The Living age ... / Volume 200, Issue 2583
1-64
LITTELLS LIVING AGE.
No, 2583 January 6 189~, From Beginning,
I Vol. 00.
CONTENTS.
- I. THE QUEEN AND TIER FIRST PluME
MINISTER. By Reginald B. Brett,.
II. MANETTE ANDREY; OR, LIFE DURING
THE REIGN OF TERROR. Translated by
Mrs. E. W. Latimer, from the French of
III. MACMAHON AND HIS FORBEARS. By
Emily Crawford,
IV. A SOUTH SEA ISLAND AND ITS PEOPLE.
By Frederick J. Moss
V. J?ROFESSOR JOWETT, .
VI. GOUNOD. By J. Cuthbert Hadden,
VII. THE MAN WITH NO VOICE,
VIII. RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. JOHN BROWN,
IX. TRIPOLI IN SYRIA
AT RANDOM SOWN,
THE SORROW OF THE SEA,
Nineteenth Century,
Paul Perret,
Contemporary Review,
Fortnightly Review,
Temple Bar,
Gentlem ans Magazine,
Cornhill Magazine,
Leisure hour,
Daily Graphic,
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At Random Sown, etc.
AT RANDOM SOWN.
I SCATTERED my rhymes on the barren
ground,
Nought was its barrenness to me;
Or cast them adrift on the vagrant winds,
And the stormy billows of the sea.
I never cared, or sought to know,
Whether like fruitful seeds they grew,
Whether they perished as soon as born,
Or faded away like the morning dew;
Whether men heeded them or despised;
For the light must shine, the lark must
sing,
And the rose unfold its blushing buds
To the warm embraces of the spring.
And yet, though careless as the flowers
That shed their odors on the air,
I dreamed a dream that grew to a hope,.
That as the thistledown might bear
A living germ in its small balloon,
Some of my fancies, robed in rhyme,
Might fall perchance upon fruitful soil,
And root and ripen in their time,
Ripen in hearts as yet unborn,
To strengthen the weak, console the poor,
To cheer the brave in their conquering
march,
And teach the wretched to endure.
Lfes hard battle p2rmnits no truce,
And every age needs warriors strong;
And even a rhyme may pierce like a sword
The armor that protects the wrong!
Atheiinuni.
THE SORROW OF THE SEA.
IT is nor storm nor cams, but yesterday
The wild winds leapt in sudden thunder
down;
Shook the dark waters into starry spray,
And thrilled the soul of many a seaside
town.
Ah, cruel are the hungry tides that
drown!
They kill, yet cast ashore their tender prey;
Tossing it carelessly as seaweed brown,
Heedless of lovers young and parents grey.
But now remorse is here! The ponderous
wave
Upcoils full wearily its snowy crest,
Of after-brooding, not of Passion, slave !
Lit by the low slant yellow of the west.
Unquiet grave! Thyself without a grave,
Till there be no more sea, in foam,
at rest!
Spectator. JOHN HOGBEN.
PHYLE.
HENcE Thrasybulus eagle-swoop struck
down
The traitorous Thirty. Let me muse awhile,
Where you lone castle guards the dark de-
file,
From age to age, with dread majestic
frown;
You crags are clasped with more than
Natures crown;
Stern Fate hath doomed that immemorial
pile;
But, for the patriot hero, Historys smile
Shall spurn the assailant years, that wreck
renown.
O lovely land he fought for! Far away
Before me sleep the olive-sprinkled plain,
Purple Hymcttus, and Pira~us Bay,
And that proud Rock, where still Athene s
Fane
Recalls the rapture of her vanished sway
Oer storied Mount, and Delos-hallowed
main.
Blackwoods Magazine.
THE BLIND SUMMIT
[A Viennese gentleman, who had climbed the
Hoch-Kilnig without a guide, was found dead,
in a sitting posture, near the summit, upon
which he had written, It is cold, and clouds
shut out the view. Vide the Daily News of
September 10th, 1891.]
So mounts the child of ages of desire,
Man, up the steeps of Thought; and would
behold
Yet purer peaks, touched with unearthiler
fire,
In sudden vision virginally new;
But on the lone last height lie sighs Tis
cold,
And clouds shut out the view.
Ah, doom of mortals! Vexed with phan-
toms old,
Old phantoms that waylay us and pur-
sue
Weary of dreams, we think to see un-
fold
The eternal landscape of the Real and
True;
And on our Pisgah can but write: Tis
cold,
And clouds shut out the view.
Spectator. WILLIAM WATSON.
2
The Queen and her First Prime Minister.
From The Nineteenth Century.
THE QUEEN AND HER FIRST PRIME
MINISTER.
WHEN from the vantage-ground of
far-distant centuries men come to look
back upon the history of the British
Empire, probably no figure will sur-
pass in brilliancy and interest that of
Queen Victoria. In order to form a
just idea of the strong relief in which
the queen xviii stand out from her pred-
ecessors, it is necessary to imagine
Elizabeth known to us by the light of
her own utterances and those of her
contemporaries ; for it is thus that the
queen is revealed to the readers of her
journals, her correspondence, and the
memoirs of those who have been priv-
ileged to observe closely the higher
political movement of her reicrn. The
life of the queen has been laid open to
the eyes of all who care to look. It is
pure and honest and simple beyond the
lives of most women, and harmonizes
with the fancies upon which idealists
have loved to dwell. Emotional, with
full play of the higher feelings, tem-
pered by caution and sound reason, the
queen has reigned over half a century
without making a personal enemy,
without creating a political foe. It is a
famous record; for the negative vir-
tues are the rarest of all in monarchs.
No act of cruelty sullies the rule of
Queen Victoria, anti, so far as her sub-
jects can ju(lge of her, she has been
unjust to none of them. This alone,
apart from the lofty moral atmosphere
in which she has always moved, is
higher praise than any of her ancestors
can boast.
It was in a palace in a garden;
meet scene for youth, and innocence,
as one in later years to be her minister
has said, that she received the news of
her accession to a throne overlooking
every sea and nation in every zone.
There are but few who would deny
that in its sequel her reign has proved
worthy of its opening. Seldom has a
woman been called upon to play a
more difficult part than the young girl,
hardly eighteen years old, who in June,
1837, stood with bare feet, and in her
night-dress, receiving the homage of
the lords who had come to announce to
her that she was queen of England.
The scene has been admirably (le-
scribed. William the Fourth was dead.
The Archbishop of Canterbury anI
Lord Conyngham were despatched t~
inform the Princess Victoria of tli~
fact. It was a warm night in June..
The princess was sleeping in her moth-
ers room, her custom from childhood r
arid had to be summoned out of her
sleep. The messengers axvaited her in~
the long, un lofty room, separated only~
by folding-doors from that which wa~
inhabited by the Duchess of Kent and~
her daughter. The young girl enteredm
alone, in her nightdress, with some
loose wrap thrown hastily about her~
The moment she was addressed as
Your Majesty she put out her hand,
intimating that the lords who addressed
her were to kiss it, and thereby do
homage. her schooling and her in-
stincts were admirable from the first.
Self-possession combined with perfect
modesty came naturally to her. A few
hours later, at eleven oclock in the
morning, the child-queen met her
Council. In the corridor at Windsor
there is a picture which commemorates
the event. Never, it has been said by
an eyewitness, was anything like the
first impression she prodnced, or the
chorns of praise and admiration which
was raised about her manner and be-
havior, certainly not without justice.
Her extreme youth and inexperience,
and the ignorance of the world concern-
ing herfor she had lived in complete
seclusion excited interest and curi-
osity. Asked whether she would enter
the room accompanied by the great offi-
cers of state, she said she would come
in alone. Accordingly, when all the
lords of the Privy Council were assem-
bled, the folding-doors were thrown
open, and the queen entered, quite
plainly dressed and in mourning, and
took her seat for the first time, a young
girl among a crowd of men, including
all the most famous and powerful of
her subjects. She bowed, and read
her speech, handed to her by the prime
minister, Lord Melbourne, in a clear
and firm voice, and then took the. oath
3
The Queen and her First Prime Minister.
for the security of the Church of Scot-
land~ Immediately the privy council-
lors were sworn; the royal Dukes of
Cuniberland and Sussex first by them-
selves. It was observed that as these
two old men, her uncles, knelt before
her swearing allegiance, she blushed
up to the eyes, as if she felt the con-
trast between their civil and natural
relations. Her manner was very grace-
ful and engaging, and she kissed them
both, and, rising from her chair, moved
towards the Duke of Sussex, who was
too infirm to reach her. She spoke to
uo one, nor could the smallest dif-
ference in her manner be detected,
though carefully scrutinized to see
whether she drew distinction between
Lord Melbourne and the ministers on
time one hand or the Duke of Welling-
ton and Sir R.. Peel on the other. Oc-
casionally, when in doubt what to do,
she looked to Lord Melbourne for in-
struction ; but this rarely occurred.
No wonder he was charmed; no won-
der that Sir Ii. Peel was amazed at her
manner and behavior, at her apparent
dee~ sense of the situation, at her mod-
esty and her firmness. No wonder
that the Duke of Wellington was con-
strained to admit that if she had been
his, own daughter he could not have
desired to see her perform her part
letter.
It was not only by her appearance
and manner that the queen made her
charm felt. She acted in difficult cii-
cumstances with every sort of good
taste and good feeling, as well as good
sense. To the queen dowager her be-
havior was perfect. She wrote to her
in the kindest terms, begging her to
consult only her health and conven-
ience, and to remain at Windsor as
long as she pleased. This much any
tender - hearted woman might have
done but he +l~hff 1 for ~
.r .~ou~~u~ness ~ie
feeLings of others already was apparent
in t~e smallest and least expected de-
tails. When about to go down to visit
The queen dowager at Windsor, to Lord
Melbournes great surprise she told him
hat the flag on the Round Tower was
~lying half-mast high, and that as they
would probably elevate it on her ar
rival, it would be better to send orders
beforehand not to do so. He had
never thought of the flag, nor did he
know anything @out it. Attention to
details, which sbme would consider
trifles, but which differentiate more
than great actions the thoughtful from
the thoughtless mind, has from her
youth upwards been characteristic of
the queen. Of her good sense and
caution ample proof was soon given in
her treatment of those who had been
about hei since childhood. Upon none
of them did she exclusively rely. Con-
roy she excluded at once, with a pen-
sion, from her immediate surroundings.
The Baroness Lehzen remained as
before her companion. It was noticed
that whenever she was asked to decide
upon some difficult matter she invari-
ably said she would think it over and
reply on the morrow. Men, knowing
to what extent she relied upon the ad-
vice of Lord Melbourne, imagined that
in everything she consulted him. lie,
however, declared that to many of his
questions a similar reply was given.
The minister was quickly absorbed
by the novel and exciting duty which
had fallen to him. No human relation
could be more fascinating than that in
which he stood to the queen. Perhaps
no nian before or since has quite filled
the place that Lord Melbourne occu-
pied in the life of a girl who was not
his wife or his daughter. For four
years he saw the queen every day. He
was formed, as an acute observer no-
ticed, to ingratiate himself with her.
The unbounded consideration and re-
sl)ect with which lie treated her, his
desire to consult her tastes and wishes,
the ease of his frank and natural man-
ners, his quaint, epigrammatic turn of
mind, all helped to charm the girl who
was his sovereign, but who also stood
to him in statu pupiliari. The excite-
ment for it could have been no less
to him, a man of the world, with a
romantic bias, as well as a keen prac-
tical intelligence of having to guide
and direct such a pupil can be well
imaoined.
He never betrayed his responsibility
nor presumed upon his position. It
4
flte Queen. and her First Prime Minister.
was a piece of rare good fortune which
found him minister at the kings death.
With all the immense powers of head
and heart which the queen caine later
to discover in Sir R. Peel, it is more
than doubtful if he could have fulfilled
in the summer of 1837 the duties so
easily assumed by his rival.
Lord Melbournes life had been
chequered by curious experiences. In
the sphere of politics lie had found
himself on pleasant lines ; but in pri-
vate his lot had been cast with that of
a woman versed in all the wearing
secrets of romantic passion. To turn
from the memory of his wifes wild ex-
cesses in thought and language to the
pure-hearted and simple girl whom the
Fates had given him as a queen and a
daughter must have touched him to the
quick.
Varied as is the business of a prime
minister, full as his mind must neces-
sarily be of State affairs, Lord Mel-
bournes absorbing interest became the
blossoming of this youthful character
under his watchful eye and careful
guardianship.
He was no longer young, but lie was
not old. At the coronation, after the
heroic figure of the Duke of Welling-
ton, it was to Lord Melbourne that the
attention of onlookers was mainly di-
rected.
His head was a truly noble one [wrote
Leslie, no mean judge]. I think, indeed,
he was the finest specimen of manly beauty
in the meridian of life I ever saw; not only
were his features eminently handsome, but
his expression was in the highest degree
intellectual. His laugh was frequent, and
the most joyous possible, and his voice so
deep and musical, that to hear him say the
most ordinary things was a pleasure; but
his frankness, his freedom from affectation,
and his peculiar humor rendered almost
everything he said, though it seemed per-
fectly natural, yet quite original.
Chantreys bust and the beautiful
portraits in the corridor at Windsor
one taken when he was but a boy, the
other in mi(ldle life corroborate the
view of his contemporaries. his mein-
ory was pro(higious, an(l lie rea(1 vo-
raciously. In classical attainments,
including a neat talent for verse, he-
was up to the high average level of the~
educated men of his time. In knowi
edge of history and of politics he was
not surpassed by any; and no living
Englishman was by age, charaeterr and
experience so well qualified for the
task which lay under his hand.
That the young queen should have
become attached with almost filial re~
gard to her minister is not surprising,
and that he admirably fulfilled his duty
was never questioned by those wh@
knew the truth. Sir R. Peel, his chief
l)Olitical opponent, a(lmitte(l that the
queen could not do better than take his
advice and abide by his counsel; zmiA
the Duke of Wellington, then lender of
the opposition to him in the House of
Lords, declared publicly that Lord Mel-
bourne had rendered the greatest pos-
sible service by making the queem~
acquainted with the mode and poiiey of
government, initiating her into the
laws and spirit of the Constitution, and
teaching her to preside over the desti-
nies of the country.
The initiation of the queen into the
spirit of the Constitution even J~ir~
Melbournes political foes felt could
not be in better hands, and althougl~
the Times, then a party journal, de-
clared the all but infant and helpless
queen to be delivered up into the hands
of the Whig minister, and evidently
anticipated the worst results from it,
these prognostications were happily
falsified. Her uncle, the king of the
Belgians, and his curious mentor, the
physician Stockmar, from the first en-
deavored to instil imito the queens
mind her responsibilities as a constitu
tional sovereign, and the supreme im-
portance of holding an impartial balance
between the two great political parties.
Had Lord Melbourne been a degree
less loyal, had lie been an office-seeker,
had lie possessed an exaggerated i)ehief
in his own infallibility, the queen might
not have responded so readily to the
wise a(lvice of her relative and of
Stockmar. She has allowed the ad
mission to be made on her behalf that
between her accession and her mar-
riage, in spite of Lord Melbournes
The Queen and her First Prime ilijinister.
daily lessons, in reality because of their doubt that Lord Melbourne agreed with
charm, she had drifted insensibly into them in his hearty way ? Or he would
political partisanship. had it been he still prouder of her when, after bid-
~otherwise she would not have been (ling farewell to departing relatives,
human ; but it is to the credit of Lord and about to leave the ship, the captain
Melbourne that neither by precept, nor and officers betrayed their anxiety to
hint, nor suggestion did lie encourage assist her down the tall side of the
his sovereigns bias towards the Whig vessel, she looked up with the greatest
party. He taught her the duties of spirit, and said quite loud in her sil-
qucenship in their widest sense. very voice, No help, thank you ; I
No pedagogue could have done this [says am used to this, and (hesceiide(l, as an
one of the most fascinating of biographers] ; eye-witness noticed, like an old boat-
a professor from one of the universities swain. It is not, perhaps, astonish-
might have taught her the letters of the ing that Lord Melbourne should have
Constitution in the course of morning hes- joined in the enthusiastic cheers of her
sons, but he would probably have failed to sailors. Or he accompanied her on
convey along with it that informing and those Sunday afternoons, from four to
quickening spirit without which the letter five, when the band played upon the
profiteth nothing, or heads to mischief, incomparable terrace at Windsor; and
He was, as lie has been called, a there are those who still remember the
Regius professor, but with no profes- crowds of people, thick set rows of
sional disquahifications ; and if to p0- men, women, and Eton boys, pressing
hitical Crokers, spell the word as you round the child-queen as she walked,
will, his influence seemed dangerous, her courtiers hardly able to cleave a
the Tory leaders recognized the indis- l)assage through them, and Lord Mel-
pensable nature of his task, and acqui hourne walking half a pace behind her,
esced in his performance of it. lie on her right, stooping a little so as to
was a Whiig, no doubt, says his biog- be quite within earshot ; a fascinating
raphier, but at any rate lie was an sight ; the homage of a protector.
honesthearted English man, in no Visitors at Win(lsor were struck with
merely conventional sense a gentle- the ministers manner to the queen.
man, on whose i)erfect honor no one The mixture of parental anxiety and
hesitated to place reliance, lie lived respectful deference was naturally re-
at Windsor Castle, an(h had constant sl)oiided to by her, and she gave him
access to the queen. in the morning her entire confidence. Greville re-
lie took her the despatches, and ex- marked that lie had no doubt Mel-
plained them to her. After luncheon bourne was passionately fond of her,
lie rode with her, taking his place next as lie might be of a daughter if lie had
to her. Or he rode by her 5i(le when one, and the more so because he was a
she drove, with the Duchess of Kent, man with a great capacity for loving
in a low carriage drawn by four white without having anything in the world
ponies, attended by grooms in scarlet, to hove. As they are the iml)ressions
and a number of gentlemen riding in of an eye-witness, and a man of dis-
attendance. Or perhaps it was a re- crimination, it is worth while to quote
view of troops in the park, when her Grevilles journal of the 15th Decem-
minister would stand and watch his her, 1838
charge as she rode between the lines,
in the Windsor uniform riding-habit, Went on Wednesday to a Council at
With the blue ribbon of the Garter, Windsor and after the Council was invited
and a smart chacot trimmed with ~ to stay that night ; rode with the queen,
lace, returning the salutes of her ~ and after riding, Melbourne came to me
trool)s and said her Majesty wished me to stay the
by raising her hand to her cap in true next day also. This was very gracious and
military fashion. The most fascinat- very considerate, because it was done for
mo thino eve ~ ~ officers the express purpose that she
would declare ; and can there be any was not displeased at my showing
not staying when
The Queen and her First Prime Minister.
asked on a former occasion, and as she can
have no object whatever in being civil to
me, it was a proof of her good nature and
thoughtfulness about other peoples little
vanities, even those of the most insignifi-
cant. Accordingly I remained till Friday
morning, when I went with the rest of her
suite to see the hounds throw off, which
she herself saw for the first time. The
court is certainly not gay, but it is perhaps
impossible that any court should be gay
where there is no social equality; where
some ceremony and a continual air of def-
erence and respect must be observed, there
can be no ease, and without ease there can
be no real pleasure. The queen is natural,
good-humored, and cheerful, but still she
is queen, and by her must the social habits
and the tone of conversation be regulated,
and for this she is too young and inexperi-
enced. She sits at a large round table, her
guests around it, and Melbourne always in
a chair beside her, where two mortal hours
are consumed in such conversation as can
be found, which appears to be, and really
is, very uphill work. This, however, is the
only bad part of the whole ; the rest of the
day is passed without the slightest con-
straint, trouble, or annoyance to anybody;
each person is at liberty to employ himself
or herself as best pleases them, though very
little is done in common, and in this respect
Windsor is totally unlike any other place.
There is none of the sociability which
makes the agreeableness of an English
country house; there is no room in which
the guests assemble, sit, lounge, and talk
as they please and when they please ; there
is a billiard-table, but in such a remote
corner of the castle that it might as well be
in the town of Windsor; and there is a
library well stocked with books, but hardly
accessible, imperfectly warmed, and only
tenanted by the librarian; it is a mere
library, too, unfurnished, and offering none
of the comforts and luxuries of a habitable
room. There are two breakfast-rooms, one
for the ladies and the guests, and the other
for the equerries, but when the meal is
over everybody disperses, and nothing but
another meal reunites the company, so that,
in fact, there is no society whatever, little
trouble, little etiquette, but very little re-
source or amusement.
The life which the queen leads is this:
she gets up soon after eight oclock, break-
fasts in her own room, and is employed the
whole morning in transacting business;
she reads all the despatches and has every
matter of interest and importance in every
department laid before her. At eleven or
twelve Melbourne comes to her and stays
an hour, more or less, according to the
business he may have to transact. At two
she rides with a large suite (and she likes
to have it numerous) ; Melbourne always
rides on her left hand, and the equerry-in-
waiting generally on her right; she rides
for two hours along the road, and the
greater part of the time at a full gallop;
after riding, she amuses herself for the rest
of the afternoon with music and singing,
playing, romping with children, if there
are any in the castle (and she is so fond of
them that she generally contrives to have
some there), or in any other way she fan-
cies. The hour of dinner is nominally half
past seven oclock, soon after which time
the guests assemble, but she seldom ap-
pears till near eie,ht. The lord-in-waiting
comes into the drawing-room and instructs
each gentleman which lady he is to take to
dinner. When the guests are all assembled
the queen comes in, preceded by the gentle-
men of her household, and followed by the
Duchess of Kent and all her ladies ; she
speaks to each lady, bows to the men, and
goes immediately into the dining-room.
She generally takes time arm of the man of
the highest rank, but on this occasion she
went with Mr. Stephenson, time American
minister (though he has no rank), which
was very wisely done. Melbourne inva-
riably sits on her left, no matter who may
be there; she remains at table the usual
time, but does not suffer the men to sit
long after her, and we were summoned to
coffee in less than a quarter of an hour. In
the drawing-room she never sits down till
the men make their appearance. Coffee is
served to them in the adjoining room, and
then they go into the drawing-room, when
she goes round and says a few words to
each, of the most trivial nature, all how-
ever very civil and cordial in manner and
expression. When this little ceremony is
over, the Duchess of Kents wlmist table is
arranged, and then the round table is mar-
shalled, Melbourne invariably sitting on
the left hand of the queen, and remaining
there without moving till the evening is at
an end. At about half past eleven she
goes to bed, or whenever the duchess has
played her usual number of rubbers, and
the band have performed all the pieces on
their list for the night. This is the whole
history of her day; she orders and regulates
every detail herself, she knows where every-
7
The Queen and her First Prime Minister.
asked on a former occasion, and as she can
have no object whatever in being civil to
me, it was a proof of her good nature and
thoughtfulness about other peoples little
vanities, even those of the most insignifi-
cant. Accordingly I remained till Friday
morning, when I went with the rest of her
suite to see the hounds throw off, which
she herself saw for the first time. The
court is certainly not gay, but it is perhaps
impossible that any court should be gay
where there is no social equality; where
some ceremony and a continual air of def-
erence and respect must be observed, there
can be no ease, and without ease there can
be no real pleasure. The queen is natnral,
good-humored, and cheerful, but still she
is queen, and by her must the social habits
and the tone of conversation be regulated,
and for this she is too young and inexperi-
enced. She sits at a large round table, her
guests around it, and Melbourne always in
a chair beside her, where two mortal hours
are consumed in such conversation as can
be fouud, which appears to be, and really
is, very uphill work. This, however, is the
only bad part of the whole ; the rest of the
day is passed without the slightest con-
straint, trouble, or annoyance to anybody;
each person is at liberty to employ himself
or herself as best pleases them, though very
little is done in common, and in this respect
Windsor is totally unlike any other place.
There is none of the sociability which
makes the agreeableness of an English
country house; there is no room in which
the guests assemble, sit, lounge, and talk
as they please and when they please ; there
is a billiard-table, but in such a remote
corner of the castle that it might as well be
in the town of Windsor; and there is a
library well stocked with books, but hardly
accessible, imperfectly warmed, and only
tenanted by the librarian; it is a mere
library, too, unfurnished, and offering none
of the comforts and luxuries of a habitable
room. There are two breakfast-rooms, one
for the ladies and the guests, and the other
for the equerries, but when the meal is
over everybody disperses, and nothing but
another meal reunites the company, so that,
in fact, there is no society whatever, little
trouble, little etiquette, but very little re-
source or amusement.
The life which the queen leads is this
she gets up soon after eight oclock, break-
fasts in her own room, and is employed the
whole morning in transacting business;
she reads all the despatches and has every
matter of interest and importance in every
department laid before her. At eleven or
twelve Melbourne comes to her and stays
an hour, more or less, according to the
business he may have to transact. At two
she rides with a large suite (and she likes
to have it numerous) ; Melbourne always
rides on her left hand, and the equerry-in-
waiting generally on her right; she rides
for two hours along the road, and the
greater part of the time at a full gallop;
after riding, she amuses herself for the rest
of the afternoon with music and singing,
playing, romping with children, if there
are any in the castle (and she is so fond of
them that she generally contrives to have
some there), or in any other way she fan-
cies. The hour of dinner is nominally half
past seven oclock, soon after which time
the guests assemble, but she seldom ap-
pears till near eight. The lord-in-waiting
comes into the drawing-room and instructs
each gentleman which lady he is to take to
dinner. When the guests are all assembled
tIme queen comes in, preceded by the gentle-
men of her household, and followed by the
Duchess of Kent and all her ladies ; she
speaks to each lady, bows to the men, and
goes immediately into tIme dining-room.
She generally takes time arm of the man of
the highest rank, but on this occasion she
went with Mr. Stephenson, the American
minister (though he has no rank), which
was very wisely done. Melbourne inva-
riably sits on her left, no matter who may
be there; she remains at table the usual
time, but does not suffer the men to sit
long after her, and we were summoned to
coffee in less than a quarter of an hour. In
the drawing-room she never sits down till
the men make their appearance. Coffee is
served to them in time adjoining room, and
then they go into the drawing-room, when
she goes round and says a few words to
each, of the most trivial nature, all how-
ever very civil and cordial in manner and
expression. When this little ceremony is
over, the Duchess of Kents whist table is
arranged, and then the round table is mar-
shalled, Melbourne invariably sitting on
the left hand of the queen, and remaining
there without movimmg till the evening is at
an end. At about half past eleven she
goes to bed, or whenever the duchess has
played her usual number of rubbers, and
the band have performed all the pieces on
tlmeir list for the night. This is the whole
history of her day; she orders and regulates
every detail herself, she knows where every-
7
The Queen and her First Prime Minister.
to follow, and whose teaching was in a
great degree a variation upon the text
of the Whig minister.
Speculation staggers at the prospect
of what might have occurred if Queen
Victoria had exhibited the obstinacy of
her grandfather, or the partisanship of
Queen Anne, or the unconscientious
neglect of duty so conspicuous in
George the Fourth. Those first four
years of her reign were crucial in their
importance to the formation of her.
character as a sovereign and a woman.
From their novelty and excitement
they must have left the young girl in a
mental state only too ready to receive
lifelong impressions of good or evil.
The queen has said that they were
years full of peril for her, aiid has ex-
pressed her gratitude that none of her
children have had to run the risk she
believes herself to have incurred. It
was Englands good fortune as well as
the queens that at such a moment
Lord Melbournes guiding hand was
held out to her.
Jn spite of all that he could do to
inure her to the idea, it soon became
clear that the queen viewed with dis-
may a change of ministers which would
deprive her of his advice and compan-
ionship; her feelings, when strongly
stirred, have always been but partially
under control ; and when the crisis of
his ministerial fate arrived in May,
1839, Lord Melbournes earnest en-
deavor to smooth the way for Sir Rob-
ert Peel was not altogether successful.
