear! Im very sorry to hear this. Still I dont quite see how it accounts for his conduct. Dont kno~v as it does, sir; but theres been a deal o talk and hargyment, and his mother bein such a pious woman and a bit fond of her own way tu, as Im bound to own what I mean to say, a young feller asd like to have his own way might be druv to desprate courses. I see, said the rector meditatively; you think he deliberately behaved in such a way as to make his mother ashamed to keep him in the parish. But surely, Mr. Lear, you yourself cant wish your only son to go away and leave you in your old age! To this Mr. Lear made no reply. I-fe had taken up his fork again, and was cast- ing manure to right and left of him in a somewhat reckless fashion. He was evi- dently agitated, but did not seem desirous of expressing any sentiments of his own upon the subject. Well, said the rector after a pause, I dare say 1 had better speak to Harry himself. Mr. Lear silently intimated his concur- rence in that view. Though the boy did ought to beg your pardon, sir, said he; yis, that he did. The rector made his way through the gooseberry and currant bushes to the one- storied white house, the interior of which was always kept in a condition of such scrupulous cleanliness by Mrs. Lear. He found that thin, hardfeatured woman in the kitchen, where it was plain that she had been expecting his visit, and where, after dusting a wooden chair for him with her apron, she listened in ill-disguised im- patience to his introductory remarks. Tis all along o that gell, sir ! she broke in long before he had finished what he had to say. Who be she, Id like to 206 POOR HAF~RY. know, to turn up her nose at her betters? I dont see no manner o good in telling But Harry hes been fairly mazed ever people that curses is blessings. Taint since she began to cold-shoulder him, and trueand they know itand you know now he dont think no more o dissecrating it. the Lords house than he do of breakin Harry, Harry! said the rector sor- his mothers heart. rowfully, I never thought to hear you Oho! said the rector, smiling; so speak like that to me. I may have failed theres a young ~voman at the bottom of in my duty as a parish priest, and I am it, is there? I might have guessed as afraid you are a proof that I have failed; much. And pray, who is this young wom- but at least you ought to know that I an ? would not wilfully say from the pulpit Oh, la ! there! exclaimed Mrs. what I helieved to be untrue. Lear with a snort (for, although she was a Then Harry rose to his full height of zealous Churchwoman, she was well aware six foot two, ~vhile a distressed look spread that respect for Mr. Staddons sacred call- itself over his handsome face. What be ing was compatible with a poor opinion of I to do, sir? he exclaimed. Father his individual perspicacity), tis that knows how tis with me; but mother she Bella Harvey, the schoolmissus, as every- won t see it; and I dont want to run body in the parish knows. And I ony away from home like a thief. Wheres wish shed stopped down to Plymouth, the shame of serving her Majesty? Tis where she got the book-larnin shes so better to do that than to stop on here and proud about, stead o comm back here to go to the devil as I should. The dev- make all this mischeef. ils in me, sir, and thats all about it. If Isabella Harvey? said the rector. ever Im to drive him out again, twont A most respectable girl and a very effi- be by hoeing taters nor yet by carryin cient teacher. I am sorry Harry has been vegetables to Plymouth market. unsuccessful; but I applaud his choice Well, the rector got his apology out of I applaud his choice. this graceless parishioner after all. Harry This made Mrs. Lear very angry, and admitted that he had behaved abominably, as she had always a fine flow of language but thought it quite likely that he might at command she proceeded for the best behave worse if he were constrained to part of a quarter of an hour to descant remain at Motcombe Regis against his upon the demoralizing effects of eddica- will; and indeed Mr. Staddon ~vas inclined tionin general and its evil consequences to think so too. Whether the poor lad had as exemplified in the case of Bella really been jilted by Miss Isabella Har- Harvey in particular, while the rector vey, or whether he had allowed himself to drummed upon the table with his fingers entertain unwarranted hopes, it was not and smiled and let her talk on. He did easy to determine; but what ~vas very evi- not contradict her, but when she paused dent ~vas that he had in him a great store to take breath he got up and said he of energy for good or for evil, and that thought he would go and try to find Har- that store imperatively demanded an out- ry. In truth the good man was not dis- let. That any adequate outlet could be pleased by what he had heard. This afforded by the pursuit of market-garden. reckless conduct and