The Bedchamber Question seems
by the light of subsequent years to
have admitted of only one proper solu-
tion; and that Lord Melbourne showed
want of foresight in not preparing the
queens mind for the inevitable change
in the personnel of her court, and want
of resolution in advising her to yield to
Sir Robert Peels strong representa-
tions, has never in recent years been
denied. The temptation was strong to
support her in her maidenly desire not
to part with the Duchess of Sutherland
and other ladies who had been around
her since her accession ; while party
tacticians derived hopeful satisfaction
from the capital which they hoped ~o
make of ministerial devotion to the
person of the youthful sovereign, and
of self-immolation upon the altar of her
natural feelings. As is obvious from
his subsequent life, Lord Melbourne,
when the moment of parting came, was
singularly loth to leave his pupil while
any chance remained which enabled
him to continue to live the engrossing
life of the past two years.
It came to pass, however, that the
princess of nineteen was strong eno ugh
to overturn a great ministerial combi
na.tion ; that in doing so she was sup-
ported by the Whig party ; that the
phrase, I have stood by you; you
must now stand by inc in the mouth
of a sovereign, successfully appealed to
one of the house of Russell ; that the
charming petulance of the cry, They
wish to treat me like a girl, but I will
show them I am queen of England,
went unchallenged at a Whig Cabinet
and that the doctrine that the principle
was not maintainable, but that they
were bound as gentlemen to support the
queen, actually decided a Whig govern-
ment to continue to enjoy for two years
a further term of office. Such is the
force of the human element in great
affairs to the confusion of doctrinaires
and unfortunate devotees of scie rice.
Possibly some kind divinity inter-
posed to assist the queen at this mo
meat, pregnant as it was with a change
vital to her reign, as well as to her
personal happiness ; for in a few short
months it was to Lord Melbourne, a
real friend of comparative long stand-
ing, rather than to a stranger however
kindly disposed, that she caine to an-
nounce her intention of asking Prince
Albert of Saxe-Coburg to become her
consort; and it was not from formal
lips, but from the heart of her minister
an(l friend, that the words of approval
and congratulation flowed. No one else
could have said to her in homely lan-
guage, You will be very much more
comfortable, for a woman cannot stand
alone for any time, in whatever position
she may be; and no one during the
trying months that followed, in which
the joys of a love match were curiously
b}e~4~d with painful discussions in
9
10
iParliament, and hateful but necessary
l)UbliC arrangements, could have filled
adequately Lord Melbournes I)lace in
the eyes of the fatherless girl who
stood alone, without a male friend or
protector of any kind. It is not sur-
prising that at the Council, when she
announced her approaching marriage,
her nervousness should have permitted
her to notice only the kindly face of her
prime minister, and still less wonderful
is it that in that momentary glance she
should have seen that his eyes were full
of tears. The prevision of work well-
igh accomplished must have rushed
upon him with full and saddenino
force, and the feeling of pleasure in the
queens happiness must have been shot
with sorrow at the thought of the fasci-
nating tutelage which was about to end.
During the eighteen months that fol-
lowed the 10th of February, 1840,
when the queen was married, to the
31st of August, 1841, ~vli en Sir Robert
Peel was sent for by the queen, her
minister was engaged in the task of
providing himself with a successor.
For it was only in a limited sense that
Peel took his predecessors place, and
the real successor to Lord Melbourne,
in influence, in authority, and in guid-
ance, was Prince Albert, a mere boy in
years, but who had been so carefully
trained, and was happily endowed with
such sin~ular powers of self-control in
one so young, that he from the first
seemed to exl)erience no difficulty in
taking Lord Melbournes place at the
si(le of the queen. It was as thou~h a
guardian had relinquished his trust
and with the fall of the Melbourne gov-
ernment, the reign of the queen may
be said to have come of age.
For some time the end of the admin-
istration was seen to l)e al)proaching,
and abnormal perception in reading
political SimS was not required to fore-
cast the result of an appeal to the
country whenever it should take place
but Lord Melbournes fall~ though gen-
crally welcomed, carried with it an
unusual degree of personal pain to the
sovereign and her minister. Notwith-
standing his regret, Lord Melbourne
took leave of the queen with his usual
The Queen and her First Prime Minister.
cheerful smile, although the pathos of
parting from something more cherished
than political power rings in the almost
familiar words of farewell which she
herself has recorded. He pretended
that his principal sorrow was for her,
but in reality his was the heavier bur-
den. For four years I have seen you
every day ; but it is so different now
from what it would have been in
1839. It was different, no doubt,
and it was Lord Melbourne above all
who was about to feel the quality of
the difference.
During the leave-taking the queen
admits that she was much affected, and
that the separation from her old friend
was a trying time for her, when all the
consolation which her husband could
give her was required. This was freely
bestowed, and the exigencies of her
great position speedily reinvolved her in
affairs of State clouding regrets in the
(1(1st of strenuous and constant duty.
To Lord Melbourne, however, the
end of life had come. He was sixty-
three, still young as the days of states-
men are now counted, but his work
was done and his mission fulfilled.
He had placed the sceptre and globe in
the hands of the youthful sovereign,
and there was no further need for hiiai
in the world.
The truth seemed to strike him with
over~vhelming force, and although he
tried to simulate a continued interest
in public affairs, and to persuade him-
self that he was yet in full career, the
melancholy of hopelessness gradually
enveloped him, and threw into (heel)
shadow the remaining years of his life.
To resume old habits, to turn to the
classics, to books, to old friends anx-
ious to welcome him, or to new ones
eager for his society, seemed alike im-
possible. The reaction was too great,
and the difference between what was
and what had been too profound.
Into a solitary and loveless life the
most thrilling human element had been
accidentally introduced, and, like Silas
Marner, who, expectant of mere gold
coin, suddenly found the golden head
of a child, so Lord Melbourne, in the
lottery of political life, obtained not
Mianette Andrey.
only the first place, but a prize from
which the wifeless and childless man
could not find himself bereft without
complete loss of mental balance. it is
painful to lift the veil from those last
sad years, when at Brocket, the home
of his youth, the ex-minister slowly
sank into the grave.
Hearts break oftener than is gener-
ally supposed, and they are cleft upon
curious and unnoticed angles. Many
attempts were made, by the queen her-
self and others, to rouse the drooping
spirit of one whose name is associated
with a nature almost reckless ia its
tinsouciance and gaiety; but they were
fruitless. When the end finally came,
i~o one grieved more deeply than the
lady whose debt to him was so heavy,
and was so fully recognized. It was
some consolation to feel that during
the last melancholy years of his life
his pupil and her husband had been
often the chief means of giving
him fitful gleams of pleasure ; and
no one can donbt the sincerity of the
passage in the queens journal which
records how truly and sincerely she
~leplored the loss of one who was a
most kind and disinterested friend of
mine, and most sincerely attached to
me ~ one who was, for the first
two years and a half of my reign, al-
most the only fiiend I had.
It may be the tendency of modern
times to look less upon individual char-
acter than upon vast masses of name-
less men as the determining factor in
great public affairs, so that hereafter
Englishmen may come to view the his-
tory of their race much as some of us
gaze upon the stars, with an indefinite
and confused sense of glory the riddle
of which we cannot read ; hut it is im-
Possible that those who look back to
the reign of Queen Victoria should not
pause for a moment, held in thrall by
the moving figure of the girl-queen,
stepping as it were from innocent
sleep, with bare feet and dazzled eyes,
upon the slippery steps of her throne,
supported by the tender and respectful
hand of the first of her long series of
prime ministers.
REGINALD B. BRETT.
~Copyright, 1893, by LITTELL & co.]
MANETTE ANDREY; OR, LIFE DURING
THE REIGN OF TERROR.
BY PAUL FERRET.
TRANSLATED By MRS. E. W. LATIMER.
PART I.
I.
CLAUDE CEZARON, who had his
lodgings in the Rue de lEchiquier
in the Section Poissoni~re, started
out early one morning on his way to
the Rue de Bussy, in the Section de
lUnit6. It was the 7th of September,
1792. He had not much time before
~ for, being a clerk in the office of
Citizen Gr~goire, a government col-
lector, he was expected to be at his
desk by half past eight. Fortunately
no vexatious detentions stopped him
on his way, though he spied in the
distance in the Faubourg Poissoni~re,
Citizen Cilly, dressed in a new car-
magnole. Citizen Cilly had been for-
merly a noble, one of those called in
the language of the times a ci-devaat,
and was endeavoring to efface by
patriotic zeal all recollection of his
compromising birth. As one of the
members of the Revolutionary Com-
mittee of his section, he had, the ~veek
before, publicly upbraided Claude C&
zaroh for being the son of a merchant
who had spoken disrespectfully of the
Revolution. It happened that the fa-
ther of Claude had been a lawyer in
the days when Cilly was a viscount, so
that tile young man had answered that
Fran9ois C~zaron could hardly have
spokeil at all of tile Revolution, seeing
that he had died sixteen years before
its birth. The laugh that followed
was not flattering to the ex-viscount.
Claude knew very well thlat he had
ma(le an enemy, and walked oii faster
to avoid him.
Claude was a tall young fellow,
twenty-six years of age, well made and
active. He strode rapidly along the
streets, for lie felt anxious and uneasy.
His mother had married for her second
husband Citizen Audrey, who had been
like a father to her young son, and had
brought lmim up in the practice of
11
12
virtue, as the phrase was in those
times. Citizen Audrey and his wife
had been living for two months at their
little place in the country, on the edge
of the Forest of Mendon, on the slope
of that pretty plateau which stretches
on the southward to the Bi~vre. Liv-
ing with them was Manette, the niece
of Citizen Audrey.
Though Claude suffered sorely at be-
ing deprived of the sight and compan-
ionship of this young girl, he made no
complaint. The evening before lie had
even written to his mother such a letter
as lie thought must prevent her from
wishing to return to her residence in
the city.
My dear mamma, lie said, you
must have already heard something of
what took place in Paris on the night
between the 3d and 4th. They say
three thousand persons perished. Ma-
dame de Lamballe, a quantity of priests,
and among them live bishops. I beg
you to remain in the country, where no
one will molest you. The news of the
taking of Verdun has caused a great
many citizens to leave Paris. Every
one is working for the country; arms
are being rapidly made ; liberty is sure
to triumph. Au revoir, dear mamma.
Kiss Manette for me ; you need not
kiss her quite so often as I should like
to do myself. That might be too much
for both of you.
Later, however, that same evening,
Claude had heard that by order of the
Council General of the Communes, per-
quisitions were to be made in the
houses of all citizens whose patriotism
was considered doubtful, the proof be-
ing that they had neglected to appear
at the meetings of their sections. Seals
also were to be placed on the doors
of those persons found to be absent.
That was why Claude was making so
much haste. He reached his destina-
tion too late, however.
As lie turned into the IRue de Bussy
he saw a crowd gathe red before his
step-fathers door. An imposing party
was just leaving it. Claude was con-
fronted by (lelegates from the Revolu-
tionary Committee of that section, who
ha(I just been putting the law in force,
Mianette Andrey;
so far as it concerned the Citizen Au-
drey.
Little Buscaille was at the head
of the deputation. This diminutive
sans-culotte had thin, crooked legs, and
an ill-shaped body; above it was an
enormous head, on top of which was
set a bonnet rouge which rose to a point
like a pyramid. The whole height of
the man, including his head-gear, ~vas
hardly five feet, and at his heels lie
dragged an enormous sword which was
belted to his side.
Buscaille knew Claude, and putting
his baud upon his shoulder (to do
which lie had to raise himself on tip-
toe) lie looked full at him with his two
little keen, wicked grey eyes, whose
lids had a blood-red run. Nevertheless~
his tone and words were friendly. He
of course used the familiar tutoiernent
in which citizens at that day addressed
each other.
It seems to me, lie said, that
your father is playing the ci-devant out
there in the country, instead of being
here like every one else occupying hini-
self with the affairs of the nation.
Well ! yes. I know it is not your
fault. I like you. You are a good
patriot, and a fine young fellow.
The honor of being esteemed by Cit-
izen Buscaille was enough to make an
honest man show some sign of comi-
tempt, but Claude restrained himself.
I will go out and see my father, he
said, and tell him that the nation
needs his services. He will no doubt
make haste to return to Paris when he
knows it. But, citizen, the barriers, as
you are aware, are closed.
I know, said the sans-culotte.
Ill get them opened for you. I
should be sorry if any harm came to
the Citizen Andrey, or indeed to thie
Citoyenne Manette, his niece ; it would
be a great pity. Come along with us
to the section. I will give you a few
words in writing which will let you
through the barrier. But mind; you
are to bring back that pretty Manette
if I do.
Claudes cheeks turned pale as lie
heard from Buscailles ugly lips the
name of the girl lie loved, lie was a
~brave young man, and like all of his
sort in those days, lie said to himself in
secret: Sooner or later order and
quiet will come back; if not to-day,
surely to-morrow. Alas I to how
many living, hoping, saying the same
thing, that to-morrow, though they
knew it not, would never come
He might indeed steel himself to
wait patiently for an improvement in
what concerned the nation, but when
Manette was in question it was another
affair. This interest in her manifested
by Buscaille, a man whom lie knew to
be a scoundrel, frightened him. He
still, however, kept silence, for which
he deserved credit, for he was quick of
tongue. He went back to the head-
quarters of the section with the crowd,
which was half tipsy, for the citizen
delegates had been drinking, though
the clocks had not struck eight. Their
swords clanked along the pavement, for
it added to their importance to march
with much rattle of steel. As they
passed, women at their shop doors,
which as yet were but half open,
glanced with compassion on that good-
looking young man marching in their
midst, whom all supposed they were
carrying off to prison.
An hour later Claude had reached
rthe edge of the forest of Clamart and
was walking under the boughs of its
great trees. The way was long but he
walked briskly. The turf was soft un-
der his feet, the shade refreshing, and
he found himself before long deep in
meditation.
He chuckled at the idea that Bus-
caille could have imagined he was
ooin~ to brino him back Manette I On
the contrary, lie was hastening to ad-
vise the good man whom he called
father to take her as far away from
Paris as possible. Why should not
{~itizen Andrey go back to Nantes
where years before he had made his
fortune by commerce, and where he
still owned a house in the town?
Nantes was undisturbed as yet, and
was said to be a patriotic city. Its
peace was ruffled only by occasional in-
telligence from La Vend~e.
As for himself, though he would find
13
it very hard to be separated from Ma-
nette, it would comfort him to think
that she would be in safety. To follow
her to Kantes was not to be thought
of. He had no money of his own and
depended on his clerkship for a liv-
ing. If he went back alone to Paris
it was of course to be expected that
Citizen Buscaille would do him some
ill turn.
Under the great trees whose boughs
rocked to and fro over his head
with gentle, murmuring noises, nature
seemed very beautiful, and life good
and sweet, but as lie walked he made
a gesture de noting a brave resolution
of self-sacrifice ; and lie repeated out
aloud his usual formula, To-morrow
or next day I It cannot matter much.
The day must come, ei thier to-morrow
or the next day!
II.
CLAIJPE had been walking two long
hours. His road for the rest of his
way was out of the wood, though it
ran for some distance along its edge;
it then passed through two orchards
planted with apple - trees. Beyond
them, behind a row of trees, could be
seen the thatched roofs of some farm
buildings. Higher than these was the
slated roof of a house, higher again
was the church clock in the church
steeple, while over all was a bright
strip of the blue heavens.
Claude walked on faster when he saw
these roofs, his heart was rejoicing in
his near approach to his dear family.
Manette in a few minutes would, lie
thought, be very much surprised to see
him. She would run to him, holding
out both her pretty hands.
The air was pure, the sky was bright,
the apple-trees bent under their fruit.
Claude thought his mother was sure to
have plenty of apples that year. Very
likely the affairs of the nation would
be settled in time to let them, a happy
family group all seated round the
hearth, enjoy those apples, before they
had had time to rot in the store-room.
Manette was fond of apples. He liked
to see her bite into them with her
pretty white teeth.
or, Life During the Reign of Terror.
14
This farm was hers ; these meadows,
and these apple-trees ; all had once
belonged to a noble now an emigre, and
had been sold as national property.
Who could say that M. Andrey was not
a good citizen? Had he not bought
the lands of a former nol)le for his
niece, and thereby given a pledge of
his attachment to the Revolution?
Claude was within a hundred yards
of the village, when from behind the
line of trees he caught sight of a
female form coming towards him.
Was it Manette? Was it really Ma-
nette, and not a vision formed by his
own desires?
Manette, he thought, could not have
been expecting him, since he had
never said that he was coming. Dear
girl I some presentiment must have
brought her forth to meet him.
She, on her part, thought from a dis-
tance that she recQgnized him, though
she could not see distinctly for the
glare of sunlight. She raised her
hands to shade her eyes. Then, sure
it immust be lie, she ran across the grass
to meet him. He might have crossed
the grass too and have joined her
quickly, but he stood still enjoying the
(lelight of seeing her swift motion as
she came towar(ls him. She was wear-
ing a frock of changeable silk; a great
white neckerchief covered her shoul-
(lers and was knotted behind her ~vaist;
she had no hat upon her head and her
fair curls were fluttered by the wind.
But, strange to say, she (lid not come
with outstretched hands, laughing and
smiling, as he had expected to see her.
On the contrary, she looked pale an(l
anxious, and while still at a distance
she cried,
Oh, Claude ! is it you ? You here ?
What is the matte i?
He did not answer her. As she
came close to him his one thought was
to gaze on her.
Oh; Manette, how beautifully you
run !~
Oh I but do answer me.
Manette, I think you are prettier
than ever.
~TlmaL has that to (10 with it?
have you come here~ to conceal your-
Manette Andrey;
self? Are you in danger in Paris?
Has some one denounced you?
Are you afraid for me, dear? Then
you really love me I
Yes yes. Of course I love you.
I see you want me to say it, or I shall
get nothing out of you. No~v then, are
you satisfied?
I should be still more satisfied i~
you would say it over again.
No once is enough. Claude h
what has happened? Have you made
another speech in your section ? Have
you done anything more to provok~
Cilly? Have you tried to give another
lesson to those wicked wolves, the sans
culottes ?
They may be sometimes wolves,
but, Manette, if you really knew them
you would not find them all so bad.
Then you are in danger, and have
come here to seek safety ?
Ah I Manette, even suppose that
that were true, what should I care for
(hanger if I knew you loved mc?
I dont love you. You are making
game of my anxiety.
Forgive me, (lear, he said, it is
two whole months since I have seem
you; it may be much longer before I
see you again. It might have been
better had we never loved each other.
What politeness, Monsieur Claude!
It is best, perhaps, in these evil
days to have nothing but ones own
life to care for when one is in daily
danger of losing it.
Claude, this means that you have
done something imprudent ?
Do not be anxious. I am in no
danger. I have made no more speeches.
in the section. I am in no humor to
flatter the sans-culottes, and one cannot
speak without compliments to them.
But this is no time for any man to op-
pose them.
Is that true? Are you sure you
will not a0 am court danger through
your own perversity? Ahi I if you only
knew how you have frightened me I
Then that must be your excuse,
Manette, for not having told me you
are glad to see me.
She suffered him to kiss her fore-
head. He put his arms around her.
or, L?fe During the Reign qf Terror.
He was six feet high, but she was tall
an(l could look up into his eyes as she
leaned her head upon his shoulder.
Then, Claude, she said, why
are you here? We did not expect you.
Why did you say it may be long before
we meet again ?
Because I think my father may
very probably wish to go away.
Your fathers niece would oppose
him then, most certainly.
I have many things to say to him,
Manette. The best thing he could do
would be to go back for a time to his
house at Nantes.
Have you come to advise him to do
this ?
Claude hesitated a moment before he
answered her.
Have you come here on purpose
for this ? she said, stamping her foot.
Then do as you please. If you do it
I shall be couvince1 you do not love
nie !
I shall give him my advice, never-
theless, ans~vered Claude, in firm and
manly tones; and I ought, becaust I
love you more than I care for my own
happiness.
Manettes lips quivered.
You do not know how things are
here, she said ; and still less do you
kno~v what would happen if my uncle
were to put forward this proposition of
inhabiting the house at Nantes ~vhich
I detest.
Would my mother refuse to go?
Good heavens, yes! Here at Y6-
lizy she trembles day and night, but
you may feel sure that nothing would
prevail upon her to move elsewhere.
My dear mother seems like a poor
little frightened bird which is too terri-
fied to use its wings.
What a pretty poetical compari
5OI),~~ said Nanette, under her breath.
But I do assure you that there is not
mnch poetry nowadays in our home.
Is my mother very poorly? Does
she make every one else suffer ?
Claude, we are living here in hell
itself. Ask my uncle.
Does she make you unhappy, Ma-
nette ? you whom she used to be so
fond of?
Your mother has now learned to be
fond of nothing. She does not love
you, and she hates me. She cannot
love anybody. She is wrapped up in
herself.
When I look back on what she once
was I How she must be changed I
And the worst part is that she can-
not endure to think that other people
love each other.
Manette I can it be that she does
not wish you to be my wife ? Only
yester(lny I was be~~in~ her to kiss v ou
for me I
The girls eyes filled with tears.
It cannot be, she says. We must
not think of it. She says that in the
first place all who marry now are mad
that they are doing all they can to
draw upon themselves and on their
families the notice of the Revolution
~lry Committee and the sections. And,
oh, Claude I ho~v could we be married
without a priest?
We could get one here in secret
that need not be a difficulty.
Bring a priest here I Your mother
would not let us so much as think of
such a thing I It would kill her out-
right. Do you suppose it can be right
to wish her dead ? Thou~h she is
always saying she is sure we do.
She must read our hearts very im-
perfectly. You must pardon her, Ma-
nette.
Claude, you are twenty-seven, I
shall soon be twenty-two. if she is
dying here of fright, I am dying of rest-
lessness and euaui. Ah I. Claude, if
you could only hear how she talks I I
am a silly piece of affectation in her
eyes at present, and as for you, Claude,
she thinks you a heartless, foolish, self
ish wretch, bent on being the ruin and
the death of all who. belong to you.
She says you only go to the clubs be-,
cause you want to show off your talent
for speechmaking.
I have gone there to defend liberty
to plead the cause of reason. But I
shall go there no more, Manette.
You will be arrested some day, she
says, after one of your fine speeches,
and will be carried off to prison at
P6lagie. They would arrest your wife,
16
too, and that would be a pretty ending
to our marriage ! And next morning
it would be your mothers turn. They
would carry off an old woma.n who
never did any harm to the nation or
the section and all becaus~ of your
foolish speeches. Oh ! Claude, what a
dreadful, humiliating thing is fear!
How cruel it is, too. I could not tell
you what a scene we had here yester-
day when your letter came. Your
mother did not care for what you said
about their having killed the priests.
She said you only told her to make her
feel more miserable than ever. If they
had murdered Madame de Lamballe, it
made no difference to her.
You are right, Manette; fear is a
dreadful, cruel, selfish thing, said
Claude, in a low voice. It was Ma-
dame de Lamballe who got her her
pension from the queen after my own
father died.
She must surely have forgotten it.
But what you told her of the massacres
seemed to have turned her head. She
cried out that such things ought never
to have been written of iii a letter
that he who wrote them was selfish,
spiteful, cruel. That letters might be
opened, and then those who received
them would be held accountable for
their contents as well as those who had
written them. Claude, she cried,
never thinks of his wretched mother.
Au I what a dreadful thing it is to
think that one ever l)rought such a son
into the world
Did my mother say that of me ?
Yes. And then my uncle could
refrain no longer. He spoke to her
sternly. I ran into my chamber. I
could not bear any more. I was cry-
She leaned her face upon the young
mans arm. Her tears had not all
been wept away. Claude said noth-
ing; he only pressed her to his heart.
He saw that the whole story of his life
would lie between the girl he loved so
fondly and the mother whose affections
and whose reason had been perverted
by the stress and strain of overmaster-
ing fear.
Claude, said Manette, dont try
Mianette Audrey;
to persuade my uncle to go back to
Nantes. If lie does, I swear that I will
run away.
This threat which seemed so childish
to Claude gave him a momentary incli-
nation to smile.
And where would you go, Ma-
nette ?
I should come straight to you.
You would have to protect me. After
that we could be married, whatever
people might say.
Oh! Oh I lie ci~ied,in great as-
tonishment. You have grown very
bold, my darling.
Because, Claude, you are just the
contrary. You wait on circumstances,
and never carry out your own will.
Remember that the only hapl)iness I
have in life is the thought that you are
living not far off and that I may see
you any day.
Dear Manette, distance is no ob-
stacle to love.
That means that you have made up
your mind to make me miserable. You
are bent upon it. What are you going
to tell Citizen Andrey? If you please,
I want to know.
I always wish to do anything you
ask of me, Manette, but there are some-
times things
That I should not understand, you
mean to say. I know all about that
kind of talk from men who fancy they
have all the sense there is in the world
to themselves. At any rate, Citizen
Audrey thinks better of me than you
do. Poor uncle! He has no one but
me to talk to now about his troubles. I
know lie is very uneasy about having
been so long away from Paris. He
was telling me this very morning that
the sections were sending delegates to
visit unoccupied houses.
He had good reason to fear that
they would make such a visit to his
house, cried Claude, and it was not
in my power to Warn him of it in time.
Manette seized him by both hands.
Do von mean to tell me, she cried,
that the sans-culottes have really
searched our house? Then, believe
me, it is quite certain we shall not go
to Nantes.
or, Life During the Reign of Terror.
On the contrary, it would be an-
other reason for going away.
We shall be bacj~ in Paris to-mor-
row. You will see.
Indeed you wont, not if I have
to hinder you by flinging myself across
the highway.
Then we should drive over you,
laughed Manette. What an absurd
scene, or dreadful spectacle ! Claude
C~zaron is lying at full length in the
dust, our carriage is about to run over
him. Now be is crushed to atoms.
What a pity ! But all the same the
best we can do is to (Irive on.
My mother will never give her con-
sent ; and for once she will be right,
cried Claude.
Citizen Audrey will force her to
obey him when it comes to the point.
It is not often he asserts himself, but
when he has made up his mind I
know what I know, Monsieur Claude.
To-morrow morning we shall be in
Paris, as you will see. And in your
heart of hearts I know you will be glad
of it, as well as I.
No ! he cried, I cannot wish
for happiness that may cost us all so
dear. I will go into the house and talk
the matter over with Citizen Audrey.
III.
THE bcdcbamber at No. 9 Rue de
Bussy, in which, for the most part, the
unhappy wife of Citizen Audrey lived,
was the most daintily furnished room
in their dwelling. There was carving
on the dark wainscot; before the win-
dow and the alcove hung curtains of
India muslin ; in a medallion over the
door was a copy of a picture of some
Cupids by Bouclier. In the midst of
all this middle-class luxury sat what
looked like a wax figure in a low easy-
chair. It was the Citoyenne Audrey,
dressed all in black. Tier knitting lay
upon a chair beside liem~. The work
was always put within her reach, but
for months l)ast she had not touched it.
She sat hour after hour, motionless and
silent, her hands crossed upon her
knees.
All at once a noise came from the
gates of the section going their rounds.
There was another noise besides their
clatter in the street, the loud voices of
women coming from the butchers shop
where they had been standing in queue
for hours. Citoycune Andrey started
when she heard these combined noises.
Had the time of her arrest arrived ?.
Were those wretches coming to molest
her?
The noise passed down the street
into the distance, but she did not easily
recover from her terror. Her little,
dim eyes had grown bright and peered
fearfully into every dark corner of her
chamber. When she found she could
see nothing unusual she sank back on
her cushions and began to sigh aiid
moan.
The door of her room was softly
opened. Slight as the noise was she
gave a start and a loud cry. It was
her husband, who had come back from
his daily walk in the garden of the
Luxembourg. When he saw her he
shrugged his shoulders slightly.
He was an elderly man. In happier
days he had worn hair powder ; now
he had only his own white hair. It
was primdencfi which compelled him to
give up the use of the perfumed pow-
der he had so much loved, but at pres-
ent only M. Robespierre dared to be
seen in it. It had an odor of aristoc-
racy on other mens heads.
Citizen Andrey was dressed in a
coat of stout plum colored cloth, and
breeches of the same. His black
stockings were of spun silk, his waist-
coat was of flowered chintz ; in his hat
was a great tn-colored cockade, and
through the lint-band was stuck his
certificate of civism, that all might
see at a glance be was a friend of the
Revolution.
He was tall, very thimi, still hearty,
and still upright. After his first ~es-
ture of impatience he felt pity as he
looked at that poor, trembling remnant
of a woman his own wife, and lie
remembered the time when she was
beautiful, and lie had loved her.
On the white marble hearth, beneath
a chimney-piece on xvhicli stood one or
street; it was the march of the dde- two bronze ornaments, burned a bright
L1~rIN( AOE. VOL. I. 2
17
18
fire. The Citoyenne Andrey on seeing
her husband began to complain that
she was cold. He threw another log
upon the fire, saying to himself that no
fire woul(l ever warni her ; it was her
heart, poor creature, not her body that
was cold. 1-Je was kind-hearted and
he took good care of his sick wife, but
since they had left V~lizy and returned
to Paris he had rarely spoken to her,
because anything lie sai(l was sure to
lead to recrimination and tears. He
had had very powerful reasons for
coining back to Paris, so that lie had
not only overruled the remonstrances
of Claude, but had felt himself com-
pelled to exert all his authority, nay,
almost to use force to overcome the
opposition of his unhappy wife, and lie
knew that she bitterly resented it.
It seeme(l to him, however, that for
some clays l)ast she had grown a shade
more reasonable at least he did not
see her face flush angrily whenever lie
came near her ; nor did she any longer
say to him six or seveii times a day
Why did yo~i bring me back to Paris ?
Are you going to denouiice me to your
section, because you do not care to
have me any longer a burthen and ex-
pense upon your hands?
Unhappily some one had told her
that Citizeii Hanriot, the chief man in
their section, had denounced his own
mother to the Revolutionary Committee
that he might get rid of the trouble of
taking care of her. Her thoughts had
dwelt upon this horror till the idea that
her own h)eople might act like Citizen
Hanriot had completely taken posses-
sion of her.
But this morning she seemed to him
to cower less than usual. Some other
notion, not that connecte(l with Citizen
Hanriot, must be np~)ermost in her
mind ; and her husbard as lie noticed
her humble hook, her almost beseeching
expression, felt sure that she had some
request to make of him, something no
doubt insane which would lead to fur-
ther trouble. He looked at her with a
kind of curiosity. He felt sure that
some new project was ripening in her
brain.
He leaned on the back of hem chair
ifanette Andrey;
and said softly: Do you want any-
thing? Is it Manette you wish for ?
She gave a suddemi start. He had
touched her insanity to the very quick.
In a sharp, trembling voice, yet hardly
louder than a whisper she exelaimne(l
Do I want Manette ? What should
I want that hare-brained, selfwilled,
foolish girl for ? Whats the good of
Manette ? All she does is to ask me
when she comes iiito the room, Are
you better, aunt ? and much she
cares ! Everybody kno~vs whiomii she is
thinking of
Oh, well you know she is quite
right to think of him, sai(h Citizeii
Audrey somewhat coldly. She is en-
gaged to your son. It is a pity that
yoim dont think more of him.
Without saying anything further, lie
went towards a tall cabinet, a sort of
secretary, iii marqueterie an(l olive
wood, which stoodi Oh)poSite the fire-
place. Everything in the d~velhing
shio~ved ease, wealth, and luxury, and it
may be added, the taste of the middle
class in (lays when every article of fur-
niture was made with an eye to art.
The barbarism of the near future was
ruthlessly to sweep away all such
French elegance, whose relics we con-
sicler so precious iii our day.
M. Andrey opened the secretary and
sat down before its array of tiny
drawers. There was one secret (Irawer
which he pushed open. The sick
woman maundered on
Oh, yes !of course none of you
ever thought that Mademoiselle Ma-
nette could do aiiything amiss. Of
course it was to be expected you would
stand up for a boldfaced, wilful thing
who never has had but one thought in
her silly head. Respectable girls want
naturally to be married, but they dont
talk about it as she does. There would
have been fine doings in this house if I
had not turned the hover out of it
And a good thing, too. Tie was sure
to bring us into trouble was Claude.
Agaiii NIl. Au(lrey sl)oke to her
Have the goodness not to try to jus-
tify your conduct to your Soil. You
just shut our dooms in his face.
Because the (lelegates of the see-
tion would have come here and arrested
hini before my very eyes.
1 am ashamed of you for being
such a mother. The deed is done. I
recommend you to say as little as you
can about it now.
They woul(l have carried me to
prison me, a poor, sick woman, with
only God to care for me.
Thats always the way, of course.
Bring Providence into the affair.
M. Andrey was not a believer, he
was a man like others at the close of
the eighteenth century. He shrugged
his shoulders. At any rate, lie
said, God does not frighten you. He
is no sans-culotte.
The unhappy woman fell back in her
chair with a sigh. Her anger and her
animation were dying out. She felt
herself vanquished. She (lid not say
another void. M. Audrey, after feel-
mo. in
the (irawer, took out a paper
covered with close writing, which -he
unfolded before him on the desk. Be-
fore beginning to rea(1, however, there
passed through his mind the thought
that he must have beeii mistaken in
supposing that there was any change in
the poor woman, crazed by fear, who
was sitting in the room with him. The
Quly thing to be done was, as usual, to
pay no heed to her.
Indeed, at this moment, the inisfor
tune of having such a wife sat more
easily on M. Andrey than it might
have done, for he was delighted to see
lying safe before his eyes a paper he
was never tired of looking at, a precious
document, the possible nay, the very
probable loss of which, vhen the (lele-
gates of the section searched his house,
four months before, had caused him
incredible anxiety.
It was his deed of partnership with
Grandmaison, the ship builder at
Nantes, setting forth that Grandmai
son had received from him as special
partner two hundred thousand francs.
Why, when M. Audrey left Paris for
the country in July, had he not taken
this most precious document ~vith him ?
For one reason because he thioiight it
safer where lie left it. He feared lest,
in the confusion incident to moving, it
19
might fall into his wifes hands. She
knew indeed of its existence, but noth-
ing of its contents. That deed wouhi
have told her things that in times of
revolution and coufus ion it was better
to keep hidden from all eyes. Besides,.
M. Audrey had not intended to spend
more than a week or two in the coun-~
try. He had expected that the career
of the Revolution would be brief. He
coml)are(h it in his own mind to the
mad rush of a runaway horse. The-
capture of the Tuileries by the sec-
tions, the imprisonment of the kiug~
the persecution of the nobles, of the
priests, and of the rich, to say nothing
of the massacres in the prisons, had
taken him by surprise, all being events
that had hiappene(l within three veeks.
But the Nation having (lecreed
that absence from Paris ~vas prima facie
evidence of disaffection, and that ab
sente es should be treated accor(1 ingly,
ho~v did it happen that a fello~v like
Buscaille, who had himself headed the
l)arty which h)llt seals Uh)O~ his prop-
erty, had con(lLlete(l the affair with so
much consideration and (lecency?
The deed ~vhich guaranteed to ~f.
Andrey the l)riiicih)al part of the wealth
that remained to him after many re-
verses had lain indeed at the bottom of
a secret (Irawer in the secretary, but it
was well kno~vn that sans-culottes hai
no scruple about breaking to pieces
furniture in their domiciliary visits, or
even burning it. Buscaille had uii
doubtedly been (lesirous to (leal leni-
ently with the absent proprietor of the
house in the Rue (he Bussy, an(l subse-
quently lie had use(l all his influence to
get the seals removed as soon as M.
Andrey and his household had got hack
to their city home. When M. Andrey
had endeavored to express his gratitude
to this man, Buscailhe had winked at
him with his two re(lhi(lde(l eyes, and
his mouth (thie foul mouth of a (Irunk
aid) had tried to form a smile.
Dont thank me, citizen, he said.
It was all for the sake of your pretty
niece the Citoyeune Manette, if you
want to know.
M. Audrey iau(rhed to himself at the
idlca of the charms of Manette having
or, Life During the Reign of Terror.
20
capt uied the fancy of such a rough sav-
age as Buscaille. He laughed again
when the same thought presented itself
as he unfolded his precious document.
The object of the partnership be-
tween hiiuseW ~rnd Citizen Grandmai-
son of Nantes was not clearly set forth
in the writing. It is not always neces-
sary for honest men who understand
each other to define precisely the na-
ture of their business, and Grandmai-
son was honest in his way ; though he
had become a deep-dyed demagogue at
~antes, and M. Audrey in consequence
often heard of his Jacobin proceedings.
Liberty and fraternity were words for-
ever in his mouth, arid lie believed
them, while the same sonorous phrases
were repeated by his partner in Paris
without conviction, lie having learned
(somewhat to change the proverb) to
howl in concert with the popular cry
on all occasions.
All the rich lovers of liberty at Nantes
had, however, for years done busi-
ness in ebony which was the ac-
cepted euphemism for be ing engage(l
in the slave trade. M. Andrey had
had considerable experience in that
traffic, for lie and Graudnialson had,
long had two vessels on the coast of
Africa. They believed in liberty and
fraternity, but color made a difference.
However, they could not but feel that
their connection with such merchan-
dise might now bring them into trouble,
since so much talk was being made
about the rights of man.
The names of their two ships had
been originally the Jean-Jacques and
the Fid~le Sujet, but this last had been
changed into the Mirabeau. Both had
now been two years lying dismantled
in the port of Nantes. As they were
idle it would have been quite in order
for Citizen Audrey to ask Citizen
~-raudmaison what use he was making
of their joint capital, hut it seemed far
more important to keep the fact of
IJeing rich unknown in Paris where
peculiar dangers surrounded eve ly rich
man. Therefore the Citizen Audrey
felt greatly obliged to Buscaille for
his protection. That good rascal of a
Jacobin had served him well and all
for the sake of the bright eyes of Ma-
nette
He heard a light tap against the wall
of the adjoining chamber, and lie rose,
putting the deed back in its secn~et
drawer, and closing the secretary. The
tap had reminded him that he had an
other duty to attend to, another sorrow
to assuage, another woman to console
all in consequence of the madness
which seemed to l)ervacle his dwelling.
First lie had to comfort his wife, who
dreaded the loss of her head, and then
to corRiole with Manette, who happily
only lamented the loss of her lover.
He did his best for both, smiling as
he spoke to them with his perpetual
smile. But he said to himself that
neither knew him for what he really
was (or at least wished others to con-
sider him), a man truly kinidheanted,
the kind of man bred by the fashion
of the old times, fast passing away ; a
man who had the true l)ohiteness of
the heart (or at least acted as if lie had
it), a man who through sharpened by
long familiarity with business was full
of feeling, and who often had thoughts
that little accorded with his outward
behavior or his surroundings.
Thierefore the unnatural conduct of
his wife towards her own son shocked
him extremely, but yet he would not
force her to act differently, giving as
his reason that lie dreaded lest in somnie
fit of crazy anger provoked by his inter-
ferenice she would make some disturb-
ance which might draw notice at a
time when every house should be if
possible quiet and unobserved. In his
heart he was niot very sorry for Claudes
banishinient, for in his opinion the
young man was too excitable and acted
impmu(lently.
Manette was unhappy that was a
matter of course, and her uncle was
veny sorny for her. He was fond of
the young girl, both because of their
relationship, and because her pretty
face was pleasant to look upon; but,
after all, what did it signify ? Ma-
nette could wait.
He said to her once
My dear, I have beeni in love my-
self. I know what it is ; it has its
Manette Andrey.
troubles. But when things come right,
as they will some day, you will forget
them all. The bad places in the road
we travel dont last throngh all the
journey. A whole nation cannot stand
long on its head with its heels in the
air. Peace will come back again. Be
patient. Only since Claude writes to
you and you to him, nrge him to be
very prudent as to what he says and
does.
From The contemporary Review.
MACMAHON AND HiS FORBEARS.
IF judged by the homely standard,
handsome is that handsome docs,
Marshal MacMahon was in some re-
spects a great man. He was free from
discrepancies. So unswerving was his
rectitude that any one who knew him
well could say what course lie was sure
to take under given circumstances. It
would have been hard to find a man
more healthy in body, mind, or moral
sense. Along with native honesty, lie
had a keen perception, inherited and
cultivated, of the social duties implied
in the word honor. lie understood
that word in a wider sense than is gen-
erally given to it in France ; lie failed
to see how honor could ever clash with
duty. Fond of magnificence in dis-
charging high public functions, he was
in l)1ivate life the simplest of mortals,
an(l the least vain or egotistical. It
might be said of him that lie never
fished for praise, though lie fired up at
censures which lie thought undeserved
or pronounced in bad faith. MacMa-
hons submission to what he deemed
the law of duty was absolute, and lie
took no credit to himself when lie
obeyed that law of great personal sacri-
fice. His obedience was prompt arid
almost cheerful. It is to be regretted
that the moral instinct which shaped
his con(lnct was in a degree warped by
the law of military obedience, in which
he was trained from infancy, and that
by the pressure of circumstances over
which lie had no control, his heroism
was devoted almost entirely to military
exploits. On two historical occasions
21
he showed himself a hero without.
meaning to do so. One was in the de- -
bate in 1857 in the French Senate ow
the Public Safety Bill, framed by Gen-~
eral lEspinasse, who was appointed
minister of the interior after the Orsini
attempt to assassinate Napoleon IlL
with explosive bombs. The other was
when lie voluntarily des~ended from
power, as he thought, to face poverty.
He had spent far more than his official
salary as president of the Republic,
and disdained to touch the allowance
of 12,000 a year for travelling ex-
penses, voted to him by the Budget
Committee of the Chamber of Deputies
on Gambettas motion, in 1876. The
money accumulated, and the 36,000
which MacMahion would have been.
justified in taking, if he had not
thought it was meant to be a sop, went
back to the treasury after he left the
Elys~e. This supplemental allowance
was dm~awn regularly by M. Gr~vy, who
never travelled any where, except once
a year to Mont Sens Vaudrey, and then
on a free pass from a railway company.
MacMahons muihitary exploits were
performed in the service of Louis Phi-
lippe, Napoleon III., and, worst of alh~
the Versailles Assembly a body in
which responsibility was so divided
that practically there was none, nor
any restraint,except the fear of Pins
51a and the wirepulling cleverness
of Thicrs. It was a great misfortune
for the world that MacMahion nevet-
had the opportunity to be the soldier of
a great cause. Had such an occasion
been given him, he must have gone
(lown to futtire generatiomis as a shin
in g example. He was not below his
time, or the general standard of his
country, in any single respect, and lie
was al)ove it in many respects. Licen-
tiotisness was rife at a timne when the
mcans for indulging in luxurious prof-
ligacy were heaped upon 1Pm ; but his
hi fe remained pure. MacMhon huted
iml)urity, and could iiot en(lure his fel-
low-marshal Camirobert, because his
talk smacked of guard-room ribaldry.
His repugnance to the low tone of
French officers under the Empire often
made hmini feel like an alien among
2ifacMalion and his Forbears.
MacMahon and his Forbears.
[22
~thein. After he became a father, his was the danger of civil war, of which
~eonscience i~rew to be an ever-watchful there had been too much in France.
monitor. He once said that if it ac- Muskets would go off of themselves, he
cused him of a base action he would sai(l, if the Comte de Chambords pro-
not dare to eml)race his chil(lren. gramme became the government one.
MacMahon lived in a time at once Horror of military massacres, which
corrupt and hypocritical. The catch- former governments had undertaken.
word of government was order ; but with so much levity, prevented lain
~disoider was in all its members. They from listening in 1877 to those council-
had lusted for power in order to satisfy lors who urged a coup d~tat. When
;the lust for wealth and the material he had to choe~e between governing
enjoyments which are to be bought against his piii~ciples, or rather against
with money. Every party that had the political ideas in which lie was nur
risen to the top since 1830 had fo- tured, and a governmeHt l)ased on
n~ented revolution to get there, and, force, he retired without any fuss, and
being there, had kicked away the lad- unostentatiously set about smoothing
der by which they climbed, and let away difficulties that lay in his succes-
their promises be protested. Revolts sors path, and which he thought he
ensued, and were put down by military could reiuove.
mnssacres. MacMahon saw the gov- MacMahons heart constantly infin-
eminent massacres of the early years enced his head, and lie had never ren-
of Louis Philippes reign, in Lyons and son to be sorry for letting it do so. He
Paris, and the massacres undertaken in taught his children that the best guar
the name of the Republican Executive dian angel under all circumstances was
Committee by General Cavaignac in a heart in the right place. In his moral
the days of June, 1848. In 1852 came complexion and his physical constitu-
the proscriptions of the Mixed Coin- tion and appearance lie was distinctly
inittees so called because made up of Irish. Though a generous man, lie
judges, officers, and prefects - which could be resentful and harbor hatred,
condemned thousands to the dry guil without, however, letting it direct his
lotine, as transportation to Cayenne conduct. l3ut wheii beaten lie had a
was called. MacMahon, as a soldier of soldierly way of admitting it, and ban-
the Versailles Assembly, waged a street isliing all anger from his mind. Ad
war against the Commune of Paris, in miral Pothuan, who was minister of
which twenty thousand of the Pan marine in the Dufaure Cabinet that
sians were killed behind barricades caine into office after the elections of
~nd there were not ships enough to 1877, told me that he accepted the (he-
take the prisoners who escaped execu- feat more frankly than a civiliaii in his
tion to the penal settlements. He was place would have (lone. The admiral
one of the fe~v at Versailles who ad- felt certain that all (hamiger of his gov-
vocated the application of the la~vs of erning against republican principles
war and of humanity to the defeated was at an end, and that if ministers
Communists. While it ~vas generally ~vent as far as Gambetta wanted, the
deemed treason to show any feeling of marshal would resign.
pity for them, he maintained that they MacMalmon was not so remotely Irish
must have regarded their cause as sa- as most French people suppose. His
cred, for men and womemi had (lefended grandfather was born in ireland, but
it with the heroic constancy of martyrs. his grandmother arid mother were
The marshal was, so far as the rules of French ; the grandmother, Charlotte
military obedience allowed, a Legiti- de Belin dEquilly, was a Burgundian,
mist from youth to old age. But as and the mother, a distant cousin of
president he would be no party to any Mirabeau, was a Riquet de Caramnan,
plan for a Legitimist restoration, and or a Riquetti, whose father had mar
refused to receive a visit from the ned a Belgian Imeiress, and obtained
Comte de Chambord. his one motive the right to call himself Prince de Ca-
raman de Chimay. The grandfather,
John MacMab on, beca tue a naturalized
subject of Louis XV. in 1750, and the
proofs he gave of noble lineage
were in that year acknowledged by
royal letters patent. When MacMa-
hon was president of the Republic ali(i
engaged in his 16th of May
M.Edmond About lent me struggle,
officially
authenticated copies of certain plead-
ings before (lifferent provincial courts,
which contained a biography. of John
MacMahon. Tb is John emigrated from
Limerick to France to join relatives
already in that country. He was en-
courage(l to do so by an uncle, who,
after being a veterinary surgeon, took a
diploma of the Paris Faculty of Medi-
cine, and was named physician to the
Ecole Militaire. He was an eminent
man in his way. It was his desire that
John should be a priest, the Church at
that time leading to wealth aIl(l the
highest positions. Cardinal Fleury
was then ruling France. But John
broke loose from the Divinity School
and bccame a doctor. In 1745 he ob-
tained his degree at Rheims, where
there was then a Faculty of Medicine.
An elder brother, Maurice, emigrated
earlier to France. Other MacMahons
came over to serve the first Pretender,
whom they followed into Brittany; but
he let himself there be turned from his
purpose, and they were lost sight of at
Le Mans. There is the record of the
death of two MacMahons in the north
of France, soon after the battle of Fon-
tenoy, where they possibly fought in
the Irish Brigade, and were wounded.
The conduct of that brigade is said to
have excited the admiration of George
11., who is credited with saying,
Cursed be those penal laws which
have deprived me of such splendid
soldiers. Was it, one may ask, the
penal laws which placed every Irish-
man who fought at Fontenoy on the
French side?
The MacMahons, at the time of Fon-
tenoy, were probably Protestants like
their kinsmen, the Fitzgeralds of Glare.
In the departmental archives of Laon,
on the highroad to Fontenoy, there is
found the following suggestive docu
23
ment, taken with other papers a hun-
dred years ago froni the Abbey of St.
Martin, then secularized On 17th
September, 1745, Patrick MacMahon,
John Watson, Daniel Mad)aniel, Wil-
liam Mahon, William Parker, and
James MacHugh publicly adjured their
heresies in this royal Abbey of St. Mar-
tin de Laon. There were worse penal
ordinances in France than penal laws
in Ireland, an(l Irish Protestants could
not J)ossibly have risen even to be cor-
l)orals, if allowed to serve at all in the
French army. Tha.t kind of Catholi-
cism tinctured with Protestaiitism and
known as Jansenism, was being vio-
lently persecuted in the diocese of
Paris. It was about that time that a
cemetery was locked up, because mir-
acles were worked on the grave of a
persecnte(l Jansenist, and a wag wrote
over the gate
De par Ic Roy defense i~ Dien,
iDe faire miracle dans cc lieu.
Another entry in the registry book of
the Abbey of St. Martin records the
(leath and burial of John Claudius
MacMahon, aged thirteen, and son of
an Irish officer. The father of the
(loctor to the Ecole Mihitaire was natu-
ralized in 1691. Maurice MacMahon,
the elder brother of John, the mar-
sh als grand fath ci, followed the second
Pretender to Scotland. On his return
to France he entered Fitz Jamess regi-
ment. Men of noble birth only could
then serve as officers in the French
army. Maurice satisfied the court
genealogist that his lineage was noble,
which was not quite the same thing as
aristocratic. He was known as Comte
MacMahon ; but why does not appear.
Perhaps Charles Ed~vard created him
an earl, or the rank he was sLipI)ose(l to
have filled in Ireland may have been
deemed equivalent to that of comte.
The widow doubtless of one of his (le-
scendants, the Cointesse de MacMahon,
used to keep a literary salon in the
reign of Louis Philippe. She and that
prolific novelist, the Comtesse Dash,
were like sisters. Madame OConnell,
the portrait-painter, a native of Berlin,
but the wife of a man of Irish ances-
try, belonged to their set.
MacMahon and his Forbears.
MiacMiahon and his Forbears.
We left John MacMahon with his
medical diploma at Rheims. He did
not long stay there, but went to prac-
tise at Autun in Burgundy. He must
have been a handsome, high-spirited,
enterprising person. It is certain that
when he became wealthy he lived in a
generous style, was good to the poor,
and won by his charitable beneficence
the esteem of the clergy. Dr. John
had rich as well as poor patients. One
of the former was the Marquis Jean de
Morey, governor of V~z~lay, and head
of a family of great territorial wealth.
This nobleman had collaterals, but no
direct heir. He married in old age a
beautiful young girl, Charlotte de Belin
dEquilly. It was a moot point whether
his estates were closely entailed or not.
He was advised that they were not, an(l
executed a will in which lie bequeathed
them all to his wife. His constitution
breaking down, Dr. MacMahon was
called in to attend him, but failed to do
him any good. The inarquise, giving
hini credit for having done his best,
was deeply grateful, as she was at-
tach ed to the marquis notwithstanding
the great (lisparity of their ages. Her
husband died, and at the end of a year
of mourning she married the physi-
cian. But the legend that she did so
without settling her fortune is untrue.
The settlenient was in her favor, and
granted to the husband, iii case lie sur-
vived her, a life estate in certain lands.
She retained the right to make settle-
ments on future children. The titles
of marquis and comte went with some
of her flefs. It is to Johns honor that
lie kept his own name, an(l had his
sons called by it, instead of by the fiefs
they eventually inherited. Custom
would have justified him in dropping
the name of MacMahon for names well
backed up with real estate.
The collaterals of the Marquis de
Morey weiit to law with John Mac-
Mahion and his wife in a blackxnailin~
spirit, and endeavored to make hiini out
a regular legacy-hunter and a long-
headed quack, who used undue influ-
ence over his patient to bring him
to execute the will. According to
French ideas, iiobody has a right to
leave property away from his family.
Society is up in arms against the suc-
cessful legacy-hunter. But Dr. John
does not appear to have suffered socially
from the attacks of those who strove to
get the will set aside. The different
tribunals before which the suitors went
to blacken him, decided in favor of hiini
and his wife, and were not able to se-
questrate the income derived from the
estates. A suit was pending when the
Revolution broke out. During the
tempest the MacMahons somehow got
more firmly rooted in the broad lands
of Jean de Morey. They were not-
withistan~ling staunch to the royal fam-
ily, and did not shrink from staking
life and fortune for the cause of inon-
arcliy.