this talk about en- ing seemed most improbable; and so, listing were foolish enough, no doubt; after a discussion somewhat too lengthy but, since they had their origin in an hon- to be reported here, the rector was fain to est love-affair, there was hope for the range himself upon the young mans side. offender. Other discussions far more lengthy and Ho~vever, the matter was more serious far more stormy followed as a matter of than he imagined, and he changed his course, but the end of it was that Mrs. point of view after a few minutes conver- Lears opposition was overcome, and that sation with Harry, whom he discovered in she acquiesced tearfully and reproachfully the orchard. Thatblue-eyed,curly-headed in a decision the entire responsibility for young giant was sitting idly under an which she cast upon the rectors shoul- apple-tree, his back resting against the ders. trunk, his legs stretched out before him, The rector, for his part, did not under- and his hands thrust into his pockets. estimate the responsibility, and was far He did not get up, nor did he express any from happy in accepting it. Certainly contrition for what he had clone, there is no shame in serving the queen, Ive said it, and I wont take it back, but only a very small part of a soldiers was his dogged reply to what, considering life is usually spent in fighting the queens all things, was not a very severe lecture. enemies, and Mr. Staddon dwelt in the POOR HARRY. 207 neighborhood of a garrison town. He was a bachelor; his parishioners, and especially his grown-up choir-boys, were like his own children; it was impossible for him to look forward without some trep- idation to the kind of life which lay before Harry Lear. Yet what help was there for it? Children must needs grow into men, and if a man means to go to the bad, to the bad he will go, whether it be in bar- racks or in a country hamlet. This, per- haps, was also the opinion of old Lear, who had very little to say upon the sub- ject. He looked sad, and doubtless felt so; but, being no fool, he submitted to the inevitable, as we all must, and did not care to relieve his feelings by making a fuss about it. Thus it came to pass that, one fine morning, Harry Lear trudged down the village street with a bundle over his shoulder, and whom should he meet on his way (possibly this encounter was neither unforeseen nor undesigned by him) but the village schoolmistress, tripping along towards her daily avocations at her customary hour? Avery pretty and trim little brunette this village schoolmistress was, dressed a trifle above her station, as some people might have thought, though in truth her costume was quiet and mod. est enough, so far as material ~vent. If it fitted her remarkably well, and was cut in accordance with the latest fashion, that was, no doubt, due to the circumstance that she had resided for six months under the roof of her aunt, who was a dress- maker in a good way of business at Ply. mouth, and that she should have profited by the family talent was only creditable to her. But it was scarcely so creditable to her that, on catching sight of an old friend, she first stuck her chin in the air, pretend- ing not to see hun, and then skipped nim- bly on one side and tried to hurry past, as though she had been in fear of being in- sulted by him. Harry took a long stride and placed himself in front of her, so as to bar her passage; yet notwithstanding this some- what aggressive movement, nothing could have been more humble or more piteous than the voice in which he said, Wont you wish me good-bye, Bella? Are you going away, then, Mr. Lear?~~ inquired Miss Bella with an air of sur- prise. Yes, Bella, I am going to Plymouth to enlist; and you know why. You might wish me God-speed; twould be something for me to remember. Going to enlist as a common soldier!~ exclaimed Bella, to whom ~ve may be sure that this was no news, and who chose to ignore the latter half of Harrys sentence. Well, that does seem a pity! Though I dare say you know best; and certainly discipline is good for some people. A private soldier would get into trouble if he took it into his head to bawl and swear in church, I suppose.~ Ive asked the rectors pardon, re- turned Harry rather shortly. Maybe I had my reasons for what I did; but thats neither here nor there. Motcombe has got rid of me now, and so have you. It wouldnt cost you a great deal to give me a kind word before we part, Bella. Im sure I ~vish you every success andand amusement in your ne~v call- ing, Mr. Lear. Perhaps you wont mind my saying that I should prefer your ad- dressing me as Miss Harvey. Its more usual. After having called you Bella all my life? I am not a child any longer, Mr. Lear, nor are you, though I must say that you sometimes behave very like one. But I shall be late for school if I stand here talking. Good-bye, Mr. Lear. Good-bye Miss Harvey, returned Harry sadly; and so they parted without so much as shaking hands. But before she had taken half-a-dozen steps Bella was apparently struck by an afterthought, for she stopped short, faced about and returned towards her disconso- late lover with a smile upon her lips. She had stuck a posy of forget-me-nots in the front of her dress, one of which flowers she now detached and held out to him. I have heard that soldiers sometimes need to be reminded of those whom they have left behind them, she remarked de- murely. Then she turned once more and was out of sight before Harry had half recovered from the amazement into which he had been thrown by so unexpected a gift. It will be perceived that this innocent and rustic maiden knew how to flirt as well as any lady in Belgravia or Mayfair. The art of flirtation is, indeed, a very simple art, and one of which the rudiments may be readily acquired. The regiment in which Harry Lear en- listed had, like nine-tenths of the corps ~vhich compose the British army, recently received a designation under which its best friends might have failed to recognize it. It was no~v known as the Princess Charlotte of Waless Royal Berkshire, and 208 POOR HARRY. he had probably selected it in preference to any other regiment then quartered at Ply- mouth because it was under orders to leave that place immediately for Alder- shot. During the next few months he did not write very frequently to his parents, but his letters, when they came, were al- ways of a satisfactory nature. Perhaps, as Della Harvey had observed, discipline is good for some people; perhaps the education which Harry had received stood him in good stead, or perhaps he had a natural aptitude for soldiering. However that may be, his promotion was unusually rapid, and the rector, hearing at intervals of his advancement to the successive grades of lance-corporal, corporal. and sergeant, was rejoiced and comforted Autumn, winter, and spring had passed away, and summer had come round again when the news reached Motcombe Regis that old Mr. Lears son had attained to the latter honorable rank; and if the whole truth must be told, old Mr. Lear ordi- narily a most temperate man drank rather more cider than was good for him upon the strength of it, thereby earning for himself the conjugal rating which he doubtless deserved. As for honest Mr. Staddon, he rubbed his hands and said to himself, with par- donable complacency, I think, if I were to preach my last years sermon over again in Harrys hearing, he wouldnt call me a liar now. In truth he quite hoped that that unlucky attachment of Harrys was by this time a thing of the past, and that its consequences would prove by no means so disastrous as they had once ap- peared likely to be. Whether Miss Della Harvey altogether concurred in that hope is another ques- tion. A sergeant is not exactly the same thing as a private soldier ; but, setting that consideration aside, it is probable that she, like the rest of her sex, was not particularly anxious that any rejected suitor of hers should get over his disap- pointment too soon. However, her thoughts ~vere just now a good deal occu- pied with a rival of Harrys, who might be considered a very formidable rival as re- garded social position, though scarcely so in respect of personal appearance. The Reverend Ernest Whitestole, Mr. Staddons curate, had straw-colored hair, protuberant eyes of an indeterminate hue, and a chin which ran avay from his nose. Physical beauty, therefore, was not his strong point; but he had other points about him which were very strong indeed; his gentility, for instance, which was be- yond dispute; also his irreproachable character; also his deep and reverent ad- miration for Miss Bella And he lodged in the house of Miss Dellas aunt, with whom that orphan had found a home; so that occasional opportunities of entering into conversation with the object of his affections ~vere afforded to him elsewhere than at the schoolhouse. He did not, it is true, avail himself of these opportu- nities to the full extent that he might have done, his remarks, ~vhen they did not bear upon strictly parochial affairs, referring for the most part to atmospheric condi- tions; still, if a mans meaning be but clear, it is a matter of secondary impor- tance that he should express it clearly, or indeed that he should express it at all. Now Mr. Whitestoles meaning was per- fectly clear both to Della and to her aunt. Miss Harvey the elder, though a less successful woman than her sister the Ply- mouth dressmaker, was nevertheless one who enjoyed a high measure of local esteem, having for many years satisfac- torily met the small local demand for linen drapery, besides having faithfully served the State in the capacity of postmistress of Motcombe Regis. She was, therefore, not disinclined to~vards ambitious matri- monial views on behalf of her niece, and it is very likely that she would have felt