Whether Julia MacMahon had origi-
nally been a Protestant or a Catholic,
it is certain that lie did not bring up
his sons in religious bigotry. There is
in the Public Library of Strasburg a
rare book, The Autobiography of an
Alsatian Pastor, which relates the
tenor of the authors life before, dur-
ing, and for somiie years subsequent to
the Revolution. Who the pastor was
the titlepage does not mention, but it
~vonld be easy to find out from the date
at which lie says lie hind a cure at Al-
bertweiher, in Alsace. lie relates that
on Sunday, December 31, 1787, lie and
his neighbors were surprised to see a
carriage drawn by eight horses drive
up to his manse. Two gentlemen
alighted. They emitered the house and
presente(l a letter from M. Shea, or
Sh~e, afterwards, in Napoleons time,
prefect of the Lower Rhiiie and gov-
ernor of Strasburg. S hica was an Irish-.
mans somi, and married an Irishmans
daughter, Mhhe. dAhton. He was uncle
of a former Irish pupil of the pastor,
Clarke, the future minister of war of
Napoleon, and Due de Feltre. Sheas
letter of introduction stated that the
two geuth emnen were the Marquis Louis
de MacMahion, lieutenant-colonel in
the Chiasseurs de G~vandin, and his
brother, Comte Maurice cle MacMahon,
major in the Kings Cuirassiers. The
niarquis had fought in time American
War of Independence under Rochiam
24
IlfaeMahon and his Forbears.
beau. He and the comte wished to made. This was not the only advan-
learn German. Could the pastor take tage that accrued to the good man from
them in, as he had received Clarke, having the cointe as a pupil. He in-
and teach them that language ? Clarke sisted on the pastor and his wife using
had told them that they would do better his carriage and horses as if they were
to stay with him than to go to Berlin their o~vn. They were thus able to
or Leipsic. But Clarke, the pastor make pleasure trips to places they had
modestly remarked, was an excep- often longed to see, going to Landau
tionally good pupil. He had a retentive and Bergzhciin, and to visit their rela-
memory, a bright and receptive mind, fives at Anuweiler.. Ow. Sundays the
and he was diligent. In seven mouths pastor rode, instead of walking, to a
he had learned to speak and write Ger- distant chapel where he celebrated di-
man well. The MacMahons worked vine service in the afternoon. He was
harder thai~ Clarke, but not as success- also able to make trips to Heidelberg
fully. They were rather old to begin and Zweibrucken, where the comte
to learn German, the marquis being bought horses to replace those taken
thirty-two and the comte thirty. They away by his brother ; to Maunheim,
told the pastor that their father was Scliweit.zenberg, Spires, and Gerslien
an Irishman. lie had brought them heim. The marquis quitted Landau at
up to respect audi love religion and the end of May. But before he re-
good morals. Their mother was the turned to his regiment lie came to pay
richest woman in Burgundy, and she his duty to the pastor and his wife, audi
audI their father lived at the Chateau to take leave of them. He accepted an
of Sully, near Autun. invitation to join the families of both at
The pastor audI his family became a picnic at the 01(1 Castle of Trifels on
deeply attached to the two officers. the anniversary of their wedding. In
Their conduct was exemplary, and the folloving month the comte was.
their goodness of heart, their sweet- recalledh to his regiment, but got his
ness, simplicity, and wish to oblige leave of absence extended to July 20.
made them truly worthy of their for- On the comtes pressing invitation, the
tune and high station. Nothing could pastor, with his friendi I-Ioffmann, ~vent
equal their kindness andi indleedi the on a visit to him at Landau, and then
tenderness of heart they showed to the to Haguenan, where they were askedi
family xvitli ~vhichi they stayedi. But the to stay as guests of the marquis audi
pastor, finding they talked in French to the colonel of his regiment.
each other when alone, advised them to
separate. Louis, by his advice, went The brothers were kindness itself [says
to Landau, in the Palatinate, to board the pastor]. They brought us to Strasburg
on St. John s eve. They there took us to
and lodge with one Hoffmann, a friend the theatre to see Iflands Joeger, and
of the pastor, and a Protestant. He we returned with them to their quarters at
received tuition from a Catholic namedi Hagnenan. The good and amiable Comte
Zinche, a Bavarian, who intended to Maurice came back to visit us at Albert-
take holy orders, but had meanwhile weiher in 1788. He had purchased at the
to live by giving lessons. He followed price of 60,000 fr. the Lientenant-Colonelcy
his pupil to his regiment, and became of Lauzans regiment, and had been made
his secretary. The MacMahons paid a Knight of St. Louis. One of our own
the pastor for their board and tuition children could not be more glad to be with
one hundred and twenty francs a us again than he was. The comte brought
month. He had scruples about accept- Zincke with him as a secretary, but sent
ino so much. When thic marquis left, him to lodge at the Swan Inn. My guest
often took me out riding. We went to
Maurice declared thiat lie must leave Maunheim to see Ifland in Schillers Don
too, if his reverend coach did not Carlos. On May 11 he bade us farewell,
agree to go on receiving the one hun- and on going took Ziucke with him. I
dred and twenty francs a month, and never had the happiness to meet him since,
would not hear of any reduction being but I heard in 1791 how he nearly lost his
26
]JfacMahon aud his Forbears.
life in the Bouill~ affair at Nancy. His the provoking causes of thaL tumultu-
horse, peppered with bullets, was killed ous outburst of Republican patriotism
under him. The marquis, I heard, was which found musical and lyrical cx-
killed in Flanders in or about 1794. pression in the Marseillaise. What
Comte Maurice was Marshal Mac- lie says of having commanded the two
Mahons father. It seems a grim freak hundred and fifty hussars whom the
of the Fates that he should have en- queen admitted to her presence and
tered the regiment of the (lissolute called her own good hussars, sug-
Lauzan, whose autobiographical ac- gests here a few remarks. The ban-
counts of his amours with the aristo- quet given to thes,e men in the Palace
cratic belles of his time would alone Theatre of Versailles, at the (lessert
justify the Revolution. Snowflake and stage of which she appeared with her
soot-black could not be more ill-matched la(hies and children, and walked round
than the cynical rake Lauzan and the the tables to say gracious things. was
honorable, pure-minded semi-Irishman, one of the events which brought down
Maurice Francis MacMahon. thunderbolts in the autumn of 1789.
Comte MacMahon was taken prisoner It was represented by the club orators,.
at Nancy by the peol)le and narrowly by Camille Desinoulins and Mirabean,
escaped being massacred. He got a~vay as the proof of a conspiracy a~aiust the
to Paris, an(I was offered by the Duc new-won liberties. The hussars, fol-
dOrl~ans (Egalit~), for whom Lauzan lowing the lead of their commander,
was busy recruiting military l)artisans, whose name no historian gives, swore
the full colonelcy of his regiment of to die for the queen and her son. May
hussars, and by Marshal de Rocham- not this impulse be exl)laine(l simply
beau a place on his staff. But Bouihl6 by a generous and very Irish emotion ?
had gone to Coblentz, where an army Irish gallantry is different from French
of emigres was being formed. Maurice gallantry, being really chivalrous and
de MacMahon, in a letter written to disinterested. Burke expressed it clo-
the war minister of Louis XVIII. to quently when, in his famous speech on
explain why he did not accept the offer the French Revolution, lie spoke of the
either of the Duc dOrl6ans or of De radiant beauty and the misfortunes of
Rochambeau, says: I was going to the queen of France as being enough
place myself under Rochambean, in to make the swords of all chivalrous
whose corps in America my brother men juml) from their scabbards. When
served. But my legitimate sovereign, Maurice MacMahon is looked at through
Louis XVI., sent me word by his sis- the eyes of the Alsatian pastor, one can
ter, the Princess Elizabeth, to join his understand the queen cleaving to him
brothers abroad. I had commanded and his two hundred and fifty hussars
the two hundred and fifty liussars as a for protection for herself and children.
household guard at Versailles. They But the honest comte is a strong, albeit
were so xvehl con(lucte(l that the queen unconscious, witness in supl)ort of the
had deigned to admit them to her pres- charge made against Louis XVI. of
ence and called them her own good conspiring, in 1792, with the head of
hussars. I had ~von good opinions at the Coblentz coalition to snuff out the
Nancy. The king therefore thoi~ghit Revolution by means of a foreign inva-
that I could not but be more useful sion. He was planning how to escape
with his brothers than in France. I to Coblentz when, through his sister,
therefore emigrated by the order of my he ordered MacMahon to go there.
sovereign, and because I owed him Her intervention shows that the Revo-
loyal dui~y was engaged in the campaign lutionists were not altogether wrong in
of 1792. This campaign was against carting her into prison for being privy
the first French Reppblic. to conspiracies, and that the charges
Thus we see that Maurice MacMahon made against the royal family of being
re-entered France with the troops of in communication with the enemies
the allied sovereigns and was one of of the nation were not unfounded.
MacMahon and his Forbears.
Maurice MacMahon, acting on the
orders he received from his lawful
sovereign attached himself to the
0
Anglo-Dutch army, of which the Duke
of York was generalissimo. He was
under the immediate orders of the Bel-
gian Riquet de Caraman and of Mar-
shal de Brogue who had, in 1798, been
charred to oatli er und Ver-
troops 10
sailles, and, hemming in the National
Assembly, take it prisoner, or transport
it to deliberate at Compi~gne out of
the reach of the Paris Revolutionists.
Riquet de Carainan was great-grandson
of the Italian Riquetti who made the
canal of Languedoc, the great-grand-
father also of Mirabean, whose family
retained the Italian pronunciation of
their name. A sister of Marshal de
Broglie was married to Riquet de Cara-
man. MacMahon fell in love with
their daughter and married her. In
this marriage originated the close con-
nection of the late marshal with the
Duc de Broglie, and the choice made
by tile Orleanists at the Versailles As-
sembly in 1873 when they offered Mac-
Mahon tile presidency of tIle Republic.
Maurice MacMahon remaine(l at-
tached to the Anglo-Dutch army until
1795, and di(l not rettiril to France until
1803. He was no doubt helped at Paris
by Madame Tallien, an old friend of
Josephine, and ci-devant wife of Tal-
lien, the author of the Thermidor coup
detat. This lady was one of the fast
beauties of tile Revolntion and the
soul of the Thermidor reaction against
Robespierre s terrorist methods, but
still more against his austere virtues
and incorrupt.iblQ integrity. She had
divorced Tallien to become tile wife of
rrince de Caraman, and her friendly
support would have been valuable to
MacMahon at a time when Napoleon
was thinking of making himself em-
peror and of drawing the Royalists
about him to form a court on the Ver-
sailles model. Maurice MacMahon,
however, lived altogether in tile coun-
try at Sully in Burgundy, and was
never seen or heard of at tile court of
Napoleon. Between 1793 and 1812 he
became the father of seventeen chil-
dren, of whom the late marshal was tile
sixteentil. He remained silently h os-
tile to tile Empire, and in 1815, between
the returil of the emperor from Elba
and Ilis defeat at Waterloo, trie(l to stir
up Burgun(Iy against him an(l to bring
it to demonstrate for Louis XVIII.
Marshal Davoust was sent to quell tile
disturbance, and tile Marquis Maurice
was arrested and ~vas to be sent for
trial before a military commission.
Davoust, not l)eing sure tilat Na-
poleoll would be able to withstand a
European coalition, delayed the trial.
The comtesse hastened to Dijon to
intercede for her husband, who, if
tried, was sure to be condemned and
shot. She was in poor healtil when
tIle shock of her llusban(ls arrest was
received. As no hope was afforded
her of his escape, she nearly died from
despair. The future marshal was seven
years old, and retained to the last a
vivid recollection of tile dark days of
1815. Waterloo opened tile doors of
tile military prison at Dijon, CIld the
Marquis Maurice returned to Sully.
his wife lingered until 1819. She was
a woman of a strong, generous char-
acter, and cast aside all Royalist preju-
dice and feeling when her charitable
sentiments and principles were ap-
pealed to. Wllen Couthon tile regiCi(le
was banished slIe received Ilis two
motilerless daughters into 11cr f~tm i ly,
and was as mucil a motller to tilem as
to any of her own eilildrell. Tiley
were l)enniless, and sile set them up in
life. This was done wilen the White
Terror, or reaction wllich followed the
secOll(l restoratioll of Louis XVIII.,
was at its ileigllt. Couthon had a
fancy for collecting historical (ben-
ments of tile Revolution. In 1793 he
got 1101(1 of tile will of Marie Antoi-
nette, whicil was found among Ilis pa-
pers, and sent to tile State arcllives.
Tile Comtesse (le MacMallon sur-
vived eigllt of her seventeen cilildren.
Of those sile left, four were SOIlS and
five daughters. her moral courage
was tile heritage sile left to Maurice
Patrick. He was not sent to scilool
young, but had private tuition at home.
He was tilen placed at a seminary
taught by priests at Autun, from wllich
27
.Mia& llahon and his Forbears.
he was removed to a coaching estab-
lishment for the military school of St.
Cyr at Versailles. His two elder
brothers were already officers in hussar
regiments. All the family were fond
of horses and were (laring riders.
Charles, the eldest, broke his neck in
1845 while competing for a steeple-
chase prize for gentlemen riders at
Autun. They were all fanciers of En-
gush thoroughbreds. The marshal
was never without a few in his stables.
He owed his life on many occasions,
when acting as an aide-de-camp, to the
fleetness and cleverness of an English
or an Irish horse. At the exhibition of
equestrian art, which was held eight
years ago at the Rue de S~ze, a family
portrait was shown of Charles, Joseph,
and Maurice Patrick de MacMahon
(the future marshal), in their uniforms,
cantering in a gl~ide. It was a spirited
painting, and gave the impression of
the elation and freshness of youth.
Another sketchy picture, by Horace
Vernet, represented the MacMahon
family at a hunting meet in front of
the chateau of Sully (a kind of Bur-
gundian Warwick Castle) with their
friends, who had come to hunt in the
woods round them. The material con-
ditions and the company are aristo-
cratic. Still, there is a sweet , genial,
friendly air, common to all the Mac
Mahons, which excludes the idea of
the cold shade of aristocracy. The
servants seem as well off as the horses.
Maurice Patrick (the marshal), a gen-
tlemanly, elegantly built young fellow,
of a fair, beaming, and ruddy couI]te-
nance, pats the neck of his thorough-
bred. The horse, pleased and proud at
this mark of affection, paws the ground
with his fore foot.
All the three MacMahon brothers of
the second generation, born at Sully,
were loyal, in the 01(1 romantic Jacobite
sense, to the Bourbons. They were
officers, the two elder in hussar regi-
ments, and Maurice Patrick in a line
regiment in active service in Algeria,
when the Revolution of 1830 broke
out, and Louis Philippe picked up the
crown which fell from the head of his
cousin and benefactor. Each of the
three young officers at once asked the
general over him to forward his resig-
nation to the minister of war. Mau-
rices was not accepted, for his general
thought him too valuable an officer in
war time to let him retire from the
army without giving him time to re-
flect on the course lie proposed taking.
Some days after his resignation had, as
he thought, been sent on, he received
a letter from his father, the old mar-
quis, conjuring him not to throw up
his commission, but to keep out of
political partisanship by making the
rule of military obedience the law of
his life. He himself had known what
it was to be torn up by the roots and
cast abroad to serve in an army which,
though forward to fight for the lawful
sovereign, had to march against the
nation that he claimed the right to
rule. Once in the thick of a campaign
it was a clear duty not to leave ; in-
deed, to leave would be to desert. The
king (Charles X.) had not asked him
for any such sacrifice as the two other
brothers had made.
Maurice Patrick MacMahon went to
his general to ask if the letter of res-
ignation wotild have re~tched Paris.
No, for it was never forwarded. It
is in a pigeon-hole there. I cant spare
you. Take it and burn it.
If that letter had not been detained
the French army, in all Probability,
would have beeii taken prisoners at
Magenta, and the chapter of European
events, amid of great changes in polit-
ical geography, which began in 1859,
would never have been commencc(l.
An Italian Sedan must have secured to
Austria the upper hand across the
Rhine and in Italy, nil)pe(l in the bud
the unitary movement in the latter
country, led to a great overturning and
upheaval in Paris, and, in short, have
given a trend to European events quite
different from the one they have been
taking since MacMahon rode into Mi-
lan, his horse knee-deep in the flowers
that were cast at him from the win-
(lows, and with a child he save(1 from
being run over on the bow of his sad-
dle.
No act of the marshals life became
28
A South Sea Island and its People.
him better than his retirement from
power. lie was determined not to pro-
voke civil ~var, not to go with the tide
of Gambettist republicanism, not to
expose himself in any degree to the
suspicion of being a party to the Union
(~n~rale bubble which the political
men about him and their sons were
financing, lie agreed with Pufaure in
thinking that a new situation required
new men. As he had lived far beyond
his salary and private means at the
Elys6e, he had no fortune to fall back
nl)on. But honor and duty pointed out
the course he should take. He fol-
lowed it with his usual straightfor~vard
simplicity, was the first to congratulate
M. Gr6vy when he was elected presi-
(lent, and volunteere(l to smooth away
tiny difficulties that might be raise(I
1)y foreign courts an(l French Royalist
diplomatists. He lent the plate he had
at the Elys~e to his successor until a
sufficient quantity for the exercise of
l)ospitality on a large scale could be
procured of course, at the cost of the
State, on the back of which M. Gr~vy
threw all expenses. The marshal (le-
voted himself in retirement to humane
enterprises connected with the army.
No word of recrimination or harsh crit-
icism escaped his lips. He refused the
splendid sinecure of grand chancellor
of the Legion of Honor. After being
hea(l of the State, lie thought he could
not with dignity, for the sake of a sal-
ary, discharge a lower function. He
felt that the retirement of private life
best befitted him.
EMILY CRAWFORD.
From The Fortnightly Review.
A SOUTH SEA ISLAND AND ITS PEOPLE.
THE time is early winter, and the
view very charming from the verandah
on which I write. In front, a level
stretch of smooth green grass, dotted
with stately palms whose fronds rustle
softly in the breeze, while the ocean,
with deep murmur, is breaking on the
coral reefs beyond. Behind me a range
of volcanic mountains clothed with
luxuriant tropical vegetation through
29
which the peaks, bare and grey, rise
in many a fantastic form. In the
sparkling waters of the little harbor the
native youth are sporting with a joyous
laughter which falls pleasantly on the
ear. The clear blue sky is dappled
with fleecy cloudlets, and from its tall
white staff floats the dear old flag, car-
rying ones heart and thoughts to
friends and country far away.
Sometimes the scene is very differ-
ent. Nature gets into an angry mood.
The sky (larkens and sheets of rain are
poured upon the earth. Lightuings
flash and the thunder rolls in deafening
peal. The winds howl wildly, the
ocean bursts furiously on the impending
reef, the mountain torrents tear their
way to the sea, and the harbor is a
sheet of foam. But that is only at odd
times in the wet season. To-day all is
gentleness and peace.
Nature has been very bountiful to
the stalwart brown people who inhabit
this little gem of an island and who
call themselves Maoris. The bread-
fruit and the cocoanut., planted by their
fathers ,give abundant food merely for
the gathering. The banana requires
very little labor. The toothsome chest-
nut, luscious orange, and healthful
lime, with other wild fruits of the for-
est, are to be had for the picking.
Fishing is the Maoris sport, and the
nutritious taro, yam, and kumera make
liberal return for the fitful labor be-
stowed upon them. Cotton of excellent
quality is allowed to grow as it likes,
while thickets of wild coffee, twelve to
twenty feet high, yield fine an(l plenti-
ful crops, and renew themselves from
the berries that fall around. Poultry,
once domestic, have gone wild in the
forest, and the Maori shoots them as
the whim may dictate. But his great
standby is the pig, pride of his heart,
centre of his feasts, and nuisance in
roads over all of which he is allowed
freely to roam. Seven or eight pounds
sterling will he pay for a full-grown,
ill-bred porker, when the (leath of a
relation, or some other great event
calls for pigs of more than usual size.
Yet even for this much-prized animal
nature has pl~ovide(l the cocoanut, the
30
mammyal)ple, and other excellent food,
requiring only occasional aid from the
maize which our browii friend some-
times condescends to grow.
With this environment, the Maoris
have for many generations occupied
their little island. They now number
about seventy to the square mile.
When Christianity came, seventy or
eighty years ago, the population ex-
ceeded two hundred to the mile. They
worked harder under the pressure of
numbers, and maintained their mental
vigor by games of many kinds, by
(lances and rude dramatic perform-
ances, and, above all, by the exercises
of diplomacy and of arms in existing 01.
everimpending tribal ~var. Cannibals
also were. they in those heathen days,
but healthy, strong, and numerous de-
spite all the (lrawbaeks of a savage life.
They have been dyin~ off mysteriously
since peace and civilization ~ ure(l
their blessings upon them. Sad to say
they have at last accepted the position
and come to regar(l the extinction of
their proud race as a foregone conclu-
sion.
The Maori lives mainly on the food
that nature has provided, but adds to it
provision of various kinds imported
from other lands. His native cloth
(t4ppa) has long gone out of use, and
European fabrics have taken its place.
The men are clad iii English style
though seldom wearing shoes. The
women, also shoeless as a rule, dress
with taste, and abjure gorgeous colors,
sham jewellevy, and loud display, but
are greedy of lace trimmings ostrich
feathers, artificial flowers, and adorn-
ments of a similar kind. To pay for
their new wants, the copra of com-
merce is made from the (lrie(i fruit of
the cocoanut. Cotton is picked, or the
maonihcent oranges are gatl~ere(I, when
a paying market can be found~ They
take the trouble to make limejuice on
the same condition, but their chief ex
l)ort is coffee, for which a market is
always sure. The height and wildness
of the trees make the picking of the
berri~s a slow l)rocess, but planting and
pruning to keep the growth within
bounds would involve too much contiii
A South Sea Island and its People.
nous care to be acceptable. Manuring
tile Maori regar(ls as filthy and detest-
able, a practice unknown to his fathers.
and exciting only disgust in himself.
Meanwhile the coffee-tree in its wild
state flourishes as the Maori did in his.
The breaking of tile branches by the
lads who climb to pick, may serve as a
rough kind of pruning and do for the
coffee what, in old times, war did for
the man.
When the seasons come, copra inak-
in~ cott
~, on l)icking, and coffee or
orange gathering, are turned into pie
n ic performances rather than made
work in our sense of the term. The
people sally forth from the village in
merry parties, and in this spirit the
whole work of the country is done.
Saturday they devote to cleaning their
houses and collecting and preparing
food for the Sunday which is observed
as a Sabbath of the ancient biblical
kind. On three of the week (lays
there is early morning service. Every
day, in every househol(l, is opened and
closed with hymns and family prayer..
On Sunday, clad in their best, they
troop to church or prayer meeting from
tllree to five times a day, and after
each service assemble in appointed sec~
tions for examination by their elders as
to the sermon they have heard or the
Scripture which has been read. The
intervals are spent in (hiscussing the
public announcements ~vhich are al-
ways made in church before the ser-
vice or in the gossip and bits of
scandal which they dearly love. So
assiduous are they that women will
often leave their homes at daylight for
the early Sunday service and not return
till the day is done. At sunset the
church is closed. There are no even-
ing services and the people are free,
once more, to resume the habits of
ordinary life.
During the orange seasoll some of
the men spend tileir Sundays very
diffegently. The rest of the people
being at church, especially the police,
who must all be churchmembers, these
men resort secretly to the dark recesses
of the forest and drink great quantities
of a stupefying liquor as secretly pre
pared by the fermentation of ripe
oranges, pineal)1)les, or bananas, the
orange being most used and greatly
preferred. The making of bush
beer, as it is calle(l, is prohibited by
law, and the makers and drinkers are
fined heavily, when detected; some-
thing like a pound of our money for
the beer and another poun(l for break-
ing the Sabbath day. Happily, in this
case, Sunday comes but once a week,
for on other days little bush beer is
taken, and an habitual Maori sot is un-
known. To make this more clear it
may be well to add that a recent law
prevents either Maori or white man
from getting iml)orte(l liquor without a
previous l)ermit attended with some-
what tedious formalities. He can only
obtain it for his own use, and no
public house or other place for the sale
of liquor to be (irunk on the prem-
ises, is allowed. Out of the forest a
(Irunken Maori is therefore very rarely
to be seen.
The population consists of distinct
tribes each tracing (lescent from one of
the canoes in which the ancestors,
migrating centuries ago from distant
islands (liscovered that upon which
their (lescendants now dwell. Each
tribe has its chiefs or nobles in regular
gradation of rank, and at its head an
a~iki or sovereign chief descended from
the go(ls in the old land from which
the ancestor the original ariki, came.
The ariki is often the great landowner,
but in some cases the conquering an-
cestor l)alcelle(i out the land among his
followers content to accept their fealty
anmi war service as his own reward.
Times have changed and the value of
the war service is reduced to nil. The
fealty, the rank, and the old l)ersonal
reverence remain, but the power falls
to the landowners who become the real
rulers of the tribe.
The highest chiefs or nobles owe
certain well-understood services to the
ariki and to the tribe, but have all held
the land in their own right since the
first migration to the island. A pres-
ent possessor may, for just cause, be
(1 prive(l by the ariki of iank an(1 land,
but both must remain in the family
31
from among whom a successor is at
once appointe(l. The komana stan(ls
next, the only difference being that his
services must be ren(lere(I through one
of the nobles to whom it is credited,
an(l never (lirectly by himself. After
him comes the rangatira, a tenant at
will of the ariki or of the chief from
whom he holds the land, but irremov-
able, by time-honored custom, so long
as the due services are performed.
The services of these three orders are
of a l)ubhic nature, below them are the
riki-rikis or comm on people, descend-
ants of the slaves brought in the first
migration or of captives since made.
Formerly they had no rights and were
at the absolute disposal of their mas-
ters. Now their lot is much lighter.
The duties which they are called upon
to fulfil are of a menial character, but
personally they are protected by the
law and, so long as they are respectful
and ol)edient and perform the services
requireol, they may continue to occupy
the land given for their use by the mas-
ters to whom they once belonged. Any
lack of respect or obedience was in the
old times l)unishe(l with relentless se-
verity, anol the effect of such servitud&
is perceptible in the nianners and
habits of this class of the people. As
to landowners extorting the heaviest
service or the largest share of the prod-
uce, by stimulating a selfish competi-
tion among their people, that would be
regaroled as unnatural, a thing not to
be contemplated by any one as~)iring to
the respect of his equals or the regard
of the l)eol)le.
A curious feature is the election o~ a
successor on the (leath of the ariki.
He or she is chosen, almost invariably,
from among the nearest of kin, and
there can be no doubt who are the
nearest, for the genealogy of each great
Maori family is strictly preserved.
The electors are the ariki of the other
tribes, but the election must be comi-
firmed by the nobles of the tribe of the
deceased ariki, for with them the for
maf installation rests. In all proba-
bility this complex arrangement is the
result of some old attempt to preserve
the peace, but the Maori can seldom b&
A South Sea Island cend its People.
A South Sea Island and its People.
induced to speak freely on matters in-
volving the rank, prece(lence, and title.
to land of great persons. The political
arrangements of the people of this
island are a fair type of Maori organ-
ization varied in detail by local con-
ditions or past events over the
multitude of islands on which they
have settled. The ariki exists on all,
but in some of them all have laud of
their own right and there is greater
consequent equality and independence
of character among the people. Much
woul(l naturally depend on the relative
positions of those who arrived in the
first canoes and from whom, barring
intervening conquests, the present pos-
sessors are descended.
The Maori was a polygamist,. and
generations of this sensual custom have
left their mark on the ideas of the
people. In this respect, Christianity
has only succeeded in putting on a
thin veneer, and his idea of womans
position has not yet attained the coin-
parative l)urity of the rudest ages of
monogamic nations. The family, in
the domestic sense of the term, does
not exist. The man is less an individ-
ual than a member of the tribe. His
wife was only ihe first of his servants
and most valuable of his possessions,
and many years must pass before she
can be differently regarded.
Rank and precedence are strenuously
upheld but titles of courtesy unknown.
The ariki of a tribe is addressed, like
the Pharaohs of old, by the name of
the original ariki which has been handed
down from generation to generation.
The chiefs are addressed by their fain-
ily names, and the rest of the people
by such names as may have been given
at birth. The Maori race, widespread
over the vast Pacific, with a common
language and a common ancestry, has
always been a people of clans. Their
primitive or~anization is still main-
tained in its main features by the con-
servative, custom-loving people of their
several islands.
These are the conditions under which
the Maori has lived for centuries in this
particular island. Many hundred thou-
sand of his race are living in the same
way iii other lovely archipelagoes in
which lie has made a new home.
When an island is volcanic and fertile
there is always land enough and to
spare. When of coral formation, or
placed on the low, narrow rim of an
Atoll reef, the land is prolific in cocoa-
nuts but produces little else. Fortu-
nately for the people of these low
islands, the surrounding ocean and the
enclosed lagoon teem with fish, and
valuable pearls and pearl-shell are often
found. In all their islands each Maori
has some share in the common posses-
sions, and personal want in the midst
of public plenty is unknown. A Maori
beggar would be the greatest of curios-
ities. Famine may possibly come but
cannot starve one without starving all.
Children bring with them no care, be-
ing provided for as soon as born.
Work is made a pleasure and the poor-
est breathes as pure an air mid is nearly
as well fed and clothed as the ariki
whom lie reverently obeys. Outcast
women are unknown. Fines and res-
titution take the place of penal impris-
onment. There is not a lunatic, a
gaol, nor a consciously degraded per-
son. The sovereign and the chiefs
are in touch with the people, and the
people are in touch with one another.
The Maori, in short, is a good deal of a
Socialist, though no explanation could
make him understand the meaning of
the term, or of any other of the cut-
and-dry systems for the regulation of
that mysterious mixture mankind.
In character the Maori is very hu-
man. There is scarce a virtue or a
vice in which lie does not share. Indo-
lent, yet capable of great and enduring
exertion. Earnest, yet frivolous. Con-
servative, yet eager for novelty. Cov-
etous, vet lavish to a (legree when the
whim takes him or his pride is con-
cerned. Greedy of power an(l loud in
self-assertion, yet kindly in the exer-
cise of that power when his vanity or
superstition is not in the way. Bold
and daring in action, yet slow and
feeble till action is almost forced upon
him. Doggedly obstinate, yet incapa-
ble of steady perseverance. Calculat-
ing, yet thoughtless for the morrow.