quite justified in encouraging the amorous Whitestole but for the quasi-maternal ob- ligations which her position with regard to that young man seemed to impose upon her. For the privilege of lodging the curate was hers by prescriptive right. She had always lodged Mr. Staddons curates, and had always considered her- self as in a measure responsible for their conduct, as well as for the darning of their socks. Thus, when she sa~v how things were going, it became a question of con- science ~vith her whether she ought not to speak to the rector, and she was only dissuaded from taking that officious course by the representations of Della, who pointed out to her that to do this would be to assume what as yet Mr. Whitestole had given nobody the right to assume. Of course you can do whatever you think proper, Aunt Susan, she said sub- missively; but you will make me look very foolish if it turns out that you have made a mistake, and I am afraid you will lose your lodger. Acknowledging the cogency of these arguments, Miss Harvey consented to hold her peace, and, for the time being, took up an attitude of observant neutrality. All doubt as to the curates intentions POOR HARRY. 209 was, however, put an end to, so far as man. From that day forth he spoke no Della was concerned, one Sunday evening, more to Della Harvey of love, but she when he overtook her while she was walk- perfectly understood that this was not be- ing slowly homewards across the fields cause his love for her had diminished, and from church. Her apparent astonishment it may be hoped that she appreciated his and her asseverations that she had never delicacy. She bade him farewell with a dreamtiof such a thing as his asking her charming mixture of shyness and regret tobe his wife may not have been wholly when he departed on his well-earned leave sincere; but, after all, it is permitted to of absence in the month of August, tim idly women to be a little bit insincere under expressing a hope that he would enjoy such circumstances, and great allowance himself. To this he replied that an occa- should doubtless be made for those who sional holiday was good for everybody, are not quite certain about their own but that he did not think he should be wishes. I3ella allowed it to be understood very sorry to return to his work. that this was her predicament. What That an occasional holiday is good for would your family think of it, Mr. White- everybody is a sentiment with which Ser stole?~~ she asked. ~eant Lear would have fully agreed; and~ Mr. Whitestole, being a truthful man, that Sergeant Lear and the Reverend Mr. was constrained to reply that, to the best Whitestole should have been granted a. of his belief, his family ~vouldnt like it at respite from the performance of their re- all. But that, he added, is only be- spective duties at one and the same time cause they have not seen you and do not was a coincidence which Miss Della Har- know what you are. I feel sure that when vey might well consider providential.. I have described you to my mother she Motcombe Regis did not think highly of will yield; and as for my father, I must sodgers~~ in the abstract, and Harry tell him respectfully but firmly that my Lears determination to enlist had been mind is made up. To incur his displeas- generally looked upon as a sad example ure would naturally be painful to me, but of voluntary self-abasement but ~vhen to resign you, Della, would be more pain- this dazzling young non-commissioned ful still. officer returned home on furlough to visit But then wouldn~t he perhaps cut his parents, Motcombe Regis felt proud you off with a shilling?~ the practical of him, and told him so. Even his mother Della suggested diffidently. had to confess that he was smartened up Mr. Whitestole admitted that that was wonderful. She regretted, indeed, his possible, but did not seem to have re- beautiful curly hair, which was now flected that the supl)ort of a wife and cropped so close to his head that it family upon his present stipend was alto- scarcely curled at all; but there was no gether impossible. denying that his carefully trimmed mous- It may be conjectured that this reflec- tache and smooth-shaven cheeks gave him tion ~vas made for him. At any rate he an air of vast superiority over the rustics got no promise not even a conditional amongst whom he had beeo brought up,. onefrom the fair schoolmistress, who nor could she help admirir~g his erect. only declared that nothing would induce figure. and his firm, springy gait. her to marry him without his fathers con- AntI it is hardly necessary to add that, sent. That, she was sure, would be if she admired him, the younger ~vomen of wrong; she was not sure about anything the village admired him still more. The else, except that the subject must be story of his blighted affection was no droppedl for the present, and that not a secret to them, and more than one of those word must be said about it to anybody in comely damsels would have been easily Motcombe Regis. XVith these terms Mr. persuaded to undertake the task of con- Whitestole was fain to content himself, soling him. However, lie had no eyesfor Later in the summer he would be going them, nor many words either. His man- home for a three weeks holiday, and then ner had acquired a certain peremptory he would speak to his people; until that abruptness which in no ~vise accorded time lie ~vould endeavor, lie said, to pos- with the leisui-ely, ~vest-country method of sess his soul in patience. carrying on conversation, and which was Possibly Mr. Wliitestole was a foolish not of a nature to encourage advances. fellow. One cannot speak positively upon Even the rector was a little overawed by the point, because different people have him, respectful though lie ~vas~andanxious. different ideas as to what constitutes folly; to express his sincere regret forthe breach but, at all events, he was a loyal and honest of decorum which had led t@ his abandon- LIVING AGE. vOL. LXIV. 3290 POOR HARRY. 210 ment of Motcombe Regis and market- Ive said to myself that non-commis- gardening. sioned officers have got their commissions I hardly know you, harry, the worthy before now, and will again. I know well man said ; I shouldnt have thought that enough that a sergeant, even a color ser- any amount of drilling could have so geant, is beneath you; but a sublieuten- changed a lad. But I suppose you must ant is a gentleman, whatever his birth have been born to be a soldier. may have been. I suppose so, sir, answered Harry Indeed! And what do you have to briefly, do before you can rise to be a sub-heuten- But all this military shortness and ab- ant? ruptuess disappeared entirely ~vhen the Ah, there tis! The only chance is sergeant was permitted to hold parley with active service; but tother battalion is in his old flame, Miss Bella Harvey. It was Egypt, and I might be sent out to join a long time before he obtained that per- em any day, and then, perhaps, if I was mission, because it was her pleasure to luckybut maybe itd make no difference keep him at a distance, to be occupied with you if I was. (although it was holiday time) whenever Bella was not quite prepared to say he came to her aunts house, and to be that. From time immemorial ladies have provided with a companion of her own been pleased by doughty deeds, and the sex as often as he met her in the village, brave have deserved the fair. During the Within a day or two of the expiration of prolonged colloquy which ensued she gave his furlough, however, he had the good him no excuse for assuming that victory fortune to encounter her upon the moor, a was within his grasp; but, on the other full two miles from home or, to speak hand, she was good enough to say that more correctly, he had the good fortune to she considered his past misconduct atoned be allowed to join her; for, as a matter of for by his recent steadiness, and in the fact, he had tracked her the whole way course of their homeward walk she led from her house, and whether she had been him on to expatiate upon the glorious aware that he was following her or not, possibilities which await every fighting who can tell? In any case she did not man. The conclusion which he drew from refuse to converse ~vith him, and his con- her extremely guarded utterances, after versation at the outset ~vas of a humble, he had said good-night to her, was that, if deferential, and extremely uninteresting only he could manage to distinguish him- description. It was not until he had been self in the field, there would at least be sitting beside her on the sun-warmed hope for him, but that in justice to herself heather, and enunciating solemn common- she could never consent to follow the places for a full quarter of an hour, that drum as a mere sergeants wife. he suddenly took his courage in both Of these hopes he said nothing to his hands and said, mother, though she questioned him as Bella I beg your pardon, Miss Har- closely as she dared; but with his father vey I want to tell you before I go away he was a little more communicative. that theres been no change in me this Wants to be a lady, do she? was last year. I love you just the same as I the comment of that man of few words. always have, and I always shall. Look Might be shorter cuts to that than here ! he drew a sheet of paper from through wars and glory. his breast-pocket, which on being unfolded I dont know of any, said Harry. disclosed a brown and dried flower which Not for you to get to be a gentleman, had once been a forget-me-not Ive my boy, but for she well, theres cu- kept this ~vitli me and looked at it morn- rates. One of em lodgin at her aunts at ing and evening ever since I joined; and this present time. if lve got on well and got on quickly, Im not much afraid of him, Harry thats what I have to thank for it. Ive