32
A South Sea Island and its People. 33
Keenly sensitive to injustice, yet care- speak or read English the half-castes
less of doing it to others. An invet- are sensitive to English rather than to
erate plotter, yet incapable of continued Maori opinion, and are governed in
secrecy. Practical above all things, social life by Engli~h ideas. Nor must
yet prone to fits of furious fanaticism, it be supposed that even the Maoris,
Loyal to his word when pledged, yet with what we can only call their laxity
ready at other times to lie transpar- of view, are at all loose in ordinary be-
ently to gain his end, and equally havior. They are perfectly (lecorous
ready, with a good-humored laugh, to in manner, and any indecency of de-
admit the attempt when openly chal- meanor, in man or woman, would meet
lenged. Vindictive, yet forgiving and with the strongest reprobation.
forgetting as soon as satisfaction has In political life the division of pow-
been obtained. Cruel when excited, ers is a hard thing for the Maori to
but kindly and sympathetic as a rule, understand. As in church matters so
Simple as a child and cunning as a in politics. Give him office of any kind
fox, he has the strictest desire to do and he assert.s himself in all things,
what is ti/ca, i.e~, the correct thing, officially and officiously, as a ruler of
according to his own code. A man the people. His opportunities are nu-
hard to drive but easy to lead, and merous, for the laws deal with every
more influenced by a timely joke or conceivable fault. Little is left to the
passing feeling than by the soundest conscience of the individual. A man,
reason. for example, grieving openly for a de
This is the Maori, light and pleasure- ceased woman to whom he was not
loving, whoni the early missionaries related, is made to answer publicly be-
fondly strove to form into the rigid fore the judge of his district. His grief
Puritan, who was their i(leal. They becomes prirnd facie evidence of guilt
became his devoted teachers, and he and lie must free himself from the sus-
transferred to them much of the awe licion or be forthwith fined. These
with which the old heathen priests laws, narrow and rigid in the spirit of
were regarded. He followed implicitly the time when they were conceived,
the rules which they laid down; be- were regarded as coming from the
came a most assiduous church attend- Church, to the members of which the
ant, and will not munch the dryest administration was also strictly con-
biscuit without a preliminary prayer. fined. The secular and clerical powers
His meetings of every kind are opened thus got frightfully mixed and expul-
and closed with prayer, even to the sion from church membership became
courts of law, in which the prisoner a potent weapon in the hands of a pine-
will often be seen shaking hands with tically irresponsible, numerous, and
the kindly judge before taking his place ubiquitous police. The social position,
at the bar. He is scrupulously exact in the union, and the numbers of this
all religious observances. The church powerful body, comprising often an
became the centre of his social and eighth or a tenth of the whole popula-
political life, and his greatest punish- tion, made the police absolute despots.
ment is the loss of church membership, Their method was equally objection-
which has always been an indispensa- able, for it consisted of unceasing espi-
ble qualification for public office or for onage at all hours of the day arid night.
taking any part in public affairs. In No system could be more destructive
all that I am writing, be it clearly un- to self-respect, sincerity, arid independ-
derstood that the pure Maori alone is ence of mind or character. The Maori
referred to. The half-castes children has gone through it in a manner which
of white fathers are a different and wari~ants the strongest hope for the
distinct race. Like their fathers, they future if his decay can be arrested and
are far less careful in religious obsery- if time and opportunity be allowed.
ance and always ready to rebel at too Be it here remembered that the early
strict a church control. When they missions were avowedly dispatched
LIVING AGE. VOL. 1. 3
34 A South Sea Island and its People.
with the paramount object of saving boo ; and the fines, so freely levied
souls, and that the missionaries were formed the only pay received by judges,
selected with that paramount aim in and by police, for the performance of
view. The affection and respect their official duties. With all these
which they won from the heathen and (Irawbacks, marked progress was made.
cannibal natives, and which their suc- Manners and customs were softened
cessors have retained, are the most and the new idea of the Fatherhood of
complete proofs of devotion to the the one God and the brotherhood of
good of the people. They improved man, insensibly operated UI)Ofl their
their habits and taught many useful rude minds. This great victory, not
arts, but it is no disparagement to say without long and ar(luous struggle and
that the worldly knowledge and pohit much peisonal suffering, the preachers
ical influence of nearly all the early of Christianity achieved. But save
missionaries were extremely limited, that it enabled the Maori to read the
With such light as they had in these translated Bih)le, the education which
worldly matters, the foundation was the missionary was able to give opened
laid and their successors, men of wider up no new vista and iml)arte(h little
culture and greater knowledge of the knowledge by which further worldly
world, are bound to touch that founda- progress might be made. However
tion with tenderness and respect. eainest the missionary, he had abun
They who criticise mission work are dance of other work, was seldom traine(l
too often foi~getful or ignorant of these as a schoolmaster, and his only possible
facts. I refer to them because my own class-book was the Bible. The Maoris
al)preciation of the great ~vork achieved, knowledge of the letter of the Bible
makes me desirous to avoid misunder- has thus become as marvellous as his
stan(ling in the frank criticism which ignorance of the h)eople, the countries
many of the present missionaries would and the times, xvhiose history the grand-
gladly court. Let any one stand on est of books illustrates and unfolds.
the beach of an island whence eight or In his heathen days the Maori was a
ten Maori young men are departing first-class fighting man. He rarely
with wives, and l)elhlaps children, to overlooked an injury never an insult
serve as missionaries to the savages of and would not forgive either till sat-
New Guinea or other wild land. They isfaction had been obtained. Once
have literally to tear themselves from even with the offender he is always
the weeping friends who cluster round, ready to shake hands, laugh over the
and who have good reason to fear, be- matter and let it go forever. Unfortu-
tween fever and savages, that they will nately by that time the other man will
see them no more. Occasions like this probably feel that the balance is against
are the missionarys true day of joy him and that he has a score to settle.
and triumph. Pity only that the Ma- So arose deadly feuds in the 01(1 days
oris thus sent forth are not better and so comes much contention in the
equipped in literature and worldly new. Women and land have always
knowledge; but that can only be whemi been the chief causes of trouble, for in
access is giv en to a language in which ordinary matters of business the tribe
books may be obtained, or family generally manage to settle
That this system of government es- disputes themselves.
tablished by the early missionaries, and Cultivation of the land is very back-
its a(lministration by ignorant and des ward, much more so than in heathen
potic chiefs jnst emerging from barbar- days. The decreased h)OPulatiOn and
ism, were oppressive, harassing, and in decreased pressure for subsistence may
many ways demoralizing, needs no account for some of this falling off, but
demonstration. The Maoris acqui- one manifest cause is the change in the
esced for probably two chief reasons. mode of life which followed the intro-
The system accorded with their own duction of Christianity. Previously,
old heath& n ~practice in enforcing ta- fa Ui~s~lusteted together for defence,
but their little village was not too far
from the laud on which they depended.
The maraes, or heathen worshipping
l)laces, were numerous, an(1 each was
in this sense an industijal as well as a
religious centre. Under the new reli-
gion the maraes were brokeu up. A
few large churches and schools were
built, and the people brought into
larger settlements in their near vi-
cinity, for the paramount object of
school instruction and regular attend-
ance at church. They were thus re-
move(l farther from the land on which
they (lepended, and acquired the habits
of a town life instead of those of the
country. Among a l)eople so devoid of
intellectual culture and deprived, at a
1)10w, of all their old (lances an(l ordi-
nary amusements, the concentration
developed an eager appetite for gossip,
scandal, and constant news, an(l gave
birth to a Maori Mrs. Grundy not one
whit less prying and powerful than her
more civilized congener in other lands.
This imperfect sketch of the Maori,
and one of the most lovely of the
islands to which his ancestors in faroff
ages so adventurously roamed, would
be still more imperfect without refer-
ence to his wonderful power of (loing
nothing, and of doing it thoroughly
when the occasion calls. Take my
stalwart friend RangI, lying resignedly
for hours, on back or stomach, on the
deck of a small schooner at sea. Asleep
or awake he is equally tranquil and con-
tent, a contrast to the European near
him who is also trying to make the best
of things and adapt himself to circum-
stances. How restless that European
quickly grows, twisting and fidgeting
and making himself a marvel to Rangi
and the placid sprawlers around ! How
he longs to trail his coat and challenge
some one to trea(l on the tail of it, to
do anything, in short, that would re-
lieve the miserable monotony I This
being impossible he can only persevere
in his efforts to be still or to read in
the hot sun, with the cheering hope
that, if he live long enough, he too may
be moulded into a shape more suitable
to the conditions under which Provi-
dence has placed him.
35
The women are a potent factor in
island life and must not be forgotten.
Liquid dark eyes, soft voices, affection-
ate and merry dispositions, light browii
skins of ivory smoothness, and grace-
fulness in every movement, are their
most striking characteristics. Seldom
are they to be seen in a passion, and
not a single cuss word for man or
woman is to be found in the vocabulary
of this charming people. In the most
furious rage they can only call each
other cat, bullock, (log, goat, sheep, or
pig. The most deadly is wild duck,
implying a bastard, a child whom no
bo(ly will own. The women of this
island are fair types of the women of
other islands inhabited by the Madri
race, in warm regions where the chilli-
ness of the water does not deter from
its free use. The women of Tahiti are
as notable examples and quite enough
to account for the mutiny of the
Bounty. After their stay at that en-
chanting island, the reluctance of the
sailors to return to the discipline of a
British mati-of-war, with a martinet
as administrator, is easily understood.
They had lived the Tahitian life long
enough to be bewitched not long
enough for the reaction to set in.
Much of this remarkable gracefulness
in men and vomen is (lue to the dances
~vliich bring every joint and muscle
into play. The combined movements
are monotonous but, to the individual,
each movement is part of a calisthenic
exercise that ought to make the fortune
of any enterprising person introducing
it to other countries. A native teacher,
even when preaching from a big, over-
grown, ugly pulpit, is a picture in his
action, and the women are equally
graceful whether walking or sitting,
washing clothes in the brook, or en-
gaged in any of their ordinary avoca-
tions. The old heathen dances, many
of them far from modest, were sup-
pressed with a high hand by the early
missions, but in later days the natives
have gradually recovered the best and
practise them with great assiduity.
Their musical ability is marked. They
l)ick up English airs with ease and
have lately taken to waltzes and polkas,
A South Sea Island and its People.
36
A South Sea Island and its People.
which they accompany with accordeon is their being owned by joint stock
or such other instrument as they can companies, who build and work them
command. About their own musical and divide the profit among themselves.
instruments the least said the better, For the Maori, socialistic in so many
for beyond monstrously large and deaf- of his ways, this is a new departure.
ening drums, with some of a milder Does it mark the beginning of a new
size but equally unmelodious tone, they era, of a new life based, like our own,
have none worth even casual mention. on the recognition of individual gain
Divorce has always been a fruitful and the cultivation of individual greed,
source of trouble to native and mis- as the strongest possible incentives to
sionary. Technically it does not exist, enterprise, and the best possible foun-
for a (lecree of (livorce is in itself un- dation for national progress and pros-
known, and only when wishing to be perity ?
re-married does a native think of legal They have also of late developed a
separation from the wife who has (le- taste for the ownership of smart, fast
serted him or from whom he may have little schooners with whieji they go
parted. The re-marriage includes, as a from island to island, over many hun-
matter of course, a divorce to the party (Ired miles of ocean, and carry native
so re-married. The missionaries set passengers, in dangerously large num-
their faces firmly, from the first, against hers, as their best and most paying
divorce as destructive of the family life, freight. If one settlement or island
which they fondly hoped at once to has a vessel, the rest will not be out-
establish, after their own ideal, among done and must soon have theirs also.
the long polygamous Maori. Their law They even build their o~vn vessels at
fixed five years desertion and absence times, for the nien are often good arti-
from the island as the only ground. sans as well as bold and skilful sailors.
The law was disregarded whenever the Their shipping ventures are never a
arikis consent to re-marriage could be success from the financial point of
obtained, a consent which the mission- view. Unlike the tea shops a (hividend
ary, especially if a native, was seldom is unknown, the vessels being regarded
able to dispute. As a matter of fact, more as yachts than business ventures,
neither marriage nor divorce would be and direct profit a matter of secondary
of much importance if public opinion importance. In the end the vessel
only were concerned. Nobody would runs, uninsured, upon a coral reef or
think one whit the worse of the man or goes quickly to disorder and decay.
woman who (hispensed with both ; but On the whole, life is l)leasant to the
the fines of the new law and the expul people of this and similar islands, but
sion from Church membership are big grave drawbacks must be taken into
practical penalties not to be disregarded. account. There is the saddening want
Hence marriage is eagerly sought, and of solid enterprise, of attempt at any
when divorce is in the way much trouble undertaking from which immediate re-
and difficulty are sure to follow with a turns cannot be expected. There is
law so rigid as to be practically of no the more saddening belief in their own
avail, extinction as a people, by which the
The Maori cannot understand why absence of enterprise is often exClIsC(l.
any one should take intoxicating liquor National progress, in an ignorant com-
without a clear determination to get munity so organized and under such
drunk. Accordingly lie gets drunk at conditions, must be too slow to be
intervals on his bush beer, but an appreciable. National sentiment is
habitual sot is unknown. Lately lie unknown and inconceivable. The tribe
has taken to opening tea shops in bounds the patriots horizon, is too
rivalry with those started by Chinese weak to stand on its own merits, and
traders in the island. These tea shops can only maintain itself by jealously
are his gossiping places and do a thriv- begrudging, the smallest advantage to
ing trade. The most noteworthy thing other tribes lest its own relative im
Professor Jowett.
portance be diminished. Jealousies,
tribal, family, and personal, thus be-
came one of the most marked features
in island life and, when fairly roused,
outweigh all other considerations.
There being no steady industry, no
reserve of capital, an(l no united tribal
action,it follo~vs that there can be no
material gro~vth of national wealth to
l)romnote progress in its higher sense of
mental cultivation, or in its highest
sense of giving strength and solidarity
to this scattered people.
How to remove the evil but retain
the good, hQw to stimulate the faculties
of this ancient, brave, manly, and in
many respects most likeable people,
and how to make their lovely islands
the rich gardens for which nature has
adapted them, are the hard problems
before those who seek to save the
Maori from the slow extinction which
seems to threaten him. Teaching En-
glish must be the first step. By it
alone can lie gain access to new ideas
and be saved from the h)erils of mental
inanition. The task is not easy but
should be possible so far, at all events,
as to give access to English books,
even as in early days bright English
boys had access to Latin. The estab-
lishment of plantations by some race
more trained to such work is also indis-
pensable. The introduction of suitable
settlers to farm small coffee plantations
is the best h)lau yet suggested. Coffee
is almost indigenous and its cultivation
would have many attractions for people
with small capital whose habits and
training unfit them for the rougher
farming of a colder clime. Such plant-
ers could get labor enough from ad-
jacent Maori islands too poor for
their own peoples proper subsistence.
These laborers would come as volun-
tary immigrants, and pay their own
passages if sure of work. For large
plantations, with their inevitable im-
portation of laborers of inferior race
willing to be landed under contract and
to work in regular gangs, there is no
room in any but the very largest
islands. Coffee growing, on small
plantations, with the charming climate
of the smaller islands, offers many in the wish to give an outline and no
From Temple Bar.
PROFESSOR JOWETT.
THESE pages have been written by
one who saw much of the late master
of Balhiol (luring many years of his
life. They are written from memory,
without any atteml)t at elaboration, in
ducements, but it would, in all
spects, be better for several to settle
together ,and to make the necessary
preliminary arrangements with the na-
tive owners of the lands for the occn
pation of the large proportion lying idle~
on their hands. Such an immigration
would be highly desirable in the inter-
ests of the natives as well as of the
planters themselves.
As a study of humanity in some of
its aspects, the Maori people offer
much that is of interest but the most
beneficent work would be an investiga-
tion, by competent persons, into the
causes that are leading to the gradual
extinction of a race once prolific, hardy,
and adventurous, and still possessing
many manly and valuable qualities.
For hundreds of years they must have
boldly wandered over this great ocean
from the far Hawaiki, which all regard
as their traditional home. No~v that
they are fading away, would it not be
a great and useful work to discover
what is wrong in their food, clothing,
habits, or mode of life, or to trace the
unseen biological causes of their de-
cay? The enquiry need not be costly,
for with a suitable selection of some
small, central, wellpeopled island, or
group of islands, the result mi~ht rea-
sonably be expected to apply to all the
numerous archipelagoes of the Pacific
in which the race is found. Many
theories have been formed, but none
bascd on the careful observation which
competent scientific men alone caii
make. The English colonies are not
yet prepare(l to undertake such an en-
quiry. Is there no society in England,
so full of men competent for the duty,
that would undertake the task?
FREDERICK J. Moss.
3~r
38
more than an outline of a very re-
markable man. The masters life will
be written in due time, and when writ-
ten, it will be read, but meanwhile a
mere sketch will serve to show how
much can be accomplished by the un
wearying energy of a single mind, and
ho~v a noble life can be lived in this
nineteenth century.
Jowett first made his mark as a the-
ologian. His deeply religious naturG
was known, even in his undergraduat~
days, to his intimate friends, and it
was this which (irew him so closely to
Stanley and Temple. He was doubt-
less more communicative on such sub-
jects thei than he became in after life,
but already he had difficulties in recon-
ciling the spirit and the letter. Have
you observed, said Ward to him, as
they were walking together, that I
never talk to you on religious sub-
jects? He replied that he had, for
Wards conversation was usually I h co-
logical, and not to talk on such subjects
was for him remarkable. The rea-
son is, Ward continued, that I am
afraid of your asscrt~ng the (loctrines of
Christianity to be true in some mys-
tical sense which I cannot follow !
Those who knew him better were aware
that he had already reached the con vie-
tion not only that the central light
of all religion is the justice an(l truth
of God but that the central light of
Christianity is the life of Christ, and
that men are Christians in so far as
they strive to realize that life, and not
much farther.
Soon after he became a fellow of the
college a l)lan was formed between
himself and some friends for writing a
commentary on St. Pauls Epistles, and
in 1854, when he had been tutor twelve
years, his volumes on the Romans,
Galatians, and Thessalonians appeared.
They at once placed him in the first
rank of theological writers, and I)rOved
him to be, as was said at the time,
the greatest mind in the Anglican
Church. Even Bishop Ellicott., though
deeply grieved at his views, could not
deny the genius which pervaded his
writings, the ease, finish, and alas
Professor Jowett.
persuasiveness of his style. And
whatever may be thought of the vol-
umes by a later school, which has been
trained to look for theology in scholar
ship and research, rather than in a
living sympathy with the great Apostle,
no one who has ever read the Fiag-
ment on the Character of St. Paul, or
the essay on Conversion and Changes
of Character ,is likely to forget them.
Hardly less striking is the essay on
natural religion, which. cont~iins pas-
sages of great beauty, and th6se on the
atonement and on St. Paul and Philo~
Five years after the appearance of
these volumes, in 1859, Jowett l)ub-
lished his essay on the interpretation
of Scripture in the collection kno~vn as
Essays and Reviews. The story of
that volume can hardly be rel)cated
now without a smile. On its l)ublica
tion a storm of odium theologicurn burst
upon the heads of the writers, who
suddenly and quite unexpectedly found
their book passing from one edition
into another as rapidly as a popular
novel. The Church seemed shaken to
its foundations by the criticisms, not
very original, of a few fri~nds inter~
ested in the progress of religious
thought. Pusey cited Jowett for her-
esy, but the citation would not lie, and
the upholders of sound (loctrine had to
content themselves with del)ri ving t lie
heretic of the increase of salary as
professor of Greekwhich but for his
opinions he would have received.
And, after all, the essay was a small
matter ; it was of course beautifully
written, and, as M. Arnold remarked,
it possessed a quality which the other
essays in the book did not ~O55C55 ; it
had unction, and unction in such an
essay was nine-tenths of the matter.
But Jowctt said no more than Spinoza
had said long before, or any man of
critical jud0 ment and honesty must
say. If the Bible is not to be inter-
preted like any other book, ho visit
to be interpreted, and who shall lay
down the canon?
After this essay lie published nothing
more as a theologian. He was ocen-
pied much with his I)upils, both as
college tutor and professor of Greek;
Professor Jowett.
and what leisure he-had was devoted
to his translation of Plato. But his
interest in the nature and history of
religion did not fail, as in fact it never
failed. After he became master of the
college in 1870 he preached twice a
term in the college chapel. His ser-
mons touched on very various subjects.
He (lid not conceal his views on the
interpretation of Scripture, or on mira-
cles, and on the other hand he did not
emphasize them. He loved more to
illustrate the l)ractical duties of life in
their relation to religious feeling, or to
sketch the lives of religions leaders
such as Wesley and Bunyan ; or, with
the wisdom of one who had spent his
life in the study of cl~aractei~,to warn
the young against failings, which,
though not so serious as some others,
yet often spoil a uscful life. He would,
if he could, preach men out of their
shyness, their singularity, their conceit.
On dogma he never preache(l. At his
best he was most impressive ; his de-
livery was indeed most simple, but the
earnestness of his manner, the beauty
of his expressions, the wisdom of his
teaching, left their mark on the hearer,
who went away feeling that lie had
never heard any one else preach quite
the same doctrine, or in the same luau-
ner. He had a wonderful power of
idealizing the common relations of life.
On one occasion, after describing with
exquisite taste an almost ideal tender-
ness and devotion, lie ended with the
words: As a mans love might be for
his wife. And on another, speaking
with a deep emotion which thrilled him
through and through, he painted the
agony of those who suffer in their
children : 0 Absalom, my son, my
son! would God that I had died for
thee.
He rarely spoke on religious subjects,
but a word or a sentence would some-
times show where his mind was. Per-
haps no man ever meditated more
(leeply and constantly on the life and
words of Christ, and strove so earnestly
to penetrate their significance. Yet lie
would have confessed very humbly that
their whole meaning was beyond him
only at a distance and with faltering
steps could human nature follow the
divine guide; only through a glass
(larkly could human intellect compre-
hend the divine nature.
For the last thirty years of his life
his chief literary work was translation.
The first edition of the Plato came out
in 1870, and two more editioiis were
published before his death, each entail-
ing great labor in revision. He also
translated Thucydides, and Aristotles
Politics, and, indeed, it was his
great wish to see a complete translation
of the ipost important Greek prose
authors. J3esides translating the text,
he published notes on the text of Thin-
cydides and Aristotle, and furnished
the Aristotle and Plato with elaborate
analyses and introductions. The delight
in translation grew upon him at the cost
of all other forms of composition, not
from any lack of originality, though lie
was perhaps wanting in the archiitec-
tonic power which enables a man to
construct a great independent work of
literature, but owing to the view which
lie took of Greek antiquity. lie de-
spaired of filling up the gap which time
has made in our knowledge. He was
iml)atient and even scornful of the
labor which builds up histories of phi-
losol)hy or antiquities by putting to-
gether in a patchwork materials of
uncertain value, collected from differ-
ent sources, and dating from different
periods. We cannot have a history
of Greece, lie would sometimes say,
we can only have comnientaries on
the history. And therefore lie pre-
ferred to take the great writers of
Greece, and give them to the English
reader with discussions on their mean-
ing, or on subjects which rose out of
them. And again, in polishing and re
polishing a translation, lie could attain
more nearly to that beauty of style,
after which lie was always striving.
To express a thought perfectly was
the object of his highest ambition.
He never looked on Greece from an
antiquarian point of view; even his
interest in Greek philosophy became
subordinate, as time ~vent on, to his
interest in the literature and language.
Language indeed its origin and struc
39
40
ture was a subject on which ho had
thought most deeply.
And while he thus gratified his love
of style, he used the introductions and
essays as opportunities for the compar-
ison of ancient and modern thought.
This is more particularly the case in
the Plato, especially in the last edition,
where also his own xvise thoughts on
many subjects will be found expressed
in language that is almost faultless.
Plato, lie thought, was written for our
learning, and in a manner half serious,
half playful, he loved to apply his les-
sons to mo(lern life. There is nothing
more beautiful in English prose than
his parody of Platos l)aradox of the
lover and friend in the introduction
to the Pluedrus.
His view of the scholars vocation
was a humble one. Of emendations,
whemi they went beyond the narrowest
limits, he was most intolerant, and not
altogether without reason. How many
thousands of emendations have beeii
made, and how very few have been
accepted. Even those which are ac-
cepted cannot be proved to be true.
A corrupt text cannot be restored with
certainty, if the corruption extends be-
yond a very few letters. Even when a
text is apparently faulty, it is by no
means clear that the author did not
by an oversight leave it imperfect,
and it is better to allow the oversight
to remain, than to alter texts at the
caprice of every new reviser. Not that
he was insensible to the improvement
which has been made in our texts of
Greek authors ; lie always spoke with
the greatest admiration of Porson and
Bekker, but the wholesale and inces-
sant re-writing of the classics filled him
with indignation.
It was also his opinion that little had
been done by the accumulated labors of
scholars towards clearing up the really
difficult passages in Greek authors.
He maintained that Greek was the
most difficult language in the world,
and considered that many passages in
which there was no reason to suspect
the text could not be explained with
certainty. He had no doubt that the
author had a definite meaning, but it
Professor Jowett.
was not expressed in a manner whicib
we could clearly grasp. Many such
passages might be found in Sophocles,
and some in Plato. With advancing
years it became more plain to him that
the difficulties were insoluble, and what
lie seemed to understand in youth, he
could not explain satisfactorily to the
severer standard of age.
He wrote much, and what lie wrote
was written with grea.t care. The
choice of words and l)hrases, the ar
ran~ement of the thoughts, the balance
and rhythm of the periods, were mi
nutely studied, an(l a sentence would
ofteii be recast three or four times be-
fore it was allowed to pass. With most.
men such labor would be the sole work
of a life, and of a life passed iii leisure
or seclusion, but Jowetts writinas were
the occul)ation of horce subsecivcc, of
vigils and vacations, when lie was free
from other claims. The chief interest
of his life was not in his books, but in
his Pul)ils and his college. Appointed
tutor in 1842, on the resignation of
Lonsdale, he came at once to the front,
amid even in Choughs earlier clays we
find him spoken of as the Great Bal
hiol tutor. As a scholar lie was cci
tainly miot superior to two or three of
his colleagues, though all his work, in
compositioti no less than translation
was distinguished by ease, eloquence,
an(l grace. But his kimmdness and svm
l)athy, his elevation and unselfishness,
his happy witticisms, his l)ointet~ and
pregnant sayings, amid the nude fi nable
feeling that in his presence you were
face to face with a great and noble
character, won for him the devotion of
maiiy, who by knowing liinm felt that
their conceptioii of human character
and muotives was expanded and refined.
His life retaught thieni what life
should be, and however practical and
shrewd he showed himself in common
affairs, there was always something in
his counsels which made them counsels
of perfection. The low, the mean, the
selfish view was brushed aside in a
moment, when you sought his advice
the matter was l)laced in its trime as
l)ect, and the right course of action
seemed to be the only course, To
Professor Jowett.
those who had once fallen under the
spell, his personality, was irresistible,
an(l his words lingered in the memory,
gathering meaning and making their
truth more (leeply felt as time went on.