declared after a short pause. kissed it I dont know how many thousand Ah! said old Mr. Lear, and returned times, because twas your hand that gave to the horticultural operations which this it me, Bella Miss Harvey, I mean. dialogue had interrupted. That was very silly of you, Harry Afraid or not afraid, Harry had to go Sergeant Lear, I mean, observed Della, back to his regiment, and this time he casting down her eyes and smiling, took no forget-me-not with him as a part- Was it? Well, I dont know; I doubt ing gift. Possibly Miss Harvey thought I should never have been a non commis- that such an aid to memory was no longer sioned officer ~vithout it. And sometimes requisite. but perhaps youd think that silly too If he had looked out of the railway car- riage window at Exeter he might have recognized amongst the passengers in the down train, which he met there, the pen- sive countenance of his rival. Mr. White- stole, who habitually looked pensive, had better reasons than usual for looking so now. It is enough to make any dutiful son look pensive when his mother tells him that she is determined to oppose the dearest wish of his heart tooth and nail, and this was the unwelcome piece of news which the poor man had to convey to Motcombe Regis. Being too honest to conceal the truth, he made it known to Della immediately after his arrival. It has been a terrible disappointment to me, he confessed. Of my fathers approval I did not feel very sanguine, but I did think that my mother vould have taken my part. However, I have failed to to enlist her sympathies. Why, I hardly know, for my dear mother is any- thing but a worldly woman. - It is very natural that she should ob- ject to your marrying beneath you, Mr. Whitestole, said Della quietly. Of course you must think no more about it. But the curate was a resolute man as well as a dutiful son. He declared em- phatically that his love was unalterable, and that as long as Bella did not love any one else he should cling to the hope of some day calling her his own. Only he admitted that, since he had at present no home to offer her, he could not ask her to consent to a formal engagement. The privilege of considering himself informally engaged was not denied to him, nor was he informed that there was a young sergeant of infantry who had the audacity to cherish aspirations resembling his own. Nothing is so cruel as to de- prive a fellow-creature of the consolation of hope, and Dellas was not a cruel na- ture. Besides, she really would not have felt justified in saying that neither of her suitors had grounds for hope. Mr. Whitestole was a very good man, who might some day be a bishop ; on the other hand, Harry Lear ~vas a handsome, sol- dierly young fellow, who might some day (though that was not quite so likely) be the colonel of a regiment. Therefore it seemed to her best to say very little, to perform her daily duties with modesty and diligence, and to trust in an overrul- ing Providence for the ultimate solution of all doubts and difficulties. But that attitude, unexceptionable though it may be, is generally found an impossible one to maintain for any length 211 of time. Della Harvey maintained it for nearly six months, which, as every one must allow, was a creditable performance. During those six months letters of an impassioned character reached her from Aldershot, and to these she never failed to send a discreet word or two of reply, because one should always acknowledge correspondence. But it came to pass that Mr. Whitestole got wind of the said cor- respondence, and asked questions con- cerning it, which made it necessary to explain to him that he was not the sole aspirant for the schoolmistresss hand. In her candid, innocent way, Della told him that she admired brave men and brave actions, that she had a sincere affec- tion for the playmate of her childhood, and that she was touched by his constancy, although she had been unable to promise him what he had asked for. I cant bear to to disappoint those who care for me, Mr. Whitestole, said she with a slight tremor in her voice. But perhaps I am ~vrong; perhaps a girl ought always to say either yes or no and have done with it. Perhaps so; but as Mr. Whitestole did not want l3ella to say no to him and have done with him, he ~vas open to admit that hesitation might, under certain cir- cumstances, be permissible. Phe effect of her remarks, however, was to convince him that hesitation on his own part must last no longer; and so, shortly after Christmas, he obtained leave from the rector to go home for the inside of a week, in order, as he explained, that he might discuss certain urgent private affairs with his family. What those urgent affairs might be the guileless Mr. Staddon had no idea until after his curates return, when he was en- lightened by a half-piteous, half-indignant epistle from Mrs. Whitestole, who wrote to tell him of the dreadful entangle. i~entin which her dear Ernest had be- come involved, and who seemed to think that it was his business to disentangle her dear Ernest forthwith. The recfor did what he could. Personally he was in- clined to agree with Mrs. Whitestole, holding that it is undesirable, in the ab- stract, that a gentleman should marry a village schoolmistress ; but the applica- tion of abstract principles to particular instances is always apt to be troublesome, and he did not get the best of it in the friendly discussion to which he invited his curate. The latter pointed out, reason. ably enough, that if he had not yielded to POOR HARRY. POOR HARRY. 