His teaching, too, was not a mere com-
munication of facts ; indeed, he rarely
imparted information ; it was an ear-
nest endeavor to correct faults, to clear
up obscurities, and form the mind. He
held that the only way to improve was
to get rid of faults. In correcting these
he was instant in season and some-
times out of season! Irrelevancy, bad
taste, egotism, received no quarter
slip-shod and careless expressions were
ruthlessly condemned. Try always
to say everything as well as you can
say it, was a rule which he adopted
from Johnson for himself, and im-
pressed on his pu~)i1s. Like Johnson,
too, he had a horror of extravagant
assertions of any kind, and pedantry
~vas even more repugnant to him than
extravagance. lie insisted on sonnd
reasoning and correct methods ; he
would have nothing to (10 with liistor
ical imagination, or constructive hy-
potheses. If you built up a theory, he
struck in a moment at the weakest
Iloint of thc evidence, however care-
fully disguised, and laid the house of
cards fiat on the table. It has been
said that lie never ~vent to the bottom
of anything ; but the truth is that he
went to the bottom and came back,
which is more than can be said of
some of his critics. He vas most
careful that his pupils should not be
left weltering in a whirlpool of dis-
connected details ; the power of using
facts was of far more importance in his
eyes than the power of amassing them.
Judgment, force, simplicity, were, in
his mind, the conditions of true knowi-
e(lge. And so it has come about that
his pupils with sonic eminent excep-
tions have been chiefly successful in
practical life at the bar, or in the
civil service.
But there was another side of his
tutorial life known only to himself and
any Pul)il who was in suffering or dis-
tress. To save the young from them-
selves, to help them in their difilculties,
to strengthen in them what might be
made strong, was the happiness of his
life, the comfort of his lonely hours,
the reward for any sacrifice which he
had made. To the sick and ailing his
ten(lerness was wonderful, passing
the love of woman? Nothing seemed
too much for him to (10, and his gener-
osity was boundless. At a time when
lie was giving away thousands towards
providing for the amusement of others,
lie expressed a hope that some (lay he
~voul(l be able to scrape together five
pound5 wherewith to buy himself a
copy of Elwins edition of Pope
Yet ~vitli all his intense sympathy,
and eagerness to be all things to his
pul)ils, lie ~vas by no means easy to en-
gage in conversation. When lie chose,
lie was one of the best of talkers, but
very often lie did not choose, lie
would ask a pupil to dinner, or ~vine,
and leave it to him to find conversa-
tion. There are many, doubtless, who
still remember the ordeal. You miiight
be a candidate for the scholarship, with
your head full of Latin and Greek, de-
ploring the mistakes which you had
made in the mornings ~~aper, and sud
(lenly you found yourself on trial, as it
were, as to your powers of conversa-
tion. Woe betide you if you had not
seen the ne~vspaper, or could not re-
member some school story, or had not
the courage to talk about the novel you
had been reading. The hour passed in
silence, and when you rose to go you
felt as you have never felt before or
since. In the effort to say something
sensible you had said nothing, not
knowing that the person with whom
you were (lining was the last in the
world to expect wis(hom from your lips.
how foolish convei;sation is, said
some one at the table whemi Jowett wa~
by. Let us try to say somnething sen-
sible, he rejoined ; and after a long
pause, contimined You see how
silent we all are. He judge(l men, it
is true, by their conversation. T~
enter readily i mito con ye rsation with
another, to tell a good story ~vell, and
set peoh)he at their ease these powers
lie thought to be imidications of char
acter, and nothing delighted him more
41
Professor Jowett.
than the society of those who would
forget that lie was a tutor and amuse
him as a friend~ Then you raw him at
his best ; he capped your story with
another more amusing and better tol(l
and expressed in words, which you
never forgot, the thought which you
had long been stru~lin~ to utter.
After twenty-eight years of tutorial
work Jowett became master of the
college in September, 1870. He had
long been the leading spirit, but now
the responsibility of the management
was in his hands. His connection with
his pupils could no longer be so close
and personal as it had been, but lie
never wholly ceased to be a tutor, and
to the very last lie took men in essays
and criticised them as of old. But as
master lie had other work to occupy
him. Two aims were always before
him lie not only wished that his col-
lege should lead the way in liberal edu-
cation so far as its resources would
allow, but that as many clever men as
l)ossil)le should be attracted to it, and
find there both the teaching which they
required and spirits congenial to their
own. He wished Balhiol to be the
home of high thinking and serious
work. In pursuing these ends lie was
never satisfied. The college, lie would
say, can (10 far more than it has done
hitherto, and he was ever seeking to
extend its influence. In concert with
New College, Balliol subscribed for
some years to University College, Bris-
tol ; then she opened her (boys to the
selected candidates for the Indian Civil
Service ; and again she elected to a
fellowship the most l)rominent of uni-
versi ty extension lecturers. Had means
allowed, Oriental studies would have
been encouraged by the foundation of
scholarships ; history and science would
have received further endowments.
The tuition of Indian probationers,
and the possibility of a long vacation
term, were subjects constantly before
him. So strongly did he feel about the
last, that lie made a point of residing in
college during July, and dined every
day in the college hall. For if a thing
was to be doiie, lie never neglected his
share of the work.
In other respects his mastership saw
great changes in the college. Some
considerable additions to the buildings
were made in 1854 and afterwards, but
from 1870 to 1877 a great part of the
whole was rebuilt, arid though the l)lari
was decided upon before Jowetts elec-
tion, it was chiefly o~ving to his energy
that it vas carried out successfully.
The entertainment by which the col-
lege celebrated the opening of.the new
hall in 1877 was one of the happies,t
aiid proudest moments of his life. His
old friends were with him still Tait,
Stanley, Arnold, Smith, and Green
and rejoiced with him in the success of
the college to which they owed so
much. Another change was the found-
ing of the new library, which placed ami
almost unlimited store of books at the
command of the poorest muemuber of the
college. The last great work of im-
provement was the college field, which
~vas purchased mainly by the comitribu-
tioiis of the master himself, and the
money which lie collected. To obtain
subscriptions lie wrote with his owmm
hand to every old member of the col-
lege, amid the response amounted to
some 6,000. Still unsatisfied, lie built,
at his ovn expense, a tutors house,
and dreamned to the hist of new college
buildings on the field. He was not
less energetic in quite trivial matters.
Make the college beautiful, were
among his last words, an(l the thought
was always in his mind. Next
year, lie said, a few muontlis ago, I
miiean to take the garden in hand. A
garden is not for the eye only; thieve
should be scent as well as color; and
though I do not know much about it, I
shall ask the gardener to make me a
list of all the sweet-smelling flowers,
and have them planted in our garden.
May the earth lie light on you, dear
friend, and flowers breathe their sweet-
ness on thy grave I
In the internal muanagement of the
college lie was, of course, most assidu-
ous and (levoted. His great desire was
to see men of different classes mixing
readily and easily together. Thieve
was nothing that he disliked so munch
as the existence of sets, or cliques.
42
Professor Jowett. 43
He considered very justly that the lusion to events in which his friends
years spent at college were those in had played a part, or to a book which
which a man should make the ac every one was reading at the time, and
qunintance of new friends, for otherwise which he, too, had found time to read.
college-life is but school-life prolonged. Or he would sit apart, talking gravely
To this, more than any other cause, to an older friend, or gently to a (air
was (lue the institution of smoking one. Or he would tell fairy stories to a
concerts an(l Sunday concerts in the child, and bid her tell others in return,
college. In l)roIlloting these he was on which occasions his tutorial instinct
not influenced by any advanced ideas woul(l sometimes overmaster hi~n so
about the educational value of music ; far that he commended or reproved his
he mainly regarded them as helps to companions manner of narration.
seenring the union of the college, and That is well told, but a little too
bringing the men together. long; or, That is a good story, but
Snch is a brief outline of Jowetts you should not begin Once on a
work as writer, tutor, and master. time. ~ He would meet an ill-timed
There still remains the work which he criticism with a witty remark, as when
did as professor of Greek, and vice- some one observed that a young ladys
chancellor of the university the time letter was ill-spelt, and he retorted
which lie devoted to the various com- A. pretty girl need not spell. Or lie
niissions and governing bodies on which overcame an awkward contretemps with
he served, and his very large corre- a paradox. The story is told that a
spondence. When we think of the lady lost her luggage on her way to Ox-
time and strength required for such ford, and appeared at his table in a bor-
severe and sustained labor, we are rowed dress, the owner of which was
overpowered by his energy. For lie also l)1esent. By an accident a plate
did nothing carelessly ; his speeches of soup was overset on the dress ; the
were almost always written ont before- wearer was of course in the greatest
hand; his evidence and opinions were trouble, not knowing what to do or say,
the result of careful meditation and. when a voice was heard from the end
thonghit ; his letters were most l)recise of the table Never mind, it isnt
in sense and expression, worthy to be her dress ! Whether the story is
read and re-read for their ripe wisdom true or not, it is characteristic, for no
and beautiful language. one was more averse than lie to making
With all this immense burden of mountains out of moleliills.
work, with all his religious and studi- The closing years of his life were
ous interests, Jowett was neither an saddened by the loss of friends aiid col-
ascetic nor a recluse. He loved the leagues ; and the loss was the sadder
society of his friends, and it was the because many of them were much
delight of his life to entertain them, younger than himself Smith, Green,
Friends were the real riches of life, he Toynbee, Nettleshiip in the ordinary
said, and never was a man happier course of nature these men would have
in his friends than he. The first and been his helpers to the end, and would
best of the land were his guests ; poets, have carried on his work after him.
lawyers, statesme a, theologians, sehiol- Of older friends lie lost not only Tait,
ars, men of science, met at his table, Sherbrooke, Cardwell, Browning, and
and of honorable women not a few. Tennyson, but also Stanley and Arnold.
He moved among them with a (higni- So the years became more lonely, for
fled courtesy and a gracious kindness though lie strove to keel) his friend-
which left a mark in the memories of ship in repair, he knew that old
all. He would wander from chair to friends cannot be replaced. Yet lie
chair in his drawing-room, sometimes remaitied cheerful and bright to the
telling an amusing story, of which he last. His old pupils were a real source
had an inexhaustible mine, sometimes of strength to him ; lie rejoiced in their
setting conversation going by some al- success, and found comfort in their
44
affection. And his own temperament
was happy. He would not listen for a
moment to those who would have us
believe that life is not worth living.
The world was to liini a very pleasant
world, and the pleasure did not dimin-
ish with advancing age. Shortly before
his (leath he told a friend that the last
two years of his life had been the hap-
piest. But he still hoped to be able to
work on for a few years more ; he had
much to finish in the way of literary
work and of schemes for the spread of
education, and to the last his mind was
full of thoughts to which he had given
no complete expression. It is hard
to be beaten by old age, lie said. But
the almost fatal illness of 1891 shook
him severely, and thougi lie recovered
wonderfully, it was clear that his tew
nrc of life was precarious. When the
same troubles recurred last summer, he
gradually lost ground, and finally passed
away after a brief illness.
His bones will have a tomb of or-
phiaiis teals wept on them ; and from
many a heart a tender thought will
wander to the grave of the best and
truest of friends. Others will remem-
ber the man whom they knew twenty
or thirty or forty years ago, and whose
like they never saw again. To the few
who loved him most, the charm and
grace and light of life have faded away
with him or live only in his memory.
A marble will be placed in Balhiol
Chapel, and on it, in se holarly Latin,
will be graven the virtues of the great
master. But if in one short sentence
we wish to sum up his life and charac-
ter, we cannot do better than repeat,
humbly and in such a sense as they
may be used of a man, the simple
words: lie went about, doing good.
Gounod.
mutilation of Goethes masterpiece ;:
the opera is sure to attract, for it isa
fresh, in teresting work, with a copious.
flow of melody and lovely instrumenta-
tion. So wrote Felix Moscheles, one
of the severe classical pianists of the
German school, in a letter to a friend
in 1861. Our own Henry Chorley,.
some ten years before this, had re-
marked that to a few hearers, since
then grown into a European public,,
neither the warmest welcome nor the
niost bleak indifference could alter the
conviction that among the composers
who have appeared during the last.
twenty-five years, M. Gounod was the
most promising one, as showing the
greatest coin bination of sterling science,.
beauty of idea, freshness of fancy,
and individuality. Before a note of
Sapplio was ~vritten, continued the
erst~vhile critic of the Athenceurn, cci-
tam sacred compositions aiicl some ex-
quisite settings of French verse hiath
made it clear to some of the acutest
judges and profoundest musicians liv-
ing that in him at last something true
and new had come. It is a long time
since these words were written and
Charles Gounod is now at rest, after
having shown, at the end of a struggle
against envy, jealousy, and prejudice,
that in him was one of the very few
individuals left to whom musical Eu-
rope could look for its pleasures. The
verdict passed upon his work, in no-
tices written since his (lentil, has not
been altogether unanimous in favor of
his being regarded as a composer of
the very first rank ; but it has at least
been generally recognized that in his
own particular line the French master
has done much that entitles him to
a foremost place among the creative
geniuses of the present century.
Charles Fran9ois Gounod, as Marie
de Bovet tells us, belonged to a family
of artists, who might certainly be cx
From The Gentlemans Magazine. pected to encourage his musical aspi
GOIJKOD. rations. his father, Fran9ois Louis
IN Gounod 1 hail a real composer. Gounod, was a l)ainter to whom the
I have heard his Faust, both at restoration of some of the pictures at
Leipsic and Dresden, and am charmed Versailles was entrusted. His grand-
with that refined, piquant music. Crit- father and his great-grandfather were
ics may rave, if they like, against the both furbisliers of the Kings Arms,
Gounod.
and as such ha(1 apartments at the Pal-
ace of the Louvre. The future com-
poser was born in a certain street in
the 01(1 and grim quarter on the left
bank of the Seine, on June 17, 1818.
Five years later he lost his father, and
his education ~vas undertaken by the
mother, a woman of rare merit and in-
tcnse piety. Madame Gounoci was a
very good musician, and she now took
to giving lessons on the piano as a
means of helping out the family ex-
chequer. Most remarkable men have
owed some obligation to their mothers
and Gounod himself used to say that
music must have come to him with his
mothers milk, for he had assimilated it
while yet his lips were unable to frame
the simplest words. But is it not put-
ting it a little too strongly to say that
Madame Gounod had rocked her boy to
sleep, not with silly nursery songs, but
with the intervals of the scale, the
perfect an(l imperfect concords, and
the discor(1s followed by their natural
resolution ? A parent who should
make a constant practice of resolving
(liscords in her infants ear would as-
suredly be a niusical phenomenon
Still, he must have been a wonderful
child, this Charles Gounod, if we are to
believe all the stories we are told re-
garding him. At the age of two, in the
gardens of Passy, where he was taken
for exercise, he would say, That dog
barks in Sot! and the neighbors used
to call him, le petit musicien. The
baby, scarcely out of leading-strings,
felt, too, so it is said, the mournful
character of the interval of a minor
third. He had been listening to the
different cries of the street vendors
Oh, he exclaimed suddenly, th~it
woman cries out a do that weeps.
This because the poor woman hawked
her cabbages and carrots on the inter-
val formed by the notes C and E flat.
Madame Bovet tells a similar anecdote
of another of the French composers.
One day when a visitor suffering from
great lameness entered his mothers
drawing-room, little Camille St. Sa~ns
the future composer of Samson et
D~lila who was playing in the ad-
joining room, struck by the unaccus
45
tomed rhythm of the step, exclaimed,
How funny! that gentleman makes a
croche point~e as lie walks. One must
take all these stories of musical prodi-
gies with the proverbial grain of salt;
but there can be no doubt that genius
in this direction generally does, in some
way or other, reveal itself very early.
While Madame Gounod was all the
time giving her son instruction on the
piano, she had no intention of making
a musician of him. She was evidently
a believer in the Chesterfield notion
that it is better to pay people to play
for you than to play yourself ; and
apart from her fears as to the perils
involved in the pursuit of a profes-
sional career, she had a pardonable am-
bition to see her boy settled in a career
of a more pecuniary certainty. In
short, she decided that he should be
put in the way of becoming a matter-
of-fact and well-to-do notary. The boy
was already a scholar at the Coll~ge
St. Louis; and when Madame Gounod
exl)ressed her fears to the head of that
institution fears as to the results of
the lads musical leanings he assured
her that there was no cause for alarm.
Your sons career, said lie, is
quite mapped out he will becomne a
professor ; lie has the bump of Greek
and Latin. The fact that Gounod
turned out an accomplished classical
scholar so far bore out this opinion, but
the head master must have found his
faith shaken when line came to have to
reprimand the young Charles for spend-
ing all his time covering his text and
copy-books with staves and notes. As
a matter of fact, the artistic vocation
was daily growing stronger. He had
been deeply stirred by a performance
of Per Freischiitz, to which his
mother hind taken him when lie was
only seven. A simple ~ he
says, speaking of this artistic thrill,
for at that age the faculty of reflec-
tion does not yet exist. In the same
way that luminous rays become brighter
when they are reflected in a mirror,
feelings grow stronger and more vivid
when the power of retrospection comes
with manhood. It is a mistake to be-
lieve that sensibility is dulled by age;
46
Gounod.
on the contrary, it grows more acute,
so long, naturally, as the mind retains
its vigor. This is why I consider the
loves of early youth as incomplete,
purely external and superficial when
they are not iiitensified by the crystal-
lization of a fully developed mind.
This was the time of which he after-
wards said that, if he had been pre-
vented from learning music, lie would
have run a~vay to America and hidden
in some corner where lie could have
stu(lied un(histurbed.
Happily, wise counsels pre vailed,
an(l the mother, unwilling though she
still was that her son should follow an
uncertain artistic career, yielded to his
ardent (lesire and allowed him to be~iii
the stu(ly of music in earnest. Accor(l-
ingly, Madame (iounod took the boy of
thirteeu to 01(1 Antoine Reicha, the
famous theorist, to be told, as it turned
out, that This child knows every
thing. I have only got to teach it to
him. However, it took two years to
exhaust the teaching ca~)acity of the
modest professor, and while lie dili-
geiitly pursued his musical studies all
this time, lie as dihigehtly worked at
his literary studies at the Cohl~ge St.
Louis. Gounod was, probably, of all
the great composers the most accom-
plished classical scholar. Barber, his
old friend and collaborator; sa.id of him
that he was only to be compared to a
keyboard of excessive scope and so-
nority ; while a member of his own
family declared that lie could as easily
have been a great painter, a great poet,
or a great saint, as a great composer.
This may or may not be true; but cer-
tainly no other composer has ever gone
through his student career with such
devotion to all-round studies as
Gounod exemplified in these early
days. Before he was eighteen he had
receive(l the diploma of Bachelier ~s
lettres, and this being considered enough
in the way of general education in the
mean time, the future composer en-
rolled himself as a pupil of the Con-
Bervatoire.
Here lie studied counterpoint with
TIah6vy, and practical composition un-
der Lesneur. Madame Bovet tells us
that these masters hind no influence
whatever upon him ; lie interrogated
Palestrina, Bach, and Mozart ; their
august shades answered him, and from
their dialogues with the youthful genius
his inspiration canie. This is fine lan-
guage, but, unfortunately, it seems to
be a trifle exaggerated. Of one of his
masters, at any rate, Gounod had a
very high opinion, for lie remarked
that the medi~val frescoes of Byzan-
tine mosaics, which have so strange a
grandeur, can give aii idea- of the
character of the works of Lesneur.
In(leed, as Professor Niecks has re-
marked, the influence of this master,
of whose compositions lie always spoke
with enthusiasm, and fragments of
which he was fond of singing by heart,
had undoubtedly not a little to do with
his leaning to church music. One
thing at least is certain his progress
under the Conse rvatoi re masteis was
both steady and sure. A year after he
elitere(h the institution he competed for
the Grand Prix de Rome, taking as the
subject of a cantata the story of Mary
Stuart and Rizzio; l)ut he succeeded
only in divi(hing the second prize with
Louis Chiollet, who has since become
known as a brilliant l)ial)ist. In 1839,
however, he at last carried off the cov-
eted premier l)Lize, which was awarded
to him by twenty-five out of twenty-
seven votes, the compositiomi on tIPs
occasion being a lyric scene entitled
Fernaud.
The Grand Prix (he Rome carries to
the winner a pension of 160 for four
years ; more than that, it carries the
privilege of residing for two years of
the tinie at the Villa Medci, the Acad-
emy of France, in Rome. To the end
Gounod talked with enthusiasm of his
early residence in the Italian capital.
He did not, of course, believe that
Rome couhd of itself confer superiority,
that Rome could miraculously bestow
what Nature had withheld. But, given
an artistic organization, he contended
that Rome must exercise an undenia-
ble influence on such an one in a]l
that concerns sublimity of thought and
artistic devel6pnient. Can the ines-
timable advantage of such a retreat be
Gounod.
too highly prized, he asks the
calm security, apart from the feverish
turmoil and the constant solicitude of
or(linary existence the silence in
which one listens to the inner, hidden
voices, the profound solitudes, the (us-
taut horizon whose majestic lines seem
to retain the magic power of lifting the
mind to the altitude of the colossal
events of which they were witness?
What a centre, what a plane, what an
atmosphere for him who knows how to
feel, to l)onder, and to muse ! Doubt-
less, the imaginative faculty would have
shown itself in the composer although
lie ha(1 never set foot in Rome ; and,
as a matter of fact, his residence there
seems to have been of value to him
chiefly from the exhaustive acquaint-
ance he was enabled to make with the
masterpieces of sacre(L music. Palest
trina was at this time his great model
and leading study, and it was now that
he acquired the science of construc-
tion, the ease in the manipulation of
parts, the (lexteritv and freedom of
hand which make the great musician.
But other forces besides those of
music were at work in Rome. Gounod
seems to have come very strongly un-
der the influence of Father Lacordaire,
and the result was that his thoughts
were for a time seriously turned aside
from music and directed towar(ls the
Church. Louis Pagnerre, one of his
biographers, tells us that, finding the
sojourn at the Villa Medici too noisy,
Gounod took refuge in a retreat not
foreseen by the regulations of the Aca-
d~mie ; he entered for some time the
Roman seminary in order to prepare
for the new career, and also to work in
peace and quietness. A singular na-
ture, ma(le up of art an(l mysticism
An example, perhaps a unique one, of
a laureate of the Institute touched by
grace, and fluctuating between the
priesthood and the vocation of a musi-
cian. In Rome Gounod had, as it
were, one foot in the seminary and the
other, the right foot, in the world. We
shall find him again in the same alter-
native, but the right foot always gains
thC (lay.
Meiidelssohns sister Fanny saw a
47
good deal of the future composer at
this time, and her letters and diary
contain much that is interesting regard-
ing the young musician. She found
him passionately enchanted with mu-
sic in a manner 1 can hardly remember
to have seen ; he was terribly viva-
cious, hyper - romantic, and passion-
ate an(l music now
the German
playe(1 to him falls into his house
like a bomb-shell, so that it causes
great damage. Referring to a niatter
already mentioned, the lady says that
Lacordaire had been making strenuous
efforts to win Gounod for his can se,
and adds that the young artist was so
enthusiastic and so open to imnl)messions
tha.t he had almost entirely entered into
the reverend fathers ideas.
But music was not destined to be
permanently cheated of so gifted a vo-
tary. Gounod had composed a mass
while lie was still at the Conservatoire,
an(l a seeon(l work of the kind which
he now completed was so ~vell received
in Rome that the composer was ma(le
an honorary chapel-master at the
Church of Foreign Missions. This
recognition of his genius seems to have
drawn his thoughts away from the
Church, although several aftercircum-
stances plainly show that he was still
in a state of indecision. Meanwhile,
lie was required, by the conditions of
his pension, to set out for Germany,
there to complete his education by
what is known as tmavellin~ studies.
We hear very little regarding this part
of his career ; but, if we may judge
from what we do know, he did not
profit much by his increased acquaint-
ance with Teutonic music. In Se-
bastian ilensels The Mendelssohn
Family we read: He was always
here, and was received by the whole
family in the most friendly manner,
but saw actually nothing of Berlimi ex-
cept our house, our garden, and our
family, and heard nothing except what
I played to him, however iiiuch we
urged him to look about him. The
days with him passed really very pleas-
antly. We found him much developed
since Rome ; lie is exceedingly gifted,
possessed of a musical intelligence, of
Gounod.
48
an acuteness and correctness of judg-
ment which hardly can go farther, and
has at the same time the most delicate
and tender feeling. This vivid intelli-
gence distinguishes him also outside of
music
At the end of the German Wander-
jahre Gounod found himself again in
Paris, eager to enter on the serious
work of life. But what was this work
really to be? As yet there was cer-
tainly no definite decision in favor of
music ; indeed, the old idea of the
Church appears to have returned with
more force than ever. Madame Bovet
who is really, so far, the authority
in all that concerns the composer
tells us that what attracted him so irre-
sistibly to the Church was the char-
acter of comforter which it confers on
the Roman Catholic confessor. To ic-
store Christian peiice to a wounded
soul, to dispel rem4lse by divine for-
giveness, and soothe the anguish of
repentant sinners, seemed to him the
most sublime mission to which a hu-
man being could aspire. The struggle
continued fiercely for a time, and al-
though in the end art was the victor,
Gounod to the last continued a man of
profoundly religious mm, essentially
earnest, and as deeply versed in Bib-
lical and tlieolo~ical erudition as if he
had remained the Abb6 Gounod he
was in his early days. The causes that
finally led to his turning his back on
his ecclesiastical career are not fully
known; but it is supposed that Ma-
dame Viardot Garcia had something
to do with the decision. She made the
acquaintance of some of his composi-
tions, recogniZe(l his genius, pointed
out to him the direction in which it lay
namely, in opera and by and by
secured him the opportunity of a first
trial.
The Work which opened for him the
path to fame was the opera of Sap-
pho, and it is curious to note that
Reicha, the composers first master,
closed his artistic career with an opera
bearing the same title. Although full
of melodic beauty, Sappho ~ obtained
only a succ~s destirne when produced in
Paris in 1851. One of the critics said
at the time This opera will win for
M. Gounod the sympathy of artists and
a discreet fame that will enable him to
try his luck a second time with better
chances of success. It was eight
years after this before the composer
could be said to have achieved anything
like fame. As Herr Niecks has re-
marke(l, no other musician of the same
rank has ever sustained so many fail-
ures as Gounod, for succ~s destime are,
after all, failures, in which the com-
poser loses all except his honor. Gon-
nods instrumental music hardly counts,
as the larger works, including two sym-
phonies first performed in 1854 and
1855, have practically remained un-
known outside his native country ; and
only a small number of shorter pieces
have obtained popularity. The Fu-
neral March on the death of a Mari-
onette, and the Meditation on a
prelude of Bach, ale known to all
music-lovers. The latter, written for
Zimmermann, has been published in
various arrangements, but it was orig-
inally scored for six voices, principal
violin, principal horn, au(l orchestra.
Some musicians have sneered at this
jeu dejilume, as it has been called, but
the thing is supremely well done, and
whatever is so done, be it great or lit-
tle, must have our respect and even
our admiration.
it was in 1859 that Gounod came for-
ward with the work which has placed
him among the iminortals. The seri-
ous and elevated mind of the composer
had dwelt for some years on Goethes
noble poei~ and when at last Faust
was produced at the Th~tre Lyrique,
it flashed on the world with an electric
brilliance that perfectly surprised those
who, judging by previous non-suc-
cesses, had set down the composer as
nothing more than a man of talent.
Some interesting details of the first
performance of this now famous opera
have been recalled by the J1fusica~ Rec-
ord. Long and laborious were the
preparations, the rehearsals lasting no
less thaii six months ! The opera was
found too long; a trio was cut out of
the second act, while a duet in the
third, a romance in the fourth, and a
Gounod.
part of the Prison duet in the
last act met with a similar fate. The
chui~ch scene gave offence to the cen-
sorship, and was saved only by the
intervention of the Nones Apostolique,
Monseigneur de S~gur, an 01(1 fellow-
pupil of Gounod. Theta well-meaning
friends expressed their opinions. The
garden scene alarmed them, the church
scene was too long, the death of \Talen-
tine too lugubrious, and so on. Dan-
ger seemed to threaten the opera up to
the very moment of production. The
first performance had been announced
for February 24, 1859, but Guardi, who
sang the title r6le, suddenly lost the
use of his voice, and postponement
was inevitable. Gounod, in despair,
thought of creating the part himself,
but at length a tenor, Barbot, was
found, and the work was givcn on
March 19.
Among modern operas Gounods
Faust and Bizets Carmen ~ have
achieved a brilliant and apparently last-
ing success. And yet at their debut
they were received without enthu-
siasm. Faust,~ indeed, recalls Ber-
liozs work of the same name, which at
first attracted no attention, but now
enjoys wonderful popularity. By the
way, Berlioz wrote a notice of Gon-
110(1s opera in the Journal des D~bats,
and spoke of it in terms of the highest
praise. He has a curious little criti-
cisin of Marguerites opening wheel
song in the third act. Why, lie
asks, that whirring noise to imitate
the sound made by the wheel ? And
he adds Schubert may perhaps be
excused, in a song not intended for the
theatre, for having wished to convey
the idea of a spinning-wheel not visi-
ble. But in the opera it is seen
Marguerite is actually spinning ; the
imitation is not, therefore, in any way
necessary. Faust, which was first
heard in England in 1863, has re-
mained, and ever will remain, Gon-
nods master work ; it has carried his
name through all countries of Europe,
and was the first French opera which
at Paris made its way from another
stage to that of the Grand Op~ra. On
November 4, 1887, the five hundredth
LiVING AGE. VOL. 1. 4
49
l)erformance of the work was given
with brilliant success at the latter
house, the composer himself conduct-
ino
The works which followed did not
come up to the high expectations cre-
ated by Faust. Indeed, there is
only one other opera that may be
named as deserving of a place beside
this magnificent creation. Romeo
and Juliet, produced in 1867, is in-
deed in France placed above Faust,
but the superiority is nowhere else ac-
knowledged. It is certainly a work of
exceptional beauty and merit, and why
it has failed to take a firm hold of the
ol)eratic public it would perhaps be
difficult to explain. Here the master,
as in Faust, is in complete syni-
pathy with his subject. In structure
he approaches nearer to Wagner, lays
special stress on the music in the or-
chestra, and makes continual use of
dissonances by suspension. After
this he produced operas of less value,
which are known only for certain small
portions of special beauty which are
heard now and again in our concert
rooms.
The Franco-Gerii~an war of 1870
drove Gounod from Paris, and he de-
cided to settle for a time in London.
By the way, one of the incidents of the
war on which the Germans pride them-
selves least was that they burnt down
Gounods house. The great composer,
trusting to his fame to defend him
against the desecrating hand of the
marauder, Put UI) the inscription before
the door of his country house in the
village of Montretout The house
of Charles Gounod, the composer of
Faust. The Germans burnt it to
the ground all the same. In London
the composer founded the choir bearing
his name, with which he arranged large
concerts, and in 1871, for the opening
of the Exhibition, produced his elegiac
cantata Gallia. An unl)leasant mci
dent in connection with his four years
stay was his subsequent encounter with
Mrs. Weldon, the particulars of which
will probably be fresh in the memory
of most readers. Mrs. Weldon under-
took to manage the composers affairs,
50 Gounod.
and it was in her house that he resided. pleasure in tangled complexities, Gou-
A rupture of their friendship ensuing, nod exercised his art xvith a serenity, a
the lady was placed in a position to sue simplicity, a sobriety of means to which
for libel, and the court gave her a ver- some feign to apply the epithet of
dict for 10,000. M. Pagnerre, already weakness, but which, on the contrary,
mentioned, deals at great length with are the evidences of a virile tempera-
this episode in the composers career ; ment, owning no master but itself
but it will not be wise to imitate him because it is already master of its meth
here. ods, knowing what it wants, whence it
While resident in England Gounod tends, and its own ultimate aim. Gon-
wrote several of those smaller works, nods musical language is of the highest
such as the sacred songs, Nazareth, beauty, noble, clear, limpid, and bril
There is a green hill , etc., by which hiant both in style and color. His inspi
he is widely known to the musicloving ratioii is rich, abundant, and generous,
public. Of his later works, with the so that matter and form are equipoised
exception of the two oratorios, The on splendid levels.
Redemption and Mors et Vita, it Mozart and Bach were the compos
is not necessary to speak. They all ers whom Gounod most revered, He
contain some fine music ; but, while regarded Don Giovanni, as the most
they may have sustained, they have not perfect creatiomi of its class ; and wrote
increased the fame which he gained as that, if the works of all the greatest
composer of Faust. The oratorios masters Beethovens, Haydns, an(l
jnst named were written specially for Mozarts were annihilated by an un-
the Birmingham Festivals of 1882 and foreseen cataclysm (as those of the
1885. The success of both in England, painters might be by a conflagration), it
notably of The Redemption, has would be easy to reconstitute all music
been very marked. In France, of with Bach. He was wont to remark,
course, the oratorio is a form of musi- When I was very young I used to
cal composition which has never found say I, later on I said I and Mozart,
favor, and we need not be surprised then Mozart and I. Now I say,
that Gounod as a worker in this field Mozart. Wagner he had but scant
remains without much honor in his patience with, calling him a wonderful
own hand. Gounod has been very prodigy, an aberration of geniu s,avis-
happy in most of his songs, none of ionary haunted by all that is colossal.
which has exercised a greater power of With no sense of measure or of pro-
pleasing than his beautiful Sere portion in his mind, he flies beyond the
nade ; and his numerous sacred com- limits of human observation, and, face
1)OSitiOllS, with the exception of his to face with his prodigious endeavors,
masses, are probabhy better known and his gigantic labors, and his overwhelm-
appreciate(l among ourselves than ing expenditure of latent and hard
among his own countrymen. work, one feels tempted to quote to
The fairest estimate of Gounods him the cruel remark of Agnes to her
genius is perhaps that of M. Arthur lover Arnuhphe, Horace in two words
Pougin. lie was, says this well-known would make more of it thiaii you. The
French critic, an admirable master who true sign of genius is the sober employ-
will ever be the glory and honor of ment of ones means proportioned to
France. H*~ has taken a place in the the wealth of ones ideas. When
ranks of the immortals, in the midst of the emperor Joseph II. said to the
that galaxy of artists who for two ceii- composer of Don Giovanni on the
tunes have carried musical art to its first night of its representation, Your
highest power. A clear and luminous opera is very graceful, Herr Mozart,
genius, sober and well-defined, he pos- but it has a huge quantity of notes,
sessed in an eminent degree the great Mozart could with justice make the
qualities of the French race. At a proud reply, Not one too many, sire.
time when composers so~mn to take Gounod,. r~eaUiag this anecdote, adds,
Who will (lare say the same of Wag-
ner? Mr. Hall Caine has lately, in
relating his objections to the practice,
declared that literary folks alone of
all professional workers have the Pu
pertinence to criticise each other. Did
Mr. Caine forget the musicians?
J. CUTHBERT HADDEN.
From The Coruhuhl Magazine.
THE MAN WITH NO VOICE.
I.
WHEN the New Ebenezer Chapel
was founded in a little front parlor in a
back street of Market Muruborough,
John Wicks was one of the first men
to become a member of it. He went
into it heart and soul ; he was not sat-
isfied to be only one of the congrega-
tion ; even going round with a plate
and helping to take collections did not
satisfy him. He founded a Band of
Hope, an(l devoted a lot of his savings
towards giving it an annual excursion.
He inaugurated a building fund with
the object of erecting a real chapel, and
the fund grew and the chapel grew
till in due course the little parlor was
abandoned in favor of the new and
statelier e(lifice. An organ was out of
the question ; you cant have every-
thing at once ; but somebody presented
a liarmonium, then John organized a
powerful choir, and courageously put
himself at the head of it and led it.
I3ut it did not follow him. It could
not. He sung so persistently out of
time and tune that it could (10 nothing
but sing out independently of him and
hope for the best. For though, in the
ordinary meaning of the word, John
had the voices of three men combined
in one, in a musical sense he had no
voice at all. His only idea on the sub-
ject appeared to be that, as leader, it
was his duty to keep at least one note
ahead of the choir. The choir neVer
seemed to understand this point, and
would get up speed and hurry on in a
determined effort to overtake him; he
would hear it coming, increase his own
speed accordingly, and the result was a
sort of neck-and-neck race till the choir
51
caught him up and passed him, and
left him a word and a half behind at
the end of the verse. Then he would
try to make up for it in the next verse.;
he would start first, the others would
come hurrying after, an(l, finding they
could not catch him up, would finish
with a rush and a skip, so as to come
harmoniously in on the last note with
him altogether. Then they would have
to wait for the congregation and the
harmoniuni before they could go on
again.
It was not a high-class style of sing-
ing, but as the congregation among
themselves used also to sing very much
on the go-as-you-please principle,
none of them made any serious com-
plaint. The minister himself was not a
musical critic, and though it did occur
to him now and then that something
was the matter with the harmony, he
put it down to the fact that he had no
ear, and said nothing about it. The
only person who really grumbled was
the gentleman who played the harmo
nium. And he was sai(l to be jealous
because Johns voice was so powerful
and the choir so large and loud, that he
not only could riot hear himself play,
but the congregation could not hear
him either. That put him out more
than the singing, and lie made so many
complaints about it that, at last, on the
ministers suggestion, John reduced
the choir.
Then there was not sufficient volume
of sound in the reduced choir to tone
down the sinoino of John Wicks. H is
voice could be heard above all the other
voices, and there was nothing left to
cope with it on anything like equal
terms except the liarmonium. And
between Johns voice arid that instru-
ment there began a great struggle for
pre-eminence. Every Sunday, morn-
ing and evening, it was the same. The
hymn would be given out, the harmo-
riium would have a prelude all to itself,
then Johns voice would rise up and
roar out trium~)hantly. But the liar-
moniuni was after it at once, hand over
hand, so to speak, caught it, lost it,
caught it again, grappled with it,
wrestled, writhed, and strove with it
The Juan with no Voice.
~52
The Man with no Voice.
desperately, and sometimes the one Well, I would do it, sir, replied
was temporarily successful, and some- Mr. Graff, if they could not find a
times the other, but no permanent vie- better man.
tory could be achieved by either. Better? Where are they going to
This state of things could not always find one so good ?
continue ; but it lasted for some six or Well, anyhow, cried Mr. Graff as
seven years. Then Mr. George B. they parted, you call for me to-mor-
Graff moved into the little town and row evening, an(l well go and see Mr.
joined the congregation. He had come Nutt about it. Good-night. Un-
from London, and was a smart, ener commonly intelligent man, that Miffiui
getic man, who boasted that he knew is, he added to his wife, after Mr.
good singing when lie heard it, an(I Miffin had left them ; knows vocal
that he had led the choir of his chapel talent when lie hears it. Keen hear
in London. And when lie heard John ing. He picked out my voice right
sing lie had no hesitation in saying it across the building, my dear. My sing
was the worst sample of vocal melody ing struck him, and lie looked round to
that had ever come beneath his no- see who it was. Very clever man lie
flee. seems to be.
Its the first timue Ive heard him, He went with Mr. Muffin on the
Mr. Miffin, lie said to the gentleman following evening to see Mr. Nutt, xvhio
who played the harmonium, as they received them affably in his neat little
walked away after service, but, sir, study.
nerves are so sensitive , ~ , e said,
my that they Sit down gentlemen hi
are harrowed and torn by the sound. beaming upon them through his spec-
Well, sir, replied Mr. Muffin, glad tacles, I hardly expected visitors this
to have found a partisan, 1 have been evening. Sit down.
trying to stop it for some yeai~s past. I No, sir, replied Mr. Graff sol-
have spoken to Mr. Wicks, but he emiily, but Mr. Miflin and I thought
seems to think I am actuated by per- wed come, and see you ~ibout a little
sonal spite against himself. I have matter connected with the choir.
spoken to Mr. Nutt, our good pastor, Yes ? said Mr. Nutt inquiringly.
but he well, you see, Mr. Wicks was Nothing wrong, I hope?
almost the first to join tIme chapel, he He had a horror of anything going
has taken a lot of interest in it, and wrong. He was an easy-going, quiet,
done a hot of work for it, and is very good miman, whose chief fault was an
popular. He started the choir over-anxiety to please everybody. He
But thats no reason why lie should was gentle and super-sensitive to such
lead it when lies got no voice to lead an extent that lie would put up with
it with. No voice, sir. None at all, almost anything sooner than hurt any
said Mr. Graff impatiently. Ive ones feelings with unpalatable truths
heard all the best singers in the world, it was not positively his duty to utter.
male and female, and such singing as Well, it is something wrong, an-
his, sir, kills me destroys mime I swered Mr. Graff.
I know what it is, sir. You have Yes ? said Mr. Nutt again, in
a keen ear for music, hike mimyself, quirimigly.
said Mr. Miffin, and I have suffered Yes. Its about Mr. Wickss sing-
as ing, sir, pursued Mr. Graff decisively,
Well, now, look here, w& ll put a and thats all wrong.
stop to it, interrupted Mr. Graff. Wrong? said Mr. Nutt uneasily.
We must hiave that choir reformed, Yes. Isnt a right note in it, sir.
sir ; half of it c~mnt sing. Amid it must What do you say, Mr. Miffin? cried
have a new leader who Mr. Graff.
Why not head it yourself, Mr. Mr. Muffin said lie was afraid it was
Graff, sir? Pm sure it couldnt have very bad.
~ better leader than yourself. j Bad! ejaculated Mr. Graff, I
The Man with no Voice.
never heard anything ~vorse. Never.
It is simply shoekino I dont like to
say its impious, but it is very nearly.
Mi. Wicks is a very good man,
remarke(l the minister feebly.
Oh, it isnt him. If his voice was
as oood as he isbut it isnt. Hes
0
got no voice. None at all, sii~. He
cant sing, an(l he ought not to be
allowed to lead that choir any longer.
It well its disgraceful.
lies fond of his work. He does
his best, Mr. Graff. And he is really
an earnest, good man, said the minis-
ter.
So are we all, I hope, sii. cried
Mr. Graff, rather in(ligilantly. But
it does not follow that ye are all capa-
ble of leading choirs. Hes a good
man, but has he got a good voice?
There are some things that are
better than a good voice observed the
minister vaguely.
The thing is, does lie understand
music ? continued Mr. Graff.
No I ejaculated Mr. Muffin em-
phatically.
No, echoed Mr. Graff, hes got
no voice and no ear. He cant sing
himself, and he has got people in the
choir who cant sing either. They
shout, sir ; they dont sing. Now, sir,
we want to get as near perfection as
we can, of course, and we came to sug-
gest that you should see Mr. Wicks
an(l explain to him in your own per-
fectly friendly manner that lie ou0ht
to resign. We give him all credit for
starting the choir, hut lie shouldnt try
to (10 more than lie can do.
The minister still vaguely an(l un-
easily put forward the argument that
Mr. Wicks was doing his best, and was
really a very good man, but he felt that
lie ~va.s beaten lie was weak and anx-
ions to please, and yielded at last to
the (letermined persuasions of his vis-
itors, only asking, resignedly, who
would take Mr. Wickss place if he
resigned.
The best man we can find, sim,
sai(l Mr. Graff promptly.
Which is Mr. Graff himself, sir,
declared Mr. Muffin ; lie is a clever
vocalist, a capable choirmaster i
Mr. Graff demurred. He said No,
no; but he meant yes, yes, and Mr
Muffin knew what lie meant, an(l wouki
not listen to a refusal ; lie artfully eon~
trive(I to (iraw the minister into the
discussion, and out of mere pohitenes~
an(l a nervous (lesire to be agreeable,
Mr. Nutt hesitatingly uttered an up-.
proval of Mr. Muffins suggestion.
That settles it, then. cried Mr
Graff. If you wish it, sir, of course
I will undertake the post. And yom~
may rely upon it I shall do my best.
After they were gone Mr. Nut~
reproached himself with his own weak-
ness. He had not (lesired the altera-
tion, and yet somehow lie had not @nly
consented to ask John Wicks to resign7
but hind been led into authorizing Mr~
Graff to take Johns place. He lay-
awake at night worrying over it, bat lie
had not courage to undo what lie hal
(lone, and for two (lays lie had not eier~
courage to go an(l explain matters t~
John ; but on the third day he felt lie
must put it off no longer, for ~hiat~
evening the choir met for practice. S~
lie called at Johns shop in the after-
noon, and found him alone behind the
counter, gloomily weighing up moist
sugar into pound packets ; his usual
genial buoyancy seemed to have quite
(leserte(l him, an(l lie shook hands witl~
the minister without saying a word.
Well, John, said Mr. Nutt ner-
vously, you you doiit seem quite
up to the mark, eli ? how er liow~
is your mother?
I met Mr. Muffin yesterday, sim,
John burst forth impetuously, and lie
sai(l you wanted me to resigmi and
an(l ______ he could hardly control his
voice, and there were foolish teams
coming into his big, round eyes, and
he said you wanted Mr. Graff to lead
the choir. Ive led it, sir, these seven
years. You never told me you didnt
like my style, sim~.
No, John. No, my dear -John,~
faltered the muinister. Yousee _____
I-Ic said you thought Id got iio
voice, sir
I never sai(l so, Johumi
Whats the matter with my. sing
mo sir ~
0
53~
The Alan with no Voice.
Nothing, John. Very good sing-
ing, but I you seethey
I thought you liked my singing,
I do, John. I do, indeed. I should
miss your voice in the place more than
any ones. You sing with all your
heart, and I hope youll go on sing-
ing still, if not in the choir, why,
then
No, I feel as if I couldnt, sir. I
feel, somehow, that if my voice is not
goO(l enough for one part of the chapel,
it isnt good eiiough for another. I
feel it its a sort of disgrace like, sir.
I shall still come, but II cant sing.
He looked so utterly miserable, with
the tears standing in his wide, troubled
eyes, and his lips quivering, that the
minister took his hand and said what
lie could to comfort him. He made
-hini fully understand that it was not his
wish that lie should leave the choir,
but the wish of those musical experts,
~ir. Graff and Mr. Muffin, whose opin-
ions in such matters could hardly be
disputed. At the same time lie threw
out indefinite hints that the alteration
niiglit be only temporary, and that
l)efore long John would be back in his
old place leading the choir again. Then
lie tried to turn the conversation on to
general topics, but could not (10 it suc-
cessfully, and presently invented an
excuse to hurry away, and hurried
away full of self-reproaches and regret.
II.
AND next Sunday the new order of
things came into operation. Mr. Graff
had a well-trained voice, aiid certai tily
led the choir as it never had been led
before.. John sat amongst the congre-
gation with his mother, but lie did not
sing. How could lie after what had
been said of him? He was ashamed
of his own voice, and stood there silent
and dejected. The older members of
the congregation an(l many of the
younger sympathized with him, and
felt that lie had been unfairly dealt
with, and did not hesitate to say so.
Some of them during the next few days
waylaid the minister, and spoke to him
about it in such reproachful terms that
he was reduced to making rambling
excuses for his own share in the trans-
action, and vague promises that lie
would see what could be done. lie
was a conscientious man, but weak and
easily influenced, aiid lie had to suffer
on all hands fQr his weakness. He felt
that he had acted wrongly, but did not
see how lie was to put matters right
again now without a lot more unpleas-
antness. Every Sutiday, morning and
evening, from his pulpit lie could see
John there iii his pew, looking hurt
and downcast, joining: iii none of the
hymns, and taking but a listless inter-
est in the whole service. He missed
Johns voice too, genuinely misse(l it,
an(h felt and said that since lie had
grown mute, the singing hind lost all
its inspiring heartiness, and the choir
hind become merely a piece of mechi-
anism.
For you see Johiii did not understand
a note of music, so lie and his choir
used to sing only the old tunes that
everybody kne~v, and that all the con-
gregation could joimi in singing with
immense gusto and enjoyment. But
Mr. Graff set himself to improve all
this. He re-organized the choir, but
still lie could not get more than two or
thiree people into it who were able to
read music. So lie had a choir meeting
three times a week for practice, at
which lie would sing and Mr. Miflin
would play, and the choir would follow
them as best it could, and by slow
perseverance master new tunes. But
when the iiew tunes came to be sung
on Sundays of course the congregation
could not join in singing them, and
every now and thieii even the choir
would get the tune into such a hopeless
tangle that it broke (lowa, and heft Mr.
Graff to finish a verse by himself a& if
lie were performing a solo with hiarmo-
nium accompaniment.
John had such a paternal interest in
the choir that far froni feeling any ma-
licious joy in his successors difficulties,
thie unsatisfactory state of affairs was
honestly a great trouble to hum. But
what could lie do? They would not
let him do anything. All the congre-
gation knew how it fretted and worried
The Alan with no Voice.
him ; he was not proud enough to
cloak his humiliation in offended Si-
lence, but gave voice to his feelings on
every opportunity, sure always of the
sympathy of his hearers. But all his
01(1 ardor had been severely checked;
he did not take such hearty pleasure in
the Sunday services as he had taken
formerly, and by degrees became less
regular in his attendance until he left
off coming of an evening almost en-
tirely.
One Sunday evening when lie was
not there, just as the last hymn was
being sung, a man came hurrying along
the aisle into the choir, checked Mr.
Graff, brou~zlit him su(ldenly down
from a top note, and whispered hastily
in his ear. The choir ~vent on singing,
the harmonium went on playing, but
Mr. Graff di~opped his hymnbook, and,
without waiting for his hat, rushed
with a white, terrorstricken face down
the aisle, and out of the chapel like a
man suddenly gone mad. Mrs. Graff
started from her pew and called to him
as lie passed, but lie was gone as if lie
had not heard her.
Omice in the street, Mr. Graff re-
doubled his speed, and ran as lie never
ran in his life before. The messenger
could scarcely keep pace with him.
Have they got my little
girl out? Mm. Graff 1)anted hoarsely.
Dunno, resl)on(led the messenger.
And they ran on without another word.
They overtook and passed others run-
ning in the same (lirection ; soon they
could hear a confused uproar on ahead
of them, and suddenly turning a commier
they came full in view of Mr. Graffs
house, which was nothing now, so far
as they could see, but a black mass of
wreathing smoke, with a lurid heart of
fire.
In a moment Mr. Graff was pushing
through the crowd that was standing
strangely silent, gazing up earnestly
into the smoke. He saw at a glance
an hysterical servant girl standing
nmongst them, ~vringing her hands and
looking up with the rest, and grasped
her arm and shook her roughly.
Effie? Where is Effie? lie
shouted wildly.
Oh, sir ! cried the girl, in helpless
terror, Id put her to bed up-stairs,
and
He was gone; he had his latch-key
out of his pocket, and dashed wildly
under that choking canopy of smoke,
and up the few steps to the front door.
But at the same instant an inarticulate
roar burst from the entire crowd, three
or four men were after him, and seized
him and dragged him back by main
force, shouting frantically Shes
here ! Hes got her! Hurrah! Look!
There lie is ! Hurrah !
The whole crowd was simply crying
and sobbing and shouting all together.
And looking up, dazed and bewildered,
Mr. Graff saw dimly the figure of a
man coming down a ladder through
that blinding, suffocating smoke, with
a little child in his arms. Before the
man had reached the ground Mr. Graff
broke from the men who held him,
rushed forward, snatched the child into
his own arms, and held it close as if lie
could not assure hiniself even yet thmt
it was safe. But the crowd swarmed
down upon the rescuer, cheering and
making frantic ~rahs at him. If hie
had had a hmundred hands every man in
that crowd would have shaken every
one of themn twice over. They would
not let him get away; they pressed
about him, and would not leave him
alomie. His face was all blackened with
the smoke, lie hiad been singed and
scorched by the fire, but they knew
him, thrny knew him in spite of it all,
God bless him ! It was John Wicks.
And the crowd rolled on before him, as
lie went away, and beside him and
after him, cheering and grasping his
hand until at last he escaped into his
own house, and shut the door on them.
Then they ran back to the scene of the
fire, and found the fire-engine hard at
work and the fire-escape just arriving.
Early next morning, soon after John
had opened his shop, Mr. Graff came
quietly in, looking nervous and de-
pressed. His old blatant self-assur-
amice seemed to have quite failed him
lie shook Johns hand warmly, and
seemed as if lie wanted to say some-
thing, and did not know how to begin.
55
The Man with no Voice.
John, just to break the awkward
silence, said how sorry he was for the
great loss Mr. Graff must have suffered
by the fire, when Mr. Graff interrupted
him
All insured, he said, with an
effort ; dont matter a bit. Tisnt
that, sir. Mr. Wicks, he continued
brokenly, after a momentary pause,
she she is our only one, sir,
and
He gave it up. He (Iropped his arms
on the counter, and hid his face in
them, and sobbed in a way that was
pitiful to hear. John did not know
what to do. He ran his fingers through
his singe(l hair, and stammered awk-
wardly that it was all right and didnt
matter, when suddenly Mr. Graff ap-
peared to conquer himself. He stood
upright, cleared his throat vigorously,
began to say something, stopped,
leaned across the counter, and grasping
Johns hand again, huskily ejaculated,
God bless you ! and turned at once
and bolted out of the shop. Two days
after lie came in again ; but this time
lie had got himself well under control.
He spoke with his 01(1 self-confidence,
his (11(1 air of imperative decision. And
having thanked John in easy, conven-
tional phrases for saving his little ones
life, lie continued
And now Im going to ask you to
do me a favor, Mr. Wicks. I am too
much upset to attend to the choir at
present; in fact. betweeii ourselves,
I can make nothing of it. Knew I
couldnt before I started, but well,
they would have me try it ; and Ive
tried it and failed, sir, and I know of
no one so capable of leading it as your-
self. You led it successfully before
will you, as a personal kindness to me,
take it on again ?
But I. th ought, said John inno-
cently, taken pleasantly by surprise,
you thought I had I had no voice,
sir p
Me? Not me. Oh, no! cried
Mr. Graff emphatically. I believe,
now you mention it, Mr. Miffin seemed
to have some such impression ; but
Mr. Muffin is no judge, sir. He (loes
not understand the voice. his forte i~
the harnionium. You mustnt mind
what lie says. They wanted you to
retire temporarily, and let me try, and
Ive tried and and made a mess of
it, and Ive done with it. There ! So
if you wont take it up again the chapel
will have to dQ without a choir, thats
all.
In this way Johns former belief in
his own voice was aroused, and began
to reassert itself within hiin~. It was
nice to feel that they couldnt get on
without him, and wa.nte(l him back,
and lie was the last man in the world
to dream of avenging the slight thai
had been put upon him by refusing to
go. And when Mr. Graff had been to
the minister, and the minister camo
and pressed John, with genuine and
(hehighted earnestness to resume
his
old (luties, John yielded gladly, only
feeling somehow just a little sorry that
Mr. Graff had failed, until he was as~
sured that Mr. Graff was in no wiso
sorry for himself.
He led the choir on the very next.
Sunday, and the whole congregation
heartily and with all its might joined
in the old, familiar hymns again, audi
sang out of time and out of tune with
him, and enjoyed the singing and th~
whole service to the utmost. Every~
body seemed glad to have him back
again everybody but Mr. Muffin, who
complained about it as lie was walking
towards home with Mr. and Mrs. Graff,
and was still complaining about it when
the minister overtook them.
I was saying, sir, how I enjoyed
the singing this morning, cried Mr.
Graff heartily.
Yes, assented Mr. Nutt, with
equal warmth, it did me good. It
was splendid. Hov heartily every one
joine(l in ! That is as it should be.