212 his mothers entreaties and his fathers that, no doubt, was ~vhy she did not think threats, he was scarcely likely to do so in a great deal about him during the inter- deference to arguments which he must val. She had, instead, to think about Mr. venture to call irrelevant. Was Miss \Vhitestole, whose suit was no longer a Harvey vulgar? Was she uneducated? secret to her friends and neighbors, and to Was she in any respect unfitted to asso- whom she ~vas commonly understood to ciate with ladies? Very well, then; the be engaged, notwithstanding her assur- question simply resolved itself into one of ances that such was not the case. The her present position. And from that posi- rectors thoughts and attention were also tion he proposed to remove her. much taken up in the same quarter. After Yes, yes, answered the rector; that all, a man is more or less answerable for is all very fine. But how are you going his curate, and Mr. Staddon, having been to do it, my dear fellow? How are you a good deal ruffled by the archdeacons going to marry unless your father provides letter, was beginning to take his curates you with the means? part. There is something, surely, to be Mr. Whitestole replied that he hoped said on behalf of an honest and steadfast in due season to obtain preferment which attachment; and the end of it was that would render him independent of his Mr. Staddon undertook a flying visit to father. the other side of England for the pur- Oh, well, returned the rector, some- pose of saying this. He met with no suc- what relieved, if you are content to wait cess, nor did he get any thanks for his until that day comes pains; all that he gained by his journey Rectors are very generally surprised being an intimation that he would do well ~vhen their curates obtain preferment, and to look out for a new curate, since it was mothers are always surprised if their sons Archdeacon Whitestoles intention to re- do not, so that Mrs. \Vhitestole found Mr. move his son at once from the perilous Staddons reply to her letter much less neighborhood of Motcombe. reassuring than the writer had intended it Mr. Staddon returned home by the to be. She therefore appealed through night mail. Not being overburdened with the post to the better feelings of the pocket-money, he did not see his way to young person herself, and the young per- increasing the cost of a fruitless expedi- son returned an evasive answer; and then tion by the amount of a London hotel bill, Archdeacon Whitestole wrote in terms so that he reached Plymouth early in the which were scarcely clerical or becoming morning and dozed in the waiting-room to his reverend brother at Motcombe until such time as he could obtain a frugal Regis- Thus matters were working up breakfast. Thence he travelled by the towards an uncomfortable crisis in that branch line which brought him to a station hamlet, when news came to old Mr. Lear within three miles of Motcombe Regis, that his son had been ordered off to Sua- and set out to perform the remainder of kim with drafts to join the other battalion his journey on foot. It was a mild spring of his regiment which had already been morning, the wind blowing gently from the despatchecl thither. westward; the hedges in sheltered places It is an ill wind that blows nobody any were already sprinkled with green and the good. The expedition which ~vas sent to horse-chestnut buds were prepared to Suakim in the early part of the year i88~ burst upon a little further encouragement. to chastise Osman Digma can hardly be The rector, who had started in a rather said to have conferred glory or profit upon bad humor (for it is annoyin~ to have the nation (which, nevertheless, was un- spent the best part of ten pounds and to derstood at the time to demand it); but it have received nothing but a nasty snub in gave his opportunity to Sergeant Lear. return, not to speak of the worry of having He wrote in high spirits to his sweetheart, to provide oneself with a new and un- from whom, just before he sailed, he re- known curate), grew more cheerful under ceived a missive which gladdened his the influence of fresh air and exercise, and heart. I know you will do your duty, was quite inclined for a little neighborly dear Harry, Miss Bella wrote with un- conversation when, on nearing home, he accustomed warmth; and you may be caught sight of old Mr. Lears battered sure that we shall be thinking of you and hat. praying for you at home while you are Nice growing weather, Mr. Lear, he fighting your countrys battles. called out. Of course he could not begin fighting The old man was not working, as usual; his countrys battles for some ~veeks; and he was leaning over his gate and held a POOR HARRY. 213 newspaper in his hand. You seen the John MNeills force had been surpi-ised !iVestern Mornin News, sir? he asked by the enemy whilst constructing a zare- in a rather hoarse voice. ba; how it had only been saved from an- No, indeed, I havent, answered the nihilation by the gallantry and steadiness rector; I quite forgot to buy it. Has of the Berkshire Regiment; how the men anything particular happened since yester- of the Naval Brigade had fought like he- day? roes; and how the attack had at last been Old Lear raised his faded blue eyes, his repulsed, though not without terrible loss lips moved, but no articulate sound issued of life on both sides. All this Mr. Lear from them. Then all of a sudden he narrated without a break in h~s voice, but broke out in a loud voice: My boy, heve over the last paragraph he began to falter been killed fightin they lousy Arabs. a little. The rectors heart gave a great bound, and a hand seemed to be clutching at his throat. Oh, my poor Harry! he ejacu. lated. Poor Harry! poor rosy - cheeked, curly-headed Harry, who used to be the best treble in the village choir until his voice broke, and who had won many a cricket-match for Motcombe Regis by his swift bowling. Such a good boy ! such a plucky boy! High-couraged and a little impatient of control at times, as the best specimens of men and beasts always are, but a boy whose heart was in the right place, and who had never said or done a shabby thing. Ah well! it is appointed to all men once to die, dearly beloved breth- ren, and this mortal life is but the prelude to an infinitely higher and happier state of existence; and why should we mourn for those who are not lost, but gone before? Something of this kind the rector had said scores of times from the pulpit, hon- estly meaning and believing every word of it, but he could not manage to say it now. The fluent commonplaces died away upon his lips in the presence of a dumb sorrow for which no earthly con- solation could be found. XVhen he vent into the house, where Mrs. Lear. ~vith her apron tossed over her head, ~vas rocking herself to and fro and moaning, he himself was dumb. He thought he ough tto speak to her of the svill of God and the comfort of faith, but he could not bring himself to perform this cruel duty if, indeed, it was his dutyand all that he could say was, Oh dear! oh dear! what a sad misfor- tune! Mrs. Lear took no notice of him; and presently her husband led him out into the sunshine again, saying, with a sort of subdued pride, I should like just to read that th eer newspaper story to you, sir, if I mioht make so bold. The rector seated himself upon the window-sill, while Mr. Lear slowly and laboriously spelt out the account of the engagement which has since become known as the battle of Tofrek how Sir I Arter the fightin was nearly over, a desultory fire was kep up from the shelter of the mi mimosa scrub, which proved singlarly effective and might have largely swelled our list of cashalties, but for the desperate valor desprate valor Color-sergeant Lear Here the old man stopped abruptly, thrust the paper into Mr. Staddons hands, turned his back and valked away. The rector read on, not without diffi- culty (for he had not his spectacles ~vith him, and someho~v or other he could not keep his eyes clear, though he kept rub- bing them) But for the desperate valor of Color-sergeant Lear, of the Berkshire Regiment, who determined to dislodge the marksmen, and, leaping over the zareba, made for their place of concealment. This brave fellow accomplished his object, killingfourof the enemy before he himself, pierced through and through by their spears, met a soldiers death. A soldiers death ! Well, there is no better way of dying, and if the fate of a sergeant is soon forgotten, that of a field- marshal is not remembered for a great many years. Perhaps it does not matter very much whether one is a field-marshal or a sergeant, remembered or forgotten. But what is to be said to two old people who have been deprived of their only child, and whose remaining years of labor must necessarily be dull, lonely, and ob- jectless? The l)OOd rector could think of nothing adequate to say, so presently he went away, blaming himself for his ineffi- ciency. Had he known all, he might pos- sibly have found some relief in blamino Bella Harvey; but he did not know all, and this solace was reserved for Mrs. Lear, who subsequently availed herself of it. As for Bella, she wept bitterly wh