Yes, cried Mr. Graff geneioushy,
theres no doubt Mr. Wicks is the
man for the place. You made a mis-
take, sir, in putting him out of it. His
singing is infectious. It makes every
one else sing. Theres such a hearty
sound in it ; it warms you only to hear
it. Hes a fine fellow. Powerful
voice ! TitHe untrained, but power~
ful. -
56
Mr. Miffin didnt know what to make
of it. He could not understand why
Mr. Graff should desert him in this
manner. That his gratitude to John
should deafen him to the horrors of
Johns voice was unreasonable, scarcely
even Christian, and to pretend that the
change of opinion was wrought hy real
conviction and not by gratitude was a
barefaced wickedness. Mr. Miffin was
put out.
His voice is the same as it always
was, he (leclared ; theres no tune
in it _____
Yes, there is, interrupted Mr.
Graff unblushingly. What if there
isnt? Hes a good fellow. Hes got
a good heart, even if he hasnt got a
good voice.
Aha ! chuckled the minister,
glancing at Mr. Graff with a sidelong
smile, and after all there are some
good things that are better than a good
voice.
Thats it. There are, declared
Mr. Graff, and hes got them. Hes
got em all, sir, and he sings with every
one of them, andthats what makes
his singing good. God bless him I
From The Leisure Hour.
RECOLLECTIONS OF DR. JOHN BROWN.
ALL that one and another can tell us
of Dr. John Brown is welcome to those
who were his friends, and in a very
true sense he was a man whom to
know was to love. To the far larger
number who were linked to him only
through his books it seems to the
writer of these lines a difficult task to
convey any fitting idea of the man as
he was in his essential nature, for
there was much in his character and in
the subtle quality of his genius that
escapes analysis. We who have looked
in his eyes, felt the warm clasp of his
hand, heard that low, pleasant voice,
must share with Dr. Peddie the hope-
lessness of exact portraiture, the very
effort to catch and transfix it making
the remembered image grow dun and
Recollections of Dr. John Brown, by Alexander
Peddie, M.D. (Percival & Co.)
57
blurred. This arises in large measure
because but one side of him is dis-
played in his writings. Too often an
author gives the best of him to the
public, enunciating moral sentiments
that lie is not always careful to trans-
late into practice in the home circle
but Dr. John Brown was greater than
his books ; they lack his completeness,
they give 110 adequate conception of
his fulness, to quote the Scotsman,
with which he was so long associated,
his readiness, his playfulness, and
humor, nor, perhaps, it may be added,
of the deep spirituality of his nature.
His own words of another might be
aptly used of himself: There is no
sweetness so sweet as that of a large
and deep nature; there is no knowl-
edge so good, so strengthening, as that
of a great alind which is ever filling
itself afresh. For behind the fun
with which in his brighter days lie
cheered tile world for others there lay
the satisfying assurance of great deeps
of sympathy and experience, of large
aiid wise knowledge of men and of
books, of art and of nature, which
made communion with him indeed and
in truth a liberal education. There
was a point at which he touched every
one whom lie met ; s omethiing rang
netic in him was it not the child-like
heart, nearest to the Christ-ideal?
drew men and women to him, and
drew the best out of them, l)erhnl)s
because lie so silently passed by all
that was less good. Yet few men had
so keen, so penetrative a judgment, so
unerrislo an insiohit.
0 0
Nothing could be at oiice more droll
or more absolutely faithful than his
characterization of chance acquaint-
aiice or familiar neighbor the whole
man often sulilmed up ill a wor(l, his
salient points brought into vivid prom-
inence, and yet all done with such
sweetness, such lainbent humor, such
a kindly gleam in the eye that the
touchiest could not take offence. Some
of these word-etchings concerning fel-
low-citizens who survive him may not
be recorded, but to those who recall
thIe fat, rotund little body, packed tight
in its clothes, crowned by the noble
Recollections of Dr. John Brown.
Recollections of Dr. John Brown.
an(l benign head of the late Sir James
Simpson, could anything be better than
this The body of Bacchus, and the
head of Jove? His memory for
faces, and for family facts connected
with them, was almost royal ; like the
little laddie he tells of, he didnt
know how to forget. When one re-
members how dangerous a gift this
sometimes proves itself, how wide a
door this knowledge of a. mans for-
bears may open to gossip, it is surely
good to remember and record the per-
fect charity that always found some-
thing pleasing to say, some point of
character to praise or commend.
The house in Rutland Street, his
home for more than thirty years, was
hospitably open to a large and ever-
increasing circle of friends. The street
itself, (lull and quiet till the Caledonian
Railway Station brought life and bustle
to the scene, had one great point to
recommend it in its central position,
making it easy for his friends to turn
round the corner from sunny Princes
Street and ring a.t the familiar door.
Surely there was no other door in that
street where so many appeals were
made ! Yet there was no formal visit-
lug or entertainingformality of any
sort he could not away with ; l)eople
came and went those who knew him
well, and those who knew him but
little, and longed to know him more.
lie had a playful way of introducing
his visitors by odd names to each
other. An astonished lady would find
herself in the company of Marco Polo,
now home from a journey round the
world ; and it often befell that you
might be seated beside Strabos daugh-
or some other equally unexpected
and uncanny guest, with out ever pene-
trating to the real identity of your cas-
nal neighbor. But in the society of a
host so gentle, so genial, it was impos-
sible for the stiffest and most starched
not to thaw. Of all things he loved
naturalness, sincerity, simplicity him-
self the most unaffected of men. In
one household where the old cook bore
a reputation for the excellence of her
scones he would peep into the kitchen
on his way up-stairs with a laconic
Scone day ? making a point if the
answer was in the aflirmnative of re-
maining to partake.
His entire selflessness made him nat-
urally and quickly the friend of all
little children. He was one of them
they made him free of their kingdom.
One little illustration of his way, drawn
from personal knowledge, may be per-
mitted here. By a certain family to
whom his name had long been familiar,
not as the famous author, but as John
Brown the hafflin laddie who used
to jink round the stooks with his
girl-relatives in holidays at a country
house, and was mercilessly teased by
those same maidens when he appeared
before them in all the glory of his first
tail-coat, he was invited to a dinner-
party. It was an affair of some cere-
mony, given in honor of a bigwig
passing through the city and Dr.
Brown (lid not love ceremony. The
nursery children were allowed to appear
in the drawingroom in the ten minutes
before the gong sounded, and one of
them, a little guI, was instantly beck-
oned to his knee. She went reluc-
tantly, for those beautiful eyes behind
the tortoise-sh eli spectacles were surely
the saddest in the ~voml(l, and this was
not the laddie of the cornfield legend,
but the author with all his honors
fresh upon him.
What did you have for dinner?
was the first question.
Mince collops, came the trembling
answer such a plebeian, such a
homely dish it seemed when one re
meml)ered the feast spread in the next
room.
And what more ?
Rice pudding.
And what more?
The shamed tears were not far off
when it had to be confessed that there
was nothing more ; but consolation in-
stantly followed
My bonnie woman, why didnt you
ask me to dine with you ?
There was such earnestness, yet such
twinkling fun, such a direct appeal in
the words, that the childs heart was
won instantly; for no one sees through
68
Recollections of Dr. John Brown.
value from the setting lie gave it.
Those familiar with his writings must
have noticed this fine discrimination in
the choice of simple and suitable words
which gives to his style so large a part
of its charm.
But to turn to Dr. Peddies reminis-
cences. He tells us hds acquaintance
with John Brown began when both
were boys of twelve, on the occasion
of his fathers translation to the con-
gregation of Rose Street, Edinburgh,
and when my father assisted at the
Inductioii ceremony. We sat to-
gether on the pulpit stairs by special
permission as the ministers sons the
church being crowded to excess ; and
I felt drawn to him more than to any
youth I had met before, impressed by
his looks of sweetness, intelligence,
and earnestness, and the keen interest
he showed in the proceedings ; and
from the fact likewise that, as there
was a book under his arm, I thought
he must be an awfully studious and
clever fellow.
Of his childhood in the manse of the
seceder minister at Biggar we have a
vivid picture in the Letter to John
Cairns, D.D. (Hor~e Subseciv~, 2nd
series). A few lines extracted from
it, illustrative of the relations between
parent and child, may, perhaps, send
readers back to what is surely one of
the most honest, tender, and pathetic
portraits son ever (irew. Reading it
one feels sure that it was no fancy
sketch, but indeed the truth told lov-
ingly.
was worth long waiting for. He sea-
soned it with the homely Scotch, famnil-
mr to most of his hearers, using it with
perfect and fastidious taste, so that an
orra word came to have a new
pretence sooner thau a child. He
meant it, strange as it might seem for a
grown-up to be so anxious to forego his
privileges ; an(l what a meal it would
have been, seasoned with laughter and
merriment I For in his own words,
speaking of another lovely soul, he
was, if not always happy himself, a
happymaking man.
A later dinner, years after, is re-
called. Again a celebrity had been
asked to the board, and it was hoped
that the two who had so many sympa-
thies and tastes in common would find
each other congenial company. But
iDr. Brown was silent, and no word
that the most eager interviewer could
transcribe spoke he. Even when the
shadow lay on his spirit there was
something infinitely pathetic in his ex-
treme gentleness, in the feeling of
secure, unshaken trust, veiled only for
a little while, that underlay the depres-
sion ; and no one who has seen it can
forget the sudden irradiation of the
smile which broke through sooner or
later, like sunshine after gloom.
But it was not in the social crowd
that he showed his best side. He
shrank from public appearances and
from any call to make himself promi-
nent.. Dr. Peddie records the ludicrous
ina(lequacy of his attempt to return
thanks when his health was drunk at
a public dinner Gentlemen (a
pause), I thank you kindly (pause)
~for your kindness. He sat down
umid laughter, in which, no (louh)t, he
was very ready to join. Like most peo-
pIe who are worth knowing at all, lie
reserved the best of him for his own
fireside, and for the little band of inti-
mate friends privileged to share his
winter evenings. Even there he was
often silent. As a rule, no man could
be more quiet and sober in speech ; he
listened and assented far more than he My first recollection of my father,
talked, though no~v and then, among my first impression not only of his
congenial souls, the fun and humor character but of his eyes and face and
would bubble forth unrestrained; but presence, strange as it may seem, dates
even if lie said nothing his sympathy from my fifth year. . . . Children are
made itself instinctively felt. And long of seeing, or at least of looking at,
when he did open his stores they were what is above them; they like the
found full to overflowing talk so ground, and its flowers and stones, its
shrewd, so wise, so kindly, so quaint red sodgers and ladybirds, and all its
59
or the last Waverley novel; no more
visitings in a cart with her, he riding
beside us on his thoroughbred pony, t~
Kilbucho, or Radian Mill, or Kirkiaw
Hill. He went among his people as
usual when they were ill ; lie preache4
better than ever they were sometimes
frightened to think how wonderfully he
preached but the sunshine was over
the glad and careless look, t lie joy
of young life and mutual love.
What we lost, the congregation and
the world gained. He gave himself
wholly to his work. . . . From this
time dates my fathers possession and
use of the German exegetics. After
my mothers death I slept with him
his bed was in his study, a small rooni
with a very small grate, and I remem-
ber well his getting those fat, shape-
less, spongy Germaii books, as if one
would sink in them, and be bogged iii
their bibulous, unsize(l paper ; and
watching him as he impatiently cut
them up, and dived into them in his
rah)id, eclectic way, tasting them, and
dropping for my play such a lot of soft,
large, curled bits from the paper-cutter,
leaving the edges all shaggy. He never
came to bed when I was awake, which
is not to be wondered at; but I can
remember often awaking far on in the
night or morning, and seeing that keen,
beautiful, intense face bending over
those Rosenmijilers, and Ernestis, and
Storrs, and Kijinoels the fire out, and
the grey dawn peeping through the
window ; and when lie heard me move,
lie would speak to me in the foolish
words of endearment my mother ~va~
wont to use, and come to bed, and take
me, warm as I was, into his cold
bosom.
60 Recollections of Dr. John Brown.
queer things; their world is about
three feet high, and they are more
often stooping than gazing up. I know
I was past teii before I saw, or cared
to see, the ceilings of the rooms in the
miianse at Biggar.
On the morning of May 28, 1816,
my eldest sister Janet and I were
sleeping in the kitchen bed with Tibbie
Meek, our only servant. We were all
three wakened by a cry of pain, sharp,
insufferable, as if one were stung.
Years after we two confided to each
other, sitting by the burii side, that we
thought that great cry which arose at
midnight iii Egypt must have been hike
it. We all knew whose voice it was,
au(1, in our nightclothies, we ran into
the passage, and into the little parlor
to the left hand, in which was a closet
bed. We found my father standing
before us, erect, his hands clenched in
his black hair, his eyes full of misery
and amazement, his face white as that
of the dead. He frightened us. He
saw this, or else his intense will had
mastered his agony, for, taking his
hands froni his head, lie said, slowly
and gently, Let us give thanks, and
turned to a little sofa in the room
there hay our motherdead. She hiad
been long ailing. I remiiember her sit-
ting in a shawl an Indian one, with
little dark green spots on a white
ground and watching her growing
pale, with what I afterwards knew
must have been strong pain. She had,
being feverish, shipped out of bed, and
grandmother, her mother, seeing her
change come, had called my father,
and they two saw her open her bhue,
kind, and true eyes, comfortable to
us all as the day I remember thiem
better than those of any one I sa~v yes-
terday and, with one faint look of here is what Dr. Cairns writes of
recognition to him, close them till thie the father, from whom the son inher
time of the restitution of ahl things. ited so much
The manse became silent. As he was of the Pauhine type of
We lived and slept and played under mind, his Christianity raii in the same
the shadow of that death, and we saw, mould.. . . lie was a believer in the
or rather felt, that he was anothier sense of the old Puritans, and, amid
father than before. No more happy the doubt and scepticism of thie nine~
laughter from the two in the parlor, as teenth century, held as firmly as any of
he was rending Larry the Irish post- them by the doctrines of atonement
boys letter in Miss Edgeworthis tale, and grace. There was a fountain of
Recollections of Dr. John Brown.
tenderness in his nature, as well as a
sweep of impetuous indignation. The
union of these ardent elements and of
~ highly devotional temperament, not
untouched with melancholy, with the
patience of the scholar and the sobriety
of the critic, formed the singularity and
almost the anomaly of his personal
character. These contrasts were tem-
pered by the discipline of experience
and his life, both as a man and a Chris
thin, seemed to become more rich,
genial, and harmonious as it approached
its close.
The physical beauty, if not of fea-
ture, at least of expression a mingled
dignity and sweetness was inherited
too.
Taught solely by his father while at
Biggar, John Brown. was sent on the
removal to Edinburgh to the high
school, and thence to the university
.a very young student surely, since we
find him already, at seventeen, begin-
ning his medical studies as the appren
tice of Mr. Syme, then a rising young
surgeon. Of him, Dr. Browi~ spoke to
the last in terms of the utmost affection
and respect. He was my master;
my apprentice fee bou0ht him his first
carriacre a Oi(Y an(l I ~ot the first
ri(le in it. 1-Je was, I believe the
greatest surgeon Scotland ever pro-
duced, and I cannot conceive a greater,
hardly of as great, a clinical teacher.
The ride was across Corstorphine Hill
~by the Dean Road, where he often
walked, looking towards the far High-
7land hills ; where, one December even-
ing, years upon years later, he walked
at the going down of the sun with
Thackeray.
One wonders that one so sensitively
poised should choose the profession of
medicine, yet but for the clerkship at
Minto House there would have been
no Rab and His Friends. In spite
of his admiration of Syme as an op-
ei~ator, he seemed to recoil from the
l)ainful scenes of surgery (chloroform
was not as yet), and it was as a pliysi-
cian he started in Edinburgh in 1533.
His constitutional sorrowfulness was
largely increased by the incidents of
61
his profession. So touched was lie
with a feeling of the infirmities of his
patients, lie suffered ache for ache with
them, grieving long and greatly when
his utmost skill could not save them
from the common fate. Yet when the
case was one that admitted of cure
there was no better healing than his
smile, his kindly jest with a word of
quiet sympathy dropped in. His doc-
tors eye noticed everything the pic-
tures on the wall, the little decorations
of the sickroom, any change in the
patients dress and his bright com-
ments always gave pleasure, since his
interest had a finer motive than inere
curiosity. The warm outgoing of his
kindliness compelled a response from
the coldest. To Edinburgh lie was,
and is still, the beloved physician.
Of the depth and tenderness of his
home affections this is, perhaps, not
the place to speak ; but his love and
grief for his beautiful wife, taken from
him after a companionship of twenty-
four years, are unforgettable by those
who witnessed them. One instance of
his loyalty to her memory we may re-
tell.1 I told hitti I could recall very
vividly the only time I spoke to Mrs.
Brown. He asked inc to tell him about
it, and I did. The next day I met him
out at dinner, and, by rare good for-
tune, sat next him. He had only been
seated a minute or two when he turned
to me and said: What you told nie
about her yesterday has been like a
silver thread running through the
day. His love for his father re-
mained a part of him to the last. It
comes out again an(l again in his talk
an(l his letters. Writing to Dr. Mac-
Lagan at the time when the University
of Edinburgh conferred the degree of
LL.D. upon him, Dr. Brown says
Thanks for all you said and felt,
and not least for the word about my
father. Even on a day when lie
might justly have taken pleasure in his
own honors, his pride in his good grey
father came first.
After his wifes death in 1864 his
sister Isabella made her home in Rut-
Dr. John Brown and his Sister Isabella. Out-
lines.
62 Recollections of Dr. John Brown.
laud Street, and for the last eighteen (logs of his friends. Here, too, hi~
years of her brothers life guided his acquaintance was large and varied, as
household, received and welcomed his became one, indeed, who wrote of his~
friends, and in all ways rendered four-footed friends almost as if he held
him such sprightly companionship as the Buddhist doctrine of previous
Bridget gave to Elia. Unlike in many birth, and had once been a dog himself..
waysshe keen, impulsive, and im- Once, when driving, lie suddenly
petuous ; he, quiet in voice and move- stopped in the middle of a sentence
mentthe brother and sister had yet and looked out eagerly at the back of
much in common. In both were the the carriage. Is it some one you
same deeps of tenderness, the same know? I asked. No, lie said ;
heart of love that gave them so fresh its a (log I dont know. ~ 2 That (log
an interest in their fellows ; and both must have been a tourist with a Satur
had the finely cultivated taste that day-to-Monday ticket ! I have just
made them choose aiid love only what met a deeply conscientious (log, he
was best in literature. Nor did a remarked to a friend ; he was carry-
(lifference of taste in jokes divide ing his own muzzle ! Of Dr. Fed-
them, for they shared a sly and dies staid Dandie lie used to say, He
pawky humor, a vivid sense of the must have been a Covenanter in a
ludicrous. former state; but in(leed no doggie
trait of character, eveii if exhibited in
a mongrel tyke, ever escape(l him.
This last period of his life was, per-
Imps, the most tranquil an(h fruitful.
Already honored by thousands as the
creator of IRab and Marjorie
Fleming, lie gathered about him 01(1
friends and new, finding in their affec-
tionate regard consolation for many
hidden sorrows. His interest in liter-
ature aiid in the expression of his
thoughts by his pen was always quick
to revive after seasons of depression,
and his fertility and spontaneity seemed
to increase towards the end; while his
correspondence with all sorts arid con-
ditions of men and women brought a
fresh breeze into his life. His love of
nature never failed him. The beauty
and wondrousness of all visible things,
the earth and every commiion sight,
was strong in him while he had eyes to
see it. For Edinburgh the glorious
creature he had a lovers passion
frequence never staled her
charms for him. He rode or walked
daily in Princes Street, his progress
almost a royal one, so many hats were
lifted, so many faces, young arid old,
brightened at sight of his.
And next to the humans, his
kindly regards ware bestowed on the
1 For perhaps the most perfectly truthful and
sympathetic sketch yet made of. both, see Miss
Mci~arens John Brown and his Sister. Out-
lines.
Dr. Peddie closes his little volume
with a selection from Dr. Browns cor-
respondence ; but tIle biographers
obligation, sacredly observed, to omit
everything concerning the living, or too
private for the public eye, somewhat
detracts from the interest of the letters.
For it was the personal touches in
those intimate little notes over the
quaint signature Jeye Bee, the fine
sympathy, that gave his correspond-
ence its charm. His fellow-feeling
came out, perhaps, most strongly in the
notes always brief in which lie
sorrowe(l with his friends in their soi
row. The few words said so much,
arid sai(h it so finely.
The letters to Sir George Harvey, a
lifelong frien(h, are elliefly concerned
with questions of art, though pleasant
glints of home life in the Highlands
shine through. Those to Coventry
Dick are in another key, and with tllis
cultured correspondent books arId the
men who write them are the chief
thleme. 1-lere is a discerning criticisni
of Landor
Landor is rather an uncommon
man thlan a great one, and a good deal
of his fame is owing. to that felicitous,
2 Outlines.
Tripoli in Syria.
haphazard, and wilful wildness of
thought, and to his learning and large-
mindedness, making it (langerous to do
anything but praise him, lest one be-
tray his own ignorance. But, after all,
there is real stuff in him, au(I his style
is divine, having strength and beauty,
and delicacy and unexpectedness, and
yet naturalness. His arrogance seems
a state, not an act, of his mind, and it
mars more than he is aware the effect
of his best thoughts.
Thanking Sir Theodore Martia for a
copy of his Life of Horace
My (lear Theodore Martin, Felix
tu ! Thanks for this delightful fireside
Horace. I have been sipping it in
my easychair, and with (lelectation all
evening, and thinking how pleasantly
the lonely, kindly man would turn
over the leaves if Blackwood would
only seIl(l it ( from the author) to the
Elysian Fields ! . . . Good-night ! my
dear old friend. Dont I see you in
that light-blue (Iress with hooks and
eyes, and an upright martial collarat
~t. eight, the envy of all Arnotts !
The graver side is sometimes, but not
often, touched in his large correspond-
ei~ce. lie shrank with characteristic
Scotch reticence from any parade of
religious feeling. But his life spoke
divine reverence was a part of him-
self. He was a sincere, humble, and
(levout Christian, writes his brother,
Professor Crum-Brow n. His religion
was not a thing that could be put off
an(l on, or be mislaid or lost ; it was in
him, an(l he could no more leave it
behind than lie could leave his own
body behind. It was in him a well of
living water not for himself so much as
for all around him. And his purity,
truth, goodness, and Christ-like charac-
ter were never more clearly seen than
in those periods of (larkness when they
were hidden from his own sight. He
very seldom spoke expressly of reli-
gion ; lie held that the greater and
the betterthe inner part of a man
is, and should be, private much of it
more than private. But he could not
speak of anything without manifesting
1 Writing-school, Edinburgh.
what manner of man he was, and his
ideas on religion can be, imperfectly,
no doubt, but so far truly, gathered
from his writings.
John Brown (lied, after a very short
illness, on May 11, 1882 ; the sorrow-
fulness and mystery that had so often
darkened his days all rolled away. At
eventide it was light.
He lives for many readers every-
where, in his books. He, too (as lie
wrote of Thiackeray), is beyond fear
of forgetfulness or change, because of
Rab, of Minchinoor, of Pet
Marjorie ; but the generations that
knew him think of the man first
good, sagacions, wise, lovely in his
life.
From The Daily Graphic.
TRIPOLI IN SYRIA.
WHILE ii undreds of Englishmen
yearly visit the port of Jaffa on their
way to Jerusalem, and scores embark
from tile harbor of Beyrout after their
visit to Damascus, a very small number
see the picturesque town of Tripoli,
which is hardly more than forty miles
north of Beyrout. And yet Tripoli is
one of the most charming places on the
Syrian coast. I once spent a month of
convalescence there in the spring of
tile year, and when the news of the
terrible disaster to the Victoria reached
me the mise en sc~ne at once flashed
before me the glorious tall cone of
the Lebanon, which imme(liately be-
hind Tripoli rises to a height of over
ten thousand feet, still covered with
the winter snows, rosy in the sunset
light (the catastrophe occurred be-
tween six and eight, and at this season
the sun sets at Tripoli about ten min-
utes past seven) the roull(ling hills,
the great Saracenic castle behind the
town, the mass of houses of the coin-
pact little city, pointed here and there
with a graceful minaret or a tile roof of
re(l the forest of orange garchens,a
rich, lustrous bed of green stretching
away to the Mina, or port the gay,
yellow sands and thea the world of
63
04
blue sea the shining, treacherous
Mediterranean alas! now the grave
of so. many hundreds of brave sailors.
The water is so shallow along this
coast that steamers must anchor quite
a mile out. The accident is said to
have taken i)Iace about six miles from
the shore. Tripoli is under the juris-
diction of the waly of Beyrout. With
the imperfect Turkish census one can
only make a guess at the population.
In the city itself and the Mina quite
a distinct place, connected with the
city by a tram, the first huilt in Syria
I should doubt if there were more
than fifty thousand souls. I believe
the bulk of the population is Moslem,
the rest of the people being Christians
of the various sects. The people are
very proud, especially certain aristo-
cratic families belonging to the ortho-
dox faith. They carry themselves in
a stately fashion. The women pride
themselves, most justly, on their
housekeeping, and to be asked to din-
ner at one of the best houses insures
the fortunate guest the daintiest Syrian
fare. Through the city runs the stream
of the Kadisha, known also as the Abou
Ali, which bursts from a cave in the
face of a precipice just below the pla-
teau of the Cedars, once six thousand
feet above the sea. Near the city is
the pool of the Sacred Fish, which
are most religiously preserved. The
Tripoli oranges are famous for their
delicacy and sweetness, and are more
prized by many connoisseurs than the
larger, more showy, but less fine or-
anges of Jaffa. As one rides along on
the top of the train between the orange
groves the scent of the white blossom
gives almost a surfeit of sweetness.
Under the trees are banks of violets.
Towards sunset the gardens are gay
with the rich colors of Oriental cos-
tumes. The Tripolitan knows how to
enjoy life.
CREMATION AND PRooFs OF DEATH. extinct. The opening of a vein to ascer-
In the Lancet Dr. Edwin Haward calls tam whether the blood had undergone co-
attention to a point with respect to proofs agulation showed that the blood was fluid.
of death which, in consequence of the This is not very important, because under
growth of opinion in favor of cremation, is abnormal conditions the blood may remain
of great importance. Sir B. W. Richardson fluid after death has occurred. But a crite-
and himself had to decide in a particular non which has been believed to afford sure
case whether life was or was not extinct, evidence of life or death was found to fail.
Of ten tests applied to the body, eight mdi- It is known as the diaphanous test, and
cated that death was complete. These consists in holding the fingers of the sup-
were (1) heart sounds and motion entirely posed dead person in front of a strong light,
absent, together with all pulse movement; and looking through the narrow spaces
(2) respiratory sounds and movements en- between two fingers just touching one
tirely absent; (3) temperature of the body another. The belief has been that if the
the same as that of the surrounding air in person is alive a line of scarlet color will be
the room; (4) a bright needle plunged into seen, and that the absence of the color in-
the body of the biceps muscle and left dicates death. In the case investigated,
there showed no sign of oxidation on with- however, the scarlet line of light between
drawal; (5) intermittent shocks of elec- the fingers was clearly visible, though death
tricity passed through various muscles and was assured by the fact that decomposition
groups of muscles gave no indication what- set in. Further, Sir B. W. Richardson
ever of irritability; (6) the fillet test applied records a case in which the test, applied to
to the veins of the arm caused no filling of the hand of a lady who had simply fainted,
veins on the distal side of the fillet; (7) the gave~ no evidence of the scarlet line; so
subcutaneous injection of ammonia caused that, on that test alone, she would have
the dirty brown stain indicative of dissolu- been declared dead. Thus the diaphanous
tion; (8) rigor mortis was detected on test, which has been considered by many as
making careful movements of the joints of infallible, has been proved to be untrust-
the extremities and of the lower jaw. Two worthy.
tests, however, indicated that life was not Nature.
Tripoli in Syria.